Walker Percy

I've been reading a lot of him lately . . .and recommend him as much as I recommend Wendell Berry, Annie Dillard and Fyodor Dostoevsky. I just finished his book The Thanatos Syndrome, and have been working through Signposts in a Strange Land. Below is an excerpt from his article "Novel-Writing in an Apocalyptic Time". . . . I've added some gender inclusive language for the sake of myself and other women writers.

"If the novelist's business is, like that of all artists, to tell the truth, even when he or she is lying, that is, making up a story, he or she had better tell the truth no matter how odd it is, even if the truth is a kind of upside-downness. And if it is the novelist's business to look and see what is there for everyone to see but is nonetheless not seen, and if the novelist is by his or her very nature a hopeful man or woman--he or she has to be hopeful or he or she would not bother to write at all--then sooner or later he or she must confront the great paradox of the twentieth century: that no other time has been more life-affirming in its pronouncements, self-fulfilling, creative, autonomous, and so on--and more death-dealing in its actions. It is the century of the love of death. I am not talking just about Verdun or the Holocaust or Dresden or Hiroshima. I am talking about a subtler form of death, a death in life, of people who seem to be living lives which are good by all sociological standards and yet who somehow seem more dead than alive. Whenever you have a hundred thousand psychotherapists talking about being life-affirming and a million books about life-enrichment, you can be sure there is a lot of death around."

Life is sweet when . . .

. . .you're sipping on a Sprecher's Root Beer Soda in a coffee shop, people-watching and listening to Bob Dylan.

"The slow one now will later be fast . . . ."

Backyard Pics

Fowler Lake

Ramblings from a Couple of Days Ago

Currently the breeze drifts through my apartment while Chachi hangs out by my bare feet. Light filters in through the white linen window treatments and David Gray’s Life in Slow Motion album floats through the air like the breeze. I’m absorbing as much peace as possible.

A quick word about David Gray: I love him . . .maybe to the point of obsession. His lyrics, voice, guitar and piano playing abilities—so much depth. His piano skills in particular . . .all I can say is that if I was in the same room with him while he was playing, I would probably jump him. And yes, I’m shameless.

Ain’t No Love is the song that has spurred on the most thought lately. I find myself agreeing with him, while not . . . . I haven’t believed in a lot of things, for a long time now. Pre-Bethel College I was struggling through Christian doctrinal issues concerning salvation, the motivation behind “evangelism,” and the usual pettiness of dating other Christians, expecting “spiritual leadership” from males only (I imagine the woman’s leadership was displayed by saying yes to her husband at all times while raising the kids in a meek manner . . . ), and the list could go on for pages. So many inconsistencies.

I was one of those kids who read through the entire Bible a few times as well—The Living, NIV, and NRSV translations (still working on The Message). I wanted to bring it all together so that it would make sense. Sick of everyone telling me what to believe, I thought I might take a stab at it myself . . .see where my thoughts would take me in the theology business. With a BA in Biblical and Theological Studies (with a Greek emphasis), along with a year and a half towards a MDIV, I’ve come to very few conclusions. If anything, my studies have made life more ambiguous, and I’ve taken to concentrating on loving those around me while attempting to be a voice for those who have none (currently MN girls in “the system” and neglected dogs in the Iron Range).

I’ve clung to Father Zossima’s advice to the skeptical woman in Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. Father Zossima begins with this assertion:

“One cannot prove anything here, but it is possible to be convinced.”

“How? By what?”

“By the experience of active love. Try to love your neighbors actively and tirelessly. The more you succeed in loving, the more you’ll be convinced of the existence of God and the immortality of your soul. And if you reach complete selflessness in the love of your neighbor, then undoubtedly you will believe, and no doubt will even be able to enter your soul. This has been tested. It is certain.”

My opinion is that the church wastes too much time talking about belief. The wrongs, the rights--always failing and missing the point . . . . What of love? What if evangelism was encouraging others to love those around them without the mandate to confess Jesus as Lord first? What if evangelism was “Hey, I’m going to go mow the bitchy lady’s lawn who yells every time a dog approaches her yard, or I’m going to go hang out as a Big Sister or Big Brother, or I’m going to collect some food for the pantry, etc.. Do you want to come along?” Maybe then God could be experienced through an act of sacrificial love instead of some damn apologetic argument. Ontological or teleological—it doesn’t mean anything. But going out of your way for someone or something that needs it does mean something. For some, it means everything.

So then, for those of you plagued with existential angst, take some advice from WB:

“When we convene again
to understand the world,
the first speaker will again
point silently out the window
at the hillside in its season,
sunlit, under the snow,
and we will nod silently,
and silently stand and go.”

Driving Mr. Chachi

Wow. What a ride. 9.5 hours (I took a wrong turn and explored an incredibly beautiful area of WI--Hwys 35 and 77; check it out) of road time with the Chachmeister, who did not relax the ENTIRE trip. Chasing cars/vans/trucks is his passion, and it does not matter if he is in one himself. He will chase a vehicle from the beginning of my Blazer to the end of it, throwing himself at the glass each time. It does not matter if the car is parked either, the fact that it is there warrants his aggressive pursuit. Regardless, we made it home with most of my truck intact, though I haven't looked at the interior closely . . .purposefully.

Kurt got back from a trip to Florida (he works as an associate youth pastor) with his kids yesterday morning, so I spent most of the day with him and Chach, trying to make the transition as smoothe as possible. While Kurt was busy rigging up Chachi's running cable (a pulley that hangs off a chord between two trees) I decided to keep Chach busy by throwing a new toy around. One throw happened without my paying attention to where Chach's cable was located, and within a second, I was roped and lassoed like a calf. I threw my hands out to catch my fall and managed to slice my palm open. Blood was everywhere and when Kurt ran over to see if I was okay, I mumbled something about being trained to handle these kind of injuries and I ran upstairs to the bathroom to clean the wound of dirt and gravel. While in the bathroom, all I could do was repeat the word fuck over and over--the pain was enormous. It was clear that I needed stitches, but like my father I reasoned myself out of going to the hospital: Chachi is still getting used to the house, we cant leave him alone; stitches on this area of my palm will be akward anyway; I don't have the $500 it will probably cost me to get this handled; I'll have another scar story; it's not that bad, right?; and so on. Instead I bandaged it up as best as I could and went outside to pretend that it didn't hurt.

Kurt finished up the cable and we decided to walk Chachi down to Miller Park. We sipped beer out of our McDonald's cups and caught up on each other's lives while the Chachinator explored his new surroundings. I feel good over having him with Kurt, and it's so fun to hear the excitement in Kurt's voice when I called today for a Chach check-in. Apparently he has already learned the commands "Drop" and "Shake," and he likes McDonald's cheeseburgers. I think it's safe to say that he will now lead a good life.

So aside from the fact that my body and truck have been permanently marked by Chachi's presence, I am happy and feeling good about the way life plays out today.

Expedition Pics in Washington State Forest

Hiking on Battle Lake Road to pick up another trail . . . .
Blue skies--so good for the soul.

My front porch at the Twins (disaster, as usual).
Red Lake.
More of Red Lake.

4-Day Solo ends tomorrow, and then it's Graduation on Monday, the picking up of Chachi, and then on Tuesday we make our way home through the Duluth/WI route instead of the Cities. It has been a great course, but I'm ready to spend some time at home. Maybe see the Brewers play. Maybe go down to Chicago to visit some old friends from North Park before they graduate and leave for destinations across the world. Rigden, Linds, and the rest of the WI posse--I'm looking forward to enjoying a good cider or pale ale at The Pub.

Today I called my dad to wish him a "Happy Birthday!" and found myself in the strangest of conversations with him. First, background: During a conversation with one of our girls during her solo, she shared her experience of being raped not by one person, but by several, and all during the same evening.

She said, "You know what a train is, right?"

"A train? No."

"It's when a group of guys get together, get girls drunk, and then take turns having sex with the girls when they can no longer move." (All of this was said with a matter-of-fact tone of voice, as though this is common terminology passed from one person to another.)

"What? Guys raping girls in front of each other?"

"Yes."

"And this is common?"

"In Fargo, yes."

It took everything in me to maintain a straight face and keep my tone of voice in check as she recounted what had happened to her (the first time she had ever had a beer). I was in a complete rage internally--wanting to castrate the guys who had hurt her while trying to not throw up as I was visualizing her detailed story. In front of me sat a beautiful girl who had a tremendous sense of humor . . .a great smile and kind eyes, someone so normal and human and loveable. And someone so wronged. A survivor.

While processing this, my dad asked me how the girls were doing. I proceeded to launch into how I couldn't understand the mentality of group sex, much less group rape. He told me that unfortunately this behavior was not new to the world. When I continued to go on about it, trying to understand it somewhat, he halted the conversation by saying "Uh . . .Kris . . .I never got into that stuff, so I don't know." It then dawned on me that I was discussing group sex/orgies/rape with my FATHER. Immediately the conversation got switched to the upcoming Brewers schedule and what game I'm going to take him to for his birthday.

I need to remind myself that very few people know this world that I live in for 3 weeks at a time, and that when they do ask a simple question like "How are things going?," I need to prep them first . . . .

Official Signs of Spring

1. Open water.
2. A warm breeze felt on bare skin.
3. Mosquito bites on the arms.
4. Spider bites on the ankles.
5. My face is sunburned.

Kristy's Animal Rescue Continues

Alright folks. There is now another dog that needs to be rescued from the infamous Iron Range. He's a husky/lab mix named Toby, and he is only 1 year old. I have a certain fondness for the sass and independence of huskies, but I can't have another one at this time. My hope is to talk my father into taking him (Ron has a soft heart for the huksy lip and challenge as well--probably from raising me), but my mother is currently in her 3M-Mania (getting her Masters while having Multiple Sclerosis and Menopause) so it is unlikely that Dad will be allowed to take him in. For now he settles for the occasional dogsitting of Dima when Lindsay is out of town or busy with teacher conferences. Sadness for lonely Ron . . . .

Anyone out there interested in Toby? From what I've been told by one of my coworkers is that he's "beautiful and tall, with the coloring of a husky."

Kool Aid Mustaches

Last night we got the girls together with some of the women in our Challenge Incarceration Program (CIP) and had a circle where the girls could learn from the women's experiences and the women could ask the girls questions related to developing relationships with their daughters at home. These women come to Thistledew from Shakopee, which is a prison for women in the state of MN, and all of them were sentenced because of their drug addictions (manufacturing, selling, possesion, etc.). Since most of our girls struggle with substance abuse, they find this time with the women extremely meaningful, as the women have had experiences that speak directly to the girls' situations.

Since the weather was dry and windy, we decided to have the circle around a fire. I watched our talking piece travel from hand to hand around the circle of young and older women, and the light flickered on their faces as they shared their stories of mistakes, regret, redemption, and a desire to live life differently, and I was moved by the earnestness of the older women to encourage the girls toward "the good path" (a Native term I've heard several times now, and love). I also watched our girls speak of physical and sexual abuse, addiction, and the struggles they encountered as those around them labeled them "bad girls."

What struck me most was that they shared these stories with orange drink mix mustaches on their faces. The juxtaposition kills me . . . . Again I'm reminded of the complexity of the life of a kid who has had horrific adult experiences forced on her. She's still a girl . . . and yet not.

Their mustaches give me hope, though. Their courage in voicing the pain and confusion in their lives--with themselves and their families--also shows signs that healing can begin, despite it being a long and difficult process. (A girl/woman can never recover, truly, from certain experiences, but she can learn how to move onward.) I see resiliency among them and know that they're fighters, and I'm honored to be among such strong women.

Tomorrow we leave for Expedition--9 days of backpacking in volatile Northern MN spring weather . . .wet feet await.

Enjoy your dry feet.