In Russia: part 1

The first thing about Ulan-Ude, Siberia is the cold. We stepped off the S7 airliner into negative 39 degrees Farenheit. On the first breath in, the hairs in your nose freeze together. On the second you give a little cough. If you've brought enough clothes, the problem is not so much staying warm outdoors as it is, how do you cool down when you go indoors with 4 layers on? It seems like we spend half our time taking clothes off and putting them on.

The second thing about Ulan Ude is the fog. The city's heat is pumped all over town out of a giant coal burner. You can regulate it by opening the window in your bedroom. All the coal burning makes the air hazy and the snow a dusty gray. But if I lived here, I'd rather have the coal dust than no heat.

The third thing about Russia is that Shannon is not there. This trip is tough. My family goes because something is absent and missing - kind of like exploring the crater left by a bomb. We want to connect with what was and no longer is - in hopes of creating something bearable for the present.

Too Young, Too Old

It is a frosty December morning - Maggie (17 months) is walking on the sidewalk from the bustop to home because she is getting so good at walking and I'm getting so bad at carrying her weight. She is stopping to look at every little thing - part of a leaf that blows by her foot and gently scrapes the cement, a distant flock of geese cavorting about the sky - things that my eyes are too old to notice anymore. A tiny puddle of water enchants her and she crouches down to investigate, touching it gently with her finger.

I begin to realize why she prefers to walk these days, on our jaunts through town. To walk is an ultimate freedom - freedom to explore a vast world of mysterious objects. I am too old to understand this freedom, and too young.

It is a chilly December evening. We have eaten our fill of a holiday banquet and played silly reindeer games. We are standing around in our winter coats (dry-cleaned for the season, the cleanest they'll be all winter) when I get the chance to talk to Miriam who can no longer walk and for whom swallowing food is a daily miracle. Her eyes delight and disturb me at the same time. I get the feeling that there is so much I don' t know yet, am not old enough to know and have no right to know - about loss and freedom. Yet her beauty gives me hope that I may yet find it - that perhaps one day I'll know again how truly free I am to be able to walk on out into the night, under a cold black canopy that goes on forever, stepping lightly on a ball floating in space.

Someday Never Comes

I think that probably the reason I listen to this weird college station on the radio is that amidst all the random genres of music, there comes these elite moments when the music fits perfectly into my prismatic life.

so it's been like, forever, since I've posted and I'm sure you're dying to hear my laments.

I suppose what really draws us to great art and literature is simply that we discover people, real human beings, who have somehow managed to find the time and courage and sense of individuality to pull out of existence its beautiful and potently formative forms - the things we struggle to create ourselves in the 10 minutes per week we are allotted for contemplation and reflection.

I've been back on the hunting trail for meaning in life (ok, I've never left) but back again with heavier steps. what is it precisely that gives life meaning? finding wealth, a home, raising a family, ok fine. these things can be found. but finding contentment? now there's a treasure that one buys a field to find. this is what I think of when Jesus says "narrow is the way, and few there be that find it."

wringing, wringing, the drops of life

out of my bones

On Building a Family

Last weekend we met up with my family at Cook's Forest State Park. There was a lot of rain, a few hikes, mixed emotion and a couple games of "Catan". For better or for worse - these people are and forever remain my blood family. We all know we don't get to choose our relatives - and we don't even get to choose how long they'll be with us.

My wife tires of all my regretting, but maybe it's one of those grief stages I'm stuck in. Regardless, much of my rumination of late revolves around how do I make the most of my limited time? At the end of the day (when all is said and done) family remains. We grow up in one, we leave one, we create one and we grow up all over again in our new one.

Our families know us (for better or worse) all too well, it's hard to fool them for long. But they also know us well enough to be able to give us really good advice. Our memories and our past will always connect us deeply, no matter how far away we go. Our sorrows are shared sorrows, our joys, shared joys.

As we cycle through the years, as new faces emerge and others disappear, I hope for moments of connection - moments of beholding ourselves within each other and true caring. I hope our arguments and tiffs dissolve more quickly than the times we've hiked in the rain, discovered old pipelines in need of repair, taught Dad a new strategy game, played "beat the Landlord", ate salty crab and cheese salad, and got yelled at by the prickly couple walking their poodle.

I know building a family is hard work - and so much of it happens while we're not realizing it. We have to learn as we go and deal with our own stuff along the way. Camaflouged bathroom or not, I'm very thankful for this weekend with my very own family.

How it is to be a First-Grader

Tonight Lyric drew this on the computer and asked me to help her save it in her folder of drawings. When I asked her what title to give it, she said without hesitation, "How it is to be a first-grader." She also drew the following picture, titled "The Sprinkle Explosion."

Earlier in the day she asked, "You know what I want for Christmas?" "What?" I replied. "My very own blog!" she said excitedly. "ok, we'll see."