Rhythm, Color, & Rhyme

There were pots and pans, a few crates strategically positioned, here a metal tin can, there an ordinary plastic bucket. I watched as he set them up, watched his quick rimshots and adjustments, watched his fills, then watched him shift around his set with intention and method. It was soothing standing there, just barely hidden by a concrete barrier on which was bolted the handrails of the stairs emerging from below. I had just delivered my mail to the post office.

I had just emerged from a line. Have you ever been in a long, long line and been entertained by the oddities and particulars of others, confused and intrigued by their ways of preparing this and expressing that? I was shocked as the fellow behind me cursed to himself with a peculiar tone of anger, laced with a sort of cynical disregard for not just the length of the line, but for the presence of other people around him. Something of it smacked of the sort of peculiarity that you don't just find offensive, but interesting beyond all interests. I shuffled backward a step, ever-so-slightly, just enough to hear his words more clearly but not quite enough to upset him. Apparently, though, it did upset him when one of the two ladies behind him, as she jabbered away, a bit muddled herself, accidentally stepped sideways into his shoulder just enough to earn a hearty bellow and a quick shake from the poor, irritable fellow.

This is the point at which I began to spasm out some short, constrained giggles, turning ever-so-carefully to catch a glimpse of the scene. It had not occurred to me that, in so doing, I would begin to hear with greater clarity the varied tones and utterances throughout the entire length of the line. I began to take in one of the most colorful, entrancing, and entertaining scenes of interpersonal encounters I have ever witnessed. I spun around even further to look straight-faced into the cynical chap behind me, smiled from ear to ear, said 'hello there,' and realized that I was witnessing a field trip of one of the local inpatient shelters for the mentally-troubled. I have never felt so comfortable waiting for so long to send my posts. Oliver Sacks and I are both so deeply fascinated by the truthfulness of the reality of the 'disturbed.' There is something so lacking in both pretention and modesty that we could glory in if only our veil could be lifted.

And so I just had to stand there, in the shadows, so satisfied in a task well done, and so moved by the colorful foreground of a Jamaican street musician against the grayish composites of a seemingly dreary April sky. The beats were at once sullen and tranquil, full of repose. His eyes beamed joy. And that is when I heard the soundtrack of this organic day of rhythm, color, and rhyme. "Don't worry (boom, boom), about a thing (boom, boom, boom) CAUSE EVERY LITTLE THING (boom) is GONNA BE ALRIGHT..."

As I walked north on University Way, I could feel the cool breeze and see the beginning movements of a springtime long-forgotten, as when Aslan employed the Deep Magic to reverse the evils of a Winter that was never Christmas. It had been some time since I had breathed in the warm vapors of Indian curry alongside Thai spice and homemade teriyaki masterpieces like seared salmon fillet with cucumber dressing. It had been an extended wait, filled with longing and many hopes for return, since I had looked along the fountain alley toward that great 'Mount which one can only see with Spring's eyes. And that is where the cherry blossoms grow full with shape and color and scent, like their homeland.

A young homeless couple sat distracted in a card game and conversation with their cardboard sign that indicated a tragedy meant to encourage personal donations, successfully meant to make me smerk: "Ninjas killed my parents."

An acapella singer stomped and clapped along my way. He was stamping out his weariness and belting out for hope, oppressed. "Lean on me (bomp) when you're not stro-hong (uh!) and I'll be your friend (YEAH) I'll help you carry oooonnnn (clap)..." You know, there's something inside that feels foundationally pathetic when, in the midst of pure healing, when you can feel the pains warming into tingles and the cold silence welling into innermost peace, when you actually begin to sing a new tune, you keep walking, walking by him and his pain and his harmonies and his oppression...and not even saying 'hello.'

Upon the invitation of the white-lit icon of the pedestrian, I almost stepped into the open crosswalk, but I halted just long enough for a large Ram truck to leap over the intersection, scraping a bundle of metal bars that were his cargo onto the hill of his ascendence, right where my foot was about to step. The guy next to me turned toward me, and we laughed together at what seemed like the pure comedy of a nervous encounter with death.

And I smiled and walked with him across the walk, back to work, back to joy, back home.

Identity Development in Early Adolescence

One of my chief interests, the interest that holds together my broader sense of calling to ministry, counseling, and academia, is identity development. Dr. Lynn New was instrumental in planting this seed of understanding and interest in me, a soil predisposed to such a vocational area, given my unique and varied collection of personality traits and social contexts. I believe that there is a measure of Providential will in my stumblings over brilliant writers like James Fowler, Frederich Beuchner, C.S. Lewis, Erich Fromm, M. Scott Peck, Kahlil Gibran, Carl Rogers, Lesslie Newbigin, Ernest Becker, Victor Frankl, and G.K. Chesterton, each who have their own way of ascribing meaning to identity development, calling, and vocation, each who have offered me a certain indispensable lens for which to interpret life and the process of becoming more and more mature in this world.

We're each children of God searching for our own way, our own selves, our own purposes, our own journeys; and, part and parcel to the maturation of a self is the commitment to love and serve others. We have each seen glimpses of the face of God; yet, we are also each still babes, wondering if our Parent any longer exists, since the glimpse has faded and most of what we see are just the Hands of something greater that we can't explain...at work, yes, but hiding behind themselves. "Lord, I believe; help thou my unbelief." So, in faith, in mind, in heart, in the relational, we develop toward something awaiting beyond ourselves, and part of how we get there is by taking others with us.

And I am fortunate and energized by opportunities to assist real people in this way: parents who are distraught or disoriented; peers who covet the experience of home or relationship or calling; and, most of all, children and adolescents whose identities are just beginning to bud. They remain at the brink of something both excruciating and enchanting, waiting and longing for the encouragement and empowerment to emerge. They are us, back then. They are the questions and confusions and longings that we barely remember, yet that are still central to who we are. They are the sages and gurus and princes for our children and our children's children. And, whether we are sages or gurus or princes, we are called to the service of their mentorship, by which we may actually resolve some of our own unconscious neuroses, our emotional bag, the insecurities and restlessness that impede our metamorphosis to the next stage of development. Maturity is ongoing; you may be mature for yesterday but childish for tomorrow. C.S. Lewis once said something to this effect: "I finally began to 'put away childish things,' as I was taught in Scripture, when I began to put away the childish desire to be something more than a child." Being ourselves is, ultimately, so basic and elemental.

My Life, with Room

I just finished a nice homemade vanilla latte drank in one of my old blue mugs with a painting of ducks on it. I've had the two of those mugs since going to college when my parents passed them onto me. They drank their coffee out of them for years before that. It's a rainy day. The clouds are thick and frothy, without any air-pockets, solid grayish white, like the exquisite foam atop my espresso. It's taken some practice, but I've gotten better and better at steaming milk and creating beautiful foam from our little countertop Barista machine. Karla would have been proud of my foam this morning.

I took her to work about five o'clock this morning after waking up just after four. Her shift at the ghetto 'Bucks actually started at five-fifteen; she was adamant about being on time. It was nice to be out for a drive so early; I doubt I'd be writing that if I had gotten less sleep, but, after a very pleasant dinner of grilled chicken jack quesadillas with fresh cilantro, some of that Cholula chile sauce that Jason and Christy gave us awhile back, alongside a cold bottle of Dos Equis with a short squeeze of 'Real Lime'... well, it was good to eat well, watch three episodes from a borrowed Friends DVD with my wife, and be clean and tucked in by nine-thirty.

It's quiet now, except for the rhythmic trickles of precipitation and steady breathing of plane engines, various mechanistic contraptions in the not-so-distant outdoors, keeping our world running smoothly, and the occasional grunt, grinding, and groaning of a speedy morning commuter or some random motorcyclist, who shouldn't be driving on slick roads in the cold rain at six-twenty-three in the morning.

My simple salt and peppered omelette paired well with my coffee. I almost just went back to sleep after getting back to our apartment, but my stomach was restless for protein and the dense caramelly sweetness of a bold Verona espresso enveloped in velvety white cream with just a touch of vanilla.

A couple of evenings ago we had some excellent decaf drip coffee with thick half-and-half cream alongside homemade creme brulee in little white ramkins over at a friend's house; in fact, she is one of my fellow staff members and directs the Special Needs ministry at the church. We finally met the lady who she lives with, who actually owns the home. When I saw Blue Like Jazz on the shelf and asked who read it, I hardly expected a woman of her age to be the one to answer, but it made tremendous and exciting sense when I realized that her son was a close friend of Donald Miller and that she had even spent Thanksgiving in the new home he was finally able to purchase with the profits of his books. She went on to share with us about his kitchen's new coat of paint that he so proudly showed off and how she had just spoken with him Saturday by phone and that he is up in Alaska spending some time writing and thinking.

I am constantly reminded how blessed I am to be here now and have the opportunity to cultivate meaningful relationships with so many amazing and exceptional people. As in every real place, life here is not ecstatic or surreal as some imagine of others grandiose dreams come true. Not that it can't be that way; it certainly was for me for a number of months after moving here for graduate school, and I will always remember the walk in the clouds that was my new-found friendship and eventual engagement with Karla. But life balances itself out, and, in faith, we find that this life, with all its coffee and rain and relationship, is, in fact, quite enchanted. The enchantment is real, and it is true. The enchantment is in the marrow; so many experience disappointment because they only ever spend their time considering the enamel of the bone, not realizing the floods of life flowing beneath the surface.

One of my larger-than-life heroes spent some time at Tully's over a robust cup of joe drip with cinammon with me a couple of weeks ago, and I asked him so many questions about his early life spent at the base of Mount Shasta in California and his interests and involvement with the C.S. Lewis Foundation, including his stories around being one of the original investors in the restoration project of The Kilns in Oxford. He ended up showing me, to my great delight, one of his most glorious treasures, a copy of Critique of Pure Reason by Immanual Kant owned and read and marked all through by Jack himself, who, in pencil, modestly sketched his name on the first white page inside the cover, "c.s. lewis."

And I always enjoy spending time with my favorite Greek Orthodox priest / Greenlake psychotherapist / adjunct professor in marriage and family therapy. As on a previous occasion over two years ago, we met for conversation at the Greenlake Starbucks, only a block from his gem of a psychotherapy office, where he has been in private practice for seventeen years. As I am preparing to launch into a private psychotherapy practice myself, part-time, beginning in the Fall, we were able to talk a bit about logistics and rates and vision and calling. One of his very first questions to me, after a brief cell phone conversation in Greek, was, "How is your faith?" So simple and direct, it required skipping over pretention or mere 'small' talk; the conversation, as always, was deep with truth and authenticity and relationship.

Sitting here with an empty mug, preparing myself for a half-day of helping a new friend, also a fellow staff member, move across town into a new home, I think of the dreams that are being fulfilled. This afternoon, I will have the opportunity to view the interior of a home in our wonderful Maple Leaf neighborhood where we are considering buying into the real estate market for the first time, a young rookie couple launching into a bigger life, an ever-expanding vision, dreams yet considered. This is my life. Gritty and dry when my stubbornness or spiritual myopia cloud that which is sacred; beautiful with flavor in the cool crisp air of morning. G'day friends.