Sylvancreature

2011-11-16T22:34:00.001-08:00

I want to write something meaningful. I want to write something worth reading.

I want to write something real. I want to share what I’m learning, only what am I learning?

And so I type something – and before I get to far I begin to see what I really want is you to think well of me, I want to sound deep, and well read. But without sounding like I’m trying to impress.

Like a journal you leave about - hoping that someone will read it.

At times I am the man who reads a just so he can book so he can quote it later, vs the man who reads a book and is moved by the content therein.

A sentence, a phrase moves him. He reads, and rereads. He thinks. He examines his life and his choices.

I remember being that man. The man who read and was moved.

That man is so busy.

And that saddens him. Beauty not observed is beauty unknown.

To see a sunrise, eat a breakfast, listen to a song, do my chores, to smell the hay – and to miss the beauty in them.

But then I come home – I come home and kick my sodden shoes into a corner. I pour a bowl of corn chex and and listen.

I listen to Jaymay, Palomar, Wayne Grudem, Sea Wolf, Working Poor, and Kris Gruen.

And I fold my laundry, and I write – and I erase, and I think. And I hear that music – not the music that is playing, but the echoes of a greater and grander song, the echoes mixing with a growing, groaning chorus.

And all is good. All is hard. All is grace.

Darn.

2011-11-03T22:08:00.001-07:00

u u u u u

Spent my evening trying to process enough of life to post a meaningful blog. Only to be interrupted by Sadie.

Sadie getting out.

Sadie finding a skunk.

Neil moving doghouse.

Sadie getting out.

Sadie making lots of noise.

Neil turning up his music, trying not to breath deeply, while cursing the idiocy of the lower orders.

Sadie cornering a porcupine.

Neil being very temped to let Sadie learn her lesson.

VERY TEMPTED.

Neil imagining the quite evenings, and peaceful mornings he could enjoy without this menace.

Neil realizing that an encounter with porcupine would most likely not prove fatal.

Darn.

So rather than listen to a dog whimper all night, Neil with the aid of a long pole dispatched the porcupine. Found the hole in the fence. Sewed it shut with baling wire.

Glared at Sadie.

and another evening gone . . . . sigh

Car camping

2011-10-20T21:52:00.001-07:00

2011-07-24T23:31:00.001-07:00

I saw him looking down last Sunday – and I could tell things were not right. Sitting in the back row. Quiet.

We chatted and . . . . .

. . . . . . and I could hear it. I could see it. That quiet, small pain – the pain that says “sit with me” it asks no more. It does not want words, it does not want sympathy – it just wants presence.

Just shared quiet, just a someone there.

Not a time for words.

So I smiled, and pretended not to see the small flicker – I made small talk and went my way.

Asking is . . . . so messy, loving is . . . . inconvenient at times.

And it tugged at my heart.

and I ignored it.

It wanted to keep me up, but I slept – better than I care to admit.

But in the morning the thought presented itself again.

And I promptly quelled it.

Till this morning.

When I saw him again, and I knew – I could no longer pretend I did not see what I had wanted to hope I saw. The clues were there.

And this time we talked, we shared some silence, he talked and I listened.

We cried together.

We prayed together.

We sat on the old pew in my kitchen the kitten played with our shoestrings.

And I want to tell you this.

Dare to ask, to listen, and to love.

Dare to care, to care about the people God places near you.

To listen and to exhort.

To stay up late and do life.

What a good hard thing it is to be broken.

What a good hard thing it is to see a brother broken.

What a better thing it is to see a brother seeking out the only one who can help him.

Read Duetromeny 8, and understand why God take those He loves to the desert.

Read Psalm 13 and understand that God is good, even in this – whatever your this maybe.

Do not let your pain and brokenness be wasted.

Read Psalm 51.

And lean into the only One who can help.

Epilogue

2011-07-09T18:28:00.001-07:00

*Written June 5th, posted today

I stumbled across a video on Facebook today, on a wall I have not visited in well over a year.

So much water has flowed under the bridge.

Journals have been filled, filed, and finally burned.

I’ve felt myself board up windows – and close off whole wings.

Not to preserve what was, or to forget what might have been – but to leave so that I may someday joyfully cross the threshold anew.

And so with distance and time the shore you sailed away from blurs, and the parts of yourself that you left behind there have faded.

Have you ever lay in a warm bed and dreaded touching a cold floor – only to have the floor not be as cold as you thought?

Did you even consider touching an electric fence – and felt the anticipation of the shock you would receive grow within you – and in finally touching it, find that you had anticipated a much larger jolt.

Or eaten something that looked horrible and turned out to taste wonderful?

That moment when you were expecting one thing and found another.

It takes your breath – and unexpected joy – a joy you thought aborted, and buried, can sometimes burst and flow freely.

I don’t know what to call it – it differs from closer, it’s more.

Maybe it’s healing.

Maybe it’s grace.

Did you ever come to the end of a story and find that the author has left you holding a few loose threads?

Only to turn the page and find an epilogue?

2011-07-02T19:55:00.001-07:00

Road trips, business trips. Long drives and long flights. Scotch and cigars, broasted chicken and mashed potatoes. Staying up late, getting up early.

Unexpected and unlooked for job offers.

New gym membership and summer bike rides.

Hebrews.

So much is going on these days. I feel a change coming. Something has shifted, something deep.

A desire for discipline is growing within me. I see all these skills and a future of possibilities witch are only possible with discipline.

I want it. I want it more than I want the future it could unlock, more than I want the fruit it would yield. And even as I type I realize that no . . . I want the fruit of discipline – mere possession of discipline would not satisfied me.

I want the freedom it allows.

But to possess that freedom I’ll have to die to all manner of desires.

And again I see I have typed something I don’t mean – discipline is not the death of desire – discipline is desire which does not control.

The freedom to want and say no – not to not want but to want and want something else more.

To have and understand and submit to a greater pleasure, a greater fruit, a greater goal.

But I see I’m rambling again . . .

Enjoy some Rodrigo y Gabriela

So much more . . .

2011-06-06T23:06:00.001-07:00

A few weddings, an engagement, a field trip.

Days fly by in a blur – 5:00 comes earlier and earlier each day, sweat and planning, and preparing. Thinking and reworking, and designing and staying a head of the guys, got to stay a head of the guys . . .

The days are getting warmer, the night are still cool. The wind howls.

Falling asleep to old recordings of Gunsmoke.

I can hear the frogs and the crickets and the sheep.

quiet still sounds . . . . sounds which let you sit and think of nothing, sounds that let your weary mind rest.

And you so want to rest – to find solace in something outside of and apart from the cool breeze, and the stars, and the willow trees, and . . .

And . . . . you sigh, and breath in the cool air deep – knowing that it’s not the air – its not the crickets – its not the car – its not the job – its not the camera – or the pictures – or the books – or the food – or the bike rides – or the music – or the tears – or the smiles – or the memories –

life is so much more.

It’s like a piano – a giant 20,000 pound piano

2011-04-29T17:51:00.001-07:00

I’ve mentioned I started a new job – but I’ve done little more than that here.

Let me tell you about it.

I’m an engineer.

I work on 40ft long laminating vacuum presses, and glue applicator machines.

I roll I-beams around and generally get in the way of the guys actually doing work.

I design parts, I call vendors and place orders, and check and double check and triple check measurements.

40ft beams with 1/32” tolerances – it’s like a piano – a giant 20,000 pound piano.

I’ve got to know how it goes together so I can help the guys on the floor get it right.

I make Gantt charts and timelines.

I try to stick to them.

I’ve got to make sure stuff comes in so my guys have stuff to do.

I’ve got to make sure I’ve communicated what we need done, in a way that A) is correct, B) understandable and C) doable.

I’ve been at it for almost 6 weeks - it’s so much work and so much fun.

And there are more perks – these presses, they are shipped all over the world. And the engineer often travels with the press to help with the install, setup and training.

I was asked if I had a passport when I was hired.

So that work these days – somedays long, somedays challenging, every day something new.

Spring Sunset

2011-04-25T21:40:00.001-07:00

Busy

2011-04-19T20:53:00.001-07:00

The last few weeks have been . . . busy - 60+ hours a week busy.

New job.

New place.

New people.

New duties.

New roles.

New expectations.

New noises at night.

New shower.

New diet.

New views.

New music.

New understanding.

New hard things.

New challenges.

New tape measure.

And in all of this newness I find myself searching for the familiar.

Nights were I come home and collapse. Only a few more weeks I tell myself. This too shall pass.

Change happens.

It just happens. Unheralded. No drumroll – no anticipation – it stuns you how quietly, how quickly and how completely it happens.

And you find yourself wondering if in all this change – if you’ll change. If you’ll change quietly, quickly, and completely.

It’s a different journey I find myself packing for. One I never expected. One I honestly never desired. The road is just as long, I don’t expect it to be any harder – just different hard. One which I think will grow me in ways the path I planned never would have.

16+

2011-04-04T20:14:00.001-07:00

Lady bugs make an odd noise as they crash into the lamp in my room.

The noise used to stand out, a light flutter and a soft, high pitched plink which now is settling into the back ground noises of my new place – my new life. I used to hear the rain, and cars on wet asphalt, and sirens, and loud voices walk past my window. I used to hear the muffled thump of a dropped shoe or book, coughs, or the hum of a neighbors bathroom fan.

now – now I hear frogs. Now I hear roosters, and sheep, and lambs, and cows. and wind.

now I hear songs, and crashes and cries, and adventures, and stories, and bangs, and bumps. I hear little feet, and cats and refrigerator doors open and close. I don’t live near people – I live with people.

I live on a 13 acre organic farm in the Yakima Valley. A stream runs past my bedroom window. At night it gets dark.

I have a wood stove.

I’m excited to get the camera out and to start taking pictures of this place as spring starts to erupt.

I’m excited to rest.

I’m excited to work.

I’m excited to plant a garden.

I’m excited to raise some form of livestock.

I’m excited to raise bees.

I’m designing a large table – with the ability to seat 16+ . . . . . . .

Film

2011-02-09T17:17:00.001-08:00

Well after spending 50 dollars on a camera, 25 on film and processing, and several hours taking only 48 shots I’ve decided that film is not for me.

2011-02-02T22:18:00.001-08:00

I like rust. I like pitted metal, and paint flakes too.

One Evening . . .

2011-01-27T23:06:00.001-08:00

This is how I’m feeling tonight

Not like the picture – like the song.

I could type something here to follow up on what I mean.

only I’m not quite sure myself what I mean by it. Only that it’s late and this is how I feel.

one evening . . . . . . .

Or is she just odd?

2011-01-22T03:23:00.001-08:00

Pandora never fails to send new and interesting music my way – months ago Florence and the Machine appeared, and finding that I really enjoyed this song, a buddy of mine decided to purchase the album.

What did Steve think?

“She’s odd, but good”

I agree with Steve’s assessment (however I have still only familiar with this song of hers) – watch the video below and you’ll see why. However his statement of “odd, but good” reminded me of some advice, or rather a discussion I heard a man on the radio have years and years ago. A discussion which has repeatedly been in my mind.

A discussion on but vs and.

BUT vs AND

He was talking about how different a sentence can become when you replace but for and, the following sentence in particular.

“I love you, but . . . “ vs “I love you, and . . . “

And I began to think about this. How this little change – changes so much – How one negates the sentiment, makes it weaker, and eats away at it, turning love into a condition which can be improved. And do you see what this does to that sentiment, what happens to love when it can so moved?

If you don’t quite see it, look at “I love you, and . . . “ no I take that back, don’t just look at it – say it out loud. For in the saying of it lies your best chance at hearing it – for it seems to be something heard even louder by the speaker, than by the hearer. For when I find myself saying “I love you, and . . .” I find that this requires something on my part, me – saying that I see something in you, which my love for you compels me to address.

“I love you, and you need to . . .”

“I love you, but you need to . . .”

It’s a subtle difference, but one that I find myself noticing, and the more I listen to myself the more I see that the but’s tend to be things which stand in the way of whatever sentiments of mine they follow, preventing their full potential, whereas the and’s tend to be things which act out of those sentiments of mine which precede them.

And by this little syllable, this little change, this one word, the whole nature of the statement is transformed. And not just in “I love you” but in so much more.

Look at Steve’s review

“She’s odd, but good”

now try on

“She’s odd, and good”

Do you begin to hear the difference?

“Yes . . . . . But is it a difference that matters?”

Well you tell me

is it “She’s odd, but good” or is it “She’s odd, and good”

Or is she just odd???

Sylvancreature

2011-01-15T02:23:00.001-08:00

Any favorites?

By the pint

2011-01-10T17:37:00.001-08:00

Cold and oh so hungry I came in from my nights ride, a chilly 26 degrees outside.

Felt even colder cause I forgot my gloves. The ride was hard enough and long enough that I was sweating under my jacket however.

I peeled out of my layers and sat down to a large bowl of cereal.

A large bowl, of sweet , crunchy and delicious flakes.

About 2/3’s of the way thru my jaw starts to ache.

About 3/4’s of the way thru I think I must have ridden hard than I thought – I smell like a gym.

About 7/8’s of the way thru I realize that the disagreeable odor is not emanating from me - but rather FROM MY CEREAL!!!!!

I check the pull date – 12/11 – a month!

A whole bowl eaten and …. a month! Really Neil??

I need to start buying milk by the pint . . .

Ugly Hat

2010-12-31T22:56:00.000-08:00

Neil Diamond, and the smell of bread baking. My hands smell of hard red whole wheat flour, and olive oil. Three times I let the dough rise, three times I rolled it out, three times I oiled the bowl and let it rise again. I’ve got little scraps under my fingernails and stuck to the hairs on the back of my hand.

I need to get a book – so far I’m shooting from the hip – I need some instruction. I make it cause I like kneading dough, I like peaking at it while it rises, I love eating it with butter and jam, minuets after coming out of the oven.

But now I must wait . . .

. . . bread won’t be ready for quite a while.

And so I sit, listening to Neil sing, wearing an ugly hat which I thought I had lost – which I had tried to loose. I’ve heard it said when you let something go, hold it with an open hand – if it should return to you than, indeed it is yours – if not, well then – you never did posses it. Well a year later this hat – as warm as it is ugly has returned to me. A large shapeless thing, knit by a well meaning woman with more heart than fashion sense. She had a booth at a farmers market – I bought the hat, asking her and the friends I was with if it looked good.

On their recommendations I bought the hat – only to have my faith in the human race rocked when I saw myself in the mirror.

I have never had luck buying hat’s – I never look good in them. This would not bother me nearly as much but for the fact that so many other people look so good in them. It is this fact that prevents me from thinking that the whole hatting industry is filled with mean spirited who wish to shame those who would endeavor to wear their products.

Turkey Legs and Applewood Smoke

2010-12-30T22:36:00.000-08:00

Joel comes over sometimes, I grill, we hang out and talk. The first time he came he was not quite sure which apartment was mine – but as he later told me, he could smell the food from the parking lot. Tonight he could smell it from inside his car in a parking lot down the street. Turkey legs and apple wood. With a little sea salt rubbed on skin before I grilled them.

Savory smoke poured out of the grill for over an hour.

I really like cooking for people.

Cooking for friends, cooking for strangers, cooking with sisters. You can hide behind a grill, you can avoid eye contact, talking while you flip burgers. You don’t have to mingle but rather people come and talk to you. There is a shy Neil. He lurks in corners, and leans against walls. He gets really interested in your book collection or in scratching your dog behind the ears. He’ll offer to do the dishes – cause for some reason it’s easier for him to talk to people when he’s busy with something.

Shy Neil . . . he just shows up sometimes. But thankfully less and less these days.

Grandma Davis

2010-12-29T22:33:00.000-08:00

I’ve returned home to Yakima, and life seems to be returning to normal . . . Darjeeling Tea a bit over-steeped, and needing lots of honey to level it out. Baking lunch for the rest of the week, editing possible logos for friends, while listening to a lecture on Newton’s little known Detective Career. Taking a break I start to fold my Christmas socks. 10 pairs of new Kirkland Signature Athletic Socks with “Sorbtek” Technology – and as I paw thru the cluttered drawers of my desk looking for a Sharpie I realize that for the first time in 28 years I don’t need to mark my socks.

I don’t need to mark my socks . . .

. . . I don’t need to defend my sock stash from my Father. I don’t need to hogtie and brand my wandering and roving herds of socks to protect them from roommates. I don’t kneed to mark them anymore . . .

. . . Not sure how I feel about that . . .

Grandma died on the Sunday 19th of December at 12:05 am. I was able to be with during the day and late into the evening on Saturday. It happened really fast - I’m not even sure if she was in the Hospital for 24 hours. My Grandfather died when I was a young teenager, and He was a man I did not know all that well. Tall and dark, a man of few words. He had brain cancer, and we visited Grandma and Grandpa weekly, I saw this man deteriorate, physically and mentally. I remember when he did not come home one night. I remember my Father searching the dimly lit streets of Seattle for my missing Grandfather. I remember when he was moved down the hall to the Farm bedroom. I remember sitting on the Grandma’s bed watching TV when I heard my sister Katie and Him singing – singing a song about his beautiful Katie, and moonlight and kitchen door’s. I remember silently wishing I had a memory like that. I remember years later loosing one of his poles over the side of the boat while fishing on the Sound and sobbing all the way back to shore, the sort of sobbing where your breath comes in ragged gasps, where you are on the verge of hyperventilating and your head starts to ache – I sobbed and sobbed, in front of my Father and his co-workers. I do not remember much about the day we buried Grandpa – only one strong memory stands out – my Father – I was surprised by the level and sincerity of his grief. Over the following years I visited Grandpa’s grave every now and then. A few rows back away from the road, in line with a tree on the opposite side. I’d visit him on idle Tuesdays or empty Fridays. I’d scrap dirt and mud off of his stone, or wander around by myself looking for the oldest graves I could find.

Years went by – I got to know my Grandmother better. Our weekly visits tapered off, and soon I was off to college. I called her every now and then, telling her about life, school, and girls. When I graduated and started looking for work she bought me a suit. I wore that suit when applying to job’s all over the Northwest as far north as Bellingham and as far south as Portland. I wore it to two rounds of interviews with the City of Seattle, and I wore it when interviewing in Yakima. I wore it to her funeral on Thursday, I wore it as I struggled to button the white gloves a stranger gave me, gloves to wear while I helped to carry her to rest. Gloves to place on the light blue casket – and there I stood, next to my Uncle’s and my Cousin and my Father. We placed our gloves, and our roses, and I was able to watch the others as they placed theirs. The faces of family, the faces of friends, the faces of people I’ve never met – people whom my Grandmother had taught years ago in her Sunday school. I thought it odd till I thought of my old Sunday School teacher Mrs. Sally.

Last Saturday was a whirlwind – I had been up late the night (Friday Night/Saturday Morning) before – I had much to process and even more to do, so I stayed up and did neither, rather choosing to go for a long drive with a fellow who is fast becoming a good friend, we ate corn nuts and late night Jack in the Box – which is the best sort of Jack in the Box to eat. I did not think that in less than 24 hours I would be hurrying a hospital for a second time. I did not expect that the doors to the lobby would be locked at 12:15 in the morning, and I did not think I would be searching in a wet and empty parking lot with my sisters for the emergency room entrance. I did not expect to see a laminated post card of a poppy in full bloom on the doorframe to Grandma’s room. I did not expect to see a quiet vacant look on my aunt’s face when I entered the room. My Grandmother’s daughters - tired and strong. My Mother, her youngest, was with her at the end. My Grandmother is gone – and the sight of her – I knew she was gone when I entered the room - the sight of her stays with me. Not as a painful thought but as a stirring fact. My little sister needs air, needs space – we go out and find the top of some empty stair well and process – we talk, we cry. I hold her as she talks and remembers. A night guard on his rounds passes us on the stairs and does an excellent job of giving us a respectful supportive smile.

And my timer is going off – this weeks lunches are done. An off the cuff creation. There is an old jazz song sung by whom I do not know about the boogie-woogie at a place down the street being better than chicken fried in bacon grease. So I fried up some bacon – seared three chicken breasts, tossed three cups of brown rice, two cans of mushrooms along with the mushroom water, salt and pepper a cup of heavy cream along with three cups of water into my amazing enameled cast iron stock pot. Three-ish hours at 350 degrees and the rice is done, the chicken is done – it smells amazing. I’m walking to and from work these days so the added flavor will work itself off I’m hoping.

The lecture on Newton has been replaced with Ravel’s Bolero – a piece which I hear is as maddening to play as it is enjoyable to listen to. My mind is all over the place – I’ve just been asked to be in a wedding – I’ve still got a pile of unmarked socks to fold and put away. There are several new buds on my fichus, and I’ve got trash to take out.

And like that life seems to move on . . .

. . . quietly . . .

. . . steadily . . .

. . . naturally . . .

And maybe this is why death is sometimes compared to a boat ride – cause the past seems so often like the shore, as you pull away – you don’t love the land any less, you don’t forget the shade or the smell of the trees, but eventually - bit by bit the coast line shrinks, and as the deck heaves and rolls beneath your feet you eventually gain your sea legs. You learn to lean and step in time with the ship. Again the land is not any less real – and you miss it – but the coast line shrinks away. Every now and then you see a sea bird or a bit of log or plant and it reminds you of the land you’ve sailed away from. And the scariest part of sailing, is venturing out of sight of the land – trusting that you will not forget how to return.

So we want an epic-ish/awkward-ish house photo

2010-12-28T22:04:00.000-08:00

Can you do that???

Well I thought I could.

So I drove over, and we woke up early. Early enough to catch the predawn light. We could see our breath – the November waters were frigid. Water adds a new dynamic to the process – you can’t undry. It’s cold – there are whoops and WHOOPS, and loud cries – loud enough to interest the park ranger. The sun is rising – the Sound is flat and still – and the water is frigid. I’ve got my foot in a brace and it’s starting to rain. Out comes the umbrella. 350 shots later we head back to shore – wet and shivering.

Epic and awkward?

You tell me . . . .

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Saturday Mornings

2010-12-27T21:58:00.000-08:00

Some Saturday mornings you arise, up and doing with a heart for any fate.

And some mornings, some mornings your sense of adventure needs . . . . inspiration.

So I spend my morning with Christian Bale, Charleston Heston, Oliver Reed and Christopher Lee – and I keep a weather eye open for a sea-faring man with one leg. The best – and by far the best rendition of Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island.

I grew up with this movie – loving it so much that I would purposely not watch it very often. And yet I have – even now, every scene, every shot and every cut memorized. I love the men – the light – the language – the sounds. It’s a low budget made for TV movie, the acting is not the best – the special effects are lacking. But it sticks close to the story in special little ways – little moments in the book are played out in the movie in quiet ways. You’ll see Israel’s body sink into the deep – Blind Pew being run down in the road – and the music – the Chieftain’s are amazing!!!

And the sounds – the sounds are just as good as the music. Jim is sent ashore to tell “Mr.Silver” that the ship will leaving with the morning tide, he finds Long John at the Spyglass Inn. When he asks for Mr.Silver the loud and rowdy inn grows quiet and still – and from somewher4e in the back we hear the thumping of his peg leg long before we see him – a deep, low, steady, thumping. And then for the next hour and forty-five minuets it’s classic Heston.

Only it’s not – it’s better - it’s what you wish classic Heston could have been.

If you can find a copy – treasure it. It’s out of print – only on VHS that I know of. I’ve seen going for as much as 189 dollars online.

So if you find your Saturday mornings needing some inspiration, if you want to escape from the snow and the cold of the season – well I know where you can look.

“Hey Big One”

2010-12-18T21:43:00.001-08:00

I’m back from the hospital – sitting at my Father’s desk, trying to process everything. A whirlwind – and process is the wrong word. Digesting is too detached. Resting is closer to the act. Reflecting is what I think I will settle on.

Reflecting….

This morning I was headed to California, I call home and get the news. A trip cancelled and a trip planned. Different clothes, different shoes, different stages of life.

Ice chips and little square green sponges on sticks. Muted TVs. Dim lights, and shared rooms. Private rooms. Late nights. Long nights. The smell of acid and iron.

Tears.

Morphine.

Rest.

Labored shallow breathing.

I’m back at my parents house now, my sisters and I will clean and talk, and laugh and remember. My parents are going to stay for a while longer.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Sitting in my old room at a card table in my Father’s new “office” and Mothers Ironing center. A fresh coat of paint has covered most of the history I added over my formative years. The door however still has the old Men’s Room sign I glued to it ages ago – I’m sure they love that . . . Looking at my Dad’s bookshelf I see what he’s been reading lately: Dante, Ovid, Homer. A battered and well loved Harper Study Bible. My Mother has re-sewn and rebound it more than once I’m sure.

Do you ever pick up someone’s bible and read it? Do you ever look thru it and see what they’ve written, and underlined? Bibles are one of the few books we every write in. I’ve started expanding the practice to other books, and found the practice valuable. I see he stars chapters as he reads them, I find his own cross-references, and read the passages he’s underlined. And I begin to see a side of my Father I’ve never seen. I see that we have many of the same passages marked, and I’m marking some of his. I can tell he’s wrestled with stuff.

He’s got notes in Obadiah, passages highlighted and word studies marked with blue in Zechariah. The gospel of Mark is full his commentary.

I got to get to know this Guy better . . .

Exausted

2010-12-14T01:51:00.000-08:00

It's been a while since I've been this tired. It has been rather it is the end of a long day - I've been going at it for 18+ hours.

A good tired. A sore back - long walks getting gas for a car with a fickle attitude about where empty should be.

Council's of war, a visit to Yakima's only co-op-esk store for malt sweeter (a secret ingredient for a baking project) mourning the death of my sourdough starter. Apparently you should not add flat beer to a sourdough starter even though the flavors would make for a perfect sort of combination.

Selling my camera - taking a break from pictures after the first of the year. I'm keeping a film camera - may make the switch to Nikon - a film Nikon. I've got to break the news to a few friends who's weddings I will not be shooting.

What once was easy and effortless and so enjoyable has become something different. Maybe it's because my I-pod died and now there is no music when I walk and think with my camera - maybe it because I don't have hours to wander and fields and city's to explore - maybe when spring returns and light and music return to my evenings, I'll go for walks and bike rides and to adventuring with friends, and maybe then I'll find things worth taking pictures of - moments worth capturing. A good picture grabs you - be it suddenly and forcefully or quietly stealing back into your mind hours later like a tune or a scent or a memory. It may make you cry, or smile, or feel something. It may have nothing to do with the actual composition and everything to do with the subject. A blurry poorly lit face, or a dim landscape which is a key to a huge repository of memories.

And so I'm taking a break from pictures for a while - not forever, but I want to be away along enough to rediscover why I love them. Like that fist crisp slice of watermelon in summer or the first smell of woodsmoke in the fall.

So who knows? The day's distractions are enough for the day. I'll take a stab at sourdough again and make bagels with friends.

I'll go for walks and make a bigger table for my apartment. I'll borrow Dad's bike rollers and prep for a century while listening to Chandler and DTS courses. Upstairs, peddling, putting on the miles in the confines of my apartment, away from the salt and the ice.

I'll tow the Mercedes home and see if I can rouse her out of her stupor. Belts and hoses and motor mounts. I'll road trip to California for a once in a life time trip with friends I love.

A good sort of exausted

Sourdough & Broa & Roasted Tomato Soup

2010-11-26T22:06:00.001-08:00

It’s been a big week – lots of cooking. Lots of new recipes. I am in the process of making a sourdough starter, in day two of four. I made a loaf of Broa (Portuguese corn bread) tonight, for tomorrow's dinner of homemade roasted tomato soup and grilled cheese. I’ve never tried a grilled pepper jack cornbread-ish sandwich before and I’m hoping that when coupled with roasted tomato soup . . . well I’m hoping it will be amazing. The Broa really turned out great - Fred Myers was having a sale on Bob’s Red Mill products and their corn meal (polenta) is the best I’ve ever found. A really coarse grind with lots of grit to it – baked up really nice.

Garlic, Pepper flakes, Olive Oil, & Tomatoes about to go into a 500 degree oven

It’s been cold out here in Yakima these past few days. So I’ve checked out a book from the library on soup making and getting really excited. My bread making skills have been improving, and I’m starting to turn out nicer loaves with better crust and crumb.

I’ve drank my way thru a few tea’s this fall and need to plan trips to Moscow and Bremerton to fill fast failing supplies.

Tea that I’ve had for ages is starting to be enjoyed.

I've started designing a small A-Frame. I don’t know if I’ll ever build it but I’d like to. In the neighborhood of 700 (or less) square feet – there is a loft, and a spiral staircase, a fireplace and large floor to ceiling windows looking towards the sunset – a large sprawling deck with room to entertain. I’m trying to design a place that would hold all I’ll need and no more. So it’s turned out to be quite the process, planning out every little detail. When you’ve trying to be small as you can while still feeling spacious, you’ve got to think about every thing. The kitchen will be full of natural light, the living room cozy. Still trying to figure out where to put a dining room table. Bikes may have to hang from the ceiling, discreetly mounted on the wall opposite the fire place. The bathroom has proved a challenge – fitting a toilet, sink, shower and washer/dryer all in a very small footprint is harder than I thought. But I’ve got time yet. Time to save, time to plan and tweak. Time to see what I need –time to rid myself of things I don’t use while learning how to be more efficient with the things I do use. Time to go thru several design iterations.

I’d like to build it myself.

Wall space for pictures, heavy thick curtains to draw in the winter – a large east facing window in the loft upstairs which would let the sun wake me in the summer months. A window I could leave open, so that I can hear the sounds of rain, and crickets, and the birds in the morning. Remote enough that I could hear wind, and see the stars. Remote enough that I could learn a stringed instrument without causing harm to my fellow man.

And the plans grow and grow sprawling from page to page. Wood shops and car garages, gardens and trellises, gravel paths and bee hives – and.

And I stop and take a deep breath. Trying to gain perspective. Pull myself back into today and it’s challenges, take out the trash, finish the dishes, fold your laundry.

Fix your car, pay off your student loans, turn off the lights when you leave. Listen to the high schoolers, get to know their hearts, prep for work, punch down your dough.

And part of me is afraid that all the planning will be for naught. Learning to plan with a joyfully open hand. Not sure what that means – a joyfully open hand. What that looks like lived out. But I do know that any plan that forsakes the present will never start, and having never started will never see completion. Plans must account for the dirty dishes, lost socks and car repairs. It is this planning, this awareness and honest appraisal of the present which turns dreamers into doers. Doers have long term visions which they hold with a joyfully open hand, plans that they act on in the present.

So I find myself working on much more than floor plans – much much more than floor plans indeed.

Peter and Liz

2010-11-20T22:51:00.001-08:00

Weddings . . . They are starting to feel like reunions.

Seeing old faces, walking with and listening to old friends. Hearing their heart’s. Having them ask the tough questions only close friends ask. Remembering so much about old weddings, wondering about future ones.

Watching Peter as Liz walked down the isle. Nate told me I was looking the wrong way – I don’t think so. You want to see how beautiful the bride is? Look at the groom, he’ll tell you. At this moment, when he’s got eyes for no one else, when all the other faces blur out, and all he sees is her. When the woman he loves looking more beautiful than he has ever seen her look before. Remember, he’s made a study of this woman – you won’t notice all the details that he will. He knows her, he knows her smile, her walk, he’s looked deeper into those eyes than anyone else, he knows her moods, her joys, he knows her – more than that he loves her. And today’s their big day. Their start. So I looked at Peter – and saw a man looking at the woman he loves – the one he’ll grow old with, the one he’ll fight with and struggle with and smile and cry with.

Do you ever look at their hands?

I mean during the ceremony – here they are – up in front of everybody – they have to stand their holding each other’s hands for quite a while. Just stand and look at each others. Watch his thumbs – any wedding – does not matter – watch the groom’s hands, watch the bride’s hands.

Just watch them – I’ve never felt I’ve captured the hands during the ceremony just right. It’s the only expression they allow themselves during the majority of the ceremony – and such a subtle one that I am not sure they are even aware of it. But it speaks volumes. You want to see tenderness, excitement, love, nervousness, and a whole host of emotions?

Look at the hands.

Life is full of these small clues – look around, hear all that is unsaid, see all that is unspoken. These seem to be truer, and deeper stories.

Pogonotrophy

2010-11-18T21:33:00.001-08:00

Bringing the beard back – one day at a time.

Facebook

2010-11-08T19:49:00.000-08:00

No, I did not unfriend you - I deactivated my facebook account.

Ben & Katie

2010-11-08T18:24:00.000-08:00

November 6, 2010

Thursday Night

2010-11-04T22:40:00.001-07:00

It’s Thursday night. I come home to my apartment, empty and cold. I’ve worked late at the office – we needed to get out some construction site observation notes before end of the day. I’ve got lots to do tonight – make dinner, pack for a trip to the west side, plan out a wedding shoot, study, process all that’s happened during the day, fix my bike for winter riding. I sit and listen to the messages on my phone again. What a difference 15 minutes can make.

I sigh and putter about, looking in my cupboards – exploring the deep recesses of my refrigerator trying to find inspiration. Half a head of red cabbage, an onion, a can of water chestnuts, bamboo shoots and mushrooms. Some chicken breast I had sliced, seasoned, and frozen last month.

“What had I seasoned that with any way . . . False saffron, salt, fire oil and something else . . . “

“Why do I buy red cabbage . . . it never looks good in leftovers”

On the floor next to my bookshelf lies a stack of Louis L`Amour audiobooks, tonight it’ll be “The High Lonesome” and as I chop vegetables, and thaw out the chicken I listen.

And as so often happens I stop listening, I start thinking – thinking about work, about my student loans, about bills, and Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights, and weddings and funerals, and births and life. And I fade back in – suddenly the story breaks in upon my mind, and I realize not been listening.

I put 5 cloves of garlic thru the press, I put dried chilies, oils and salts into the pestle. I grind and grind and grind. I sit at my desk and smell and think.

My apartment is cold – I find a sweater. The chickens thawed by now. I’m waiting for my 4 cups of rice to finish cooking before I start the stir fry. For some reason I though 4 cups would not be an insane amount of rice for a single guy to make. 4 cups of rice, 2 of them long brown rice, 1 cup a very very glutinous rice (I learned really quick never to let this stuff dry on anything) and 1 cup of sticky rice. 4 cups of rice, 7 of water. By the time the rice is cooked the bad guys have ridden into town, robbed the bank and managed to evade the posse.

And again I’m lost in thought – it is odd to see how alone, how solitary life can be even with people nearby. Quietly routine slips in and provides a framework that keeps loneliness at bay. There are dishes to do. Leftovers to weight out and divide. Laundry, and photo projects, weekends which are a blur of activity.

And . . . and now the ring leader is giving up an chance to escape into Mexico with the loot, to instead save a beautiful young lady and her father from the Indians.

I love this stuff.

It’s all so . . . so – perfectly predictable, and wonderfully chivalrous. I’m guessing it was an early Spanish ancestor’s of Louis L`Amour whose tales of chivalry drove Don Quixote to his mad adventures.

The Virginian – now there’s a chivalric tale – and I see I’m straying from whatever point I started on.

In the end I made dinner, I did my dishes, I left the packing and the planning for the morning. I finished the story. I sat and pondered, asking myself what are the sources of contentment – but that conversation is too long to post here.

All in all, a good – albeit quiet Thursday night.

To tired to even try to be eloquent

2010-11-01T19:38:00.001-07:00

Went to the cider party last weekend.

It was good. Pizza burgers. Sticky hands. Apple pulp in my hair. Wood smoke, straw bales and roasted marshmallows. Friends long unmet. Hymns and hay rides. Gloves, caps, mittens and scarves.

Sometimes . . .

2010-10-19T22:56:00.001-07:00

Sometimes I forget to return calls.

Sometimes I like to eat baby food.

Sometimes I sing while shopping.

Sometimes I cook to much food.

Sometimes I stay up too late.

Sometimes I eavesdrop.

Sometimes I listen to the same song over and over and over.

Sometimes I write.

Sometimes I use to much salt.

Sometimes I give myself a hair cut.

Sometimes I get flat tires.

Sometimes I lock myself out of my apartment.

Sometimes I burn the roast.

Sometimes I stare at the sun.

Sometimes I leave the milk out.

Sometimes I sit in my chair and just breath.

Sometimes I drive thru the night.

Sometimes I need to talk.

Sometimes I get shy.

Sometimes I get it right.

Sometimes I make faces at babies.

Sometimes I open doors.

Sometimes I call the cops.

Sometimes I listen.

Sometimes I wink.

Sometimes I make French Toast.

Sometimes I need to call you.

Sometimes I wonder where this road is going.

Sometimes I pet the cat.

Sometimes I clam up.

Sometimes I escape.

Sometimes I understand.

Sometimes I order a quad shot over ice.

Sometimes I pick flowers.

Sometimes I explore the woods.

Sometimes I avoid you.

Sometimes I see but do not perceive.

Sometimes I forget the SD card.

Sometimes I’m humble.

Sometimes I wish.

Sometimes I sigh.

Sometimes I say “yep yep”

Sometimes I eat out.

Sometimes I worry.

Sometimes I draw.

Sometimes I am right handed.

Sometimes I drink one percent.

Sometimes I get angry.

Sometimes I threaten to feed people quarters – and tell them they’ll like it.

Sometimes I drink the whole glass without stopping for air.

Sometimes I write in books.

Sometimes I dog-ear pages.

Sometimes I forget I made tea.

Sometimes I pretend to be asleep.

Sometimes I can be a “Me-Monster”

Sometimes I squeeze from the middle.

Sometimes I write messages in the mustard before I spread it.

Sometimes I have to throw away everything in my fridge and start over.

Sometimes I have to push start your car.

Sometimes I forget

and then I remember.

Sometimes I can’t wake up from my dreams.

Sometimes I cheat at Rook.

Sometimes I get swallowed up in a project.

Sometimes I get lost.

Sometimes I want to get lost.

Sometimes I get up early and watch the sunrise.

Sometimes I plan an adventure and go.

Sometimes I go.

Sometimes I spell things wrong.

Sometimes I bite my nails.

Sometimes I bend down and look under rocks.

Sometimes I like being alone.

Sometimes I go shopping just to be around people.

Sometimes I take pictures.

Sometimes I talk to strangers.

Sometimes I wish I could do more.

Sometimes I think about moving to England.

Sometimes I want to buy coffee for a stranger.

Sometimes I want to bear all your troubles away.

Sometimes I eat beets and then think I’m dying the next morning.

Sometimes I forget your name.

Sometimes I pick scabs.

Sometimes I build forts in my living room.

Sometimes I hum with a strident forcefulness.

Sometimes I hear more than you realize.

Sometimes I am ticklish.

Sometimes I sleep on the floor, just to make sure I still can.

Sometimes I say everything but what I’m trying to say.

παράκλητος

2010-10-12T00:34:00.001-07:00

Here – I want you here. Be here. HERE.

It’s starting to make sense – I’m starting to see. And it’s exciting – painful – good – hard – difficult – joyous – and long, and deep, and late.

“Blessed be theGod and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies andGod of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.”

2nd Corinthians 1:3-4

The word for comfort here (parakaleō) literally means to “come along side” – I don’t know if you’ve ever had the opportunity to look someone in the eyes, and listen to their heart.

To hear and understand and listen and know.

To share the comfort – and to point towards the source of that comfort.

The source? The one who comes alongside? The paraklētos? Well that’s easy – that’s Jesus.

And here’s something I love – an emphasis that gets lost in the translation from greek the fact that all of our afflictions (plural) are swallowed up by the comfort (singular) with which we ourselves are comforted by God. That same comfort is sufficient, no more than sufficient – it exceeds, far beyond all our afflictions – that one comfort.

And while your thinking about that – think about this. Comfort shared is comfort relived. I can’t unpack and share the comfort I’ve received without being reminded of God’s comfort. Try to telling a moving story, without being moved. The more you share this spring, the more it flows. Like widening a culvert, or deepening a canal.

Stay up late – listen, share. Come alongside. Share the comfort you’ve received. There is only one demand comfort makes of you – to be acknowledged and shared – and this is a joy.

Crusted with Barnacles

2010-10-04T23:48:00.001-07:00

There are reminders still . . . like drops of oil that float to the surface. Upward they rise, slowly leaking out the hull of ship, long sunken – a memory which still has the power to haunt you.

They break on the surface – spreading out – leaving a rainbow colored sheen on the water – a reminder of what once happened here.

Don’t confuse buried and forgotten with processed and completed. As relics from that wreck wash up on shore do not throw them back into the sea – the sea does not hold it’s secrets forever – no, it disgorges them – sometimes in storms, sometimes in gales, sometimes on washed up tangled with seaweed, crusted with barnacles – and smelling odious. No, rather take those relics you find – relics you cannot bear to have near you and take them to the Lord, He trades grace for relics. He trades generously.

Generously indeed.

And the more you bring in trade, the more relics you’ll start to see, and the more you’ll start to bring. Soon in your eagerness you’ll start digging around, you’ll starting hunting for relics seeing what you’ll be able to find.

God is faithful – faithful indeed.

Stand in the gap

2010-10-03T16:44:00.001-07:00

{Monosyllabic guttural utterance, expressing surrender, peace, weariness, resignation, acceptance, and contentment}

The long words are easy – it’s the short words – the words that actually have meaning, which are harder. Words that require understanding, understanding to compile, and to arrange.

Would it be a better world if words were adequate – if words could sufficiently express all that we felt, and knew. What would we gain? What would we loose? Would we understand each other better? Would we understand ourselves better?

What would happen to those things which stand in the gap of understanding?

What would happen to music? What would happen to art? To theater, storytelling, and coffeehouses? Maybe communication is complicated because we are complicated, and that which we are trying to understand is complicated, and even more complicated than we suspect – maybe there are things which cannot be broken into syllables. Things vaster, deeper, truer, grander, more awful, more wonderful, more beautiful, more terrible than we can tell.

Look a sunrise – can you tell it’s whole story? Look a rain drop – do you know it’s tale?

Now look at your parents – your siblings – your spouse. Can you explain them?

Now look at yourself.

Now get in your car and go for a drive – don’t worry about the words . . . words will fail you. Thank goodness we can hear beyond the words of our friends and loved ones – that we can hear their hearts, their hopes, and their dreams.

Don’t rely on words. Rely on time – shared experiences, shared trials, shared meals, shared laughter and smiles, shared tears and brokenness – you want to know and be known? It is in this ground which that plant grows.

And the words? Well they just stand in the gap . . .

Lookout Duty

2010-10-02T01:34:00.001-07:00

(Written on Friday September 25th 2010)

Tonight I’m squeezing down under a dusty stairwell to get a shot that I’ll only be able to attempt once. He can only surprise her once, she doesn’t realize that he had the ring smuggled to him weeks ago – he’s talked to her father, she thinks that he’s leaving on Sunday to do that. I have one chance – one chance to capture this for the both of them. I’ve adjusted the flood lights, I’ve walked thru the steps with him, I’ve put discrete bits of tape on the floor – there is a structural beam which could be a problem – He had me make a music mix to run in the background as well.

So I’m sitting here, at a table with a white table cloth, flowers, and a ring – on a Friday night. Listening to the most romantic music mix I could make - Ella, Nina, Louie, Billie, Dean, Frank, Nora, Michael, Madeline, Ingrid, Holly, and Ray are all keeping me company to night.

I’m on lookout duty – for the next 2 hours.

Earlier I went to the pub downstairs to get something to eat – my first time sitting at a bar – by myself – on a Friday night.

Interesting . . . . in the space of two minutes, I managed to alienate the bartender, and have a not quite drunk, not quite sober fellow tell me that I was “very big”

So this is my Friday night – waiting for text that will tell me to dim the lights and get into position.

I’ll hunker down, take off my shoe and my boot to better slide around silently – and hopefully I’ll snag a photo that will bring them smiles for the rest of their lives together . . .

~ ~ ~

Snippets from an Unrelated Project

~ ~ ~

And Another Very Unrelated Shoot

(Written today)

I’m tired – it’s late – so, so much.

I look forward to rest.

There is a scene I like in a Mark Twain story that I love – a scene where our hero has been swept away, out to sea off the coast of New York, rescued by a passing ship and ends up working for his passage across the Atlantic. He ends up in London with only the cloths on his back. And there is a scene in this tale – a small scene which does little to progress the story, but reveals much of the character of our hero.

He sit’s on a bench in the park to take stock of his situation.

Here when I read this story is where I smile, here is a lesson that has served me well. This young man – swept out to sea, leaving behind a life in America, and no money for a return ticket.

Taking stock, he lists out all of his challenges with a cool and level head, and whenever there is one that is beyond him, one that is out of his control he tells himself to “let it go”.

Second favorite hoodie, at best.

2010-09-27T20:36:00.001-07:00

I came across these guys ages ago – The Hackensaw Boys. I own 4 of their 5 albums, but only ever listen to this album titled “Keep it Simple” and they do. And it’s good. It’s bluegrass – not amazing bluegrass, it’s not going to change your life. It’s like your second favorite hoodie, not your favorite hoodie – but one that you do enjoy very much.

It could be faded, maybe it’s a little stained. It smells like you, like pipe smoke and grilled steak. Sometimes you leave it in the car so that if you’re out and about, you’ll have something to wear if the weather turns. It comes with you on many adventures, never the star – but rather more of a silent partner, keeping you warm – it does not keep you dry in the rain, but in the end you find that you really don’t mind.

That’s how I would describe this album – not a “OOOhhh! You’ve got to try this now!!!”, but – more of a “hmmmm – you might like these guys”

Maybe it’s the cover art, maybe it’s the banjo, maybe it’s the harmonica – I don’t know . . .

It’s a song, it’s an album that I’ve taken on many a pleasant walk, walks in the rain, walks thru remote and rolling wheat fields. On ferry rides, and thru steaming cups of coffee. Long drives, and early mornings. Maybe that’s why I like it, because it reminds me of all those things – it’s a song that I don’t have to listen to, to enjoy – does that make any sense?

What I mean is, I guess is that is as much a memory for me as it is a song. When I hear it, I hear the words, and the notes, and the banjo, and the vocal harmonies – and I enjoy them, for what they are – but it’s more than that. In the same way a that a residence becomes home, not for where it is or how long you’ve lived there – but for what has happened under that roof, and between those four walls. Home could be any roof – between any four walls.

There is so much in life that is this way – things that we enjoy, not for themselves – but rather for what they remind us of, what they allow us experience. How often do we share in a friends hobby, or in their delight – because it is they, our friend, that we enjoy. Why are bad - faded, blurry, and overexposed pictures some of our most precious and most dear . . .

And looking back at this – I fear I’ve given this little song such a big build up, that you may find it a little underwhelming – so please remember – it’s just a song.

A second favorite hoodie, at best.

The Sufficiently of Christ

2010-09-26T23:35:00.001-07:00

Remember, sinner, it is not thy hold of Christ that saves thee–it is Christ; it is not thy joy in Christ that saves thee–it is Christ; it is not even faith in Christ, though that is the instrument–it is Christ’s blood and merits; therefore, look not to thy hope, but to Christ, the source of thy hope; look not to thy faith, but to Christ, the author and finisher of thy faith; and if thou doest that, ten thousand devils cannot throw thee down…

There is one thing which we all of us too much becloud in our preaching, though I believe we do it very unintentionally–namely, the great truth that it is not prayer, it is not faith, it is not our doings, it is not our feelings upon which we must rest, but upon Christ, and on Christ alone.

We are apt to think that we are not in a right state, that we do not feel enough, instead of remembering that our business is not with self, but Christ.

Let me beseech thee, look only to Christ; never expect delieverance from self, from ministers, or from any means of any kind apart from Christ; keep thine eye simply on Him; let his death, His agonies, His groans, His sufferings, His merits, His glories, His intercession, be fresh upon thy mind; when thou wakest in the morning look for Him; when thou liest down at night look for Him.

(The Forgotten Spugeon, Iain Murray, 42.)

NestleTollHouseDoubleChocolateMintIceCreamCookieSandwich

2010-09-23T20:54:00.001-07:00

The problem with this blog is – is that it gets read . . .

No – no, that’s not it – it’s not the readers – it’s the fact that I know some of the readers . . . I know them, I’ve eaten meals with them, laughed with them, camped, swam, biked, worked, washed dishes, folded laundry, danced with and spun some of them. I’ve taught some of them how to drive, pulled weeds with some. I’ve house sat for a few. I’ve plotted and pranked, I’ve floated rivers, and counted rail cars. I’ve driven thru the night, and straight on till morning to be with these friends.

I’ve listened to their stories – and helped them write a few of their own.

Is your past ever behind you? Or do your previously experiences stand in front of you, like lenses and filters thru which you look at your life and make your choices?

There are times when I want nothing more that to sever myself from my past – to stand apart and to see what the picture would look like without all the filters, without all the lenses.

And look - look what happens – take the lens off my camera, and see what you will. Can you see my dirty dishes? Can you see the bananas on the counter, or my new stock pot? Or my (sadly) over cooked beets?

Loose the lenses – loose the filters – and as a photographer you’ve lost it all.

And as I sit here soaking a stupid foot in very very cold water – as I sit here listening to the Postal Service – as I sit here processing so much, gears working quickly and quietly – processing, and praying, and thinking, and listening.

Sitting with my foot in a bucket.

As I sit here I’m reminded that while a photographer looks thru their lenses, they (if they are a good photographer) do a lot of looking apart from, and outside of those lenses.

They see the light, they see the shadow, they see the eyes, and the smile, and they see – and then, having seen – then they look.

It is then that they use the lens, and the filter, to capture what they’ve seen, and sometimes, sometimes something more.

And the more pictures you take – the more you learn your lens, the more you know it’s limits, it’s strengths, the more you’ll find that you won’t have to take as many shots to get the image you were striving for.

And as I hobble, away from my bucket, and over towards my fridge to snag a mint grasshopper ice cream sandwich, which, in all truth, will not as good as the nestle toll house double chocolate mint ice cream cookie sandwich I had a few days ago – as I hobble over, I realize that I’m being a little bit melodramatic, and that my past is about as nice as the cool and tasty treat that I’m about to enjoy.

That I’ve been crazy blessed, and I need to sit, soak my foot, and think on that.

Stupid foot . . . . . . .

Encounters

2010-09-14T20:06:00.001-07:00

It’s finally starting to happen - in a city of over 85,000 souls I’ve started encountering people. People I know – I see them around town. I bump into them at coffee shops and grocery stores. We honk as we pass in traffic – hurried waves and bright smiles. The baristas know my name, I have new drinks tried on me. I’m a regular in parts of town. Bumping into guys I know from the gym in bookstores. Yakima is becoming home. I’m putting high school football games on my calendar – all these encounters add up into community. And faster than I realize a network of friends is taking root.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I find myself in Northtown again, listening to Nina Simone. Thinking the night away. I’m upstairs tonight – on the main floor. A young girl sits just outside my window. She is the spitting image of Boo from Monsters Inc. Her older sister is doing homework – Boo chews her gum with all the drama of a 5 year old, open mouthed and fast. Her sister rolls her eyes and tries to work. The lights have gone up and the store is a blaze with a yellow light that shines on a beautiful tin ceiling. Couples stand in line – and wait for Joey to take their orders. I can hear the steam, and the beans grinding. Murmured voices, chairs slide and scrape over hardwood floors. The sounds of a coffee shop in the evening hours. People mingle together – people focus on their laptops – Boo chews her gum and swings her legs . . . old friends bump into each other – and start to cry . . . . footsteps on the landing, and laughter rolling, flowing up from stairwell.

All I need is the rain – the night is cool – and the tea is warm.

I’ve got a pile of studying to work my way thru.

And as much as I love Billy, and Ella, and Nina – they are more conducive to reflection than to work.

So I change gears – CCR and black coffee are called for!!!

Lately . . .

2010-09-10T22:22:00.001-07:00

Under a freer sky, in a street full of splendid strangers

2010-09-08T23:23:00.001-07:00

I’ve found that I’ve a knack for repeating myself at times.

I tend to reread books, I listen to songs over and over again.

I’m in such a mood tonight.

And tonight’s reading is Chesterton’s Orthodoxy.

A very interesting read to be sure.

. . . I speak here only of an emotion,
and of an emotion at once stubborn and subtle.  But the repetition
in Nature seemed sometimes to be an excited repetition, like that of
an angry schoolmaster saying the same thing over and over again.
The grass seemed signaling to me with all its fingers at once;
the crowded stars seemed bent upon being understood.  The sun would
make me see him if he rose a thousand times.  The recurrences of the
universe rose to the maddening rhythm of an incantation, and I began
to see an idea . . .

A child kicks his legs rhythmically through excess, not absence, of life.
Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit
fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged.
They always say, "Do it again"; and the grown-up person does it
again until he is nearly dead.  For grown-up people are not strong
enough to exult in monotony.  But perhaps God is strong enough
to exult in monotony.  It is possible that God says every morning,
"Do it again" to the sun; and every evening, "Do it again" to the moon.
It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike;
it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired
of making them.  It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy;
for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.

Poetry is sane because it floats
easily in an infinite sea; reason seeks to cross the infinite sea,
and so make it finite.  The result is mental exhaustion,
like the physical exhaustion of Mr. Holbein.  To accept everything
is an exercise, to understand everything a strain.  The poet only
desires exaltation and expansion, a world to stretch himself in.
The poet only asks to get his head into the heavens.  It is the logician
who seeks to get the heavens into his head.  And it is his head that splits.

I admit that your explanation explains a great deal; but what a great deal it
leaves out!  Are there no other stories in the world except yours;
and are all men busy with your business?  Suppose we grant the details;
perhaps when the man in the street did not seem to see you it was
only his cunning; perhaps when the policeman asked you your name it
was only because he knew it already.  But how much happier you would
be if you only knew that these people cared nothing about you!
How much larger your life would be if your self could become smaller
in it; if you could really look at other men with common curiosity
and pleasure; if you could see them walking as they are in their
sunny selfishness and their virile indifference!  You would begin
to be interested in them, because they were not interested in you.
You would break out of this tiny and tawdry theatre in which your
own little plot is always being played, and you would find yourself
under a freer sky, in a street full of splendid strangers."

Courage is almost a contradiction in terms.  It means a strong desire
to live taking the form of a readiness to die.  "He that will lose
his life, the same shall save it," is not a piece of mysticism
for saints and heroes.  It is a piece of everyday advice for
sailors or mountaineers.  It might be printed in an Alpine guide
or a drill book.  This paradox is the whole principle of courage;
even of quite earthly or quite brutal courage.  A man cut off by
the sea may save his life if he will risk it on the precipice.

     He can only get away from death by continually stepping within
an inch of it.  A soldier surrounded by enemies, if he is to cut
his way out, needs to combine a strong desire for living with a
strange carelessness about dying.  He must not merely cling to life,
for then he will be a coward, and will not escape.  He must not merely
wait for death, for then he will be a suicide, and will not escape.
He must seek his life in a spirit of furious indifference to it;
he must desire life like water and yet drink death like wine.
No philosopher, I fancy, has ever expressed this romantic riddle
with adequate lucidity, and I certainly have not done so.
But Christianity has done more:  it has marked the limits of it
in the awful graves of the suicide and the hero, showing the distance
between him who dies for the sake of living and him who dies for the
sake of dying.

Chesterton and NorthTown, an iced peppermint tea, processing life as life passes

by outside.  So much changes, and so much stays the same.

And tomorrow is coming – soon the rosy fingers of dawn will pierce the night sky.

And another tomorrow will be upon me. My days numbered. My time valuable –

my time squandered or invested? Heavy thoughts, somber smiles.  All good things.

Ingrid Michelson keeps me company tonight, my ice cubes melt and clink in their

glass. This is life – this is it, these still moments of reflection . . . I tell

you dear reader because in telling you I am actually reminding myself.

This is not for you – No, I am selfish – this is for me.

The Rain has come . . . the rain is here

2010-09-08T22:02:00.001-07:00

Tired, and weary the rain has found me tonight. Rain that cleans, rain that falls freely upon the street, and upon my head. Falling on, and running down my neck, trickling past my ears. Rain heralding a new season’s approach. Soon the leaves with turn and fall, sodden by autumnal rains. The rain will return. The rain will always come. Healthy and clean. Running in torrents thru grates, and gutters.

The rain has come.

The rain is here.

We, the rain and I. We talk, we listen, we breath. We sigh, and we smile. Seasons change, we part and we reunite. Steadfast above all seasons – the rain always greets me.

Wet hair, damp clothes, fresh air.

I walk and wander and wonder in it’s presence. The solitude one enjoys with the rain, like all forms of solitude is best and most fully enjoyed when it is shared.

Shared solitude is a deeper magic, and that which grows out of it is oft stronger than the gardeners themselves realize.

And so I grow in the rain. I walk, I talk, I pray, I listen.

I think, and I feel.

I ponder and I pray.

The rain is here.

The rain has come.

Quote of the day . . .

2010-08-28T00:24:00.000-07:00

"Let's see - Luke was sitting here, and I was there - we'd better switch"

Code Adam

2010-08-20T22:15:00.001-07:00

I was wandering thru the store . . . looking for a new pair of pants . . . lost in my own thoughts . . . voices come over the intercom. I’m not listening, trying to decided between sweetened Almond milk or unsweetened Almond milk. When suddenly she appears in my isle.

I’ve been scared before. I’ve felt my throat swell, and my breathing become shallow. I’ve seen pain in the bloody face of a young man. I’ve heard hearts in agony.

This was so different from anything before.

Squeezing her purse in a tight clenched fist, walking fast. Calling out in an voice that was battling for control. She was battling for control. And control was slipping. Slipping away. Out of my isle now . . . I her voice becoming shrill with fear.

And I stand there.

I STAND THERE. Like an idiot. Like a chump. A code Adam – A CODE ADAM has been called – that’s what went over the intercom. Looking around I see store employees on radio’s, I see them walking, checking row by row. I see her – the mother, I see her struggling to keep it together – I see her trying to walk 3 different directions at once.

. . . Yellow shirt – that’s what they said – her little girl is wearing a yellow shirt . . .

Do I see any yellow shirts? Have I seen any yellow shirts?

Yellow shirts, yellow shirts . . . . . yellow shirts.

What kind of twisted freak would take a kid?!!!?!?!

And as I stand there scanning face’s, looking for yellow shirts – as I stand there I am reminded, just how fragile all of this is. How in a moment life can change.

A moment.

And how in a moment it can all come back.

They find her – she is safe. People with radios go back to stocking shelves. People with carts go back to shopping. And life goes on.

Disaster came so close.

And life goes on . . . . just like that.

Odd.

New Glasses

2010-08-17T21:48:00.001-07:00

Thief

2010-08-16T19:29:00.001-07:00

I stole his seat.

Rather I stole his table. MY table – the one table in the room which gets hit with cold air from the AC. The cold corner, where red and white walls meet. It’s a small table, a couples table. Now if he had been possession, if he had been using this cool oasis, I would have only looked wistfully in his direction – not at him mind you, but in his direction, reminding myself that often the race goes to the swift. But he was not! He was playing chess in the middle of the room.

Playing chess in a ostentatious, vulgar manner.

The law cannot touch these seat hogging, chess playing fiends.

I’ve heard that possession is nine-tenths of the law. I find this hard to believe, thinking rather that the law is nine-tenths obfuscation, shrouded in obscure verbiage.

I sit down across from his bag and break all the unwritten laws of coffeehouse seat saving.

Maybe my life needs more . . . excitement.

This is sounding too much like Walter Mitty.

Bowling for Taco’s

2010-08-08T22:12:00.001-07:00

Yakima – the land of the Taco Bus. Not Taco Truck – not Taco Conversion Van – Taco Bus. School Bus, Grey Hound Bus – Taco Bus.

They did up Mammoths here, just down the road. Real Mammoths – not mastodons – MAMMOTHS. I went to a mammoth dig. I saw people with bamboo skewers, trowels, and tattoo's – lot’s of tattoo’s. Leading – if their forearms and necks are to be believed – much more varied, and exciting lives than I ever expected for archeology students. That is assuming, perhaps wrongly, that most people who get exciting and daring tattoos get them because they lead exciting and daring lives.

And yet . . . I don’t know – sometimes I feel it’s the people who are to busy living to realize how exiting and daring their lives are, that I find myself drawn too.

Not the young hitchhiker I picked up a year ago on my way back from a fishing trip to Oregon who loved traveling the country without a plan. But a quiet Dad who lives in Pullman, loving his wife and son, taking amazing pictures in his free time, while working hard at his job – too busy being a man to tell you all about it.

Picking up that hitchhiker, hearing his story of aimless drifting, time spent here – friends met there. A sort of solo gypsy is what he modeled himself as – a lone wander, needing no fellow travelers in his life’s journey. He seemed to me to be a man who was – was trying to find what out what he was looking for.

You know what I mean, the nagging feeling that you’ve forgotten something – only you’re not sure what it is. Mentally you back track, you turn around and re-trace your steps, hoping some detail with stand out and remind you. And the harder you try the more it slips and slithers – a splinter in your mind. Exhausted you stop trying, hours – even days pass, and suddenly without prompting, without cause, without fanfare – the forgotten something is there.

I was given so much to process today.

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our afflictions so that we will be able to comfort those who are in any affliction with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.”

- 2nd Corinthians 1:3-4

There are deep wells of grace hidden within affliction. Deep, and still. Grace does not quench your pain – grace does not suppress it, it does not satisfy it, grace endures it.

Grace carry’s you through it. The pain changes you, draws you closer to the Father of mercies and God of all comfort. It preserves even when you cannot. Especially when you cannot.

Especially when you cannot . . .

“Ain’t no hippie - just a New York Boy”

2010-07-31T17:02:00.001-07:00

Got a pew in my apartment now – it’s orange – 70’s orange – very very 70’s orange. I borrowed Tony’s big diesel truck to drive it home. It’s a MANual if there ever was one. It was hot out, but on the way home I ignored the AC and drove with the windows down just so I could drive with one elbow hanging out.

I have not driven stick in an age – and had forgotten just how much I love driving stick. For the last five years I’ve been driving automatics. The last 4 months I’ve been driving an old red Mercedes, a turbo diesel with a slow, very slow rate of acceleration. I can get her hauling – she can really move, it’s just that gap between 0-25 which tends to stymie her. And I’ve gotten so much better at handling this slow boat, learning how to apply the gas just right, learning when to let up and when to place her in a lower gear. She’s now she seems to have zip and responds so much quicker than she used to. Where she used to crawl – she flies. Put in (rather watched a friend put in) new shocks, cleaned a few filters – and it’s a whole new ride.

Or so I thought.

Last Friday I headed to Pullman to teach my little sister some of the finer points of vehicle handling. We used Katie’s little under powered Kia. Have you ever drive a car with a sticky brake, that sends your head snapping forward? Or used a shower where even an 1/8 of an inch turn changed the water from ice to fire, causing you to tear down the show curtain as you flail about trying correct the current state of things?

The sudden and unexpected shock, you get when what you thought was milk turns out to be orange juice.

That what it was like driving Katie’s Kia.

I’d got it all wrong – I had not improved the Mercedes speed and handling, rather my standards for speed and handling had dropped. And standards are funny things – they tend to creep, without our awareness of it. And even now after driving Katie’s car, the standard is still there. It’s her car that feels fast, not mine that feels slow. I’ve noticed this standard creep in my life before – but usually it has to be pointed out to me, or stand out in stark relief for me to see it.

Creep – it happens to metals exposed to continual stress at elevated temperatures, it happens to people who are alive. It’s not the result of a sudden load, or a rapid temperature change – creep is a failure that occurs well below the yield strength of a metal – it should hold – it is the steady constant load and the heat that causes dislocations to slip and eventually materials to fail.

So what do you do if you have a bolt holding something in a furnace – two things. First you look at the loads and temperatures involved and then you design a bolt which will perform in these conditions – then you inspect it at regular intervals.

So how do I work this into my life?

“So, if you think you are standing firm, be careful that you don't fall! No temptation has seized you except what is common to man. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can stand up under it.”

1st Corinthians 10:12-13

He know what I can take – He has designed this bolt.

But finding that way – even when I don’t want to . . . . how’s that work . . . . well here is where Tony’s diesel comes back into the story.

I have not driven stick in years, and I only drove about 20 miles round trip last night – so why have I all morning been pushing in a clutch that is not there? Why have I been trying to shift into neutral at every stop light, and been wanting to downshift on every hill and corner?

Habit.

Pure and simple.

Habit. It’s a force. It’s mindless. The car slows and my left foot starts pushing against the floorboards.

Habit . . . it’s dangerous, because so often it is mindless, or rather it can be mindless. And that is were discipline differs from habit I think – discipline purses a goal.

Habits are like kids – sometimes you did not mean to have them.

So use discipline to create habit, habits which will help and aid you when it comes time to seek that way out.

And Tony had a Neil Diamond tape in his truck – so I’m on a little Neil Diamond kick today – and by the way - stick to early Neil Diamond (trust me on this - his newer stuff not so good) .

Neil Diamond on the Jonny Cash Show

Mixed and Muddled

2010-07-28T23:31:00.000-07:00

I got a phone call a few weeks ago from a friend - I was asked if I was back.

"I think I am"

"I think you are too"

I'm back.

- I think.

In some ways I feel I'm the worst judge of this - and in some ways I feel as if I alone can judge this.

To be back. It's scary and odd and exciting and fun and sad. Some story's you read over and over. You read them to learn, to escape, to remember - to forget. Some story's change you - some story's shake you. Some story's - for some story's once is enough.

And without your planning it, the scenery changes. The players change. New characters, new challenges, new costumes. The stage is set. And you wait, not sure of anything.

It's so disconcerting.

The newness of everything - mixed and muddled with an odd sort of sameness, which confronts and confounds you senses. You've forgotten so much - you head swims and you feel sick.

Have you ever spent a sunny summer afternoon on a dock? Only to have the ground feel as if it is surging and swelling under your feet when you came in?

Pick a point that you know is not moving, don't look at the ground, ignore the wobbly turf. Walk it off, given time the ground will steady out.

Given time the ground will steady out anyway. Even if you over correct, trip and fall on your face - the ground will steady out - it always steady's out.

I remember once walking to the car with a friend who had the habit of folding his arms behind his back and grabbing his elbows. Jared stepped in a hole and fell - with his arms folded behind his back, grabbing his elbows. The earth was soft - I laughed, I am still laughing. The startled look on that accountant's face . . . priceless.

I had planed to right a post on how I'm learning the importance of purpose, of goals, in feeding - in creating growth.

Maturity - it's something I'm finding I need to strive for, to seek with diligence, to pursue with a plan. It's not something you step in and find on the bottom of your shoe. It takes effort. Lot's of effort.

Lot's of effort.

We - rather I - I forget that.

An effort that does not slacken. And effort when practiced grows into diligence. Diligence - one of many quiet testimonies to a man's character.

Growth takes diligence, skill takes diligence, mastery takes diligence, patience takes diligence, love takes diligence, discipline takes diligence.

~ ~ ~

On a totally unrelated note - I did some shooting which was new to me - an more of a challenge than I thought it would be - the early evening/night concert shots. Take poor and drastically changing lighting, thick crowds, and bad angles - it's hard to get shots you like.

Bonus points if you can tell me the name
of the 300 dollar scotch in the linked video

“Many's the long night I've dreamed of cheese - toasted, mostly.”

2010-07-20T22:27:00.001-07:00

Ben Gunn had the right idea.

Take above cheese – three thicker slices of tomato, and two pieces of Dave’s Good Seed bread.

Place into a cold toaster oven – it must be cold, if you preheat the oven, the cheese will melt faster than the bread can toast. Toast till you can just smell it across the room – the cheese will be bubbly and the toast will have that perfect crunch.

Don’t let it cool too much – you’ve got a juicy slice of tomato in there which will make the bread soggy.

Enjoy while planning trips abroad, or studying for the EIT, or thinking out your week. Enjoy while listening to Mumford and Son’s, or Laura Marling, or Camera Obscura. It’s great thinking provender, it helps you sort photos, or write blogs. It will help you choose Half Marathons like this one.

I am able to get four toasts out of a tomato. And three tomato's seem to last me about a week.

Beware the “Spiderweb of Love” Throat Tattoo

2010-07-11T01:43:00.001-07:00

The First of My Letters Project

Other Saturday Rambles

An Unexpected Trio – Down the Road

2010-07-09T21:09:00.001-07:00

Tonight finds me in the basement of a coffeehouse in downtown Yakima. Little did I know that tonight was the first night of Yakima’s Folklife Festival. Bluegrass in a coffeehouse in Yakima. Old love songs, sung by a husband and wife. Two guitars and a mandolin gathered round a large mike, each shuffling closer as their solos approach. What a thing – to sing duets with your wife of 30+years – to sing them and sound – amazing.

Gathering flowers for the masters bouquet – beautiful flowers that will never decay . . . I’ve never watched a bluegrass band before, listened to many – but never sat down and watched and watched, sat down and listened.

Skill is such a beautiful encouraging thing. I don’t know if the skilled people I’ve met are aware of this. I watch you bake, I observe you lead, I listen to you parent. So often it’s the little things that you don’t find impressive. The way you handle the tools of your trade. Practiced hands – fingers which act of their own volition.

“Bury me in bluegrass when I die”

It's late . . .

2010-06-30T23:11:00.000-07:00

It's late . . . the office is stuffy and I need to take a break . . . I've a few more hours work ahead of me still.

I've a lifetime of work ahead of me. It's quiet by this lake. Looking out the windows all I can see it my reflection on the glass - blurry and indistinct. Filed some paper work earlier this week - I can now take a test in October. I'm planing on an adventure of sorts if I pass. Either India or Ireland. Just my camera, a duffel and a journal. Flying solo. Traveling solo. Traveling light.

Filing some paperwork Monday - to get my passport.

Why do you do what you do?

Would you do it again?

Do you plan what you want to do, or record what you've done?

It's not tomorrow, or the day after - or the 50 years after that which find me thinking, if thinking is what that is, rather more a silent still deep awareness - that I have each moment only once. I make each choice only once.

This miry Slough is such a place as cannot be mended; it must be abandoned - it must be traveled thru.

And for what a treasure, bright days and happy smiles. Persevere - every pain, every heart ache draws you closer to the end. Remember the sun. Remember the Son. Journeys end so that others may begin. It's not what might have been - it's what is, and what may yet be. Want to hear the end of the story? Keep reading, keep striving, keep keeping. Preserve - help the hurting, share the comfort you've received - and find yourself marveling at the magnitude of what you've been given.

I waxed my car last week - it lost it's dingy look. Only - that's not the whole story. No, now I see every ding in the paint, I can see every ripple in the metal. Defects hidden by fading, and flaking paint now stand out in stark relief. You have to get close to see them - and they are clearly there.

People are like that car. I am like that car. I feel like I've been cleaned up - only to see the sin in my life stand out all the more. But you've got to clean the wound before it will heal.

Cleaning cuts always hurts more than not - pulling raw flesh apart - flushing and digging out dirt and debris. Then you seal it - stitches - change the bandage, but don't pick at it. Time and diligence will heal this - scarring may be minimal.

Living things heal.

And today I feel very alive.

Cause I'm in an indy mood . . .

2010-06-29T12:18:00.001-07:00

indy mood = indy music

enjoy

It's Tuesday - go for a walk tonight

. . . . .

2010-06-25T23:48:00.000-07:00

Memories fade and almost wink out.
Forgotten and still - the distant past.

Seem's not so distant now.
Sudden and abrupt.
Sharp - like a unexpected surge of icy water in the shower.

Already - and not yet.

Here and gone.

What does tomorrow hold, and who will be there with us?

Who will remain here - in what is now only a memory?

Who's travels have ended?

I will sing and smile when it is time, I will cry and grieve in season.

Who's laughter will I never hear again?
Who's hand will I never shake?

What have I lost? What have I held on to?

I am changed.

Grief is such an odd thing - a strange mix of love, pain, and selfishness - no not selfishness . . . but maybe, perhaps rather an acute awareness of your own selfhood.

There is one less.

I will tell of you.

Moscow and Lewis

2010-06-21T00:24:00.000-07:00

" . . . But how? Please, Aslan! Am I not to know?"

"To know what would have happened, child?" said Aslan.
"No. Nobody is ever told that."

"Oh dear," said Lucy.

"But anyone can find out what will happen," said Aslan.
". . . what will happen? There is only one way of finding out."

There is news at the bottom . . .

2010-06-17T10:05:00.000-07:00

~ ~ ~

Twice in as many weeks the same something has been said.

Several nights ago I sat across from three men.

Again the same something was mentioned by a different someone now.

Spoken. In passing. Quietly. And I think he, I think they, may be onto something.

It was a tangent, had nothing to do with why we were gathered .

A quiet, off topic,sentence.

I need to think about it, cause I think they may be right. I really do.

The meanings are tremendous, it changes how I will live - right now - what I will strive after today.

Mentioned. Quietly.

~ ~ ~

This morning I caught myself asking to be taught something I already knew how to do.

Do you ever do this? Do you ever ask someone to show you how do something so that you won't have to do it? Do you ever ask someone to teach you something that you are unwilling to learn?

I find myself doing this to God.

I'll ask to be taught how to do things that I don't do, pretending that I would do them if I only knew how.

I ask to be taught things that I'm unwilling to learn.

As if knowledge was a good as action. The things I know . . . why are they not the things I do?

So often what I mean when I say "teach me" - is "Why is this hard? This should not be hard - make this not hard - show me some way to make it easy"

And so I pray for patience,

"Father - please teach me, show me how to be more patient."

"Later"

" . . . . . . . . . . . . Ha . . . very funny . . ."

Striving is hard.

Growth is hard.

Learning is easy - changing is hard.

The reward for a good thing is often a harder better thing.

We want to be done, we want to stop - to rest.

Forgetting that we rest so that we can work. Not the other way round.

~ ~ ~

The Find

The Problem

Welding Rod

Not quite that "peculiar bent of genius"

Notice the crossbeam for added strength

And it works!

But still . . . I do wonder if welding rod is foodsafe - Jonny? Reba? Lorna? You've my food science people? Any ideas??

~ ~ ~

Jake & Debbie

I told Jake and Debbie that I was rusty and needed a chance to go and do photo stuff - they very nicely obliged. I gave Jake a pair of chucks that were too small for me - little do they know that next time I will use them and their chucks to recreate one of my favorite shots.

~~~

I'm working on a book

and this is post 201

I went thru and found some old
posts that were written but never posted
you'll have to explore if you want to find them

Listen

2010-06-08T21:12:00.000-07:00

Each shot - every face - has a story

Listen

Be Caref l

2010-06-03T19:32:00.000-07:00

Some days I explore, some days I drift and call it exploring.

Don't lie to yourself - what are you building? What will be here in 50 years? What will be here in 100 years?

Your house will fall, your line will dry up. And your legacy just might be flowers in abandoned tick filled fields.

And here is an interesting thing about life, you don't get to know your legacy, not in full, not here. The countless interactions you have with the world around are changing you, and you are changing it.

And every now and then you stumble across a random, unexpected, and out of place wildflower. Someone walks by seeing you admire the thing, seeing you puzzled, wondering why and how it got here. They smile because they know - they know you helped plant it, they smile because you have no idea.

Maybe they tell you - maybe they don't.

Life is like that, random wildflowers that persist, that grow and are more beautiful than what you are striving for.

You house will fall, you line will dry up, and there will still be wild flowers.

Come thou fount of every blessing, Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;
Streams of mercy never ceasing call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet, Sung by flaming tongues above;
Praise the mount-I'm fixed upon it-Mount of Thy redeeming love.

Here I raise my Ebenezer; Hither by Thy help I come;
And I hope, by Thy good pleasure, Safely to arrive at home.
Jesus sought me when a stranger, Wandering from the fold of God;
He, to rescue me from danger, Interposed His precious blood.

Oh to Grace how great a debtor Daily I'm constrained to be!
Let Thy goodness, like a fetter, Bind my wandering heart to Thee:
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it , Prone to leave the God I love;
Here's my heart, O take and seal it; Seal it for Thy courts above.

Evening Solace

2010-05-26T08:13:00.001-07:00

The human heart has hidden treasures,
In secret kept, in silence sealed;--
The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,
Whose charms were broken if revealed.
And days may pass in gay confusion,
And nights in rosy riot fly,
While, lost in Fame's or Wealth's illusion,
The memory of the Past may die.

But there are hours of lonely musing,
Such as in evening silence come,
When, soft as birds their pinions closing,
The heart's best feelings gather home.
Then in our souls there seems to languish
A tender grief that is not woe;
And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish
Now cause but some mild tears to flow.

And feelings, once as strong as passions,
Float softly back--a faded dream;
Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations,
The tale of others' sufferings seem.
Oh! when the heart is freshly bleeding,
How longs it for that time to be,
When, through the mist of years receding,
Its woes but live in reverie!

And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer,
On evening shade and loneliness;
And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer,
Feel no untold and strange distress--
Only a deeper impulse given
By lonely hour and darkened room,
To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven
Seeking a life and world to come.

Bronte

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real!  Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,--act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;--

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.


Longfellow

I don't know what I think of these . . . I don't think Longfellow has got it all figured out, and I don't think Charlotte is as sad as a hurried reading may present her to be.

I enjoy them both.

I need to get out more, more hiking, more remoteness, more distance.

Light and Shadow

2010-05-20T07:16:00.000-07:00

As I walked back to the office on a trail, wet with the afternoons rain, I could see my shadow. Behind me, the sun was setting, the sky ahead was dark with the rain clouds which had just passed overhead. It was a golden hour, and I longed my camera. The light was amazing, bright green trees against a dark stormy sky. I turned around, face into the setting sun and stood there soggy, exhausted, cold and warm. The sun was bright and I had to squint to see.

Shadow and light.

Even here on this trail there is a lesson for me.

Shadows . . . when do I see shadows in my life. When do I see shadows? What causes those shadows I see?

Shadows are what I see when something stands between me and the light.

And what of my own shadow? When do I see that?

Only when I look away from the light.

And the further away from the light - the larger the shadows seem, its edges blurred.

But in the light - when I am in and looking toward the light - there is no shadow there.

Mumford and Sons

2010-05-19T18:06:00.001-07:00

...and sometimes when you can’t describe a feeling with your own words, it’s almost easier to express in a song. And then, when you get asked about the songs, it’s quite difficult to explain. It’s a conundrum — you don’t want to seem self-indulgent explaining yourself; it’s always awkward. Which is weird again, because it’s never awkward actually singing them. I suppose the song should stand on its own and people draw their own interpretation from the words. But for me, personally, it’s the lyrics that I listen to again and again in a song. I place specific importance on them. I can’t write lyrics unless I really feel them and mean them, which can sometimes be quite frustrating — because if you’re not feeling much at the time, you’re stuck...

~Marcus Mumford

I was recently told to try Mumford and Sons.

I greatly enjoy them. Their lyrics, their music. Even their music videos, the shots and the angles. I find myself wanting to walk thru tall grass, under a dark sky, barefoot in a linen shirt.

I want to live in bookshops and drink in pubs.

I want to walk in the rain and smile at the dawn.

I want to write my heart in a song and play it for the world.

I want my pain and and my joy to be understood.

I want to understand.

I want to help.

I want to share the comfort I've received.

Music lifts me - takes me to places that noting else does. I would like to know why.

Maybe it's time to move from photography to music . . .

. . . any ideas on entry level instruments

Spring wanderings

2010-05-17T07:18:00.000-07:00

Lot of life has happened in the past two weeks, and these pictures fail to tell any sort of coherent story. They are out of order and not even all of them are by me, some are by the talented Mr. Caleb Douglas Ackley. A guy who need's to update his blog more regularly. He borrowed my camera one evening, and it was great looking thru the shots he had left. Seeing how he frames his shots and his subjects.

I got a kick out of his Chuck shots.

Photo by Mr. Caleb Douglas Ackley

Midweek camping and theology in Fred Myers

Ellensburg . . . turn off your lights

Snakes don't blink

"No prophet ever wore a snuggie"

For Dan

Road Trip

Surface prep

2010-04-27T17:03:00.001-07:00

I remember sitting in my composites class the semester before my last at WSU. It was a small class about 12 of us all told. John’s was lecturing on theories of adhesion – why things stick together. John’s is a character, old, bald and tubby – kinda mean, kinda smug, funny. I liked him, others hated him, and there were days that I hated him to. But he was a good story teller, and that goes a long way. He was talking about mechanical theories of adhesion, how when gluing surfaces together people would leave the surfaces on the rougher side so the glue could flow, so it could get into nooks and crannies and burrow deeper into that which it was going to bond. And then it was discovered that if you could get things smooth – really smooth, and clean, your bond strength would be even better than that of a rough surface. And that reminded me of a day in the lab when we were testing surface finishes on little blocks. Blocks which had been sanded, and polished and lapped to a mirror finish. Stupid smooth. So smooth that if you put one block on top of another, and left it – it would be stuck together. And when you pulled them apart they would pull parts of their neighbor out – leaving a pitted surface behind. So smooth that enough atoms began sharing enough electrons causing the metals to became fused in areas.

I was hiking and I could see the corners of my Chucks peeling away from the canvas – I need to glue them. The hold will be that much better and stronger if I clean them well, remove all the dirt and grime, and old glue. Clean the rubber down to rubber, clean the canvas down to canvas. Only then can I get a good bond, and the bond’s strength depends on much more too. How long did the glue set? Was it held tight?

And as I sat over looking a blue river, I realized that life is often that way. If you want a good bond – you have to do surface prep. You’ve got to get down to base materials and make connections there. I now lots of people that I’m glued to thru shallow things. Bond’s that don’t last – that fail. I know several people that I’m glued to at deeper levels.

And I realized when a bond fails, when the glue no longer holds, all that too must be cleaned out if you are ever going to glue anything back.

So here I was feeling all very smart and wise upon my hill – that’s what these last few months have been Neil – surface prep. God’s working on you – cleaning out old glue, surface prep. It’s got to be done, even if you want to glue an old joint back together. You have to clean it out and start afresh. The cleaner, the smoother the better.

Mirror smooth.

Mirror smooth.

And then on my way down, my thinking flipped, my focus changed. I’m not sure where I first heard it, but somewhere the phrase – “a mirror reflecting the Glory of God” – there is something like it in 2nd Corinthians, a mirror reflecting the glory of God. I felt like the Karate Kid when he starts to understand why he’s been waxing. All this surface prep was not to prepare a joint for gluing but a surface for reflecting. Not that it is a great and shiny mirror. But the light that shines upon it is powerful and strong.

I have a friend who has often given out this rather good advice – “don’t focus on not being (fill in the blank) focus rather on being like Christ”

And that changes a lot of stuff, a lot of internal motives. Am I prepping a joint to be glued or polishing a mirror to reflect? Because one is primary, one is deeper, one is stronger, one is more important. The success of one depends on the other.

What is my main thrust? My primary goal? If I can only focus on one thing what will it be?

What is my joy? Where is my strength?

Mirror smooth . . .

PS - a much more coherent explanation can be found in the first few pages of Chapter 9 in Pipers book "This Momentary Marriage" read it, I found it encouraging. Let me know what you think.

Last week's Adventures

2010-04-25T15:00:00.000-07:00

~

Rattlesnake Springs

Boulder Creek

Boulder Creek Cave I

Boulder Creek Cave II

Boulder Creek Hike I

Boulder Creek Hike II

Yakima Skyview Ridge Hike

Yakima Skyview Ridge

Shaving - or is it trimming?

Last week was full, this week will be too - Friday will be spent with a bunch Highschoolers on an all night raid on the City of Seattle, hopefully I'm not getting too old for this sort of thing . . .

So full, they were sprawled on the floor

2010-04-19T22:31:00.000-07:00

I don't know the word for it. So instead I'll try to describe as best I can what I felt.

I have an camera that I can adjust by touch. I have a password I can type without looking. I have a pair of chucks that are worn in. A pair of jeans that fit. A backpack that I've adjusted just so. A camera bag that hangs just right. A trackball that is tuned to my thumb.

I have things that fit. They feel right. And I can tell when something is wrong by their feel. I can't tell you how I know the steak is done - it just is done.

Tonight 8 people came thru my door. 4 were planned, 2 were called, 2 dropped by. I cooked, we ate, we talked, we laughed. We connected. Food. Ice Cream. Baileys. And I must say, as I stood in the corner and watched people talking I felt that - what ever that is. The way you feel when you find your pace when you ride. A cadence as you climb a hill. A good handshake, gloves that fit well. When you get a backroads wave timed just right. Seated. Fit. Right.

A sort of feeling that makes you pause, smile and think - but not pause long, no this feeling does not call you to linger, rather it nudges you with a smile, on - to keep in this way. Failure tells you that you must not quit - this, I don't know what to call this. It's not success, success says "You did it!!! You can stop now, you have finished, well done."

And whatever this is, all you know is that you find yourself refreshed and looking forward to the next time.

Don't over think the simple pleasures of life.

Enjoy them.

Unexpected solace.

2010-04-17T16:23:00.001-07:00

Would you walk with me for a ways?

I've enjoyed these solitary hikes so.

Empty woods, vacant fields, exposed hillsides.

Full of solace.

Unexpected solace.

~ ~ ~

Two weeks worth of Saturday's

2010-04-11T17:48:00.000-07:00

Just as I got to the car tourists arrived . . . from Everette of all places

I've got to run to small group - I'll let your imaginations fill in the rest of the story for now. When I get some free time I'll right about beauty and solace. And the music of new-found places. But till then dear reader - till then you must content yourself with these photos and your own musings.

Blow, blow though winter wind . . .

2010-03-30T07:57:00.001-07:00

There are days when I close my eyes. Close my eyes and just sit. Tired. No sighing, no thinking, no trying, no formulating, no strategizing, no analyzing. No worrying, no fretting, no stressing. No wondering, no planning, no designing, no yearning. No wishing, no questioning, no waiting.

Just listening.

Listening to winds blow all around me. Cold wet wind lashing at my back and face. Quiet and empty is the land around me. Loud and aggressive is the wind. It is steady. It bites, cutting thru my layers, my sweatshirt, my tee shirts and my undershirt.

It howls - it moans, on and on it comes. I am so remote on this beautiful lonely ridge. Far away from everyone. I can look out and see two valleys. I can look out and see patches of orcahard and of grazing land.

I can hear the wind. My steady companion on this ride. Flinging sand in my face and dust in my mouth. Cold and relentless it makes me - it will fail - I will conquer this ridge. I will ride till I can ride no more. When I can ride no more I will walk, slowly - purposefully into the wind.

I will not be turned back. Today - today I will climb, downshifting, grunting - ever on - ever up.

I will ride.

I will not turn back.

A ruddy drop of manly blood, The surging sea outweighs

2010-03-27T20:31:00.000-07:00

A few years I found Emerson's essay on friendship. I liked it so much I printed it out. I marked it up. I read it over and over - it got highlighted and underlined. Folded and stuffed in my camera bag. I did not agree with all of what he had to say - but he made me think. And I really enjoyed all that I thought about - I will not quote him here - I'll leave that for you. Blogs are so rarely actually read. More often they are perused.

I printed it out again tonight.

I need to dust

Riding to Men's Group

Tomorrow is new.

Today is almost done.

I am tired.

So much to say.

Read a good book - read old letters - listen to people - listen to their hearts, they open up when you do.

Go to bed early. Rise with the dawn. Breath air you have never breathed before. Take the beauty you see with you. Store it away for when all beauty is dark. Grace grows in the winter.

Spring is here.

He has dealt bountifully with me

2010-03-21T23:00:00.000-07:00

A Sunday night in Yakima, a windy Sunday night - I can tear traffic thru my open window. I hear leaves and dead grape vines rustle and move in the brisk spring night. My shades clang against the window frame, echoing thru my open apartment.

I'm alone in this city - alone with my thoughts. I lie on the floor and write. Write to think - to process - to flush out these thoughts, these feelings.

I lie on my stomach, my notebook inches from my face. It's pages buffeted by the winds in the night.

All of this helps - this "writing" - the erasing, the rewording, the reading out loud- over and over and over and over again - it must sound. It must sound right. I wish you could hear it spoken aloud. I wish you could hear what is says - what it does not say. What it cannot tell.

Words fail.

They will only bring you so far - they may lead you astray - they may misguide you.

No - No I see I am mistaken - I, my words, fail. I cannot not express fully what I am trying to say. I am inadequate.

and yet - and yet life goes on...

~ ~ ~
How long, O LORD? Will You forget me forever?
How long will You hide Your face from me?

How long shall I take counsel in my soul,
Having sorrow in my heart all the day?
~ ~ ~

"How long" is the cry of the Psalmist

I AM sufficient. Rest in Me.

~ ~ ~
When my soul was embittered,
when I was pricked in heart,

I was brutish and ignorant;
I was like a beast toward you.

Nevertheless, I am continually with you;
you hold my right hand.

You guide me with your counsel,
and afterward you will receive me to glory.

Whom have I in heaven but you?
And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides you.

My flesh and my heart may fail,
but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.
~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~
But I have trusted in Your lovingkindness;
My heart shall rejoice in Your salvation.

I will sing to the LORD,
Because He has dealt bountifully with me.
~ ~ ~

The psalmist's question goes unanswered - and he is not left questioning.

excerpts from Psalms 13 and Psalms 73

An attempt at poetry

2010-03-11T08:06:00.000-08:00

No good story comes to an end. No good story ever fully finishes. There is always a lingering note that fades away. There is always some "ever after" Think of your best and favorite tales - they don't just end. The worlds and and the people in them live on, living lives deeper and fuller than any story could ever tell. You don't know their stories fully but you know that there are be more stories. And it's this knowing, this persistence in a good story which tempers the melancholy sadness created when an author parts from the tale - this will be all that I know, but there is more to be known. There is more story.

I think this is partly why death is hard. It's the end of a story. I have friends, friends I'll never see again - and they are alive - they have stories, their stories are not done. And so I do not morn stories which I have not heard but may hear, its the stories that can be no more which are hard. They are hard because you enjoy them and would go on enjoying them. You listen so as not to forget what you enjoyed in them only to find that you miss them all the more - and now you want to stop listening so that you will stop missing only to find that you don't want to start forgetting - and this is why you don't like it when stories end. Cause that is all that you are left with - stories.

And you can not tell the storyteller how much you've enjoyed their stories, they are gone, new storytellers come and go - stories are shared, and somehow - somehow - well I've not yet got the somehow figured out.

I want to hear all the stories. All the stories I have heard - I want to hear them again, play them over and over. Write new ones. Write them in laughter and tears, and smiles and aches.

I was once asked if offered the best pizza in the world would I eat it? I did not then - I do not know now. To eat the best pizza the world could ever offer would be wonderful - but then could i enjoy any other pizza? would all other pizza's turn to ashes in my mouth?

As I type this another questions forms in my mind - Would I sit and listen to the best story in the world? The best story that would ever be told. It's odd because I have no reservations, no doubts - YES. Tell me the story to end all story's. Tell me the tale that completes them all. Why is there a difference in my heart? Do I care more for pizza and less for story?

Or do I merely enjoy pizza - and love story? I think it is this - that pizza can only ever bring me enjoyment - momentary enjoyment. I have to eat it to enjoy it. I do not love pizza - there is not enough to it to love - it's memory does not sustain me in any way - it has no repeat value.

Where as life, people, love, family, friends - story's. These things do. And listening the best story would not rob all lesser stories of their merit - no in fact in the light of the best story all story's are improved and can be enjoyed to their full worth. The memory of things past, even if they are never to be again makes stories worth the pains present in their endings. I'd rather have all stories end, then to have never heard anything. I'll not count any as lost.

A few mornings ago I could be found upstairs laying on my floor writing. An open Hymnal beside to me - I spend a good portion of my days up before 5, since moving to Yakima, there are several birds nesting the grapevines which cling to side of my apartment and we often greet day together. In fact I'm usually up before they are as I have not slept thru the night since I moved here - but I get to bed early these days so I'm getting plenty sleep. It's funny - when I first started taking pictures I was so, so, so wary of posting them - I liked them but what if nobody else like them. Now I post the ones I like and don't worry so much what the world thinks. Well I feel the same way now with my little attempt at poetry - and I should not even really call it mine. I stole bits from the hymnal, I stole bits from Homer - I stole bits from Song of Songs, but I put them together so I guess I'm responsible for it - however it turns out.

"Standing in the glow of this rosy fingered dawn;
I hear all nature singing Your nobler, sweeter song.
Arise my soul arise, and greet the glories of this day;
It's joys are just beginning, the King is on His way.

Strangers in Fred Meyers

2010-02-27T15:40:00.000-08:00

There are lots of things that people do which I don't understand. People I don't know talk to me. People I don't know tell me things. Hard things. Burdens.

I'm in Fred Meyer buying an ironing board, and a woman starts to laugh, halfway thru it turns into a sob and is quickly, abruptly aborted in a sort of soft bark. "Come to my house - I'll give you mine" She doesn't iron anymore - not since her husband divorced her, she did for a while after that - her son's church shirts - but he's not going to church anymore . . . "so come to my house - I'll give you mine" Maybe she's wandering around Fred Meyer cause it's more pleasent than being at a home that reminds her of everything. Maybe she goes there to forget - only to find that even a place as impersonal as a grocery store has it's reminders.

Maybe I hear what is not there, maybe I think to much, maybe I don't think enough . . . maybe I don't love enough. I wish I could carry their loads. I wish I was not the guy in Fred Meyer but the guy next door - the guy who knows how they like their burgers cooked and always has a beer in the fridge with their name on it, an hour to spare, and a couch to sit on. But maybe that is the purpose of strangers - to hear those things that you would not tell, could not tell anyone else.

I am glad that I am not a stranger to everyone.

Fog and Cowper

2010-02-27T15:24:00.001-08:00

Kinda proud of this shot - 1/6th of a second taken freehand - and no shake

God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea
And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never failing skill
He treasures up His bright designs
And works His sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err
And scan His work in vain;
God is His own interpreter,
And He will make it plain.
W.Cowper

Stumbled across the Olney Hymns today - maybe I'll read some more . . .

Content pending . . .

2010-02-21T08:40:00.001-08:00

2nd Story

Main Floor

So I've been delaying showing any pictures of the new place because I just stink at making rooms look cool in my pictures - I feel that the panorama's cover my lack of skill in this area. I still need to take pictures of the loft which is empty as of right now, but will soon house my bed, a small desk and all those books you see. The view of the second floor from up there is very nice. I am planning on using the space by the window on the second floor as a reading nook of sorts. Maybe a big pillow type thing. Couches upstairs for a hang out sort of space, my big desk downstairs with only a reading lamp and chair at it - the study. And a table which will sit four downstairs as well. It's all a long way off, it is a start.

My apartment smells of oranges. A large bowl of oranges rests on the counter. They are aromatic and delicious. Have you looked a the beauty around you today? Have you peeled an orange, seen the little jets misting up from the rind as you removed them. Have you looked at the thousands of strands of pulp which all carry a minuscule amount of juice within them? Have you thought about the thousands of groves which have hundreds of trees from which a worlds supply of oranges grow? It's February and I have a bowl of oranges in my apartment.

I am weary - I am worn. I long for far away shores. I am content. I am happy. I smile and sing, and remember and forget. I sigh. I walk. I listen. I read. I talk. I listen some more.

Why when reading stories do I refuse to look ahead? I will not read ahead - I want to experience the story as the author would have me, to let them lead me where they would. Show me what they would have me see. By looking ahead I destroy the whole sense of moment - no longer can I really feel wonder, fear, sadness, love, or excitement. Because I know how it ends. And that's why I read - to feel. To feel wonder, to feel fear, to stress, to be swept away by the story. When I know the end - there are no surprises, I am not made to travel and grow with the character, his burdens are not mine when I look ahead.

SO what drives me to know the end of my own story? Why do I want to look ahead?

Be still and live. Feel these moments. Grow. Love. Hurt. Wrestle. Fight. Strive. Yearn. Remember.

“Be of good courage and cast these dreadful thoughts out of your mind. Whenever the devil pesters you with these thoughts, at once seek out the company of men, drink more, joke and jest, or engage in some other form of merriment. . . . When the devil throws our sins up to us and declares that we deserve death and hell, we ought to speak thus: ‘I admit that I deserve death and hell. What of it? Does this mean that I shall be sentenced to eternal damnation? By no means. For I know One who suffered and made satisfaction in my behalf. His name is Jesus Christ, the Son of God. Where he is, there I shall be also.’”

Martin Luther, in Theodore G. Tappert, editor, Luther: Letters of Spiritual Counsel (Philadelphia, 1955), pages 86-87.

A friend posted this earlier this week. Taking Karl and Luther's advice I went and hung out with people. Four hyperactive kids and their two tired babysitters. I love kids. Who else would cure boredom by spraying you in the face with febreze, bite you, pull your hair, kick you in the stomach, let you help put away the dishes, quote a movie you've never seen so fast that you can't understand them, have you teach them wrestling moves, shoot you with nerf guns and let you feed the dog.

I love my life and I would not read ahead for fear of missing the treasures to be found in unexpected laughter, the sense of wonder oranges and sunsets bring.

Yakima

2010-02-10T19:07:00.000-08:00

Well I'm in Yakima now. All moved in. Writing this from my blackberry. My computer died on the way over. My blackberry has a few dead keys so please bear with me. "P" are the worst _ I have to miss spell something in google, get it to guess something with a "p" then copy it to the clipboard to paste at my leisure. This works till the phone is turned off. But this is a blog about Yakima not dead p's and return keys (hence the run on nature of this entry) so back to Yakima. It's good. I've been doing lots of walking, and working and sleeping. My bikes and bed are still spread across the state and I'm learning just how much free time I have - a lot. It's not to hot yet. Nor is it to cold. I must live next to people as quite and boring as me. I only hear them cough and take showers. The apartment is about 600 square ft. It's kinda a lofted loft apartment - and by that I mean that the loft has a loft. There is some exposed brick and cool left overs from the days when it used to be Yakima's powerhouse - big metal conductors sticking thru the exterior brick wall - I'll get pictures up as soon as I can figure out how. But for now you are going to have to settle for this.

Everything but her heart . . .

2010-02-03T08:09:00.000-08:00

Yesterday found me in Yakima "apartment choosing" as a good friend put it. The natural excitement of looking at apartments coupled with several cups of Tam's green dot coffee, and a tripleshot12ozroomforcreamamericano from Cafe Moro had me skittish. Maybe.

So naturally I went to get more coffee.

And that's when I met her. An overheard comment got the conversation started. Don't know her well - but we are friends now. The memories seemed so fresh for her. Maybe it was a birthday, or the sad anniversary. But for whatever reason as we waited to order our coffee she talked about the day back in the late 70's. The day of the accident. The day which has changed every day since then. She thought that she would be close to my age today - maybe a little older.

She showed me how the accident broke all - all of her teeth - but left her jaw intact.

It was not gross, it was not awkward, it was not an over-share.

She was proud that I was donating - she had donated everything, her eyes, her body and organs.

Everything but her daughters heart.

And I thought a few months of job searching was tough.

Seattle to Portland 2010

2010-01-31T08:21:00.001-08:00

Books I've read tell me to tell you. Choose a race - tell your friends, tell family and coworkers.

Consider this your telling. I am telling you that on the evening of July 17th I will arrive at Holladay Park. Tired. Exhausted. You'll be smiling. I'll be sore, chaffed, and smelly. You'll want to talk. I'll want to sleep. My back will ache. My hands, arms and shoulders will be stiff. I'll hobble from the grass where I have collapsed to the car. From the car to a house where I'll shower off the grime of miles.

Then I'll sleep soundly for hours, and rise to a hearty breakfast and Sunday well spent in the company of friends.

Consider yourselves told. If you're planning a fun weekend in mid July just know I'm busy on the 17th - I'll be busy riding the 200+ miles from Seattle to Portland.

Training starts as soon as I get settled in Yakima.

This blog will keep it's reflection's on life mixed with photography air - but it will also become a training journal of sorts as well. I'll make sure it's not a boring over-share of a fat man with a mad dream but rather tales of lessons learned and humorous story's. Things I learn while pushing myself farther then I thought I could and the humor that is found when you fall down and get back up again.

Every Sunday night I'll post that weeks distances and times. I'll post that morning's weight, and the next week's mileage, but hopefully in a way that is entertaining to the reader. By keeping you interested in my progress I'll have something to carry me thru those weeks I want to give up and quit.

That's is where the next 23 weeks are headed - 23 weeks - 23 posts. 23 weigh-ins. 23 weeks of flat tires, rain, sun, hills, and powerbars.

Only 23 weeks away.

See you in Portland.