It may seem impossible that on an island, less than half a mile wide, I could go more than twenty-four hours without seeing the ocean, but I confess it is true. From my life's vantage point the sound cannot be avoided, but the ocean is hidden by a dune. This reality is absurd, I admit. It gets worse though. I work on the beach sometimes and don't really see it. I might check the surf while I repair a dune walkover, or register the blue mass to my east as I peel some brittle shingles off of a roof. But I forget what it is. The edge. Sure we can fly over it in a plane. Ships ply the seas. Humans have all but mastered the sea. But a human can't. Without the wisdom and infrastructure of a species, the ocean is much more daunting. And their in is the beauty. It can be hard to be humble sometimes, but never by the sea, when you truly see it.
We walked a moonlit beach. The air was crisp, almost crystalline. The sea was calm, lapping at the shore. On our way home, from a hilltop near our house you could see the orb of the moon washing the ocean's surface in light. The silhouette of each house floated on the silver sea before it. A postcard photographer could not have hoped for a more ideal night. A young man seeking the hand of his beloved would have thought the moment magic. Pure magic.
In reality however. . . my dog patrolled the beach looking for smelly smells. My daughter threw her head back in her baby backpack hollering at the stars and torquing my lumbar region. She alternated between whining about "bat monsters" she saw among the dunes (annoying) and babbling about wanting to marry me when she was a "growed up" (heart melting). My wife froze, quietly. And I tried to explain to my child, who was professing her undying love for me, and fear of bat monsters, that she would be able to see the lighthouse light better if she used more energy for her eyes, and less for talking. Yes, I did that.
I mentioned to Deanna that we should make a point to do these winter beach walks whenever it was bearable outside. She agreed. The thing is we weren't on the beach tonight because that's the reason we live here, the right thing to do, or the only thing to do. We were on the beach because I worked too late to go to the gym. I work too late too often, and worry about work too much when I don't work too late. Because of this, and probably because of my love for the barley pops, I'm told by members of the medical profession that going to the gym is probably a good idea.
So, when I run out of time to go run on a treadmill, I strap my kid on my back, and walk briskly through a scene that should be strolled through. My cold wife by my side, who should be being warmed by my arm around her. My dog by her side, who should be allowed to wear dead seagull perfume if he wants to and then sleep in the garage! And my daughter, on my back, who should be tired of talking to me by seven at night, because she has already had my undivided attention for several hours.
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Mandela
I accept that for a white man in Duck North Carolina to have anything valuable or interesting to say about the life and passing of Nelson Mandela might seem presumptuous. I hold him dear though, I keep a copy of his inaugural address in my desk drawer. Of course he was transcendent. I'm sure lots of people keep a copy of his inaugural address in their desk drawer. I keep it there because it's inspiring, but more because it reminds me of the man who gave it to me. I worked at a summer camp with a young, privileged, handsome, white South African name Gareth. He gave me a Zeroxed copy of the address. He carried a stack of them in his travels. I remember being mildly puzzled at this, but intrigued. He seemed genuinely to believe in Mandela, and everything he stood for. Though I imagined that his parent's thoughts on the subject had to be more ambiguous. This resonated with me because I am a product of the American South. We seem several generations slower here.
I visited South Africa and Mandela's cell on Robben Island. The Apartheid Museum left a mark on me. There were several halls of video-shocking video. To invoke blood in the streets, is often to exaggerate. I witnessed, in repetition the brain matter of children in the streets; entrails severed and spilling. The most gripping and disturbing video I had ever seen. Violence in the abstract is offensive. Violence in living color is nauseating. The impression, of what black South Africans endured during Apartheid was seared into my conscience.
Mandela became a focal point in my thoughts as years passed. Understanding him seemed to become the key to understanding what I had seen in South Africa--it wasn't all museums... I've pondered him, and this is how I've tried to distil him:
He was above all gracious. His forgiveness of his captors is legendary, and in many ways the seat of his power. Most of his negotiating leverage sprang from his suffering, and his refusal to pity himself over it. He was also right, and this cannot be under estimated. No tyrant could take a page from Mandela's book and hope to succeed. That was not all though, he was not a saint, in the classical sense. He accepted, if not embraced violence. He was characterized as a terrorist. Or was it freedom fighter? Either way, he was not a pacifist. Above all he grew. He evolved. He did not let his early acceptance of the necessity of violence undermine his eventual move to grace.
In my search for way to be a husband, parent and citizen I struggle to find my way. Mandela reminds me that the way is not a route--not something you can read as a list of directions. It is a path, it evolves with us. And though all parts of it may not be what we imagined, as we are in them they are in us. The journey is changing us as we seek our destination. Participation is mandatory. You cannot get there from here. You must become someone else--or yourself--as you go, to realize you've even arrived.
I visited South Africa and Mandela's cell on Robben Island. The Apartheid Museum left a mark on me. There were several halls of video-shocking video. To invoke blood in the streets, is often to exaggerate. I witnessed, in repetition the brain matter of children in the streets; entrails severed and spilling. The most gripping and disturbing video I had ever seen. Violence in the abstract is offensive. Violence in living color is nauseating. The impression, of what black South Africans endured during Apartheid was seared into my conscience.
Mandela became a focal point in my thoughts as years passed. Understanding him seemed to become the key to understanding what I had seen in South Africa--it wasn't all museums... I've pondered him, and this is how I've tried to distil him:
He was above all gracious. His forgiveness of his captors is legendary, and in many ways the seat of his power. Most of his negotiating leverage sprang from his suffering, and his refusal to pity himself over it. He was also right, and this cannot be under estimated. No tyrant could take a page from Mandela's book and hope to succeed. That was not all though, he was not a saint, in the classical sense. He accepted, if not embraced violence. He was characterized as a terrorist. Or was it freedom fighter? Either way, he was not a pacifist. Above all he grew. He evolved. He did not let his early acceptance of the necessity of violence undermine his eventual move to grace.
In my search for way to be a husband, parent and citizen I struggle to find my way. Mandela reminds me that the way is not a route--not something you can read as a list of directions. It is a path, it evolves with us. And though all parts of it may not be what we imagined, as we are in them they are in us. The journey is changing us as we seek our destination. Participation is mandatory. You cannot get there from here. You must become someone else--or yourself--as you go, to realize you've even arrived.
Monday, December 2, 2013
It's Mostly Sanding
I built a coffee table over the holiday weekend. I am happy enough with how it turned out, and I learned something valuable. I saw this table in my minds eye as a small part--an incremental step--in taking our domicile over the finish line. It is one item on a long list, bed frame, fireplace surround, etc. that I must finish to truly bring our humble abode to completion. Details details...I realized as my father and I worked this weekend that it's mostly sanding.
This illuminated something about the home we are building here, the life we are building here, and the community we are building here. The work to create it is punctuated by moments of agency, selecting the wood, or final assembly--metaphorically. But most of the time it us mundane--sanding. If you take care and have patience, most hardwoods can be smoothed to an almost vitreous surface simply by sanding. Graduating to ever higher grit counts, you can actually polish raw wood. Wet it to raise the grain, and sand again, you can be assured that a simple oiled finish will shimmer in any light. What's more, simple wood, in this case an old pecan tree combined with some salvaged ipe decking can be striking, even when assembled by a novice.
That's the really profound thing. The ingredients need not be impressive, and the skill of the craftsman need not be expert. All you really need to make something serviceable is the patience and perseverance to sand.
This illuminated something about the home we are building here, the life we are building here, and the community we are building here. The work to create it is punctuated by moments of agency, selecting the wood, or final assembly--metaphorically. But most of the time it us mundane--sanding. If you take care and have patience, most hardwoods can be smoothed to an almost vitreous surface simply by sanding. Graduating to ever higher grit counts, you can actually polish raw wood. Wet it to raise the grain, and sand again, you can be assured that a simple oiled finish will shimmer in any light. What's more, simple wood, in this case an old pecan tree combined with some salvaged ipe decking can be striking, even when assembled by a novice.
That's the really profound thing. The ingredients need not be impressive, and the skill of the craftsman need not be expert. All you really need to make something serviceable is the patience and perseverance to sand.
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