A Forever Foreigner

This post was started in the final days of living in China, but in the midst of all the leaving and packing and thinking on other things, I forgot all about it. And I’m glad I did.

Reading it now, in my very American classroom on a dark and chilly Tuesday morning, has challenged my head and heart and daily life, because, months later, the words seem forced and empty. Fake even. I know they’re not, but since being back, what I’m discovering is that, several months ago, they were much easier to write than they are to live.

: Original Post :

“Have a good day!”

    “Zài jiàn!”

    The coffee is passed between us and I rush out the door and back to work.

    My “teaching” day is over. Now all that is left is a few hours of quiet lesson planning and a hot cup of mediocre coffee.  

But I can’t get that small interaction out of my head.

    “Have a good day!”

    “Zài jiàn!”

    They’re so simple, so basic, and absolutely so common, but in that simple moment, they broke through barriers, travelled over thousands of miles of differences, and connected two strangers, a short petite Chinese woman and a six-foot four American.

    “Have a good day!”

    “Zài jiàn!”

    Spoken kindly, that small interaction brought a strange welcoming to my heart.  

In a land where very little reminds me of “home,” where ordering large bottles of water requires assistance from someone who knows how to speak numbers one, six, and nine in mandarin, this small interaction allowed me to feel a small notion of acceptance, of not feeling so much like an outsider, and that I just might make it.

“Have a nice day!’ the lady behind the counter said with an accent that runs all the words together, putting the wrong emphAses on the wrong syllAble.

“Zài jiàn!” I responded without confidence and probably using all the wrong tones, but she smiled anyway and went back to work. So did I.

“Have a good day!”

    “Zài jiàn!”

    I crossed the street with my coffee in hand and a new spark of hope in my heart.  No matter how many miles we are away from home, no matter how different life, the food, the language is, one thing will remain the same.  People surround us, and if nothing else, that is enough to make anyone feel at least a small sense of Home.

I wrote that story within my first few months of living in China, and in a few short days, I’ll be on a plane back to America, with friends and memories of a land I may never see again, and I can only wonder what now? What does my time in China mean for the future? What truths can I hold fast to, in the coming days and months and years?

Because, what I loved most about the above short story is the excitement of a new adventure, the wonder of a new land. It’s something I want tuck deep into my suitcase and carry across the deep and endless ocean. I want to be a Forever Foreigner.

:  A Forever Foreigner :

A Forever Foreigner is someone who, no matter where they live, is endlessly curious, even when the land and the people are no longer knew. Even when they begin to call the place they live, “home.”

After living and working  in China for two years, we were ready for the mountains of Montana, big blue skies, American beef, and family. We were ready for our six-week summer break. What we got though, was a bit different. When we arrived, when we talked with friends and drove through towns, we realized we were suddenly visitors, outsiders, and no longer locals – life had moved on without us, and we had grown and changed without them. Suddenly, we didn’t understand, fully, our home, and home didn’t understand us, and it was the strangest of feelings.

Then our six weeks ended and we came back to China. On one of our first outings to restock the fridge and cupboards, Josey (my wife) said, “It feels good to be back. It feels like home.”

And it was.

The guards to our complex waved us in with smiles, the local shop lady laughed and ran their fingers through our girls’ blonde curls, and we walked the streets with confidence and familiarity. We were no longer in awe of the carts full of vegetables and piles of cardboard boxes. The street dancers were normal and the street food familiar– they were part of our daily routine. We navigated the busy and crowded streets with ease, on our way to our favorite market. We engaged in simple conversations with strangers. China was no longer a foreign land. It was home – at least it felt like it was.

Then, a little girl with straight black hair and big beautiful eyes pointed and yelled, “Weiguaren!” Foreigner. Because we were.. Even though it felt like home, we were foreigners, we are guests.

At first, this yelled proclamation was frustrating, because I wanted that little girl to know I wasn’t a tourist, I lived there – China was my home!  Now, though, I’m beginning to wonder if being labeled a foreigner is okay, great even, because a foreigner lives with excitement, with anticipation, and with the passion to explore new lands, new people, and new ideas.

In order to survive, foreigners must ask a lot of questions because they own very few answers. And I like that, because it’s humbling, and because often, the answers received are not what we expected. And so we learn.

Forever Foreigners want to be curious. Always. No matter where they live. They love simple stories, battle the mundane, and they love displaying their collected knick-knacks on shelves and walls for others to see and ask, “What’s the story behind that?”

: Knick Knacks, not Ikea :

Our first few weeks in China were hard because, like many new foreigners have experienced, our house was empty, and loud. The only furniture we had were the basics provided by our company– beds, dressers, a dining table, and a couch and loveseat complete with a few tables, but the walls were bare. So were the shelves and tables. So were the cabinets and cupboards. And so, like many foreigners before us, we went to Ikea, and for good reason. In one location, over the span of a few months, we were able to acquire pots and pans, rugs, a stand for our TV, lamps, towels, drill bits and screws, picture frames, a few plants, silverware, towels, school supplies, and several pillows of various sizes. Then suddenly, our house was full. And it was great.

But by the end of our first two-year contract, hardly any of that Ikea furniture (minus the plates and picture frames) existed. The personal had, overtimes, replaced the commercial.

On our trips to the surrounding villages, we brought back baskets and small stools. The small markets that sporadically tucked themselves throughout the city offered wall hangings, accent pieces, and kitchenware. The knick-knacks from travels filled our shelves and walls and decorated our kitchen. Some of our most treasured pieces came from nearby trash piles and antique markets where my wife had to engage in long negotiations for the product and its delivery. Suddenly, when anyone asked us where we got this or acquired that, the answer was no longer simple. It required a story.

And stories, meaningful stories, require time.

When meeting a Tibetan, for example, the differences of dress, food, lifestyle, and religion are easily noticed and can just as quickly be collected and stored in a box. They’re what tourist foreigners collect – stories of differences. Finding similarities, though, is much more difficult. It takes time to find and effort to collect because they demand patience; they take intentionality and a conscious effort to see another as equal – not different. It’s being relational, not stereotypical. It’s the difference between Ikea furniture and small market, handmade furniture.

Ikea can help fill a house quickly, but the knick-knacks of the people and the land that hold experiences and journeys and stories make the house a home, a blended home, and a home full of memories and humanity and laughter.

Forever Foreigners seek knick-knack stories, not Ikea stories, no matter where they live. And when they bring them home, they cherish them, protect and display them with care, and allow them to blend in with and compliment their cluttered home that is full of stories worth telling, over and over again.

: Be Laughed at :

No one likes to be the brunt of a joke, especially when we don’t know why. Anyone who’s ever lived in a foreign country knows this better than most, because they know how embarrassing  and intimidating it can be to try and speak with a national in their native tongue. If they’re kind, they’ll smirk ever so slightly and probably correct pronunciation or choice of words; if they’re not so kind, they’ll outright laugh and maybe even tell a few nearby friends. But confortable with these early and continual failures is crucial to discovering a new land, learning a new language, and living beyond survival.

It’s also essential to the mind of a Forever Foreigner.

Forever Foreigners are not nearly as concerned about ego as they are about learning and discovery. Open and continual failure reminds Forever Foreigners that failure isn’t as scary as it seems, and it reminds us to get over ourselves and explore because there are worse things than being laughed at. Like staying safe.

When we’re willing to be laughed at, we’re willing to be wrong. And when we’re willing to be wrong, suddenly, the landscape of discovery opens and stretches out beyond what our limited eyes of understanding can see. If we’re willing to be wrong, we ask questions, seek help, and open ourselves to strangers and hidden blessings. Instead of being stuck in the rain, huddled beneath trees and waiting for the clouds to break, we find ourselves sitting with monks, drinking green tea, and communicating through smiles, puffs of smoke, and silly hand gestures. And we laugh, because sometimes there’s no better way to say it.

Forever Foreigners laugh because of differences, not at them. And it makes all the difference in the world.

: Then the Plane Lands :

In just four short months, the optimism and idealism of these words have been challenged and even ignored. Suddenly, being a Forever Foreigner seems like a foreign idea, and right now, I don’t really feel like I have the time for it.

“In truth,” Tim Cope writes in his memoir, “Ruslan’s news that he could guide me for just two more day was a mutually convenient way of parting with our rapport in-tact. I was already tired of trying to understand the world as it was filtered through his eyes, and I was looking forward to a new chapter” (pg 110).

Coming back to America, in many ways, was like returning to an old and difficult chapter that I’ve never really understood and have always kinda been excited to leave.

Because in America, there are Ugly Plates, racist assholes, and thousands of people who look just like me. Adventure seems lost; living as a Forever Foreigner impossible.

So what now?

One of the deepest memories I have of China was a day, about midway through our first year, when Josey and I both were desperately missing America. It was an early December weekend and we were aching for Pumpkin Spice Lattes, family stockings hung by chimneys, and the laughter of old friends. We even looked online and considered flying home. When that failed, we invited over two single girls who had moved to China just a few months prior. Like us, they were young foreigners and were missing home.

That night, we ordered “Burning Logs” from Netflix, sat around space heaters, and developed some of the sweetest friendships China could offer. Over the next several years, Aunty Beck and Aunt Sarah would watch our kids blow out candles, travel with us through several countries, and share Chinafied Thanksgiving meals. We would fight, walk out on movies, and spend Christmas morning sipping coffee, eating tea-rings, and opening simple gifts.

We would stay up way too late (or at least Josey would) and share stories of struggle, victory, and life. We would turn a foreign land into a sweet home. Because that’s what Forever Foreigners do. Even when they don't feel like, they pop popcorn, make a phone call, and patiently collect new knick-knacks. 

Then suddenly, several Christmases later, they sing carols with some of their favorite people in the world. 

And it is beautiful.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  On Living  :  Open Thoughts

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That Sunday Evening Feeling

It descends quick, normally between the hours of 5 and 7.30pm, being especially felt when the weather is turning and the last of the daylight has burnished the sky a shade of crimson pink before plunging into a sea of concluding darkness.

Even since I was a child, I understood this feeling but could never articulate it. As an adult, not much has changed; Sunday evenings are still my least favorite time of the week.

Recently, I came across an essay which argued that "The Sunday evening feeling is ordinarily associated with work, and the idea of going back to an office after a pleasant break." Therefore, the uneasiness or weight we feel is our conscious telling us that "we are going back to the wrong sort of work" (via). But that didn't really resonate with me because I don't work in an office or job I hate. I love and believe in my job and will, consciously, stay in it for the rest of my life

So why do I still feel the weight of a typical Sunday evening?

Because life still isn't enough.

The article continues:

We normally manage to keep the insistent calls of the true working self at bay during the week. We are too busy and too driven by an immediate need for money. But it reliably comes to trouble us on Sunday evenings. Like a ghost suspended between two worlds, it has not been allowed to live or to die, and so bangs at the door of consciousness, requiring resolution. We are sad, or panicked, because a part of us recognises that time is running out and that we are not presently doing what we should with what remains of our lives. The anguish of Sunday evening is our conscience trying to stir us inarticulately into making more of ourselves.

I don't quite agree with everything said, but I do think there is something there. Like the idea of our consciousness banging on a door, reminding us that time is running out, and fast.

Suddenly, spending most of Saturday morning skimming Facebook updates seems like a waste of precious time and that hour at the mountain lake should have been all about teaching Eden how to skip a rock, not taking pictures of my kids searching for them. Instead of watching football, I should have played it, with my son, as the snow fell from trees.

What if that Sunday evening feeling is a little nudge, a jab even, reminding us that time is running out. That even if we live well into our 70's and 80's or well into our 90's, the end will come faster than we expect and when it does, it will be too late, there will be no more weekends to try again.

What will we have to show for it? What will we have made of ourselves? Of our families? Of the world around us?

I like the way the essay concludes:

We should not keep our Sunday evening feelings simply for Sunday evenings. We should place these feelings at the center of our lives and let them be the catalysts for a sustained exploration that continues throughout the week, over months and probably years, and that generates conversations with ourselves, with friends, mentors and with professionals. Something very serious is going on when sadness and anxiety descend for a few hours on Sunday evenings . . .

And we would be wise to consider it. Before it's too late.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  On Living  :  Resume VS Eulogy Virtues

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Leonard Cohen's, Leaving the Table

I've never really been a Leonard Cohen fan, but this song got me.

In a posthumous new video for Leonard Cohen's "Leaving The Table," an animated paper cutout of the late singer dances and flies over a cityscape of Montreal, free as a bird, untethered from the mortal world.

"I'm leaving the table," he sings as the animated Cohen spins, dips and flits by scenes from his past life. "I'm out of the game / I don't know the people / In your picture frame." It's a tribute that's both heartbreaking and beautiful, revealing an artist who left the world content that he'd lived every moment to his fullest.

The video, conceived and directed by Christopher Mills, premiered at last night's Polaris Music Prize ceremony. "Leaving The Table" is from Cohen's You Want It Darker, released in October 2016, just days before the singer's death (via).

I'm Leaving the Table, by Leonard Cohen
 

I'm leaving the table
I'm out of the game
I don't know the people
In your picture frame
If I ever loved you or no, no
It's a crying shame if I ever loved you
If I knew your name

You don't need a lawyer
I'm not making a claim
You don't need to surrender
I'm not taking aim

I don't need a lover, no, no
The wretched beast is tame
I don't need a lover
So blow out the flame

There's nobody missing
There is no reward
Little by little
We're cutting the cord
We're spending the treasure, oh, no, no
That love cannot afford
I know you can feel it
The sweetness restored

I don't need a reason
For what I became
I've got these excuses
They're tired and lame
I don't need a pardon, no, no, no, no, no
There's no one left to blame
I'm leaving the table
I'm out of the game

I'm leaving the table
I'm out of the game

Kinda reminds me of Johnny Cash's remake, Hurt. 

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Music  :  Music Videos

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Seed of Hypocrisy : Power of Vulnerability

"He (John Proctor) is a sinner, a sinner not only against the moral fashion of his time, but against his own vision of decent conduct. These people (the Puritans) had no ritual for the washing away of sins. It is another trait we inherited from them, and it has helped to discipline us well to breed hypocrisy among us. Proctor, respected and even feared in Salem, has come to regard himself as a kind of fraud."

This quote, from Arthur Miller's The Crucible, was penned in the 1950's and stands as a defining critique against our current humanity. But it doesn't need to be. 

Over the past few years I have been wrestling with the idea and role of apology because, from what I can gather, it seems to be the only ritual we have that can "wash away our sins." Where deep and sincere apologies are present, and where both parties willingly and lovingly choose to lay their faults and mistakes down before another, the sweetest of reconciliation suddenly invades the room, empathy replaces justification, and wounds of separation become battle scars of a beautiful victory. For just as light beats away the darkness, so too does vulnerability erase hypocrisy, trapping it in the darkness from whence it came. 

However, where defensiveness and justification dwell, hypocrisy reigns, enslaved to a life much like Proctor's: feared by many and a fraud to all.

Until the music starts to play.

For the past week or so, in preparation for The Crucible, my Junior English class and I have been researching the life and ideas of the Puritans - the breaking off from the church of England in hopes of religious freedom, their emphasis on hard work, and their unrelenting suppression of emotions and sin. As a wrap up as well as an introduction to the play, we watched the opening scene to Jaws - Chrissie's Last Swim. But before starting the short clip I asked the students, "What role does the music play in this scene?" Then I pressed play.

Even before Chrissie is tugged beneath the water, because of the iconic "duuh-duh" we know something bad is going to happen - that disaster is eminent. Just like life for the Puritans.

"Reading about the Puritans, there should be a sort of "duuh-duh" playing in the background," I said to my students, "Why?"

"Because the conditions we're perfect for disaster," they said. And they're right.

Conditions for the early settlers were extremely harsh. Food was scarce, the weather cold and difficult, and the religious freedom they were hoping to escape from was as distant as their family and friends back in England. To make matters worse, they were expected to live and think and be perfect - because they believed themselves to be like the Egyptians of old, God's chosen people headed to the Promised Land. And God's chosen people don't lust, lose their temper, or envy thy neighbor's land. Because they're God's chosen people.

And as such, they had no need for repentance.

Duuuuh-duh. Duuh-duh. 

As Arthur Miller said, "it is a trait we inherited from them, and it has helped to discipline us well to breed hypocrisy among us." Respected and even feared, we have come to regard ourselves as a kind of fraud, and we're terrified of being found out.

Because, "there are aspects to all of us that, if they were exposed to a harsh or unsympathetic critic, would result in sever humiliation and mockery . . . From close up, we are, none of us, reliably impressive. We get agitated, fretful, cantankerous, and panicky.  Under the pressure of events, we shout, slam doors, let out screams, or wails" (via).

We are clumsy and constantly worried about how others will see us, how and where our careers and families are going, and we worry that we may not be loved (or loved the right way), all the while, forgetting to love, give, and think of others. 

Just like the Puritans (duuh-duh), 

It's no surprise, then, that, because of our hypocrisy, we struggle to gain and keep sincere relationships: because we don't quite grasp the importance of vulnerability.

There are moments where the revelation of weakness, far from being a catastrophe, is the only possible root to connection and respect. At points, we may dare to explain, with rare frankness, that we are afraid, we are sometimes bad, and that we have done many silly things. And rather than appalling our companions, these revelations may serve to endear us to them, humanizing us in their eyes, and letting them feel that their own vulnerabilities have echoes in the lives of others.

Vulnerability can be a bedrock of friendship. Friendship properly understood, not just or primarily as a process of admiration, but as an exchange of sympathy and consolation for the troublesome business of being alive.

Why don't we do this? Why don't I do this?

Because swimming naked in deep, dark water is dangerous. Better to stay on the beach and get defensive, to find ways my wife has hurt or failed me so I can quickly cover my inadequicies and truly unimpressive self with excuses and stories.

Fortunately for me though, my wife is a terrible Puritan.

In the midst of my selfish rants, my wife will often take a risk and become vulnerable. With tears in her eyes, she will apologize, and when I don' hear it for what it is, she apologizes again - even for things that aren't completely her fault, and completely disarms the situation. Suddenly, everything changes. Suddenly, my need to be good and perfect and strong seem petty and stupid and completely selfish. Suddenly, instead of moving further away, we come move closer and begin to share and acknowledge the troublesome business of being human, together, neither caring who is right and who is wrong. 

This vulnerability, this willingness and ability to admit fault and seek forgiveness is our "washing away of sins" that keeps us from the vicious pits of hypocrisy. We are all wounded, worried, and damaged. Pretending not to be is mere pretense, and it is a denial of our membership of the human race. A human race full of imperfections and blemishes that are just waiting to be revealed and then forgiven. 

It is something of {major} tragedy that we should spend so much of our lives striving to hide our weakness when it is in fact only upon the dignified sharing of our {failures} that true friendship and love can arise."

Only then, will we no longer hear the music.

Judah misses China; Dad, Pizza Hut.

Yesterday, all day, Judah missed his home, China. He missed his teachers, his friends, his room, his house, and his neighborhood. From the moment he got up to well after he should have been asleep, China was on his mind. He even asked if we would consider moving back, "Because it's home," he explained, "And it's better than America."

So, naturally, I asked if I could take his picture. "Why?" he asked.

"Because I think it's good to remember the hard times too." Then, we spent the evening writing old friends and reminiscing about our days in China. Judah said it all just felt like one long dream. 

Then today, things were better, but I couldn't stop thinking about some of our discussions and how, within a few months, Judah's memory of China had changed so much. It wasn't that he ever hated China, it was just that he was so excited to be here, in America, with green grass, beautiful skies, and several planned camping adventures.

So, out of curiosity, I looked up how many days he and I have been back in the US: 87. Then, I looked up day 87 on my "Last Hundred Days of China" countdown. 

Here's what I found:

Day 87 : Days like this

When it's not always raining there'll be days like this
When there's no one complaining there'll be days like this
When everything falls into place like the flick of a switch
Well my mama told me there'll be days like this
 

This evening, when I sat down to write, these lyrics, "There'll be days like, there'll be days like this" ran through my head and I had to look it up. I didn't know it was a Van Morrison song, but I recognized the tune. The lyrics also seemed appropriate.

Working and living in a small community, at times, is like living in a crawl space; it's confining, dark, and it stinks. There aren't many days like this, but when there are, like a thick blanket of pollution that steals away the joy of the sun, they're suffocating. 

When everyone is up front and they're not playing tricks
When you don't have no freeloaders out to get their kicks
When it's nobody's business the way that you wanna live
I just have to remember there'll be days like this

I've been wrestling with several ideas this past week, ideas about unity and thoughtful disagreements and how to be promotors of the Faith through mindful discussions, but very limited time to actually write them out. I've also been wanting to document my final days in this country I've loved and lived and worked in for just under five years. I've been trying to find a balance between working hard, leaving well, having a baby, loving my kids, finding a job, serving my wife, and maintaining my sanity; I've been trying not to check out early (as I am often prone to do) and be present, to keep investing. 

When no one steps on my dreams there'll be days like this
When people understand what I mean there'll be days like this
When you ring out the changes of how everything is
Well my mama told me there'll be days like this

But days like these have me wanting to pack my bags and leave it all behind (minus the baby, kids, and Momma of course . . . and perhaps a few books).

Oh my mama told me
There'll be days like this
Oh my mama told me
There'll be days like this
Oh my mama told me
There'll be days like this
Oh my mama told me
There'll be days like this

Days like this. I want to remind myself of days like this because, as much as I love China and my job and the people I work with and the people I meet on the streets, I also want the last 100 days of me being here to be appropriately represented, not fabricated or dishonest. I want it to be a true goodbye.

Right now, Josey and I are battling the tendency of accidentally making America heaven. The "Just wait till we get to America," or, "In America we'll . . ." but they come without warning and bring great devastation because America isn't the promised land, and our baggage and weaknesses and faults will hop on the plane with us. We will still have days like this.

But I also don't want to look back and read through this blog and think, "Wow, in China, there was no hurt, no struggles, and no broken relationships. It was heaven!" Because it isn't. 

Leaving well, I think, also means leaving honest. It means reconciling what can be, affirming those we'll miss, and nodding at the things we won't, with a sort of, "It's okay, really, but goodbye" sort of understanding and a no-hard-feelings handshake. Literally, and metaphorically.

I'm not there yet, ready to say goodbye with a good attitude, but I hope to be. That's even why I started this 100 Days thing . . . to walk through the process of saying goodbye, and to one day be able to look back and remember. All of it. 

The beauty and the pain. The joys and the sorrow. The triumphs. The disappointments. 

The days like this.

Reading it again today was encouraging, but also enlightening. Especially when compared to a small posting by Retro Ramblings and their remembrance of "When eating at Pizza Hut was an experience."

I miss the “glory days” of Pizza Hut.  That magical time in the 80’s and early 90’s when it was a destination, and not just somewhere to eat.  I’ve found recently that those days of yore are long gone, and what is left is what seems like a company struggling to hang on . . .

From the moment you walked in the place, you knew it was something special. You knew this was going to be something you’d remember, and it all started with the decor. The interior didn’t look like a fast food joint with it’s huge, sprawling windows, and cheap looking walls, or tiled floors. When you walked in, you were greeted by brick walls, with smaller windows, that had thick red fabric curtains pulled back, and a carpeted floor. It just felt higher-class than walking into McDonalds or Burger King.

The booths were high-backed, with thick padded vinyl seats and back rests. The high backs was also different from your usual eating out experience. These high backs gave you a sense of privacy, which was great for a date night. Also great for a date night were the candles on the tables. Those little red glass candles that were on every table, and were lit when you got to your seat. It was a little thing, but when added to everything else, it was quite the contribution. Your silverware was wrapped in a thick, cloth napkin that beat the heck out of the paper napkins everyone else was using at the time. And you could always count on the table being covered by a nice, red and white, checkered table cloth.

Exactly. For me Pizza Hut was one of the first places I was allowed to go to without parents, which meant traveling a few miles away from home and entering the dark adult world where my friends and I could get lost in those high-backed benches and our own personal-panned pizzas. Remember those? How you could earn a free one just for reading a few books? I never read any but I sure had more than a few free four-sliced pizzas. 

Also, there was this: "The arcade game they featured at my local Pizza Hut, and I believe most of them is kind of iconic in it’s own way.  It was a machine that featured two games.  Mrs. Pac-Man and Galaga.  The unique feature was that it was a sit down cabinet, with a chair on each side in which you and a partner / opponent could both sit comfortably and play."

It's easy, I think, to look back on the "glory days" of years past and remember how great it was, mainly because we tend to forget how shitty it was. 

It's also easy to always want and anticipate what's next because, like America from China, it can't be anything but perfect. 

Yet, we allow both to completely steal from the now.

In a recounting of the time she almost cheated on her husband and ruined her marriage, Jane Green has this to say about life in the past, present, and future.

"The grass isn't always greener on the other side. The grass is greener where you water it."

It's always good to remember those we've known and loved and the places we've seen and miss. It's also important to dream, to know where you want to go, and to strive and work at achieving those goals. But spinning the record too fast will bring us to the end too soon. 

Today, I've been given right now, and although there's pain and sadness and longings for things past and things to come, the music playing is still pretty damn good. And whenever I stop long enough to actually listen it, pretty quickly I realize the song that is playing is actually really, really good. 

I just need to turn up the volume. 

Fall in love in 36 questions, and two music videos

Brian Rea

I was asked today to check out a band, Manchester Orchestra, and it sent me into a deep spiral where I spent my lunch, planning period, and a decent chunk of my after school time listening to and watching some pretty fantastic music. For most of the day, Shake it Out was one of my favorites.

Until I stumbled across these guys, Seafret. To articulate their brilliance, currently, the only phrase that comes to mind that feels fully sufficient is, "Ho-ly shit." 

Not only is their music enticing and lyrics full, their videos are like little movies that I could watch over and over and over again. And then again. 

Like this one. 

Ho-ly shit, right!  Seriously, what else comes to mind? Okay fine, "brilliant" would also work, but it lacks the fireworks.

And speaking of the mind and fireworks, this one is just about the most mind blowing music video I have ever seen.

Prepare yourself.

I just L-O-V-E LOVE this video. The faces, the tangible awkwardness that slowly turns to comfort, intrigue, and a willingness to open up. The sliding of the foot under the table. 

There's no place to hide; no tricks to perform. It's just them, talking, and staring into each others eyes.

I love question 31, "Tell your partner something that you like about them already" because we can, that quickly, truly begin to like something about an individual and we can, that quickly, choose to focus on it, grow on it, and love it. And I love that they have to say it, not just think it. 

While watching this one, I began to wonder what would happen if I did this with family? With the ones that won't talk to me, and the ones I don't want to talk to? Especially after considering question 35.

Could we choose to love again? After 36 questions, could we find something that we liked about them, something new or something renewed? Or would we choose to cling to what we hate?

But also, and a little further, what if we (everyone) did this with anyone we come into contact with that scares or intimidates us? What if we asked questions instead held judgements? I've only ever really done it once in my life, while visiting Hawaii, and the experience was one of the most profound ever. 

But then I stopped. Because sitting and asking questions beyond the norm takes time, effort, and vulnerability, which, for me (and probably for many of us), is completely exhausting. For others, its just terrifying.

But what if we did it anyway? Even if only once and a while, to remind us that with only 36 questions, we can get to know, like, and perhaps even love complete strangers?

What would happen to our world, our countries, and our communities then? What would happen to my family?

Truly, I believe the answer is that we would heal. But who has the time to sit and talk that long? 

The 36 questions are as follows:

Set One:

1. Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?

2. Would you like to be famous? In what way?

3. Before making a telephone call, do you ever rehearse what you are going to say? Why?

4. What would constitute a “perfect” day for you?

5. When did you last sing to yourself? To someone else?

6. If you were able to live to the age of 90 and retain either the mind or body of a 30-year-old for the last 60 years of your life, which would you want?

7. Do you have a secret hunch about how you will die?

8. Name three things you and your partner appear to have in common.

9. For what in your life do you feel most grateful?

10. If you could change anything about the way you were raised, what would it be?

11. Take four minutes and tell your partner your life story in as much detail as possible.

12. If you could wake up tomorrow having gained any one quality or ability, what would it be?

Set Two:

13. If a crystal ball could tell you the truth about yourself, your life, the future or anything else, what would you want to know?

14. Is there something that you’ve dreamed of doing for a long time? Why haven’t you done it?

15. What is the greatest accomplishment of your life?

16. What do you value most in a friendship?

17. What is your most treasured memory?

18. What is your most terrible memory?

19. If you knew that in one year you would die suddenly, would you change anything about the way you are now living? Why?

20. What does friendship mean to you?

21. What roles do love and affection play in your life?

22. Alternate sharing something you consider a positive characteristic of your partner. Share a total of five items.

23. How close and warm is your family? Do you feel your childhood was happier than most other people’s?

24. How do you feel about your relationship with your mother?

Set Three:

25. Make three true “we” statements each. For instance, “We are both in this room feeling …”

26. Complete this sentence: “I wish I had someone with whom I could share …”

27. If you were going to become a close friend with your partner, please share what would be important for him or her to know.

28. Tell your partner what you like about them; be very honest this time, saying things that you might not say to someone you’ve just met.

29. Share with your partner an embarrassing moment in your life.

30. When did you last cry in front of another person? By yourself?

31. Tell your partner something that you like about them already.

32. What, if anything, is too serious to be joked about?

33. If you were to die this evening with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, what would you most regret not having told someone? Why haven’t you told them yet?

34. Your house, containing everything you own, catches fire. After saving your loved ones and pets, you have time to safely make a final dash to save any one item. What would it be? Why?

35. Of all the people in your family, whose death would you find most disturbing? Why?

36. Share a personal problem and ask your partner’s advice on how he or she might handle it. Also, ask your partner to reflect back to you how you seem to be feeling about the problem you have chosen.

The 36 questions that can make you “fall in love with anyone” were first published in 1997, in an academic paper by psychologist Arthur Aron and others, under the title The Experimental Generation of Interpersonal Closeness: A Procedure and Some Preliminary Findings. The questions appeared in the appendix, along with the instructions that the team had given each pair, which began “This is a study of interpersonal closeness, and your task, which we think will be quite enjoyable, is simply to get close to your partner.” Participants were told to work their way through the questions in order, each answering all 36 questions, over a period of about an hour. Six months later, two of the participants were married to each other (via).

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  On Living  :  More Seafret Videos :  Music

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The price of an ugly plate

On Saturday morning, we hit up a few garage sales hoping to find a few cheap treasures to help fill our soon-to-be home. Instead, I bought an overpriced plate.

After five years of living in China, I was anticipating some sort of culture shock. Three years ago, on our first summer home, it came when I tried buying a pair of pants at Kohls. I walked in, became so overwhelmed with the mounds of options - style, color, brand - that I had to walk out. Josey was shocked to see me empty handed, only three minutes later, but I just couldn't handle it.   

This time round, however, it wasn't the pants that bothered me. It was religion.

It's no surprise that Christianity isn't popular in China. Even if one professes Christ, it's with hushed tones and little secret phrases because, if spoken too loud or shared too much, the local police is sure to visit. 

I knew America was different because our founding fathers said it would be. But still, the conversations with strangers were difficult to grasp. It started first on our camping trip to Holter Lake, MT when I accidentally sat in a woman's chair on the beach and found myself in a friendly conversation. Earlier I had noticed she was shaking her head and underlining her book (tell-tail signs of a good book), so I asked her about it. "It's amazing," she said, "You have to read it."

"What book is it?" I asked.

"Not A Fan" she replied, then launched into how God doesn't need us to cheer for him but to worship him. She not only assumed I was a Christian, but that I was her type of Christian - whatever that is. She didn't ask any questions about my thoughts, my beliefs, or my faith. She just assumed we were in agreement. 

If it wasn't for my kids swimming in the nearby water, I would have left. Not because I didn't want to talk further, but because, like Kohls, I just couldn't handle it.

This conversation has happened several times over the past couple weeks, and it still does, even in the classroom, but I'm beginning to get used to it, expect it even. 

Then this weekend happened. 

At any garage sale or antique store, while Josey hunts for simple treasures to make our home, I scavenge for used books. And like lake-side conversations, everyone seems to believe everyone else is a Christian who wants to read books on Christian living, how to have a good Christian marriage, how to be good Christian parents, how to pray more, how to pray better, and why Christians should read Christian books. It's more than a little irritating. 

Then, we came to the house that sits just a few down from the one we're moving into, an "everything must go!" type of garage sale, including the house. The lady of the house sat in a chair, surrounded by dishes, bags, and a giant calculator, encouraging everyone to buy more and providing deals on everything. We got a pair of steak knives for a dollar and a bin of clothes pins for fifty cents. 

Then, I saw the plate. It was behind her, on the floor, and on top of several others. My sister - a beautiful young woman adopted from Ethiopia - saw it too. I didn't know what to do at first, but as the lady was handing back my change, I stepped behind her and said, "I'll take this too." 

My sister's eyes grew and the lady stiffened just a bit, "Oh that! Oh, I can't sell that for anything less than five dollars!" Cleary, it was special.

"That's fine," I said, quickly tucking it into my bag, then whispered, "I'll explain later," to my sister. 

As we walked I tried to convince myself that maybe I was making a bigger deal than I should because, "Really, it's just a plate," I told myself.

Then I looked at it again. And really, it's more than just a plate. 

In one of the latest issues of O, The Oprah Magazine, a powerful photo essay entitled, “Let’s Talk About Race” was published in hopes of challenging "the ways we view race in a masterful way."

"Each of the three photos in the essay shows women or girls of color in a role reversal from the ways in which they are stereotypically seen ― or not seen ― compared to white women or girls."

“I knew that there was a vision to raise questions [about race] without being heavy-handed or mean-spirited,” photographer Chris Buck says about his work. “That’s the way in which I approached the execution and helped them to create the images.” 

The article continues.

However, Buck, who is a white man, acknowledged that producing the photos led him to interrogate his own relationship with race, and that the images can mean many things to many people. But he says the photos, at their core, serve as means to help spark a healthy discussion around race and the ways we perceive it (via).

“For white people like me, we need to understand just because we’re talking about race doesn’t mean fingers are being pointed at us,” he said. “To me what’s great is that it’s made conversation. I want people of color and white people to be able to have a dialogue. I don’t want white people to feel like they’re being talked at or black people to feel like they’re being shut down either.” 

Which is why the plate is so much more than just a plate. It's a statement, and it's an ending to any sort of dialogue before they even start. It makes black people feel shut down - like a good maid should be - and white people feel how they often feel. Privileged. Can you imagine a black family with a plate of a white woman holding a rolling pin?

“All parties need to feel welcome at the table in this discussion,” he added, “that’s how we move forward and to me, at their best, that’s what these pictures can do.”

I still have the plate. I had visions of my little sister breaking it, of her throwing to the concrete floor or shattering it with a hammer. But she doesn't need to, because she's stronger than a plate. 

But, apparently, I'm not. That woman got five dollars for her plate and an affirmation that what she had, what she so boldly sold, was okay. My sister was standing right next to me, in all her blackness, and the lady never even flinched. Because the plate she held with a little black lady holding a rolling pin was okay - it was just art.

And I said nothing. Why? Was I afraid? Afraid of offending the lady who gave me a deal on the clothes pins? Why didn't I say anything? 

I really don't know. But as I've considered it, I wonder if the reason I didn't say anything is because I have a history of not saying anything. I can write about it, I can even bark at my students when they show intolerance or ignorance towards others. 

But then, I can also say nothing. And I can't get over that.

It's no surprise that America - the world - is a mess. Racial and religious tensions are just as tight and fragile as they've ever been, spilling over and into the streets of our neighborhoods and cities. 

Since buying the plate, I've wondered how responsible I am for allowing hate and racial oppression to survive by not making my voice loud enough to confront it. Because although I may brake plates in the safety of my garage, I buy them with closed lips from my neighbors. 

And a community is only as strong as its weakest neighbor. 

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Humanity  :  Chris Paul forgives the men who killed his grandfather

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Self-Confidence: A Mental Wobbling

Choice is the active hesitation that we make before making a decision. It is a mental wobbling, so we are always in a dither of doubt as to whether we are behaving the right way, doing the right thing, and so on and so forth, and lack a certain kind of self confidence. And if you see that you lack self confidence, you will make mistakes. Through sheer fumbling. If you do have self confidence you might get carried away with doing entirely the wrong thing. You have to regard yourself as a cloud in the flesh because, you see, clouds never make mistakes.

Did you ever see a cloud that was misshapen? 

When we believe that, we will  be on good terms with your own being, and be able to trust our own brain . . .

The problem is, I don't want to fully trust my own brain, because I know my brain, and I don't trust it.

But I do want to be on good terms with my own being, accepting it, in all of its limitations, and wobble, because I want to rely on others, need others, and cling to others, not just myself. Confidently.

Because that is Life. And in that, I do not dither or hesitate in doubt, but fully embrace. 

Like the beauty and wonder of the clouds. 

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  On Living  :  Humanity

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Being human, and the price of a solitary life

"Just you and the wind. And the time just melts away."

I think whats so tricky sometimes talking about the lookout experience is your not talking to anybody about it. You more intuit it, you more experience it. . . you just find yourself sitting on the porch watching the world go by.

This video, this lifestyle, is radically intriguing to me - especially during times such as these. Life on mountain tops, rising with the sun, seems so simple, so beautiful, and so much more lovely, wrestling with the wind and rain and dooming snow, rather than with the ugliness of mankind. 

But it also seems so unbelievable selfish, lonely, and ultimately, unsatisfying. Because even though the mountains have a way, they can't teach us what it means to be human. 

Chris McCandless gave his life to pursue a life of solitude, only to find that "happiness is only real when shared" and I think that's true. But it's also incomplete. 

Because humans are meant for so much more.

The 2015 Templeton Prize Laureate, Jean Vanier, speaks on the Big Question: "What does it mean to be fully human?"

 : I'm a member of the huge human family :

 . . . To discover who I am is also to discover a unity between my head and my heart. The head we are called to grow, to understand, and to work through things. But the heart is something else. It is about concern by others. We are born into a relationship. And that relationship that we all lived is a relationship with our mom. We were so small. So weak. So fragile. And we heard the words which are the most important, and maybe the words we need to hear all our life: I love you as you are. You are my beloved son or my beloved daughter. And this is what gives consistency to people. They know they are loved. And that's what they're seeking, maybe for the rest of their lives . . .

The problem today is that many people are filled with fear. They are frightened of people, frightened of losing. And because people are filled with fear they can no longer be open to others. They're protecting themselves, protecting their class, protecting their group, protecting their religion. We're all in a state of protection (seeking isolation). To become fully human is to let down the barriers, to open up. And to discover that every person is beautiful. Under all the jobs they're doing, their responsibilities, there is you. And you, at the heart of who you are, you're somebody also crying out, "Does somebody love me not just for what I can do, but for who I am?"

So to be fully human is the development of the heart and the head, and then we can become one. One inside of us. Becoming one inside of us we can little by little let down the ego, the need to prove that I am better than you. And then I can begin to see in other people, other groups, other religions, other cultures, that people are wonderful. And then we can come and we can work for peace together.

Often, living a life of isolation is easier than dealing with who we are - fully fallible human beings. But living in isolation also robs us of the best of what life can offer: forgiveness, love, and the complete acceptance of who we are. Like family.

Something the wind, the porch, and the mountains can never be.

To be human is to be known, to share happiness and tragedy with those we love, and to sit together, hand in hand, as the world quickly and beautifully passes by.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Simple Living  :  Humanity  :  Why Chris Mccandless must die

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How to Forgive.

What more needs to be said?

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Shrinking of humanity

Five boys, middle school aged boys, just walked into the Starbucks I've been sitting at for the past hour. They rode their bikes here, dropping them outside the door, asked for free water, then huddled together and pulled out their phones. All of them. 

"Should I post this to my story?" one asks, passing around his phone. One friend says no; the rest yes. He posts, and they all laugh.

They chat, giggle, and, generally, act like a small pack of middle school boys: loud, and fully self absorbed. Just like I did when I was their age. 

However, they are also fully different from what I remember because, my friends and I never had phones or social media. In high school, we had pagers. In middle school, Juno. We were pretty sheltered.

Yet, how quickly we've all adapted. And how quickly we've all bought into the lie.

The lie that everyone around us is as happy as they claim and post, and the lie that we need the likes and hearts and approval from others to feel good about our selves, and our (often) fake lives.

A couple has just walked in - they look to be maybe in their late teens, perhaps early twenties. She opened the door first, placing her sunglasses on her head full of curly brown hair. He soon followed, his face absorbed in his phone. She held the door for him and they both disappeared behind the wall to order their drinks. 

When I watch, when I really look around at the people in line at the grocery store, at those shopping, those eating or even driving, I notice that most, and close to all, have their screens out and on. Hardly any of them are sitting there, talking, without their little device of distraction.

Including me.

I met a friend for brunch this morning and the family of three sitting across from us sat in silence. The husband watched the TV in the corner while the mom and son scanned their phones. In almost 45 minutes, they said hardly a word to each other. Even after the food arrived.

The couple has just left. She carried both drinks; he carried his phone, about a foot from his face. (I swear, I'm not making this up).

Several years ago, I remember reading a few stories of a man and a woman being stabbed in city streets, only to find that no one would stop and help them. But they would take pictures. 

This video, suddenly, doesn't seem too far off. Even if it is a bit disturbing. 

Middle school boys, boyfriends, or families out for lunch, on their cellphones, doesn't mean they will overlook a stabbing - that's a pretty far jump. 

But it does start somewhere. Or rather, it isn't controlled somewhere. 

And the easiest, most appropriate place to start, is probably the home. 

Our humanity is shrinking.

We no longer have natural "stopping cues" - the ending of a book or news paper or TV show that moves us on to something different, or even, that it's okay and appropriate to put down our phones and see the world, the people, that surrounds us.

So we need to create them on our own. 

Alter offers dinner as a possible stopping cue, which I fully accept and agree with, but also struggle with a bit because phones have never been allowed at the table. Ever. So it doesn't really help.

So I am interested in what other have done, how others have consciously protected their home, their family, and their pursuit of conversation. 

Screens are miraculous - I too feel that it's true - but they are also dangerous. And they are thieves. They steal the color, the richness, and the interesting from life, and they, ironically, steal the human connection with other humans. They create a distance. And they install a dullness. But only if abused and misused. 

If you have a suggestions on how to create natural (or unnatural) stopping cues for screen life, please, share them. I'm sure we would all appreciate a little more sand between our toes and ocean on our feet. 

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :   #eattogether  :  On Living  :  Humanity

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Broadening "we" and shrinking "they."

Mike Monteiro’s wrote "a really moving essay on what turning 50 means to him, and how he’s expanded his personal definition of “us” and “we” along the way, moving from his family, to his immigrant community, to a group of punk art school outcasts, to a wider and wider world full of people who are more similar than different" (via).

When we arrived in the United States in 1970, we settled in Philadelphia because it was the home of a lot of Portuguese immigrants from the small town my parents (and I guess me) came from. And so the we grew from a family unit to a community of immigrants who looked out for each other. We shopped at a Portuguese grocery store because they gave us credit. We rented from a Portuguese landlord because he wasn’t concerned about a rental history. And my parents worked for Portuguese businesses because we didn’t come here to steal jobs, but to create them...

This same community also looked out for each other. When there was trouble, we were there. When someone was laid off a construction job for the winter, we cooked and delivered meals. When someone’s son ended up in jail, wefound bail. And when someone’s relative wanted to immigrate, we lined up jobs and moved money to the right bank accounts to prove solvency...

But as anyone who has ever grown up in an immigrant community knows,wealso demands athem. They were not us. And they didn’t see us as them either. And at the risk of airing immigrant dirty laundry in public, I can attest that immigrant communities can be racist as fuck.Wehated blacks.Wehated Puerto Ricans. (It wasn’t too long ago I had to ask my mom to stop talking about “lazy Puerto Ricans” in front of her half-Puerto Rican grandchildren.)Wehated Jews. In our eagerness to show Americans we belonged,weadopted their racism. (We also brought some of our own with us.)...

I love the honesty of this piece. The brutal, self-effacing, real-as-shit (which is a strange phrase, really) writing because, if we are honest, we can relate - on some level. It doesn't read like a Facebook post, it reads like a heart felt, lessons from the soul post. And it's refreshing, even if it's hard. 

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Not forgiveness, empathy

I've loved Sherman Alexie for several years now. His book, The Absolute True Diary of a Part-Time Indian is one of my all-time favorites, and the favorite of most all of my students. Even kids who hate reading will bring it back after reading it all night and say, "If more books were like this, I'd read more."

And I agree.

Sherman Alexie is not only a brilliant writer - in the conventional sense - he is also a brilliant writer - in the emotional and humanity sense. Which, perhaps more than anything, makes him an exceptional writer that can connect with kids and adults of all ages, from all around the world.

This article, which first appeared in the June 2017 issue of BookPage, is a beautiful example. I don't know many people, if any, who do not struggle in some way with forgiveness. I know I do. And I think we can all agree that, in the midst of these difficult relationships, there is the "constant funeral" feeling Alexie describes.

We may not experience the same depth of pain and "crimes" that Sherman Alexie did, but we can for sure appreciate his response and attempt at reconciliation. Then, maybe, just maybe, we can find a similar sort of peace.

And hopefully, before it's too late.

Sherman Alexie doesn’t yet know if writing a fierce, wrenching memoir about his deeply troubled relationship with his beautiful and abusive mother, Lillian, has been cathartic.

“I performed the audiobook a couple of weeks ago over the course of five days, and it was hard. Hard,” Alexie, a Spokane/Coeur d’Alene Indian and award-winning author of 26 books of poetry and fiction, says during a call to his home in Seattle. He lives there with his wife, an administrator at Seattle University who was born on Turtle Mountain Reservation, and their two sons, ages 19 and 15. Usually he works out of an office he describes as “a studio apartment that looks like a bookstore exploded.” But today he is at home, anticipating the publication of You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me.

“What I’m realizing now,” he says, “is that the writing of the book was just the first half of the ceremony. Now I’m entering into the second half of the ceremony, bringing it to the public, starting to talk about my mother, and hearing the stories of other people’s mothers.”

Lillian Alexie died at the age of 78 in 2015. For the previous 20 or so years, whenever possible, Sherman avoided visiting her at the Spokane Indian Reservation in Wellpinit, Washington, where he and his witty twin sisters grew up in poverty. He believes he inherited his bipolar disorder, diagnosed in 2010, from her. She was a complicated woman—generous to many, withholding or worse to Sherman, loved or despised by family members and neighbors. She was a brilliant quilt maker who wouldn’t sleep under her own quilts (“Quilting was her philosophy,” Alexie writes)—or teach her native language to her children. In a heartrending chapter Alexie decided to include only at the last moment, he writes that he has not worn a pair of moccasins in 40 years because of her behavior at a powwow in Arlee, Montana.

“That was an incredibly traumatic experience,” Alexie says with some anguish. “I find myself wondering, what do I do as an Indian when some of our most sacred moments—like a powwow—aggravate my PTSD?”

Lillian’s death unleashed a torrent of poems. “They came first without bidding and without structure. They just came. I would just write and write and write,” he says. He thought the resulting work would be a book of poetry. “Then I realized that I had more stories to tell, stories that needed to be told in nonfiction form. I thought the structure of the book was going to be framed by the first chapter of her being diagnosed and the last chapter of her dying. I just assumed it was going to be a much more traditional structure. But as I started writing the nonfiction, it started arriving in much more improvisational fashion. And I realized that the way my mother and I lived our lives, and the way our tribal culture works, and my mother’s cosmology and our own mental illnesses, shared and separate, that the very construction of the book—this back-and-forth in time, back-and-forth in emotion—was going to match the way it felt to be her son.”

Alexie’s approach to the structure of the book results in an emotionally powerful read. His skills as a poet may go unacknowledged by some, but they are evident here.

“One of the things that I’ve always enjoyed is that the forms that use repeated lines, repeated phrases, sound tribal. They very much sound like our traditional songs and ceremonies. And in grief ceremonies in all cultures, repetition is omnipresent.”

Alexie’s improvisational approach also allows him to write meaningfully about the context of his and his mother’s lives. Reaching back into the history of his tribe, for example, he writes about the impact of the construction of the Grand Coulee Dam, which cut off his people’s access to wild salmon, an essential element of the culture. “The loss of wild salmon for us, the environmental destruction for us, directly affected our souls. Often this doesn’t get addressed.” Alexie also writes that on the reservation, loneliness is a natural cause of death, endemic to reservation life. “I think we live in a constant funeral,” he says.

And yet, You Don’t Have to Say You Loved Me and the reservation life it portrays bubble with humor. In conversation and on the page, Alexie is often quite funny, disproving the stereotypcial view of Native Americans as being closed-mouthed stoics. “I think my whole life has been based on people being shocked by my personality, what they expected to see versus who I am,” Alexie says. “To this day, people often think that I am an anomaly—the way in which I’m loud and emotional and funny and profane and dirty and unabashed. But that’s the culture I grew up in. The stoic part about Indians? That’s our armor. I always tell white folks if you’re around Indians and they’re not making fun of you, then they don’t like you. In our culture, we are incredibly verbose and funny. And constant storytellers.”

Returning to the subject of his mother, Alexie says, “I don’t know that I forgive my mother for her crimes against me. But I think I’ve come to a place where I understand them. I can’t forget what she did to me as an individual. But in terms of the lives of Native American women of her generation, I can completely understand why it happened the way it did. So if not forgiveness, I certainly have empathy. And for me to be empathetic toward my mother might be the bigger thing.”

He adds, “As I say in the book, even though the book is negative, very negative about her in parts, she would have loved being the subject of this. Oh gosh, she would have sat right beside me and signed the book."  (via)

You can read this open letter about his mother which is . . . so. friggen. good. And hard. I love it.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Chris Paul forgives the men who killed his grandfather  :  Pablo Escobar's son is building peace

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Breaking Routine : Building Life

I've watched this video a few times, because it's fascinating, and because I don't think it's wrong, just incomplete. 

Which, for me, is exciting, because that means I get to spend way too much time breaking down something that probably was only meant to be enjoyed and watched with a simple, "Huh, that's interesting."

But what's the fun in that?

"I had this fear of building this routine in my 30's and suddenly this decade is gone. And so I promised myself that I would do something radically different. I'm gonna do something that scares the crap out of me and see if that changes my brain chemistry."

For almost twenty years, stories like this have floored me. Stories of Chris McCandless heading to Alaska pulled and twisted my gut; Jack Kerouac traveling . . . everywhere, inspired me to hit the road and live dangerously, spontaneously, so that I could "discover myself", through radical and unchecked living. 

But, the thing is, I still love these types of stories and still believe in them, a little. Mostly I don't because, now, these stories seem selfish and empty. Hitting the road for weeks or months, or even years, at a time is, in all honesty, easier than staying at home. Quitting a job and living alone while walking away from commitments, family, and responsibility, is easier. It is. Because to wake up each morning with something new and different, instead of sticking it out - instead of enduring - and finding beauty in the mundane, is simple. 

Because, often, it's easier to be a stranger than it is to be known. As a stranger, people see what you want them to see. When we're known, people see what we are.

To live radically one does not need to fear routine. 

However,

"The routine is the enemy of time. It makes it fly by."

And that, I agree with.

Kind of. 

Every how-to-live-creativily blog or book or article I have ever read talks extensively about how the magic of creativity is not a single explosive moment - a lightening bolt - but rather, it is the long rolling thunder of a distant storm. It takes time, routine, and consistency. 

However, routine can be the enemy, maybe not of time, but for sure of life, or at least growth, because, when the "Brain has figured out the pattern of the way the world works." Once it "establishes a routine, it stops", and "the alertness goes away." 

The alertness of people, of beauty, and of opportunity. 

To me, this becomes most predominant in things like politics, religion, race, and relationships. Most all of these have strong and deeply rooted routines of thought, and our brain have therefore stopped. Stopped considering, questioning, and, worst of all, listening. Because we know what we know. And what we know most of all, is our thought routine.

But life is "about getting out of your routine."

Truly. That is, if we want to truly and deeply live; if we want to "be aware of every day {we are} alive."

David Foster Wallace says it this way:

After work you have to get in your car and drive to the supermarket. The supermarket is very crowded. And the store is hideously lit and infused with soul-killing Muzak. It's pretty much the last place you want to be. And who are all these people in the way? Look at how repulsive most of them are, and how stupid and cow-like and dead-eyed and nonhuman they seem, or at how annoying and rude it is that people are talking loudly on cell phones. Look at how deeply and personally unfair this is. Thinking this way is my natural default setting. It's the automatic way that I experience the boring, frustrating, crowded parts of life.

But there are totally different ways to think about these kinds of situations. You can choose to look differently at this fat, dead-eyed, over-made-up lady who just screamed at her kid in the checkout line. Maybe she's usually like this. Maybe she's been up three straight nights holding the hand of a husband who is dying of bone cancer. If you really learn how to pay attention, it will actually be within your power to experience a crowded, consumer-hell type situation as not only meaningful, but sacred. You get to consciously decide what has meaning and what doesn't (pg 109). 

Seeing people beyond what we know, deciding and choosing to admit possible fault and to "choose to see ordinary things differently" gets us out of our thought routines and walks us to a point where we might be saved.

Kevin Ashton describes this through a study by William Syrotuck.

William Syrotuck analyzed 229 cases of people who became lost, 25 of whom died. He found that when we are lost, most of us act the same way. First, we deny that we are going in the wrong direction. Then, as the realization that we are in trouble seeps in, we press on, hoping chance will lead us. We are least likely to do the thing that is most likely to save us: turn around. We know our path is wrong, yet we rush along it, compelled to save face, to resolve the ambiguity, achieve the goal. Pride propels us. Shame stops us from saving ourselves (pg 90).

If we are able to do that, we open the possibility to "Learn something new, learning something astonishing."

I've often wondered about the lives of the men and women who go on these "do something radically different" types of adventures. More specifically, I've thought of what happens after the journey. Because the making of the video or writing a book and talking about life and lessons and the breaking of routine sounds truly romantic and fully enticing. But what happens when they get home? Do their daily lives change, or do they fall back into old routines? Do they find themselves heading on another adventure, eager for another fix, and anxious to escape life? Or are they truly changed?

How many of them die, alone, in a bus somewhere that is filled with books and journals and ideas of life and living and the glory of the open road?

How many make it to 85 years of age?

I love adventure stories because I love adventures and freedom and the wild, wild unknown, and I love the lessons that getting out into the mountains can teach me. But I also love home, being known, and learning something new and astonishing in the people I know and love.

And I love routine. Of waking up in the dark hours of the morning to fresh coffee and a good book. Of conversations with good friends who strongly disagree but trust and know and choose to stay because that too is a routine, and it's beautiful. I love routine and the safety and creativity it provides. It isn't something that destroys. Rather, it is something that provides.

This notification, literally, just popped up on my phone: "On Writing Tweeted: The mere habit of #writing, of constantly keeping at it, of never giving up, ultimately teaches you how to write. - Gabriel Fielding"

Doing something radically different in an effort to break routine and turn our brain on is a right and good choice, but it doesn't have to involve long journeys that stretch from our front door. If we are alert, if instead of assuming, knowing, and condemning we question, consider, and empathize, we will embark on a journey that will scare the crap out of us, and others, and our brains will not shut off. It will explode.

Then, hopefully, when we are suddenly old and gray and trying our hardest to blow out 85 friggen candles, we'll look back and wonder where the years have gone, and how it was they went so quickly by.

But then, when the candles are out and the cake is cut, we'll look around the room and remember the faces of the many men and women who have come to celebrate, and the room will dance of stories and memories and the same old conversations, and it will be beautiful, because it will be routine.

And our hearts will be perfectly exhausted. 

To read more about Jedidiah Jenkins and his 7000 mile journey from Oregon to Patagonia, click here.

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-N- Stuff  :  Life Lessons from 100-Year-Olds  :  On Living

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Get to know your enemy

"The universe provides everything you need when you need it" (via). I'm not sure I know, exactly, what this means or if I even agree with it, but there does seem to be an element of it that is undeniable because, sometimes, things just sort of come together and the universe (whatever that means) seems to be helping out. 

Josey and I first watched Band of Brothers over Christmas break of 2012 and have watched it a couple times since. From the very beginning, this scene, more than any other, stuck out to me, and I never really understood why. In recent months, the "universe" has helped provide some clarity.

Don Malarkey meets the German PW from Oregon and discovers an unknown story of the Germans: they are not always the monsters he and others have believed them to be. In fact, in some cases, they are more like comrades than they are enemies. 

Malarkey also learns that, in some cases, his own countrymen are a bit more like monsters than they are comrades. 

More and more, this difficult truth has almost forced itself upon me, and it doesn't seem to be letting up. Because there are some people in my life that I'd rather reduce to monsters and nothing more. Because it makes it easier. Because it creates a distance. Like that of German and US soldiers. 

Then, this morning, while I walked the forty-minute square that surrounds my in-laws rural neighborhood, I listened to this story of a "ten-year-old girl from small town Michigan named Sarah York, and how she became pen pals with a man who was considered an enemy of the United States, a dictator, a drug trafficker, and a murderer: Manuel Noriega."

You may not have time to listen to above excerpt. Here's a simple rundown: Sarah York, through several months of writing small letters back and forth with Manuel Noriega, finds herself invited to Panama and touring the cities, landscape, and playing with Noriega's own daughter.  At one point, Sarah is caught in the crashing waves and it is Manuel Noriega who rescues her. Sarah's mother has a picture of the moment and shows them to the producer,  Andrea Morningstar. After seeing the photo, Andrea states, "He doesn't look like a ruthless dictator, or a drug kingpin. He just looks like someone's dad" (min. 30:10). 

From the little that I know, Manuel Noriega was a terrible man and responsible for hundreds of deaths and disappearances, but he was also a loving father, which, for me at least, is a bit difficult to swallow because, how can a monster not be anything other than a monster? 

How can he be anything like me?

But, the truth of it is this, they are like me, just as much as I am like them. And even if they aren't, it is becoming increasingly clear that I need to think of them that way. 

There aren't many monsters in my everyday life. There are just the few that public opinion and media like to point out and dissect. But there are a few that I consider monsters. They're the ones I can't imagine eating dinner with, visiting while driving through town, or making any time or concession for. They're the ones whom I have a difficult time seeing any redeeming qualities. All they do seems to have selfish motives, and all that they are seems ugly and destructive. They no longer look like possible mothers, fathers, or humans. I've reduced them to monsters, plain and simple. 

And that's where I'm at right now. No conclusions, no wrap ups, and for sure no stories of beautiful reconciliation. In some cases, I've even lost the hope that there is a hope it may happen.

But over the past few weeks, with a culmination in this mornings walk, I've begun to consider that maybe they aren't monsters. Or rather, if perhaps they are more than simply monsters, and that we might have more in common than I have otherwise thought. That they are fully fallible, like me, and have made some pretty f'd up decisions, just like me. And, like me, they still are not monsters.

I just need to stop marching, reloading, and waiting for the attack. Which, for me, is super friggen hard. Because I'm terrified it might happen, again. And I'm tired, real friggen tired of being hurt. 

Yet, where we're headed now is, at best, in opposite directions. At worse, to another battlefront. 

Unlike Malarkey. 

Mister Rogers and the Power of Persuasion

There isn't much to add to this because it's pretty spot-on. My only even minor critique would be that if our only goal is to win someone to our side, than all the gimmicks we employ to trick someone into thinking we are on their side, that we are listening, and that we care what they are saying, that we are just as selfish someone who is simply trying to win an argument. We're just not as brash about it.

However, I don't think that is the point of this video, especially when Fred Rogers is used as the example, but I still think it needs to be said - for me at least. 

A true and meaningful discussion points towards a higher and greater truth; it means both are willing to refine and tweak their own thinking, for the sake of a greater cause. 

But I think the point in all of the above is this: in order to be heard, we have to be relational - fully and completely. Dogmatism beats the elephant; sincere persuasion gives it goosebumps. 

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Diversity Makes Us Smarter  :  Elements of a good Discussion  :  Mr. Rogers' Sweaters

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Boxed in : life inside the 'coffin cubicles' of Hong Kong

Photographer Benny Lam has documented the suffocating living conditions in Hong Kong’s subdivided flats, recording the lives of these hidden communities.

Benny Lam : Wednesday 7 June 2017 07.15 BST

‘I’m still alive and yet I am already surrounded by four coffin planks!’ … Hong Kong’s cage home tenants. All photographs : Benny Lam

Cage homes are minuscule rooms lived in by the poorest people in the city. Over the last 10 years, the number of cage homes made of wire mesh has decreased, but they’ve been replaced by beds sealed with wooden planks

These small, wooden boxes of 15 sq ft, are known as ‘coffin cubicles’

A 400 sq ft flat can be subdivided to accommodate nearly 20 double-decker sealed bed spaces

The tenants are different ages and sexes – all unable to afford a small cubicle, which would allow more room to stand up

A kitchen-toilet complex in a cage home

The photographs highlight the reality of Hong Kong’s housing crisis, where tens of thousands of people live in these cramped conditions because they can’t afford anything else

Many cage home residents awake to the cruel reality that all the shimmer and prosperity of Hong Kong is out of reach

An estimated 100,000 people in Hong Kong live in inadequate housing, according to the Society for Community Organisation (SoCO)

These photographs were taken for SoCO, an NGO fighting for policy changes and decent living standards in the city

Benny Lam’s series Trapped was shortlisted for the Prix Pictet 2017

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Photography  :  100x100 Living in Hong Kong

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The Need, and Difficulty, of Good Conversation

Admittedly, I started the below video a few days ago, then turned it off about two minutes in. I was bored.

Then, in the days to follow, I had a few interactions with various colleagues and friends and those brief two minutes kept coming back to me, because it was playing out in real life. So I went back to the video and, although it's a bit . . . dry maybe? I still came away with some key pointers and habits I'd like to fall into.

"Sincere deep connection eludes us" because we don't know how to have conversations - nobody really ever taught us. All too often, "we stay on the surface of events, neglecting how we felt or how it meant to us," because that's easy, and it's safe. Better to be thought boring and put-together than funny, yet a stupid, or a failure - I think we call those kinds of people "fools."

This surface-level type of discussion, though, is often stifling, and lonely, leaving everyone bored and disconnected. Because really, no one is actually says anything, and therefore, no one is truly connecting.

A good conversation is not just about what we say - how vulnerable we are - but even more so on how we listen. "Most of us think we have communicated when we have told someone something," George Bernard Shaw argues, "but {communication} only occurs when someone effectively listens . . . It’s the recipient, not the author" that allows for a deep and meaningful conversation. 

The Chinese character for "listen" is a conglomeration of four characters and encompasses this idea.

To listen, to engage fully in a conversation, we need to hear with our ears, our eyes, and our heart, and we need to treat the other person as King - we give them our undivided attention.

Theodore Zeldin, author of Conversation: How Talk Can Change Our Lives, says that conversation "is an adventure in which we agree to cook the world together . . . and make it taste less bitter." True meaningful conversation - where we are open and vulnerable and where the audience is receptive and engaged, and respectful - allows us to connect intellectually, emotionally, and, consequently, personally. It is a place where we are no longer alone, and were we can grow.

"A conversation is a dialogue" says Truman Capote, "Not a monologue," and unfortunately, we have too many monologues and not enough dialogues. One reason for this might be that we are more concerned about sharing our ideas, our thoughts, and our stories than we are about listening to another, than we are about learning. Often, we'd rather teach and be treated like the king, rather than the other way around.

Another reason might be because we're afraid to be wrong.

"If you start a conversation with the assumption that you are right or that you must win, obviously it is difficult to talk." I resonate with this Wendell Berry quote because, if I'm honest, it is often my default. I want people to think I'm smart, that I've read that book or watched that movie or researched that topic - and that I know all about it. Listening with a willingness to be wrong has subjective connotations; it implies an inferiority - of knowledge and personally. And I hate feeling inferior, or worse, an outsider - of knowledge and personally.

But that's the heart of listening. Treating another as more important than self. Because they are the King, and the King deserves our respect, even if I disagree with them. Scratch that. Especially if I disagree with them.

How this looks, though, is difficult to capture because, at least for me, it is a complete conundrum. 

In a recent discussion with a colleague (Ed Blanchard), I discovered that whenever I'm engaged with someone, when I am connecting with their thoughts and ideas, I interrupt them - a lot - because I'm all in. My mind is wrestling with the ideas, my heart is pounding and excited, and I want to clarify, to build off whatever is said, and I want to engage - here and now. If I'm quiet, if I'm sitting back and simply staring, more times than not, it's because my mind is somewhere else. My interrupting is because I'm invested. 

But when I'm speaking, being interrupted is annoying because I want to be heard. Because my ideas are brilliant, and your breaking up my train of thought (curse you!).

This, as you can probably see, causes problems. 

I'm currently engaged in an email discussion with a friend, Warren MacLeod over a book we've both recently read entitled Silence. The email discussion is interesting because, although the pacing is frustrating, it is also enlightening. In an email, I have to to read and reread Warren's thoughts without the pleasure of interrupting them. In turn, my thoughts are a bit more planned out and articulate because I can read and reread what it is I've said. I even put some of my answers on pause, go to the bathroom, get more coffee - whatever - then return to his question and my thoughts (is there a better place for thinking than in a bathroom?). Our conversation then, is patient, and it is extremely purposeful. We say what we want to say and mean what we say. It takes time, but the end product has a depth to it I don't always experience. 

This type of conversation can happen in person too, I'm just not good at it. But my wife is, and recently, a friend affirmed her in it, and it convicted me. Her friend told her that recently, when her and her husband asked their middle school aged daughter, "Who do you want to be like when you grow up?" the daughter said, "Mrs. Miller." Why? "Because she looks at me when I talk to her, laughs at my jokes, and cares about what I have to say."

She listens with her eyes, ears, and heart - she treats her like a Queen. 

Several years ago, a friend once told me to hold people's memories and stories like an antique, China glass - with extreme care and gentleness. "If you crack it," they said, "likely, they won't let you hold it again." I think the same can also be applied to any conversation, and I think Theodore Zeldin would agree. "The idea of friendship" he argues,  "has, over the centuries, changed radically and has created a new pressing issue for humanity, the need for real conversation. It is not new lands we need to be discovering but other people's thoughts." 

We live in an age where we can communicate faster and easier than any other time in history, yet, we are still disconnected. We are still alone. 

The art of conversation is difficult, but it's vital. More than ever. We need to set down our phones,  look people in the eye, and listen. Truly. With our eyes and ears and with hearts that are eager to discover new lands of thoughts and relationships.

We need to have conversation.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  On Living  :  Critical Thinking

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The Game is only a fun if you win. And there are a lot of losers.

Every now and then, a certain theme will creep into life in various ways. This past week, justice and the role humanity plays, has been one such theme.

It started out with the podcast, "A forgotten History of How the U.S. Government Segregated America," which left me fully frustrated and at a loss on what to do. On what role I can play. 

This one, "Null and Void," cheered me up a bit.

Should a juror be able to ignore the law? From a Quaker prayer meeting in the streets of London, to riots in the streets of LA, we trace the history of a quiet act of rebellion and struggle with how much power “we the people” should really have.

Not only does it offer some hope that the power still resides in the people - the conscious of America - it is an honest portrayal of the complexity of mankind. And I love that. 

The discussion near the end is one of the best things I've ever heard on a Podcast - an sincere discussion, with strong disagreements, yet fully civil and appropriate. 

Later in the week, I was shown this video from a young brilliant mind, Davis Campbell. His thoughts on the matter are worth reading.

The video is worth watching.

Like the " . . . U.S. Segregated America," podcast above, this video left me fully frustrated and at a loss on how to change the rules of the game.

This TED Talk helped a bit.

I don't have any answers to these seemingly impossible problems, except this. And it comes from the philosophy of J.R.R. Tolkien: All I have to decide is what to do with the time that is given me and to do what is good for all, not just myself.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Humanity  :  History

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On Playing Devil's Advocate

After the invasion of Cuba, now known as the CIA's 'Perfect Failure', President Kennedy asked his brother Robert to "argue majority opinions and consider every idea" because he wanted to make sure the advice he was receiving from the CIA and others was, without a doubt, the best and most accurate. 

Kennedy wanted his brother to play the "Devil's advocate" a practice which dates back to 1587 and Pope Sixtus V, and which is, at times, misunderstood for arguing. But as with President Kennedy and Pope Sixtus V, the purpose of playing devil's advocate isn't simply to dispute, but to find and promote truth.

When Pope Sixtus V instituted a new process for vetting candidates for sainthood in the Roman Catholic Church, he assigned a promotor fidei, or promoter of the faith, to appose canonization by critically evaluating the character of candidates and challenging claims of miracles they had performed. The promoter of the faith argued against the advocatus Dei, God's advocate, and became known as the devil's advocate (via).

The devil's advocate wasn't seen as an enemy or competition that needed to be overcome, they were an ally, and one who would promote the faith. They probably argued and fought and and got pretty emotion, but at the end of the day, they embraced, shared a beer, or laughed about old times because, at the end of it all, they, the devil's advocate and God's advocate, were on the same side, heading in the same direction and wanting the same thing: the promotion of the faith, and of Truth.

So they argued like they were right, and listened like they were wrong. 

 

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