I experience flying the same way I experience a restless night's sleep. Every step of the process rushes through my mind like a surreal sequence of dreams. My senses take in, but are not allowed to react to sounds, sights, smells and temperatures that occur so little in my day-to-day life that they are unnatural and intrusive.
Yet, I really like travel. I love airports. Anyone who has seen Love Actually will remember how it opens and closes at Heathrow airport, a collage of people who love each other, people of all different shapes and flavors, saying hello or good bye in the profound little intimacies that only occur at these moments. I love that part.
My 8-hour layover in Heathrow saw little of that. I was in the "passengers only" area, which has been separated from those Love Actually moments since 9-11. However, there is an unspoken camaraderie among the passengers. No matter where we're going, we're all on the same boat. It's a place where different cultures, races, ethnicities and religions go through so many of the same rituals. We take off our shoes, take out our lap-tops, empty our pockets, pray that we won't be picked to have strangers rummage through our belongings, pray harder that we won't be picked out to be frisked, we wait in lines, we find caffeine or alcohol or simply something to read, we watch each other and observe what country we're from, discerning accents and languages (is that Russian? It's definitely something Eastern European), check our tickets, read signs, watch these amazing machines that will transport us to Istanbul, New York, Johannesburg, Barcelona, Stuttgart. I find I like all the people I'm waiting in line with. I look knowingly at all of the impatient expressions. I wonder if the long cue will cause me to miss the 17:30 take-off as well.
On my flight back to DC, however, I found myself sitting next to someone I found difficult to like. My father always tells me stories of the interesting people he meets on flights. He has these great conversations with fantastic world travelers. I'm usually sitting next to some tired business man has his headphones on and his gin and tonic out before the flight attendants are finished with their safety speech, twisting his entire body to communicate that communication is the last thing he wants for the next eight hours. This time, however, I had the opposite problem. I sat next to an elderly lady. She also drank gin and tonic, but she talked more as more drinks came. She also smelled. It was difficult to face her. She was the sort of old woman who would ramble about nothing in particular. She seemed very rich. She had just come back from a northern cruise and she had a huge pearl ring on her left hand. Her constant talking was intruding on the reason we introverts love flying: where else can you read with so little of life distracting you? I wanted to hide in my own headphones.
My attitude reminded me, though, of how far from Christ I often am. He seemed to like the unlikable. He even liked the tax-collectors. He made it a point to like them. I don't think we're required to like everybody, but we are required, and hopefully with time and growth, enabled to love as he does. I looked up from my book and listened. I think (ok, I'm sure) Christ would have listened better, would have loved her better and would have sewed seeds of Gospel into the heart of this drunk, smelly, rich old woman. I fell short on all accounts, to my shame. Yet, I believe that was his working that pulled me from myself so I could make the attempt, and in that I have hope that I am growing in the right direction. Even in the middle of this strange sequence of dreams.
Saturday, June 2, 2007
Monday, May 28, 2007
Some Helpful remarks
Some constructive criticism of my previous post was written on the Tobacco Barn Blog (also in my own comment section). http://blogs.pipetrader.com/TobaccoBarn/Default.aspx
The writer makes the excellent point that I did not make a clear enough distinction between responsibile and irresponsible behavior. Indeed, he makes the distinction between responsible pipe smoking and "regular cigarette smoking," siting the 1964 Surgeon General Report, which states, according to the post, "that pipe smokers tended to live longer than the general population." The 1979 follow-up seems to make a further distinction between heavy and light pipe-smokers.
So, for all you pipe-smoking enthusiasts, I encourage you to read the blog to learn how to better enjoy your passion. In the meantime, let the record state that I wish to encourage a responsible savoring of the finer things in life, including good tobacco, rather than the gluttoneous consumption of such products, which leads not only to poor health, but a failure to appreciate the good things we have been given.
The writer makes the excellent point that I did not make a clear enough distinction between responsibile and irresponsible behavior. Indeed, he makes the distinction between responsible pipe smoking and "regular cigarette smoking," siting the 1964 Surgeon General Report, which states, according to the post, "that pipe smokers tended to live longer than the general population." The 1979 follow-up seems to make a further distinction between heavy and light pipe-smokers.
So, for all you pipe-smoking enthusiasts, I encourage you to read the blog to learn how to better enjoy your passion. In the meantime, let the record state that I wish to encourage a responsible savoring of the finer things in life, including good tobacco, rather than the gluttoneous consumption of such products, which leads not only to poor health, but a failure to appreciate the good things we have been given.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Any way you light it, smoking is cool (too bad it's deadly)
Every morning on the way to work I watch an old man defy convention. I get off a couple of metro stops early so that I can walk a few extra blocks. In a city where working overtime is so blessed, I take whatever exercise I can get. The old man stands every morning in front of what I presume to be his office, though he must be in his 70s. He has a full head of proud, ivory-white hair. When it's cold, he wears a sort of wool fedora-looking hat with a plaid design of light colors. It's the kind of hat that could only look cool on an old man. The same could be said of his suit.
Every morning he smokes a pipe, and this is a sight to behold. In a city where new smoking-ordinances have outlawed the leaf that financed early-America (tobacco leaves are indeed carved in columns on the Capitol building) in bars, restaurants and offices, the old man stands out as a counter culture relic. His age is defies death already; his pipe dares it. If I weren't so chicken of dying an early death of some sort of cancerous suffocation, I would join him. I would break out my Meerschaum pipe, as white as that old man's hair and purchased (with the help of a more barter-savvy friend) in Turkey's Grand Bazaar. I'd watch the beautiful purples of morning turn to gold while breathing in the taste of Virginia's soil. I would warm my hands with the bowl of my pipe and watch the many flavored residents of Washington DC walk hurried and harried to work.
I saw an anti-smoking ad campaign a few weeks ago. It shows different, individual shots of beautiful teenagers with clean faces and cool, moderate clothes shrugging their shoulders, smiling and shaking their heads. They are a politically correct mix of races, yet they all look the same - good-looking, moderately dressed, clean face. They are "cool" kids, the popular group, the kind of kids who participated in the student government association. Their shrugs and head-shakes are in response to the provocative question asked in the kind of impatient voice that only a teenager (or Cloe O'Brien from 24) could use. "Can you give me give me one reason why smoking isn't stupid?"
I'm sure there's a host of market research that proves this ad to be statistically effective, but I know it would not have worked on me. These are the kind of kids that made rebelling against them cool, a sort of a high school bourgeoisie. Sure, smoking is stupid. It's sucking addictive, cancer inducing smoke into your lungs. But driving a sports car down a mountain trail and break-neck speed is also stupid. And incredibly cool.
Smoking is Sherlock Holmes smoking cigars and drinking brandy as he brilliantly explains his analysis to Watson. Smoking is Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin strolling down 5th Avenue, casually blowing smoke. Smoking is James Dean in a leather jacket. Smoking Mick Jagger and Keith Richards. Smoking is Gandalf, Aragorn and the rest of the fellowship. Smoking stares death in the face and smirks. Smoking is cool.
I am a social smoker. I smoke a pipe or a cigar with friends, but I have avoided cigarettes and addictive smoking. Interestingly enough, I love smoky rooms. I've probably done more damage to my lungs reading old novels in Freiburg's Cafe Michelangelo than anything I have inhaled through a tube. But I never wanted to be addicted to the stuff.
The cool, SGA bourgeoisie did nothing to keep me from being addicted to tobacco. I was never able to join the high school elite, and smoking would have been a good way to add coolness to my high school resume. I'm not addicted to tobacco right now because I realized love and health are more important that coolness. I realized the comradere I gained while running cross country was better than any perceived coolness. I do fear lung cancer, and I fear not being able to run long distances. Breathing tobacco smoke may be like drinking wine. Breathing oxygen is like drinking water, and there times water tastes so much better than wine.
Every morning he smokes a pipe, and this is a sight to behold. In a city where new smoking-ordinances have outlawed the leaf that financed early-America (tobacco leaves are indeed carved in columns on the Capitol building) in bars, restaurants and offices, the old man stands out as a counter culture relic. His age is defies death already; his pipe dares it. If I weren't so chicken of dying an early death of some sort of cancerous suffocation, I would join him. I would break out my Meerschaum pipe, as white as that old man's hair and purchased (with the help of a more barter-savvy friend) in Turkey's Grand Bazaar. I'd watch the beautiful purples of morning turn to gold while breathing in the taste of Virginia's soil. I would warm my hands with the bowl of my pipe and watch the many flavored residents of Washington DC walk hurried and harried to work.
I saw an anti-smoking ad campaign a few weeks ago. It shows different, individual shots of beautiful teenagers with clean faces and cool, moderate clothes shrugging their shoulders, smiling and shaking their heads. They are a politically correct mix of races, yet they all look the same - good-looking, moderately dressed, clean face. They are "cool" kids, the popular group, the kind of kids who participated in the student government association. Their shrugs and head-shakes are in response to the provocative question asked in the kind of impatient voice that only a teenager (or Cloe O'Brien from 24) could use. "Can you give me give me one reason why smoking isn't stupid?"
I'm sure there's a host of market research that proves this ad to be statistically effective, but I know it would not have worked on me. These are the kind of kids that made rebelling against them cool, a sort of a high school bourgeoisie. Sure, smoking is stupid. It's sucking addictive, cancer inducing smoke into your lungs. But driving a sports car down a mountain trail and break-neck speed is also stupid. And incredibly cool.
Smoking is Sherlock Holmes smoking cigars and drinking brandy as he brilliantly explains his analysis to Watson. Smoking is Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin strolling down 5th Avenue, casually blowing smoke. Smoking is James Dean in a leather jacket. Smoking Mick Jagger and Keith Richards. Smoking is Gandalf, Aragorn and the rest of the fellowship. Smoking stares death in the face and smirks. Smoking is cool.
I am a social smoker. I smoke a pipe or a cigar with friends, but I have avoided cigarettes and addictive smoking. Interestingly enough, I love smoky rooms. I've probably done more damage to my lungs reading old novels in Freiburg's Cafe Michelangelo than anything I have inhaled through a tube. But I never wanted to be addicted to the stuff.
The cool, SGA bourgeoisie did nothing to keep me from being addicted to tobacco. I was never able to join the high school elite, and smoking would have been a good way to add coolness to my high school resume. I'm not addicted to tobacco right now because I realized love and health are more important that coolness. I realized the comradere I gained while running cross country was better than any perceived coolness. I do fear lung cancer, and I fear not being able to run long distances. Breathing tobacco smoke may be like drinking wine. Breathing oxygen is like drinking water, and there times water tastes so much better than wine.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Older than the Rockies
It's been a couple weeks since the massacre at Virginia Tech. A week full of life abundant with little time to reflect on what happened in Blacksburg. My organization celebrated its 40th anniversary, so pain was eased by the open bars of two major parties - a black tie event for the donors and happy hour saturated with the smell of humanity as hundreds of twenty somethings drank alcohol, watched the Yankee/Red Sox game and networked. Pain was also ignored by my activities. I watched a movie, I prayed, I talked with my girlfriend, I recruited for my program on Facebook and I helped lead the music at church (for the first time, which was something significant). Between work, revelry (and I submit, that this revelry was not unhealthy) and worship, I've had little time to reflect on the what happened in the town of my birth.
Whatever pain I have, it's relatively dull, especially when you compare it to the pain of any of the friends and relatives of the victims (or the perpetrator. Diana Butler Bass has this to say when we think about the murderer's mother, who was reportedly hospitalized with shock: http://www.beliefnet.com/blogs/godspolitics/2007/04/diana-butler-bass-silence-of-murderers.html). My cousin, who I haven't seen in years, is a student at Virginia Tech, but he was not in the building when and where the violence took place. But Blacksburg his home to me, as much as anywhere else in the world. The pain I feel resembled the pain of a childhood house being burnt down. These things are not supposed to happen close to him. The mountains seem to nestle the town in the fall. When I was younger and living in Richmond, VA, my mother would be sure to drive us to visit Christiansburg, Blacksburg's university-less twin sister, just ten minutes away with the car, where my grandmother lived.
The Appalacians are older than the Rockies. Smaller but greener, less wild and more lively. It's a place of age for me. The house my mother grew up in is old; my grandmother was older. Both represented to me quaint pieces of Americana rarely seen. It is also a place of peace. There's something so comforting about mist resting on the shoulders and sleeping mountains. When I was younger, we would stay with my grandmother at Easter time. I would get up early, and Gramma and I would have blessed moments in the kitchen. She would strain my orange juice and put charred pieces of bacon on paper towels that covered her counter-tops. I would sit under my picture and talk to her. We would both listen to the birds. The first birds singing in the spring remained a thrill to my grandmother throughout her 96 years.
Yet, in the fall, the peace would be interrupted for celebration. As if sensing that the harvest was near, the trees would light on fire. Drive over the Blue Mountain parkway in the fall and try not to be amazed by the sea of orange, red and gold. Watch the old mountains dance like my grandmother must have at the barn dances she would describe to me. Old fiddlers and banjoers in worn clothes would accompany the merriment, fingers and wrists rushing to outrun the approaching winter. Thanksgiving, again with Gramma, would end the merriment. Satisfied with the feast, the leaves would drop to the ground, and naked trees would wait for Christmas and springtime.
Virginia Tech belongs in this picture. Grey is a dull color outside of Blacksburg. But it decorates the mountains beautifully, perfectly complimenting every season. The grey "Hokie stones" (http://www.vt.edu/about/documents/HokieStone.pdf) from which the buildings are made are unique to the region. It reminds me of an ancient castle on the Rhine, yet it is also uniquely American, something born in the hills of southwestern Virginia. A campus once for the army now hosts some of the most brilliant engineers in the nation. The football team ain't bad either.
This is my childhood. This was me playing a child-sized guitar with a worshipband in a lecture hall. This is a playground with a hill, a rock and an empty caboose. This is a row of pine trees which mark my own years. This is the beauty of mountains older than the Rockies. This is the part of me, the home and the peace, that was wounded that day. Completely insignificant compared to the lives lost. Yet, both peace, life and home will one day be restored. The peace of Appalachia is just a reflection of what that will be like.
Whatever pain I have, it's relatively dull, especially when you compare it to the pain of any of the friends and relatives of the victims (or the perpetrator. Diana Butler Bass has this to say when we think about the murderer's mother, who was reportedly hospitalized with shock: http://www.beliefnet.com/blogs/godspolitics/2007/04/diana-butler-bass-silence-of-murderers.html). My cousin, who I haven't seen in years, is a student at Virginia Tech, but he was not in the building when and where the violence took place. But Blacksburg his home to me, as much as anywhere else in the world. The pain I feel resembled the pain of a childhood house being burnt down. These things are not supposed to happen close to him. The mountains seem to nestle the town in the fall. When I was younger and living in Richmond, VA, my mother would be sure to drive us to visit Christiansburg, Blacksburg's university-less twin sister, just ten minutes away with the car, where my grandmother lived.
The Appalacians are older than the Rockies. Smaller but greener, less wild and more lively. It's a place of age for me. The house my mother grew up in is old; my grandmother was older. Both represented to me quaint pieces of Americana rarely seen. It is also a place of peace. There's something so comforting about mist resting on the shoulders and sleeping mountains. When I was younger, we would stay with my grandmother at Easter time. I would get up early, and Gramma and I would have blessed moments in the kitchen. She would strain my orange juice and put charred pieces of bacon on paper towels that covered her counter-tops. I would sit under my picture and talk to her. We would both listen to the birds. The first birds singing in the spring remained a thrill to my grandmother throughout her 96 years.
Yet, in the fall, the peace would be interrupted for celebration. As if sensing that the harvest was near, the trees would light on fire. Drive over the Blue Mountain parkway in the fall and try not to be amazed by the sea of orange, red and gold. Watch the old mountains dance like my grandmother must have at the barn dances she would describe to me. Old fiddlers and banjoers in worn clothes would accompany the merriment, fingers and wrists rushing to outrun the approaching winter. Thanksgiving, again with Gramma, would end the merriment. Satisfied with the feast, the leaves would drop to the ground, and naked trees would wait for Christmas and springtime.
Virginia Tech belongs in this picture. Grey is a dull color outside of Blacksburg. But it decorates the mountains beautifully, perfectly complimenting every season. The grey "Hokie stones" (http://www.vt.edu/about/documents/HokieStone.pdf) from which the buildings are made are unique to the region. It reminds me of an ancient castle on the Rhine, yet it is also uniquely American, something born in the hills of southwestern Virginia. A campus once for the army now hosts some of the most brilliant engineers in the nation. The football team ain't bad either.
This is my childhood. This was me playing a child-sized guitar with a worshipband in a lecture hall. This is a playground with a hill, a rock and an empty caboose. This is a row of pine trees which mark my own years. This is the beauty of mountains older than the Rockies. This is the part of me, the home and the peace, that was wounded that day. Completely insignificant compared to the lives lost. Yet, both peace, life and home will one day be restored. The peace of Appalachia is just a reflection of what that will be like.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Resurrection
Christian Hofreiter, my church's envoy to Europe, preached an excellent sermon on the Resurrection. To reflect on the this event after the lent season was refreshing and joyous (indeed, this sentence seems to be an understatement). Our hope rests on realities of this resurrection. Jesus is our Rabbi, which means (according a pastor I greatly admire) we try to imitate him in every way, and therefore we will, by His power, follow him on this same path one day. Listen to the sermon, and if you haven't made the decision to join us on this journey, I encourage you to do so.
The sermon can be found on the church website: http://www.rezchurch.org/3.html. It's the 4.8.2007 sermon entitled "I have seen the Lord."
The sermon can be found on the church website: http://www.rezchurch.org/3.html. It's the 4.8.2007 sermon entitled "I have seen the Lord."
Vonnegut
Never having read Kurt Vonnegut myself, this essay, which the president of my organization passed around today, was a great introduction. In honor of the author, who passed away a couple days ago, read this: http://instruct.westvalley.edu/lafave/hb.html.
Friday, April 6, 2007
Like one crucified
In the Philippines, the Passion Plays are real. At least, more real than many of us would be comfortable with. Sure, millions of Americans went to see Mel Gibson's movie, but check out these devoted Jesus-actors: http://www.spiegel.de/panorama/0,1518,476050,00.html. Sorry, the article itself is in German - I was looking for a similar article in English, but the pictures here are worth a thousand words. Click on the slide show two paragraphs down, and you'll see what I'm talking about.
The pain on the man's face is not acting. Those nails are actually piercing his hands. He and four others do this every year on Good Friday. One of them is a 46 year-old man who has been nailed to a cross every Passion Week for over two decades. Not being the actual Jesus, they don't die for three days and come back to life, of course. They hang on the cross for 5 grueling minutes, after which they are taken down and given medical attention. Jesus, of course, died after six hours, and other condemned men in the days of Rome hung for more than a day. The nails aren't the mega-spikes that went through Jesus' wrists, rather these 9 centimeter long worker-nails are soaked in alcohol to prevent infection and then nailed (more traditionally) through the hands.
The crucified men are devout Catholics (though the Catholic church itself condemns the acts), and they consider their crucifixions acts of worship, as well as sermons. Ruben Enaje, the aforementioned 46 years old intends to be crucified each year as long as he can, according to the Spiegel article.
Jesus, of course, said that we need to take up our crosses and follow him. Of course, that was not literal for most of us. Paul promises that sharing in Christ's suffering is part of being a complete Christian. Many of the earliest Christians were martyred on the cross, just like Jesus. Tradition holds that Peter was crucified up-side down. Perhaps other Christians are (and will be) literally crucified as Christ was.
Jesus, of course, mercifully commands us to remember his suffering through eating and drinking. The sermon here, of course, is the Gospel itself: that by living here the life we were meant to live, and by dying the death and facing the Father's wrath we deserve, we now have life abundant. We sang "Rock of Ages" at church today, reminding that this act was a "double-cure." In living the abundant life, we are overcoming sin, and we are living in God's favor, for eternity. I hope these crucified Philippinos, as they perform this brutal work, remember that it is this kind of grace that has saved them. I hope we remember it to. Happy Easter, everyone.
The pain on the man's face is not acting. Those nails are actually piercing his hands. He and four others do this every year on Good Friday. One of them is a 46 year-old man who has been nailed to a cross every Passion Week for over two decades. Not being the actual Jesus, they don't die for three days and come back to life, of course. They hang on the cross for 5 grueling minutes, after which they are taken down and given medical attention. Jesus, of course, died after six hours, and other condemned men in the days of Rome hung for more than a day. The nails aren't the mega-spikes that went through Jesus' wrists, rather these 9 centimeter long worker-nails are soaked in alcohol to prevent infection and then nailed (more traditionally) through the hands.
The crucified men are devout Catholics (though the Catholic church itself condemns the acts), and they consider their crucifixions acts of worship, as well as sermons. Ruben Enaje, the aforementioned 46 years old intends to be crucified each year as long as he can, according to the Spiegel article.
Jesus, of course, said that we need to take up our crosses and follow him. Of course, that was not literal for most of us. Paul promises that sharing in Christ's suffering is part of being a complete Christian. Many of the earliest Christians were martyred on the cross, just like Jesus. Tradition holds that Peter was crucified up-side down. Perhaps other Christians are (and will be) literally crucified as Christ was.
Jesus, of course, mercifully commands us to remember his suffering through eating and drinking. The sermon here, of course, is the Gospel itself: that by living here the life we were meant to live, and by dying the death and facing the Father's wrath we deserve, we now have life abundant. We sang "Rock of Ages" at church today, reminding that this act was a "double-cure." In living the abundant life, we are overcoming sin, and we are living in God's favor, for eternity. I hope these crucified Philippinos, as they perform this brutal work, remember that it is this kind of grace that has saved them. I hope we remember it to. Happy Easter, everyone.
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