What the Heavens Declare

I wandered through unfamiliar Blogger territory this morning and stumbled upon Seedlings in Stone: Consuming Beauty, by L. L. Barkat. Out of my own dislike of being redirected out of a post to another post in the middle of a post, I have reproduced it below, sans picture. I hasten to add that I think the blog deserves a visit, and I don't mean to imply otherwise by copying the words!

“We cannot co-exist with beauty, without facing the instinct to consume it. That's what Caitlin Neufeld says in her article "Buying into Beauty" (Geez, Summer 2007). Our consumer attitude, she asserts, runs the gamut from wanting to share a sunset, to wanting to write a story, to wanting to take a picture. Sex and picking a flower were also included in the list.

“I pondered her thoughts and wondered what beauty really means. Isn't it by nature something that stirs up desire in us? Without that desire, would we really be talking about beauty?

“In the end, I couldn't help but wonder where the fine line is between consumption and celebration, exploitation and appreciation. It seemed that for Neufeld there was no line at all. To want to preserve something by taking it home in any form, even as an inspiring memory was problematic. And so I left her article with a haunting sense that, indeed, I might be judged for consuming beauty.”

Here's my response… to beauty, if not to the substance of the post. I fear it will expose my rather "consumerist" approach to beauty, so described.

So be it.

I awoke early this morning to the sound of thunder that rattled the walls of the house and sent our more skittish kitty scurrying for cover. My heart quickened when I came to consciousness of the storm, because I had been praying for rain fervently for days as I watched the stream in our yard, so central to the wildlife here, dry up into nothing but a few puddles covered with a dull patina of rust and algae.

Afraid in my half-asleep state to somehow *jinx* the rain, I lay quietly, listening to the irregular pounding of water on the window and counting the seconds between light and sound. But I was soon discontent to be huddled there under the covers with MooMoo purring next to me and Daniel breathing gently and rhythmically.

Throwing on a pair of pants and a lightweight terry jacket (the only thing with a hood in my summer closet), I rushed outside into the pouring rain and walked the banks of the swollen, rushing stream. The sight of the water, flecked with white where it crashed into itself, the sound of its haste, the damp aroma of the sodden earth, the feel of the tiny tributaries that fed it washing over my toes... all of it brought such a profound awe, and I found myself rejoicing, laughing, and wishing that there was some way I could convey the joy of that moment to another living soul.

It wasn't the nature itself I wanted to share, really. Through other eyes the waters would simply have been filthy runoff, and the soggy lawn nothing more than a reminder of the practicality of mud rooms and shiny yellow rubber boots. What I wanted to share was the promise the moment whispered in my heart.

By the time I went back indoors, I had collected rain in my coat and hair, bits of earth on my half-naked feet, and a few digital pictures to help me remember when the stream dries up that it will not always be so. The beauty of the spreading waters gave birth to a renewed conviction in me that God's providence is always at work, even when its workings are hidden from my imperfect sight.

The Psalmist says, "The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands. Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they display knowledge. There is no speech or language where their voice is not heard."

The heavens indeed proclaimed God's glory, and they showered down His blessings this morning.

Where we find beauty, we find God.
Where we find beauty, we find knowledge of the holy.
Where we find beauty, we find redemption.
Where we find beauty, we find glimpses of heaven.
Where we find beauty, we find our souls reaching toward their Creator.

I think God has designed us this way, to desire the beautiful, because through beauty He quenches our parched souls and floods us with His love. The danger is not in consumerism, per se, though consumerism is certainly a very limiting approach to the world around us. The danger is not in wishing to take something away from or to share or to add to or interpret the beauty we see. The danger is much more primal and much more elemental. The danger is idolatry. Even the fundamentally pure and holy creation God called "good" is not to be possessed and desired for its own sake. Beauty in nature and in other people is what is best about us, it is the divine. Surely human relationships display this truth when they are at their best; they are a reflection of divine love, which is passionate and all-consuming, in the most exalted sense of the word.

Beauty is to be reveled in and shared, because it is the voice of the Lover of Mankind to those He created in His own image, and He will not leave off professing His love until He has drawn us to Himself fully, completely and finally.

I for one, am still being wooed.

Meltdown

I was sitting here trying my hand at writing some short fiction when my ears picked up on a distant low growl, which soon developed into a full-blown siren. A three-minute long siren. Let me tell you, three minutes is an awfully long time when you are not sure whether to panic, send a final love-note to your husband via the wonder of the internet and settle your eternal accounts with your Maker before watching your flesh melt like the wax dummies in Raiders of the Lost Ark, or just yawn lazily and get back to your typing.

I know enough to realize that disasters at nuclear power plants are very rare and usually very well contained. So well contained, in fact, that the number of deaths related to plant accidents is much smaller than the popular imagination would have it. I am sure the chances of dying from a nuclear accident are probably about as great as the odds that I will be bit by a shark while being struck by lightning in an airplane full of snakes before plummeting to my death by impalement on the spike of an Eigentumshelm... but still, the sound of a nuclear siren when you live in the 10-mile radius known technically as the "oh crap!" zone, when you didn't know it was coming, causes a more than a few heart palpitations and a jolt of hot adrenalin.

Um, so, to backtrack. I'm typing, the nuclear siren sounds, and I send a frantic little message to Dan via Google talk saying something like "Oh crap" "Nuclear siren". I'm a rather capable person, and I was prepared for just such a moment. Tests are run regularly on the siren system so that in the event that they are needed, they will work. I have read emergency information for just such a moment. I have found local radio stations. I have found local TV. I know where to find the website about the Harris Plant. Or I did until that blasted siren sounded. Suddenly none of my links can be found.

Dan suggests radio and TV. I start with the TV What do I take with me if I have to evacuate? and press the power button. I scramble for the remote and flip to channel 98 to find out which channel is most likely to be broadcasting local information. Of course, once I get there, the guide list has just passed the local channels and is scrolling through the 70 other channels and the pay-per-view options at a leisurely pace before pausing for a commercial break. I pick a local-ish station and turn the volume up. On drones a heartbreaking story of 9-11 disaster begets disaster as I run back to my computer, thinking maybe radio or internet will be the better option.

Rather than turning on the radio in the bedroom I knew we should have purchased a battery-powered emergency radio light... I decided that sound in two rooms would be plenty. I managed to find a local station with streaming audio, so I turned the internet radio on and heard the strange commentator with a raspy voice who is always on this time of the morning was interviewing someone, not about the tragedy that was unfolding in my office Siren sounds do NOT always indicate a need to evacuate, but about some other subject of great global import.

The phone rings. It's my dad. He's asking about car rentals for their visit in October. He's talking calmly into the ear piece while the TV shouts from the living room and the streaming radio swims around my free ear. The cats, they haven't even had breakfast... I had been trying to surf to the power plant site when the phone rang, but instead the browser froze, and the computer refused to budge. Time to reboot, while I dug up the phone book to look for local car rental places.

Are the neighbors leaving? I wandered over to the window, hiked up the mini-blinds and looked out at a woman driving by in her maroon minivan No, she's not in a hurry, is she? still discussing the relative merits of car rental companies with my dad. There was no other movement up and down the street. This neighborhood is mostly deserted already. I'm not glowing, and nobody seems to care enough to broadcast it on the news, so I am pretty sure that was a test. Still looking out the window, I noticed a city works truck slowly picking up green waste from the curbside. Either we're both dying here, or there's nothing worth worrying about.

Dad and I said our goodbyes, just as I found the "information desk" number for the town. "That was a test. They usually send out postcards, but this time they didn't. As soon as I heard the siren I called dispatch because I knew my phone would be lighting up. They told me they just found out about 10 seconds before the siren sounded." I sighed. Um, isn't there some place, online maybe, where people can find warnings about this sort of thing? "I don't know... that's a good question." So, if it had been an emergency, how do I evacuate without a car? "I don't know, honey. Talk to your neighbors. It's not like we can send a van around." Of course not. "You know, honey, if something happens, we're all gonna get real skinny real quick. I figure it's not worth worrying about." She has a point.

I eventually contacted the company running the power plant and suggested to a very nice woman that perhaps, just perhaps, for the benefit of the people who move into town between the informational mailings that come out every three months (just before we moved in, as it happens), they could put a ticker up on the website that scrolls Siren Test Today at 10. "What a great idea! I'll suggest that to IT. Thanks so much for calling." I sighed as she added, "Oh, and welcome to town!"

Meltdown averted. Narrowly.

Life and death at 92°

"More murders are committed at ninety-two degrees Fahrenheit than any other temperature. Over one hundred, it's too hot to move. Under ninety, cool enough to survive. But right at ninety-two degrees lies the apex of irritability, everything is itches and hair and sweat and cooked pork. The brain becomes a rat rushing around a red-hot maze. The least thing, a word, a look, a sound, the drop of a hair and -- irritable murder."
- Ray Bradbury, The October Country, Touched with Fire

At 11:07 today it was 92° in our town, at the weather station about 3 blocks from our little house. I, however, was immune to the irritability factor thanks to the modern wonder of central air conditioning. In fact, today, like most days, I plunged gratefully out into the blistering heat in an effort to thaw my toes. The vent in my office is directly under my desk, so what cool air misses me straight out of the vent tends to glance off the glass desktop and flow right back on to my legs. By the time I stepped outside at about 4:00 pm to check for the mail that didn't come today, the local temperature display on my Google homepage read 103°.

It's very hot here. There's no doubt about that. But somehow the heat itself doesn't bother me... probably because I know I can duck back into the comparatively frigid house on a whim, and it won't be long before even the oppressive heat of a car left to bake in the sun is beaten back. I can't say that the humidity bothers me that much either. Perhaps that is because I remember drinking the thick Dominican summer air with my lungs, and nothing here comes close by comparison.

If my Dominican summers taught me anything, it was to revel in the rainfall that stripped the air of its moisture for a few blessed moments, and left in its wake a cool, calm breath of fresh air that provided some relief from the viscous heat. I remember days spent outdoors in 100° temperatures, building a cinder block house, erecting a wooden fence and walking through haphazardly-constructed neighborhoods of recycled plywood houses. Part of the day would have been spent playing with tiny dark children with bulging tummies and bumpy skin who ran their narrow fingers through my straight hair and tried to touch the blue of my eyes to verify that they were real.

On those days, nothing was more welcome than a sudden cloudburst ... except perhaps some ice cold water, a small bowl of fresh coconut ice cream or the rare treat that was an air-conditioned building, provided the cold wasn't so jarring that it gave me an instant headache. Tired, no, exhausted, we'd stand under the eaves of the sonorous tin roof and let rivulets of water shower us with laughter and strength to do whatever remained to be done before we'd crawl onto the fetid mattresses and swat at the flying roaches that threatened our already scant sleep.

Rain was so essential. Its rhythmic pounding on the rooftops and roads formed part of the rhythm of life. Plants and people grew when the heavens poured. Crops that sustained life, however meagerly, drank thirstily, providing sustenance for the people who labored in the fields, not to mention those half a world away who would buy the distillates of the land in pristine boxes and stir them into their morning coffee.

That's what's missing here this summer. Rain.

We were told it had already been a dry one when we arrived several weeks ago. Watering of lawns must be done on a schedule of alternating days, and, as if by biblical decree, nobody may water on Sundays. Having lived in Southern California, we're no strangers to drought conditions and water restrictions. I'm not sure I remember the last time there was any hint that water was plentiful enough to use it liberally. The brown hills of South County fresh in our minds, we laughed a little at the local definition of "dry" -- especially since the air around us seemed pregnant with moisture and the trees created a skyline of vibrant green. I've since come to realize that there's something about feeling a bit more connected to the land that makes the lack of precipitation somehow more poignant.

When we arrived, the stream in the back of our house teemed with life, and murky, lively water stretched in both directions as far as one could see. Rains caused its borders to creep upwards and outwards and knocked down the long grasses on the banks, and the small wooden bridge served a very real purpose. Today, that same creek has been reduced to a series of algae-green puddles separated by long expanses of dry cracking soil, with occasional outcroppings of moist brown earth where puddles had been yesterday. In fact, I can't see anything now that would pass for a stream in either direction of the largest puddle, sheltered and protected from total extinction by a lone tree whose branches are now bursting with seeds. Instead, we look out on a crack worn into the earth by now-invisible water.

As I have watched the water recede--now to the middle of that forked tree root, now to the bottom, now inches beneath--I can't help but wonder what happened to the turtle we saw crane his neck out of the aqueous green ribbon a few weeks ago. He's not been around. We don't see many tadpoles, either. Then again, we aren't hearing more frogs. We are seeing more snakes and four-legged creatures at the edge of the modest waters. Deer of all ages come around during the the heat of the day, whereas they dropped by only in the morning when we were new to this patch of earth.

I'm kind of embarrassed to admit that most mornings I save about a gallon or two of water, perhaps the run-off from rinsing pieces of fruit and vegetables, or the inch or two of water that remains in yesterday's drinking glasses, and I creep down to my favorite spot on the banks of the great puddle. I watch quietly for signs of life, and then I crouch down and pour the water out onto the ground where it runs off into the shallow pool. Then, still leaning close to the earth, watching for air to bubble up that indicates that some living thing is there under the surface, I pray fervently for rain that will cause the pool to deepen and the water to run again as a living thing.

I want so much to see the life that is there thrive. I want the tadpoles to grow into frogs that will feed on the insects that swarm around the porch light and run their small bodies into my window during the long, hot summer night. I want the deer to find the refreshment of cool water on their parched tongues. I want to know that the skies are giving back what they have taken from the earth. In short, I don't want to see nature exact her own irritable murder of 92°, 100° or 103°.

Sometimes I feel so helpless, restless, here in my air-conditioned room, gazing out on a small corner of the natural world that has existed for millennia without my interference. Still, I feel compelled to do something to halt or slow the inevitable. Ultimately, that life isn't in my hands, but I can't wash my hands of the thought that somehow it is. So, I pray, and I watch the skies, and I look for signs that life goes on.

Place

"I really enjoy forgetting. When I first come to a place, I notice all the little details. I notice the way the sky looks. The color of white paper. The way people walk. Doorknobs. Everything. Then I get used to the place and I don't notice those things anymore. So only by forgetting can I see the place again as it really is." Narrator, True Stories

We've been busy noticing the details of this place. There is so much to see that we haven't seen before. So much that provides "scope for the imagination." So much to file away for when it all becomes commonplace and ordinary.

There's a house on the main street through town. The lawn is high and strewn with skeletal remains of lawn furniture of all sort. There, in a plastic lawn chair, during most of the daylight hours, sits a somewhat plump older woman with skin the color of milk chocolate and hair that looks a bit like it was permanently frozen into place by a Van de Graaff generator. She sits, unmoving, clutching a well-loved baby doll, once the color of peach flesh, swathed in the tattered remnants of a dress.

There's a pond not quite in and not quite out of city limits. Most of the time it lies still and unmolested. But if you happen by at the right time in the relative cool of the evening, you may find two barefooted figures seated atop overturned plastic buckets, dangling bits of bait into the murky water from their simple fishing poles.

There's a field outside of town to the south that has transformed in a matter of weeks from rows of nondescript small, leafy plants to a jungle of large bushes of yellow-green rippled tobacco. Down the road a piece is a small swamp that clearly used to be a patch of forest. Now all that remains are small, dark stumps of trees, peering out of the water as if to mark their own graves for anyone who cares to remember.

Throughout town, and scattered along the road to and from, there are dozens of structures, most of them obscured by a profusion of trees and kudzu vines, that clearly used to be someone's home. Sometimes the windows are boarded. Sometimes a weather-beaten official notice flaps on the rakishly-hanging door. Sometimes a hand-written "For Sale" sign molders on what was the lawn. Almost always you can see traces -- from the sagging roof and tumble-down outbuildings to the vine-draped car frames and silent farm equipment -- of the lives lived there before the place was given up to the elements.

There's a plot of land downtown that at first glance is just a patchy lawn, perhaps a public space. But if you walk by and look more carefully, you can make out, through the grass, the outlines of a structure that was almost certainly a house. A rusted-through pole stands sentinel in a distant part of the yard, now bereft of backboard and hoop. A string of large brown Ts lean, as if they would prefer to just take a nap in the grass, still tenuously connected by lengths of clothesline. Nearby lies the battered wood and brick pump house, and if you look carefully at the ground beside it, you can make out ruddy chunks of masonry brick sticking up through the grass. The house and its occupants are gone, hints of their lives remain.

In the neighborhoods surrounding NC State there are more used book and record stores than anything else besides eateries. The Reader's Corner stands out from the pack. The entire storefront is lined with shelves. And every shelf is lined with books. Every book is 10 or 25 cents, and there is a "honor" slot in the door. So, if you get a hankering to find something new-to-you to read at 3 am, you can walk or drive up and grab a book, as often as not bearing the name of a previous reader in faded ink inside the front cover, leaving only pocket change behind.

There is little need here to separate the new from the old. Life goes on, and what is no longer needed is abandoned. Nobody comes through with bulldozers and restores order where it is lost until commercial interests come in with their master-planned communities and revitalized ideals. Even then, the past isn't obliterated -- it is just slowly asked to give way to the new, acre by acre, and somehow the up-to-date coexists with the irrelevant. The new is built in the shadow of the old, and much of the old remains... a tangible memory of what was. I find it all comforting, somehow. Place is more than architecture and nature. It is our collective experience in the space, and it bears the imprint of otherwise forgettable lives.

Shall we dance?

Unpacking all of the boxes we brought with us from California yielded several surprises, among them the photos I hadn't seen in almost 5 years that were taken on our honeymoon. As I looked at them, I was struck by both how much younger we both looked. But I was even more impacted by something in my face that wasn't attributable to the weight changes I have experienced since our wedding day or my ever-increasing age. Wondering if I was alone in my observation, I asked Daniel what he saw. He said, "You... looking deliriously happy." That was it. In those photographs, I glowed.

It is pretty unreasonable to expect that I would keep the honeymoon glow for years, but even if my visage doesn't wear an expression of rapture, my heart and affections are still very much his. In quieter moments we sometimes talk about life before us. While we remember having childhoods and teenage angst and young adult lives apart, there is some part of us that can't remember what it was like to be just I without we -- like somehow we became fully ourselves when our lives joined. I sometimes struggle to even think of him as a different person, because he feels like an extension of me.

Now that we have officially made it to five years of marriage (which is, of course, just a drop in the bucket when it comes to the time we have lived and hope to live), it's amazing to reflect on how much we've grown together, and yet how much we have to discover about each other... from little things like Daniel's affection for Swedish-style pickled herring to big things like the dreams and aspirations that grow in our hearts as time goes by. So much of the learning comes by just being together and trying new things, each of us exploring paths that we've never walked together.

We've acknowledged this 5-year milestone in a variety of ways, both serious and silly. From a leisurely fondue dinner a week ago, to the bikes we bought still longer ago, reaching this time in our lives seemed reason enough to celebrate why we chose then, and why we continue to choose now, to spend our lives together.

We both had a blast today doing mostly ordinary things around town, and we found ourselves smiling a lot. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised to find that my face wears traces of that old glow tonight, because so many little things reminded me today of why I was so happy to marry Daniel five years ago. Not that I had forgotten... but sometimes when the rest of life has me preoccupied, I simply forget to remember. I was also reminded that while I have spent every day of the last 5 years in Daniel's presence, there are always opportunities to learn more about him and to find even more reasons to love him dearly.

Among our discoveries today was the fact that we can have a great deal of fun together on a dance floor. We haven't tried it since we danced at our wedding reception. Tonight we attended a Carolina Shag lesson and then took those new steps together around the room, figuring out how to make the eight prescribed footfalls work in our own unique way.

It's no accident that partner dances are so often pointed to as metaphors for marriage. If you are lucky, you start with a partner you like, some basic instructions and a bit of encouragement from those more experienced in the dance. But when the music begins, it's all you... and you can work together in spite of the missteps and stumbles, striving to keep in step with one another and the music, or you can work at cross-purposes and lose the connection that makes the dance a partnership, perhaps even leaving the floor before the dance is over. In those magic moments when the dancers genuinely connect, the synchronicity is absolutely beautiful to watch and intensely satisfying, but for most of us, getting there takes countless hours and weeks and years of work, and it's so easy to tire while the music still plays.

As for me... well, I'm still struggling with the steps, and I am rotten at following a lead. I certainly haven't figured out the fancy spins and turns, and I'm a long way from the national championships. But today as on this day five short years ago, when Daniel asks me to dance, the answer is yes... because whatever the dance, there is no partner whose hand I would rather hold.

Knowledge of Creeping Animals

Herpetology is quite literally the knowledge of creeping animals. While I am far from an reptile and amphibian expert, my appreciation for words and penchant for prolixity make me quite happy to have an excuse to use the underutilized word for one who actually IS an expert on such things. Indeed, ignoring the word for the discipline "herpetology" and the related title "herpetologist" is nearly criminal in my mind, and I daresay Daniel agrees. About two weeks ago we watched the epic, um, masterpiece "Snakes on a Plane," in which the protagonists repeatedly and franticly referred to "snake experts," prompting my erudite husband to proclaim, "Herpetologists! They are called herpetologists."

Ahhhh... I love him. And, I confess, I like snakes, too.

I'm not disturbed by snakes in general. In fact, they excite in me more curiosity than disdain, which may explain how all but a handful of the snakes I have encountered in the wild and in captivity in my lifetime came to bite me: I get close enough to get bit. That is not to say that I am reckless... in every case I was quite sure they were not venomous before I laid a finger on them. But, I have received -- from the grass snake in Colorado to the king snake in the gutter of our Whittier house, and the boa constrictor at a friend's house -- numerous little reminders that even non-venomous snakes have a bite.

The snake that opened the door to my curiosity and high regard was Wilhelm Von Snakenstein, or "Willy," as he was known in our house. Wilhelm came to live with us when, one night (a rainy one, I think), Dad came home from his accounting courses, while studying for his master's degree in taxation, with a plastic bag containing a coffee cup that held a little something he had found outside the college building. Willy was a small, unassuming gopher snake who, aside from suffering from delusions that he was actually a rattler and having a penchant for squeezing cute little white mice to death before swallowing them whole, turned out to be quite a pleasant companion. I offer as proof the fact that Willy never did bite me, in spite of my apparently irresistible appeal to snakes.

Willy occupied a small aquarium in our playhouse and dined semi-regularly on the mice we supplied. At first, little more than a baby himself, he could only stomach the rather disturbing little "pinkies," but he grew to appreciate the larger, much more pity-inducing cute little fuzzy mice for whom I always rooted (sometimes more secretly than others) when they were deposited in his cage. Most of them lasted minutes, others lasted days, perhaps giving Willy a little bite on the tail when he worried them, but whatever the length of their stay in the chamber of death, I hated to see them go. Then again, I felt for their executioner. After all, he was only acting on orders from the big Man upstairs. I am sure that if he had been ordered from the dawn of time to enjoy the crunch of a nice beetle or the pleasing coolness of a leaf of lettuce, he would have done as he was told. As it was, he went through the humiliation month after month of having to disfigure himself with a rodent's girth, sometimes leaving, for a moment or two, a strangely long non-bifurcated tongue hanging out of his bulging neck and head.

I liked Willy. I enjoyed having him as a pet. However, my mother, who I don't think particularly enjoyed buying mice for the slaughter and cleaning up snake droppings, finally had her way, and Willy took up residence in the Biology department at Biola University. For a few years I heard the occasional report about his academic career. It seems he preferred fieldwork to office work and tended to slither off God knows where for months at a time, before re-emerging in some cupboard or other when it was time for a nice meal for him and a good scare for some unsuspecting student who just wanted a materials to prepare a fresh specimen.

Willy was amazing, and he was an education for me. Moving here, however, has opened up a whole new world of herpetological possibilities. Our proximity to a small stream and the abundance of trees and tall grasses in our yard makes the place where we live prime real estate for snakes. On our first visit to the property I spied a rather nondescript greyish snake about a foot in length. I still don't know what kind of snake it was, but I poked at it gently with a stick to verify that it was alive. I'm still rather vexed that I cannot remember enough about it to identify it, and it is perhaps for that reason that I have become obsessed with logging and tracking and identifying any and every slithering thing that passes in my line of sight.

We've since seen a 3-foot-ish long black racer snake on the far bank of the stream. I failed to capture it on film, because rather than handing the camera calmly to Dan, who had spotted the snake in his more gentle wandering, I rather clumsily approached the near bank of the stream, disturbing a frog or other jumping creature, which proceeded to plop loudly into the water. The splash was all the racer needed to convince him that the tall grasses beyond the stream were more hospitable, and, true to his name, he was off at what would be termed a run if he had legs.

Racers and lazy grey garden snakes are one thing. Copperheads are another. I am quite certain that I will eventually meet one, and I would like to recognize it for what it is when I do. Yes, having copperheads about makes me a trifle nervous when it comes time to let the cats prowl the chain-link-fenced portion of the yard, because I have been quite certain that curiosity would get the best of them when faced with a slithering, glittering, animated toys. My suspicion was confirmed today when MooMoo found her first snake.

Far from a copperhead, MooMoo's little discovery was a tiny southern ringneck (known as diadophis punctatus punctatus to our distinguished herpetologist friends) that was no bigger than a penny when he coiled up and wished like anything that we would go away. He was so small that it looked very much like MooMoo was again playing with an invisible toy, as she often does when we start to settle down for the night and she becomes possessed by the irrepressible need to run around like a mad-kitty on a catnip bender. He wasn't, in fact, invisible, but he was incredibly small. I captured him in a small container in order to take a few photographs, looked him over to see if he had any obvious and serious wounds, and then let him loose a bit further from the fenced portion of the lawn than he had started out. He slithered almost imperceptibly toward the stream, displaying a great deal of unmistakable relief in his silent retreat.

Once our little visitor was gone, Daniel looked at me and smiled. "Now you have an excuse to go look at some more of those amateur herpetology websites." I grinned back. I did indeed. I did indeed. I suppose that, helped by my field assistant, MooMoo, I have developed a something of a passion for, well, acquiring knowledge of creeping animals.

Introducing Talia Rose

Talia Rose
Born 3:37 am, August 15, 2007
21 inches, 8 pounds, 13 ounces
to Erin (Nikki's sister) and Jon

"What's in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet..."

As it happens, this particular rosebud has a very special name.

Talia is a name with dual meanings, "lamb" (from Aramaic) or "dew from heaven" in Hebrew, and "blooming" or "flourishing" in Greek. (This is the bit that mattered to her mommy and daddy).

While I doubt her parents know it, Talia is also the Portuguese name for a lovely white wine grape, and, in the Sicilian dialect of Italian, the word means "I wish" or "Look!" depending on who you ask.

Talia is also sometimes the anglicized form of "Thalia" -- the Greek muse of comedy.

With all the richness of her name in mind, I wish for this precious little lamb, a life of laughter and joy, and that she may bloom in ever-changing beauty like a rose, and grow in character and depth with age like a fine wine, so that all who see her may be drawn to her ("Look!") and find in her the refreshing dew of the divine.

Music for a While

One of the things that sold us on moving to the Triangle when we were weighing the moving options was the knowledge that there are plenty of musical opportunities here in the area. Now that we've been here a little over a month, we're starting to explore them fairly actively. Dan and I have together signed up to audition for two groups: the North Carolina Master Chorale and the Choral Society of Durham.

We were invited to join the Choral Society of Durham for a sing-through of some of the music they will be performing this season. The season features Charpentier’s Midnight Mass & Carols, Mozart's Coronation Mass, Bach's St. John Passion and Britten's War Requiem. We did some reading of the Charpentier and the Britten. Let me tell you... we did some of it at concert speed on only the second read. Holey Moley, that's not easy music. Both of us were quite impressed by the quality of the singers and their musicianship. Even rough sight reading produced a nice sound, and while there were some notable flubs, there were always a fair number of people who got it spot on. They were also very good with direction... when the director asked for something, he got it.

They had some social time afterwards, which led to our second pleasant surprise of the evening: the people were very welcoming and several of them stopped us to tell us how glad they were that we had joined them and that they hoped to see us when rehearsals begin. They were a nice bunch of people, and they felt like a warm, friendly, supportive bunch... much like the choirs we loved so much at Saddleback College.

The director had a style that both Dan and I liked (though Scott is a hard act to follow!) and was very approachable. He also took time to greet and talk to us, which brings me to the third pleasant surprise of the evening. He asked if we had heard the Pacific Chorale, and when we said yes, Dan added that I had even auditioned for them. My face fell a bit, and the director asked, "Was it not a good night for you?" I replied that it wasn't that it was a bad night, it is that I was asked to do things that really made me a bundle of nerves and that I had not made a good showing because my musicianship is just not that good. I went on to explain that the call I received afterward said, "We loved your voice and wish we could use you, but your musicianship is just not up to par. Go learn some musicianship and come back." His reply? "And that is hard to do, isn't it? The best way to do that is to sing in choirs." I got the impression that he's willing to see potential. He also explained that they do everything they can to make people auditioning feel at ease.

Honestly, I would be disappointed if we didn't make it into this group. It seems very much like what we loved so much in CA. We talked about it, and the deal is that we come as a pair. If Dan and I both make a choir, great! If not, we'll keep looking until we find something we can do together.

The North Carolina Master Chorale also looks like a great group, though we haven't had an opportunity yet to really get to know much about it. It also has a great program for the year, and it has the advantage of being somewhat closer to home. They'll be performing quite a bit of lovely music, but they are also a bit more showy, in that they have special guest artists with greater frequency, televised concerts and a core of professional singers. I am not sure, to be frank, that we (or I, at least) are up to their standards.

So, wish us luck! We're up to Raleigh on Monday for the NCMC auditions, and then Labor Day brings our Durham auditions! The rehearsal and performance schedules of these two large groups conflict enough that we'd have to choose between them in any event.

I have also arranged to check out a third group myself, the Musicians Royale, who do Dickens-style Christmas music in various locations, perform at a Celtic-themed Halloween event and, most notably, are a fixture at the North Carolina Renaissance Faire: singing for the Queen's banquet in the morning, wandering and singing in smaller groups through the day, and leading a rowdy pub sing in the evening. I'm just insane enough to think that sounds like lots of fun. I am told I passed my audition while just talking on the phone, so unless formalities remain, joining officially may just be a matter of desire and coming up with costumes. Hmmm... so maybe next spring will find me at the faire.

That's all for now. We'll keep singing and we'll keep you posted!

It's a girl!

My sister Erin gave birth in the wee small hours of the morning to a not so wee small baby (8 pounds 13 ounces and 21 inches). Everyone is healthy, though I hear the new mom and dad are more than a little tired. Meanwhile, those of us who can't be there to see the newest addition of the family in person are eagerly awaiting the announcement of her name and lots of pictures.

When I have more to offer by way of photos and name, I will post again. In the meantime, here's a picture of what the little one looked like about 7 weeks ago. Of course, it's a bit hard to see her in the photo, but you can see the effect she had on her mommy. :D

Disembarqing

We decided to change our phone provider after a few months of hit-or-miss service, unwieldy do-it-yourself website issues and general dissatisfaction with what is called "phone service." We were with Embarq, a relative newcomer to the scene whose products are priced right, if all you want is a phone that rings and allows you to take calls if you happen to be at home. If you want your voicemail indicator to function properly, if you want the additional service you paid for to block certain harassing calls to work, or if you want your voicemail messages to play in their entirety, because you find messages like "Heeeeeeeeeeey Da" to be insufficient, apparently there are hoops you must jump through. Well, I am tired of jumping, and I have made the choice to, well, disEmbarq.

Four hours later, I have been on the phone non-stop with two different phone providers (the old and the new) and I have had the distinct pleasure of being told what *I* should have done to make sure the basic services we pay for each month were working properly, been made to wait on hold multiple times, have talked to different people in 5 different departments because the ones I got were "not trained in" what was I was asking (and apparently weren't trained to know who HAD been trained to answer my question). All I was asking is how much I have to pay them to convince them to let me get my "service" elsewhere. I also had the gall to suggest that a website that purports to make my life easier by making me navigate through about 20 different menus to get to basic information could, perhaps, benefit from an encounter with intelligent design.

I know... this is the way of telecommunications. This is what *always* happens. It's also the way of business in general, these days.

Trying to set up new service was nearly as interesting as being scolded for not having fulfilled my obligations as a customer with the old provider -- that is, my obligation to spend an hour or a week with the "help desk." I also got sent to another department when I discovered that the unbundled service price was actually less than the bundled price for the same services. Pardon my cynicism, but I think a certain cable company which shall remain unnamed outsmarted itself.

(Abridged version)
Me: Hi, I am looking at your "plus" family plan including 1400 anytime minutes and premium multimedia services for $119.99 for two lines. I'm also seeing your voice-only plan with 1400 anytime minutes for $89.99 for two lines to which I can add your premium multimedia services for $25/month. Anyway, since the site does not specify, I would like to make sure that the $25 is a single fee per account, and not per line.
Rep: Yes, that's right. It's per account.
Me: Hmmm. Then can you tell me what the difference is between the premium multimedia bundled with the plus plan and the premium multimedia that can be added to the voice plan?
Rep: Let me look. [dramatic pause] Well, the premium multimedia plan that is added to voice doesn't include music service.
Me: Well, I am looking at your site again, and I see that the $25 additional media plan includes "premium music".
Rep: Oh, well, yes. It includes "premium music, it just doesn't include regular music."
Me: But it seems to me that premium music is actually the better service.
Rep: [reads from a chart] "regular music features 10 channels..."
Me: Right, and "premium music " features 40 channels.
Rep: [pause]
Me: Well, anyway, the reason why this confuses me is that the bundled price is actually $5 more per month. I just want to make sure that if I order voice with the added package I won't be charged for two lines.
Rep: Well, we always offer bundled services to customers for cost savings...
Me: More to the point, you always offer *lower* prices on bundled services that encourage people to pay more than they really need to because they are paying a "lower" bundled price for services they don't need.
Rep: [giggles nervously]
Me: The only problem is that you are actually charging *more* for the bundled services and offering the same services for less if people order them separately.
Rep: I think maybe you are the first person to notice that.

Maybe so.

I am reminded of a passage from Lynn Truss's book, "Talk to the Hand" in which she bemoans the fact that modern customer "service" is anything but! She starts by likening manners to good writing, an analogy I appreciate better than most:

The writer who neglects spelling and punctuation is quite arrogantly dumping a lot of avoidable work onto the reader, who deserves to be treated with more respect. I remember, some years ago, working alongside a woman who would wearily scribble phone messages on a pad, and then claim afterwards not to be able to read her own handwriting. "What does that say?" she would ask, rather unreasonably, pushing the pad at me. She was quite serious: it wasn't a joke. I would peer at the spidery scrawl, making out occasional words. "Oh, you're a big help," she would say, finally chucking the whole thing at me. "I'm going out for a smoke." This was an unacceptable transfer of effort, in my opinion. I spotted this at the time, and have continued to spot it. In my opinion, there is a lot of it about.

Just as the rise of the internet sealed the doom of grammar, so modern communications technology contributes to the end of manners. Wherever you turn for help, you find yourself on your own.Say you phone a company to ask a question and are blocked by that Effing automatic switchboard. What happens? Well, suddenly you have quite a lot of work to do. There is an unacceptable transfer of effort. In the past, you would tell an operator, "I'm calling because you sent my bill to the wrong address three times", and the operator, who (and this is significant) worked for this company, would attempt to put you through to the right person. In the age of the automated switchboard, however, we are all co-opted employees of ever single company we come into contact with. "Why am I the one doing this?" we ask ourselves. twenty times a day. It is the general wail of modern life, and it can only get worse. "Why not try our self-check service?" they say, brightly. "Have you ever considered on-line banking?" "Ever fancied doing your own dental work?" "DIY funerals: the modern way."

People who object to automated switchboards are generally dismissed as grumpy old technophobes, of course. But to me it seems plain that modern customer relations are just rude, because switchboards manifestly don't attempt to meet you half-way. Manners are about imagination, ultimately. They are about imagining being the other person. These systems force us to navigate ourselves into channels that are plainly for someone else's convenience, not ours. And they then have the nerve, incidentally, to dress this up as a kind of consumer freedom. "Now you can do all this yourself!" is the message. "Take the reins. Run the show. Enjoy the shallow illusion of choice and autonomy. And, by the way, don't bother trying to by-pass this system, buddy, because it's a hell of a lot smarter than you are."

This "do-it-yourself" tactic occurs so frequently, in all parts of life, that it has become unremarkable. In all our encounters with businesses and shops, we now half expect to be treated not as customers, but as system trainees who haven't quite got the hang of it yet. "We can't deal with your complaint today because Sharon only comes in on Tuesdays," they say. "Right-oh," you say. "I'll remember that for next time." In a large store, you will be trained in departmental demarcations, so that if you are buying a towel, you have to queue at a different counter - although there is no way you could discover this without queuing at the wrong counter first. Nothing is designed to put the customer's requirements above those of the shop. The other day, in a chemist's on Tottenham Court Road, the pharmacist accidentally short-changed me by 1 pound, and then, with sincere apologies, said I would have to wait until he served his next customer (whenever that might be), because he didn't have a password for the till. While we were discussing the likelihood of another customer ever happening along, another till was opened, a few yards away. I asked if he could get me my change from the other till, and he said, with a look of panic, Öh no, it has to come from this one."Now this is not some callow, under-educated youth. This was a trained pharmacist; a chap with a brain. I suggested that he could repay the other till later - and it was as though I had explained the theory of relativity. He was actually excited by such a clever solution, which would never have occurred to him. Lateral thinking on behalf of the customer's convenience simply wasn't part of his job.

Lynn Truss may be my new hero... even if I happen to disagree about the usefulness of online banking, at least. What happened to service? I hope the next time someone navigates to my extension through my own company's automated switchboard, that I can keep this all in mind. I'm not in customer service, thankfully, but the people I encounter are, in fact, people, deserving of more respect than they get. I should know, I am one of them.

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Waiting

"How much of human life is lost in waiting." - Ralph Waldo Emerson

Lately we've been doing a lot of waiting.

Waiting for the next payday.
Waiting for various and sundry checks to clear our new bank.
Waiting for my sister to deliver her baby.
Waiting for friends to return from travel.
Waiting for the opportunity to fix this and that around the house.
Waiting for inspiration.
Waiting for some guidance when it comes to various decisions.
Waiting for the right moment to share bad news.
Waiting for return phone calls.
Waiting for the car's computer to reset sufficiently that it will pass emissions testing.
Waiting for business hours.
Waiting for the end of business hours.
Waiting for news.
Waiting for rain.
Waiting for the temperatures outside to drop.
Waiting for the meteor shower.
Waiting for that feeling to go away.
Waiting for new opportunities.

Waiting. Always waiting.

Waiting isn't all bad. I imagine that waiting, which fixes its eyes on some nebulous future, is marginally better than guilt or nostalgia, which linger in the shadows of what was and what could have been. Waiting exists in the realm of possibility and promise, and so long as it doesn't turn to worry or dread, it's neutral if not hopeful. Still, it's so easy to get stuck in what feels like suspended animation while we wait for things small and big. It's easy to get stuck, riveted on a far-away eventuality, and miss the things that don't require waiting -- the things that are here and now.

We lay in bed reading last night until most of the neighbors had put out their lights. Then we went outside, armed with a flashlight and our eyes, to watch for the Perseid meteor shower. As usual, the mosquitoes that thrive in the dampness of the stream behind the house gathered like the outcasts of human society descending on the LA Union Rescue Mission at Thanksgiving: in droves, prepared to feast. I became occupied with craning my neck until it hurt to look toward the largest expanse of sky not obscured by the dark outlines of trees or spoiled by electric lights and wondering if that little tickle (now on my face, now on my leg, now on my arm, now on my neck...) was just one of the normal feelings of being heightened by vague expectation of a bite or an indication that the human buffet was open for business. Dan settled down on his back on the deck. I sat by him and leaned back, a bit too afraid of what was crawling on the wood of the deck to feel comfortable digging in.

We were outside for several minutes, eyes to the grey-black heavens. Our waiting was rewarded by a single streak of silvery light across the dark expanse. But in the moments of anticipation before we saw the meteor, and in the moments that followed, when we hoped to see another, I realized that there was something to be said for what was there in the under-appreciated present. Perhaps we didn't see shooting stars, but we did see hundreds and thousands of stars -- the same stars that have given navigators their bearings for centuries. The same stars that gave human imagination a bear, a warrior and countless omens for good and for ill. The same stars that provide the backdrop of predictability that showcases the brilliance of change. Perhaps we didn't see shooting stars, but we had each other there in the stillness. We had reasons to laugh. We had delight in simply being -- and in being there together.

"How much of life is wasted in waiting..." Only the waiting that is devoid of appreciation of the beauty of the present. The rest of waiting is a gift. It's a chance to slow down and see that sameness that gives change its brilliance. It's the backdrop of constancy that makes a shooting star so magnificent to behold.

All the Heart he Needs

Justin is only a day old, but he's not wasting time when it comes to making an impact on other people's lives. Like every baby, he overflows with the newness and simplicity and beauty that brings out smiles and the softer, gentler side of grown-ups. Unlike most babies, Justin suffers from a severe congenital heart defect and will have to undergo surgery in the first days of his life.

It's not clear what the future holds for him -- how much he will suffer, how much he will overcome, how much he will accomplish -- and that's hard to think about. I don't claim to really understand why some of us are chosen to endure hardships that others of us will never face, but I do believe it all somehow figures into a plan that is much larger than our limited perspectives. I don't understand, but I am grateful for the way this little gift of God has already challenged my thinking and allowed me to glimpse God's faithfulness in and through circumstances we would not have chosen for ourselves and those we love.

If you pray, please pray for Justin and his family. They keep a blog here, updated as often as is practical. I would invite you to visit it to see Justin's picture and read more about his situation. His family has bravely chosen to make their very personal struggle public in hopes that it will encourage or help others whose loved ones are born with serious challenges like Justin's.

While medical science tells us that Justin's heart is imperfect, the truth is that he is a perfect creation of God with all the heart he needs to be an inspiration and a joy to others.

The Call of the Wild

So, I think this is what people warned us of when they talked of miserable NC summers. Highs this week have been about 100 degrees, and with about 90% humidity, that means it feels like 111 degrees. In case you were wondering, that is hot. Very hot.

I have become very grateful indeed for the modern marvel that is central air conditioning. The house is always a comfortably cool 70-something. However, once or twice per day -- even when it is very hot out -- I like to step out and take in a little bit of the warmth outdoors. I feel I just must go stare into the trees, gaze at the stream and watch the willow branches sway in the thick warm breeze. Perhaps I am insane. Perhaps I am just feeling the a sort of call of the wild.

Today was no different, 111 degrees and all. The stream (which is lower than usual because we haven't had rain in several days) was alive with tadpoles, and the banks boasted a beautiful red flower I had not seen before. On my way back from the stream, something on one of the larger trees caught my eye. It was a wheel bug, an assassin bug that kills its bug prey by stabbing it with its long tubular mouth. I don't just happen to know this... I went to great pains to learn it when I became fascinated by the specimen outside. Dan's reaction when I messaged him to tell him what I had seen was, and I quote, "icky!" While part of me must concur, I also saw a great deal of beauty in this enormous insect. The details were fascinating, from the wheel on his back and his piercing mouth to the colorful stripes on his lower wings and his prodigious size. The way he blended into the tree bark was really amazing. I watched him for a while, trying to get him to move so I could look at him from a different angle. Fortunately this bug was not feeling aggressive, because adults of this species (which this is) inflict very painful bites.

I find it hard to explain how such a little thing (that would probably cause me some alarm if I found it in my house) evoked such feelings of wonder and fascination... even awe. I was perfectly content, for several minutes, to chase this poor bug around with a scrap of cardboard and a camera, oblivious to the heat and humidity. When it finally had enough of me and flew away, I found myself following its awkward flight. I headed back to the cool, controlled environment of the house with my heart a little lighter for having seen this strange little creature. When the wild calls, I am grateful for the little things that show me how grand this world really is.

White and Nerdy

In case there was any doubt, I am white and nerdy. What may not have been so clear is that "Weird Al" is my Homeboy. No really, my shirt says so.

The world is full of strangeness, and Weird Al Yankovic accounts for plenty of it himself. He was born in Downey, CA, (where I appeared in "Oklahoma" at the civic center) and grew up in Lynwood, which is a whole 15 miles from Whittier, where I grew up. The first music video I ever saw was "I'm Fat", his parody of then-cool Michael Jackson's "I'm Bad." The year was approximately 1988. I must say, I have never been much of an MTV aficionado, but that video remains among my favorites.

While I loved "I'm Fat" from the first viewing, and became aware of Al's existence back in the late 80's, and really enjoyed pretty much everything Al was written since, and lived in Southern California... I never managed to see Al until I moved to the Raleigh area and caught him on his current tour. Dan similarly has known of Al for years -- he recalls a classmate singing "Another one Rides the Bus" ages ago -- and never managed to see him perform.

The crowd, on the whole, was, well... white and nerdy. As Dan put it, there seemed to be a sub-set of the audience for whom Al was salvation and a justification for being. Al is quite a showman, and somehow even his old material still works. With the exception, perhaps, of "All about the Pentiums," which was still fun to watch, his parodies are timeless even where the originals are dated. "My new computer's got the clocks, it rocks
But it was obsolete before I opened the box
You say you've had your desktop for over a week?
Throw that junk away, man, it's an antique."

Dan appreciated different things about the concert itself than I did. He remarked on the number of strings on the Banjo Jim West played, and he identified all of the basses Steve Jay played. I just giggled over the lyrics and the way Al wooed the crown. Both of us admired the musicianship of the band -- playing every genre from polka to grunge to rap convincingly -- and the amazing way that Al manages to enthrall a crowd ranging in age from 6 to 60. Far from being a has-been, he has attracted a whole new generation of white and nerdy followers. Al and Steve Jay, the band bassist, were both gracious enough to meet and greet several of us after the show, and they signed my T-shirt.

I had a lot of fun. Dan remarked after the show that I was a "such a good wife" for buying him tickets. So, I think it was a winner!

For the record, we also ate dinner at Abyssinia, the Ethiopian restaurant in Raleigh. It's a bit of a hole in the wall, but the food was excellent, and the minimalistic decor featured several lovely Ethiopian Orthodox icons. We'll definitely be back there again... even if we are rather white and nerdy.

Church Search? Going Swimmingly...

Some of you are probably wondering how our church searching is going. Well, we have the puzzling but delightful problem of having two parishes we really like... both for different reasons. One is Holy Transfiguration, the OCA parish in Morrisville. The other is All Saints, the Antiochian parish in Raleigh. Both churches are in free-standing church buildings, both are full of nice people, both are decidedly Orthodox, both do all services entirely in English and both have Harley-riding priests... but that is about where the similarities end. We haven't visited the local Greek parish, but we were delighted to find that both the Greeks and the OCA had invited the local Antiochian parishioners, who are without a priest for a few weeks, to join them for services for the feast of the Transfiguration. The Deacon at All Saints freely encouraged attendance at either parish, while reminding the faithful that celebrating the feast with the church for whom it was the patronal feast would be wonderful.

The OCA parish is smaller, with about 90 people who attend sometimes, and about half that number who are very dedicated. The attendance numbers on the average Sunday during the summer are around 50, from the looks of things. The priest who serves there, Father Edward, is a lovely, gentle man who loves to teach and clearly takes his role as priest very much to heart. His wife leads the choir (which is large enough to have all parts represented and small enough to appreciate drop-in singers who can sight-read), and they sing the liturgy with Russian musical settings that are quite beautiful if a bit less familiar. Father and his wife are both converts. They converted to Orthodoxy after returning from missionary work in Germany and finding, to their dismay, that much of what passed for worship of God in the churches they attended had become very "me" centered. The church is a small and tightly-knit family of people of all ages, with the oldest member turning 100 just a week or so ago. One gets the feeling that everyone attending there is needed in some profound way. While there is not a whole lot of pressure to jump right in, we've been invited to sing in the choir when we are present.

The Antiochian parish is considerably larger. They probably have about 250 people coming from time to time, including 150 children under 18. Well over 100 people attend on any given Sunday. The parish is largely younger, which makes it quite vibrant and noisy. There is always some joyful noise from the kids during services, and dozens of children running around and playing together during coffee hour. It's also quite diverse. Their choir is on break for the summer, but the congregational singing makes it quite clear that they have the voices for a truly beautiful choir. Their liturgical settings are very familiar, since they use much of the same music as we did at St. John. Father Nicholas is personable and kind. He's on a well-deserved vacation at the moment, but before he left he took the time to talk to us at some length. We really liked his down-to-earth approach, familiar philosophy and easy manner. He and his wife are also converts. The parish feels larger, but there seems to be a lot they do to connect with one another. It's large enough that one can attend without having to take on extra responsibilities, but small enough that if one wants to help with music or other church ministries, one can.

We went to a swim party, vespers and potluck event at the home of one of the parishioners of Holy Transfiguration on Saturday. It was quite a lot of fun and it allowed us to get to know some of the people at the core of that parish. Vespers was sung outdoors against a backdrop of North Carolina forest. It was hotter than blazes, but the service was very moving. I was the only person present who could sing alto, and Dan was the only one who could sing tenor, so we sight-read the whole thing when asked to help the tiny choir.

We remain at a loss. We think it is important to settle down somewhere before too long, but the choice is not easy. The plan at present is to alternate weeks until we stop alternating naturally or force ourselves to make a choice. I think we will eventually just find that we are drawn in one direction or the other. It's a very nice dilemma to have.

Reading Between the Lines

Dan and I have both been busy with all sorts of things, but we have both managed to find time to read. It is sometimes hard for me to get excited about reading given how much of it I have to do for work, but I have discovered that if I can stand a few insect bites, time spent in the swing under the (mercifully non-whomping) willow tree in our yard is time very well spent indeed. I prefer not to go out there during the heat of the day, but the morning and evening hours are usually comfortable enough for a little quality time with some paper, ink and glue.

Of course, we both read the new Harry Potter book. Without offering any spoilers, I liked book 7 best, with the exception of the final chapter exploring future things in the lives of the surviving characters. Frankly, I thought Rowling tied a few of those things up just a little too tidily. That said, the book was a good read and provided fitting closure to the series. I waited a bit longer to read it than most of the population of the Harry-reading world, but it proved very worth the wait.

I'm also working my way through three or four other books, each of a different ilk. Two of them came from the library -- namely Freddy and Fredericka, by Mark Helprin, and Talk to the Hand, by Lynn Truss. The fictional British royals in Freddy were put aside in favor of Harry, but I look forward to visiting them again soon. Talk to the Hand I just picked up last night. I needed some sleep so I forced myself to stop reading when midnight crept up on me, but I am very much looking forward to the opportunity to pick up where I left off at my earliest convenience. Truss has the sort of biting wit and rather charmingly curmudgeonly character that I find delightful. She laughs at herself as she tackles the rather distinct lack of manners in today's world. My third work in progress is slow going. It's the rather ponderous and hulking tome entitled Le Ton Beau De Marot: In Praise of the Music of Language, written by the brilliant Douglas Hofstadter. That book is a mental workout and something of an emotional ride, and I am barely through the first chapters! It is, in many ways, one man's grief over the loss of his wife in the form of the exploration of one French poem and the many tangentially relevant ways it intersects life. I am also working my way through a tattered old volume of O. Henry stories when I get into a particular reading mood.

Dan is still working on the amazing On Food and Cooking: The Science and Lore of the Kitchen, by Harold McGee. It's not the sort of book that most people read cover to cover, but Dan's not most people. It is the sort of book that ties together science, culture and human experience in a rather unforgettable way... not to mention that it is a great source of the foodie trivia that so fascinates Dan. He's also reading The Sorrows of Empire, by Chalmers Johnson, an Old Church Slavonic Grammar, the occasional programming book and would be in the middle of Landscape Painted with Tea, by Milorad Pavic, if we could find it.

For the family-types who have noted that Dan has a birthday coming up soon, I submit the list of links that currently comprise his birthday wish-list.

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00000DTEW/
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00000DR75/
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00005JLR8/
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0001EFTXI/
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B000007R1O/
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00005UQ7T/
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B000026FQM/
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0152017968/

I think we both are enjoying our books... though I also think it is fairly obvious who is the more ambitious reader.

Change is good.

My supervisor at work has a pretty simple philosophy about change: "Change is good." "Embrace change." To be fair, I embraced a change he wasn't terribly excited about (namely moving to NC), but whenever I am asked to step out of my usual way of doing things at work and accept that things not only can but probably should be done differently, I hear the same things come out of his mouth: "I love change." "Change is great!" For my part, I usually say something like, "Yes, and I am trying to be open to it. I believe you, it will just take me a while to adjust."

This weekend was busy in a fun sort of way, but it also represented some change.

Dan and I got considerably more of the house sorted, and we had some good heart-to-heart talks. But it wasn't all work. We also went shopping. (Okay, so Dan will tell you that shopping is drudgery, but he's misguided--I am convinced of that.) In fact, we bought ourselves early anniversary gifts.

Given our one-car status and the lack of effective public transit in this area, I've had at least two friends suggest that I get a motor scooter of some stripe, but I am afraid that's not in the budget right about now. We could, however, justify the purchase of good old fashioned muscle-propelled bikes. Dan had been wanting one himself, since riding a bike is the sort of fitness-inducing activity he enjoys. I gave it some thought and decided that the utility of a bike had its charms, so we decided we would each look for one.

I confess that I was rather scared when I walked into the bike shop. I can't remember the last time I rode a bike, but strangely enough I remembered all too well the many spills I took on bikes as a kid, including the time I ran smack into the back of Mr. Perry's old pick-up truck. Brake failure? Misjudged distance? I don't remember how it happened; I only know that it did and that blood and scars ensued. I found myself nervously joking about banana seats with the salesman, before settling on a "starter" mountain-ish bike to try. He offered me a helmet and the chance to ride the bike around the parking lot.

At that point I felt I had a serious choice to make: take a chance on falling and looking like an idiot, refuse the test-ride and get to the relative safety of our driveway before attempting to ride, or just conclude that the bike thing wasn't for me after all. Perhaps the deciding factor was my equally vivid recollection of the burn in my legs and the sweat-bath I endured walking to the post office in 90 degrees of heat and 60% humidity. A bike equaled some relief from that, and even the prospect of falling down in the parking lot wasn't enough to match my desire to have another option. So, I hopped on the narrow seat and wobbled back and forth a bit as I made those first uneven turns of the pedals.

I was gripping the handlebars for dear life and my heart was racing, but before I knew it I felt the warm wind on my face and realized that I had done it! I made a few lazy circles, occasionally daring to pedal a little bit more quickly, and then, with a bit of a smile, I headed back to the shop. Dan had been watching from a bench, his bike selected and going through its "tune-up," and he greeted me with a smile and a question about how well I liked the bike. You know... I think I liked it. I felt distinct relief when I had both feet on solid ground again, but I also had the feeling that somehow this whole bike business would be okay.

We're still collecting all of the various things we need to keep the bikes road-worthy and ourselves intact (helmets, pumps, water bottles, gauges...), but we took the bikes out for a little ride in the neighborhood last night after dinner and an episode of CSI. I discovered that biking is work as soon as there is a bit of an incline, and Dan had to slow up for me a couple of times... but I made it home again with another very tangible sense of accomplishment.

The move has brought several challenges, and I seem to be pleasantly surprised when I have what it takes to meet them. So, to echo the sentiment I hear so often at work. Change is good. Change is great. I love change. Well, anyway, I'm embracing it as best I can!