Near the end of his book about Jesus, John the Apostle includes a story about transitions. It happened after Jesus had been raised again to life. John and a few of the other fishermen had been working the sea all night long.
The narrative is rich with symbolism though it doesn’t read as the fanciful sort; it reads as real-life that’s saturated with meaning.
Jesus is standing in the sand between sea and land. He is slowly becoming visible as night dissolves into dawn. He is shouting lightheartedness into frustration and fatigue. He is acknowledging futility and offering a surprise of fruitfulness.
This sort of disruptive goodness – this sense-making presence at the tension point of change and uncertainty – is what makes Jesus recognizable to his friends.
Showing posts with label Soul. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Soul. Show all posts
9/04/2007
10/06/2004
Stick-No-Stick
I walk with a friend along the left edge of America. We’re wandering a wedge of sand bordered to the west by the Pacific Ocean, and to the north by the town of Yachats, Oregon. We’re separated from the town by a little river that flattens across the beach, and then surrenders to the pull of waves. We talk about the unique habitat created by the confluence of freshwater and saltwater, and the specialized ecosystem thriving there.
He and I are recovering fundamentalists. Our conversation turns to the allure of legalism – the delicious illusion that life’s choices can be neatly parsed into two simple categories: right and wrong. And we wonder together how we might distinguish between legitimate personal convictions on one hand, and brittle dogmatism on the other.
Into the middle of our ruminations bounds a shaggy Shepherd-Lab mix, black with white-tipped ears, feet, and tail. In his teeth he grips the charred nub of someone’s marshmallow stick, plucked from the cold remains of a beach fire. His expectant eyes and wagging tail leave no doubt about his wish. My friend obliges and tosses the spindly fetch-toy. With undiluted delight the dog retrieves the stick and deposits it at my feet. I fling it Frisbee-style, then scrub off the saliva with a handful of sand. This time, instead of bringing it to us, he swerves south toward the wave-muted sound of his name.
In a few minutes he’s back, along with two dachshunds and two humans. The dachshunds appear sophisticated and reserved, and slightly embarrassed by their large companion’s exuberance. The humans look like seasoned veterans of the counterculture, perhaps teachers or writers or potters. They smile toward the mongrel and apologize for his attenuated cognitive faculties. The woman says, “He has a very limited view of the world.” “Yes,” the man adds, “he sees all things in terms of stick-no-stick.”
We laugh with them, and I note the parallel to binary code. My friend says, “Right! It’s all about zeroes and ones…”
We walk silently for a while. I’m not satisfied with our assessment of the dog’s fetching obsession. Could it be that he isn’t really stuck in a recursive loop of dimwittedness? But rather that he’s endlessly compelled to give up the stick in order to feel the joy of having it again? Maybe he’s intuited the balance of possession and generosity, paired together in a spirit of playfulness.
I glance toward my soul. Sadly, it has the look of a haughty dachshund. Embarrassed by possession, afraid of generosity, distracted from the play at hand… I lift my eyes to the beauty of the beachscape and pray for the wisdom of stick-no-stick.
He and I are recovering fundamentalists. Our conversation turns to the allure of legalism – the delicious illusion that life’s choices can be neatly parsed into two simple categories: right and wrong. And we wonder together how we might distinguish between legitimate personal convictions on one hand, and brittle dogmatism on the other.
Into the middle of our ruminations bounds a shaggy Shepherd-Lab mix, black with white-tipped ears, feet, and tail. In his teeth he grips the charred nub of someone’s marshmallow stick, plucked from the cold remains of a beach fire. His expectant eyes and wagging tail leave no doubt about his wish. My friend obliges and tosses the spindly fetch-toy. With undiluted delight the dog retrieves the stick and deposits it at my feet. I fling it Frisbee-style, then scrub off the saliva with a handful of sand. This time, instead of bringing it to us, he swerves south toward the wave-muted sound of his name.
In a few minutes he’s back, along with two dachshunds and two humans. The dachshunds appear sophisticated and reserved, and slightly embarrassed by their large companion’s exuberance. The humans look like seasoned veterans of the counterculture, perhaps teachers or writers or potters. They smile toward the mongrel and apologize for his attenuated cognitive faculties. The woman says, “He has a very limited view of the world.” “Yes,” the man adds, “he sees all things in terms of stick-no-stick.”
We laugh with them, and I note the parallel to binary code. My friend says, “Right! It’s all about zeroes and ones…”
We walk silently for a while. I’m not satisfied with our assessment of the dog’s fetching obsession. Could it be that he isn’t really stuck in a recursive loop of dimwittedness? But rather that he’s endlessly compelled to give up the stick in order to feel the joy of having it again? Maybe he’s intuited the balance of possession and generosity, paired together in a spirit of playfulness.
I glance toward my soul. Sadly, it has the look of a haughty dachshund. Embarrassed by possession, afraid of generosity, distracted from the play at hand… I lift my eyes to the beauty of the beachscape and pray for the wisdom of stick-no-stick.
4/27/2004
Meatball
Meatball lived in a ranch-style house two doors down from ours on Codwise Street. He was the Superintendent of Highways for the Town of Ulster, and his real name was Ed. I don’t know why he invited us neighborhood kids to call him Meatball; it might have been to ease the intimidation of his presence. His size and saunter, and the bigness of his voice always made me think of John Wayne. In my memory, the two men are one person.
Since Meatball was the Superintendent of Highways, Codwise Street was always kept in good repair. Potholes never got a chance to get too big. We didn’t have to wait long for the snowplows to come through in wintertime.
He also owned and operated the local garbage collection business. He housed his trucks in a huge garage he’d put up on the lot beyond his house. The return of his roaring white fleet in the afternoon was one of the ways we told time.
Donny Van Etten lived next door, between Meatball and me. He was my best friend until Kindergarten broadened our horizons. We spent our summers mostly doing things that made us very sweaty. That wasn’t difficult in the beastly swelter of Ulster County.
When we’d played ourselves into a sufficiently wilted state, we’d stare longingly through the fence at Meatball’s pool. If he wasn’t outside, it could take a while. Once he spotted us he’d holler, “Well, what’re ya waitin’ for? Go get yer swimsuits on!”
We’d take off like bottle rockets, and be back in no time, all suited up. It amazed us every time that he somehow knew how badly we needed a swim. It was like he could read our minds or something.
Our parents must’ve been embarrassed by our shameless angling, but Meatball genuinely liked us. We could tell. In point of fact, shameless is the perfect word to describe the way we waited for his invitation. We weren’t ashamed to be openly desperate.
It’s a hard thing to pull off without the grace of ignorance, though. As the years have accumulated, I’ve learned not to be bare. Part of becoming a grownup has meant attenuating my expectations and concealing my neediness.
But like the rest of humankind, I was made to expect good things. When I pray, I try to remember that it’s not unlike staring longingly through Meatball’s fence. I try to forget to be ashamed of my wilted, sweaty soul. It still amazes me that he knows how badly I need to be in the pool.
Since Meatball was the Superintendent of Highways, Codwise Street was always kept in good repair. Potholes never got a chance to get too big. We didn’t have to wait long for the snowplows to come through in wintertime.
He also owned and operated the local garbage collection business. He housed his trucks in a huge garage he’d put up on the lot beyond his house. The return of his roaring white fleet in the afternoon was one of the ways we told time.
Donny Van Etten lived next door, between Meatball and me. He was my best friend until Kindergarten broadened our horizons. We spent our summers mostly doing things that made us very sweaty. That wasn’t difficult in the beastly swelter of Ulster County.
When we’d played ourselves into a sufficiently wilted state, we’d stare longingly through the fence at Meatball’s pool. If he wasn’t outside, it could take a while. Once he spotted us he’d holler, “Well, what’re ya waitin’ for? Go get yer swimsuits on!”
We’d take off like bottle rockets, and be back in no time, all suited up. It amazed us every time that he somehow knew how badly we needed a swim. It was like he could read our minds or something.
Our parents must’ve been embarrassed by our shameless angling, but Meatball genuinely liked us. We could tell. In point of fact, shameless is the perfect word to describe the way we waited for his invitation. We weren’t ashamed to be openly desperate.
It’s a hard thing to pull off without the grace of ignorance, though. As the years have accumulated, I’ve learned not to be bare. Part of becoming a grownup has meant attenuating my expectations and concealing my neediness.
But like the rest of humankind, I was made to expect good things. When I pray, I try to remember that it’s not unlike staring longingly through Meatball’s fence. I try to forget to be ashamed of my wilted, sweaty soul. It still amazes me that he knows how badly I need to be in the pool.
3/24/2004
The Best Treadmill I Ever Bought Was A Dog
Scott Burnett
Ten minutes into our walk we are pushing to the top of the second hill. It is less of an effort for my companion than it is for me. He has a lower center of gravity, and four points of contact with the earth. He pulls forward, keeping the leash and the muscles of my left arm taut. He is not trying to yank free; he is simply anxious to get on to wherever we’re going. At least, this is how I choose to see it.
At the gate to the pipeline trail there is a zinc-painted post. Around its base grows an unmowable tuft of scrub grass. For my dog, it is an olfactory NPR – one of his favorite stations along the way for sniffing out the day’s news. He plunges in nose-first, then looks up smiling, ears perked as if he’s heard the familiar chime of a wave file: “You’ve got mail…” Pee-mail, that is. He lifts his leg and replies to all.
I say, “C’mon!” and we’re on our way again. As far as I can tell, Boomer gives no thought to the mechanics of his gait. I, on the other hand, am trying to remember to keep my ankles square with my hips, and to leverage from my thighs in order to save wear and tear on my knees. Boomer darts to the left, making a lateral lunge for another exceedingly interesting mound of grass. I let out some slack from the leash, and continue walking. By now he knows the rhythm of my stride, and how long he has before the tug hits his collar, so he works quickly. Squirt-squirt. He’s just initialed an important document that is completely invisible to me. “Come!” and he’s back at my side, pulling ahead as if to imply that it was I who’d been sidetracked.
The gravel crunches underfoot like granola for breakfast. These walks have been good food for me: body, soul, and mind. Regular exercise does not come easily to me, but Boomer has reintroduced a long missing ingredient into the mix. Play. He makes me want to walk, and he gives me a reason to go even when I don’t feel like it. He is a spring-loaded, stinky-kissing, let’s-go-eyed, black-brindled reason to strap on my sneakers, don my fedora, and dive into the drizzly night. Gorgeous, pastoral summer days are very rare in our neck of the woods, so a commitment to consistent outdoor exercise is bound to be tested often.
But today is one of those rare perfect days that would make the whole world move to Seattle if word were to get out. Behind us are the Cascade Mountains, in front of us the Olympics. The manmade, flat-sided peaks of the cities are also visible, flashing reflected sunshine our direction. Close by, there are amply pastured horses, and beautifully landscaped estates. The dragonflies are back. The sun is hot, the breeze is cool, and the air is full of fragrances. Cut grass, manure, and a hundred varieties of flower converge upon my woefully sub-canine sniffer. I can only imagine the stories Boomer is reading on the wind.
Squirt-squirt. Boomer, to his way of thinking, now owns another strategic clump of grass along the trail. It seems like a good way of thinking to me. In fact, from this vantage point, my soul is inclined to lay claim to two mountain ranges, thousands of verdant acres, a salmon stream, and this well-kept trail running straight through the middle of it all.
Scott Burnett
Ten minutes into our walk we are pushing to the top of the second hill. It is less of an effort for my companion than it is for me. He has a lower center of gravity, and four points of contact with the earth. He pulls forward, keeping the leash and the muscles of my left arm taut. He is not trying to yank free; he is simply anxious to get on to wherever we’re going. At least, this is how I choose to see it.
At the gate to the pipeline trail there is a zinc-painted post. Around its base grows an unmowable tuft of scrub grass. For my dog, it is an olfactory NPR – one of his favorite stations along the way for sniffing out the day’s news. He plunges in nose-first, then looks up smiling, ears perked as if he’s heard the familiar chime of a wave file: “You’ve got mail…” Pee-mail, that is. He lifts his leg and replies to all.
I say, “C’mon!” and we’re on our way again. As far as I can tell, Boomer gives no thought to the mechanics of his gait. I, on the other hand, am trying to remember to keep my ankles square with my hips, and to leverage from my thighs in order to save wear and tear on my knees. Boomer darts to the left, making a lateral lunge for another exceedingly interesting mound of grass. I let out some slack from the leash, and continue walking. By now he knows the rhythm of my stride, and how long he has before the tug hits his collar, so he works quickly. Squirt-squirt. He’s just initialed an important document that is completely invisible to me. “Come!” and he’s back at my side, pulling ahead as if to imply that it was I who’d been sidetracked.
The gravel crunches underfoot like granola for breakfast. These walks have been good food for me: body, soul, and mind. Regular exercise does not come easily to me, but Boomer has reintroduced a long missing ingredient into the mix. Play. He makes me want to walk, and he gives me a reason to go even when I don’t feel like it. He is a spring-loaded, stinky-kissing, let’s-go-eyed, black-brindled reason to strap on my sneakers, don my fedora, and dive into the drizzly night. Gorgeous, pastoral summer days are very rare in our neck of the woods, so a commitment to consistent outdoor exercise is bound to be tested often.
But today is one of those rare perfect days that would make the whole world move to Seattle if word were to get out. Behind us are the Cascade Mountains, in front of us the Olympics. The manmade, flat-sided peaks of the cities are also visible, flashing reflected sunshine our direction. Close by, there are amply pastured horses, and beautifully landscaped estates. The dragonflies are back. The sun is hot, the breeze is cool, and the air is full of fragrances. Cut grass, manure, and a hundred varieties of flower converge upon my woefully sub-canine sniffer. I can only imagine the stories Boomer is reading on the wind.
Squirt-squirt. Boomer, to his way of thinking, now owns another strategic clump of grass along the trail. It seems like a good way of thinking to me. In fact, from this vantage point, my soul is inclined to lay claim to two mountain ranges, thousands of verdant acres, a salmon stream, and this well-kept trail running straight through the middle of it all.
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