Second Hand Lovers : by Oren Lavie

SECOND HAND LOVERS / OREN LAVIE from Oren Lavie on Vimeo.

A modern day bachelor shares his apartment with the memory of all his past lovers put together. In his fantasy they all share a harmonious loving relationship, synced into one being. The fantasy falls apart when he meets a real woman and has to choose between the safety of daydreaming and the challenges of real love (via).

Oren Lavie (writer/director) uses a relationship to express the struggle between safety and reality- and for good reason, because so many of our relationships and lives are ruined or inspired by those we've loved or hoped to love. 

They dance in the halls of our lives, sit with us as we sip our morning coffee, wave us out the door, and wait patiently for us to return. They're there when we watch movies, when we toss and turn on sleepless nights, when we read the morning paper, alone, with only our coffee to keep us company, and they're there when the door opens and she, our new hope at love, walks through the door.

At first, the new love makes all previous experiences dull and still, because the newness is alive and full of life (the plant!). Yet, all the while there's a similarity to it all (making out on the couch) and a comparison (her rubbing her neck), until suddenly, from behind the couch, the mundane, the routine, the past slips up from behind the couch. Then suddenly, it and they are everywhere, dancing all around and invade the couch (and stop the dance).

At first, it's only one, then several, and they consume the couch, pushing reality to the edges, until it can no longer exist and must move out and on, becoming another dream, another hope failed, who leaves with the plant and forever haunts. 

Yet, she smiles. 

Why? Why does she smile?

I've watched this short film several times and the only conclusion I can come up with is that that too is part of the daydream, that these woman, these hopes and dreams like to be part of the endless, dull cycle. That they enjoy existing in his endless daydream rather than living in his reality. Because how else could he exist? (After watching this with my Junior students, I kind of like their explanation better - "because they won. The memories won, not the real girl."

Damn.

The safety in daydreaming is that it is complete bullshit. We often remember ourselves better than we were, pick and choose what we love and like most out of ourselves and people and events, and imagine, amidst all our gross and disturbing faults, that people remember and think of us with a smile. That they are waiting patiently by the window, waiting for us to return. 

The same goes for dreams.

Reality, however, doesn't dance seductively while we work and type and head to the bathroom to take our morning poop. It punches us in the teeth or walks out the door. It requires us to work and fight and get outside ourselves and our daily routines. It asks of us to change, to grow, and to fight for the space on the couch.

Otherwise, instead of catching hold of the beautiful and wonderful of life, we end up alone, with the elusion of smiles, and the promise of a lonely, empty future filled with daydreams.

This film is the award winning 2nd installment in the BEDROOM TRILOGY, a visual adaptation of the BEDROOM CRIMES album." The first installment is DID YOU REALLY SAY NO.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  On Living  :  Short Films  :  Inspiring Art

Abatani Beauty : A woman from yesterday

For us Abatani, the nose plugs, the ear plugs and the facial tattoo are very beautiful.

. . .

But nowadays, {they youth} look like any other tribe.

. . .

No more nose plugs, no moe ear plugs, no more tattoos, only modern dresses.

“On matters of style, swim with the current,” Thomas Jefferson allegedly advised, “on matters of principal, stand like a rock" (Grant, pg 13). But, for the sake of style, of fitting in, and finding acceptance, what have we lost? In a world that is advancing so rapidly, is traveling so easily, and is merging so constantly, are we losing the beauty and vitality of cultures, differences, and identity? Are we simply melding into one bland people group, swimming in the same direction, trying to find some rock of principal with which to grab hold of?

It appears so.

Style is birthed from principals and therefore cannot be divorced from them because style is the manifestation of one's convictions, one's principals. To get rid of style is to get rid of voice, of culture, and identity.

They should therefore be held to and defended with the strength and stability of a rock, not swimming with the current, looking like any other fish and culture and tribe.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Inspiration  :  On Creativity  

Born of Accidents : Free-Diving Under Ice

There is no place for fear, no place for panic. No place for mistakes. Under the ice, you need total control.

Johanna {the film} was born of accidents. Nordblad {the swimmer} began free-diving after suffering an injury; she was required to submerge in freezing water for treatment. Derry {the filmmaker}, too, suffered an accident and received a settlement, which he used to fund the film, his first directorial effort. “I wanted to do something positive from the negative,” the filmmaker told The Atlantic. “When I think back, it was quite fortuitous that accident happened" (via).

"Wanted to do something positive from the negative." I like that. Love it actually. And I love how Derry's intentionality to embrace or prepare for the negative allowed him to create - to succeed.

“This is not something you can do without a proper approach," Derry explains, "Safety was paramount. We needed a safety team in and out of the water, so we had to be very precise.” He and his team needed to be intentional.

"The main enemy," according to The Atlantic, "was the cold, which drained the camera’s batteries during the first two minutes of filming. Later, in the -16 ºC air temperature, the camera froze. Water leaked into the monitor" (via). 

Despite the various setbacks, or rather, because of Derry's intentionality towards the various setbacks, they couldn't destroy him and his team from capturing "the serene beauty of Nordblad’s sport." And there's something very convicting, very challenging, about that approach to circumstances and to life.

When days or seasons or life seem born of accidents, embrace the setbacks and make something beautiful.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Inspiration  :  Embracing hardships  :  On Living

Francois Clemmons : becoming Mr. Rogers' Neighbor

Officer Clemmons was one of the first reccuring black characters in a children's tv program, but initially, actor Francois Clemmons was reluctant to take the role because he had grown up in the late 60's white America, and for him, cops were not people to be trusted, or imitated. But when Fred Rogers started talking about the "children needing helpers and the positive influence {he} could have on young children," Francois decided to take the role.

He then went on to play officer Clemmons for the next thirty years.

Here is the full episode. The scene with Fred and Officer Clemmons starts at 5:54 and runs till 10:15. It's worth the watch.

What I love about this scene is that Fred Rogers, with such acute purpose, is breaking down the social and racial barriers that so many white Americans of his time worked so hard to keep, that the African American people were nothing like white America and should therefore be forever segregated.

So Fred Rogers asks Officer Clemmons to sing, giving him skill and beauty and craft, something that didn't fit into the single story of who and what black America was.

Then he invites him to sit by the pool with him - a taboo for many white Americans. And when they've finished, Fred Rogers washes Officer Clemmons' feet, showing humility and honor to a black man in a way that aggressively (yet gently) contradicted the images and popular opinions of the day - white's serving blacks, are you kidding!?

Lastly, he softly asks, "Did you ever take a bath in a little pool like this, when you were a boy?"

"I sure did," Officer Clemmons responds. And this is perhaps my favorite part because suddenly, Officer Clemmons, a black man who was fully and completely different, is suddenly relatable, he's suddenly a child who cooled off in a plastic pool on hot summer days, just like the white kids. Suddenly, all the kids and parents all across American, no matter their color, their religion, or their age had something in common with Officer Clemmons. Suddenly, and subtley, Officer Clemmons is more than a simple stereotype, he's human. 

"To say that he didn't know what he was doing, or that he accidentely stumbled into integration or talking about racism or sexism, that's not Mr. Rogers." 

There are many ways to say, "I love you" Office Clemmons sang, but for Fred Rogers they all boiled down to one: seeing and treating people with dignity, not matter how they looked or talked or lived. He just loved them. 

And he encouraged us to do the same.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Mr. Rogers and the Power of Persuasion  :  The History of Mr. Rogers Sweaters

A Gun's Life : Why we should expect more shootings

Today, I woke up, read, drank some coffee, slipped on the ice outside our house, then drove to work. As usual. 

When I got to my classroom I prepped for the day, made copies of some PDP notes for the novels my students are reading, then checked my emails. As usual.

When students began to walk the halls and fill their seats, I found it difficult to carry on the day, as usual.

So before each class, we talked about the shootings, the problems and solutions, and why it seems to happen so damn often (Since 2013, there have been nearly 300 school shootings in America — an average of about one a week - via).

We had more questions than we did solutions.

During lunch, I came across this video:

Guns Found Here from MEL Films on Vimeo.

There are more gun shops in the US than Starbucks, McDonalds, and supermarkets put together.

That statistic was startling to me, terrifying actually, because if you want to know what a person, community, or country loves, look at where they spend their money and you will find the gods they serve.

We’re sacrificing America’s children to “our great god Gun”:

The gun is not a mere tool, a bit of technology, a political issue, a point of debate. It is an object of reverence. Devotion to it precludes interruption with the sacrifices it entails. Like most gods, it does what it will, and cannot be questioned. Its acolytes think it is capable only of good things. It guarantees life and safety and freedom. It even guarantees law. Law grows from it. Then how can law question it?

I'm not convinced that guns are the problem and that if we are to only get rid of them, all problems will be erased. However, I am convinced that if in fact getting rid of guns would prevent 100% of the shootings in schools, America at large would still cling to their rights, their freedoms, and their guns. And that shootings would continue.

But not so, in Japan.

A Land Without Guns: How Japan Has Virtually Eliminated Shooting Deaths:

The only guns that Japanese citizens can legally buy and use are shotguns and air rifles, and it’s not easy to do. The process is detailed in David Kopel’s landmark study on Japanese gun control, published in the 1993 Asia Pacific Law Review, still cited as current. (Kopel, no left-wing loony, is a member of the National Rifle Association and once wrote in National Review that looser gun control laws could have stopped Adolf Hitler.)

To get a gun in Japan, first, you have to attend an all-day class and pass a written test, which are held only once per month. You also must take and pass a shooting range class. Then, head over to a hospital for a mental test and drug test (Japan is unusual in that potential gun owners must affirmatively prove their mental fitness), which you’ll file with the police. Finally, pass a rigorous background check for any criminal record or association with criminal or extremist groups, and you will be the proud new owner of your shotgun or air rifle. Just don’t forget to provide police with documentation on the specific location of the gun in your home, as well as the ammo, both of which must be locked and stored separately. And remember to have the police inspect the gun once per year and to re-take the class and exam every three years.

Seems like a small price to pay to save our children, our classmates, our teachers, neighbors, friends, parents, and . . . fellow man.

I hear the argument, that we shouldn't blame those who aren't the problem - the responsible gun owners, and that creating more laws is only hurting the law abider, not the law breaker. I get it. But I also don't. 

More than a few of my friends are recovering alcoholics. I, however, am not. But, no matter how much I enjoy a cold drink on a summer evening with the taste and smell of the grill wafting through the air, when they are present, I don't drink. Even though I don't have the struggle, even though I can drink responsibly, I forgo my right to have and drink in my house because I want what's best for the other person. Not just myself. 

This, more than the actual guns, seems to be the bigger more predominant issue - individual rights over the community wellbeing. Japan and other Eastern countries not only have stricter rules and regulations, they also don't have a problem with them being implemented, because they are more of a group society, whereas Western countries care more about the individual. 

Dan Hodges said it this way, "In retrospect Sandy Hook marked the end of the US gun control debate. Once America decided killing children was bearable, it was over."

That sounds harsh, and I can think of more than a few gun loving friends and family that this doesn't quite relate to, but that doesn't steal much away from the stark truth of the sentiment that the discussion has come to a close. And if we're unwilling to even discuss the possibility of change, nothing ever will. 

In the meantime, expect more shootings. 

(for more excerpts on the United States of Guns, visit Kottke.org).

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Taking of a Buddy :  Hatred in America

Instatravel and the search for Identity with Community

Instravel - A Photogenic Mass Tourism Experience from Oliver KMIA on Vimeo.

It's easy to watch this video and mock or scoff at all the wanna-be's. "Be original!" we might say, because nobody likes a poser and everyone wants to be uniquely different. Just not too different because we also don't want to be alone, misunderstood, or an outcast. We want community and relationships and to be included.

And that is exactly what is happening in the Instraval video. People are finding connection and community by embracing and participating in a movement, an idea, or a trend because it makes them feel part of something bigger than themselves, in their own unique way. Just like everybody else.

Even when we branch out, when find something that seems to be completely our own, we're not. Others are cheering, encouraging, and even dancing with us, which makes the experience all the more perfect. Because we're not alone.

"Being original," Adam Grant writes, "doesn't mean being first. It just means being different and better" (via). It means learning and absorbing from those around us while using our individuality and identity to progress an idea or truth beyond its current state. 

It also means whenever we find success, when the spotlight happens to shine down upon us, we acknowledge the community that so faithfully surrounded, protected, and provided for us.

Even if it was a simple paving of the roads. 

Be original. More importantly though, be thankful.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Inspiration  :  On Creativity  

"I think that's love."

     Photo by @svenbergerfotografie

“When I believe something that’s not true and I’m afraid, that fear is still real, whether what I’m afraid of is real or not. That fear is. And so I need to respect as a person the fear that they have even though I disagree with what they’re thinking that’s causing it." - Jeff Kelley

From the moment I saw the picture above I haven't stopped thinking about it, and for several reasons. One, it's a great photo. Two, it scares the hell out of me. And three, it captures most acutely the words of Jeannette Armstrong, "To see things from a different perspective is one of the most difficult things we have to do."

"We have to do." I love that. Not only because it's right and good and true, but because, at times, it seems damn near impossible. 

I'm so used to seeing myself standing on top the world, like a little conquerer, and singing along with Bob Dylan, "don't think twice, it's alright," because I've never know it to be any different.

I've never felt my feet leave the ground without returning, never considered that when I jump or swing or cartwheel in the soft green grass that I won't stay right where I am, on Earth. So I've never considered how terrifying my life on this earth actually is.

Until the photograph was turned upside down.

On the Podcast Invisibilia, a guest Will Cox say that the "unfortunate thing about human learning," is that "human brains are really good at learning things, and not so good at unlearning them."

And its because, Alex Spiegel explains, "of the way that our minds work. It is just much easier for a stereotype {or believed truth} to perpetuate itself than to be overturned. Because to change a concept, you need to get extremely consistent feedback that the concept is incorrect."

But often times, because of our busy lives or limited communities, we don't get any feedback at all. Leaving our truths unchallenged, and unchanged.

In our politics.

In our religions.

And in our experiences. 

Until the photograph is flipped a bear's life is challenged. 

After committing thirty years to the idea that black bears could be trusted, and after feeling like he proved this point over and over again, Jeff Kelley chose to see things from another's perspective and adjusted, for the sake of those who apposed him. So he could help them. Because in Eagle's Nest Township, a small community in Northeast Minnesota, a battle over the stay and safety of Solo, his beloved black bear and her cubs, was brewing.

Convinced that "they were seeing reality clearly, and that the other side was just projecting a false narrative," neither side was willing to concede. Because Jeff could lay down with his head Solo's, back while she was feeding, and be perfectly fine because Solo wasn’t dangerous, and every member of the Eagles Nest community knew this.

But others, visitors from out of town who stayed only for weeks at a time, were not so sure - they were scared, and they didn’t want Solo around. They saw Solo and her friendly cubs as “a public safety risk” and pushed for them to be moved.

"What happens when people cant agree on reality?" Speigel asks, "when everyone just digs in, and insists on their version of the world?"

Communities break down, relationships suffer, and an innocent bear dies. 

On the day authorities came to relocate Solo and her two cubs, citizens of Eagles Nest tried to rouse her from her winter hibernation and run her off, so she wouldn't be captured. Instead, she and her cubs climbed a tree. They were shot, placed on trucks, and brought to Northern Michigan. The cubs woke up; Solo didn't. 

The people of Eagles Nest started pointing fingers.

"Intolerance," and "fear, lead to this bear being killed," they argued, and those kind of people don't "fit with this community" they said.

All except for Alex. Because, as he explained, 

When I believe something that’s not true and I’m afraid, that fear is still real whether what I’m afraid of is real or not, that fear is. And so I need to respect, as a person, the fear that they have even though I disagree with what {they think is} causing it.

And so, out of respect for them, I adjust what I’m doing so that I can at least help them not be so afraid.

I think that’s love.

To see things from another's perspective can be one of the hardest things we are asked to do. It can also be as easy as flipping a photograph. The difficulty is doing something about it.

We don't all have to agree on reality. In fact, some would argue that it's best if we don't. But we can all agree that life and reality can often be terrifying, like upside down photographs, or monsters beneath the bed.

So, out of respect for the other person, let us help each other to not be so afraid; let us turn on the light!

Even if it's the hardest thing to do. 

Because that's love. 

And love keeps the monsters away.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Inspiration from Podcasts :  On Living 

A space for home

This transition process is taking longer than we expected. We still don't have lampshades, we have to borrow my in-laws vacuum almost weekly, and our dining room still doesn't have a working table and chairs - we have to crowed around a small countertop island to eat as a family.

But those are simple things that can easily change in the near future. It's the other stuff that's taking time, the human stuff, the kids crying themselves to sleep because they're thinking and dreaming and missing China stuff. The missing home stuff. And I didn't know what to do. 

We can talk about China and their friends, revisite old photographs and some of our favorite memories, and we can talk about all the blessings we've been able to experience since arriving back in the states. But that doesn't seem to help. Not much anyway. So resort to words like, "It will be okay, I promise. You just need time," or, "by this time next year, you'll be feeling much better, I promise." But they're empty. Because really, I have no idea if it will be okay, if things will get better. If they will ever stop missing home.

My optimism, in the end, amounts to nothing.

But then, this morning, my wife sent me a text that convicted and challenged my heart. She was writing to share the news that she'd been featured on a forum that receives close to a million submissions, and she was one of seven people chosen. "It's not a big deal," she wrote, "but it is just a little encouraging. She continued:

It's funny how I am feeling so sad about loss and constantly worried I'll shrivel, but there are spaces of delight here. Just comparing apples and oranges. But getting this photo featured means more than just that. It means there is hope for a Home again. Even if it's hard to believe now.

I loved the way she said that, "there is hope for a Home again. Even if it's hard to believe now" because it reminded me that hope is active.

It is her taking pictures every day, even when she doesn't feel like it because its her and her passion and the best way she knows how way capture life, because soon enough these times will be gone.

It's her working on a home, daily, even when there isn't any more money left or much to do so she rearranges the few pieces of furniture for a second, third, and forth time because that's how she builds a home, little by little, and over time. 

It's how she moves towards hope.

Hope is active, optimism passive. Optimism believes things will get better and turn out okay while hope gets off the couch and ensures that they do - even when it's hard to believe that it will.

"There are spaces of delight here", and with hope, those spaces will expand and grow and fill up with memories, laughter, and Life. 

Until this space becomes our Home.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Open Thoughts  :  On Living  :  Josey Miller Photography

Naked, and without shame.

The Silence Breakers

"We are only what we always were, but naked now.  Aye! and the wind. God's icy wind, will blow."

- John Proctor - 

In class today, while discussing the culture of Mississippi, the banning of To Kill a Mockingbird, and if the Confederate Flag will survive the deep south hospitality, a student asked, "Why is all this happening now?"

"What?" I asked.

"The taking down of flags, the rise of the LBGTQ community, and all the sexual harassment stuff."

"Because we're in the midst of a revolution," I said.

The Silence Breakers: TIME Person of the Year 2017 from TIME Video on Vimeo.

A revolution of power. 

A revolution of fear.

And a revolution of responsibility

as parents,

teachers,

adults,

woman,

men, 

people,

And bystanders.

Laps from Charlotte Wells on Vimeo.

The magnitude of accusations has been staggering, but it's also been terrifying, because it has come from every corner of every neighborhood, like a plague, infecting everyone. Comedians, actors, producers, pastors, reporters, governors, liberals, Fox Newsers, presidents, neighbors, and family members. 

Recently, for a poetry unit, one of my students wrote, 

. . . it was a bathroom filled with smoke and shot glasses littering the table.

I try my hardest to forget but I know I am not able.

I remember all I could think was, "Please do not come any closer."

The night soon, just not quickly enough, came to an end and he asks, "Promise not to tell?"

Me? Not not me. No sir.

Who would I have told with so much on the line?

A life would be ruined and I'm absolutely sure nothing would be fine,

Except now I fear hands that are bigger than mine.

. . .

When I called DFS and reported the story, they already knew. But there was nothing they could do. It was his word against her's. 

And she's just one of thousands of woman, both old and young, who have hidden and damning stories that have been trapped beneath years and years of lies, fear, and power.

That's why the cover of the New York Times, Cosby Woman has an empty chair, and it why the TIME Person of the Year cover has a mysterious elbow below Taylor Swift, because "she’s symbolic of all those people who have yet to come forward and may be struggling to do so for fear of repercussions" (via).

Why is all this happening now?

Because it needs to happen now. 

We are what we've always been, only naked now.

So let the icy winds blow.

For the innocent feel no shame.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  #Metoo : this is the hand . . .  :  On Living

How boys fly planes

About a week ago, Judah shoveled our neighbor’s walkway. Not because he was asked to and not because he expected payment, but because he could. Because he had time and strength and the wherewithal to notice a simple need. 

So he served.  

A week later, Judah was sitting co-pilot on a jet plane to Montana. 

About three weekends or so ago, while working on a small mantelpiece for the house, Judah asked if he could use the scrap wood that littered the garage and driveway floors to build something.

”Sure,” I said, thinking of my own childhood and the often free reign my own father gave me with his materials and tools, “whatcha gonna make?”

”Not sure,” he said, grabbing a handful of screws. We both got to work on our prospective projects and intersecting worlds of building and shared tools. About an hour later, my mantelpiece was complete. So was Judah’s plane.

Using only the pieces he could find and with never a measurement (because measurements are for sissies!), he built a friggen fantastic plan, and he was ready to paint. 

While I was gathering his supplies, our neighbor pulled in, asked Judah what he was building in that friendly neighbor sort of way, then paused at the door. “A plane. Really. You like planes?” 

Judah nodded. 

”Did you know I’m a pilot?”  

He nodded again. 

When I came back with the paint and brush, we waved and said hi, as friendly neighbors tend to do, then both went about our business. 

Then, this past weekend, he sent me a text , "I got a flight scheduled on Saturday morning, leaving at 8 or 9. If Judah would like to ride co-pilot I can arrange that." And although I was fully surprised, I wasn't shocked. Because he's the kind of neighbor who helps fix our bikes and who lets me borrow his saw for much longer than a weekend. But still, this was different. And I knew Judah and I had to have another talk. 

It would be easy to sit Judah down and say something like, "See son, when you do nice things for others, they will do nice things in return," but I didn't want to. Because not only is it not always true, it's selfish. 

Doing nice things for others in hopes of getting something back in return isn't service or choosing to help others - to be kind, it's bartering. And one only barters with people who have something he or she wants. 

Like the rich, the popular, and the strong.

Not the orphan, the homeless, or the Poor. Because they have nothing to offer. And that should be the furthest thing from our minds.

Because "Judah, we don't serve and help with hopes of payment and gifts, we serve and help because it is the right thing to do. Because that's how a healthy community lives, each giving what they can, living in humility, and serving whenever and however they can."

He nods.

"You were able to serve with your time and strength; he with his resources, but both of you served."

He nods again, and I know he has a question, perhaps several, tickling his tongue, "What?" I ask, "What are you thinking?"

"Nothing," he says, but I ain't buy'n.

"What?" I ask again. And his smile stretches across his face, "Do you think he'll let me fly it?"

"Maybe," I say yet secretly hope, "But maybe not," and I shrug. "But don't ask to. If he thinks it's okay, he'll let you."

"I know," he says as we pull into the airport, "I just hope he does."

Then, about an hour later, on the flight back home, I saw Judah grab hold and gently steer the jet from side to side. And my heart leaped. I could imagine his joy, his thrill, and the lesson I hoped he'd be able to carry with him along side this great little memory.

That when we choose to use our gifts and talents and resources to bless and serve the greater community, both big and small, when we choose to live and think outside ourselves, we not only bring joy and beauty to the those fortunate enough to be around us, we bring purpose to the everyday moments that seem so fleeting, so insignificant, so mundane.

Because although we may see them as simple, they're not. Acts of service and kindness never are. 

They're the little rungs we hang our simple hopes on.

And they're what keep little boys up at night, building planes out of legos, playing out the time he got to fly a jet airplane, and dreaming of planes he'll fly in the future.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  BIG ME : little me :  Great Wall adventure with Judah

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"Who did you serve today?"

A few months ago, we started a new family dinner ritual. For years we would go through the typical, "What was your favorite part of the day?" or "What did you learn today?" and for years it bothered me - because all we're doing is talking and thinking about ourselves. And that seemed fully unsatisfying.

So we started asking the question, "Who did you serve today?" And unsurprisingly, at times, the answer was difficult to find, which was fine, because it lead us into discussions about gifts and talents and the purpose of living. Because whether we think about it often or not, our family has been gifted a great deal. We all have healthy minds and strong bodies, we are all talented and unique in our own way, and we have enough things to help us easily and comfortably survive each day.

Yet we are using these gifts and resources most often to serve and glorify ourselves. Which is sad. But not all that shocking.

In schools across America, signs advertise, "Got to college, so you can buy this" - a fancy car or luxurious vacations, commercials and advertisements encourage us to drive nicer cars, buy better appliances, and add more accessories to our phones, homes, and wardrobes. We are constantly evaluated by our personal achievements, the number of likes and followers we have obtained, and the depth and weight of accomplishments we're able to add to our resumes. 

Yet, suicide in the United States has surged to the highest levels in nearly 30 years, "with increases in every age group except older adults."

I often wonder if it has less to do with happiness and more to do with purpose. Because once you've bought the nicer thing, gone to the exotic places, and slept with the prettiest people and your still empty, what then? 

"How was your day," we ask, I ask, because we love our sons and daughters and we want to know how there day really was. Because we love them. But how much more important is it for them to consider how they helped make someone else's day? How they used their gifts and talents and time? Was it to serve others, or themselves? 

"Who did you serve today?" we ask, and sometimes the answer is "nobody." Other times it's a friend or family member (often Zion's is helping Mom with Elias). Always it's a reminder that today we were given chances to use what we've been given to help others. 

Did we?

"Yes," Judah says, "I shoveled the neighbors walkway." And I smile. "Awesome," I say, giving him a high five, "well done buddy. Well done." 

He takes a bite of his chicken, a smile hidden behind a pile of A1 sauce. 

And I swear, in that moment, it's the best damn smile in the world. 

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  BIG ME : little me :  On Living

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The Art of Flying, and Living

The art of flying - short 2 min version from Jan van IJken on Vimeo.

It's called a "murmuration of starlings" — the marvelous flight pattern of 10,000 or more of these often maligned birds. Or, as poet Richard Wilbur wrote, “ a drunken fingerprint across the sky,” smudging the dusk horizon with the quickness of a pulsating jellyfish (via).

And it's baffled mankind for years. 

So Wayne Potts, a biologist at the University of Utah, began making movies of their flocks and analyzing them, frame by frame, to see how each individual bird moved. He found that "a turn ripples through a flock just as a cheerleading wave passes through sports fans at a stadium," and he explained the finding with the name of his theory: the “chorus line hypothesis.”

An individual dancer who waits for her immediate neighbor to move before initiating her kick will be too slow; similarly, a dunlin watches a number of birds around it, not just its nearest neighbors, for cues (via).

These cues come not merely with their eyes, but also through acoustics and perhaps even the use of the "tactile sense of onrushing air from close neighbors to help guide {their} direction."

In short, they don't simply react to their immediate surroundings, they respond and move in accordance to their greater surroundings, to the greater community. Because they listen, holistically, with their eyes, ears, and body.

And in doing so, they remain connected and move and flow and "murmurate" with ease and beauty and grace.

They live in community. 

And they teach us more than a little something about life. How to look beyond the immediate left and right, but beyond, to the greater community, and not just ourselves.

They teach us that when we shift and move and live outside our simple circles, when we consider the community rather than the individual, we (to paraphrase Richard Wilbur) refuse to be caught . . . in the nets and cages of common and simple thought.

But rather, beautifully lost in the greater murmuration of life and living, as we soar and swoop and fly. Free as birds.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Substituting People for Animals  :  On Living

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Where the People are.

If you're in a corner, or in a box, it's not because somebody put you there, it's because you've agreed to be in that box.

I stay outside. Because that's where the people are.

When I first watched this, I thought of my classroom and getting out in the hallways to be with the kids as they pass and walk by. Because even though I want to stay in my room, out in the hall is where the people are. And they want high fives, waves, fist bumps, and sometimes even hugs.

Then, while getting a Fat Tire from the frig, I thought of other boxes, bigger boxes, and more restrictive boxes. Boxes of religion, family, and politics. 

But mainly religion.

Maybe yours is something else.

Whatever it is, we've both agreed to be in that box. Isolated, Insulated. And safe. 

Because stepping out is entering into the unknown, and to where the people are. People who think different, look different, act different, and are different. Like kids in the hallways.

In the hallways, I lose much of my control and influence. I'm no longer the centerpiece but an outside observer. In the hallways, kids curse, make out, swap cigarettes, and fight, and I stand on the sideline, unable to do much of anything but correct what I can and say hello to those who pass. 

Sometimes though, kids want a high five, fist bump, or short conversation.

And somehow, when it happens, in the hallway, on their turf, it seems a bit more genuine because truly, they don't have to say a damn thing. They can walk by, cursing under their breath (which some do, no doubt) or ignore me completely. But they don't - not all of them anyway. They wave, smile, and sometimes stand with me and talk. And I love it because, often times, I learn things about them that the classroom can't teach. 

Like the student whose father was just arrested for dealing meth. Or the one who's having surgery on Thanksgiving day because she might have breast cancer. 

Sometimes though, they don't say a thing. They just high five, fist pump, or nod. And when it comes from the kid that I get on every single day to do some work, to turn something in and stop dropping F-bombs in my class, well, that too means a lot to me. 

And after watching this short clip, I began to wonder what would happen if I stepped out of other boxes, engaged and mingled with other people, different people, and started talking and listening and learning from them? Where would that take me? Take us? 

Probably to where the people are.

Which is just where I want to be.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  #eattogether :  Humanity  :  A Heineken commercial that inspires more than a drink

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This Is the Hand: A Response to Recent News

By Carolita Johnson October 26, 2017

This simple cartoon truly struck me, on several levels. The first is perhaps the most obvious, and that is, what the hell is wrong with these men and other men and all men who do this kind of shit to women, kids, people!?!?!

The second thought is a bit more complicated.

Why? 

Because, as Sherman Alexie says when talking about a man in his tribe who was known to have raped and murdered and why he was never accused was because "he mimics proper human behavior . . . Because he speaks a little bit of the tribal language. Because he genuflect and prays in front of large crowds. Because he wears beads and feathers every day of the year. Because he plays the role of traditional Indian better than most. Because he proclaims himself holy and is superficially believed" (pg 178).

We want to believe the best in people, to hope in people, even when we know better, because we want to believe and hope in ourselves. That our faults and sins and terrible mistakes won't define or restrict us. We want to believe the best in others because we want others to believe the best about ourselves. So we gloss and paint and cover up our sins and allow the monster of superficiality to live and breath and grow and finally devour. 

One of my new favorite podcasts, The Liturgists, says this about themselves, "We believe that beauty is the heart and perhaps primary truth of the Gospel. If it's not beautiful, it's not worth speaking of or working on." And although a large part of me wants to embrace this way of life and living, another bigger part of me rejects it. Because it seems a bit superficial.

In Arthur Miller's, The Crucible, John Proctor states, "We are only what we always were, but naked now." This seems accurate for today as well.

In the coming weeks and months, we should expect many more accusations of a similar kind towards politicians, athletes, comedians, church leaders, community leaders, CEO's, parents, extended family, neighbors and from every nook and cranny of this dark and complicated world because although life and humanity are beautiful and absolutely worth celebrating, it is also hard and cruel and absolutely broken.

Cutting off the hand of the man that reached and touched won't cloth and cover the sins and devastation of the world. Neither will silence. 

As Sherman Alexie says, "victims have learned, on the reservation and everywhere else, that is is more painful and dangerous to testify than it is to silently grieve." 

Because, "on the reservation," as it is everywhere else, "testifiers are shunned and exiled."

"On the reservation," as it is everywhere else, "silence become the tribal ceremony that everybody performs" (pg 178)."

And so the hand reaches. Because it knows it can. Because it knows we'll be silent. 

But not anymore.

And may that be the new proper human behavior.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  On Living  :   On Tolerance 

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The First Lady of ISIS

Tania Georgelas, the ex-wife of the highest-ranking American member of ISIS, reckons with her extremist past and attempts to build a new life (via).

This is her story.

And in many ways, it's ours too.

The dual transformation of John and Tania is the most American part of this story. What is America, if not a promise of infinite possibility, and ability to transcend one’s origins? John grew up wealthy, Christian, and patriotic; now he is poor, Muslim, and full of hate for his native land. Tania’s metamorphosis has taken the precise opposite form, as if the universe demanded symmetry in their stories, and decreed that she resume the prosperous suburban life that he left behind. They met in the middle, trading fates. His ending is probably already written. Her life, if she’s lucky, is just getting started (via).

What stuck me most about this story is the assurances of truth. John and Tania, on either sides of their transitions, are so very confident in what they know and how they know it, allow it to guide and direct their lives, even to the point of radicalism. 

Which isn't all that different from so many of us. We may not be joining ISIS, but we are just as confident in our truths and way of life - we too have certainty in what will happen when we die, and it guides and directs our daily lives, even to the point of radicalism.

What we know can change in an instant, shifting the ground beneath our feet and bring our fortresses of faith and understanding crumbling to the ground - SMASH!!!

Then nothing. 

But the chance to rebuild.

Because truly, no one really knows anything for certain. And it is that understanding, that weight of uncertainty that should encourage us all to talk less and listen a whole lot more. To be kind and patient and less judgmental, and to truly consider the holes in our damns because really, we don't know, even when we think we do.

And for many of us, the damn is about to beak.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Real People :  After 90 years, a Jewish woman eats bacon for the first time

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The taking of a buddy

With yet another horrific shooting, we turn, again, to the topic of guns and rights and gun rights, skimming over the simple and horrific truth that many people are going to bed tonight, and every night hereafter, without their husband, their wife, their son or daughter, their friend, and their buddy.

I think of what happened at my trial. His father got on the stand. His father called this kid his buddy.
That was his buddy. I took his buddy away from him.
Me?

How does that sit with me?

I showed this video to my students, and for the first time all year, they were silent. Until the "One voice. Your voice. Is powerful enough. To stop. One Kid. From picking up. One gun." flashed across the screen. 

Suddenly, they had an opinion, a voice, and something they needed to argue - guns.

Instead of discussing the answer that the man cannot answer, "How does that sit we me?" instead of dealing with the man whose tears fill his eyes as he pleads to the camera, "There is nothing you can do to make it right," the students started talking, passionately, about guns and rights and gun rights.

Because that's the easier conversation to have, even though it's the wrong one. .

So I drew a line down the center of the board. On one side I wrote, "Get rid of guns" and on the other side, "keep them." Then I allowed a brief pros and cons discussion of both. It went about as shallow as I had expected. 

"You can talk forever on either side" I said, showing the breadth of each side of the argument, "Because they're huge. But what we need to be talking about is this," and I pinched my fingers around the line that divided the two groups, "this is where the problem is because this is where humanity is." It's where the heart is.d

John Steinbeck, in his Nobel Prize acceptance speech proclaimed that,

Humanity has been passing through a gray and desolate time of confusion. My great predecessor, William Faulkner, speaking here, referred to it as a tragedy of universal fear so long sustained that there were no longer problems of the spirit, so that only the human heart in conflict with itself seemed worth writing about.

In all of our gallantry, courage, compassion and love, we are also fully weak and full of the worst this world has to offer. Man has, as Steinbeck states, "become our greatest hazard." And when we reduce the pain and sorrow and loss of loved ones to an argument of gun control, we exchange communal empathy for individual rights and ensure another shooting.

Inmates crying and struggling with regret over the deepest mistakes of their lives shouldn't lead to battles over gun problems. Rather, it should invite discussions over people problems. 

Somehow, though, we aren't even talking at all.

Trevor Noah is right, when planes crash, we talk about plane safety, and when bridges collapse, we talk about infrastructure. But these discussions are different because although they may have to deal with human error, they don't have to deal with the ugliness of the human condition, and that makes them easier. 

Require longer training hours, and the problem is solved. Add a few million dollars to a budget and we can build better more high-tech planes. Problem solved. Or, at least, improved.

Yet after a mass shooting, a mass shooting, a mass shooting, a mass shooting, a mass shooting, we are not. We are not improving and we're getting worse. And we're getting worse because when it comes to discussing that thin line of humanity, we'd rather talk about guns or Muslims or black on black crime or white supremacists or hotels because they're easy to talk about. 

In an age of supreme technological advancement, when we have more information than we've ever had before and faster than at any time in our human history, yet, we are dying. Kids are committing suicide in gross numbers, mass shootings are common occurrences, and war (seemingly) is everywhere. 

We're in an advanced technological age that is killing our humanity because we're so averse, so scared, to discuss the thin and terrifying line that divides every argument: humanity, and the human condition. 

Churches claim to have the answer, so do teachers, parents, and science. Yet none of them do because all of them do, they're just too busy arguing over differences and sides and forgetting about the line, about us, and about what makes up the best and worst humanity has to offer.

In a recent podcast about creativity, the host spoke about the practice of getting thoughts out on a consistent basis so that when an opportunity comes along, we know the next step we need to take. We may not know what step to take after that, but that's okay because that's what the creative process is all about.

The same can be said for discussing the dhuman condition. 

I don't know how to solve the worst problems of humanity, but I know the next step: to talk about it. After that, I'm not sure what will happen, but I think that's okay because that is what life is all about - sharing the human being stuff with one another, allowing for differences and struggle, and affirming in one another that we're not alone. That we're not going to take sides, but rather, grab hold of the line. 

We need to talk about the best and worst of humanity and hope, believe, we might be able to prevent a kid from picking up a gun - not because he can't, but because he or she doesn't want to. Because they know the pain and sorrow of taking someone's buddy, as well as the finality of never being able to take it back. We need to talk about what it means to be human, to struggle with hate and sadness and the fear of being alone, about our struggles and doubts and deepest, darkest nightmares. Then, instead of giving answers or promising prayers, we need to love, forgive, and shower each other with empathy and grace.

Because that too is the human being stuff. And it’s the kind of stuff we long for, live for, and are made to strive for.

But first, a step.  

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  On Living  :   On Tolerance  :  Hatred in America

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Things I mean to know

This morning, instead of hopping in the car and driving, I walked. It was brilliant. Brilliantly cold, and brilliantly convicting, like the heat of an afternoon sun after a freezing and wind scourged morning, because before the day even began, I was asked to consider everything I know, and how I know it. And I didn't have any answers.

What do we know, fully, and with confidence, but without knowing why? Without knowing the evidence, the facts, or even just simply the other side?

For me it's a lot of things. But when I first listened to this podcast, I wasn't considering me and what I did or did not know, I was considering others and what they don't know. Because from my perspective, they don't know a lot. And they don't even know it. 

The Episode is entitled, Things I Mean to Know by This American Life. 

This little soundbite is from the Prologue:

"I started looking into it and it was too hard." So, she, "jumped back into the ocean with the rest of us dummies." Because it was easier. Because getting to the bottom of things is a lot of work, especially when those things don't have easy or definable answers - when they deal with all that human being stuff.

When I heard these lines, I was about three blocks down from my house, kicking a small rock out of my path, and thinking of all those who could benefit from hearing these simple words. 

Then I turned the corner and headed down 6th street. The rock lost in someone's yard and the chill of the morning beginning to seep in. I pulled my hat down further then jammed my hands a bit further into my pockets. 

A thought was beginning to fester, and by the time I reached the my classroom and chair and Coleman thermos coffee, it was a wild and living thing.

Maybe I'm the one who's wrong?

In recent months I've been questioning myself, my faith, and my life more than I ever have before. Yet, somewhere in all that, I've found plenty of time and arguments for why others have been wrong, why things or ideas have been the source of my befuddlement, and why if everyone could just be as open-minded or loving or accepting as me, things would be pretty damn good.

Then I walked to work and kicked a rock and listened to stories of people talking about what they thought they knew. 

On the walk home, Megan Phelps-Roper describe her time as a member of the Westboro Baptist Church, "Most of the time, I would walk away from those conversations feeling like I had won. I never set out to have my mind changed."

Once I saw that we were not the ultimate arbiters of divine truth but flawed human beings, I couldn't justify our actions. . . That period was full of turmoil. But one part I return to often is a surprising realization I had during that time - that it was a relief and a privilege to let go of the harsh judgments that instinctively ran through my mind about nearly every person I saw. I realized that now I needed to learn. I needed to listen.

And so do I. Holy shit so do I.

I need to listen to those who frustrate me, who hurt me, who think incomplete and false thoughts about me. Because they might be right. 

Holy shit they might be right. At least in part.

Because,

You're not letting go of your truth but understanding someone else's. You need that if you're going to build a bridge and get across and get through.

But to be honest, this is really hard because even through I want to get through, I also want to win - at least in part - because even though I want to understand, I also want to be understood. And even though I want to build bridges and find a way to let go of the harsh judgements that instinctively ran through my mind, I also want to be validated and affirmed in what and who I am.  

Which makes the conversation difficult, I think, because - out of self preservation - I talk more than I listen, I defend more than hear, and I explain more than I try to understand.

And that might be the first times I've really understood that. 

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Open Thoughts  :  Other Inspiring Podcasts

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Hands rake leaves; faith opens refrigerators

(Photo by @storyanthology)

I know there’s nothing there, because I just looked five minutes ago. But there's that something that keeps drawing me to the fridge, looking for something to eat, to snack on, or to keep me distracted. So I go once more, open the fridge once more, and am not surprised but somehow disappointed to find that it’s just like it was before.

I’m not hungry, and I’m not there because I’m hungry, I’m there because I’m restless, because I don’t want to do whatever it is I need to do, like lesson plan or grade essays or wrestle through some difficult thought for a blog post.

Or call my parents.

So I head back to the fridge, even though I know it won’t help, because it’s easier, because I’d rather hope for a miracle than deal with reality, and because it’s safe. Just like faith.

And I’m pretty tired of wasting my time with both.

This past Saturday, Judah should have been outside raking while Josey and I sat in the living room, talking. Instead though, he kept coming inside to get a drink of water, to get a snack, and then to get another drink of water – while the leaves continued to cover the ground – and I got frustrated, “Get outside and work,” I said. So he did. With a sulk and a huff, he shoved his shoes back on and shuffled out the door to the yard, the leaves, and the task of learning how to rake all on his own.

Judah’s never raked a yard before.

But I sent him out anyway, because I believe, deeply, that yard work can help build a young boy’s character, that it can instill in him a strong work ethic, grit, and the deep satisfaction of a job well done. And I was confident I was doing the right thing, that him being outside was better than watching movies or playing videogames, and that someday, even if many years from now, he would thank me for these days.

So I refilled my coffee and headed back to the living room. From the window, I could see him pushing leaves around, kicking small sticks, and generally accomplishing very little. And it was then that I realized just how fragile, just how weak and useless faith can be, if left to simple devices.

Judah doesn’t know how to rake, how to stuff leaves in the garbage can, or what it means to put in a hard days work. Because he is ten. And no matter how many times I send him out or how much faith I have that we’re doing the right thing, he won’t learn it on his own. I can hope for it, pray incessantly about it, even find empowering quotes that encourage leaving him in the front yard, by himself, to wrestle and struggle through this obstacle – because only when we don’t know what to do can we grow.

Or, I can put on my shoes and teach him how to rake in rows and how to stomp the leaves in the garbage can. I can tell stories of “when I was your age” and how I used to hate raking our giant yard but sometimes wish I were there again, smelling the fire, and fighting with my brothers and sisters and how, just like he’s experiencing now, those hours and days working outside formed blisters and built character.

Instead of believing that raking leaves will teach and mold Judah, I can chase him around the yard, stuff leaves down his pants, and show him what it means to be a family and struggle and work and live together.

Or, I can head to the fridge, to prayer, and wait for my son to finish.

I can call my parents.

Faith, like running to refrigerators, can be a destructive distraction from doing what truly needs to be done, leaving us frustrated and empty and staring at a fridge full of food and asking, “Why is there nothing to eat?”

Because what we’re craving isn’t in the fridge. It’s in us - our hands, our feet - and in the simple moments of choosing to live by faith. Not wait on it. 

Who's your doormat?

We are at the deepest risk of losing, forever, our connection with each other - family, friends, collogues, students, spouses, kids, whatever, and it isn't technology's fault, religion's fault, education, drugs, or any other THING'S fault. It's ours. 

When we look around, when we take time to be aware of life and things and people around us, when updates on friends and family are deeper than Facebook walls or Instagram posts, when we no longer measure success with numbers, test scores, and resume accomplishments, we might actually hear the groans and moans of the dead and decaying humanity that we so mindlessly abuse and use and trample. Every. Single. Day.

But who has time for that when a promotion is right around the corner, blog posts need to be posted, or when longly held accomplishments are just out of reach and I just need to stand on you for a little bit so I can reach the next rung and, maybe I'll see you later? 

This ending completely caught me off guard. And ever since, I can't stop thinking about it - for myself for sure, but  for our world and smaller societies that we live in. We're all proud enough to not straighten our tie and simply lie down and let someone walk and trample stand all over us, but do we support those that try and stand up? That no longer want to hold our coats or open doors for us? 

Do we notice that they're trying?

Do we notice them at all?

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Humanity  :  Regular People, like us  :  Real People, Real Stories

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Chimamanda Negozi Adichie : A Troubling Silence

After Adichie's criticism for implying that trans women are not “real women”, she defended her comments during a public appearance in Washington saying, “This is fundamentally about language orthodoxy. There’s a part of me that resists this sort of thing because I don’t think it’s helpful to insist that unless you want to use the exact language I want you to use, I will not listen to what you’re saying" (via).

“From the very beginning," she continued "I think it’s been quite clear that there’s no way I could possibly say that trans women are not women. It’s the sort of thing to me that’s obvious, so I start from that obvious premise. Of course they are women but in talking about feminism and gender and all of that, it’s important for us to acknowledge the differences in experence of gender. That’s really what my point is . . . if we can acknowledge there are differences, then we can better honestly talk about things" (via).

In an interview with The New Yorker, Adichie explains why this sort of behavior is so dangerous: because it's cannibalism.

The Left is creating it’s own decline . . . it doesn’t know how to be a tribe, in a way the Right does. The Left is Cannibalistic . . .

In the quest for inclusiveness, the Left is willing to discard a sort of complex truth. And I think there is a quickness to assign ill intent . . .

The response is not to debate, the response is to silence, and I find that very troubling. 

After Adichie's criticism for implying that trans women are not “real women”, she defended her comments during a public appearance in Washington saying, “I don’t think it’s helpful to insist that unless you want to use the exact language I want you to use, I will not listen to what you’re saying" because " . . . if we can acknowledge there are differences, then we can better honestly talk about things" (via).

Arthur Brooks, a political independent, takes it a step further. In his discussion with Guy Raz, he argues that we need to need people who think (and talk) differently than ourselves in order actually do what is best for ourselves and, more importantly, the world.

Republicans and Democrats today, he argues, "suffer from political motive asymmetry. A majority of our people in our country today who are politically active believe that they are motivated by love, but the other side is motivated by hate. Most people are walking around saying, 'you know, my ideology's based on basic benevolence. I want to help people. But the other guys, they're evil and out to get me.' You can't progress as a society when you have this kind of asymmetry. It's impossible" and a little like cannibalism - eating those who think and talk differently than ourselves.

However, Brooks thinks this type of diversity is exactly what we need because within our seemingly irreconcilable differences, there is the best and perfect solution.

"When we talk in this country about economics," Brooks continues, "if you're on the right, conservatives, you're always talking about taxes and regulations and big government. And on the left, liberals, you're talking about economics, it's always about income inequality," which is good, because these are really important things. "But when it comes to lifting people up who are starving and need us today," he says, those things become distractions.

Instead of helping the needy or educating the poor, we argue over how, when, and where it should be done. 

"We need to come together around the best ways to mitigate poverty using the best tools at our disposal. And that comes only when conservatives recognize that they need liberals and their obsession with poverty and liberals need conservatives and their obsession with free markets" because the problems of our country and of our world are a sort of complex truth. We are all too quick to assign ill intent or shaky motives to those on the other side, silencing any chance of conversation, debate, or growth. All the while, the needy die in our streets and nearby homes.

While the Left and the Right devour each other and eat their own, children starve, freeze, and lose hope.

But it doesn't have to be this way. We just have to change, accept diversity, and be the kind of person "who blurs the lines, who's ambiguous, {and} who's hard to classify."

"If you're a conservative," Brooks argues, "be the conservative who's always going on about poverty and the moral obligation to be a warrior for the poor. And if you're a liberal, be a liberal who's always talking about the beauty of free markets to solve our problems when we use them responsibly. If we do that, maybe - just maybe - we'll all realize that our big differences aren't really that big after all" (via).

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Dangers of a Single Story  :  Diversity makes us smarter

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