ideas : People : stories.
the Human Being stuff
The memory of the Haitian Massacre remains a chilling reminder of how power-hungry leaders can manipulate people into turning against their life-long neighbors.
Seems like outsiders played a crucial and terrifyingly selfish role in establishing such a "shit hole" country.
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"The car leaped forward and sped on. Dick cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, "You're a Lucky Bastard!" Then he laughed and hoisted the suitcase to his shoulder" because "another man in another car would come along."
"Perry produced his harmonica and played the opening bars of what had come to be their 'marching music'; the song was one of Perry's favorites . . ." (pg 155).
Perry and Dick intended to kill whoever stopped to pick them up, drop their body in the vast Mojave Desert, and drive off with his (or her) car. But until then, they sang:
A chilling read.
Throughout the work, a question kept coming to mind, "What am I reading this?" and "Why would anyone write this?" The answer, although unsettling, could not be ignored. Because this too is humanity.
Seemingly random and deplorable killings are commonplace today, yet I wonder how many of those who have committed such atrocities - as well as those who have survived them - would be attracted to the thoughts and words of Truman Capote.
A Thesis for Death:
"I'm scared Myrt."
"Of what? When your time comes, it comes. And tears won't save you . . . If there's somebody loose around here that wants to cut my throat, I wish them luck. What difference does it make? It's all the same in eternity. Just remember: If one bird carried every grain of sand, grain by grain, across the ocean, by the time he got them all on the other side, that would only be the beginning of eternity. So blow your nose" (pg 69).
A Purpose for Cruelty:
"The glory of having everybody at his mercy, that's what excited (Dick)" (pg 239).
A Lesson on Life:
"You are a human being with a free will. Which puts you above the animal level. But if you live your life without feeling and compassion for your fellow-man - you are an animal - "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth" & happiness & peace of mind is not attained by living thus (pg 142).
Top Picture Hickock, Richard Eugene
"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the Lord", as well as the blood of an innocent family. And after Hickock's death, someone else had seen them too. Right after Hickock's death, his eyes were cut out and given to somebody else who needed them.
For more on . . .
YOUNG@HEART chronicles seven weeks in the lives of the members of the chorus as they prepare for a one-night-only concert in their hometown of Northampton, Massachusetts. The group is made up of two dozen spirited seniors — former schoolteachers, executives, doctors, and food service workers — who specialize in reinterpreting rock, punk, and R&B classics from a unique perspective. What ultimately emerges in the film is a funny and unexpectedly moving testament to friendship, creative inspiration, and expectations defied (via).
And it's one of my favorite documentaries.
Not because its highly entertaining or expounds upon some new or fascinating idea, but because its devoid of it.
It's simple, yet extremely personal and human, and it just about brings down the house. Like this scene with Fred Knittle who is supposed to be singing this as a duet, but when his partner falls ill, he has to push through and perform it alone.
He nails it.
Or here, as they perform live at Hampshire County Jail.
How To Hide a Yawn from Daniel Koren on Vimeo.
"Everybody needs to know this." And it's true, because we've all experience this, intimately. On both sides.
I'm definitely a mouth closed, jaw clenched, nostril flaring yawner, but I'm fully considering the, "clean your face with your shirt" option. Because it's golden. Clearly.
Which are you?
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Pow Surf 101 from Kurtis Jackson on Vimeo.
Mixing the arts is truly beautiful, especially the more drastic they are in their differences. I tried doing it myself Sigur Ross and bouldering, but I think this is better. Mainly because they use Clair de Lune, which is clearly better.
Brilliant.
For more on . . .
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 . . .
Photo by @storyanthology
I could have taken a nap. I could have read a few more pages of In Cold Blood or got busy with any of the other millions of things I can get busy doing. I could have spent a large chunk of the day writing. But I didn't. Because my wife thought we should make a fire.
And as often happens, she was right.
Snow fell from the trees and landed in our laps and dinner and our kids laughed those long and deep laughs that warm the soul.
We sat together as a family.
Elias spit raspberries.
I can't help but constantly feel guilty for not writing more often, for not "pursuing the craft" because I know full well, if this is ever going to happen, it won't just fall in my lap (I already said enough about that).
But then we have a day like today and I'm reminded there isn't room. Nor do I want any. Because Eden "loves the mornings" and Zion asks if she can cuddle and help make breakfast. And I get to be there.
Because they call me Dad.
And because my wife asked me to build a fire.
So we did.
For more on . . .
Been wanting to watch this for a while. It didn't disappoint.
Like last 2017, this year is dedicated to writing (and one of these years, hopefully, something will actually come of it). I'd heard this book mentioned several times by artists of various sorts so I thought it as good a place as any to help start off the year.
It wasn't amazing, but it didn't disappoint - I'd give it a solid B, perhaps a B+.
It isn’t that people are mean or cruel. They’re just busy . . . so, streamline your message. Focus it and pare it down to its simplest, clearest, easiest-to-understand form . . . because The reader denotes his time and attention, which are supremely valuable commodities. In return, you the writer must give him something worthy of his gift to you (pg 5).
If there was nothing else in the book, this is a hook I can hang my hat on: people are busy - or, as Derrick Jenson says, they could be having sex, so my writing better be worth their time. It better be better than having sex.
“Let my countrymen discover, by their suffering without me fighting as their champion, how by far the greatest of them I am” (pg 23) – quoting Agamemnon, the Anti-hero.
The solution is embedded in the problem. If your job is to find the solution, the first step is to define the problem (pg 32).
Every piece of work operates from a thesis statement: Walter White in Breaking Bad says, “Change. Chemistry is the study of change. Elements combine and change into compounds. That’s all of life, right? Solution, dissolution. Growth. Decay. Transformation. It’s fascinating really.” This is Vince Gilligan’s statement of the theme (pg 35).
The two quotes above are gold and can/should be applied to anything, even teaching. A classroom, a novel, a movie, a TV show, even raising children or running a church should be guided be a central, clearly defined and easily applied, thesis statement.
Because when life gets hard, when the ship rocks, or when no one knows what to do, it is the guiding and unfaltering force. So it better be a good one.
A real writer (or artist or entrepreneur) has something to give. She has lived enough and suffered enough and thought deeply enough about her experience to be able to process it into something that is of value to others, even if only as entertainment.
It's okay to seek success, as long as the purpose is greater than ourselves; if it is to serve the greater community. It's all about our motives.
How to Create a {Classroom}: ask the questions (modified):
1. What’s the theme?
2. What’s the climax?
3. Who’s the hero?
4. The Villain?
5. What are the stakes?
6. What’s the purpose?
The American dream – you can be anything you want to be if you’re willing to work for it . . . and the American nightmare – what if we try and fail? (pg 90).
Your job as a writer is to give your hero the deepest, darkest, most hellacious All is Lost Moment possible – and then find a way out for her (pg 104) because The All is Lost Moment is followed almost immediately by a breakthrough insight or epiphany, an awakening for the hero, an “Aha!” moment (pg 105).
Write your nonfiction book as if it were a novel . . . give it an Act One, an Act Two, and Act Three. Make it cohere around a theme (pg 123).
The hardest and maybe the best way to establish authority is through the quality and integrity of the voice itself (pg 165).
The War of Art Structure:
- Hook – “resistance,” the invisible negative force of self-sabotage that all writers (and creative people in all fields) face.
- Build – mounts to a high point at which the problem has been defined and the answer spelled out. Leading to the question, “What does it all mean?”
- Payoff – they paid off the Hook and the Build by reinforcing the reader’s own rising self-confidence that she not only identified the enemy and now knew hot to fight it, but had been turned on to the unseen, unbidden, but powerfully fortifying forces that would ineluctably come to her aid once she committed to her calling and took up the challenge (pg 169,170).
There is an evil force that is constantly defeating us as artists and bringing to naught all of our dreams. Let’s name that force, accept it as our enemy, and figure out how to overcome it.
Here’s how you know {you’ve got something worth pursuing} – you’re scared to death of it (pg 186).
Resources:
- The Story Grid, by Shawn Coyne
- The War of Art, by Steven Pressfield
- The Creative Habit, by Twyla Tharp
- Quiet, by Susan Cain
- Think and Grow Rich, by Napoleon Hill
Perhaps the greatest takeaway was the idea that even a nonfiction book (or classroom) should be structured and designed just like a fiction novel - central theme, hero and villain, three part structure. I love that.
For more on . . .
-N- Stuff : NY Times Best Books of 2017 : Reading Log 2017 : Reading Log 2018
As 2016 drew to a close, like many people around the world, I planned for new beginnings, new hopes, and set a strong resolution: to write a blog every single day. I knew it was low hanging fruit and that it wouldn't bestow upon me the ever elusive title of "author," but I was okay with that, because it would ensure that I intentionally wrote a polished piece of work every single day. Up to that point, writing in my journal was erratic, sloppy, and unchallenged - it was a place I could live and write without consequence for my grammatical errors or faulty ideas. It was a place of little growth.
So, for almost the entire year, I published something daily. Sometimes I struck gold, other times a septic line, but always I learned and grew - even if only slightly. Because people now had access to my thoughts.
Friends revealed my terrible grammar.
My wife refined my insensitive rants.
Readers encouraged my process, thoughts, and style. They commented, liked, and shared my writings which inspired me to stay up and write, well beyond my bedtime, because I had to write, I had to publish, and I had to maintain the number of views I was becoming accustomed to.
Writing, suddenly, was no longer about writing. It was about getting Mother Mary up the mountain. And I couldn't figure out how to stop.
About halfway through the year, after writing about a variety of topics, posting videos, songs, movie trailers, and whatever else caught my interest, Mother Mary was still far from her summit, and I could feel my strength, my desire, and my purpose, slipping. When school started and life began to fill up, she lingered on the cliff.
So I sent two dear friends an email entitled, "A Crisis of Sorts."
Here's an excerpt from that email:
For the past several weeks I've been working hard at my blog (god that sounds stupid). I've stayed up late, sacrificed lunches, and spent many many hours thinking on what to write, how to write, and to whom I might be writing for. And whenever I publish something I think, "Yes. That's good. I like that." But whenever I go back and reread various works and thoughts, I think, "NO! That's shitty. I hate that," and I get fully discouraged and lose hope {of} ever doing anything with writing because what is my blog going to do? How is this getting me anywhere closer to being a writer? Where is this going to get me?
I've started writing a bit more on personal matters, believing it might be encouraging to others because we're all tired of the surface bullshit we post on Facebook and Instagram and whatever. Some of the best and well-known writers and thinkers I've come to love are those who write and think honestly, and I want to emulate them. But as I work on a second piece about the struggles of a broken family, I keep questioning myself, "What's the point?" Outside of myself, who truly cares about this?" I know writers are supposed to "write for themselves," and I get that, I do. But it's also bullshit. We, as humans, as writers or artists or whatever we call ourselves, want to inspire, to help, and, as selfish as it sounds, be validated in what we do and the time we spend doing it. And this is EXACTLY where I'm struggling.
What am I doing wrong? Am I completely deluded in thinking that what I'm doing, the time I'm spending, and the way I'm writing is doing anything other than wasting time?
Their responses, as I knew they would be, were golden.
One writes, "Has the blog become too consuming? Does it interfere with other priorities? Are there any unhealthy byproducts that come from writing this blog? . . . Consider your motivations for writing the blog . . . maybe taking a “sabbatical” from the blog would be the healthiest option."
The other, "Have you heard the phrase, "Kill your darlings"? . . . I'm not saying your blog needs to be scrapped completely. I think if it's a momentary stumbling block that will be fine in the long run, keep going. But if it's a race of hurdles where you just trip over hurdle after hurdle, maybe it does?"
In short, why am I trying to place Mother Mary on top of a treacherous mountain?
Because it's the good and right and noble choice? Because it serves the smaller and greater community?
Or because I want to take a selfie on top the world?
Are there any unhealthy byproducts that come from writing this blog?
Maybe. Maybe not. But the real problem was that I never asked, that I never allowed myself to consider the possibility that there were unhealthy byproducts. How could I? To kill my darlings would be to kill myself.
Why am I dragging Mary up the mountain?
Kevin Ashton, in How to Fly a Horse, tells of the gruesome story of a time when "doctors did not scrub in or out of the operating room, and were so proud of the blood on their gowns that they let it build up throughout their careers." And because it was a teaching hospital, it was common practice for doctors to deliver babies after dissecting corpses.
The hospitals mortality rate was so terrible mothers would often rather give birth in the streets, on their own, rather than in the hospital. Because their survival rate was higher.
Yet, none of the doctors asked why or assumed they played a role in any of the deaths. When asked to simply wash their hands, almost immediately, the mortality rate went from 18% to zero.
However, "This was not enough to overcome the skepticism. Charles Delucena Meigs, an American obstetrician, typified the outrage. He told his students that a doctor's hands could not possibly carry disease because doctors are gentlemen and 'gentlemen's hands are clean' (via).
Charles Delucena Meigs, the American obstetrician, was doing great things - saving lives and advancing our understanding of the human body. Why would he ever need to question his actions when his motives were so good?
Because people we're dying. And at that point, it shouldn't have mattered his perspective, his convictions on the cleanliness of a man's hands because, people were dying.
And people are always more important than convictions.
I want to be a writer. Bad. But more than that, I want to be a better person. Writing has helped me be that, I think, but not always. Sometimes not.
Because sometimes, instead of helping and loving and living a life worth writing about, I drag Mother Mary up the mountain.
And the selfie just isn't worth it.
For more on . . .
-N- Stuff : The DR Who Championed Hand-washing : How to Fly a Horse : Open Thoughts
"The moment I heard the opening thump of bass…I knew I would be using this song for my film. But then those haunting vocals hit my ears…and blew my mind. It was like a punch deep in my soul. It’s hard to explain that feeling when you first hear a song and you immediately fall in love with it" (via).
Mike Olbinksi is a storm chaser, photographer, and an overall pretty amazing artist who has inspired me more than once. And his latest work, Breath, a storm time-lapse film in black and white, is no exception.
"About halfway through editing," Olbinski writes, "I knew the song title would be my film title as well. It was so perfect I couldn’t believe it. Sometimes for me…when I’m chasing or watching an amazing storm…I’ll realize I haven’t taken a breath in awhile. Never really thought of it until I heard this song."
As you may have noticed, for the past month or so, I've stopped writing (more thoughts on that to come). It started consciously in December because I wanted to truly enjoy and unplug over the break. I was supposed to break the fast on New Year's Eve, but couldn't because, like Olbinksi (only opposite), I've been unable to breath. So I took another two-week gulp of air and planned on perhaps another six.
But then I came across Olbinski: "I hadn’t even planned to start working on this film yet," he continues, "but I was so inspired that I furiously began to lay down time-lapse clips. I couldn’t stop pouring over it. It was last September and I was supposed to be working on Monsoon IV, but I forgot all about it once I heard Ex Makina’s “Breathe.” It almost felt like it was made for a black and white storm film."
Inspiration inspires inspiration, furious creativity, and moments of intense clarity where we forget meetings, deadlines, lunch, even to breath. And I love that. Because that means it comes from somewhere outside ourselves, and because when it hits, we have to saturate ourselves in it, envelope it, and then, get it out.
Like filmmaking.
Like writing.
And that's inspiring. Beautiful. "Like a punch deep in my soul." Which I desperately needed.
Thank you, Mike Olbinski!
For more on . . .
“The one quality that all of them seem to share is the ability to maintain hope for a brighter morning, even during their darkest nights.”
Sadie did not attend school beyond the second grade. Instead, she worked. Like many of her should-be schoolmates living in Lancaster, South Carolina. Hine photographed the mill school, and the public school where non-mill children went.
Lewis Hine caption: This is where the mill children go to school. Lancaster, S.C. Enrollment 163– attendance, usually about 100. There are over 1,000 operatives in the mill. These are all that go to school from this mill settlement, which is geographically a part of Lancaster, but on account of the taxes has been kept just out of the corporate limits. Nov. 30/08. Location: Lancaster, South Carolina.
Lewis Hine caption: This is where the other children go to school. Public School: Lancaster, South Carolina, November 1908.
In a time where the America is in constant pursuit of making itself great again, one has to question, if the image of Sadie didn't say America, what did? And what does?
For more on . . .
Sometimes, watching these sort of lifestyles plants seeds of envy, regret, and a whole lot of discontent. Other times, they inspire. Not to live in a treehouse necessarily (although I absolutely would) but to think outside my often times commercial box, and live different. Sometimes radically but more so simply.
Because don’t need a treehouse for that. Just courage.
Merry Christmas!
Like many of you, I’m checking out for the holiday season.
See you in a couple days! And again, Merry Christmas!!!
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
"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.
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
Filmed over a period of almost five years and in twenty-five countries, SAMSARA transports us to sacred grounds, disaster zones, industrial sites, and natural wonders. By dispensing with dialogue and descriptive text, SAMSARA subverts our expectations of a traditional documentary, instead encouraging our own inner interpretations inspired by images and music that infuses the ancient with the modern (via).
The following is a fusion of SAMSARA and BARAKA, a film of similar purpose and design.
That ending scene, of the monks destroying their brilliant masterpiece, is so fantastically powerful. And I can't decide where my own inner interpretation lands. Is it meaningless meaningless all is meaningless? Is it that I am here, that life exists. And identity. That the powerful play goes on and I may contribute a verse?
Or is it something else entirely?
I kind of like the idea that all humanity is a different color, making up a much larger work that will, inevitably, be destroyed - whatever that means.
But not yet.
Because "SAMSARA is a Sanskrit word that means 'the ever turning wheel of life,'" and at least for now, there is a lot of Life left for us to dance.
Even in jail.
Yet, there are some that never will. Or if they do, it won't be for life.
Because that too is part of the our reality and inner interpretation that I just quite understand.
"SAMSARA was filmed in 25 countries and produced over the course of almost 5 years." You can watch the full length movie on Amazon.
For more on . . .
-N- Stuff : Inspiring films about Humans : Inspiring Art : Documentaries
In contrast to Charlottesville: Race and Terror, Heritage and Hate: Mississippi's State Flag is a case study of how patience, curiosity, and the power of seeing things from another's perspective can change hearts, and possibly flags.
I truly appreciated this documentary because it changed the narrative a bit, because when I think of the stars and stripes of the confederate flag, I think white supremacists, radical racists, and gun-totting, right-wing extremists.
Or, at the very least, those who relate to them but are too afraid to attend rallies or shoot up churches.
Which is probably completely unfair. Or, at the very least, fully incomplete.
But still, the argument of, "This is my heritage" doesn't hold much water. In fact, it probably proves the point. Because if heritage is the basis for making decisions, then the flag must come down. Because to some, to many, it's a reminder of the brutality and hate that their ancestors had to endure. Because their heritage isn't white.
I mean, isn't that just being hospitable? Caring for others and making them feel at home?
Because to many, the Confederate flag is the antithesis of southern hospitality.
Yet, Sometimes, seeing things from another's perspective is the most difficult task we are asked to do.
And that means me too.
I don't understand the Confederate flag, why anyone would fly it anywhere, or why keeping it around, especially at government buildings, is even up for discussion. But that doesn't mean I shouldn't try to understand. Because I should. Especially because I don't understand.
Seeing things from another's perspective means sitting and talking and listening to those who hold a perspective different than my own. It means disagreeing, respectfully, but also changing. Maybe not in beliefs and convictions, but for sure in perspectives and opinions of those who live on the other side.
Because they too are human. And I need them, their differences, and their hardheadedness. Just like they need mine.
Arthur Brooks, in a discussion with Guy Raz, says it this way:
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. Think about it. Think about it. 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 - irreconcilable differences, right? We'll never come together - wrong. That is diversity, in which lies our strength. We need each other. In other words, if we want to help people, there's no other way.
I love that, "no other way," because it reminds me that if everyone thought like me, had my strengths, my opinions, my perspectives and convictions, not only would this country and world turn to shit and suffer deeply, it would never grow or learn or do anything other than die.
Because my thoughts and ideas are fully and completely incomplete, they need unity with diversity, but they don't need a flag.
And neither does this country.
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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