Litany for Leaving the House

Order of service for daily departure from the house. May be used for departure from Day Care or Preschool as well, as needed. Intended for daily observation.

L: Daddy, I need to say my words.
C: Okay.
L: Daddy, I love you.
C: I love you, too.
L: I'll miss you.
C: I'll miss you.
L: Don't forget to lock your door when you're done at church.
C: I won't.
L: Don't forget to unlock your door when you get to church.
C: I won't.
L: Hug, kiss.

The Hug of Anxiety shall be exchanged at this time. The hug may be followed by a kiss on the head. On especially sweet days, a kiss on the lips may be substituted.

L: I love you.
C: You already said that.
L: I'll miss you.
C: You already said that.
L: Bye.
C: Bye. Go watch me through the window.

Blown kisses and waves may be exchanged through the window as the congregation drives away. Failing to follow this order of service will result in the entire litany being repeated many times.

Breakfast today was coffee (Dunkin Donuts whole bean), generic frosted flakes with milk, strawberry banana yogurt, and stale toasted English muffin with Promise.

indifference

During a discussion the other day I brought up a bit of pop wisdom, possibly attributable to Elie Wiesel: "The opposite of love is not hate, but indifference."

Yes, this is the kind of thing I talk about at work. On good days, anyway.

Aside from the pleasurable way it illustrates the slippery nature of the word "opposite" (whence much of my frustration with standardized testing), this quote has some truth to it, at least for high-temperature-emotion folks.

I insert that last qualification about emotional temperature to be fair to a colleague who approached me after the discussion. He wanted to dispute the opposition of love and indifference. He wanted to claim that some forms of love do not have strong opinions. Perhaps he even wanted to imply that a benign indifference can be the most enlightened form of love.

This got me thinking about Buddhism, and the concept of Nirvana, which has been characterized as "detachment" or "non-attachment." What brings freedom from suffering, by the Buddha's Third Noble Truth, is the cessation/destruction of craving/attachment to things that will fade away.

As a teenager raised in the Christian tradition, I heard this as a cop-out. Detaching from the world means ignoring the goodness of creation, right? It means an end to love and passsion and activism, right? After watching "Gone With the Wind" I decided to make my mission statement: "Give a darn" (or variously more vulgar forms of that basic idea--probably not the right idea to get from the movie, but that Scarlett was GORGEOUS).

Well, as I got older I came more to appreciate emotional restraint again. And as I got to know more actual Buddhists, and not just what I imagined about them from superficial reading, I came to see that there could be such a thing as peaceful, non-grasping love which authentically is unashamed to be who I am, and also unanxious to let the beloved be whomever they might happen or need to be without trying to fix them. Infinitely curious, and infinitely generous, but not heated or needy.

This is not what my colleague is like.

He claims to have no fixed opinions and to be willing to go where people need him to be in a Zen-without-being-aware-of-it sort of way, but it is so inauthentic. He is an anxious person who is never seems to listen to others who don't already agree with him. He is unable to understand anything that is not already inside his head. And he appears so wounded when you contradict him in the least possible way that a nice person is inclined to avoid contradicting him at all. So he gets to avoid all conflict.

I remember, at a time in my life when I was extremely inexperienced with relationships and with leadership of all sorts, that I felt a sense of smug superiority over folks who had to have things their own way, or who had such strong opinions that they could not fully participate in a discussion by being persuadable. I felt pride in my flexibility. I have since come to learn that while this attitude has distinct advantages, it also manifests itself as poor leadership or a failure to engage fully in conversation. If I just claim that anything goes, then there is nothing to say, or to do. And the pushy jerks always win.

And my worst sin was this: I didn't know that many of my opinions were just as rigid and fixed as the ones in others that I complained about. And I was so inauthentic about it. This is what I see as the soul of "emotional dimwittage" (to bowlderize Bridget Jones): to be so unaware of oneself and one's baggage as to see it as an advantage, and to attempt to recruit others to the same crippled lack of self-understanding that you are a victim of, or to run others' lives by your baggage, as if you alone know the One True Path to happiness when you in fact don't even know how to make yourself happy without damaging others along the way.

Much better, then, to seek to know oneself, to seek to express oneself, and to stand for things one is actually passionate about. As long as you don't clench them in a destructively rigid way.

Non-attachment is not the same thing as indifference, and not-caring is not love. Of course, hot passion is not the only game in town, either. Why not wry amusement, generous attentiveness, and play?

Lunch was multiple courses of fast food: I fed my boys McDonalds Happy Meals so they could have the Spider-Man toys before school began. I had a grilled honey mustard snack wrap for myself and mooched a few fries and nuggets from them. Then I met more of my family at Culver's, where I had a double Butterburger with everything, including cheese and endless drippings of finger-lickin' condiments, crinkle fries, ketchup, Diet Pepsi, and finally as dessert a scoop of the flavor of the day custard: chocolate caramel nut.

Clearing the pipes

I don't write enough. There I said it. I don't write enough.

I am not only talking about this blog. There are vast swaths of my existence that are unexplored, unrecorded, lost to the ages. And some (few) of them just might be interesting. But do I write them down? Do I share my knowledge/experience/views? No.

All my life, I have imagined myself to be a writer. My therapist once told me that the greatest hope of my recovery/destiny/calling would have something to do with my writing, and I do not write.

I compose an intentionally low-threshold theme for a blog--Random Ignorant Musings and What Had At Lunch--with the explicit goal of simply getting myself to write--and I don't write. People who love me ask me to write, and I do not write.

Meanwhile people all over Facebook and the Blogopia are all writing 25 random things about themselves willy-nilly. A friend, just for the heck of it, writes 50 random things. And they were interesting. I was glad to read them.

And this introverted intimacy-phobe who doesn't let anyone get to know him except strangers craves an even more anonymous form of writing. But then, I never write in my blank bound journal either.

I come up with themes, I write a few hundred words, and I throw them away because my expectations are too high.

Well, that is enough. I am self-indulgent. I am writing something. I don't care.

Okay, I do care. And I already feel guilty for writing this whiny screed, but I am not letting the voices in my head win.

Onward and upward!

Lunch today was Visiting Parents Sandwiches: we never eat plain lunchmeat sandwiches unless my parents are visiting, because we are much more self-indulgent than that with our food choices. But my parents help us to live simply: bread from the corner convenience store, two extra wide slices of turkey, one extra-wide slice of ham, processed cheese, butter, and mustard. Generic Lays-equivalent chips. Diet Coke. And a snickerdoodle, home-baked from a refrigerator pull-apart package, so that the cinnamon makes this square on top of the round cookie. Oh, and my sandwich got the guilty lettuce--no one else would take the last slice that Mom had brought all the way from home. It sat in the cooler in her trunk for days, but it was quite well refrigerated by all the miserable weather.

1133rd

I had the tremendous honor last night of saying the invocation and benediction at the community sendoff of the 1133rd National Guard transportation unit, who are heading toward their second tour of duty in Iraq.



I sat on the dais with a selection of dignitaries, including the Lieutenant Governor of our fair state, and the Adjutant General for the National Guard in this region. And after my closing prayer (read directly from the brand new Pastoral Care book, which arrived yesterday) I looked up and saw the eyes and cheeks, shiny with tears, of these uniformed men and women who had stood so correctly at attention during all the boring speeches.

They were so young, and so brave. And something in me broke open a little bit.

Breakfast this morning was cereal: generic raisin bran and generic grape nuts, with milk. Also, mango light yogurt and coffee.

horse racing

This morning, once again, the conversation on my NPR call-in show was on the topic "Can John McCain win?"

This is a useful conversation to have in small doses. And it is very useful to insiders and campaign workers. They need to have this conversation.

But the general public should only rarely be involved in this conversation. (Arguably it is useful during the primary season.) The question that most people should be concerned about is not "CAN win?" but "SHOULD win?"

Then (God-willing) we would talk about issues, leadership styles, relevant personal information, and such, rather than polling, leads, margins, and all the "objective" data that is only useful for self-fulfilling prophesies.

We are talking about meta-campaign stuff that is not actual democracy, but horse racing. And I am frustrated with it. Humbug.

I recognize that it is harder for media to maintain an image of objectivity when they report on qualifications and issues rather than horse-racing. But I wish we were talking about meaty things instead of fluff.

Anyway, back to the campaign for a few more weeks.

Breakfast today was yummy bread from a Wisconsin monastery: Sinsinawa Mound's Honey Wheat, toasted with butter, and their Large Cinnamon Loaf, toasted with butter. Also, a bit of generic egg substitute, scrambled with milk and microwaved in a Pyrex dish.

Bindi the tragic girl

I'm writing an especially ignorant blog tonight, O true believers. I've never even seen the show I'm going to talk about. But I have seen the commercials, and in today's drive-by culture that's enough, right?

Is anybody else bothered by this "Bindi the Jungle Girl" show? It's apparently an award-winning nature show on Discovery Kids starring Bindi Irwin. She's a cute little kid with pigtails and total innocence in the video I've seen.

Yet I can't watch a moment of the commercial without thinking of her father's tragic death. For Bindi is the daughter of Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter, who spent his life putting himself in alarming proximity to dangerous animals for the sake of entertaining video. And while filming a show he suffered a fatal stingray barb to the heart. Classic illustration of Pride, Fragility of Man Before Nature, Thinning the Herd, and all that sort of thing.

And I think about the fact that the guy had kids, and I get sad. And then I see that this show exists, and I wonder about the thought process involved:

Producer #1: Crikey! Bummer, right?
Producer #2: Eh, and a pity about the little girl.
Producer #1: I wish there was something that we could do for her.
Producer #2: Well, we don't know how to do anything but produce tragically hazardous Nature Gone Wild television programs.
Producer #1: Let's give her her own show, then! That'll make her feel better.
Producer #2: Sure, let's build the whole show around her, so that she is absolutely indispensible. And if she ever throws a tantrum on the set, or has feelings about the show that she doesn't know how to deal with, we can just threaten to film a stingray episode!
Producer #1: That's a good one! How do you think she'd look with a boa constricter around her neck?



For lunch I had deli ham and deli balogna on Wonder Bread with mustard, butter, and mayo. Also, leftover cornbread. And a Diet Coke.

p.s. Slightly less ignorant: I looked it up, and apparently Bindi began filming the show before her father's tragic death. Which makes it a bit less creepy, but how could she go on with the thing? And how can all these people make their profit by a show where all the economic incentive is to put this girl closer and closer to the tragedy of her father, while on camera? And if she lets her pain get to her, and quits the show, then she is supposed to feel like a washed-up celebrity? What else can she do with her life at this point?

I'm also reminded of the creepy video of Steve Irwin feeding a crocodile while holding his infant son with one arm. Allegedly the child was in no danger.

silence is golden

While looking for James P. Carse's book "The Religious Case Against Belief" (I'll probably end up having to actually buy this one. The local library and bookstores are too small.) I stumbled upon an earlier piece he had written called "The Silence of God." It's not what you think, some modernist Job-like rant against an absent God who owes us something.

Rather, the book praises silence. A particular kind of silence: the expectant silence of a good listener. The silence that lets you speak, share, and perhaps surprise the listener and yourself. I like this kind of listening. I crave this kind of listening. I seek to do this kind of listening ("be the change..."), though I'm not as good at it as I want to be.

It's hard to be a good listener. Most of us want to be God, that is, to be the one with something to say. And so it is hard to stop everything else long enough for someone to actually say something to you. Especially if they don't couch it with entertainment.

One of the most annoying things I do is to complete people's sentences, because I am too impatient to wait for them to finish. Maybe this would be fine if I always got it right. But all too often I don't know where they are going, and my impatience is offputting enough that I miss out on the surprise someone would have given me.

With books and movies and art I usually seek out things that will surprise me, or teach me, or reveal something I haven't noticed before. And with people I often seek out the weirdos and freaks and outcasts who most people wouldn't want to listen to. But with the people I am closest to, I have often done a poor job of letting them actually tell me who they are.

But the need for a good listener is primal. Many of us crave it so much that we become performers, defensively seeking always to entertain so that people will keep listening. I took a job where, periodically, people have to listen to what I say, and it is the most satisfying part of my week. But maybe all I really want is for someone to pay attention.

(Theologically, Carse's argument suggests that God is a benevolent player, creating us as toys/fellows who are interesting to behold. And the whole point of our existence is therefore to BE, as fully as possible. This may be an argument against the value of divine foreknowledge: if the Creator really wants to listen to us being ourselves, it might spoil the fun if there could be no surprises. )

There is an excerpt of Carse's book availble on the internet that reads like a study guide. I can't recommend it. It is so tersely written that I could only skim it, dipping into random paragraphs in turn, like a set of Confucian analects, rather than continuous reading. I strongly suspect that I am misrepresenting what he has to say. But that's because I'm not as good at silence as I'd like to be, even as a reader.

Lunch yesterday was leftover brisket, personally smoked by my favorite father-in-law. We made it into sandwiches, with rich and sassy barbecue sauce. I strongly suspect I'll have the same thing for lunch today.