Sometimes I stare ( poem)

Sometimes I stare

Sometimes I stare off into space and into my own world

It is peaceful there. I mean no harm.

You see, life here is over-focused, over-stimulated, over- cluttered.

I do not mean to be rude. . .

But, I did not listen. You are right. I did not hear or see.

What was that you wanted me to know?

Input not received.

 

Sometimes I stare off into space

 And notice a little bug, or brightly colored leaf.

They make me happy. They bring me peace.

Even though, I know. . .

That my staring may seem out of place.

“Look!” you say,

“Over here, is the main event. The show we came to see, the game we bought tickets for.”

“You missed the play. What were you doing?”

Something alone.

 

Sometimes I stare off into space,

 And see that man with the funny hat

Or that little girl who seems sad, when everyone else is happy.

I notice things.

Not the things that everyone else is looking at,

But things nonetheless.

I mean no harm. I like this world, for it is mine.

It is safe. It is serene. It is real.

In my mind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the News: Commentary

9-23-13

A professor at Columbia University was attacked and ended up in the hospital with non-life threatening injuries. He was not an anarchist, nor an ultra conservative “war monger”, who, in this bastion of liberal identity was confined to irrelevancy. In fact, he seems to have no political identity. Rather, he was attacked based on his appearance. Wearing a beard and a turban, 31 years old Prabjot Singh is a Sikh. He was assaulted because he was thought to be Muslim, according to the police who are categorizing this as a hate-crime. http://www.usatoday.com/story/news/nation/2013/09/23/newser-sikh-attack/2854043/.
Sikhs are not Muslim. They are not even Middle Easterners, for Sikhs almost exclusively come from India. Sadly this is not the first time that such a mistake was made. According to Wikipedia: “On August 5, 2012, Wade Michael Page fatally shot six people and wounded four others in a mass shooting at a Sikh temple in OAK CREEK, WISCONSIN.[3”.

Those are the facts. Now for the commentary: As a scholar of religion and geography, I know the basic differences between Sikhs and Muslims. Yet too many Christians are unaware. The fact that these hate crimes have occurred in the United States suggests that we have failed to distinguish between Islamic and Sikhs. The world has gotten smaller—due to technology. In years past it would have been rare to meet someone of another faith.
That is not the case today. Part of what seems to distinguish Post-modernism from the past is the fact, that in America, Christian hegemony has largely vanished. There are many choices to choose from, and, in the so-called “market place of ideas”, Christians have not presented a cogent and unified message.
We as Christians need to understand what this means. If one religion group is attacked for their faith—even though they are thought to be another religious group—then any religious group can be attacked. This could have been an orthodox Christian with a full beard, who may look “Islamic”. Or it could be an unassuming Protestant wearing a cross around their neck, or on their lapel. The world has changed – and is changing—therefore we can no longer assume that as Christians we will be fine.
It seems as if the world is turning dark, as moral authority is abandoned. Thus there is a need for someone like myself who understands the religious and geographic background and implications, and can assist Christians in developing a more unified response which shows the world that we are still relevant.

Weak ( Poem)

Weak

I am weak.


A baby cries

Alone


A dog barks

Aloud,

Yet far away

Noises of the world echo through the air


I want to run

Away


Into my cave

And

Away from the cares of the world


Routines

Schedules

Ordinary yet Chaotic

An active world hustles by.


I

I want to be Alone

To go

Away

Alone


Involvement

Engagement

Happy yet Tired

The World’s demands more


Yet
I
Feel empty

Am I wrong?


The wind howls loudly

A storm nears

Time to flee
The leaves are shaking
But
I want to stay
For
Here in the wind
In the Rain
In Nature
I am Away
I am Alone

Yes

I am weak.
But I am also
Alive
And ready for more.

Shoestrings ( written 0ct 2011)

Shoestrings Recently I put on a new pair of shoes for work. The shoes were standard black non-skid work shoes, the kind that you can buy at Wal-Mart. I do not own a pair of sneakers, and aside from dress shoes that I wear at church, typically only wear sandals, if anything. I prefer to be shoeless. However, work is a different story. So, after my old work shoes finally wore out, I finally put on these. One problem: the shoestrings were too long. I remember the same thing had happened with my old pair. The strings, if pulled straight reached almost to my knees. They would, perhaps, be more appropriate for boots. I like to wear my shoes somewhat loose. I do not lace the top holes, but this made the problem worse. I tried to tie a large knot, but since I tried not to tie it too tight, it came undone. Repeatedly. Every time I walked from my booth to the office, the shoelaces on at least one shoe came loose, making me feel like a clumsy elementary school boy who did not yet know how to tie a proper knot. So, I knew what I had to do. I had to buy some shorter laces. I did the same thing the last time, but the laces that I bought then were almost too short to stay tied—at least they did not flop on the ground like these long monstrosities. But the local store did not have a good selection. They had 24” dress shoestrings—the kind I bought before that were too small. They had 48” strings, but no 32” ones. I reluctantly bought the 48 inchers. The next day I went to lace them up. I typically keep the shoes in my car, since I prefer to be barefoot and therefore do not need them at home. Anyway, when I laced them up, the laces still appear too long. But they were better than what I had had before. I still have to re-tie them during the day—just not as much, and when they come undone, they do not drag on the ground. So that is o.k., especially since I only wear them about 8 hours a day. What do I make of shoestrings that are made too long? Is this a cultural fad? Surely, it is not about economy as more string means more cost. Yet the cost of string is low, no doubt, for if it were expensive, then the bare minimum would be used. I do not remember shoestrings being that long when I was younger. You know, “back in my day. . . we made shoe strings short, and we liked it.” So, I wonder is this a fad. Am I just an old man pining about the way life was simpler back then, when shoes came with laces that fit? Then I wonder if I am the only one. Maybe I’ve just been unlucky enough to buy the two pairs of shoes that came with too long laces. Or, maybe, because I do not like to wear shoes I therefore do not realize that long laces are not a big deal –that everyone has them, and that to have little laces on men’s shoes is a sign of weakness. “Real men have long shoestrings . . . you know, kind of a macho thing.” But how could that be? Wouldn’t you trip when playing ball or trying to run in long strings? Ah, maybe that is it! Maybe these shoes weren’t meant for activity. Maybe they were a symbol of a man who does not have to work manually—someone like a boss or executive who sits behind a desk and ponders the meaning of life, in long-stringed shoes. Perhaps then long-stringed shoes for men are like stiletto heels for women. A status symbol. A way to say see I am better than you because I can sit all day and work behind a desk, while you, in short-stringed shoes or, if female, in flats, can do the physical jobs that demand movement. Now, I am kind of disappointed that I shortened my shoestrings. Perhaps I should have thought it out before hand. . . Oh well? Those kinds of people can have their long-stringed shoes and high heels. I do not need a

The worst that could happen

The worst that could happen

“What is the worst that could happen,” he said to himself. With his finger on the button, the phone in his hand, he muttered those words. He wished he was brave—no, that’s not quite it—bellicose and confident, like a barker selling wares. He’d roar throughout the town, telling all what he needs. They would listen, he’d be sure. He’d get what he wants.

But, alas that is not him. He is no assertive fool. For him, life is peace and simple contentment. At times he whispers, “ a monk, I could be”.

“Life is for the taking. Grab the brass ring.” These sayings, and others, rang through his head. The voices kept telling him, that people achieve, aspire, produce. “Gung ho”, and “full steam ahead”, so the voice-in-his-head commanded.

He’d put it off as long as he could, finding anything to do—a drain that needs unclogged; a floor that needs swept. The hour was late. He wanted to stop.

“Tomorrow”, he thought, “I could do it well, then”. But he knew that was wrong, that the time was right, now. He had to at least try, or he’d sleep badly tonight. Then, in the morning he feel so tired, that, instead of the task, he’d roll back asleep.

Under the covers, away from the world, is a place that he regretfully likes. He’d been there before—escape was his friend. The world did not need him—he’d just simply retire, to a life of boredom disguised as independence. No one he needed, for they all get in the way.

But that is no life, that he wanted to have. So, back to the man with the phone in his hand, dialing a number to change his world. Slowly, as if about to announce the death of a child, the numbers were dialed. The phone began to ring.

Then all of a sudden a voice answered, not grouchy, or grim, but mellow and kind. He now had to speak, perhaps it’ll not be so bad. “what’s the worst that could happen”, he thought to himself.

The talk was fine. He stuttered a little, but no comment was made, no faux pas announced. The task was not done, for he promised to follow-up—to call again—to keep in touch. It seemed the thing to say.

What the worst that could happen? Who knows? It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t bad, the call that he made. He had done it, finally, and at last. The start of new things, or just a brief change, that question may be the worst aspect yet.

Little Things

Little Things

I like little things. I do not know why, but I tend to interested in things that are “different”, out of the ordinary and unique. I seek out the details that others miss. Things that are little are often overlooked.

I am also a geographer, and understand the role of “scale”. Tiny animals like spiders, bugs and ants exist on a much smaller scale than humans do. What for us, is just a few steps is for them a journey. Yet they not only live, but seem to survive quite nicely.

There is something comforting to me about the fact that, in the midst of human chaos, life goes on. For example, at work one day I looked down and, there just inches from a heavily-travelled road was a line of ants. They seemed oblivious to the loud cars and trucks overhead. Instead they walked along the white line, in search of food, or water, or mates or whatever. Maybe that white line was a highway for the ants, and they were on a journey to visit other ant-friends a few ant-miles away (which for us would be a few feet).

Another time I was in an argument --a very heated discussion that had moved to a neighborhood park. I, and the person with whom I was losing the argument to, thought that going to the park would help to calm the situation. When we sat a picnic table, a tiny green bug, about the size of a comma, walked across the tabletop. I pointed it out. And stared at it, since staring at my argument opponent was not in my best interest.

Something happened! Quickly, the problem that had brought us to that picnic table seemed to—at least for a while—float away. We were both engrossed in the happenings of this tiny bug. It went between the wood planks, but did not fall. It traveled, as if on a mission, across the table top. In a moment the world seemed simpler, less complex, for this tiny bug had no knowledge that it was on a table, or was being spied upon by others who were not seeking prey.


Tiny little things are all around, be they small ants along a road, tiny bugs on a table, or small fish in the backyard pond. All these living things exist in spite of human interference and encroachment. Not only that but they seem content, and at peace with their space. That to me is a nice thought.

Must. Write. Blog

Personal Essay

Must. Write. Blog. . . .

I think, for me, one of the most difficult things is self-discipline. I am too much of a free spirit. I do not like to be tied down. It’s okay if someone tells me to do something—like for class or for work, but left on my own—well, that is another story.

That is why writing a blog is important. It kind of forces me to write something. There, staring at me every day is the little icon, with my blog’s name on it.

It’s not as if I have nothing to say. Ask anyone. I have opinions. I am to be listened to. If only word of my well reasoned arguments can reach the masses, then maybe things will change. (Maybe my dogs can figure out how to open the front door and “go potty”, all by themselves too! They can just bark and we will let them back in.)

Part of the problem is that there are so many other things to do. Maybe, these aren’t the best things to do, such as watching TV. or surfing the ‘net, but they do manage to control a lot of time.

They say that the world is filled with good intentions. People often seem to live unfulfilled lives.

Yet, some folks are focused and disciplined. They have learned how to manage their time, plan their activities and accomplish their tasks. I am sure that these people must feel happy, but too often those who are driven seem unable to relax, smell the coffee, and enjoy some pointless show on TV.

Mom is like that. She does not slow down. But she is not unhappy. She enjoys her activities, and although she rarely watches TV. –especially when there is work to be done, and there is always work to be done! She does relax, with family and friends.
In short, mom likes to keep busy.

Sometimes it drove me nuts. “Geez, mom, I’ll do the dishes, but let me see this show first!” Eventually she’d relent and before I went to bed, I would finish the chores.

I guess I am still like that! (Sigh) My wife knows that I will do the dishes, and whatever, but first, I need to do this, or do that.

I think I will always battle this desire for freedom and responsibility. I am a rebel in that way; don’t tell me to do something for I may not.

I am also a dreamer—I like to think, and this thinking (er, dreaming) takes a lot of time. It can not be rushed. Like grilling meat, it is best to let it cook nice and slow, otherwise part of it is too done and part is not done enough. Yet, at some point, it’s time to take the food off the grill and move on to the next step. Dang it’s hard—I mean too well done!