Miscellaneous Musings, October 13, 2010

The Ice Man Cometh

I don’t know why, but the change of season from summer to fall has become an issue of momentous importance to me this year. It’s coming late; the leaves here in the Springs have hardly begun to turn. Looking out of my office window, the scene is very similar to what it was in July, there are just slight tinges of color here and there. Usually, the leaves are on the ground by now. Last night, there was a frost warning, it never got that cold, there was no frost.

As I said above, I don’t know why I feel so anxious to chronicle the change of season this year. It’s got nothing to do with the upcoming elections, I’m pretty sure of that. Neither has it anything to do with the fact the Broncos are having a lousy season under a coach of unproven talents. Perhaps, more than anything, it’s because I feel I’ve missed the last two or three such transitions. I have tended to be busy, to keep my head down and focus on the task and let the miracle taking place all around me pass me by. That’s something I should try to avoid at all cost.

Thoreau

I read Thoreau’s Walden in high school, possibly voluntarily, more likely because it was assigned. I remember being enthralled with the philosophy presented in that short book by one man who lived in a simple cabin by a pond for “two years and two months.” I thought at the time, and still do, truth be told, that living that way would be an ideal. I forget about the realities of a lack of indoor plumbing, being infested by mosquitoes and other bugs, lack of functioning air conditioning, and a readily accessible Chipotle restaurant to visit on a whim. The ideal is too idyllic.

Yet, although I still have my marked up paperback copy that I used in high school (it’s the only book from that time that I still have), I haven’t even glanced at Walden since then, hardly even thought about it. So, I thought it might be time to download the Kindle version and re read it; it is, after all, reputed to be an excellent sample from the genre known as nature writing. Within the first page or so, however, I come across this:

“Most men, even in this comparatively free country, through mere ignorance and mistake, are so occupied with the factitious cares and superfluously coarse labors of life that its finer fruits cannot be plucked by them. Their fingers, from excessive toil, are too clumsy and tremble too much for that. Actually, the laboring man has not leisure for a true integrity day by day; he cannot afford to sustain the manliest relations to men; his labor would be depreciated in the market. He has no time to be anything but a machine. How can he remember well his ignorance—which his growth requires—who has so often to use his knowledge? We should feed and clothe him gratuitously sometimes, and recruit him with our cordials, before we judge of him. The finest qualities of our nature, like the bloom on fruits, can be preserved only by the most delicate handling. Yet we do not treat ourselves nor one another thus tenderly.”

Many of us live lives that we haven’t chosen, sometimes by happy accident, other times by very unfortunate circumstance. For those more unfortunate, the choice then becomes one of attitude and acceptance. The accidental circumstances of our lives aren’t really the determining factor in how we choose to live those lives, just ask Victor Frankel. Yet, Thoreau can only condemn those who work honestly and generously, as degrading, turning those people into “machines.”

When he does admit that, perhaps, many people cannot live lives of leisure and philosophical speculation, he does it this way:

 

“Some of you, we all know, are poor, find it hard to live, are sometimes, as it were, gasping for breath. I have no doubt that some of you who read this book are unable to pay for all the dinners which you have actually eaten, or for the coats and shoes which are fast wearing or are already worn out, and have come to this page to spend borrowed or stolen time, robbing your creditors of an hour. It is very evident what mean and sneaking lives many of you live, for my sight has been whetted by experience; always on the limits, trying to get into business and trying to get out of debt, a very ancient slough, called by the Latins aes alienum, another's brass, for some of their coins were made of brass; still living, and dying, and buried by this other's brass; always promising to pay, promising to pay, tomorrow, and dying today, insolvent; seeking to curry favor, to get custom, by how many modes, only not state-prison offenses; lying, flattering, voting, contracting yourselves into a nutshell of civility or dilating into an atmosphere of thin and vaporous generosity, that you may persuade your neighbor to let you make his shoes, or his hat, or his coat, or his carriage, or import his groceries for him; making yourselves sick, that you may lay up something against a sick day, something to be tucked away in an old chest, or in a stocking behind the plastering, or, more safely, in the brick bank; no matter where, no matter how much or how little.”

The condescension is palpable. While I’ll continue to read Walden, it’ll be in the back of my mind that I’m reading the work of a prototype of the modern day leftist.

October in Colorado

We seem to be going directly from summer to winter again this year.  It was that way last year too, we experienced very little in the way of fall weather.  So, I've decided to post a couple of pictures of the already fading fall colors, plus one of a more domestic moment in the living room sun.

8/28 Rally, Part II, Playing the Tourist Role

When going to a place like Washington, D.C., one almost feels morally obligated to hit as many of the popular tourist attractions as possible. This is true no matter the fact that, concerning one’s own home town, with plenty of tourist attractions of its own, one remains almost totally ignorant. In my own case, I’ve never visited Seven Falls, or the Cave of the Winds, or even driven up the Pikes Peak Highway, and may never. They’re too close to home, and too easy to go see to rate a visit, I guess. 

So, even though we had been to DC several times in the somewhat distant past, we managed some time at the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum and the Museum of American History on Friday, before the Rally, and Sunday, after the Rally.

At the Air and Space Museum I felt the pang of regret that I feel whenever I see an airplane on display. I learned to fly before I graduated from high school and, especially as I grow older, there is something in me that hates to see an airplane in a museum. Several of the planes that were there were ones that were flying, I could even say, still flying, as I was growing up. Two particular examples, the Stagger-Wing Beech and the DC 3.

I understand that, given the hazards of regular use, examples of these old airplanes might be lost for future generations to see. Keeping them on display can give those open to such thoughts a perspective on just how far and how fast technology has progressed during the last hundred years or so. Just as an example of technological progress, in the picture with the X-15 in the foreground, you can see the Spirit of St Louis and Virgin’s Spaceship 1, the first private venture into space. The technology here spans the time from 1927 into the early 21st century, a remarkable display. Still, they were made to fly and I always feel a twinge of sadness to see them hanging from the ceiling in a building in Washington.

At the Smithsonian Museum of American History, actually an annex thereof, there was a wide variety of subjects covered in the displays, from early electrical generators to chemical research to transportation. As we were going through the displays something struck me, beauty. Even the very early designs for commercial electrical generators we designed, very obviously, with an eye to beauty. It was readily apparent that great attention had been paid to every detail and that functionality was not the prime consideration. The gears and other parts and pieces were really pleasing to look at. Even locomotives were built with careful attention to detail. Quality was evident everywhere I looked.

The desire for beauty and finding beauty in everyday life is a very Benedictine notion. Looking beyond mere functionality and doing things well is, I think, part of living the Rule and I couldn’t help but think of that as we continued through the museum. It’s, like much else in Benedictine spirituality, a natural part of human life; we’re drawn, almost in spite of ourselves, to beauty as a reflection of God’s love in our lives. As I thought about it, it dawned on me that that’s part of the reason I hate to see airplanes in museums. In many cases, they were beautifully designed to do what they do. It was a very welcome reminder of the truth and importance of Benedict’s Rule, written so long ago.

As for most of Friday, we spent that at the American’s for Prosperity Summit in Washington. What can you say about political meetings with lots of political speeches? It seems they are all the same and it was no different at the AFP meetings we attended. We did hear speeches from several bona fide celebrities, including Dick Morris, Virginia Governor, Bob McDonnell, and Congresswoman Michele Bachmann. There were two, however, that stood out. One from Herman Cain and the other from George Will.

Herman Cain is a radio talk show host and Fox News contributor. His speech was, like the others mostly political, but in the last 10 minutes or so he spoke of his fight to survive stage 4 cancer (cancer in two or more organs). When his doctor told him of the diagnosis, he asked her what that meant. She told him, “That’s as bad as it gets.” He said he decided to get a second opinion. At this point, he began to take on the persona of a black preacher and really put his heart into his talk. The second doctor he went to also told him, “It’s as bad as it gets.” But this doctor wasn’t ready to give up; he suggested a course of treatment. Mr. Cain said that after this, he began to see signs from God, the first of which was that the second doctor’s name was Lord. As he went on and gave the details of his treatment and survival, he told a story of real trust in God and love for God. It was very moving and if you ever get a chance to hear him speak, please go. You won’t be sorry.

The other speaker was the Keynote address that evening by the columnist, George Will. Will was a professor, I’m guessing of history, before he was a columnist and his speaking style is very much that of a scholarly, intellectual, history professor. I’m always up for that. Will, however, is also a baseball enthusiast, and he told several humorous stories about baseball to make the political points that were also very much part of his speech. I’ll share one with you.

It seems there was a rookie pitcher who faced the immortal Rogers Hornsby toward the end of Hornsby’s career. The pitcher threw three pitches, each of which, in truth, caught the outside of the plate. The umpire, however, called each one a ball. The rookie protested, “Mr. Umpire, those pitches were strikes.” The umpire answered, “Son, if any of those pitches had been strikes, Mr. Hornsby would have let you know.” Hornsby had established himself as a true professional who would not slack off, even when facing the rawest rookie challenger.

Is there a lesson from all this? I’d say the big impression on me was the excitement and enthusiasm of the crowd. They were fired up to say the least. When telling points against the other side were made, standing ovations almost always followed. It was as if the crowd believed that, simply by making those points, the speakers were vanquishing the forces of darkness and ushering in a regime that would reestablish the primacy of truth, justice and the American way. I think that remains to be seen, but the excitement and energy of the crowd was hugely impressive. By the time the evening was over, I was wondering what the morrow would bring.

8/28 Diary, Part I, On the Road to Washington

[Note: My wife and I attended Glenn Beck’s Restoring Honor Rally in D.C. this past weekend and I thought it important to provide some notes from the experience. ]

I first heard about the Restoring Honor Rally Glenn Beck planned for 8/28 probably in April. My first thought was, good grief, Washington, D.C. in August? He’s gotta be kidding! But then, my wife got wind of it. We talked it over for a good month or so and finally decided it was important that there be a good crowd for this, so we made reservations to go.

Why did we go? During to countdown to the Rally, all four months of it, we had little idea of what to expect, Beck didn’t release many details in advance. We did know the program was themed around his understanding of the virtues of Faith, Hope, and Charity and that he vowed it wouldn’t be political; it would be about returning the country to it’s traditional values. And that’s why we went. We felt it important to stand in favor of such things; it was a tremendous gamble on Beck’s part to put the thing on; if it failed, if few people showed up, the so called elites running the country could claim a real victory for their progressive agenda. That would be terrible. We were a little afraid, in fact, that many people would not make the trip, given the time and the condition of the economy. We decided we could go, thanks to a bank of air miles, and so we would; we would try to do our part to make sure it didn’t fail.

So, we waited four months for the day of departure to arrive.

On the Road – We made our reservations to fly out on Thursday, 8/26 on the United direct flight from COS to Washington, Dulles Airport. The eve of the big day came, we set the alarms early, packed and went to bed. We got up, got breakfast and until 6:00 AM everything went strictly to plan. We were congratulating ourselves that we were better prepared and things were going more smoothly than any trip we had ever taken. Then the lights went out. I finished my shower and shaved in darkness. I wondered if this was an omen. Anyway, we got the bags out to the car and headed to the airport, thinking the power would come on soon and everything would be fine.

We got there, a parking lot shuttle followed us from our arrival in the Long Term Parking area and picked us right up. Seemed we were back on track. We got through security with no issue and got to the gate quickly.

It’s hard to describe time spent in a modern airport. There is the unrelenting sameness about airports these days that seems at times both welcome and oppressive. It’s welcome because you feel like you are entering familiar territory in the sometimes over whelming experience that is travel these days. It’s oppressive because it’s easy to forget just exactly what town you are in; except in matters of scale, one airport looks almost exactly like another airport, no matter the city or state. It’s also hard for an old-timer like myself not to remember that it didn’t use to be like that; airports in different cities each had their own character and were part of the landscape to which they belonged. They reflected the area around them. Now, due mostly I guess, to changes in technology and the regulatory quest to try to guarantee absolute safety, no matter the cost, entering an airport is like entering some sort of isolation capsule where you are completely cut off, once past security screening, from anything or any influence from the outside. Is this a good thing? I don’t know.

It’s hard not to notice, too, that even the cast of characters at most airports is nearly identical. At the screening area, there is the inevitable poor soul, usually some middle aged, infrequent traveler from Milwaukee, who tries to pack all sorts of liquids and gel into his/her carry-on baggage, resulting in the full force of the TSA coming down on their heads in the never-ending effort to trap terrorists and confiscate any possible explosive contraband. There is the elderly couple overwhelmed by the whole experience, wearing the famous deer in the headlights expressions. I can’t help but feel for them. There is the jaded, withdrawn teenager or college student, completely absorbed with their iPod, smart phone, or what ever the gadget of the moment is. And there is the business traveler, the one who makes their living doing this, week in and week out, checking email or writing important memos on laptops plugged into the wall. They were all there this morning too. As for me, I pulled out my most recent discovery, my Kindle, and opened a book by Richard O’Kane, The Patrols of the American Submarine, Wahoo.

I always try to bring a book of military history with me when I have to take an airplane some where. They aren’t heavy reading, but still serve as a periodic reminder that human beings, maybe especially Americans, are capable of great courage and self-sacrifice in the pursuit of what is right and good. O’Kane’s book fit the bill perfectly. The Kindle makes it possible to carry many books, both for the flight and for reading after arrival, without weighing down your carry on bag to at or beyond my declining physical limits. It’s a god send as I hate to be without a selection of books to read.  My Kindle will spoil me.

The flight itself, even though it was roughly three hours on a small commuter jet, wasn’t uncomfortable. It was, in fact, bearable. What else can be said, or even wished for these days? I congratulate United Airlines for being a rather customer oriented air carrier and doing their best to provide a pleasant experience under difficult circumstances.

On arrival, we headed for baggage claim, collected our bags and headed for the advertised shuttle which would take us to the West Falls Church Metro stop where we could catch a train and, we hoped, land reasonably close to our hotel at a reasonable hour. This worked out close to plan.

So, here we were in Washington, D.C., awaiting the big day.

[To be continued]

Killing Time, Waiting for the Barbershop to Open

[Bloggers Note: This was written at 0805 this morning.]

So, here I am, sitting in the neighborhood Starbuck’s, early on a Saturday morning, nearly an hour to go before the barbershop opens, killing time. Why, you may ask, am I sitting here with time on my hands waiting for the barbershop to open? You know I’ve got to tell you. 

Yesterday, the postman left one of those dreaded little slips of paper saying he had tried to deliver a certified, very important, letter and I wasn’t home to receive it. I could sense the disdain. This important document would be waiting for me in the morning at the post office several miles from our home. I knew it was important because it was sent through the very important, even legally demanding processes of the U.S. Postal Service Certified Letter channels. It must be important for someone to go through the time and expense to send me a document in that way. In any case, I was now scheduled to report to the Post Office at 8:00 AM on Saturday morning.

I had been expecting some documents that might qualify for this process and at first thought nothing of this intrusion. Then I began to have doubts. What really awaited me at the Post Office? So far as I knew, I hadn’t offended anyone enough for them to be sending notice of impending litigation. I was confident that I had paid every dime, and more, probably, to my Uncle Sam. This couldn’t be a letter from the IRS threatening to take everything I owned, or ever will own, unless I promptly paid some amount approximately equal to the national debt as of today. No, it couldn’t be that. Still. . . All I could see was a mountain of legal bills piling ever higher. The future looked bleak.

I spent a restless night in anxious anticipation of morning, cursing the fact that I hadn’t been home when this nasty coupon was delivered. Perhaps I could have refused to accept the thing, or told him I had moved to Montana or something. By the time morning arrived I was in a state. I rose early and headed off to the post office. I hate waiting in lines, especially at the post office and even more especially when my life as I knew it appeared to be at an end. I haven’t yet learned the Benedictine virtue of patience.

A stroke of luck, I was there the moment the doors opened and I was the first customer at the counter. I stood and looked at the postal clerk. He gave me a puzzled look and I handed him the coupon. After a few minutes he returned with the envelope in his hands and a very serious look on his face. He told me to sign on the line displayed on the little electronic box permanently anchored to the counter next to me. (Who would steal one of those things?) I obediently signed and he handed me my fate.

I looked at the envelope and it bore the return address of one of the national political party’s congressional campaign committees. What could this be? Maybe they were coming to their senses and asking me to run for national office, recognizing, finally, the importance of having candidates of a certain maturity and wisdom? Were they looking for advice on a course of action for the future? It was about time.

I brightened, stood a little taller, and opened the envelope, ready to offer myself in service to my country with purpose and dignity. I began reading, “I regret the inconvenience sending this certified letter may have caused you, but . . .” It was a letter asking me to contribute big bucks (fat chance) to their campaign war chest. I drooped. It was a complete waste of time, all for nothing. So I went to Starbucks and wrote this little essay and now you’ve wasted your time reading it. So there. I’m going to get a haircut.

What Was I Thinking?

When I wrote the previous post, I was thinking that to write on a broader range of topics than those relating to Benedictine monasticism, I really should start another blog not referred to as an Oblate blog. What was I thinking?

The rational I used to justify the new blog was that William of St. Thierry, a Cistercian father, wrote a book that didn’t deal directly with monastic topics but rather focused on what it takes to be a Christian. I was thinking that he wasn’t writing in the monastic tradition, why, I don’t know. He most certainly was, because after all, what is the point of a monastery except to form a community dedicated to seeking God? What is the point of being an Oblate, except to seek God within my own vocation. It means, as I have said so many times before, that the whole point to the Rule, is to create a way of life that encompasses all important aspects of our human condition, work, prayer, conversion, community, hospitality, or dealing with authority and the importance of obedience. It’s all in there. I don’t know what made me think a study of the most important tenants of my faith, or commenting on what is going on in my world would be subjects not to be covered on an Oblate blog. What was I thinking?

I guess I just wasn’t, so I decided to correct the situation in the name of stability, another topic covered in the Rule.

A New Direction (From Apologia of My Own)

[This post was originally entered on another blog of mine but I wanted to be sure it was posted here.  Another post explaining more will follow.]

For some time now, I’ve wanted to branch out in topics I cover during my blogging career. For some reason I can’t explain, the impetus came from reading William of St. Thierry’s The Golden Epistle. William was one of the Cistercian Fathers, a monastic, who wrote simply about seeking God. He didn’t spend much time on specifically monastic topics. I thought about that and realized that I hadn’t spent much time reading or studying what it means to seek God as a Catholic Christian living in the 21st century. More than that, I wanted to get back to the roots of some Church teachings that I wasn’t too familiar with and some teachings that I was just plain uncomfortable with. I suppose chief among the latter topics would be the so called area of “social justice.” On top of all that, I wanted to spend time reading either original documents, or writers who lived not later than the early 20th century. So my study will be one of the areas of focus for this blog.


Other areas will certainly include current events, skirting partisan political issues as much as possible, and possibly even supposedly trivial issues such as the weather, football, and ordinary events of daily life and reflections on my past. In other words, anything that occurs to me at the moment I sit down to type.

To possibly set the tone for the future of An Apoligia of my Own, I offer the following video from Red Skelton. This short bit gives a beautiful example of the impact some serious thought can have.