Looking For The Long Ride

Boone, North Carolina, is a small town in the Northwest corner of North Carolina and in the tail of the Appalachian Mountain chain.

Although Boone is a university town, host to Appalachian State University (2005 & 2006 National Champs in their football category) it is not as cosmopolitan as other college towns. We have 1 1/2 theatres (a 6 screen first run and 2 screen bargain theatre), several big chain restaurants, a few coffee shops and some very nice locally owned eating establshments.

There is snow in the winter and skiing; plenty of hiking and canoeing in the summer and lots of tourists and second home owners.

You get the picture.

Yesterday, after eating lunch at one of the more colorful local burrito places, I stopped by a local beanery for a good cup of coffee. Upstairs from the coffee shop is a bookstore which is home to a small selection of books that you might be hard pressed to find anywhere else. I haven’t been in this bookstore in forever and I believe that since the original owner passed away, it has not really kept up the pace—what with the internet and Amazon dot com.

Anyway, I am a sucker for books, especially those that are hard to find. And when I ran into the 60% off table, I was even more intriqued and interested to find something of interest.

What I found was a book of poems called “Garden of Exile” by Aleida Rodrîquez. She was born in Cuba and left around the time of all that trouble during the Kennedy administration.

Now I like words and how they fit together even when I can’t totally figure out what they mean. I have read Frost, Dickinson, Eliot and e.e. cummings, just to name some that readily come to mind. Having said that I will say that Aleida holds her own in the lets-paint-an-image-with-words category.

As I was reading her book of poems, one entitled “Concierto de Aranjuez” caught my eye. Miles Davis and Gil Evans recorded a song of the same name on and album called “Sketch’s of Spain”.

The poem is somewhat sensual or not—which means I hesitate to put it in blogland because of, well you know, mis-understanding.

Now that I am over that hurdle, here it goes:

Vast yellow plain, heat and the meander of memory, incandescent
edge wavering between shadow and light

opens into bright space, the long hot distance vibrating
between us and desire like an empty yellow house

where we’ll never live, the unrequited sun reaching for us
so far below, spendthrifts of its attention

even as it flatters us, aimless on this yellow
plain, interminable as a sermon, but—suddnely—olive trees,

grey-green in the distance, hint at moisture,
the mouth of the beloved parting in the shade.

Out pace quickens and a slight swagger loosens our gait,
foreplay originating in embodiment, our own delight

seeking its twin in the beloved,
our mouths small mountain lakes remembering rain,

we are wet with ourselves, and a melodic curve enters
our bloodstream the way the sky releases its blue snake

into water, breaking the hot surface with such deep wetness,
astonishingly blue to the taste,

its edge cold on our parched
tongues, our sweaty necks, our salty faces,

and where time had seemed childhood’s summer,
it now rushes with water’s

impatience not to preserve narrative but to squander
the moment, and always that seems to bubble from us,

its language loose, emphatic in its surrender,
possession of itself a gift,

now, at the oasis, replacing the plain burning in our eyes
with water, water gazing at the sky.

©1999 Aleida Rodriquez

The line I think I like the most is:

our mouths small mountain lakes remembering rain

As you can read, she is quite the poet—her use of image words and the fluidity of her language is almost intoxicating. With each re-read I get a little more of the picture I think it is she wanted to paint for us. Yet at the same time realizing that to pin something down to one possible scenario is like calling VanGogh’s Stary Night one dimensional. I am sure there was something in mind when she wrote yet the words themselves refuse to be totally pigeon-holed—rather to let the reader have a little fun with his or her imagination.

In the end I must say that living in Boone—while not perfect—has its little perks. Finding stuff like this book in a small nook somewhere is just one of them.

A Dream is: an aspiration; a goal; an aim.

As I was watching a TV program tonight I allowed myself a moment to think about what might be rather than what is.

What I mean by this is that I can see myself walking through Sub-Saharan streets with a life-goal purpose in mind.

Instead of getting up every morning and having a bowl of cereal in Boone, North Carolina, I’d be in some remote village eating wahtever it is people eat in remote villages.

There was a time during the year of 1967 where every day was an adventure of the sort I am thinking about. As I hitch-hiked through western Europe, no two mornings were ever the same—even when I lived in the same town for more than a few days. It wasn’t Kansas for sure.

As I back-packed through Holland, Germany and eventually Italy, when it was time for bed I would either pull off the road and sleep under the stars or find a nice church with a big back yard and roll out the sleeping bag. When it rained and I was on the road, I would often go inside the church or sleep on the porch—leaving well before anybody came around.

These were kinder and gentler times mind you—when a young American could get away with that sort of thing and not be found dead alongside the road.

When I did find my way back to America via a ocean freighter, I never hesitated to mention that a part of anyone’s education should be to visit New York City and travel through some part of western Europe. That in doing so an individual would get a perspective not attainable through any other means.

So when I say I can see myself walking the streets of some far away country, I really do know what that feels like. That sense of newness everyday—the feeling that life is an adventure and that I am in the front seat of my very own travelogue.

As I ate lunch with a friend the other day, I was reminded how fortunate I am in many respects, even though my life is not filled with much intrigue and foreign lands. In the case of my friend, life has not turned out the way he would have hoped and I am sure he would welcome a commercial break for a time away from the drama that surrounds his life. He will make it through and be all right, but sometimes the road is rough and not all that pleasant.

I guess my dream really is to be right where I am—but really live in the moment—if you know what I mean. That no matter how boring things seem, or how many times I have found myself at the same intersection, I would take the time to look around and appreciate the ride I am on. That I would be able to pass on some excitement about life to the next person I meet along the way—something that would help them look at things just a little differently and make life a little more enjoyable.

And speaking of dreaming—that’s a lot more likely to happen than re-visiting Africa—at least for the next little while.

After that, who can really know?

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It has been about three months since my wife and I left the church we had faithfully attended and been a part of for the past twenty-two years. When I say church I am not referring to a building somewhere that we no longer frequent—we separated oursleves from a group or people that we had met with over the years.

One of the first words that I learned when I became a Christian in 1979 was “Ekklesia” which literally means:

a gathering of citizens called out from their homes into some public place, an assembly—in a Christian sense
(1.) an assembly of Christians gathered for worship in a religious meeting—the whole body of Christians scattered throughout the earth.

Like most of us, I had grown up going to church. What that meant was that on Sunday morning, no matter how nice it was outside, you would get dressed up, get in the car and travel to a big building somewhere downtown and listen to a choir sing songs and a preacher talk about things that you could barely understand. As a child you sat by mom and dad and tried hard to stay still and not get the pay attention look from one of them.

As I grew older, it was Sunday school and bible stories and a snack. We heard about Jesus and Moses and Noah and David and Goliath. Skip a few years and as a teenager it was confirmation class and bell ringers and activities in the church social hall.

A few years later, in an attempt to reach a generation that didn’t want to be reached in one sense, the leaders even had me teach a youth class where, as my grandfather said, I brought the anti-christ into the church. He was a conservative Mennonite, I a liberal Congregationalist. I was as far away from being born-again as anyone could be yet was encouraged to reach my own with whatever means I had at my disposal. In class we talked about Bob Dylan and John Lennon and the hippy movement and what-have-you. I guess you get my drift.

The blind leading the blind—been there—done that.

That was church—a big building with a sanctuary, classrooms and an odd musty smell if you happened to stop by when no one was around. It was a different time altogether—they even left the doors open most of the time and never had any graffiti adorn the walls.

So, back to the present almost. You can imagine what I felt when I found out that the church was not the building but the people who were gathered together in Christ’s name. How liberating this was to the young boy inside myself who showed up from time to time during my many travels and adventures.

I was the church or a part of it—a member of the body of Christ.

And even though I have left the “church” I belonged to for all those many years, I am still a part of the church universal.

It is interesting to note at this point in my wandering discourse, how long we as human beings tend to hang onto things and structures that are not functioning properly or lacking in fullfilment. Even though I knew something was broke in my church, I kept hoping that whatever it was would get fixed and things could go back to being normal—even though normal was only a term without a hope of ever being realized. Normal was so far away that it had become virtually unrecognizable.

So, where am I today, having said all of this: out of the box and into a new day.

I like the advertising that Stihl chainsaw company does in the USA Today newspaper. In a full page ad, with large two inch tall letters at the top of the page we read, “You Will Never Find Stihl In A Big Box” or something like that. At the bottom you see a picture of the saw and underneath it the explanation. In essence what it says is that these saws and other stuff they make like weed-eaters, etc. are only sold in small independant dealerships fully assembled and not in Lowe’s or Home Depot type “Big Box” stores.

The meaning is that you get personal attention and service after the sale and that is what buying a piece of equipment is all about.

The body of Christ is bigger than any big box store yet more personal than any small dealership in the world. Each local fellowship has its own flavor and that is what makes the American chruch unique. To say one is better than another is probably a mistake you should avoid making. Some will be more in tune with what makes you click and when you find that type of chemistry hang onto it.

That is unless you begin to feel not as valuable or appreciated. When things start to get complicated and you can’t remember the last time you felt happy or fullfilled. I am not saying that church should be all about you or me—that’s not the point—it’s about a relationship with God through his Son Jesus.

But He did come that we might experience life and that more abundantly (not redundantly).

It is hard leaving something that you have been a part of for almost a quarter of a century—but there comes a time in life when the only way to attain growth is to find some different soil—soil where there are the right kinds of nutrients for the type of plant you are to flourish.

When this happens, your roots feel naked, it seems a little cold and all you want is to be warm and fed. There is life after that church after all.

But no more big boxes for me—the best days of our life really can be those which lie ahead.

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I remember back in the day (the mid sixties) when everything seemed to be beyond our grasp.

We were young adults who couldn’t wait to be grown up: we wanted to drink and drive and vote and do all the rest of the stuff that older people did.

We actually thought they had it together. That they understood the purpose of life.

Oh, how little did we know.

Remember when kissing was a big deal. When everybody went “steady” and getting to college was the real deal.

I actually admired those people who knew what they wanted to do when they grew up. I had no idea what I wanted to be and if the truth be known, still don’t. It has been a great ride, don’t get me wrong, but it is only by God’s provision that I have ended up where I am at.

What can be wrong with that, you ask. Nothing and everything.

I have a good job that provides for my family—we eat regularly and never go without food on the table.

But only if I had really been directed to aim for something I might not feel as if I’d missed it.

What can you miss if you haven’t aimed? Everything and nothing.

One of my many dreams was to live in a dome and have a fireplace that was in the center of the structure and be surrounded by a garden and woodlot and a trout pond and solar energy. But I never “really” wanted it bad enough or I would have begun to make plans for it to become a reality.

Not that where I have ended up (the place I am at right now) is bad or less than to be desired. Many people would walk around the world to get what I have and I wouldn’t give it away, but you know what I mean.

To set goals, have plans, live out your dreams and all that.

I remember when my dad was diagnosed with cancer. I went out to California to be with him while he could still get around. He always thought I could have been (read should have been) the president of General Motors. He thought that I had wasted my life by not “becoming” somebody.

I looked him square in the eye one morning as we were eating breakfast on his patio in San Diego and told him that I was a success. That I had a great job, a wonderful wife, fantastic kids, a good church and church family and that in my mind, constituted a success.

Could I have been the president of General Motors—perhaps. But then I wouldn’t have been who I really was, shortcomings and all the rest of the package.

I remember a time when I was driving along and thinking about all this stuff. I was in several situations with people who really didn’t appreciate who I am and was struggling with the feelings that this dynamic brought forward.

As I drove along I was suddenly overwhelmed with the thought that God created me the way I was and that He didn’t mess up—that He appreciated me in all my semi-realized state of being.

Will I ever get it together and be everything that I was created to be and become.

Only God knows. In the meantime I will keep “keeping on” and trying my best. With His help I will make it and so will you.

The Blog as “Journal”.

Today I visited our new Wellness Center for the first time in several months. I say new because over the past year or so, construction has been going to add a pool, bigger locker rooms and a parking lot to the old Wellness Center. The Wellness Center, being the best place in town to workout, began to get over crowded and over extended.

It’s not that I stopped exercising—I just did it in another way—namely bycyling.

Last March I got a good deal on a Specialized road bike and began my journey into what is being called the “new golf”.

New golf because a lot of guys my age (over 50) are getting back into biking as a way of getting and staying healthy.

Once you get in the saddle, it’s all over. Your days begin with looking at the weather on the computer and rotate around riding days and not riding days.

If you have had a rough day, a ride after work will help you leave it all behind in the asphalt.

When I first started out, I might make it ten miles or so in a little under an hour on the road. The feeling after was one of satisfaction and celebration. Just you, the bike and the road.

I remember those first few rides. I would go to sleep at night re-living every stretch of pavement—every bump and vibration was like music to my ears. It was not uncommon to average 16 mph, which is a pretty steady pace.

I could go on and on about the road I liked to ride on, the friends that began to ride with me and all the neat stuff you have to buy to ride in the fall and winter here in Boone. I’ll leave that for another time.

I said all that to say that that is why I haven’t been to the Wellness Center for a workout in some time.

All that changed today as I tried out the new olympic size lap pool that is part of the latest Wellness Center addition.

Bear in mind that I hadn’t been swimming in some time—maybe three years—and that my speedo had seen better days. But I was pumped up and re-started my membership and today during lunch, swam for about twenty minutes. That’s all I could muster up before I  almost needed help to take a shower and get back in my car for the trip back to work. I had forgotten what a great workout swimming is. And yes, it gets to parts that biking doesn’t even come close to exercising—as good as biking is.

Another thing I forgot to mention is the fact that we have had a very mild winter here in the mountains of North Carolina. And that has led to an extended bike season for those of us brave enough to get out in mild 50 degree weather. This Saturday is supposed to be 63 degrees and I bet you can figure out where I will be around noon time.

Not anywhere near the gym, I can tell you that.

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In front of the High Gallery, Atlanta.

Last night, as I sat in my easy chair, half asleep, I remembered a time from long ago, when on Sunday mornings we’d take a trip to a little town outside of East Lansing, Michigan and do brunch.

This was a long time before becoming a Christian and moving to North Carolina. The restaurant, whose name I can’t remember, was in a town called Williamston. There was art all over the walls and the hip people from the university would gather late Sunday morning for breakfast. It was at that time you could tell who was dating who and so on and so forth.

As I can remember, there was very little talk from table to table—it was more a quiet affair—you and your significant other.

There is more I could say about this time in my life—but what I remember most, besides the feeling of being in love, was the eggs florentine that they served. That alone was well worth the drive.

So, this morning, December 31st, the last day of 2006, I suggested to Sandi that we head to town and get breakfast out. Our goal was to hit Melanie’s Food Fantasy, but on the way saw a sign in the window of Angelica’s, a more or less vegetarian restaurant that has great soups and sandwiches.

Another sign of breakthrough. I actually stopped and opted for the unknown, rather than the known.

This impressed my wife and soon we were seated (the only one’s I might add) and looking at the menu. They didn’t have eggs florentine, but what they had seemed good. We ordered, got some coffee and sat back to enjoy or time together.

Did I mention that as we entered the restaurant, we passed a classical guitarist, who, when he saw us enter, picked up his guitar and headed for his seat.

“This is great”, I thought. “We get serenaded while we do brunch.”

Anyway…breakfst was good—the coffee was good—I tipped the guy for playing so well and we walked through a light mist into our future.

As we walked I thought about it being good to end the old year with the same stuff that you want to start the new year with. Life is an adventure—let’s not let the enemy steal our good times from us. Each day is a new day…a day that holds promise and life.

Lets choose life!

It’s the end of the year 2006 and I say, “What’s the big deal!”

I have been here many times before and even though we hope for more—the end of the year really doesn’t mean that much anymore. One year ends and we are glad to see that happen. A new year begins and we are glad to see that happen.

When I was young, the new year’s eve was a time to party. We’d enter into the evening with such big expectations and leave with a feeling that maybe next year we’d have it together enough to make it really happen

If it wasn’t for calendars, we wouldn’t even have that sense of one year waning and another waxing.

But on a positive note, is is good to know there is an end to one year and a beginning to another: it gives us a sense of passage—that time really is moving forward. That we have lived and not just dreamed it all.

It’s kinda like that Twilight Zone episode where we see two people in a city that appears to be real, but is actually a scale model built by a giant on another planet. The couple have gone from door to door and not found anybody. It is only when they push over a fake tree with no roots do they realize that they are in the Twilight Zone. The show ends and the scene fades as we, the audience, see the little man and women, faces filled with shock, about to be picked up by a giant girl on another planet. How they got into her little playhouse, we will never know. We get the distinct feeling that as playthings, they have about reached the end of their functional existence.

I remember a movie I saw in college called the King of Hearts. It is a French film set in a small town in France near the end of World War I. As the German army retreats they booby-trap the whole town to explode. The locals flee and, left to their own devices, a gaggle of cheerful lunatics escape the asylum and take over the town—thoroughly confusing the lone Scottish soldier who has been dispatched to defuse the bomb.

It was a great move as I recall. The escapees don’t miss a beat as they realize that the whole town is theirs—nothing has changed except everything. Did they live in bliss forever or did the residents come back and set things right. I might have to get it from Netflix just to find out. My wife will be real happy about that I am sure. Subtitles and all.

On a more sober note, all stream-of-consciousness aside, I would really like to believe that 2007 has potential—that all the stuff we learned in 2006 will stick and we won’t have to go through it again—the painful stuff I mean.

Bob Dylan said, “What kind of price to we have to pay to get out of going through all this twice.”

Scripture tells me that, ”
And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose. (Romans 8:28)

So, believing that, even the bad stuff from this past year has had its positive effect according to God’s economy.

It’s like that old saying that if you don’t learn from your past you are destined to repeat it.

Let’s hope that 2007 will be the year that we find our place and begin to appreciate who we really are—all by ourselves—how we were created by God. Not as a reflection of what someone else thinks we are or by what kind of car we drive or the clothes we wear.

It’s cool having a nice car but if you need it to feel important and loved, you have missed the point.

I would also hope that I (we) can get out of my (our) inbred denominational thinking and really embrace God’s people instead of seeing them in whatever church they have chosen to attend. Or whether they do traditional, blended or contemporary praise and worship services. All that stuff is man-made and even though I have helped to create some of the strongholds that keep us apart, I repent and look forward to the day that we can truly live together—embracing our similarities and differences equally.

It’s only Saturday evening, December 30th, and my 15 or 20 minutes blogging is almost over. The African music is still playing in the background. The fire in the wood stove has gone out. It’s too early for bed. I’ve already played the fiddle.

What’s next? Any ideas?