Read always.

I have been recently recommended to the books 'Tuesdays With Morrie' and 'Ella Minnow Pea'. I was directed to the first by a blogger whom I have only just discovered and have been reading avidly since then, A drifter at chaseandre.com. He wrote that he hasn't met a person he doesn't like who has read this book. So I figure theres no harm in reading it, right? So I did. I started on a Tuesday and finished by Thursday it was an incredible journey and now I'm sorry I ate it up so fast even though I had other things to do and needed the time for. Anyways I enjoyed the read and would recommend it to anyone. It is heartbreaking to watch a man degraded by a disease that he cannot overcome but the book is more than that. It includes that man's conquering in a different way, through passing on his wisdom to the next generation, a wisdom that he could not pass on if it weren't for his imminent death. He says that one learns how to live when they are dying. These lessons that he learns from death are vastly important and could mean so much to someone who would slow down to realize that life is about living. Some people get to the end of their life and suddenly see that they have tried so hard to prepare for their life that they never actually lived it! what a tragedy. So read always its a part of life. I'm going to read 'Ella Minnow Pea' recommended to me by a good friend, over thanksgiving break and tell you how it is.

We want to walk where amazing thinkers have walked; to experience the sights , sounds smells, people that inspired the minds of the men and women who shaped our very existence. But what about where they are now. The so-called final resting places of these giants of society. Kings, queens, scientists, musicians, artists, great leaders and saints of the church. They lie entombed in a vast array of places, beneath the ground, in mausoleums, some even scattered to the wind in grey dust, the work of hungry flames. Many have been laid to rest in cemeteries across the world. So what is a cemetery, the place where we lay our heroes, leaders, and family. Some sort of morbid fancy, some bit of macabre mystery has shrouded these dwellings of the dead in deep darkness. Yet Luther writes that a cemetery ought to be “a fine quiet place, removed from all other localities, to which one can go and reverently meditate on death, the Last Judgement, the resurrection, and say one's prayers” (490). So Nancy and I decided to visit the site of this mystery ourselves to see whether fear or contemplation awaited us there.

Nancy and I walk among the cold, silent, peaceful stones. We are the only living flames, smoldering in a bed of ashes. Using the meager lights that our cell phones offer, we manage to read several of the brass inscriptions. Some read “beloved daughter” or “loving mother and wife” and again, “CPL Aco 5^th Plt WWII” then again some are reduced to simply name and 8 numbers punctuated by a simple hyphen. It seems that the ground – the hallowed land where we inter our “beloved” dead , is indeed a sacred place. The stones placed so carefully and neatly in commemoration must, to some degree, be for the sake of the contemplation of the living. In the darkness of the warm summer night our backs to the cold stone wall of a small columbarium, Nancy spoke, “I tried to make some connection with that space – that hyphen. We live in that space.” Indeed we do live in that space, we have so little time in which to live, summed up in a short inscription on a stone. Those lying in the graves before us have been through so much collectively. The history, the glory, shame, mistakes and achievements are overwhelming. Some lived to the age of ninety some left the world behind after only a month of life. The realization that you are not alone but rather in some sort of town of the dead, inspires a feeling of smallness. The bodies that lay here beneath their names have heard so much. If ever I wished something could speak – if only these graves could open and allow the dead to speak and disseminate the vast amount of knowledge they must contain. How many stories would they tell of the epic battles that they fought in sustaining wounds from which they maybe never fully recovered; of love secret or emblazoned in their hearts; of tragedy, of joy, of families, children, traditions, travels; of peaceful evenings in a cafe in havana gazing at the moon over the sea towards Florida, or working finger to the bone to feed fatherless children in a mediocre American home, trying to capture a phantom dream for the next generation. There would be stories so many stories of joy and of sadness – just think of all the stories –

This is not a place of fear it is a place filled with memory a place for contemplation.

Peter Panning

Don't they say that some people never grow up? I think I'm more afraid of never growing up, or rather never changing than of growing up. I am no Peter Pan. That doesn't mean I don't love the spirit that is contained in children, the wonder and the innocence; but thats just it. It's in Children. It is not becoming for an adult to pretend to be a child! We have to leave space to grow up and to change, its not as much fun as you would think to maintain one attitude towards life forever. It reminds me of the chronicles of Narnia. Yes I know i've quoted it before but you have to admit C.S. Lewis is a pretty prolific author. Peter is talking about his sister Susan who doesn't return to Narnia at the end of all things and he says, somewhat wistfully, “Her whole idea is to race on to the silliest time of one's life as quick as she can and then stop there as long as she can” Like I wrote in my last post, I want to grow old, I don't want to be stagnated and settle in one mindset forever no matter how good it was for that season. You can't pick a flower and preserve it alive forever, it will die eventually! There is a time for everything, laughing, crying, dancing and working. In the same way our lives involve seasons, what a shame it would be if the world always remained in one season and we never ran on the beach in the hot sun drinking coca cola diving in the cool water and soaking in the vitamin D through our warm skin, or watch a sunset over the the golden glow of multicolored leaves on the tall trees in a brisk Autumn breeze thats my favorite one (maybe with a pumpkin spice latte in hand). What if we never met the new year with flowers just creeping out of their icy beds and climbing up to meet the sun. A time filled with new life, bright colors, births and renewal going on everywhere. And finally what if we never got to see blankets of snow in the quiet woods and frozen lakes snuggling next to a warm fire cuddled with loved ones under a blanket maybe with a Christmas tree sparkling in the corner. (I know these are my americanized twenty-first century ideas of seasons but God does make beautiful things out of a combination of time and nature.) Seasons in nature are beautiful and I think that the ones in our lives should be no less appreciated. Don't try to stay young forever its no good, let yourself grow, change, and experience the proper seasons of life that God sets up.

Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
Our times are in His hand
Who saith "A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!"

--Robert Browning

Having have lived

I used to be afraid of aging, getting old, weak, slow, losing memories. Body deteriorating. natural functions shutting down. The work of sin on a corruptible body. Although this still seems daunting I think that having have lived will be a new and fantastic experience, just as living now is. In the face of danger Reepicheep the mouse says, "this is a very great adventure, and no danger seems to me so great as knowing when I get back to Narnia that I left a mystery behind me through fear" (the voyage of the dawn treader).

At times mankind wishes that they each could sped their lives along to "get to the good parts" but as the moral of the story goes with those who get their wish, every moment is part of life. Someday it is God's will that I reach old age, I will have wisdom and memory to give away to others. I will be full of adventure and of time. my maw crammed with tales of yesteryear ready to fill an open ear. Another step, another stage in the journey that is life. And not only will it be a time to sit back on my rucksack full of days gone by but it will bring with it new adventures. Old people adventures. Each time in life comes with its own kind of adventures and finally comes death. which as our dear little friend Peter Pan says, "To die will be an awfully big adventure."

An Entire Train stopped. Just for me. They gave me juice. They said "God bless you" they left.

I was sitting by the train tracks today reading. As I sat mind wandering from the Paradiso, Bob Dylan playing deep inside my ears about a tambourine man, two AmTrak passenger trains whizzed by me and I watched with pleasure as their massive bodies blurred by and shook the earth beneath them. I put a penny on the track, read for an hour to see it get crushed and was about to leave, giving up hope of the next train. Just then a leviathan BNSF train came lumbering down the tracks, slowly laboriously. Its great face neared my watching post beneath a shrubby palm tree and rather than passing me by, it stopped. The whole train stopped, right next to me. I wondered if I was about to get told that the train tracks were no place for me and to pack up my bags and leave. As a suntanned, dirty, engineer placed a heavy boot out the front entrance of the train I stood and looked anxiously at him. But his face was kind and rather than shooing me away he asked me if I was okay, warned me of the dangers of the train tracks, and asked if I needed water. I quickly assured him that I was fine and in need of nothing. He nodded and jumped back up on the train and disappeared into the hulk of the engine. I stood there a little awkwardly expecting the train to begin to chug away but before it did, the man reappeared holding a juice pack. I couldn't help but smile as he tossed it to me and said "God bless you, have a good day!" I called after him in reciprocation but I think the train swallowed it in the roar of dynamos and motors. He vanished into the massive face once more and finally the train pulled away. Slowly but surely. I watched in awe as the huge body rumbled past me, slowly, so much slower than the passenger trains. The loads of pipes, oil, and coal rolled smoothly over the tracks which bent under the incredible weight of the cars. I had wondered moments before how the train nails were loosened from their tight fastenings on the steel rails but now, as I saw the rails bending as if they would break and the nails being lifted ever so slightly out of their sockets, my wondering was satiated. Instead I could not now conceive how the tracks which had seemed so heavy and thick before did not now snap like toothpicks under their incredible burden. As the final car of the monster passed me, I stood dazed for a moment in sheer awe of the size of that industrial creature. I lived next to a train my whole life, but they will always continue to amaze me.

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

--Robert Frost

I want you to know the poem.

Alone

I sit alone at the table and survey the room, taking in my surroundings in this barely familiar house. A small family occupies the room making preparations for the anticipated soirée. A cool breeze blows through the screen and empties my mind. A forgotten book lies beside my arm. I wonder at my coming here at all, but after all it is by invitation. Should I have come? The guests begin to arrive one by one in a gradual trickle, casually meeting and mingling, they are each and all well acquainted. I still sit alone although I am surrounded by a growing number of people. A woman, maybe two attempt a friendly conversation, my mind wanders and soon they do as well. Why am I here? They know me only as my fathers child. Its not enough. I know each face that enters the room and the voices that chime in are not an unknown cadence. I realize I could engage some of these people but I'm not sure I remember how, so I remain alone. The minutes pass and feel like hours. I feign interest in the conversation over dinner abstaining from the food myself. As I watch the people, longing to remember and strike up simple easy conversation, I cover my eyes with my hand. Unbidden tears spring into my tired eyes but upon noticing them I quickly shake them away and gaze out the window trying casually to regain my composure. My mind is stabbed with desire, but to act upon it is not within my power. Were I in a glass box cut off from food within sight of a feast my mind could not long for something more. My head throbs gently perhaps it the voices, there are so many people. As the evening progresses I continue to watch my surroundings. I wish I had never come. They don't want you here. Was that true? A thousand thoughts barrage my mind weakening its shield. The voices of the crowd are dulled by the ones in my head, though they are only those of my own imagining. The pressure, the throbbing is growing stronger. Suddenly the body next to me laughs and I realize I missed the joke, in fact I have missed most of what has been said. I press my forefingers against my temples as the pressure builds. I want nothing more than to leave but I can't tear away, I'm stranded. Again the tears well up to my eyes and I swallow the lump in my throat. How can they not notice the pressure, and the voices? They are growing and building upon each other. It must be loud enough now. They walk around me smiling, their now silent mouths chattering endlessly, maddeningly. I try desperately to recall the reason I came but its is shrouded as in a dense fog. I must endure this self inflicted torture but a short while longer. My head no longer endures the gentle throbbing, no, but it has changed to a deafening, roaring, pounding. Hammers on anvils make the armor of a thousand armies within my skull. The blood rushes forward pulsing, pounding against my forehead, looking for an escape. There is no longer any pretense I hold my head in my hands and make for the open door trying desperately to hold myself together and yet remain unseen. A foggy muddled voice whispers “goodbye” I force my mouth to open and respond although it is dry and I can't hear what comes out. I don't wait to see if I have been heard only knowing that I must make my escape. Tears now pour uninhibited down my face but I neither feel them nor care if they are seen, they are hidden by the hospitable darkness. The pounding has turned into screaming. I feel and hear nothing but the jumbled mass of voices in my head combining together to break the last nerve that keeps my mind from breaking. I cry out desperate for it to end before it is too late. Suddenly my world fades into blackness although I can hardly discern this night from the one I knew before, but this is different here I am alone. It is silent. There is no pounding only dark and silence. There are no voices only me. Alone.