My Two Unsuccessful Skydiving Attempts

As some of you know, I've been trying to go skydiving for the last two months, but have been unable to because of unruly weather. However, the camera eye captured a few things at the drop sight before we found out the devastating news that we were not going to jump.

The game is up; do you wish to start again? Commonalities between Inmates and a Branson Musical

I spent most of my Saturday at a maximum security prison; not because I became an offender since we chatted last, but because I was going through some volunteer training to be part of a program called InnerChange Freedom Initiative (IFI). A good chunk of the general training session was dry. The gal giving the talk tried to make it somewhat interactive, but the gist of her lecture was “Here are the rules. If you break the rules we rip off your volunteer badge.” I understand the rigidity of the prison, and did not protest when they fingerprinted me and made me sign a pile of papers, it was a reminder that this was serious stuff and nobody just waltzes into a high security prison. But I would have to say that those hours in the classroom were not what I would freely refer to as “fun”. After this segment of the day lethargically crept by, the leaders of IFI came into the room to do a bit of their own training for a smaller percentage of us who wanted to escape with the rest of the lot. But before we raced out of the classroom we quickly realized that the IFI program directors were like a breath of fresh air. One of the first things they did was feed us lunch. Come to me beautiful Subway sandwich! Next, they shared real life stories of transformation in the lives of prisoners, and talked about the struggles and strengths of their program. I went away feeling greatly encouraged and super-glad that I was with IFI and not some other program. It struck me afterwards, though, that all of the volunteer programs are striving for the same thing: they aim to break the cycle of offenders getting out of prison and then jumping back in because of difficulties they might face in mainstream society, and because of the unforgiving chain of bad decision making skills. Each of those programs have their own method to achieve the goal of changing convicts. I believe IFI has a very high success rate, but even there, change is not a piece of cake. You gotta really want change to make it happen.
The day after my time in prison, I drove to Branson, Missouri to hang out with my friend Caroline. We went to Silver Dollar City that afternoon. Caroline and I decided to see A Christmas Carol, because Branson is already fancy-free and holiday-happy this early in November. Caroline informed me that The Christmas Carol was “good”, and I agreed to go with a “Sure, I don’t care what we do.” kind of attitude. After the production was finished, I walked away incredibly impressed. I was impressed because of the professionalism behind it all: the ornate rotating set, the costumes, the quality of actors and the creativity that went into making a well known story enjoyable to watch ONCE AGAIN. Some of the sweet notes from one particular vocalist were so glorious and poignant that my eyes were forced to become watery as I sat there in a sea of audience members. Of course, the main message behind the Christmas Carol centers around the non-stagnant state of Scrooge. As we see him wrestle with his bed curtains after each encounter with the Christmas Spirits, our gut feeling (and previous experiences) tell us that Scrooge isn’t going to be the same miserly humbug he once was. He’s going to change… or at least we know he has the choice to change.
I am currently not a prisoner or a miserly old man, but I recognize that I have the choice set before me to change: to change for better or for worse. Positive change is always tough. The worm probably doesn’t look forward to what takes place in a cocoon, but almost everybody would say that the new creature is much better than the old one. So cheers to butterflies! Cheers to dancing, singing, rich elderly men on Christmas day. And here’s a cheer for convicts who have managed to assimilate back into society outside of prison walls, and who have genuinely undergone change… not an easy thing, for sure.

Peel Back the Temporal

This poem is a bit rough around the edges. It needs some polishing (and maybe even a bow tie). However, it states some of the things I have been turning around in my head lately, and it is something new for the blog. Something that can fill in that multi-month gap of profound silence. :)


If I could peel back the temporal
But momentarily catch a glimpse
Of that which withstands fire
To see with certainty
Paths tailored for my feet
With unscaled eyes witness myself
A new creature, washed
Not merely
Human confined in blemished skin

If I could but peel back the temporal
Would I still run
After the fleeting,
The illusive
The idolatrous?
With regenerate sight
Would my new perspective
Feed abandonment-
Propel a heart that loved
Without the impatient voice of reservation?

To long to peel back the temporal
Is that merely a Thomas Request?
Stemming from innate doubt of the glorious?
A lack of trust?
A scantiness of faith?
This longing to see beyond the area of path
Which my feet know
And my mind feels

Someday,
The temporal will be peeled back
Open wounds will be healed
Tears will be brushed away
Purpose will be defined
Hope will unite with her gorgeous cadence

Until then, The Eternal One
Who felt the pinions of the temporal
Who brushed into place
What the optical lens knows and understands
He will feed us from His hand
That which is needed for today
For today and right now

Susan Boyle and Her Unassuming Voice

Perhaps you have already heard about Miss. Boyle. The 48 year old woman who divulged to British television audiences that she lived alone with her cat Pebbles, and had never been kissed. She then proceeded to walk on stage of Britain’s Got Talent with her mop of curls, and opened her mouth to sing Dreamed a Dream from Les Miserables. Before she made a sound the audience was decidedly ready to cast their vote against her, but before she reached her first cadence she had flabbergasted her judges and audience alike. She was stunning and, in her own way, exquisite. She received a standing ovation and as her audience members jaws were still in half opened position she was ready to simply walk off the stage.
There is something I like very much about this. It might be the fact that she is such an unassuming star, but I think it might be more than that. The whole scenario rings of something like a fairy tale, and if not a fairy tale, then at least a very good bedtime story. It reminds me of the prima donna who made her break while scrubbing floors at an opera house- a true story, so I’m told. Who knew the cleaning woman had such a glorious set of pipes? Then again, wouldn’t we rather that she got the upgrade in pay scale more than the woman already dripping with diamonds?
Now back to Susan. Our faithful news sources are confidently reassuring us that we will hear more from Miss Boyle. To that I say “Splendid!” because Jiminy Cricket tells me that our western culture is way too eager to boo contestants off stage, and at times it is even to the point of willing them to tear each other limb from limb in the name of competition (Or is it in the name of entertainment?). In this day where a majority of our celebs are famous because they radiate the aura of Venus, I say lets go with the lady with the defined eyebrows and crazy curly hair. Susan made people who were half asleep suddenly turn their heads. And it is for this, Miss Boyle, that I salute you.

Duct Tape and Pure Nard

St. Patty's Day is coming up. Sometimes holidays can remind you of past holidays, and lately I've been turning over in my mind a St Patrick's Day from 4 years ago. I was attending Ulster University at the time, and recruited by a fellow student to travel with a carnival troop to march in the Dublin parade as a space alien. "Something different" I thought- something I could tell my children's children about, but in retrospect, I probably won't.
The group of kids I was traveling with were pretty wild. That's the best way I know how to explain it. For an example, the guy sitting a few seats behind me on the bus had dyed his hair bright fire engine red, and had left the vivid blue body paint on his skin from the parade. He looked like a t-shirt and blue jean clad version of Mystique. One of the boys who was about 15 had been annoying a few people during an earlier part of the trip, and so a few of them in the back of the bus decided to duct tape him to the seat. It wasn't just a little tape here and a little tape there, it was a full body metallic cocoon. I'm not sure if he had been drinking with the others earlier, but the boy somehow slept through the taping process. When he woke up and started to try to move around, intense jeering broke out in the vicinity of the silver webbed mass that used to be simply a human body. He was the vulnerable target of spit wads, and vulnerable in other ways because his arms were pinned to his side. Maybe on some level he deserved this, but it just seemed malicious to me. I'm not totally sure all of the reasons why, but it made me sick. Like, puke-my-guts-out kind of sick. I got up and made my way to the back of the bus. Maybe initially I thought some of the others from the front of the bus had had enough and would join me, but after a few steps it was apparent that nobody felt the same way. The whole bus erupted with shouting "Leave him alone! Sit down!" I could feel my ears turn red and my hands were shaking as I tried to tear away at the edges of the stubborn tape. After a few minutes the duct tape boy himself told me to back off, so I did. I walked back to my seat with a bus load less of potential friends, and wishing that the next lethargic 3-4 hours would rocket away.
This isn't all that great of a story, but there is a point to it. I'm taking the time to write about it because it makes me think about the following story in a different light.

This story I actually like, No, not just like- I love it. I was reminded about it this last weekend. It's the story about Mary who anointed the Lord's feet with pure nard. I heard that the equivalent price of that vial of perfume was worth $36,000. It was the woman's life savings. Her dowry. She didn't just dab a bit of that precious stuff on the Lord's toes; she broke the jar open. She let down her hair. Her glory. A sight in that culture that would have been reserved for her husband. Judas and the other men in that room smelled the perfume. They knew its worth; knew that it was costly, and in part understood what she was doing. Their reaction to what she did could be translated as that "they snorted" at her.

I wonder if her ears turned red.
I wonder if her hands shook.

But what stands out to me is that Jesus didn't react like the others. He said: "Leave her alone."

Speaking of Art

I am starting to believe more strongly that small talk is an art form, not just a necessary evil. I try to work at it; quite hard actually; I believe in its importance. It is, after all, a crucial stepping stone to friendship (with some exceptions, of course). I think small talk takes on the characteristic of an art form in that sometimes the harder you try, the more distorted it can become and the further you are from what it should be, or where you want to be. Overworking the drawing, you could say. It also seems to be something that can improve with practice: tear muscle to build muscle. I'm guessing that the Duchess of York is more refined in her social skills than the hermit living off in the mountains of Nepal. The old boy just needs practice! Small talk is also something that takes concentration. I remember reading in Strad magazine that the violinist Joshua Bell could concentrate so intently during the delivery of his rep, that he could change his fingering in a piece depending on what he was feeling at the moment of his performance. Not everyone can do that! That's gutsy! But it also means that broken concentration could be catastrophic. It could leave a musician wondering "Where am I?" and "Where do I go from here?". It's the same way with small talk. If you are not concentrating when you're talking with Michelle (Or was it Marsha?), you are never going to remember that she likes to go scuba diving for pirate's gold (Or was she talking about mold?).
For the sake of keeping things natural in conversation, practicing in order to get better, and keeping things interesting enough to hold your attention, I recommend the following small talk conversation tips. If somebody mentions the words "conflict" or "fight", insert the two words "cage match" in your next comment. If somebody mentions they are having a hard time doing something, kindly suggest the purchase of a pet monkey (useful creatures, they are). And if things go really down hill, where you are groping to find something salvageable from the conversation that has gone South to topics like the weather, you can always channel the conversation to picking out names for hurricanes. If the small talk gets to the point where it us just painful, another option is to quote someone semi-famous, and then to quietly slip away, but as LeVar Burton used to say "You don't have to take my word for it."

The Occupation of Elves

Sometimes the luxury of having options is overwhelming. I find this to be the case in the bread aisle at Dillons, and when I am picking out frames at the optometrist's. This dilemma even appears when I'm deciding what to do on a Saturday night; if you have two options the time space continuum demands that you make a choice, and in a timely manner as well (Chop! Chop! We don't have all day!). And sometimes the Luxury of Options reaches its fever pitch when it comes to thinking about occupations and life goals. In 10 years, someone in my demographic could become a Doctor or a dentist or a Dairy Queen worker. They can save up and go to facinating destinations all over the world, like Antartica or Siberia or... Baldwin City. Options are great, but they take energy if you want to address them properly, and for that reason it is easy to under-appreciate them.
During times like this, it can be good to compare yourself to others who do not have an abundance of options; those who are less fortunate. And in the less fortunate, I mean elves- a people group (...!...?) who are rather limited in their choice of occupation, because, as one of my brothers pointed out to me, what kind of jobs can you get if you are an elf? You can work in Santa's workshop (but he only takes you if you are clever and nimble, and rumour has it that they have maple syrup on everything in the cafeteria, so you have to like that). If you are an elf you can bake cookies in the Keebler tree (this is just speculation, but my bet is that even for as big as the trunk is, it's tight quarters). If you are an elf you can act in movies, like the Lord of the Rings (but they only accept you if you are extremely good looking), OR, if you are an elf, you can be a cobbler and sew up shoes (but you have to be willing to work nights). I might be missing one or two occupations, but you get the idea. Elves are extremely limited in their choice of occupation and none of them are terribly ideal. I might go as far as saying that elves are actually (and I am going to linger on this last word) suppressed.
So, I decided not to write a blog post on the difficulty of having options in life. I will choose to appreciate this luxury. Instead, I will leave you with the choice of clicking on the blog links off to the left side of the screen, posting a comment at the bottom of this blurp, doing other computerish tasks, or clicking off your computer and going for a walk- because it's a lovely day out today.