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happy valley...

From 36,000 feet... at 532 mph, Happy Valley-Goose Bay, Newfoundland looks like a crusty layer of blinding white with barely discernable scratch marks …that I imagine to be roadways. No manner of squinting can bring into focus anything resembling life or populace. But the moving-map video shows our trajectory, and Air France flight 8984 is flying right above Happy Valley.

Writers boast Happy Valley as: “The Big Land, a vast, friendly place with tremendous promise and opportunity, A Bright Light in Canada's North, A strong, progressive community with a frontier spirit, A gateway to the North.”

What a difference 36,000 feet can make in ones perspective!

Once again, I feel my own perspective being jostled … no… slammed actually… from one extreme to another, as I re-enter the Western Hemisphere from Benin. Actually, Benin is just barely inside the Eastern Hemisphere… but worlds apart from where I will land, over 1,400 miles south of Happy Valley.

(From aerospaceweb.org)
Question: “Is it true that a spacecraft re-entering the atmosphere at too steep an angle will burn up, or is it just an old myth?”

Answer: “This behavior is no myth. Any object re-entering the atmosphere of Earth or that of another world must do so within a very small range of angles in order to reach the surface successfully. The upper and lower limits on this re-entry region are determined by a combination of three factors: the trajectory of the object, its rate of deceleration, and aerodynamic heating. “

I have transitioned into and out of West Africa many, many times over the past 14 years…practicing different trajectories, trying to ease-in to the next place, attempting various mental exercises to avoid burning up. I can’t seem to get the combination quite right. It always burns.

Perhaps it is supposed to.

“To do for yourself the best that you have in you to do—to grit your teeth and clench your fists in order to survive the world at its harshest and worst—is, by that very act, to be unable to let something be done for you and in you that is more wonderful still. The trouble with steeling yourself against the harshness of reality is that the same steel that secures your life against being destroyed secures your life also against being opened up and transformed.” (Frederick Buechner The Sacred Journey)

out of the ashes...

Tonight my friend Kristy thought I should update my blog on her brand new laptop. The laptop is nice. I guess I'll see if Blogspot has kicked me off after a year and a half of idleness. I was just attempting non-conformity by NOT updating it. How did I do?

various methods of securing for lengthy open seas travel in a ferry...

se*cure
verb [ trans. ] fix or attach (something) firmly so that it cannot be moved or lost

fer*ry
noun ( pl. -ries) (also ferryboat) a boat or ship for conveying passengers and goods, esp. over a relatively short distance

Method 1 "The Blob:"















Method 2 "It's soft anyway:"















Method 3 "What you can't see doesn't exist:"















Method 4 "Place everything low and horizontal:"














Method 5 "Wait until it falls and then it is secure:"

"genuine faux leather..."

CHOOSING AND USING CELEBRITIES WISELY (Megan-Rowling)
LONDON (AlertNet) - These days, newspapers and magazines are littered with famous faces and celebrity-penned articles promoting charitable causes.  Celebrities seem to be tripping over themselves to put their names to charities and fulfil their inner humanitarian urges.
Yet, according to British public relations guru Max Clifford, the image of concerned celebs using their fame and wealth to help others less fortunate than themselves is somewhat misleading.
At a recent conference on charity communications in London, he argued that many stars are self-obsessed and only interested in doing charity work that will boost their public profile and careers.
"In a lot of cases, they have to be bullied, persuaded, and in my case blackmailed into doing charity stuff!" he joked.
Nonetheless, he said using celebrities was one of the best ways for charities to gain publicity for their cause. The trick is to ensure that the relationship is mutually beneficial.
It's also important to minimise the possibility that scandal or other negative publicity surrounding the star will tarnish the reputation of the charity or its work.

faux fō
adjective [ attrib. ]
artificial or imitation; false : a string of faux pearls.

genuine ˈjenyoōin
adjective
truly what something is said to be; authentic
(of a person, emotion, or action) sincere

knockoff ˈnäkˌôf (also knock-off)
noun informal
a copy or imitation, esp. of an expensive or designer product : [as adj. ] knockoff merchandise

I was in a sportswear outlet store the other day. And as I usually do, I gravitated toward the “accessories” section of the store. Socks, watches, belts, caps, water bottles with name-brand logos, purses…

I love looking through this section of outlet stores. They are so fun…and almost everything fits!

I was checking out the purses on the little silver hooks, when I came upon one particular bag that looked like my style. Simple. Natural-looking. Leathery. Zipper closure. Long strap. The tag on the purse boasted “GENUINE FAUX LEATHER.”

What the heck is genuine faux leather? Can something be genuine….AND faux? I have given this a lot of thought. And just today, I ran across something else that I think might wear the tag “GENUINE FAUX:”

From Celebrities and Charities: A Cautionary Tale

"To be honest, I've just about had enough of celebrities and their charity antics these past couple of weeks. I don't want to read another column about Madonna and her adoption saga. I don't want to see any more pictures of stars touring refugee camps or orphanages.

Why? Because it seems that, more often that not, it's the celebrities who become the story rather than those meant to benefit from their glitzy presence.

One consequence of the growing celebrity/charity entanglement may be that the public becomes more sceptical of media coverage pegged to fame and fortune.

Celebrity and charity have long been bedfellows but never more so; the increasingly relevant and awkward question is whether they make a comfortable partnership."

Hmm...will the REAL THING please stand up?!

math 101...

In Africa there are too many pictures, too many contrasts. You can’t catch them all. It’s like sticking your head out of a fast-moving car—you suffocate; it’s too much to take in.

One minute you’re there—in it, stuck, stewing in the sadness, the loss, your shirt plastered to your back, your neck burned from the sun—then you’re gone, seatbelt buckled, cool air cascading down, ice in the glass. You are gliding above the earth, laughing. (Anderson Cooper---Dispatches from the Edge)

I don’t pretend to compare my own journey to the travels of CNN correspondent Anderson Cooper. But something about this statement resonates with how I feel right now.

11 short days ago I was in West Africa. My own clothes plastered to my body as I walked about in the intense heat of mid-day. I wasn’t filming the Iraqi elections or ducking through an exchange of gunfire. But I was living (on a ship that was docked) in a place where UN tanks, standard issue M16’s, and curfews were a normal part of life. So was intense suffering.

Liberia.

Today I sat in the Lausanne, Switzerland Starbucks drinking a 7.40-franc Grande Iced Mocha, doing some math on where I was and where I am.

*Liberian average annual income: $140 USD
*Swiss average annual income: about 170 times more than that on average
*Switzerland ranks 7th in the world on the Human Development Index
*Liberia has no current ranking…in essence it would be over the top...in development "lowness"
*Life expectancy at birth if you are born in Switzerland is about 81 years
*Life expectance at birth if you are born in Liberia is about 40 years
*HIV/AIDS adult prevalence rate in Liberia is estimated at almost 6%
*HIV/AIDS adult prevalence rate in Switzerland is estimated at less than a half a percent
*Average percentage of people over age 15 who can read and write in Switzerland is 99%
*Average percentage of people over age 15 who can read and write in Liberia is 58%
*Unemployment rate in Switzerland is almost 4%
*Unemployment rate in Liberia is 85%
*Population in Liberia living below poverty line is 80%
*Population in Switzerland living below poverty line is “N/A %”

I loved my Iced Mocha. Don’t get me wrong. It was perfect as I sat in the soft comfy seat by the window. I just couldn’t drink it without thinking…23 Iced Mochas is more than the average Liberian makes in a year.

I left the Starbucks and walked about 20 meters away when I saw this on beautiful display in a storefront window:








I think, Anderson Cooper is right. The car is going way too fast...I need to get my head back inside for a while.

having nothing (2 Cor 6:10)...

"Never reserve anything. Pour out the best you have, and always be poor. Never be diplomatic and careful about the treasure God gives. This is poverty triumphant." -Oswald Chambers

the zone...

I had no idea there were so many different types of “LOGIC.”
Formal logic. Applied logic. Modal logic. Fuzzy logic. Alternative logic.
I have a good friend who calls West Africa “The Logic Free Zone.”
And for years I have been repeatedly convinced that there is more than an element of truth to this! Or perhaps, we could call it “Fuzzy Logic!”

Fuzzy
Pronunciation: 'f&-zE
Function: adjective
1: lacking in clarity or definition

That sounds about right.

I think this is Fuzzy Logic:
The date is 25 July 2001 -- the place is the Free Port of Monrovia.
The M/V Torm Alexandria, pulls into port. A 4,160 ton "Feeder Vessel" which calls at small ports to load cargo containers destined for multiple long distance destinations. The Feeder Vessel passes these containers to central locations where the various containers can be sorted & loaded on to long distance “Mother Vessels” which then deliver the cargo to a final destination port.

Here is a short version of the account of what happened that day:
"The vessel was about three quarters of the way through loading. At the same time the vessel was discharging contaminated oil from a double bottom tank. The Master, who was standing on the quay, witnessed the ship take a heavy roll as one of the 20 foot containers was lifted. He was told by the stevedores that the weight of that container was 20.8 tonnes and that the planned stow for it was on the second tier on bay 4 on deck. The Master stopped the loading temporarily for about ten minutes and informed the Chief Officer that he was not happy with the second tier of containers on bay 4. The C/O then altered the stow from second tier on bay 4 to bottom tier on bay 5. When loading resumed there were about twenty containers still to load. Whilst lifting the third to last container, using the ship's own crane, the vessel suddenly heeled over to port towards the quayside. The Master attempted to control the list with the ballast but this did not produce the desired effect, the vessel continued to list further until she capsized. The Master and C/O attempted to free the vessel's moorings but did not succeed.”

There you have it. Not a good day by maritime standards. And unfortunately this accident happened smack dab in the middle of Liberia’s 14 year civil war and during a time when the infrastructure of the country was virtually in shambles.

Fast forward to May 2006.

The shambled state of Liberia continues.

The M/V Torm Alexandria, still lies resting on the quay here in Monrovia.
Big. Quiet. Rusting.

Blocking the access to this city’s key loading dock. And a reminder of the Fuzzy Logic of that day in July 2001. The M/V Torm Alexandria seems to me to be also a reminder of the state of Liberia and her people, suffering the ripple effects of war and destruction. So many, innocent, stuck living in the unfortunate aftermath of the Fuzzy decisions of a powerful few.

On a smaller scale of Fuzzy, as I drive through Monrovia, I am continually amazed at the evidence of this country in disarray.

Even something as simple as this truck driver attempting to make this impossible traffic move seems to resonate with what my friend said.

I can’t quite make it out...

It seems so 'f&-zE …"lacking in clarity or definition!"

“news makes us grieve for strangers…”

Billboard in Monrovia, Liberia

Everyday I read headlines from around our world: Haitian Elections, Bird Flu In India, California Flooding, Darfur Conflict, Nepal Insurgency, Hurricane Katrina, Philippine Mudslide. It is rare to be very close to the news...but for a change, here in Liberia, I am literally living where news has been a world headline recently…Africa’s First Elected Female President Is Inaugurated in Liberia, Focus Shifts On Liberia’s Recovery.

Something happened here a while ago that didn’t make the headlines. The only thing that makes it “newsworthy” to me is because it had quite a personal impact. But in fact, it was just one example of something that happens here in Liberia on a regular basis. Vigilante justice.

Between Christmas and New Year’s Eve, a man on the street tried to steal a cell phone from someone. A crowd of people who saw the attempted crime beat him to death within a matter of minutes. For two days the dead man laid in the gravel along the side of the road, in the searing sun, just 50 yards from the entrance to the port gate where our ship is docked.

I saw many people walk by that dead man, practically having to step over him along the busy roadside, just to pass by. Adults and children would slowly approach the body, and stare for a few seconds, before continuing on. I could smell the decay even from across the wide street. But it seemed to me that the Liberian people were only cautiously curious, and, although solemn, seemed not at all offended or surprised at the fact that he was laying there.

I was amazed. I have never seen anything like this before. I was amazed that this man’s dead body lay along the side of that busy road for TWO days. Why didn’t someone dispose of his body? Take it to a morgue? Weren’t their any relatives looking for him? Couldn't the UN do something?

On the second day, I was in a taxi coming back to the port gate from town when I asked my taxi driver why that dead man was there. He explained that the man had tried to steal a cell phone. (This fact was already known by most everyone around) "But why don’t they take his body away?" I asked him. “He is a criminal,” he said, “He is left there to show people what happens if you steal.”

I felt sorry. I had alot of emotions welling up. Of course, I was sorry that this man died. I wondered what children might have had to witness the beating. Or how they felt seeing his body. I was sorry that he lay there along the road as a spectacle. It seemed a swift and heavy price to pay for such a petty crime. It seemed that, in light of the other glaring problems that Liberia is facing, stealing a cell phone was theoretically barely going to register on the scale. But as I read more about vigilante justice in places like Liberia, I came across some pretty polarized opinions.

One source I read quoted a local man explaining:

“Criminals come around to hijack you while you are in bed. They take your generator and then wake you up and take your mattress,” explained the 31-year-old Liberian man, a construction worker by day and vigilante by night.

Some believe that mob justice is purely a pathway to revenge for most participants. And that mob justice is sadly inadequate because it lacks the careful examination and deliberation required to discover the truth and respond with appropriate action.

Others say, corrupt, inept, or non-existent government judiciary systems and police forces seem to justify the actions of vigilantes…calling vigilante justice “effective and efficient.”

I found myself angry and grieving in a way…for this stranger lying along the road. For this complex social system that I understand so little about. For the fact that in my world of headlines, I miss the huge personal chasm between my privileged life and the everyday reality of the actual “common man.”

God, give me compassion, and understanding.

how true...

"Not forgiving is like drinking rat poison and then waiting for the rat to die"
--Anne Lamott "Traveling Mercies"

the ace...

Last weekend I was sitting on a beach here in Liberia, the warm sand between my toes, watching a typically amazing African sunset. I was drinking a lukewarm, locally brewed, Club Beer and talking to a couple of friends when suddenly, my train of thought was derailed by the audible collision of two worlds. I wondered if what I was hearing was real.

"On a warm summer’s evenin’ on a train bound for nowhere,
I met up with the gambler; we were both too tired to sleep.
So we took turns a starin’ out the window at the darkness
’til boredom overtook us, and he began to speak."

It got louder and louder…the off beat strum of a five-out-of-six string guitar…and a Liberian woman … moving slowing from plastic table to plastic table…serenading the beach club patrons.

"You got to know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em,
Know when to walk away and know when to run.
You never count your money when you’re sittin’ at the table.
There’ll be time enough for countin’ when the dealin’s done."

She was belting it out. Loud and proud, as Africans tend to sing...deep from the heart and soul. Of course the Liberian English version of this Kenny Rogers song is slightly different than the original cut. I can’t really even spell the words. But I heard clearly, she sang five unique verses.

My friends and I smiled at each other as we found her voice filling our minds and pushing out whatever it was we were talking about.

“Now ev’ry gambler knows that the secret to survivin’
Is knowin’ what to throw away and knowing what to keep.
’cause ev’ry hand’s a winner and ev’ry hand’s a loser,
And the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep.”

Here we sat under our thatched umbrella, in a part of the world where, for so many people, simply “survivin’” is an everyday focus…a task to be accomplished. Dying in your sleep is a pretty good way to go here. I haven’t ever tried too hard to understand this Kenny Rogers song myself but I wondered if the guitar-playing Liberian woman understood any of the storyline in the words she was singing? I thought it ironic that this women (who stastically lives on less than $130 a year and will likely not survive to see her 50th birthday) was walking from table to table singing about life and sadness and money and death and strategy.

“Somewhere in the darkness the gambler, he broke even,” according to the song. But will this woman break even? Will the people of Liberia break even? It doesnt seem like a fair deal to me. I think it costs a lot to live here. Not just because a box of Wheaties is over $6.00 at the local supermarket that caters to NGOs. But I think it costs a lot for a Liberian to live here. To battle the uphill climb of survival each day. To wonder if your child will die of malaria, or typhoid, or AIDS. To watch the fragile tendril of peace as it gets battered by corruption, selfishness, and greed. To not have a hope beyond today. I think I’d be tempted to “fold ‘em” if I had been dealt the hand of most people living here in Liberia.

So where is the ace?

My heart is hurting for those who are dealt what seems a losing hand. I know that Jesus is the only hope for all of us…in Liberia or anywhere else. But I find a key to my doubting faith in the final words of Jesus to Thomas:
“Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.” (John 20:29)

Believe and we shall see the reality of Jesus.

new and improved...

TaB, as I remember it, was the diet drink of my parents. It was somewhere in the late 60’s that I first remember my father holding a bottle of this “grown up drink” with the little pink and mauve logo. I remember I did not appreciate the taste of it when I would be granted a coveted swig from time to time. Strangely enough, this past week I have rediscovered TaB! In a can this time. Still sporting the pink and mauve, but new and improved to my own “grown up” taste buds.

I am on a hospital ship right now, sailing off the coast of Angola toward Monrovia, Liberia. We left Cape Town a couple of days ago. But fortunately TaB was discovered before the mooring lines were loosened!

Sitting in my cozy 6’ x 10’ cabin, I can hear the ocean swish by through my open porthole. The sky is cloudy today. I have been taking some Port Hole Cam views from my starboard cabin since arriving on the ship a couple of weeks ago. I want to record the changes of view as time passes until we arrive in Liberia. The Cape Town Victoria & Albert Waterfront, Table Mountain, the first swells of the open sea as we headed north, the orange moon rising just over the eastern horizon, and the bright shimmer of the waves in the first morning sunlight. I feel like I am witnessing God’s goodness in a new porthole snapshot every day.

It is nice to “feel” or “re-feel” a deep appreciation for something bigger than myself. What I mean is that it isn’t until I look at something else, that I finally stop looking at myself.

“You can’t get the church to jump from total selfishness, where they want all the sermons about ‘How do I avoid stress,’ to caring about Angola.” (Rick Warren, on the present lack of "world-class Christians," from Purpose Driven in Rwanda, an article about Warren's sweeping plan to defeat poverty)

Here I am, sailing to Liberia, where poverty and true human suffering is as real as the sea salt collecting on the rim of my porthole. Yet it still takes a paradigm shift in my mind and heart to get me to stop thinking about myself so much. It takes a beautiful moonrise to make me look UP at this big God who actually has some things on the agenda besides my comfort and happiness.

Even now, I am very comfortable, fairly happy, feeling the sea breeze and drinking my TaB as I write this. But it is well with my soul to gaze somewhere else besides inward.

I needed to taste something “new and improved…”

perhaps what we need...

"Be who you are and say what you feel,

because those who mind don't matter

and those who matter don't mind."

~Dr. Seuss

carry your camera...

I am imagining that it isn’t often in a person’s life that they actually get to see the odometer on their car turn to 111,111. And I also suppose that it isn’t often that a person actually has their camera on the seat beside them when they see their odometer turn to 111,111. So I thought I’d share the moment…since you may never personally see it. (I did pull off the road first!)

When it happened, I actually started to think contemplatively about life. Seems strange, I know. On one hand, the event itself seems rather insignificant. If we think real hard, it may mean as little as “I need an oil change soon”…or even, “I need a new timing belt in a few thousand miles!” But for me, the event catapulted me into a bit of "intro-" and "extro- spection." (to use a little special spelling license.)

My creativity has been reduced to what seems like a dry, cracked, barren piece of land inside my heart for the past several weeks. Or it sort of feels like events in life have pulled the cork out of somewhere deep inside me, and whatever was inside has drained away. As I write this, I am rethinking how to explain. Actually, a more accurate way to describe it is that it seems like my internal blender has been turned on PUREE as I try and assimilate “life” over these past weeks. Twists, turns, distress, distraction, personal, impersonal…humanity at its unspeakable worst, and humanity at its near-holiness. I have felt these so closely that I lay awake at night. And I have felt them so distantly that I feel guilty that I am able to sleep!

The bottom line is that there is only one thing in life that makes sense to me right now. And that is a loving God, and I must cling to Him. Because in light of the depravity of the human heart that I see (and I include my own), I must have a hope. I have to find water for the dry, cracked ground…another cork for the hole. A way to make sense of life on PUREE.

Fundamentally, therefore, any man can, even under such circumstances, decide what shall become of him--mentally and spiritually. He may retain his human dignity even in a concentration camp. Dostoevski said once, 'There is only one thing that I dread: not to be worthy of my sufferings.' These words frequently came to my mind after I became acquainted with those martyrs whose behavior in camp, whose suffering and death, bore witness to the fact that the last inner freedom cannot be lost, namely that everything can be taken from a man but ... the last of the human freedoms - to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way. It can be said that they were worthy of their sufferings; the way they bore their suffering was a genuine inner achievement. It is this spiritual freedom--which cannot be taken away--that makes life meaningful and purposeful.
from: Man's Search for Meaning by Viktor E. Frankl

for those giving me light...

'Untitled'

To my granddaughters who visited the Holocaust Museum
On the day of the burial of Yitzak Rabin, November 6th 1995.

Now you know the worst
we humans have to know
about ourselves, and I am sorry,

for I know you will be afraid.
To those of our bodies given
without pity to be burned, I know

there is no answer
but loving one another
even our enemies, and this is hard.

But remember:
when a man of war becomes a man of peace,
he gives a light, divine

though it is also human.
When a man of peace is killed
by a man of war, he gives a light.

You do not have to walk in darkness.
If you have the courage for love,
you may walk in light. It will be

the light of those who have suffered
for peace. It will be
your light.

-- Wendell Berry
From: A Timbered Choir, The Sabbath Poems 1979-1997

I20 to I85 to I77 to I81...

There’s nothing like an 18 hour drive across
Middle America to set your mind a wanderin’!

I just drove from Texas to Virginia. Even through the obscuring rain of Hurricane Cindy, the drive was a familiar one for me. I know the major towns well…Shreveport, Jackson, Meridian, Birmingham, Atlanta…like a connect-the-dots puzzle leading me to my destination. I am familiar with the change of scenery…from the dead armadillo and coyote who never made it across the roads of Texas and Louisiana to the skunk and possum with similar fates in Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia. As I drive northward, the Martin Luther King Jr. highways become Dale Earnhardt boulevards.

On the road I sense an odd camaraderie with other travelers. I am in my loaded down red ’95 Nissan pickup. But I feel at home amongst the inspirationally named RV’s …Holiday Rambler, Endeavor...Bounder. I drive comfortably along side the spiffy bus convoys, wondering what famous country music singer might be playing Solitaire inside.

I find it interesting to note that in America…just like in West Africa, we carry just about everything imaginable on the road with us. In West Africa I have seen 5 human beings riding on a single motor scooter. I’ve seen men carrying full size refrigerators and stacks of mattresses on their heads as they ride through chaotic streets on the backs of motorcycles. And I’ve seen cars loaded down with people, goats, chickens, and baskets of goods…so full, you could hear the bottom of the car scraping the road as it passed by. I noticed on my drive that here in Middle America, we tote our own assorted volumes from Point A to Point B. This time, I saw houses and amusement park Tea Cup rides being carried on flat-bed 18 wheelers, truckloads of watermelons, wingless airplanes, and poultry galore, just to name a few.

But even with all the familiar along the way, it seems that the drone of the road, the caffeine, and the solitude seem to provide the perfect recipe for some personal moments of clarity. I have traveled a lot beyond the borders of America and am intimately acquainted with many of my friends who are living around the world. But for some reason, as I pondered life on this trip, I felt a new appreciation for my countrymen. With all our faults, our short sightedness, our narrow world-views, our supposed egotism…I observe a kindred spirit in people along my way.

American traditions may be baseball (or rodeos) and apple pie (or grits). Outlet malls, fire works stands, XXX bookstores, and farmer’s markets populate the exits along the highways. But there is also a spirit of goodwill, the human spirit of “giving,” that remains evident in people. We may be far from the bags of rice being handed out in the Sudan, or the immunizations being given to infants in Liberia, or the orphanage finally getting a roof in India. But here, in all fairness, the human spirit of giving is alive and well. It may not be in the form of a well known NGO. But rather it is in the form of the car wash being held where donations are collected to help pay for an 8 year old's cancer therapy. Or in the form of my friend in Texas who is walking along side a struggling single mother she met through her involvement in the local Mothers of Pre-Schoolers (MOPS) group. It is in the form of a young couple I know who just adopted a baby in Illinois, and in people stopping to help a stranded motorist along the highway, and in the form of my own mom delivering Meals on Wheels every other Tuesday.

People do what they can, with the knowledge and resources they have. I am privileged that because of my life experiences, I have a world view that has become real to me and goes beyond the borders of where I am. I have touched and smelled and seen things that many people have not had the opportunity to experience. But I am also reminded of the little points of “giving” all around that make up the world we live in.

Ahh…the open road!

turbo...

I am staying in the home of some friends while they are away. They have three dogs. The dogs are a motley combination of an old lady Labrador, a middle-aged female Jack Russell Terrier (aka “JRT”) who is an amazing athlete, and a long-haired Daschund, who acts alot like a pubescent Junior High Schooler. The Labrador is fed out side and has a peculiar habit of carrying her bowl away so I have to search for it before her next mealtime. The Daschund hops through the grass, off of all fours simultaneously, reminding me of some cartoon character, chasing crickets. He also likes to snuggle up against me on the couch so that every possible part of him is touching me. But it is the JRT that amazes me. She broke her toe 3 weeks ago…probably while doing one of her daily, high speed, squirrel-chases through the woods.

She walks and does a sort of walk-run on three legs. She learned to do that the very day she came home from the vet with her lime green cast-like wrap around her foot, running up to her knee—if dogs have knees! This is supposed to hold her toe steady against the other toes while the bone heals. Just like the suggested human remedy for a broken toe. You’ve probably heard of it, “Just tape the broken toe to the toe next to it.” No physical therapist taught her how to walk and run using only three legs. She just did it. And she’s still pretty darn speedy on three legs!

The only problem is that her wrap is supposed to stay clean and dry. Try it. Try keeping a JRT’s leg clean and dry for 3 weeks. No playing in the stream bed or sand box. No running through the wet, dewy grass in the morning. And absolutely no high speed squirrel chases!

In the book Jack Russell Terriers for Dummies, Deborah Britt-Hay describes “one of the most amusing and common behaviors of JRTs is their proclivity for rapid and continuous movement.” And then goes on to name this endless energy in action, the “Jack Russell Turbo.” She continues on, “They're a big dog in a little dog’s body.”

This morning I took her to the vet for a follow-up wrap change, and now she is sporting a new blaze orange cast. She seemed to be realizing that her foot was something special. She dutifully rolled over on the floor each morning and let me apply a plastic baggy and rubber band to cover the cast. (My best attempt to help insure “clean and dry.”) She seemed to be truly trying to sloooow doooown, stay out of the stream bed, and turn her “turbo” off.

But today she also saw a squirrel. And an instant later, I glimpsed a flash of white, blaze orange, and plastic baggy swish by…on three legs…in turbo! Guess you can’t hold a good “big dog in little dog’s body” down!

elusive green





WOLFGANG MIEDER calls the phrase “The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence" AN AMERICAN PROVERB OF DISCONTENT.

Lately I have been trying to figure out if the color green really does exist. Or, more accurately, is green a color I can actually grasp!

I am sitting in a 5 x 7 grey office cubicle in rural East Texas. The temperature is reaching the mid 90’s these days and the humidity is pore-cleansing high. Earlier I walked across the lawn from my office building to get a cup of coffee in the cafe. This week’s special latte is called “Soft Jolt.” The grass under my feet was getting to that crunchy green/brown stage from the hot beating sun and too little rain.

I have friends all over the world.

My friends in the Sudan write amazing journal entries and post photos of beautiful smiling people dressed in vivid Technicolor garments, walking across the smooth tan desert. Desert as far as the eye can see. Their thermometer in the Sudan this week said 144 degrees in the sun! But it still looks “greener” over there to me.

I have friends onboard a ship that is sailing off the coast of West Africa as I write this. The crew of over 300 will have an Equator Crossing Party tonight and celebrate, together, this momentous occasion. They are also on sailing-imposed water restrictions, including lukewarm 2 minute showers, no laundry, and won't be able to step foot on solid ground for almost 2 weeks! But it still looks “greener” onboard that ship to me.

• I worked in a hospital laboratory for over 10 years and thought it looked "greener" to have a desk job with paper clips, and a matching tape dispenser and stapler.
• I am single and sometimes think it looks “greener” to be married.
• I am a career volunteer and literally live off of the generous hearts of those who support me financially…but the regular paycheck I used to take for granted looks “greener” to me sometimes.
• I don’t have a house, but when I visit my friends’ homes with Fiesta Ware dinner plates and scented candles on the mantle; it looks “greener” to me to have a place of my own.

I like what Wolfgang Mieder goes on to say about “The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence:”

“A scientific scholar proves that optical and perceptual laws alone will make the grass at a distance look greener to the human eye than the blades of grass perpendicular to the ground. The "truth" of this metaphorical proverb can, of course, also be observed often enough in the countryside when a cow or a horse is trying to get at that juicy green grass just on the other side of the fence. And since people are equally dissatisfied with their lot in life, it should not surprise anyone that a modern psychologist has spoken of "the 'greener grass' phenomenon" by which modern individuals continually evaluate supposedly better alternatives for themselves.”

Paper clips, desert simplicity, adventures at sea, regular paychecks, Fiesta Ware…all would likely slip through my fingers if I tried to grasp them for myself just because they seem “greener.” I want to contentedly eat the grass on MY side of the fence, until it is time for a Sovereign change of pasture.

I think I need another Soft Jolt...

reverberations...

Tsunami

Two days ago, in East Texas, I had a "chance conversation" with a woman I had only just met. In the conversation, I learned that she was preparing to travel to Switzerland to attend the funeral of a close friend of hers. I was completely shocked to discover that this friend of hers was also a friend of mine that I had lost contact with a number of years ago. This mutual friend, Carole Streuli, had been missing since the December 26 Tsunami disaster shook the world.

(AOL News, January 2005)
“Two weeks on, the Earth is still vibrating from the massive
undersea earthquake off Indonesia, Australian researchers said
Sunday...the reverberations were similar to the ringing of a bell...”

Poet Luci Shaw writes on 1/14/05:

Two weeks on, and the planet is still
droning like struck metal. The low coastlines
shiver. The next wave threatens
to wipe them away like dust on a shelf.
On a flight the laptops deploy all around me,
played by virtuosos, but not
a single musical note. Birds do better;
water dripping in a bucket after rain;
crystal clinked with a spoon to get
our attention. The drumming
of short-term thunder.

But nothing chimes like the great gong
at the heart of the globe. Circling out,
the ripples trouble the waters within us,
each of us waits for the chiming of the next bell,
the tectonic tremors of a subterranean giant
shifting in his bed, heaving his great metallic bulk
until the oceans lift and hurl themselves abroad in
green speeding mountains.

The remains of Carole Streuli's body have only recently been discovered and identified. Again... reverberations. Her grieving, weary parents will finally be able to bury their daughter. Carole's brother, who himself barely survived the Tsunami by clinging, broken-bodied, to a tree, will finally come to another level of acceptance, and bury his sister. And many others, family and friends of Carole Streuli, will feel the effects of the Tsunami again.

Reverberations. I felt those effects as I sat across the table in that "chance conversation." Until that moment, I had only grieved indirectly for victims of the Tsunami. Like most of us, I had watched from afar, the horrific recounts of the disaster that day. The reverberations of that ringing bell of unimaginable proportions had not touched me on a personal level...until two days ago.

Now, I also grieve with a depth I have not known. Over 176,000 people are confirmed dead since the Tsunami. That number continues to grow. Along with uncountable others, Carole Streuli's life is still reverberating in hearts around the world.

Yet another reminder...

remind me...

I chose the words "remind me..." as the title to this journal of thoughts because I so often struggle to keep focused on what exactly it is I am to be about. I read this verse today (again) and it tells me...EXACTLY.

Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen:
to loose the chains of injustice
and untie the cords of the yoke,
to set the oppressed free
and break every yoke?

Is it not to share your food with the hungry
and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter—
when you see the naked, to clothe him,
and not to turn away
from your own flesh and blood?

Isaiah 58:6-7

How can I ever forget?

Test Flight!

90 degrees in the shade...and counting...as i write this from the Duby Ranch back patio.
First experimental blog entry.
The jury is still out!