Mystery of Time

The passing of time as we understand it, is an arbitrary and artificially applied concept, humanly divined and codified for selfish purposes. Our lives are ordered by time and we are dependent upon the system we have established for ourselves, a system that is both frustrating and liberating. Nevertheless, regardless of the historical development of how time moves, with its expression of the rotation of the earth, the sun, the changing seasons, the pull of gravity, and complexity of relativity of space and matter, we are obligated to operate within the established code of time, which may be naturally driven or socially constrained by culture.

Do we eat three meals a day, morning, noon, and evening because our bodies tell us to do so? Or have we fallen into this concept by virtue of the design of our lives, thus forcing our bodies into a fallacy of the need for three meals equally spaced? Do we sleep at night because it is dark or because of the physical requirement for rest or perhaps a combination of both? Our watches and clocks remind us of the time which in turn sends a message on upcoming event or obligation. Schools, businesses, institutions, travel, energy, all depend on our system of time and our understanding of its movement and passage.

Yet for Joel, autistic since birth, time has no meaning. He does not understand nor embrace in any sense, the passing of time. For him time stands still and he almost resents having to conform to the system that has been codified and efficaciously applied. He recognizes the actions of a clock and is frequently reminded of seconds, minutes, and hours, but those odd increments are but words to be used when confounded by forthcoming events. The concept of time spent on an activity has no meaning and the word hurry is not a part of his vocabulary.

This makes Joel's existence rather random yet also ironically regimented. Because the passing of time is essentially a mystery, he must apply rigor, ritual, and routine to everything that he does. The more routine, the more successful he will become. Yet surrounding that routine and enveloping the action is the overriding lack of concern about length or expectations. This makes for a tension filled universe for everyone else connected to Joel, but not for him. His contentment with time playing little to no role in his life is wildly frustrating for others but wildly comforting for him.

For the autistic child, his inner peace is found in personal expression of his interests, focusing on those activities for which he is successful regardless of their niche in the world. I knew one autistic child who constantly drew maps of the world. Sometimes the maps were detailed and other times rather general. The maps served no real purpose since better maps are attainable at any bookstore; yet he continued to draw maps as a way to fulfill his own peculiar brand of self-expression.

Joel finds satisfaction playing the piano and the organ as well as listening to classical music or watching certain television shows. While none of these activities serve a great market need in the world, and riches are most likely not going to occur from his interests, nevertheless he does express his joy through these events. An autistic child is not seeking to find his place in the world, rather he has already found it and is comfortable in that residence. For Joel, the passing of time is some kind of mysterious force that plays little to no role in his theater, a theater that consists of his own designs for expression.

Yet, truthfully, the world cannot operate singularly and one-dimensioned. Monody is charming and refreshing but cannot compete with the beauties and complexities of polyphony. Joel's rejection of time is one of those endearing qualities that makes him who he is but also prevents him from collective congruency in social interaction. We are a time mandated culture and operating outside of the time boundary is to be anathema in today's world.

This makes for a pleasant tension as we continually teach Joel the meaning of time which he artfully rejects to keep it a mystery!

Some of the problems

As I continue to chronicle the saga of Joel, our autistic 20 year old son, it occurs to me that I often find the good and tend to leave out the challenges, which in many ways have existed since day one. This is not to say that the challenges are greater than the joys nor to say that we have not learned from the challenges, nor does it abdicate our responsible but loving expectations for him, nor does this mean that Joel is not a remarkable force in our lives and those who cross his path, but it would not be fair to present our son in a vacuum, to demonstrate the hills without showing the valleys, to share the light without also knowing the dark. So forgive me as I write realistically about Joel.

Joel's learning disability, which we do not always understand, is actually easy to handle. We just accept that there are some things we will not comprehend and some situations that he will not put together. Since all of us have different levels of intelligence and we do tend to learn in different ways, and Joel definitely has trouble reading and comprehending and recalling what he has learned, it should not be surprising that he prefers the concrete over the abstract and the obvious over the hidden. As a nearly consummate joke teller and a committed educator, I often deliver subtle jokes to see if he will understand, with the hope that the effort to associate the punchline with the story will aid in conceptual thinking. While he usually laughs (which is why he is often the listener of choice for my jokes), he does not always understand and gives me a perplexed but entertaining look!

This all makes for an existence and a training that cannot include subtleties of expression, expectations, innuendo, or natural understanding. All instructions must be clear, obvious, and intentional. Many times instructions require explanations for their existence and clarity of purpose. Just to say "please feed the cats" may also need a "...because they are hungry."

This may be why personal hygiene remains a mystery to Joel. He does not enjoy taking a shower, brushing his teeth, putting on deodorant, or shaving. None of these normal events is normal to Joel. They do not make sense to him and most require an understanding of long-term benefits. Yes we brush our teeth because they need it, but to Joel the act of brushing is just a burden. Shaving helps men look clean, fresh, and ready for the day, but for Joel it has no meaning, takes his time, and even hurts a little (so he says).

To this end, we have tried a smorgasbord of methods to get him to be independent and committed to personal hygiene. As is typical for Joel, every method is successful to a point and everything is ultimately unsuccessful. When something works, such as a sign on the door, or a list of required activities, or a stopwatch, we praise him and decide that method is the right one. Yet, eventually it quits working and we find ourselves once again searching for the answers.

As parents who will sacrifice everything for our children, we do not stop trying to help Joel, and we remain committed to the concept of teaching Joel independence in as much as possible. We do find that in general, a routine with written instructions is the best approach to most problems. Connected to this is the constant reminder to Joel to be aware of himself with the sensitivity to how others see him. This is a difficult concept for a concrete thinker, one who sees the obvious and does not understand the subtle.

Yet it is all rather dichotomous due to the irony of Joel's personal presentation. On any given day, he may forget to wear deodorant, brush his teeth, shave, or even comb his hair, yet that same day he might wear a nice suit with a tie and polished shoes. He is complimented often on his general appearance, thereby making the lesser obvious problems seem negligible in his mind. This may, in fact, contribute to the challenge.

More stuff

As I ruminate this Christmas season over what to buy and for whom, I think about my grandmother's house and the belongings within. She and her husband accumulated lots of stuff. Not that they were hoarders by any means, and not that they boasted over their collection of goods, and not that they were excessive at all, and not that they had some deep psychological fear of not having things, yet in spite of their moderation and frugality, they acquired a lot of things. This is not dissimilar to most people. We have lots of stuff these days.

While we tend to complain about the excessive commercialism of Christmas, we don't really do anything about it. We continue to go shopping and buy things for our family and friends. We add to the stuff. Of course if the stuff weren't so readily available, perhaps we wouldn't be tempted to add to our growing collection of more stuff. Not sure though. It is easy to cogitate on the truths of Christmas and to recognize that gifts are merely an expression of our love for each other and a way to say thanks to those who mean so much to us, and to be a manifestation of the wise men who traveled so far to give gifts to the King, but less easy to make a change to our system.

Not that anyone really wants to by the way, but it does seem to me that we are acquiring too many things. Materialism is a disease and one that we seem to like. I cannot claim innocence in this department myself as I look at several hundred books, a new truck, nice clothes, and many odds and ends. On the one hand, it is easy for me to criticize the acquisition of things that will get thrown away at some point, but I participate in my own brand of materialism through books, music, and electronics. It is almost cultural, inherent, natural, and decidedly required for us to seek out more. While this in and of itself adds to the progression of life, to its refinement, its creativity, and yes to some extent its joy, it can also inhibit the deeper purpose of who we are.

At some point, and that point cannot be determined, it would be worthwhile to examine our malignant materialism in terms of pragmatism, aestheticism, comfort, and entertainment. If we pare everything down to one of those four categories, we discover that many things can go away, and those items can be labeled non-essential in the human sense. Subsequently, it may be time for us to simplify our existence in a kind of deliberate moving away from property multi-tasking. Since everything we have is property in some sense, focusing on one item at a time is a move against the ADD that infects all of us.

Meanwhile, it is much easier stated than acted upon, and I suspect that my children will one day have to deal with all the stuff we leave. Maybe some of it has monetary value or sentimental value, but I suspect that much of it, ultimately, will end up at the dumpster and covered with dirt. In fact I would guess there are mountains of junk that are buried, and on top of those mountains, we will once again have green grass! I am reminded that my legacy is not determined by my things but rather by my contributions, my family, my work, my compassion, and my love for others.

Passing of a Generation

My 91 year old grandmother, who we always called Sallie, after nearly 8 years in a nursing home, passed away leaving behind two daughters and three grandsons. She was the last of my grandparents. Prior to her stroke and the onset of Alzeimers, she was a happy lady with a definite and pointed worldview. She was not swayed by the technology surrounding our current culture, but was instead shaped by the hands-on experiences of her life. Hers was the generation before the computer age, before cell phones, even before remote controls, multiple television channels, before immediate and instant communication, before automation of all kinds shapes and sizes.

I recall trying to show her how to use a computer. She of excellent typing skills and office management ability could not deal with the computer, with its odd keyboard, quietness, strange screen, and memory bank. Her inability to comprehend the new robot-like machine led to a general suspicion of its worthiness and ultimately caused its rejection as having any value for her life. She was comfortable with a pen and paper and that comfort level remained throughout most of her life until she could no longer hold a pen. She wrote letters, long letters full of the kind of detail that keeps the mind sharp.

She preferred the dial telephone where you place your finger in the number hole and go around until it stops, but she did accept the new approach of actually touching the numbers and creating tone. She did enjoy talking on the phone with the exception that long distance calls were kept at a minimum due to the costs incurred. She never could escape the fear of the great depression and somehow felt that dollars even pennies should be guarded very carefully. At the same time her reliance on the government to solve the world's problems took her to liberal heights not often found in other family members. She continually supported the democratic party and when asked why, she would say, "You had to be there to understand." She and many others had to place their trust in FDR and that trust got extended to the government at large, a trust that remained throughout her life.

The television was a source of great joy but only for the three channels available. When more channels became the norm, she rejected them, keeping channels 4, 9, and 12 as the reigning champions of television. In addition to the local news and weather, the best channel was the one showing the Dallas Cowboys with Tom Landry and Roger Staubach at the helm, men she knew on a first name basis! Of course commercials brought with them opportunities to serve cake and cookies which had been prepared that morning in the midst of getting ready for a massive meal.

And my grandmother probably never ate the massive meal since the glasses were always filled with tea and the rolls never quit showing up on our plates. Her roving eyes to make sure all were eating and all were happy would land, sometimes with harsh judgment, on the person who was not eating. Meat, vegetables, and bread must all be eaten until there was no more room at which time the pies would arrive. Surrounding this bevy of food was conversation ranging from normal family stuff to local business. From my grandfather, whom we called Ray, a man who knew no strangers and liked everyone he met, I learned about the rich, the poor, the politicians, the lawyers, the Chinese, Mexicans, African-Americans, Indians, Whites, and occasionally some races I didn't know existed. I also learned about property, canned goods, Farah slacks, and the latest car design. Mainly I learned how to love each other in spite of our flaws and to listen carefully for there are always gems of truth to be gleaned in most conversations!

They are gone now, Sallie and Ray, and I miss the old days at times. I miss the constant tuneless whistle Sallie would offer when in the kitchen. I miss the hustle and bustle of meals, of Christmas, of camping trips, and yes even mowing their lawn. I miss the clank of the pipe as my grandfather emptied it, replacing old tobacco for a fresh batch, and I miss the burning of the match as it nearly ignited his finger before a quick flick of the wrist extinguished the flame. Mostly I miss the smiles, the energy, and the unconditional love of my grandparents.

We are now in a new dimension and one that the older generation never did embrace. It is replete with texting, computer searching, youtube videos, email, cell phones, talking cars, automatic lights, complicated kitchen items for ease of cooking, laptops, desktops, and information right at your fingertips. All these things are a part of our everyday lives and make our lives both richer and more complicated. Yet let us not forget that joy doesn't come from the things we see and touch. Joy comes from the love we receive and give to others. Sallie and Ray gave us love and that is what I will miss the most. Thank you!

Texting vs. Speaking

Joel, our 20 year old autistic son, has difficulty speaking most of the time. Some days he speaks little to none while other times he is a little more verbose. Yet, even in his talking moments, rarely does he have something substantial to say. On good days he is full of questions that seem to build on each other. The questions could be about family members or what hymns we are singing or the starting times of events or how old people are or what instruments are being used. Mainly, though, spoken language is a challenge for Joel and he mostly finds himself nodding or speaking very quietly.

Yet a new and rather stunning development has occurred. Joel enjoys texting on his phone. He writes long involved texts that demonstrate a deeper understanding of life, a way to seek beyond the obvious, and a way to express his emotions. Below are some of his texts:

"Hey daddy can you pick me up around 4:00 so I can get my haircut afterwards? See you in an hour and forty-five minutes! Do you think it is going to snow tonight? It is kind of chilly outside! Brrrr! I am taking a cold rc cola break at the library! I am dressed kind of warm! I have a scarf some gloves a hat a jacket and a sweater! Are you wearing a tie today or a turtle neck? I am going to shelve some more books here in a minute! Then I will call you at around 4:00 to pick me up in time to take me to get a haircut! Ttyl bye! P.S. It is my birthday in 5 days! I am going to be 20 years old! Yay!"

and:

"Thanks dad! Do you mind if I wait outside for you at around 3:30? I shelved lots of books today at the library and I might shelve some more books here in just a few minutes! See you at 3:45! Tell all the professors of Howard Payne University I said hi and tell all the students I said hi too! Ttyl bye!"

Of course some texts are shorter and simpler, but in general he speaks more through texting than through talking. Why is this? Is it the strange block that occurs from the brain to the mouth for some autistic children? Does texting actually allow a circumventing of the neurons needed for speaking? Perhaps communication for an autistic child is deeper, requiring a different form and transit from which we are familiar. Perhaps the conduit for expression is a channel not usually found in most people.

Whatever the reason, we are enjoying the new communication and we are enjoying discovering a personality that shines forth from the cell phone! Ah Joel...always keeps us on our toes!

Receipts everywhere

Walking into church this evening, I noticed some paper on the ground and stopped to pick it up. Although not an obsessed naturalist by any stretch, I do get concerned with trash and debris scattered about. Not only is it unsightly (an unusual emotion for me as a non-visual learner), but it also is not healthy for the grass or trees. I suppose in my retirement, I might be one of those people who walks around with a pointed stick, relieving the environment of unwanted trash. A roving naturalist doing my part to help the environment, like not washing the towels in an extended stay at a motel, or recycling plastic bottles or avoiding running over the turtles crossing the road. Anyway, back to the event of this evening.

I picked up two old receipts, headed to the dumpster, and began to dwell on one of my irritants in life--receipts. Not all, but perhaps most mornings I pull into a drive-through and order a cup of coffee. There is a sign near the paying window that says "If we fail to hand you a receipt, you will receive $5.00 toward any purchase." I, however, wish it said, "If we burden you with a stupid, waste of time receipt, you will receive $5.00 toward any purchase."

I am sick of receipts. They clutter up my truck, get in my way, result in excess trash, waste paper, and generally bother me. I have receipts for gas, dry-cleaning, meals, water, snacks, and the list goes on and on. Recognizing the tax benefit of some items, I would actually prefer the option not to receive a receipt rather than the assumption I always want one. Maybe there will be a day when I can simply show my email address and have all receipts emailed to me. That way I can organize the ones that have a tax deduction. Meanwhile, I suppose I'll just put up with the constant flow of receipts and the absurd need to pick them up when I find them outside on the ground. I would furthermore encourage others to use a trash can, since the earth does not need to be our human trash bin.

Leveling of Culture

A journey across the United States from Central Texas to San Diego left me less intrigued than I expected, particularly as I roamed the bay area around the beautiful city of San Diego. The boats, yachts, battleships, cruise lines, shops, restaurants, furs, joggers, families, and the homeless all shape the incredibly energetic and distinctive culture of San Diego, California. I fell in love with the city and realized that given the opportunity I would sincerely enjoy living in San Diego.

Yet part of me became disappointed as I visited with the people, those indigenous to the area, those native to San Diego, those whose behavior, style, preferences should be unique to the area in some way. I discovered that their responses and their actions were eerily similar to my own. We recognized each other not by geographical region but by our humanness. We laughed at the same humor, grew concerned at the same problems, responded in the same basic ways to events, ate the same kind of food, and seemed to look for the same things in the environment.

Of course some of this could be attributed to being humans as opposed to creatures from other worlds, but is it possible that our culture is becoming as one? Are we inadvertently, slowly, assiduously blending our worlds into one world culture?

It began with communication that developed into some common languages as the printing press came into vogue and books became the norm. Eventually this moved to the Pony Express, the telegraph, telephone, radio, television, email, and now a proliferation of instant communication and media through the Internet. All of these events and more have led to a breakdown and leveling of culture. We find ourselves in a precarious but joyful position of knowing how people across the globe react to stimuli. We tend to laugh at the same things, cry at the same sentiment, and love in the same way. This is due to our assimilation of cultures via the media which governs our lives.

I am not proposing an abolishment of media, and I am not even convinced there is anything negative, but in some ways it disappoints me to discover very little that is new and actually to see myself in a region that is 1200 miles away. At the same time, it is also comforting in the same way that returning home to our favorite blanket is security. We travel to unknown lands only to find they are known. We look far and seek the new but find ourselves looking in a mirror. The mountains and valleys of human differences are but plains leveled by the media of instant communication, giving us an awareness of the collective whole.

I contend that as we become more cosmopolitan and oddly unified, we lose and gain certain qualities. One argument for the continuation of cultural connectivity is that it is the mark of a refined society. Contractarianism becomes central to behavior regardless of geographical location. Yet, in some ways, those qualities unique to regions could get lost, thereby losing the charm and uniqueness that make a culture defined.

I do have to believe, however, that regardless of how "refined" we may become, cultures find a way to retain their individual identity and their independence. It remains to be seen what qualities last and what qualities disappear.

Eradication of the cherry

Walking through the mall, casually shopping for clothes and looking in the various stores along the path, Joel mentioned he would like to get a coke at Chick-fil-A. Gladly accommodating his request, we ambled that direction, entered the fast food restaurant, walked up to the counter and stood in line to order our drinks. Jacob had mentioned he wouldn't mind having a lemonade as well. But the poster of the new Peppermint Strawberry Shake caught Joel's attention.

His eyes shone brightly as he changed his mind and he asked me about getting the shake rather than the coke. I said sure, no problem, and he then said the words, "but no cherry." Being in an agreeable mode, I said yes rather absently and stood in line to order our drinks. Standing in any line is a challenge for me, not being of patient spirit. To pass the time, I can be found reading, looking around, thinking hard, imagining a world without lines, or a plethora of mental activities. In this case, I simply visited another cognitive zone for a few minutes. Finally I ordered the drinks, forgetting unfortunately to ask for the cherry to be excluded.

Receiving the drinks, we left the mall to head for the truck with the goal of driving home. On the way, Joel, in his objective but pointed manner, mentioned that the cherry was in the shake. Not necessarily accusingly nor forgivingly, he pointed out that he did not want the cherry. Climbing into the truck, Joel tried in vain to get the cherry. Refusing to drink the shake with the cherry, he had inadvertently engorged the dastardly object further down into the shake in his efforts to rid the refreshment of its ugliness known as a cherry.

Knowing he would not drink the shake until the cherry was gone, I asked Jacob to help him. Jacob did so and together they dug into the shake, found the cherry, removed the obstacle which Jacob subsequently ate in great haste to encourage Joel to drink his Peppermint Strawberry shake! All was well and Joel was happy.

Joel's autism, a disability since birth, does have an odd and often debilitating result. He gets focused on something and cannot let it go regardless of the seemingly innocuousness of the situation. To us it is just a little cherry in the midst of something wonderful, but to Joel is the central block to enjoyment. Take the problem away and happiness ensues. Our job as parents is to discern and predict the potential enemy before it enters the scene!

Another day?

Okay, my cynical side often thinks that a day is simply another day. Regardless of the birthday or the celebration or anniversary or memory or event, it is simply another day. I recall the Y2K ubiquitous fear of 1999 where it was postured, even propagated, that the world as we know it would come to a screeching halt on January 1, 2000. Our blood ran cold as we feared the prophecy of the computer age destroying the essence of everything we call existence.

And we went to bed at midnight on December 31, 1999 wondering if we would have running water or electricity or an automobile or even a home on January 1. We woke up the next morning and experienced another day, a day like the day before and the day before and the year before and the decade before. Simply another day.

The question: Is Thanksgiving Day simply another day? The answer is yes. Since time and the calendar are both man-made entities (yes, I recognize the potential fallacy of this statement due to the natural revolution of the earth, the sun, the moon, etc.), it stands to reason that what we know as Thanksgiving could occur on any day in the year. In fact we can celebrate, eat turkey, cranberries, dressing, corn, and other delectable treats anytime we feel so led. To take it further, we can acknowledge historical events anytime we think about it. This can include your first tooth coming in, the birthday of your grandfather, the Declaration of Independence, your first automobile, the end of World War I, your first cell phone, or the end of communist reign in China.

We celebrate Thanksgiving Day as a historical reminder of the Pilgrims who ate with the Indians in a kind of marriage of two opposing cultures coming together to offer thanks for their sustenance. A charming and important event for sure. But overall it just seems like another day to me except for one thing--family! Regardless of the excuse, and regardless of the day that is set aside for turkey and lots of great food, the joy comes not from the day itself but from the opportunity to be with family.

In some ways I believe we should be thankful everyday for our blessings and I believe we should spend time with family whenever possible. We should not have to set aside a day for thankfulness or family time. But we do and I'm glad, for without Thanksgiving I have a feeling our times together would indeed be rare. It is at Thanksgiving we share, we eat, we enjoy each other's company and mostly spend quality time together. Yes, it is another day, but our culture has developed into a special day and a day I value. So my analytical, logical side answers the question with a yes, but my sensitive, emotional side answers with a resounding no!

Book Scouting in San Diego

Unable to make a journey to a new land without doing some book scouting, I took a taxi to the part of San Diego where book stores reside. Most cities slowly, over time, become a series of towns or communities within a city. This is caused by racism, economics, new buildings, priority shifts, and many other factors difficult to project. Old book stores, hanging on by a letter, and hoping to find a market niche of some kind, a system that either defeats the internet or embraces it, are usually within a mile or two from each other. Often nearby is some kind of college or university surrounded by various thrift shops, cafes, coffee houses, and a plethora of specialty shops.

After a speedy taxi ride where I learned my driver was quite frustrated with his "worrying and anxious" wife who did not want her 13 year old son out past 11 at night (he maintained she was being silly and not wanting her son to grow up), I arrived in the scholar district and walked into a book store. As I have done hundreds of times, I stood near the doorway to learn the store. Each book store has a character, a personality, a system, and an energy that shouts at me. Some stores seem tired, as though their heyday is long past, others seem to shine and bristle with knowledge, eager for a customer to enter the world and leave a better person with books in hand. Some stores have a nice mix of hardbacks and paperbacks, or more non-fiction than fiction, or more childrens books or adult books or political or history or collectibles or simply a little of everything.

Looking around carefully with what I perceived as my "book grin," an odd smile that overtakes me when I am around books of all kinds, a euphoric grin that naturally emanates when I see a book, I realized I was in a store that valued non-fiction over fiction and made more money selling sexual oriented books than anything else. Yet, the visit was not a waste for against one long wall was the literature section. Always curious how the owner separates the "literature" from the "non-literature," I began to scout.

My quest for books involves first hardback fiction and a look for particular authors--Roth, McMurtry, McCarthy, Greene, Vidal, Burgess, Mailer--to name a few. Then I head to the mystery area to look for Fleming, Crider, Spillane, MacDonald, and perhaps Morrell. I look for books in good condition, preferably 1st editions, that are not ruined with too many personal comments in the margins. I then head to the history section, the theology area, and finally the music and fine arts. Near the end of my sojourn, I take several minutes studying the collectible books. Using a discerning but quick eye, I determine which books I have to have and which ones will need to stay on the shelf! I remind myself not to look simply at those books which are eye level but to look up, to get on the ground, to look behind the obvious, to find the gem that just might be hiding in some way. To treat each book as a special vessel through gentle handling is an essential requirement of a book scout.

Finding two early James Bond editions, wrestling with a nice Victor Hugo, and wondering idly how many books on sex the world really needs, I headed across the street to another store. This was a smaller store with limited stock most of which seemed focused on homosexuality and lesbianism. Yet as I looked at the few collectibles, I saw a gem. A well-used but in good condition Forgotten Village by Steinbeck! The price looked like $125 but the cashier assured me it was $12. Buying it quickly, and getting directions to another store, I left feeling quite satisfied with my venture.

I walked 15 city blocks to another very small store, argued with myself about purchasing a signed book for $75, bought a biography of Teddy Roosevelt, and took a cab back to the hotel. This ride was more rewarding as we discussed Ethiopian worship practices in San Diego. The driver was quite intelligent and perceptive as he pointed out the differences between typical African-American worship styles as compared with Ethiopian preferences. It was quite enlightening and I wish it could have continued. But it was time for dinner with some friends!

Another successful book scouting journey for me!

Polite

Venturing through the shops around the bay area in San Diego, I enjoyed visiting with some of the people. In particular, buying something small often opens up conversations with cashiers and employees of the store. Using certain ice-breaking techniques such as "this is a very nice store" or "how is business these days" or "you can't get this where I live" usually results in a conversation of some kind or another. One of my favorite questions I like to ask is "Where do you think I am from?" One person said Boston and another person said Seattle, but most of them said Texas.

I am a Texan through and through having lived here most of my life. Yes, it's true I was born in California but both parents were from Texas and we moved to Texas soon after my 5th birthday. But it did surprise me that people in San Diego labeled me a Texan so quickly. After all, I do not wear boots or a Cowboy hat and I work hard to avoid a Texas drawl (although I suspect it is still present at times). So after one young lady said "Texas," I asked her how she knew. She said I was polite and friendly!

Okay, guilty and proud of it! I don't mind being labeled a Texan if it is due to these qualities. But the truth is that I am not always polite and friendly. In fact, I wonder if I am more polite outside the state than in my own hometown! That would be rather sad if it were true. But because the young lady in San Diego said I was polite and friendly, I have decided to become what she in fact said, a polite and friendly Texan! Certainly there are worse things to be.

Tomorrow I practice what someone told me I am. I will hold the door for people, allow others to go ahead of me, use correct table manners, avoid interrupting, smile often, and reach out to people around me. It all sounds like a tall order but necessary if I am going to reach my potential as a true Texan!

A word or two on health

Hard to believe that after such a long hiatus without blogging, I would choose this topic for the next entry. Yet sometimes I feel compelled to write on a subject that interests me. I am currently in San Diego, California on a business trip and enjoying the scenery, the food, the climate, and the people. I spent a couple of hours in book stores yesterday and walked the streets watching people and experiencing the city life.

It occurred to me though that as I walked through the city and later along the bay, I did not see any overweight people. Of course it is certainly possible that those who are overweight chose not to be out in this area or chose to eat at different restaurants. But perhaps there is another reason for this. Before I go on, I must say that I am not critical of overweight people, having struggled with this problem myself. While I do not believe overweight is a disease or an epidemic, neither do I believe it is generally healthy. Obviously, dieting and surgery for weight problems is a major industry in our culture and one that seems to be growing not diminishing. One of our requirements as people is to remain as healthy as possible, not just for ourselves but for those who love us as well. When we are healthy, we are more productive and more giving. We serve society at a higher level, when our health allows us freedom to reach out.

I could go on and on with this thinking, but let's return to the current issue of people in San Diego seem generally smaller and yes healthier than people in Texas. Conjecture without basis in fact can be and usually is pointless and serves no purpose other than to give some weak creedence to the person offering the guesswork. Knowing this, however, I think I will proceed.

I believe after watching the people in San Diego, that there are three reasons for the general health in this area. 1) a diet consisting of fish, 2) smaller portions and 3) lots of walking. In the town where I work, these 3 events are rare. Portions are very extensive, fish (other than catfish) is rare, and walking is a lost art. So with this in mind, I am going to commit myself to more fish, smaller portions, and more walking. Of course this is nothing earth-shattering, and in fact this entire entry is rather dull, but I felt like writing it anyway! Time to go for a walk.

Changed for sure

Well, I guess I have changed. Thank goodness for that, but it still confuses me a touch. Last week I attended a reunion of sorts. A group of band guys from college gathered to pay honor to our director, a fine man of great integrity and man who tolerated much immaturity from guys who took quite awhile to grow up. Approximately 30 years ago, a young, very thin, long-haired french horn player arrived on the scene full of the kind of naive confused arrogance and energy that often accompanies fairly bright, creative but slightly rebellious teenagers.

But be not dismayed (or disappointed), this entry is not a confession of sins or acknowledgment of past mistakes. Instead this is actually the story of change. It became obvious to me when I walked in and received several odd stares from the friends of long ago. I am different. I know it to be true but have an imagined sense that maybe the thin good-looking guy of yesteryear is still the same. I mean I feel the same I think. I think the same I guess. I respond the same, sort of. But I suppose I don't look the same.

I approached one gentleman whom I remembered as a good friend, having played in his wedding and peripherally through other acquaintances, kept up with his life. I shook his hand, named his name, smiled my charming smile and he said, "Now remind me again who you are!" Although somewhat taken aback, and wanting to leave immediately, I kept my smile and named my name. He said "Oh yes, of course, you were in my wedding." He was a little embarrassed and laughed.

Okay, the truth hurts. I am bald, overweight, wrinkled, and not near as spirited. The impish quest for a contrarian activity, the simmering mischief, the sly rebellion, rather than being overt, has gone underground and replaced with respectability, at least to an extent. From edgy independence to refined conformity is not an easy travel, and I sometimes wonder about the journey. I think in some mystical way, I may miss that odd creative and yes, arrogant kid who didn't always understand the world but sure enjoyed putting his toe in it!

Am I changed physically? Yes, and most of us flirting with our 50s can say the same. But have I changed internally as well? Yes, no question about it. Are the inside changes being reflected on the outside? I think the answer is certainly yes and in most ways I am glad. For now I am a University Dean in a private school where refinement, excellence, thoughtfulness, responsibility, and expectations are high. A place I am fortunate to be and a place that has helped shape me into a mature man with a higher sense of purpose in the world.

Back to the reunion. I believe the immature, confused student from the past is mostly gone, and I am mostly glad. Yet perhaps in the vestiges of the dusty regions, hidden by walls, around corners, and rarely found lies the impish curiosity that makes for great zeal of life. It all forms me and makes me wonder which Rob will emerge victorious in the end! Probably both.

Perhaps the best product of this reunion was not the personal acknowledgment of my or anyone's changes in life, but rather the opportunity to give honor to Lawson Hager, my mentor, my director, my teacher, and my friend. A special man indeed and we (anyone who had him as a director) are better people today due to his integrity, patience, and compassion for a much undeserved group of people. He is much appreciated.

Which traditions?

The anguish of Papa is felt by everyone as he denies his daughter and subsequently rejects her existence in the world. "She is dead to us," he says as he goes about the business of moving to another location. We are incensed, however, and cannot share his attitude, a callous approach to his own daughter and one that obviously favors tradition over development, a misguided sense of historical falseness that seems to shout that religion causes more harm than good. How can he do that? The "tradition" line in the sand was crossed, and for Tevye and his daughter there was no turning back.

Let us take a closer look at this situation from "Fiddler on the Roof" and examine it in terms of today's church music. What traditions do we keep and what do we let go? Are there traditions that maintain the essence of quality or spirituality? Are there traditions which are Biblically based and should not change? Are there some which are simply born out of some antiquated practicality that no longer exists? These questions are difficult and no one answer will solve them, yet they are necessary as we participate in a thorough examination of what makes church the institution of worship.

Let's discuss art for a few minutes before delving carefully into church music. It is easy for people to acknowledge the beauty of art that represents an object of which they are familiar. A painting of a tree that looks like an actual tree visibly seen by the human eye can be respected not only for the skill but also for the realism, for the natural look, for the beauty that it represents. The tree, the picture of a tree is comfortable, familiar, accessible, and obvious in a way that visible objects are understood not necessarily for their innate properties but more for their outward appearance. We accept what we see if it is something close to what we have already seen.

Yet when we see something unfamiliar that cannot be easily categorized, perhaps not explained, or understood, our initial reaction is rejection. This is the case of abstract art. We might even have an emotional response to the light, or the colors, or design, or the energy, but if the object cannot be readily identified, we dismiss it as not having merit. Abstract art breaks the tradition by presenting something new. Abstract art takes away the security blanket, leaving us seeking for something to protect our senses.

Church music has a rich heritage of hymnody that can be traced back to the beginnings of the church. At times leading the way, at other times reacting to cultural expectations, the church has worked to maintain its lofty, austere, and generally polished approach to musical presentations. Perhaps the view of God as the omniscient and distant but benevolent King of Kings has contributed to the kind of music desired in church. Whatever the cause, the reality is that the tradition of music in church has been classically driven and somewhat utopian.

But along came the pragmatists, a new brand of leaders who recognized that the old ways were no longer effective in reaching people. While they preferred the traditions, the rich and classically oriented history that determined the excellence, they became suspicious that the church was serving the tradition rather than the people. One of the turning points in "Fiddler on the Roof" occurs when Tevye reminds Tzeitel that he made an agreement that she would marry the butcher. Tzeitel says in a broken voice, "Is your agreement more important than I am?"

So I ask, "Is the tradition more important than the people?" Obviously not. Yet, we must be reminded that at some early point, the traditions were started by people. So as not to throw out the baby with the bath water (excuse the cliche please), I recommend an examination of why the tradition exists, how could it be improved, and which ones need to be discarded. I do not recommend the abolishing of all traditions currently in practice. Not only would it be unwise and most likely result in polarization, contention, and uncontrolled disputations, it is just not necessary. But it is certainly worth deciding which traditions are based on preference and which traditions are based on truth. More on this later.

Joining the Millions

I join the millions in grieving the loss of Michael Jackson. But I also somehow differentiate myself from some of my acquaintances who cannot position themselves alongside me in grief. These are people who tend to address the failings of human beings, recognizing that many situations are the result of past mistakes, and focusing on those mistakes as the contributing force in the superstar's demise. In contrast, I cannot unilaterally subscribe to the idea that judgment is discriminating and that we are the judges. A peripheral glance at the life of Michael Jackson reveals a tortured and confused soul whose appearance masked the despair within. As he removed pieces of himself, perhaps in an effort to lose his identity, he somehow lost much of the essence of his own success and his own goodness.

Yet I have always marveled at the talent and gifts of Michael Jackson, whose career spanned decades, a man whose voice, music, and dancing charmed millions. A man whose success far surpassed his ability to manage himself, and a man whose enormous heart danced openly for others to impair and ultimately destroy. The tragedy is on several levels which I intend to articulate.

His was the tragedy of self-mutilation. How could someone hate himself so much as to systematically remove his nose, alter his cheekbones, add to his pigment alteration, adjust his hair, and prevent his own voice from changing. Was this due to abuse as a child in some form? Was this his way to hide from himself? Self-loathing leads to self-destruction. Was he afraid of aging or did he hasten his own death? His appearance became that of a caricature or an ersatz of pretension. He denied his inner self and manifested it outwardly.

His was the tragedy of money. When zillions of dollars begin flowing, the responsibility should increase. For Michael Jackson, however, the responsibility diminished almost in proportion to the growth of the estate. He spent, he gave, he squandered, he helped, he took, he produced, and he lost. His giving to charities and helping children, his remarkable generosity and genuine compassion has been forgotten and replaced with an onslaught of criticism and greed. Not only did the money not buy happiness, it guaranteed corruption by many people.

His was the tragedy of talent and success. He was so wildly successful at a young age and continued the climb to the top of the entertainment business. But did he ever gain the maturity needed to handle the success? Was he ever really a child or did he miss an important step in becoming an adult? Did he ever get to play, skin his knee, throw a ball, read a Dr. Seuss story, collect baseball cards, play tag, or watch Gilligan's Island? His success undermined and interfered with the maturation process. It created a man who wanted to be a child. The report of listening to classical music while reading Donald Duck comics is a prime example of the dichotomy within him.

His was the tragedy of entourage. The endless hyenas that surrounded him, feasting on his very soul at every opportunity. Erratic and insane buzzards that couldn't wait for the corpse and hastened his demise in a feeding frenzy that took place over many years. His need for bodyguards, doctors, advisors, publicists, managers, helpers, friends, all created a constant sense of humans not leaving him alone. He never had space and he never had a chance to be himself.

His was the tragedy of expectation. As a performer, I have experienced the pressure to be better than last time. It can be debilitating, causing sleepless nights, excessive stress, and the desire to escape or run away from the next event. Jackson had trouble dealing with the next step, the next performance, the next song, and the next expectation of excellence. As a people pleaser, someone who attempts to reach all kinds of people, he could never be satisfied with himself. He probably felt inadequate to the task before him.

His was the tragedy of the soul. The soul is who we are as human beings. The soul is not formed from money, fame, relationships, actions, talent, work, or responses. All of these things grow out of the soul of the person not the inverse. A person's soul may determine the reactions of the person but the events of life cannot and should determine the inner being. Yet what if in fact the soul is altered over a period of time or what if in fact the soul is never formed? In Michael Jackson's case, it seems that the tragedy is one of his inner being. I think I do believe in his goodness and his generosity and the qualities that only occasionally found their way into the world, but I also believe that somehow, someway he lost his soul in the journey. Perhaps this is the saddest event of all. Still, he is missed by me and countless others.

Black and White

Driving down the street, on our way to get a treat at Sonic, Joel and I began talking about Sonic booms. I reminisced about my childhood when I heard jet airplanes overhead break the sound barrier resulting in a resonant bass sound that caused the windows to shake and the dishes to rattle. As a small child, it was rather frightening, but when my dad explained the cause, it became rather exhilirating to imagine the speed of the jet that could move faster than sound.

Explaining to Joel about Sonic booms, I moved into my "cliche" mode of talking where I began a repetitive series of quasi-complaints about modern culture. It is my own ironic brand of making fun of people who want to return to the "good old days." When I get going, it can be quite entertaining and absolutely harmless, with shades of sarcasm and irony thrown in for sheer joy of the moment. So I pontificated about the days when girls didn't call boys, and when you didn't have to pump your own gas, and when there was only one kind of coffee, and very few radio stations to hear. I moved into television and began talking about the days of antennae on the tv and having to watch everything in black and white. Suddenly, although he had been silent for quite a while (a normal response to my routine!), he asked me a question. "Dad, was everything in black and white in the good old days?" I said, "Yes Joel, we didn't get a color television until I was older." "No, I mean was everything in black and white?"

I sat stunned for a minute as I thought through his question. Was his perspective of the world based on television? If all on the television were black and white, did that make the world black and white as well? Did he not understand the development of science and technology and that television is a reflection of advancing technology? Or was the question actually latently perceptive? Has the growth and hypercharge of technology actually colored our world? Were we figuratively and collectively more "black and white" many years ago?

Our world is complicated by choice, by color, by a blending and amalgamation of styles, cultures, values, concepts, interests, and preferences. Having choices is part of the joy of our world and part of the excitement of living. The entertainment world seems to be a manifestation of the complexity and color that we live with each and every day. This makes our perception of reality to be both confusing and ever-changing, a sort of wonderland or even Disneyland of options.

Yet for Joel perhaps he would prefer less choice, fewer options. Perhaps his world is black and white and maybe in some ways he is better off with his perception. I like the choices, I like the color, and I like the complexity, but it sure can make for a lot of decisions!

Music as a Healer

Much has been written on the power of music to heal the body, and yes even to heal the soul. Since most people use music as a way to represent and ultimately cleanse emotions, I do not feel a need to expound on these principles. It does seem logical that if music can heal the body, perhaps music can be used to heal churches. Or to take the antithetical view, is it possible for music to divide a church?

If music heals, logic dictates it can also hurt. Is music a cancer, a form of leprosy to a church? Can something beautiful also be deadly? I believe this is true. So the question of church health is inevitably how to prevent such diseases to infiltrate the church, particularly in the form of music. Once a church becomes unhealthy, no magic pill can cure it. So how do we avoid the pain of music, and instead experience the joy and the power?

First of all, it is necessary to avoid alienating any one group of people. The best way to avoid this is to stay away from the extremes. Don't be extremely loud or soft or fast or slow or new or old. Find a moderate style of music. There is plenty of variety within the moderate vein. Second: present the music in a quality fashion. This requires knowledge and preparation. People may not always like a particular piece of music, and they may not prefer the style, but quality tends to be obvious to everyone. Third: Don't forget about the text. The sounds that make music are very powerful but the text is integral to the experience as well. Fourth: Don't make the music about you. Our purpose for having music in church is to worship. Selfishness has no place in the service. Fifth: Always consider the collective gain over the individual. Some selections are better suited for large crowds and others are better for individuals. Take the pulse of the people all the time and be sensitive to the moving of the wind. Sixth: Seek divine wisdom in all decisions.

Music does have the power to heal, but it also has the power to hurt. It remains the responsibility of the leaders of the church to use all tools, music and the spoken word, to glorify God. I urge music ministers to use music as a healer and not as a pain deliverer. If music adds to the wounds that exist in a church, it is not accomplishing its purpose.

Commencement Speech

Friends, I apologize for my blogging delinquency. I wrote prolifically as 2009 began, but then needed some time without the barrage of essays. Yet as I prepare to deliver a commencement speech, I am ready to blog again.

Graduates, I am honored to be here today and am thrilled to offer my heartfelt congratulations to you for your accomplishments. The Lord is smiling upon you today and as I was once told the Holy Spirit has an affinity for the learned mind. You worked diligently to this goal and you made many sacrifices along the way to academic success. But I have some disappointing news to give you today, for you see, your degree is not really yours alone. Oh it's true that you are among 17.2% in the United Sates and it's true that your degree may get you the promotion you are seeking, or perhaps the position that is available, or a higher salary, or maybe add credibility to your current employer. But in many ways your degree is not yours alone.

As we look around the room, we see families and friends that are here to share in your joy. These are the people who also made sacrifices along the way. Maybe there is a husband who cooked dinner when you didn't have time, or a son who did the laundry, or a daughter who had to do her homework by herself. What about the man who stopped to help you change a tire that blew out on the way to class? Or the person who sold you a hamburger in the drive through? And let's take it another step. Someone built the car that took you to class and someone wrote the textbook that provided you with knowledge about the subject and someone paved the road and another person put the computer together you used in writing a paper.

The contributions to your degree completion are endless and are filled with people who may not even know you but did help you in your goals. Your friends and family are a special part of the story but even they cannot claim exclusive rights to your success. Many people worked together, including your professors, fellow classmates, and yes even Howard Payne University to help you reach this day. So I encourage you to take a moment to say thank you to some of those who made a difference in your life and I further encourage you to seek out ways to help someone else in the same way.

But I also have further disappointing news for you today. That is that you may have lost something in your quest for your degree. There has been much concern that as we increase our knowledge base and as our understanding grows, our curiosity tends to lessen. It is the frightening thought that education may slowly, deliberately, and effectively destroy the eagerness that made us want to know more in the first place. Education tends to increase our paranoia, our suspicion, and our concern while reducing our joy, our love of life, and our zeal for knowledge.

My first teaching position was at a large state university where I was asked to teach music to college students many of which were adults seeking a degree. I recall lecture after lecture where I asked for questions at the end only to receive one or two. Most of the questions dealt with the next quiz date or the content of the test questions or how the final grade would be determined. Rarely if ever did a question refer to how to gain more knowledge of music.

Accepting this as a norm, several years later, after accepting a public school position teaching elementary music, I was taken aback when teaching a class of 5th grade students. At the end of a class period on how notes work on a music staff, I asked for questions. Every hand went into the air and the questions were multi-dimensioned about notes and their meaning. Not one question referenced the next test or how the grade would be determined. They were curious, they were eager, and they loved knowing new things.

Is the process of education a type of fruit of good and evil, causing those who partake to lose their joy of the world? Let's hope not. Jesus said, "to let the children come unto me, do not hinder them." He also said, "Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven." (Matthew 18:3-4) This is an admonition to be humble as a child and to keep our child-like curiosity about life. To experience the joy that led us to wanting to know more in the first place.

Yes, you may be smarter, you may be full of great intellectual thoughts, you may have written some marvelous papers and imparted great truth to the world. But have you lost something along the way? Have you lost your eager curiosity about how the world works and what makes it a special place? Since you no longer need to worry about the upcoming test, it is probably time to take a moment to reflect on those magical qualities that make children love to learn.

I was busy one day accomplishing great dean-like things in my beautiful office that is full of books and knowledge. I had completed a meeting, answered 20 emails, studied a spreadsheet, taught a class on Beethoven and Mozart, and was preparing for another important meeting where I would get a chance to make decisions that could affect many people. In our building we host a program called Pre-college music. This program involves parents bringing their child to the building to sing, play, move around, and enjoy music. As they experience music, they also learn something about it.

So on this particular day, I headed out of the building to my important meeting at the same time a 5 year girl and her mother were leaving. I hurried past them to my car when I heard the little child say to her mother, "Can I smell the flowers?" I stopped and glanced back mostly in shock that there were flowers. I had never seen them before. The little girl crouched down and smelled the flowers and said, "Mom, they smell pretty."

Of course part of me wanted to correct her, for flowers cannot smell pretty. They can smell sweet but they cannot smell pretty. But instead I walked over to the girl and asked if I could smell the flowers also.

"Sure" she said.
"I don't know how"
"It's easy" she said in that high sweet voice.
"Can you show me?"
Taking my hand, she crouched down, "First you get low, then you put your face close to the flower, then you go like this..." And she sniffed.

I was a little concerned with the crouch since I wondered if I could get back up, but I followed her advice, sniffed the flower and said, "You know what?" She said, "What?" I said, "The flower smells pretty." She smiled and said, "See!"

I then proceeded to my meeting with my mind full of thoughts of pretty flowers and the joy of children. I realized that yes the Holy Spirit smiles upon the learned mind but the Holy Spirit has a bigger smile for children.

Take your knowledge and your degree and use them wisely, but also take a moment to smell the flowers. I promise you, they smell pretty!

Why Parents Seek Answers

After reading the article titled "The Hawthorne Effect--Why parents swear by ineffective treatments for autism" (http://www.slate.com/id/2215076/), I feel compelled to respond with an explanation. Parents of autistic children are willing through relentless dedicated effort to try an infinite number of ways to help their children. This is very simply due to one truth--parents love their children and will sacrifice nearly anything to help them.

When a parent eventually realizes and accepts the disability of his/her child, a process that can unfortunately take years, the next step is to seek a cure or at least find ways to alleviate the complex and difficult situation caused by this disability. Each morning, many parents awaken with an emotional mix of optimism, love, and despair that the day will bring some kind of improvement in behavior, learning, and response from their child. What begins as a problem that will be alleviated tomorrow, slowly demonstrates itself to be long-term. Yet, perhaps a change in diet or environment or medicine will be the "magic" cure for the problem.

Even as I write these words, I am conflicted. I know, logically, that the cure for autism will be found by the mathematicians in the laboratories poring through millions and zillions of strands of DNA, looking for those anamolies that cause learning and social problems. Yet I personally cannot contribute to this process due to my lack of experience and training. So instead of waiting patiently for the scientists to tell me what is wrong, I seek to solve the problem myself. I do this by doing what I do best: loving my child and sacrificing everything to help him.

And truthfully, almost anything we do or try does make some kind of difference. In some ways it is a variation on the Placebo effect by proxy. When the parent wants something enough to pay for it, to sacrifice for it, to study it, to make a journey, then it just may happen. This kind of projected desire for improvement often makes its way to the child, resulting in positive improvement for everyone. Unfortunately, it is often short-term growth. Yet, the glimmer of hope and joy is vastly beneficial to the parents of the disabled child.

But before sounding cynical, I must interject that many of the cures are indeed helpful. Good nutrition for one, is always valuable. Vitamins, if used judiciously, are also good for the body. Exercise, breathing techniques, conditioning are all good practices to consider. Behavior modification and rewards for good behavior are standard operating procedure for parents and all efforts at understanding behavior are helpful. So I urge parents to continue to find answers and to try myriad and sundry ways to help their children. In the end, it is all about love and sacrifice. We seek answers because we care, to do otherwise is not an option.

The Common Good--Music

I was asked the other day if I believed denominational separation, was ultimately a thing of the past and that someday all would be one. I answered no partially due to the local autonomy of most churches in communities. This concept of autonomous practice is easily extended, and probably correctly, to all people and our tendency to interpret scripture, worship practices, and even ministry according to our own value system, personality, training level, and many other factors. History demonstrates a somewhat cyclical commitment to church division and sadly, weighty emotions regarding the "right" way to approach religion. I do not see this changing and might even go so far as to embrace some diversity at least globally if not locally.

Yet there are also several efforts to avoid the kind of polarization that can divide families, churches, and yes even nations. These occur in the form of large events found in revivals, rallies, and conferences. Ironically, these same kind of unifying events occur in media through the radio, internet, and television. Given the immense success of religious experiences outside of the traditional church concept, it is no wonder that churches are examining more creative ways to present the Message.

One of the finest ways to bring people together is through music. In the popular music world, I have witnessed over 10,000 people singing Hey Jude together. I have heard thousands of performances of Happy Birthday and the National Anthem. Music is a unifying force that occurs daily in all walks of life. In churches, I have experienced the joys of singing How Great Is Our God or Because He Lives or Holy, Holy, Holy. All these moments were meaningful due to their collective effort and their wide collaboration of people.

The power of music as the glue for wide-spread and ubiquitous joy is infinite. Music as a universal language may be mythical but the properties that make sound a unifying element remain true. Music may in fact be one of the few common goods in existence today, particularly as regards large quantities of people. And sound is free.

This is not to say that all organized sound is without a cost for often the very act of organizing vibrations into systemized patterns results in high costs for everyone, but it is to say sound in its inception is available to all regardless of the socioeconomic level. So by its very nature, sound is common good both in terms of its costs and its results. Music as the ultimate community brings together the old, the young, the rich, the poor, the educated, and the uneducated. How dare music, with all its natural quality, polarize people. It is time for the goodness to unite.

Trading One for Another

It was with great joy and anticipation of some time together that my wife and I headed out of town for a weekend of dinner, a movie, some shopping, and book scouting. After the delicious meal of salad, steak, dinner rolls, and a dessert, we headed the 1/4 mile down the road to the theater. Without any kind of outward expression, I sensed we were both slightly concerned about seeing a movie, since we rarely can find agreement as to taste or style. She tends to like light comedies, whereas I, in contrast, prefer darker more thought-provoking material. Yet, while we have difficulty agreeing to what we both like, it is somehow easier to agree with what we both dislike.

Now I like to think of myself as being a somewhat modern man, a critical thinker, an analyzer of people, things, situations, a curious person with a creative spark, of artistically liberal bent, conservative moral spirit, and a political moderate. After a strong recommendation from several students, we elected to see the current hit, "Watchmen," a super-hero story of guardians protecting the universe. Okay, we were a tad late and rather full from the dinner, and it took us a minute or two to find what we considered to be ideal seats. Neither of us like to be too close to the screen and prefer a nice location near the back and not quite in the center. We got settled and I smiled at my wife and proceeded to watch the movie.

The opening scene, which apparently was further into the movie than we thought, showed some kicking, fighting, and space travel followed immediately by the removal of clothes and a moment of unrestrained and uninhibited physical sharing. Not necessarily a prude, especially happy that people love each other, and continually thankful for life's procreation, I nevertheless become uncomfortable with personal invasion of a couple's intimacy. This particular scene hid very little and quickly became quite intense. My wife and I looked at each other, frowning and wondering what kind of movie we were experiencing.

Very soon, the scene shifted to a jail cell where an unattractive but fit man was incarcerated. Outside of the cell stood a large and again unattractive man sneering at the prisoner. But as he reached inside, I suppose to add insult to injury, the man in the cell quickly tied his hands. At this point, a small man began to laugh and produced a circular saw. He then proceeded to cut off the man's arms which resulted in a massive amount of blood flying everywhere.

This crossed my personal line, which was already pretty close by this time, and we got up to request a change of movie. The management politely complied with our request and we found ourselves watching "He's just not that into you" a movie primarily about finding and developing relationships. While we did avoid blood and nudity, I was unable to mask my own lack of interest in the subject matter. Of particular concern to me was when the husband admitted his poor commitment to fidelity which was subsequently forgiven by his wife. Later when she determined he had lied about his smoking habit, she divorced him based on the missing honesty. Not being entirely sure I understood the moral position, I left the movie feeling disappointed and maybe slightly confused at modern philosophical and moral issues. So it was either sex and blood or weak value systems, all of which left me rather empty and regretting the experience.

All in all, an unrewarding movie experience made bearable by having my wife with me. Such was our date. Maybe going to movies is something we should avoid at least for awhile. Maybe the future is dinner and a walk in the park!

Art, Photography, and Literature

One of my favorite and most respected authors, a man with over 40 books to his name and several screenplays, said something in a forward to a book on fiction with which I cannot agree. He made the statement that the advent of photography created a dearth of western writers who cannot compete with the grandeur and beauty of western photography. He said that it would take a wordsmith of great skill to improve on the picture of horses running.

As I think on this author's western fiction, I realize the element that is not present in his writing. He does not expend much time or energy describing the land or the region. Instead, he tends to use marvelous stories and people's reactions to events and circumstances to provide the reader with an image of the country. After reading his comments on photography, I am beginning to understand his approach to writing and why I have always wanted to read more descriptive language on the land. Ironically, I also know this writer is a visual type of person who has a great love of the outdoors and a warm sense of beauty and awe of the country.

Before proceeding, I want to reiterate my respect for this writer and my own hesitation to be a critic. I am not convinced it is my place to disagree with such an austere and successful writer, one whose achievements are remarkable, and one who is held in high esteem by the literary world. Yet perhaps it is my own admiration and knowledge of his works, that gives me an opposing view at least on one issue.

While photography is certainly an art form and a "picture can be worth a thousand words," I nevertheless find greater imagery presented in words than in a photograph. Now I realize that is a bold statement and must be qualified in order to give it greater credibility. For instance, to state that "the tree is an oak tree with green leaves" gives very little information, thus making a photograph of the same tree much preferred. Yet in literature and in art, I am not interested in remaking the same tree or in some kind of accurate physical description of the tree. Instead I am interested in perspective, perception, and perspicacity. I am fascinated with the emotions of the tree or its history or its future or its place in the universe. I want to know what the writer is feeling as he describes the tree and I want to see beyond the obvious characteristics of the tree. And that is why I prefer a written image of the tree.

To take it another step, in art I prefer a more abstract rendering of the same tree. While I can certainly respect and am in awe over the sheer artistic ability of a person who can create an exact copy of the real object, in truth it does not interest me nearly as much as another artist's abstraction of the same object. It is well and good to be able to paint realistically and naturally, but the depth of expression occurs from an artist's concept of what the tree means to him. To attempt visually to portray the emotions, light, power, and perception of the tree and how it appears to an individual regardless of its collective impression, is to reach deeply for meaning. As you read, take a moment to scroll down the side of this blog-site and study the Salvador Dali artwork. You may love it, or hate it, or maybe be indifferent to it, yet perhaps it does strike some kind of emotional chord, and maybe it causes you to pause in contemplation and in thought. And that is why I prefer abstracts over naturalism in art.

In literature, a description of our tree that produces in my imagination an exact duplicate of a typical tree is certainly to be valued, for to write a sentence or a paragraph that produces a pictorial representation with all its intricacies and without the nebulousness of most writing is to be precise, albeit unimaginative. Yet, to write a sentence that evokes emotion, feelings, confusion, complacency, or the past, the present, the potential, is to write at a more meaningful level. This is not to say that a writer who chooses to present the world in terms of circumstances and events is a poor writer. Perhaps, in fact, it is a sign of a great writer who can depict nature through the eyes of the events of the people. Yet, for me, I prefer a moment or two, a sentence or two, that describes the world in terms of the feelings gained. One of the best books I have recently read that does this very thing is The Road by Cormac McCarthy.

Tucker: "When I encountered the oak tree, boldly bursting forth with green leaves, full and sturdy, demonstrating heartiness through its large, but rough exterior, at a height proving many years of dedicated growth as it towered above the other trees, I felt a surge of optimism, not at the formidable size, but rather at the tiny acorns that adorned its branches. The acorns sent a message to the minions, of which I am, that in spite of our years, we can still be productive."

It's Their Musical Language

Excerpting a quote from a comment on a previous entry, I wish to elaborate on this concept of the musical language. It has been said the music is indeed a universal language, and for what it's worth, I have subscribed to this myth for much of my life. The problem with the concept is that it is just not true, at least not literally. Perhaps in some kind of general philosophical sense as related to all of humanity, one could argue that music--albeit organized sound produced from vibration, is universal. But music as we call it in our culture is not comprehensively universal when other cultures are included in the discussion.

In other words, unless one expands the definition of music to include all sound regardless of its organizational system or to include a broad emotional experience to any kind of sound, a questionable practice attempted during the Baroque period, what we call music in our culture is not universally the same in other cultures. This means that music is not and cannot be considered a universal language. Ironically, in many ways, this is comforting for it does indeed demonstrate that music has its own meaning and application to different people.

It stands to reason if music is not a universal language, then it must be a specific language indigenous to a specific culture, type of person, or even a generation. Music, as in any ideal, cannot be two antithetical events--universal and non-universal. This requires us to delineate and define music's role in prescribed cultures or age groups, at least to an extent. Is it possible or even likely that music must be approached and understood in terms of the listener or performer rather than in broad, sweeping ideals that actually lessen its greater meaning? I think so.

Obviously, at this point while there are dangers in excessive generalization of expectations of certain sounds to specific age groups, there is enough truth in the quest to make it a worthwhile gesture. This brings me back to the statement "It's their musical language." The argument, and I believe it is a good one, is that youth tend to respect, acknowledge and respond to "contemporary" sounds more than "traditional" ones. Before proceeding, I must qualify that I am leery of using these terms, weak terms at best, due to their inherent nebulous definitions. What is contemporary to one could in fact be traditional to another. Yet for now, these terms will have to suffice in our discussion.

Regardless of the accuracy of the terms, the point is well-taken. Teenagers do seem to prefer the sound of syncopation, drums, guitars, and a casual approach to music in churches. Going back almost 50 years, youth do respond to a solid beat with drums. I certainly did, my children do, and the students I taught in public school always did. While that need for a driving beat does wain somewhat with time, and certainly most of us no longer appreciate the volume or roar of a loud guitar, in a sense the "contemporary" concept always stays with us. As an experiment, try playing "Stayin' Alive" sometime in a crowd of people. Almost instantaneously, people of all ages begin to move their bodies in rhythm, in a natural response to the beat.

Having talked around this subject quite a bit, it is time to support the comment from my friend in San Diego. No question that our youth speak a particular musical language and to battle that or deny that or even disparage that truth is to polarize the very essence of our future. As previously stated, we do not expect people to read their Bibles in Greek or Hebrew, why do we ask our youth to respond to music that is outside of their preferred language? With that in mind, I must concur that music in our churches, without sacrificing theological truth, should continue to reach people of all ages, all types, and all backgrounds. That is why I propose an eclectic musical language, drawn from many sources and one that is inclusive for and about everyone.

Yet, conversely, I am not interested in anything but a "traditional" and established textual presentation. The Bible does not change. People change, societies change, cultures develop, attitudes alter, technology governs, but the Bible and its truth is immutable.

Special thanks to the person in San Diego for inspiring this entry.

The Equalizer

I recall watching a television series years ago called the Equalizer, a well-acted show with good writing and moral purpose, but containing limited plot potential. Its basic premise was centered around a man who "equalized" the odds by using his intellect, experience, and superior skills. A show about a man who watched out for the "little" guy, a hybrid of a Charles Atlas type hero mixed with Chuck Norris, a man whose goal was to put an end to the bullies kicking sand in people's faces. Yet even as the Equalizer evened up the odds, he also educated people in the art of being their own "Equalizer," not unlike teaching a man to fish rather than just giving him dinner. Unfortunately, the drama turned into an international espionage conflict that soon lost the interest of viewers.

I was recently sent a website containing thousands of files of music in public domain. The files could be downloaded and printed for study, practice, or even performance. A musicians dream. Yet, one particular file appeared to have been copyrighted in 1961. I decided to avoid that file and moved on to the ones obviously in public domain. Later, however, in reviewing copyright law, I discovered that it was more likely the company who published the work in 1961, a work written in 1860, had broken the law by attempting to copyright a work in public domain. The publisher had a right to publish the work, but not to try to prevent others from copying it. A sticky issue for sure but one worth studying. Aside from that situation, I was and still am in awe over the music that is now available at my fingertips.

In a strange but expected turn of events, the internet has become an "equalizer" of sorts. The "little" guy is now the poor musician who cannot afford to pay $40 for a piece of music that was written 200 years ago, but yet would like to perform it. So along comes the internet, with its pdf files, scanning abilities, and wide range of possibilities, and suddenly, almost overnight, the musical world is available for very little cost. The "big" boys in publishing cannot kick sand in our faces any longer. We musicians bought the armbands, worked out, and became the publisher that Charles Atlas wanted us to be. We now can download thousands of pieces of music and perform them without having to deal with some restrictive giant called a publisher who holds the "rights" in his thorny palms.

Of course some publishers do create "fancy" editions for their music, with nice covers, readable notation, and supposedly accurate scholarship. Plus these "elite" works look nice on a shelf, in contrast to pdf files that are simply paper, paper that may or may not look great, paper that will probably be thrown away or filed for future performance. As in all great markets, the choice is up to the consumer. But the market, the people, speak again, clearly and loudly, for it seems as though most musicians would rather download and use the not so "fancy" music in favor of the free version.

Is the Internet the great equalizer of our world? With its vast storage of knowledge, books, and articles on virtually any subject imaginable, the Internet is giving us little guys, people without much money, people who are not politicians, people who are average, blue-collar workers, laborers, commoners, and middle class a wealth of tools that until recently were restricted to the so-named exclusive of the world. And now with open source software, public domain materials, the vast sharing of knowledge, and tremendous opportunity for individual improvement, the Internet gives rights to everyone desiring individual and collective development. The Net is slowly demystifying many of the elements that we once thought were outside of our grasp.

Unfortunately there are also many consequences, one of which is the mad scrambling of big businesses, especially publishers, to protect their own interests and their own antiquated systems. But let's cover this "problem" later!

Where is the Rain?

This morning, as I sit in the coffee shop, I am disturbed by the lack of rain in our region. Having experienced droughts in the past, I generally do not get too caught up in the rampant discussions of dry weather and the consequences of a lack of rain. This topic becomes a kind of "safe" topic for social settings, a topic that concerns everyone alike, and of which there is only one solution, and nobody to blame. Unlike politics, religion, education, music, food, movies, television, clothing, or any number of other topics, the weather is one of the easiest subjects to discuss and becomes a sort of unifying connection of synchronicity in groups large or small.

Normally, partly due to my contrarian personality, I am quickly uninterested in discussions of the weather and generally avoid participating. I find myself smiling and nodding and showing my peripheral support of whatever is being said about the weather. Of course, who could do otherwise? Everyone agrees that hot weather is miserable, cold weather is miserable, too much rain is a problem and not enough rain is a problem.

So why am I suddenly concerned about the lack of rain? I suppose it is partly economic. The downturn of the economy and the dramatic slide of the stock market seem strangely related to our lack of rain. Obviously the two are totally unrelated and to associate these two events is absurd. Yet, part of me feels a connection of some kind. The market is making a correction of too much quick growth the last few years. While the weather is indiscriminate, and cannot be manipulated by man, in some ways, the weather almost seems to have made a decision to correct itself as well.

Weather problems force us to react. It is difficult, nearly impossible, to predict weather other than in short bursts of time. This creates a reactive situation and a psychological waiting for something better. Meanwhile, people try to deal with the situation as well as possible with some measure of prevention and protection. Because there is not much we can do about the problem, we simply hope for the best and deal with whatever situation is at hand. Weather can create great economic challenges to farmers, ranchers, institutions, and small businesses, all of which trickles or maybe even floods to everyone directly or indirectly.

Back to the lack of rain. The dry weather is a serious situation right now. Tanks are low or dry, cracks in the ground are large, the fire hazard is extreme, and the lack of water for animals is of great concern everywhere. This creates an economic situation that at first seems rather benign, but upon closer examination is actually of a serious nature and cannot be ignored.

Of optimistic spirit, I believe rain is around the corner for us, and I also believe the market will hit the bottom and begin a long, and probably slow, climb upward. The rain will fall and give us, the land and the animals, moisture for our parched world. All will be well and we may learn to appreciate the good times as well as the bad. We become stronger and hopefully wiser from our difficult times and somehow weather seems to exemplify the up and down of our economy and perhaps our lives. In the end, there is not much we can do other than work hard and trust in God.

Random Thoughts this a.m.

I quit blogging for awhile after a flurry of essays in the month of January. Now it is March and I am reminded to return to my desire to express myself by writing. Please forgive the randomness of this entry.

I sure enjoy a good cup of coffee in the mornings. Not too much, but a little is a good way to start the day. Sometimes shared with friends, sometimes alone, but always a time for positive reflection of the goals for the day. While I have little interest in the weather, and in fact quickly become bored with weather discussions, I have noticed a significant mood swing in people due to the conditions outside. Just an observation and not worthy of much thought.

Switching directions for a minute. I often wonder where our society would be had not slavery been a major industry in our country for so long. Is it possible or even likely that financial and industrial development would have been slower? Did slavery contribute to our development as a major force in the world? Or did slavery and general bigotry that pervades our country's history actually slow it down in many respects. This is certainly true when one studies culture in terms of refinement and human improvement. Like most people, I consider slavery one of the most despicable and embarrassing events in our history.

Let's think on church music for a minute. While hymnody was finding its voice in the middle of the 19th century through great hymns developed in the Methodist church, at the same time, African-Americans were singing and worshiping in their own brand and musical language very different from that of their anglo counterparts. Because of the mystery, maybe fear, that people ultimately had of the slaves, is it possible that an entire body of important musical literature has been displaced as having merit? Even today, do we tend to look at African-American religious music with a curious form of rejection of worth in modern church worship? Has this contributed to segregation of worship in today's world? I believe so. In fact, I think this polarization is manifested in what we call worship wars in the church. In thinking through this issue, I realize that worship wars have a history in our society dating back before the civil war. More on this later.

Sitting in the coffee shop, enjoying a good cup of coffee, listening to jazz, and thinking about church in a few minutes, I search deeply for meaning and purpose in this world. Being a pragmatist in daily life, of course everyone is to an extent, I also often dabble in philosophical thought and my ultimate role in the world. This is one of those times. Is my eclecticism, my broad interest base, my strange brand of creativity and artistry actually beneficial to anyone? I just can't decide. Perhaps it is time to narrow my focus. Not sure I can though.

I am almost done with another biography of Blind Tom http://www.blindtom.org and continue to be entranced, angry, joyous, and in awe over his life and complex issues surrounding his gifts. What an amazing and frightening story with large social questions that have meaning even today. I would enjoy hearing what other people think about the saga of Blind Tom.

So my random thoughts are taking several pathways this morning but none are necessarily negative. I think writing helps me overcome my tendency to spiral downward. I feel better already. Time to accomplish something positive.

Blessings and Perspective

As we drove quickly on the wet streets of Lake Charles, Louisiana, wet from a light but steady drizzle, breaking all speed limits in an effort to get to the hospital to treat the wound on my ankle currently gushing with blood, I thought back on the events that led to the accident. We were replacing the old air conditioner unit on the outside of the church office complex with a new and more efficient unit. Due to its substantial weight, several of us were involved in the project. The rain and muddy conditions required the use of boots and gloves, of which I only had boots, having forgotten my gloves. Sloshing into the mud, I chose to lift the side of the unit closest to the building, with the other three men at each corner.

The goal was to lift the unit move it a few feet closer to the building and install it on the platform built to accommodate it. Once it was in place, we would complete the installation (without the electrical component) and go get a cup of coffee. Unfortunately, perhaps because of the mud or maybe the wet hands or a combination of both, it slipped on the count of three and landed solidly on my ankle, stripping the flesh to the bone, resulting in a hurried trip to the hospital. Since the pain was somewhat delayed, for whatever strange reason, it was with a kind of disconnected curiosity that I tried in vain to control the bleeding all the way to the hospital.

The wait for the physician was short and I was wheeled into a room to think about the dreaded numbing shot, irrigation of the mud, and the inevitable stitches. A flushing out of the wound, however, revealed a very deep gash with possible dirt still entrenched within the tissues. The decision was to clean it out a couple of times, then pull the wound together without stitches and send me on my way. So I lay stretched out in the room waiting for the next "cleaning" and wondered why hospitals were so cold, and why things like this tended to happen to me, and began to wallow in self-pity. Something I was pretty adept at doing.

A few minutes later, at approximately 10:00 in the morning, I heard a dramatic noise that seem to be a dissonant blend of moaning, banging, and yelling from several sources. Confused, I tried to look, but the curtain prevented any kind of observation, yet I knew things were grim and the nurses and doctors were working quickly on whoever was near me. I overheard things like "spinal injury" and "accident" and "over the limit" and "must control the bleeding" and finally "looks like he'll make it." I was frightened for the person and felt somewhat embarrassed about my little situation which turned out to be as minor as a gnat buzzing around a cow, particular compared to the obvious emergency next door.

In short order, I heard a commanding and resonating voice saying, "Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith, please blink if you can hear what I am saying to you." The man must have blinked for the officer of the law continued by reading his rights to him and asking if he understood. The subsequent charges were criminal neglect, driving under the influence, and several other charges I did not completely understand. The officer then proceeded to tell the man that he was partially paralyzed, intoxicated, had destroyed his own truck, hit another vehicle and caused severe injury to two other people. The officer then informed the man that he had no medical or auto insurance and asked the man to blink if he had any family that could be contacted. The man must have chosen not to blink for the officer then proceeded to tell the man he was in a serious situation, legally and medically. I could also hear the disdain in the officer's voice. I thought heard a nurse say the word "hopeless" in a menacing undertone.

Thinking about the man next door who could not move and had created a terrible tragedy of his own making, a tragedy that affected many people, a tragedy that would never go away, I looked at my ankle and felt the tears of sorrow for the man and the lives affected by his poor decisions. As the tears flowed, they soon gave way to a different emotion, one of gratitude and perspective, and I realized with grave humility that my problems were small, and I should focus on how to help others from causing their own trials. Self-pity was replaced with resolution. This singular event led me as much as anything to become a public school teacher. While I have no knowledge of the man, or what happened to him, I do have the scar on my ankle to remind me of that event, a scar that says to thank the Lord for the blessings and keep everything in perspective.

Unanticipated Success

With Joel, our autistic 19 year old son, recently completing his high school years, it became paramount for his guardians to provide for his well-being and give him the opportunity for meaning in his life. Yet many questions remained with us, as his guardians, on our role, our goals for him, his preferences, and our community's acceptance of his differences. Should he try to get a job? If so, what kind? Should he stay at home? If so, what would he do? He watches television, he plays some games on the computer, but he doesn't read much, he doesn't get much physical activity. What would he do?

Connected to these concerns were even more basic questions. What and where would he eat? How would he get places? Would he take care of himself without our constant prompting? Could he handle people's questions or would he be assertive enough to solve his own life problems? Simple things such as bathrooms, drinking fountains, grooming, blowing his nose, all the things that we take for granted have to be taught to Joel. For us, the easiest thing would be to leave him home with lots of food in the pantry and not worry about it. But the question remains, what is best for Joel?

So we entered the rushing, turbulent river of life with great care and not just a little trepidation, looking for the calmest spot with shallow water, stepping gingerly so as not to fall or upset current flow too much. We held his hand, knowing we would need to let go when we were sure his feet and his journey would take him across. We then watched, ready to grab him if needed, ready to steady his steps, ready to find another crossing spot, but also ready to let him do this by himself.

It was all a careful and deliberate process of preparation and education for him and for us. Step one: Find out Joel's goals and make sure they are consistent with our own for him. Step Two: Find territory to match his goals. Step Three: Contact City Rides for scheduling and transportation possibilities. Step Four: Educate Joel on the process. Step Five: Monitor closely but encourage independence.

Joel's goals were to work in a library shelving and sorting books, and to work in the mail room at the local university sorting mail and delivering packages. He also did not want to wake up too early for this but did want some time to practice organ at school if possible. Thankfully, and not surprising, these goals matched our own. Finding the territory was a little difficult and involved interviewing librarians and mailroom workers. The interview also gave prospective employers an education and an opportunity to meet Joel and how to deal with him. Again, thankfully, we found employers willing to give it a try. In my mind, these are the heroes of this story. People willing to take a risk to help a disabled adult.

The transportation part of this story was complicated at first due to our living away from the city and our concern about Joel's readiness to get on a bus by himself. Yet for minimal cost, a small bus pulls up to our house and Joel gets on the bus and rides to work everyday at 12:30. It is a remarkably efficient system with drivers who care and make safety and comfort a priority.

We spent two days doing a dry run with Joel and showing him the path and the system for success. He was both malleable and excited about the opportunity. We then double-checked with the people to make sure all was in place before starting. The first few days we monitored the process, made a couple of adjustments, and then let Joel do it on his own.

While we are not so naive as to believe all is perfect, at this point, it is working much better than expected. He has risen to the challenge, responded with independence, and feels a contributing member of society. While he is not yet a paid employee, since all is voluntary, we are hoping to move him into these same positions as a part-time paid employee. Part of the reason he is not being paid at this point is the restrictive minimum wage law that does not allow employers to pay less. I have good reason to suspect the employers would be more willing to pay him something if they did not have to pay minimum wage. This is an example of how minimum wage hurts not helps the disabled. But that, once again, is for another blog someday! Meanwhile, we and Joel are excited with his success, a success that was unanticipated but much appreciated.