FINLINSON

Greenville SC Marathon

2011-11-04T01:04:00.002-05:00

A burst of cold wind rustles the treetops. This brief disturbance frees the cold drops of last night's rain from the net of leaves and branches above. They fall fast and hard to the paved trail. A few of them find me. The sensation wakes me from the haze my mind has begun to dip into. I look forward, down the seemingly endless path - a flurry of orange and red leaves are following the rain from the fall canopy above down to the trail below. Confetti. A parade. Ahead in the distance are some other runners - the scene is idyllic and iconic and it pulls me forward.

Forward. That is what I need right now. Anything that can pull or push or drag me forward. Because my mind wants it, my will wants it - but my legs are faltering. I can't get them to go fast enough and sometimes I can't even keep them going at a slow run. So I walk. And that hurts. It hurts physically and emotionally. My thighs have cramped up in the 43 degree morning air. Pain. And beauty. Joy and frustration. I've pushed everything to the edge and with 5 miles left I want to be happy but can't help feeling depressed.

The first half of the race through downtown Greenville, along the Reedy River and up the Swamp Rabbit trail was incredible. I moved at an excited quick pace - feeling like I was pushing myself, but at the same time holding myself back to reserve energy for the latter stages of the race. I quickly warmed up, removing my gloves after mile 6 and my knit hat after mile 14. I was thrilled to be running the race that I had devoted so many months of training to. I calculated my pace at the half way point and determined that if I could maintain my speed I would cross the finish line at 3:55. I envisioned that finish over and over. Naively optimistic? or a positive mental outlook necessary for success? Either way I was convinced it would happen.

The miles between 10 and 15 were rather hilly and I attacked them with vigor. And with vigor, they did me in. At marker 17 as I entered the campus of Furman University I hit my wall. My pace dramatically slowed. My legs screamed with pain. I decided to walk a length around the lake but instead of alleviating the pain it abruptly worsened the knot in the my left thigh. After walking it out a bit, the sting faded, and I trotted off again at a slow pace.

There was a clock every two miles and I had calculated my time again and again. I'll cross the finish at 4 hours - I figured. . . Then the 4:00 pacer breezed by. I couldn't keep up - she easily flew by with a small group of two or three runners who were hanging on close. My optimistic goal had slipped by. But if I could just maintain a 10 minute per mile pace I could get 4:05 - still ahead of my more conservative goal of 4:15.

Now between markers 21 and 22 those stretches of walking have came more and more frequently - each one a defeat. Five miles to go melts into four. More and more runners on the path have resorted to walking breaks which helps me feel not as bad. But my disappointment hits a new low when the 4:15 pacer passes me by. I keep up with him for a while but I know I can't run the remaining miles straight through. Sure enough, after a couple minutes, my desire can push my legs no further and I stop to walk.

I consider for a moment how long it would take to walk the remainder of the course - I shake this thought away quickly though. I haven't trained for all these months just to walk the last four miles. At this point my mind turns to the snowy slopes of Mt. Kilimanjaro - thousands of miles from Greenville, South Carolina and thirteen years in my past. Somewhere on that slow final ascent to the peak in the early predawn hours I remember feeling something similar. Simultaneous joy and depression - a pain from absolute exertion - the feeling that I was pushing my body to its limit and it hurt. And with that hurt it is easy to slip into anger and frustration and a boiling welling up of emotion filling your chest and then choking your throat, spreading across your face and then there is nothing left to do but to simply cry or to push it all back down into your gut. This was physically the hardest thing I've done since Kilimanjaro (clearly not as adventurous - but every bit as painful and rewarding).

That disappointment at not achieving my time goals abated though when I got to the final mile. I knew I had to run that entire mile - I wouldn't let myself do anything less - and I knew I had to do it with a smile on my face as well. And then Optimistic by Radiohead started playing. The line of runners had stretched out sufficiently that I could sing along in near solitude for most of it. "You can try the best you can / If you try the best you can / The best you can is good enough." I spent a fair amount of time collecting songs for my marathon playlist and so many of those songs were key to my performance during the race. This one though came at the perfect time to lift my spirits and help me up that final hill and across the finish line. I had created a playlist that was 4 hours and 30 minutes long. I finished the race with one 7-minute song left unheard. 4:30 I suppose, was my final backup goal - which at 4:23:10 I beat by a good enough margin.

There was definite elation after crossing the finish line - my mind and spirit elated for the accomplishment, my body elated for the race to be over. The soreness that would persist for days in my legs and feet would prove to be a constant reminder of my first marathon. A reminder of both the joy and the pain.

The Peak

2011-10-09T20:51:00.002-05:00

The thunder is heavy and deep-voiced, dramatic like a ribbon of "BOOM" rippling through the dark atmosphere above. I have reached a happy saturation point - the rain continues to pelt my bare back, but I can't get any wetter. My feet make a game of avoiding puddles - particularly the deep ones - but my feet are saturated as well so when an unavoidable puddle stretches out in front of me I just trot through it with quick staccato steps.

It is week 13 of my 16 week marathon training schedule. I've looked at the schedule so many times I thought I had it memorized. I realized though this morning that I had miscalculated. The schedule calls for 4 runs a week. Three shorter runs during the week and progressively longer runs on the weekend. These increase in mileage up to a 20 mile run then taper down for two weeks before the marathon.

I have enjoyed these long Saturday morning runs. To keep the monotony level low I've rotated every Saturday between Miami Beach, Hollywood Beach, and the Rickenbacker Causeway to Key Biscayne. Those runs in the heart and heat of the summer were a bit brutal and I had to wake up earlier and earlier to avoid the sun. Most of my runs in the last two months have been half way over by the time the sun even started to think about lighting the horizon. I've seen more sunrises in the past year than at any other time in my life - about a week ago as I was leaving work I noticed an orange red glow over the western horizon and it caught me as strange and out of place until I realized I was staring at a sunset and not a sunrise.

On the weekdays I have had to squeeze my runs in around the margins of the day - early mornings or late evenings. Especially when these runs got up to 5 and 8 miles I found these runs to be more challenging even than the Saturday 12, 13, and 14 milers. Last Wednesday I woke at 5am to run 8 miles. I took off my pajamas and was about to put on my running shorts - instead I stood there for what easily could have been 10 minutes looking back and forth at the pajamas and the running shorts. Pajamas... Running shorts... Pajamas... Running shorts. The running shorts prevailed and I made way south on Collins Avenue. It was slow going and my mind was foggy. Street lights and headlights and people waiting at bus stops. Was it morning or night time? After running two miles I turned around, I couldn't do the full 8 miles - 4 would have to do. I got home a little after 6am, showered and climbed back into bed. When I woke up again I wasn't sure if the 4 miles were just a dream or not. The damp socks and shirt draped over the tub confirmed those miles were real which I was glad of even though I did feel disappointment on skipping out on the full 8 miles. Overall though I have stuck to the schedule - only missing one run out of the 52 so far - and feeling my endurance level strengthen with each passing week.

For some reason I had it in my mind all this past week that I was on Week 12 and that I had one more week until my training peaked: 5 miles on Monday, 8 on Wednesday, 5 on Thursday and 20 on Saturday. So I woke up this morning mentally prepared to run 18 miles - not so bad I thought, that is the same distance I ran last Saturday. But at about the 7 or 8 mile mark this morning, after having run the entire stretch from the Rickenbacker causeway to the entrance of Bill Baggs State Park on the tip of Key Biscayne I started to realize my mistake. I couldn't figure out where I had gone wrong. I took out my phone and looked at the calendar and confirmed my suspicion. Today was my peak run - not next week. Today was my marathon dress rehearsal, my final distance trial before the 26.2 miles in Greenville South Carolina in three weeks. I had to mentally tack on the additional two miles and plan my route to compensate.

And a storm was brewing.

The run was going smoothly, the sky was overcast and dark clouds had been passing by overhead for the last hour with little more than a light sprinkle. But as I was running along the beach at Crandon I looked out over the choppy Atlantic and saw a familiar wall of white blur approaching over the gray water. Two minutes later I was hit with a solid sheet of falling water. The rain was hard and fast and thick, coming in at an acute angle aided by the bellowing wind. I thought I would just tough it out like a real hardcore runner. But I could barely even see where I was going - the rain was stinging my eyes and despite my resolve I could not run far with my eyes shuttered. So I found a picnic shelter and waited out the worst of it. For each passing minute though my legs longed to keep going. It didn't feel right to just be stopped and held up like that. After about five minutes the rain had lessened to where I could get back out and continue the run.

Normally this stretch of road is packed with runners and cyclists. The rain has driven most of them away. The skyline of Miami stretches out beyond the curved horizon of the tall arching William Powell bridge. The collection of skyscrapers and waterfront condos are usually bright - reflecting the sun and sky and blue water of the Biscayne Bay. This morning they are enshrouded with mist and low clouds. Their colors gray and drab. I begin the incline up the bridge - one big hump before the final 3 miles of the run.

On a morning like this I love the rain. I wouldn't have wanted it any other way. That happy saturation point I spoke of earlier has everything to do with it. We usually are at odds with the rain - fending it off with umbrellas and rain gear and such. When we get wet then it is as if the elements have won. But once you are completely wet the rain can do no more harm regardless of how hard it tries, and when this happens suddenly you are free, you are liberated, there is no battle any more and in this way you have beat the rain. Running like this dripping wet feels like victory.

The rain water is rolling down my face - at first it had mingled with my sweat and tasted salty on my lips. Now however it is clean and almost refreshing to the taste. I open my mouth to it and let the rain fall on my tongue - I drink it in sips and drops. Without even realizing it I have reached the top of the bridge, I look over the rail at the water so far below and it accentuates my height. It is churning down there all gray and white capped and for some reason looks so exhilarating. I start on the downward slope and naturally - with gravity on my side- my pace increases. It is thrilling. So high, so fast, so far. No one is around and so I feel unbridled and let out a loud WAHOO! of pleasure and pride. I've reached my peak.

A few miles later and I am back at my car - 20.3 miles completed. I stop and take inventory of my body, my feet, my calves, my knees, my thighs, my back, my sides, my chest. Could I do 6 more? Will I be able to on race day?

I'm feeling good. . . Bring it on.

Indigo's Baptism

2011-07-25T19:44:00.003-05:00

"Are you ready?" I ask her.

Indigo looks up at me, smiles, and then nods.

She is in quietly rippling water up to her chest. Dressed in white. Soft light shimmers through the backdrop of golden glass windows. The viewing area is abuzz with the energy and excitement of those who are there to witness this event.

So simple. So focused. So pure. This will all be over in less than thirty seconds. The prayer is concise, the fall backward is easy and light, she is immersed in the water for but a moment, then she emerges and it is done.

Indigo had wanted me to mess up, to do it incomplete so that I would have to repeat the ordinance two or three times before getting it right. I opted for doing it properly the first time, but I can see why she would want to extend it, to draw it out, to make it last longer.

Of all the saving Priesthood ordinances - baptism is one of the quickest - but it is also one of the most symbolic. That short thirty second act contains volumes of spiritual and doctrinal meaning. That simplicity is symbolic of the entirety of the gospel - the whole of our theology.

Among other things, baptism marks a moment of change and commitment. It is a moment of transformation, a rebirth. I help her up the stairs and I ponder for a moment in what ways that transformation has taken place. Is there really a difference between Indigo now and the Indigo of one minute ago? She still looks the same physically - just more wet.

My eyes cant see it but I know it is there. Somehow through that physical ordinance of body and water and white clothing and Priesthood power, the spirit is modified - the covenant is signed - the journey begun.

An unseen glow now radiates, brighter than the sunlight which pours through the golden glass windows.

The Temple Baptistry

2011-07-09T23:19:00.001-05:00

I don't feel quite right until I have slipped off my stiff black shoes and dark socks - replacing them with clean white socks or slippers - for the place wherein I stand is holy ground.

We've gathered together in the small chapel of the Orlando Temple baptistry. We have filled it to capacity. Standing room only. Thirty seven young men and women. Fifty of us altogether. Everyone is silent and waiting. I'm proud of all of them - their presence here is a demonstration of faith, an indication of righteous living.

I decide then that I need to write this down. So many spiritual experiences cross our paths and go unrecorded - they deserve better. I'm hopeful that some of the youth feel this same desire - to record at least for their own selves (if not others) the experience of this day. Our memory can be triggered by the slightest catalyst. Something simple will suffice. One or two lines can bring back to the foreground of our minds the sights and sounds and sensations of this day.

But this isn't what I want to tell them. What I want to tell them goes unsaid. We are all waiting and it is regarding the waiting that I want talk to them about. It is the quiet gaps between the "stuff" that I want them to pay attention to. It is in the empty spaces where one can recognize the Spirit. It is in the void where one can see the face of God.

In the world we despise the waiting. We fill every gap with music and status updates and apps. We want to be first in line so we can be the first one done so we can wait around afterwards for the last one to finish. We curse at the traffic jam and complain about the speed of everything. That patience is a virtue, we all agree, but we figure there must be a quicker and easier way to achieve it.

In the temple though things work differently. There are many incredible things that we do in the temple. But there is also a lot of time spent in quiet waiting. For this reason I try never to wear a watch in the temple. We should be in no hurry because there is no where better to be than where we currently are at that moment. It is during these gaps of waiting where nothing is happening, these voids and empty spaces where we can pause to really experience the spiritual around us and in us. It is within these gaps that we understand more completely the framework of life's meaning around us.

It is the empty space that makes a door useful. It is the empty space that defines a window. This is what I want to tell them. This is what I want to pass on. These moments are easy to pass over but shouldn't be overlooked.

Bear Cut Nature Preserve

2011-07-03T23:37:00.001-05:00

I'm lost.

I stop moving so I can consider the situation. My breathing is heavy. Sweat keeps dripping from my brow through my eyebrows and threatening to sting my vision before I whisk it away with the flat of my palm. I want to keep running, keep moving, the clock is ticking. But I'm stopped, dead in my tracks. I'm staring at a chain link fence - ten feet tall - topped with barbed wire.

Blast!

I thought I was getting close. I could hear the dull rush of car traffic, then I saw a solitary street light through the trees. The road was right ahead of me. No more than 50 feet away. But then the fence emerged from the thick tropical vegetation and I knew I was trapped.

Why the barbed wire? To keep me in? Or others out? I'm not supposed to be here.

I consider my options. Keep going? Look for a week spot in the fence, somewhere perhaps where I can duck under? No - the fence looks too new. Perhaps I get to the fence and follow it to the end? No - the vegetation is too thick here, interspersed with mud and water - could take an hour to navigate.

So, go back? Retrace my steps? This is the option I didn't want. But I concede. It is the only option.

I knew this was a possibility when I started down the trail. I was exploring, and I love exploring, but sometimes when you are exploring you have to be open to the possibility that a particular path won't always take you exactly where you want go.

I've ended up in a place called the Bear Cut Nature Preserve on the north end of Crandon Park, Key Biscayne. I never knew this place existed. The path along the beach had ended and rather than heading back to the road immediately I figured I would just keep heading north as long as I could and find the road later on.

There was no path for while. Just white sand and palm trees. Then a path emerged, cut from the swath of sea grapes and saw grass. I was running down this path for a while before a sign told me it's name, the Bear Cut Nature Trail. The course of this morning's run had taken me over a high span bridge across the inky black intracoastal waters in the pre-dawn darkness, past a marina, along the tranquility of the bay at Hobie Island Beach, past a seaquarium, over another bridge, past another marina, then along the tree lined road that stretches past an unseen golf course and tennis center, then through the village of Key Biscayne to my turn around point. After running along the beach at Crandon Park I saw the Bear Cut Nature trail as one more experience along the way that I couldn't pass up even though it may mean having to back track.

After running half a mile along the trail it intersected with a paved path. At this point I had a few options - continue north along the same trail, go south-west on the paved path (back towards the last parking lot I had seen where the trail began), or go directly west on another paved path. I chose the path heading west hoping it would lead me to the road. But after 100 feet or so the pavement abruptly ended. Undeterred by the ending of the pavement I could see that many before me had just continued on into the brush. The trail was faint but it was still heading in the direction I wanted to go. So I kept running, slowing my pace to work my way through the thick undergrowth. The single path narrowed into obscurity and more possible paths opened up and then closed and then there was no path at all. I stopped running and continued walking, not sure where my next step would land. The tall grass hid the uneven ground and at one point I came close to stepping right into a small pond. This is when I heard the cars and saw the street light.

A few seconds later is when I realized that I was trapped.

I turn around at this point feeling a bit defeated by the fence and start back in the direction that I had come. The grass here is up to my hips and I'm a little worried about setting my foot down on some wild animal or walking through a spiders web and getting a long legged little monster right in the face. After stomping through the thick growth for a while I realize it is getting higher and thicker. There are not even minimal trails here. I can't find any of the paths that I had arrived here on.

Trapped. And lost.

I realize that my Nike+ GPS is still running. This should help me, hopefully. I pull up the map on my phone and see the broad red line of my path meandering through the middle of nowhere until it stops and begins heading in another direction. I can see that my "about face" back there wasn't a true 180 degrees. I turned around but I am heading nowhere near the short paved path that I was looking for. I try my best to correct my trajectory and then head towards a clump of trees hoping for dry ground with less underbrush. I reach the trees and sure enough I am on dry ground and the saw grass and winding vines are more manageable, but now I am tangled in the low branches of the trees and can't continue in that same direction. I adjust my approach again to avoid the trees and struggle again through the mess of plant life until I see a welcome strip of black asphalt.

Back on track. I'll have to run another half mile to get back to the road but I'm no longer feeling trapped or lost. I went 1 mile out of my way through the nature preserve but I wouldn't have changed it for the world. I check my Nike+ app - 11 miles down. 5 to go.

The Half Marathon

2011-03-08T23:17:00.000-05:00

We line up in the pre-dawn cool. The black pavement is wet from rain. The sky is overcast and everything is dull and grey. The temperature is a brisk 54 degrees but the anticipation and buzz of the crowd keeps me warm. There are close to two thousand of us here - milling around, stretching, making last minute preparations. Small bursts of color break through the damp drab. Yellow caps, bright green shirts, orange stripes on shoes. We are all tagged and individually numbered. We are all there to compete against each other and to help each other compete against ourselves. We share something that goes without saying. We share weeks and months of training. Collectively we have logged tens of thousands of miles to get ready for this moment when the cannon booms and we start the race.

I start alongside Bryan who encouraged me to come and who served as my coach and mentor and pacer for my abbreviated four week training schedule. We run together for a hundred yards or so then we reach the split in the road. The marathoners turn right. The half-marathoners turn left. We wish each other luck and then I am on my own.

I'm trying to figure out my pace, taking note of my form, adjusting my speed, keeping my movement focused forward, not up and down. The course is crowded and I'm maneuvering through small groups of runners. I wonder if I'm moving too fast too soon but I've already set my sights on a runner ten feet ahead of me that I decide to stick with. He is moving swiftly but I keep pace. But just in case he pulls away, I choose two other random runners to follow as well.

Albany, Georgia is not particularly beautiful along this stretch of road. Southern Georgia seems to have an excess of faded and vacant billboards. Albany couples that with faded and vacant buildings. A Cinemark movie theater along the route looks like something out of the book "The World Without Us" - a study of what happens to man-made structures when left to nature and the elements to reclaim them. Even in it's heyday, I'm sure it was ugly - a white corrugated metal warehouse with a flashy marquise. Now it is wasting away like so many other buildings in the area.

The first few miles seem to fly by and so far I'm feeling good - ahead of my goal. The course at this point turns from commercial to residential and we are winding our way through the tree and house lined lanes. There are people at various points along the way. Some of them are there to cheer us all on. Some anxiously await a particular runner to cheer on. I wonder where along the route I will see my family.

The line of runners has lengthened by now and I've lost my original three runners to keep up with. A girl begins to pass me on my left and I'm determined not to let it happen. I move my legs faster to keep up but she slowly inches past me. I follow now in pursuit. These are faceless and nameless opponents. You never look these opponents in the eye. All I know is the back of their heads, the color and style of their tech shirts, the bounce of a pony tail, the color of a cap.

Just before mile six I check my time. My conservative goal going into the half marathon was 2 hours 15 minutes. My optimistic goal was beating 2 hours. I'm running the numbers in my head as I pass under the canopy of tree branches ornamented with clumps and strands of hanging Spanish moss. If I can just keep the same pace I'll win my race.

I sense that I'm beginning to slow down though. I'm guessing that everyone else is feeling a bit of the same. I've reserved a chocolate energy gel for this point in the race - I open it and down the contents hoping for a water station soon to wash it down. I've miscalculated though, and there is no water station around the corner or the next or the next. So I'm left to contemplate the after taste for the next 15 minutes.

I don't find any kind of burst of energy from this. I'm fading. I need something else. And then I realize what might help: I turn up the volume on my iPod. Radiohead "Jigsaw Falling into Place" sounds delicious and I devour it to the pounding beat of my legs' motion and my Nike Free running shoes bouncing off the pavement. The music converges from right and left ear buds to a central point inside my head yet it feels like it is completely surrounding me. Personal and powerful. How are the runners without ear buds doing it? They are the purists for sure. I need the help of Bright Eyes and Pearl Jam and Moby.

Every mile after 8 seems twice as long as it should be. I'm longing for each mile marker for much longer than i should, and find myself occasionally confused - overestimating my position on the course. "Am I on mile 9 or 10?" only to find out I haven't even made it to mile 9 yet. Our half marathon track has merged with the marathon track by this point and I pass their markers as well. 22 miles. 23 miles. At this point in the race my body cannot even comprehend running 26.2 miles. Of course two months ago I couldn't imagine running 13.1 miles either but yet there I was doing it.

The crowds of spectators are getting larger and louder now. I don't know them but their enthusiasm pushes and pulls me down the track. I slide past mile marker 11 with anticipation for the race to finish. Then I see some familiar faces waiting for me down the road. My family is cheering me on. I raise my arms triumphantly to echo their cheers. Samuel runs out into the street to give me five. With a smile on my face I continue on, bolstered by their support.

I find small opportunities to surge while rounding a corner or going down the slightest incline. Most of my picks for competitors have come and gone. There is one left. She passed me a few miles back and I've kept her in my sights ever since. Now she is slowing and I'm gaining. Little...by....little. Then, near marker 12, I pass her and gain the lead. This success is followed by the knowledge that I am now also prey to the numerous runners who were saving their speed for the final mile. Each time someone passes I try to keep up for a moment but the gap always seems to widen. The line of runners now is stretched narrow and thin.

Then the finish line comes into view. The crowd is endlessly cheering as runner after runner breaks through the line. The clock is ticking away the seconds and see that I'm going to reach my goal. It is at 1:54:29 when I push myself through the finish line. My legs wobble and nearly buckle as I walk around afterward enjoying the rush of the accomplishment.

I finished in 146th place overall out of 816 runners. 102nd place out of 334 men, and 12th place out of 29 men aged 30-34. I maintained an average pace 8:42 minutes per mile. I felt completely depleted and somehow that was best possible feeling I could have had at that moment.

The Next Obsession

2011-01-01T22:42:00.000-05:00

It is still dark out. The emerging dawn just a promise on the eastern horizon. A smear of dim orange crowned by purple clouds. The beach path is empty. I own it for now. . . others, I'm sure, will be joining me soon. The landscape steadily moves around me - shifting one stride toward me and then behind me each time my foot hits the packed sand. The ocean is useless to gauge myself by - too vast and featureless. The fence posts that line the path are pacing my immediate movement. The line of condominiums, like giant sentinels keeping watch on the lapping ocean, slide by easily, marking my larger progress. I'm warming up. My body humming. My legs and knees and feet feel each impact, sending a slight shock through my gut, torso, head and out through the bobbing hairs on my head. My lungs and heart are ramping up, increasing the flow of oxygen and blood coursing through my body.

I never really enjoyed this until recently. I never though of running as a sport but as a way to train and prepare for a real sport. A means to an end - not an end in and of itself. I've occasionally gone running along the beach during the years we have lived here and occasionally I've enjoyed it. I've never done it with any real frequency and consistency though. In September that changed. . . a little.

I've reached North Shore Open Space Park - the sand is softer here along the path. Each step must be careful and deliberate. On the southern end of the park is a large mound of sand. Perhaps brought in at one time as a store to quell potential beach erosion - not sure, but it has been here for years. The growing vines from the adjacent dunes have spilled over onto the base of this sand mound climbing half-way up its slopes. The incline is mushy and I have to widen my stance as I pound up the hill. The hill levels out for about twenty feet - giving me a brief view of the beach and ocean and park from a slight elevation - a treasure in a landscape as flat as Miami's.

In late August after stepping off the bathroom scale I came to the realization that my relaxed attitude regarding my health and my weight would need to change. Either my metabolism was slowing or I was unknowingly increasing my caloric intake. Either way I had reached a new high that just kept on creeping up. I decided to stop and lose 20 pounds before the year's end. Again running became a means to an end - a necessary part of the equation - something I did to burn calories. Not something I did just for fun and adventure. My left knee would often hurt. I was winded and sore before I reached a mile. My pace was slow and I ended up walking more than jogging. Other runners would breeze past me at these paces I thought I would never attain. And so running fell to the bottom of my preferred exercise list, replaced almost entirely by biking and the aerobic videos in my Netflix queue.

South of the park there is a paved pathway that snakes along the beach for about 15 blocks. More and more people begin to emerge. It is lighter out now. The light blue of the sky all but dimming the waning crescent moon and the brilliant dot of Venus in the east. There are the homeless of North Beach strolling not far from the littered underbrush where they sleep, there are a few people out on the beach watching the sunrise, lovers loitering on the romantic deck of a Lifeguard stand, I wonder how many of them have been out all night celebrating the New Year - finishing the night by watching the sunrise over the Atlantic. Then there are those of us walking and jogging along the path. Are their efforts on this morning compelled by the nature and meaning of this day? How many of them will still be here next Saturday morning and the week after that and the week after that?

At some point I went from an occasional run back in September and October to a week such as this past one. Since Monday I have gone running four times and logged about 20 miles. I stopped to think about it a week or two ago: When did I start liking running? I traced it back and realized the day was Thanksgiving. On that morning I woke before the rest of the family and crept out of the Sails Resort Motel in North Redington Beach on the west coast of Florida. The morning was strikingly beautiful, the flat smooth beach with the water at low tide created the ideal running surface right along the ocean's edge. Maybe it was the exploration I enjoyed - when I passed the fishing pier I realized that I was entering foreign territory. I had never been along this stretch of sand before. Well into the run I realized that my pace had quickened. My knee wasn't hurting. I wasn't getting winded and felt I could continue at the same pace for a while still. At this point I had lost about 15 pounds - my load was lighter and my legs, heart and lungs were stronger. I picked out a distant landmark to reach before turning back and revisiting the entire landscape in reverse. On the way back with my face to the recently risen sun, the music in my headphones thumping out the beat to which I ran, I picked up my pace and felt an exhilaration I hadn't previously known.

When I reached my target weight just before Christmas I was elated, but I was also a little bit lost. I had focused so much on this goal (often to the point of obsession) for the previous three and a half months, that I was unsure of what I would do next. I had become so accustomed to logging my calories and recording my exercise - would I need to continue? Should I try to loose a few more pounds? It took a few days for me to realize that my next goal should not be weight-based, it should be to improve and develop something I was really beginning to enjoy. The goal became to make running my next obsession. Running would now be the sport. Running would be the end. Good health and maintaining an ideal weight - mere ancillary benefits.

The Wall

2010-11-16T00:39:00.000-05:00

When I was seventeen years old I went on a trip with our church youth group to the barren plains of Wyoming. To re-live a bit of what our Pioneer ancestors experienced, we would walk portions of the Mormon trail across Rocky Ridge, along Rock Creek and on to Martin's Cove - where the Willie and Martin handcart companies were rescued from the deathly cold of an early winter back in October of 1856. We covered over 12 miles of the original trail - and to pass the time along a particularly empty section of the path a friend and I decided we would sing all the lyrics to every track of the double disk album The Wall by Pink Floyd. At that point in my life I was probably listening to The Wall an average of once a week - so it was not surprising that I was able to accomplish this feat, even with no background music save the slight howl of the summer Wyoming wind.

I have my older brothers to thank for my love of Pink Floyd at an early age. By the age of ten I was borrowing and listening to my brother Gregg's tapes on a frequent basis - Animals, Wish you Were Here, Ummagumma - I still remember listening to Dark Side of the Moon for the first time. The cassette tape playing in my walkman while I was in my room - probably toying with GI Joes or Transformers or something. That sound from the song Brain Damage - the soft squeal and slide of the guitar, the moan of the back up vocalists, the lyrics - I still remember that moment thinking "Wow - what is this?" I bought my first Pink Floyd albums at the age of 12 from the Musicland at the Cottonwood Mall - this would begin a collection that took several years to complete.

Of all Pink Floyd's albums my favorites have shifted from year to year. And while The Wall hasn't always had the number one place for me, it is such a landmark album that it really stands out unlike anything else Pink Floyd created. The art and intensity and scope of the album is in large part due to the personal outpouring of Roger Water's soul into the music and concept. The original concert performances of the Wall took place 30 years ago - things of legend that only four select cities witnessed. These concerts were then adapted into the 1982 movie which many people witnessed - but the movie is something that explores the music in a very different way. The Wall is in fact a story of a concert - of a Rock Star going mad while on tour. What better way to experience its music and story than in the concert format.

And so I was thrilled at the announcement earlier this year that Roger Waters would be back on tour - this time performing his magnum opus - The Wall. We went to the show this weekend. It was more than just a concert - it was a spectacle, unlike anything else I have ever witnessed. The music alone has been a part of my life for nearly 25 years - there is a familiarity to it that courses through my identity, that is woven through the soundtrack of my personal history. To experience that music in this way - in the way it is meant to be experienced - was amazing. The lights and projections and pyrotechnics and props and costumes. . . think broadway show, mixed with stadium concert, mixed with opera, mixed with fireworks spectacular, mixed with giant puppet show etc etc etc.

Loved it loved it loved it.

Behind the Scenes at Roman's Blessing

2010-10-10T22:50:00.001-05:00

I leave my office in a rush. It is already 9:00. Maybe my counselors would be on the stand. . . ready to start. . . just waiting for me. Nope. I don't see either of them. They are still scrambling. Last minute preparations. Sometimes I wish I could just sit and enjoy sacrament meeting - just show up and be fed - rather than cooking the meal. . . or serving it . . . or however you want the metaphor to go. It is my calling to worry about every little detail. Even on my son's blessing day.

There's my family. Filling two entire rows. Collectively traveling thousands of miles to be here today. I don't have time to really acknowledge them. Sharon comes up to me, going out of her way to give me a hug and let me see Roman in his carefully chosen blessing outfit - the moment is nice, but quick. I'm going through my mental pre-game checklist. Prelude organ music is playing - check - although not by our regular organist. Someone else is filling in, spur of the moment. Sacrament is set up - check - although it looks like the lace table cloth was put down first under the trays and the solid table cloth lay over them. "Is there bread under there this time?" I ask the lone priest at the table. He nods "You can check if you'd like." He remembers lifting the cloth a few weeks ago ready to break the bread only to find five empty bread trays staring right back at him.

The chorister isn't present. It is already a few minutes after 9:00. So far only one deacon has shown up to pass the sacrament. A good three quarters of those who will eventually fill the chapel are not here yet. They are arriving in the parking lot and stuck at a light down the street, and just leaving home. At least the late ones will never know that we are starting late, I remind myself. I tend to obsess about starting on time. Maybe because the Bishop before me obsessed about starting on time. . . or maybe because obviously no one else does. . .

My first counselor is conducting today. I find him on the stand and do a quick assessment. "Are those the correct hymns?" I ask pointing to the placard on the wall. "No I tried calling our chorister earlier but she hasn't returned my calls." "Well do you want to get with the organist and pick out some hymns?" He quickly moves to the organist to pick out some hymns. The prelude music stops while they talk. The silence accentuates the fact that we are clearly not prepared this morning.

I'm looking for the portable microphone in preparation for the blessing. . . oh yeah, and we have a confirmation. Where is Paul? Doesn't look like he is here yet. I locate the microphone but the cord is missing. My second counselor is up on the stand now. I send him to look for it. "Check the library," I tell him and he runs off.

The hymn numbers are in place now the prelude music has resumed. My first counselor returns and I send him off yet again to find a chorister to fill in. My second counselor returns empty handed. "Wasn't in the library." "Check with the other ward's Bishopric." He leaves again.

We are running 5 minutes late now. A chorister has been found and I'm running through a few announcements with my first counselor. We are changing the Relief Society presidency today and I want to make sure he has all the names correct. My second counselor returns with the microphone cord. "I don't know why it was in their clerks office."

"Alright let's get started," I indicate, and my first counselor gathers his notes and begins the meeting. I take a deep breath. I can relax slightly now. There is still only one deacon ready to pass the sacrament and one priest on the stand to bless. Paul still hasn't shown up for his confirmation. But members are steadily strolling in during the opening hymn.

The announcements and sustaining go quickly and then suddenly it is time to bless Roman. I meet Sharon half way down the aisle and take Roman into my arms. He is calm and quiet. I hope that everyone else I've asked to be in the circle comes because I don't even look around to make sure. I trust that the microphone has been plugged in and is working because that detail has left my mind. My entire focus is on my son.

I step into place and the circle closes in around Roman. I realize at that moment that I have so far given no thought into what I might say in the blessing. I close my eyes - not tight, but I feel the solid weight of my eyelids sealing out the distractions and details outside, blocking the noise and the running checklist in my mind. With one hand under Roman and one hand on my father's shoulder I can sense nothing physical outside of that Priesthood circle. There is a singular focus. I'm no longer rushing rushing rushing. But time seems to slow.

I bless him with health and a long life. A long life of service to God and man. I pause for inspiration which is followed by words. I bless him with wisdom and faith. I can sense his potential. I can see what may become. I bless him to one day serve in the priesthood, to serve as a missionary, to serve in the temple. I bless him to be a follower of Christ and a leader of men. I bless him that he will uplift and inspire. That he will be a good son and brother and friend. I know that the Lord is perfectly poised, ready to pour down numberless blessings to him and anyone else that will acknowledge them and receive them. I end the blessing and open my eyes and the physical world comes back into view. The circle breaks leaving just me and Roman for a moment.

I return to the stand still feeling the exhilarating sensation of the Spirit. We are ready to begin the sacrament hymn. I take a look and we are still short one Aaronic priesthood holder to pass the sacrament. I consider nudging my second counselor and asking him to go grab someone but just then walks in another family. The 16 year old youth sits on the back row. He looks up and I make eye contact with him. I nod my head in the direction of the sacrament table. He understands and comes up to fill the final spot. I check that one final thing off my mental sacrament meeting checklist and then the tug of war of responsibilities shifts back to my family for a moment as I look down at my wife and our son that she holds in her arms.

Autumnal Equinox

2010-09-22T23:54:00.000-05:00

The sky is a dark steely hue, one hour shy of midnight blue. The hush of wave sound and wind rush rise and fall at irregular intervals. The cricket chirp is faint but adds a distinct rhythmic tempo. We contribute to nature's chorus some music of our own, Neil Young's Harvest Moon. The album choice is obvious - what else should we choose on this night? Hanging boldly and high in the eastern sky is the full harvest moon of September being chased by the bright white speck of Jupiter.

We sit on our balcony chairs to hear the harmony of man and nature, to feel the whirl of the tepid air, to see the night cast in dramatic moonlight. But what holds my gaze and attention and imagination more than anything is the approaching bank of clouds.

Growing up in Utah, my horizons were always filled with the jagged and rolling masses of mountains. I was fascinated how Mount Olympus changed shape and size as i drove around it on Wasatch Boulevard. The single mountain could show you 360 different faces - each view hiding and revealing something more of itself.

Since I moved to Miami 10 years ago it has been the large billowing clouds that have filled that void. And tonight as I look up at that slowly shifting and glowing pinnacle of water vapor it reminds me just how similar a cloud and a mountain can be. Those sweeping crags and crevices and cliffs - the moonlight revealing the intricate contours of the massive cloud. There is a wispy silvery bluff, an immaterial basin, and a fluffy butte. A soft but steep outcrop is forming right in front of me. Unlike the mountain you need not move around it to see if fully. With patience the cloud does all the moving you will ever need.

The bank of clouds is like that distant mountain range growing and growing as you move towards it. . . . It resembles a slowly moving wave - no shore to crash on to - nothing to stand in its way. So it ebbs and flows in the currents of the atmosphere until it is nearly on top of us. And just at the moment of the autumnal equinox, 11:09 local time, the sea of mountainous clouds eclipses the harvest moon keeping it hidden like a precious jewel that we are not yet worthy to see. . .

So Sweet

2010-08-15T16:00:00.000-05:00

Roman Xavier Finlinson

2010-08-13T22:20:00.001-05:00

Day by day passed. We wondered when. Every plan we made had to have a contingency. From two weeks before his due date we knew it could happen at any time. Without regard for time of day or day of week. We were guessing at the days with some numeric significance 8-8 or 8-9-10. We were guessing at those days with no significance at all - "How about Today?" we would say on a Tuesday or Thursday. Four months ago we were robbed of the chance to be surprised by the sex of our child at birth. The ultrasound and our show off son made sure of that. So, not knowing the day of his arrival was a source of joyous anticipation for us.

Sharon especially, likes surprises.

The baby, it turns out, does not.

The only date we knew for sure was the due date - August 13th - we've known that since the beginning. And of all the possible days to choose from, that was day our son hit the eject button.

This morning was calm and peaceful. The sky clear and bright. The ocean still and vibrant. Sharon awoke to stirrings within - contractions that were fast and frequent. We readied ourselves - made the necessary calls - prepared for the day, our son's zero-th birthday. Our preparations were marked by the staccato pains and deep breathing of Sharon's contractions. Her morning preparations halted every three to four minutes - brush teeth, stop for a contraction, floss teeth, stop for a contraction. . . Just before 9am we were out the door. Me excited and happy; Sharon burrowed down in the intensity of the overwhelming task at hand. At times she cursed my smile and exuberance. At other times it gave her confidence.

The drive over the causeway and down 125th street to the Miami Maternity Center reminded me of the last time we did this - with Samuel's birth. The drive was not with such urgency as with his, but I could tell Sharon's contraction were getting stronger. When she would squeeze my hand to pass on to me a tiny fraction of those labor pains, I could tell she was getting close.

Our walk from the car to the center was halted for two contractions. Sharon leaning on me, head down, breathing through it as the sun poured down on us. The receptionist with a big smile asked if today was the day. "It sure looks that way," I replied. And then in robot-mode - not sensing the urgency of the moment - she told Sharon to go in the bathroom and provide a urine sample. Sharon obediently followed although I could hear the thoughts in her mind. . . "You want me to go pee in a cup? I'm probably going to have the baby in this cup if we don't hurry!"

When Sharon returned a few minutes later, the head midwife, Carol, showed up saw the look on Sharon's face and knew immediately that we needed to hurry to the delivery room. The time was 9:30am. Sharon was having a hard time walking now. We paused for another contraction. Sharon's biggest fear at this point was that this labor was still going to last hours - that the midwife would check her and discover she was only half-way dilated. That wasn't the case though. She was complete - her water hadn't broken but once it did the baby would be coming.

The birthing tub sat there in the corner of the room. Empty. Sharon was determined to birth in water just as she had done with all our children. Carol wasn't convinced we would have enough time to fill the tub but started the water anyway. It was like a little race against time. I kept looking over at the water level of the tub as it inched further and further up. Meanwhile our son continued his journey down the birthing canal, further and further. The student midwives were busily scrambling around us, getting everything ready for an event that was moments away.

When the tub was up to an acceptable level Sharon forced herself to climb into the warm water. I followed, taking my usual position behind her. It's not always clear what my role is supposed to be during these times - but I try to be supportive. I tell her she's doing good - and she is. I tell her everything is going to be alright and that our baby will be here soon - and it will.

Sharon is very good at birthing and within minutes the head was out followed by the body and suddenly our son was peacefully resting on Sharon's chest taking his first breaths - crying his first cry - getting cozy and cuddling with his mother. Everything else around us faded out of existence. For those few moments it was just the three of us there at the center of the Universe. Me, Sharon and our son, Roman Xavier Finlinson. There were latex-gloved hands moving in and out of existence around us. There were voices beyond that immediate circle that perhaps were understood at the time but are already blurred and fuzzy to our memory. Roman's eyes peeked open and shared in the experience with us, his first view of the outside world. He seemed to look up at his mother's face with such affection - and with an unspoken understanding of the shared struggle they had both endured. The time of birth: 9:48am.

We spent the next few hours in awe, admiring his scrunched up features, his light brown hair, his pink lips and slight overbite, the wrinkles in his hands, the folds of his ears, the shape of his nose. We are not sure what someone with the name "Roman" is supposed to look like, but he definitely has it. He'll carry the name well.

Postscript: Oh yes and let's not forget all his most important characteristics:

Weight: 7 lbs 4 oz; Height: 21 inches; Head circumference: 14 inches; Apgar score: 9-10; Shoe size: not applicable; Magical powers: to be determined; Cuteness lever: off the charts.

The Sea Oats

2010-07-30T07:15:00.001-05:00

The sea oats are ripe. Tall and thin. Yellowed with age. Bowing down under the weight of their seed heads. Many are already bare - mere skeletons now. Collectively and individually they undulate in the silent breeze. They spring from the low mesh of long green grass like the spears and javelins of a small army, then humbly arch and bow down peacefully. Over time they have grown taller and taller - reaching for the limitless blue expanse above them. They are maxed out now. Heavy. Shrinking from the constant pull of gravity below.

It's part of their natural cycle, I realize, but I will miss them when they are gone. And even when they come back will they ever be the same? So I commit them to memory - stored in my mind alongside things both profound and mundane. The beautiful neighboring the trivial. The delicate sea oats are alongside memories of childhood toys and bits of information like telephone numbers and internet passwords. The sea oats are there jumbled up next to other scenes of my life such as viewing the full moon through a telescope and painting a white ceiling white.

There have been other things and people that have come and gone - that reside now only as memories - immortal as long as those memories remain in the flashing neurons of the mind. My friend Jimbo died of leukemia 7 years ago. The synapses of my cerebral cortex are capable of recreating his face, his laugh, his personality. He lives on somewhere near the sea oats now. . . right next to the list of state capitals and my high school locker combination.

The Missing Tooth Fairy

2010-07-21T07:46:00.001-05:00

Indigo wasn't sure what to make of it. For a second morning in a row she had woke up, checked the little pocket on her pink Tooth Fairy pillow and found the small ivory sliver of bone still there. No money. Kiara was concerned too, she was working on her own loose tooth that would spring out at any moment. The fact that the tooth fairy was seemingly neglecting our household was not acceptable.

Indigo's tooth waiting patiently in that pocket was really only half a tooth. The other half had broken off some time back - her father's "bad teeth" genes at work. Perhaps this was the reason for the Tooth Fairy's absence, were half-teeth simply rejected? Or maybe the Tooth Fairy was waiting for Kiara's loose tooth to come out as well to take care of them both at the same time? Kiara did find a quarter on their night stand that wasn't there before - maybe the tooth fairy had been there, but had been scared away when one of them woke up in the middle of the night? Maybe the weather had been too bad? Or perhaps the Tooth Fairy had been up late both nights watching the third season of "24" and had fallen asleep. Theories abounded. But still no answers.

So that evening before going to bed Indigo drafted a letter to the Tooth Fairy and carefully placed it on her night stand along with a pencil and another piece of paper titled "Write Back". She needed an explanation.

Dear Tooth Fairy,
You are my favorite Fairy. I had a broken tooth and I lost it. Not like I dropped it. It got lost and it fell out. It is in this pillow.
P.S. What did you think it was?

That should have done the job. But the next morning still nothing. No money. No explanation. So we waited. Kiara's tooth did indeed come out that day. Would this be the night? Before bed each of them double checked the location of their teeth and their pillows to make sure they would be easy for the Tooth Fairy to find. The handwritten letter was in plain site. The pencil sharpened.

After brushing the scrawling mess of hair from their faces and straining to open and focus their tired eyes, each awoke to find a rolled up dollar bill in place of their teeth. That was good. But what was the explanation? What was the reason for her delay? Why had she neglected them so long?

Here is what the Tooth Fairy wrote back:

"Indigo,
Sorry it took me so long to come for your tooth. I was captured by this really mean kid named Randy Sorensen. He kept me in a glass jar for three days until I could escape. It was crazy. I don't know what he wanted. Maybe money. But he doesn't understand. I don't carry money with me - I use my magic to turn teeth into money. That is how it works.
Love,
Tooth Fairy"

. . . I'm a skeptic. The excuse sounds a little too much like a plot line you would see in the third season of "24".

Patterns

2010-07-13T07:45:00.000-05:00

Cool air blows in the quiet space around me. The back-lit vertical blinds catch the air like long white sails that begin to sway as pendulums. The irregular and uneven oscillation creates gaps here and there, by which the morning sunlight intrudes. The light creeps in through the window and a series of illuminated parallel lines crawl along the tile and carpet. Some bold, some faint. The intervals of intrusion shift as the blinds sway. The light skims up and down the floor. Advancing. Retreating.

Collectively it looks like it is dancing to some unheard music. Bouncing up at down indicating various tones and rhythms and breaks and peaks. Mathematical. Musical. It try to find the pattern but there are over a dozen moving lines of light. Appearing. Disappearing. Growing. Diminishing.

I try to make order out of the randomness - to define, to categorize, to see the patterns, the cycles that surround. It must fit an equation, a plan, a universal law - to assert our dominance and intelligence we feel we must find one. Else we are helpless beings to be tossed about by waves of the inexplicable. Chaos into order - this is the work of the gods we are trying to become. This is the endgame of Science, Religion and Philosophy.

Is there a pattern to the dance of light? One that I am just incapable of seeing? Perhaps there is. Perhaps there isn't. We see God in the order of the Universe. . . but is He there also in the void? Is He there amongst the random, the chance, the haphazard? I'm a believer that there is purpose and meaning behind every grain of sand and every ball of lint, but sometimes I have to admit, there is no discernible pattern. Many events are just truly random. There are obvious tent poles, sure, of order and meaning - but much of what goes on under the canvas could happen this way or that; willy-nilly; with no over-sweeping consequence.

Perhaps a mathematician could write it all up on a dusty chalkboard. Perhaps it sheds light on some ancient religious prophecy. But perhaps it is just the jostling around of particles and molecules. Sometimes there is no pattern - which makes it no less beautiful.

Valley of the Goblins

2010-06-17T09:59:00.007-05:00

My lips are cracked and dusty. A rush of wind, saturated with fine red sand, pelts my face and eyes. My nose feels full of sand and rocks. A few scattered rain drops pitter-patter on my head and shoulders. The drops that make it to the ground leave little craters in the sand and are instantly absorbed into the dry earth. Overall the weather stays very pleasant - clouds block the harsh sun and the temperature is perfect for exploring the maze of hoodoo red rock formations.

My children and my nieces and nephews are bouncing from one rock formation to the next - like pinballs. They climb to perilous heights, they crawl through uneven openings, they sit perched on an outcropping and call me over to take a picture. There are no stairs or railings or warning signs. It is climb at your own risk. Nature has nothing to fear from litigation. The wind and sandstone and erosion and crumbling rocks and thousands upon thousands of slowly passing years could care less about a skinned knee or elbow - and I'm sure occasionally much worse (after all this is "Goblin" Valley, they are sinister little beasts).

I am a small speck moving around the panorama of colored rocks - my life just a wink in the midst of these grand age-old toadstool boulders. Yet I am fully alive under that grand wispy white sky. I feel a part of something great, something beautiful, something wonderful.

We wind our way deeper into the valley - surrounded by the goblins. Doug has climbed to the top of a large white & green domed hill and spots a cave. He directs our pack toward the opening where the more daring enter and crawl all the way to the back. I climb the incline to the right and get above the cave where a skylight opening allows me to look down on the group.

The exploration continues and we find ourselves higher and higher on the wall of spires to the east. Suddenly Kiara and Indigo appear at the top of a tall ledge above me. "Daddy!" they yell down me. "How did you get up there?" I holler back. They simply point to the other side behind them - they must have found an easy route from that side. "Don't go any closer this way," I warn as I examine the sheer wall between us. Indigo slips a little and my heart stops for a split second. Then they turn and disappear going back the way they had come.

The group has split now - there are those waiting back at the cave and a number of us that have continued on. We don't mean to keep them waiting but it is hard to stop advancing. You get to one point then see another point beyond that draws you to it. The Goblins are like Sirens now beckoning us deeper and deeper into their lair. "What do you think is beyond that rise?". . . "Another rise". . . and so on. We wind our way further and further up the rocks until the red stone and sand turns white - we are in a new geological layer. Just beyond the final rise we see the other side of Goblin Valley: nothing but sagebrushed flatlands reaching toward the horizon accented with an occasional monolith or butte of shocking red stone.

Behind us is the entire expanse of Goblin Valley. There is still a lot left to explore but we have had our fill for the day. We will leave the rest a mystery. Caverns, spires and boulders are left unanswered. To explore every square inch and answer all the questions would reduce it to a geological study and would rob the place of the magic and wonder that it rightfully deserves.

6:32 AM - The Everglades

2010-05-12T21:44:00.001-05:00

Somewhere there is meaning in this sunrise - somewhere eluding me. Orange burning away the misty blue. It stops me and I mutter "Wow". The layer of fog carries the sunrise from the vast horizon right to the immediate tree line. There beyond and right here. Nearly tangible. There is an entire history of sunsets and sunrises and tree-filtered daylight ingrained in my collective experience. This sunrise immediately connects with those of the past yet wholly remains in the present - being added to the bank.

Samuel is off wandering in the dew drenched grass. Half the camp is still asleep so I shush his running commentary and questions. I try to point out the sunrise but I can see he isn't moved by it as I am. Instead his fascination remains with the blanket of morning dew that has soaked the earth. His jeans are now dark from ankle to knee - his shoes scrubbed clean by the bristles of wet grass and wildflowers. He asks me "Why?" and I don't have a simple 3 year old answer ready for him. Instead we both just ponder the mysteries of life and nature. The quality of the sunrise and the meaning of the morning dew.

It matters to this one

2010-05-05T21:11:00.004-05:00

The air of gloominess around Kiara is obvious and I have to ask her what is wrong. At first she says "Nothing." Then "I don't want to talk about it." I persist and finally get, "I don't really want to talk about it in front of everyone."

So I find an opportunity to take her aside.

"So what's wrong?" I ask.

"I just can't really explain it. . . " she says with her head down and with exaggerated hand motions. "I don't know the right words to explain it."

"Try to," I encourage.

She responds by shrugging - not sure what to say.

"When did you start feeling sad? Was it before dinner? Was it after?"

"Well. . . I guess it was at the birthday party."

A few hours earlier I had picked her up from a birthday party at the park. She had hoped into the van, handed me some candy from her goodie bag and excitedly told me all about the party. At the time everything had seemed fine.

"What happened at the party?" I ask.

Again a pause.

"Something that some of the people were doing."

She obviously wasn't going to come right out and tell me - so I continue to question:
"Were some of the kids being rude to you?"

"No."

"Were they excluding you?"

"No."

"Well what was it?"

"I don't know exactly who was doing it but it was parents too. . . but I just don't know who was and who wasn't doing it."

"Kiara, I don't care right now who was or wasn't doing it, I just need to know what they were doing. Was it something bad?"

And then, finally she comes out with it:

"It's just that there were so many people there littering and it just makes me so sad because they don't care about our environment and they would just leave their garbage on the ground even though there were two trash cans there. It makes me so sad because I just want our world to be beautiful but it doesn't matter because even if I want that, there are so many people who still litter and pollute."

I have to hide my smile. I compose myself and offer some sympathy and words of encouragement. I tell her that changing the world is a big thing and we all have to do our part and we can't let those who don't share our same vision discourage us.

"I know but it's like when we did that beach cleanup. We cleaned up all that trash and now it is back again. People just aren't reducing, re-using and recycling," her disappointment is spilling out of her along with genuine sniffles and tears.

I tell her the story of the young boy throwing beached starfish back into the ocean and his response to the man who was challenging his actions as fruitless. . . "It matters to this one". She listens to the story. She loves stories.

"You know Kiara - you have a real talent with writing. Maybe one day you'll write a book that will encourage people to care more about the environment."

She considers this for a moment. "Yeah. . . maybe."

* * * * * * *

Here is the beginning of that story written the following day. It is called "The Lost City":

Once upon a time there was this very famous city. It was so beautiful. There was no pollution and it was perfect. But then one day something happened, it disappeared. And everybody polluted and all the animals and trees got sick. It was horrible. I try to stop it but it was no use. Stealing happened. . . Fighting. . . I clearly do not want polluting.

The Truth about Easter

2010-04-05T23:49:00.000-05:00

"Here is the truth. . . " I pause for a breath - I'm still deciding how to say it. From the corner of my vision I see Sharon shooting me a questioning glance wondering what I am about to say. "Parents are not the Easter Bunny - but they do help the Easter Bunny. " I conclude.

Keep it vague, I tell myself. Let her reach her own conclusions. . . She is nodding as if she has found the answer.

But I can't have her spoiling it. She is in on the secret now. "But don't tell it to Indigo and Samuel because it is still fun for them to believe."

Kiara nods her head in understanding and skips off to indulge in more egg-shaped candy that we - her parents - helped "The Easter Bunny" deliver.

She had begun the conversation with a concerned look and a legitimate question to ponder on an Easter morning.

"Are parents really the Easter Bunny?"

I tried to avoid the question - I dodged - I deflected - I stammered - I stuttered.

"No Dad," she affirmed. "It is one question and there has to be one true answer. What is it?"

The question involving the veracity of the Easter Bunny is a complicated one. It is not only tricky because I am a parent and the mere asking of the question means my daughter is getting older and to answer it is like tearing away her innocence - but it is also tricky because in an odd round-about way it is also tied to the veracity of Christian miracles. Belief in the magical linked with faith in the spiritual.

The two great holidays of Christendom are coupled with magical creatures that depending on your view point either mask or enhance the true meaning of these days. Christmas is both about Santa Claus and the birth of the Messiah. Easter is simultaneously about the resurrection of Jesus and a bunny rabbit that lays chocolate eggs.

I gave her a few things to think about, "Our minds tell us that the Easter Bunny isn't real, but our hearts tell us to believe".

I was forced to take a quick inventory of those things I do and don't believe in. I don't believe in the Easter Bunny but I do believe that Jesus returned from the realm of death after 3 days and lived again. I don't believe in Santa Claus but I do believe in the virgin birth of a child who was both half-mortal and half-god. I don't believe in Big Foot but I do believe in angels, I don't believe in astrology but I do believe in revealed prophecy, I don't believe in magic but I do believe in miracles. Prayer but not telepathy; Zarahemla but not Atlantis.

"As we get older our minds begin to understand things more and more and we begin to loose our belief in magical things." I told her.

What I meant is that when we become more logical in our thinking, we are forced to disbelieve so much of what we openly accepted in our innocent youth. This isn't always a bad thing. We are rational beings with intellects and if we are to not only survive but succeed in this life we must be prepared to use these tools of reason. It is our rational intelligence that allows us to separate fact from fiction, truth from error. It kicks in when we stand on a ledge and imagine we can fly or when we stand poised on the water's edge considering walking on the shimmering water.

Enter the Reason vs. Faith debate - clearly there are many things that the tool of reason fails to do a good job with: science isn't built to define God and heaven and angels and miracles. It isn't built for it and I would add that it isn't adequate for it.

Faith is as Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote, a "willing suspension of disbelief". We must cast rationality and logic aside to some degree when we evaluate matters of faith. We must understand that reason, for all it is good at, will not help us understand the nature of God unless it is framed and molded by faith.

Which all brings me back to the original problem. How can I believe in one fantastical and illogical thing while scoffing at another? I believe that Jesus lived, then died, then lived again (along with millions of other Christians around the world) but to believe that a single rabbit is capable of hopping around the entire earth and knowing where all the best hiding places are. . . that would be crazy - that is just kid's stuff.

Somehow we make those decisions though - using some messy mesh of both logic and faith, reason and emotion, thinking critically yet simultaneously suspending any disbelief. And in some ways I was scared to drop the curtain revealing the truth about the Easter Bunny because I was worried that other more profound things would come falling down in the same curtain. I don't want her to stop believing in magically things because I don't want her to lose faith in spiritual things.

Perhaps I over-thought the whole conversation. Perhaps I should have just been more straight with her. Perhaps I shouldn't have feared so much her ability to discern between belief in the nonsensical and faith in the profound.

Kiara has now moved on - no longer visibly struggling with the issue. She is writing a story in her new journal that she received in her Easter basket. It is all about a group of kids who go in search of the Easter Bunny after the furry critter fails to show up one Easter morning. A work of Fact or Fiction?

. . . you decide.

Life's Injustices

2010-03-25T23:43:00.002-05:00

"Life's not fair!" Kiara declares as she storms into the kitchen. It is early and she is clearly cranky.

I finish flipping a row of pancakes and turn my attention to her. "What's the matter?" I'm curious to find out which of life's grand injustices she has already discovered at 7:20 in the morning.

"Indigo gets to have socks that say Tuesday on them and mine don't and I asked her If I could wear them and she said they were hers but its not fair because she already got to wear Monday socks yesterday and I really want to wear them."

I try out a few words of consolation. A few of explanation. A few words of reason and comfort. She is having none of it. She is sitting in the chair sulking as I slide the finished pancakes from spatula to plate.

At such a young age our two daughters have had countless opportunities to practice the art of negotiation on one another. Kiara has apparently lost this round. Hoping to have the last word and end it, Indigo strides into the kitchen pulling open the fridge with nonchalance and without even looking at her exclaims "Kiara. It's not like I found a leprechaun or anything."

Translation: "Chill out. They're just socks."

Just socks. Of course Indigo wouldn't think of giving them up. After all, they say Tuesday on them.

Four

2010-03-14T22:12:00.000-05:00

For this week his name is Asher. . . or Ascher. . . maybe Ash for short? Next week we will try something else (maybe Cole or Andrew or Morgan). We figure a week is a good amount of time to test drive a potential name. Some names don't make it more than a day or an hour or even a few minutes before getting the axe. A name is certainly nothing to trifle with - don't let Shakespeare's "a rose by any other name smelling just as sweet" nonsense fool you. . . There are as many baby name websites out there as there are baby names. And we are scouring them all in our quest.

Four is the smallest composite number that is equal to the sum of its prime factors.
Four is the number of human blood groups (A, B, O, AB).

Samuel is examining Sharon's enlarged belly. Sharon informs him that his baby brother is inside. Samuel looks closer and more carefully at the belly. "Is that the nose?" he asks, pointing at her shallow belly button. "No, the baby's inside," Sharon explains. "I can't see him," Samuel remarks.

Four is the number of nucleobase types in DNA.
Four is the sacred number of the Zia, an indigenous tribe located in New Mexico.

We are watching home videos of Kiara and Indigo and Samuel - when they were babies. They each have expressions and characteristics still present today. Kiara's laugh is the same. Indigo's cry. Samuel's dimple. We can't help but wonder what this one will look like. How chubby or skinny he will be. The color of his hair. The movement of head and neck and fist and toe.

Four is the number of elements in alchemy (earth, water, air and fire).
In the English language, four is the only number with the same number of letters as its value.

His due date is August 13. This we know about him. He is a boy. This we know about him. He likes to move around and kick and form blood vessels and ears. This we know about him. The rest will have to wait. But we do know that ever since we discovered he was on his way, a large and gaping and noticeable hole has opened up in our family - a hole that is waiting for him to fill. There is an empty spot at our table. A spot in the Odyssey already reserved. An empty seat on Sharon's bike. A gap in the parade of our three kids as they walk and wander and waddle down any given path.

Four is the the number of movements in a symphony.
Four will be the number of our children.

Everglades

2010-02-19T22:53:00.003-05:00

The simple emptiness. The vast expanse. The still, quiet, abundant life. It sways slightly in the breeze. It flows through the water. It crawls on the sawgrass. It hums and glides through the crisp air. A hundred shades of green surrounds. A hundred shades of blue above.

The solitary sun - sentinel of the sky - spilling rays through the filter of leaves, reflecting off the dancing surface of the slow river. The grandeur of this place is found not in the sprawling vistas but in the up-close-and-personal. The prehistoric and savage in the here-and-now. The delicate balanced by danger.

You could stand there on that ribbon of pavement and see nothing. You could stand there with it all around you on every side and never feel a thing - just a stranger in a forbidding plain. Then suddenly you realize you are staring at the exposed eyes of a monstrous beast with its elongated jaw of sharp teeth hidden just below the water line. And then you stare into the dark shadows of an archway of trees and see a pile of green turtles - still - silent. Just as you are. And then you crouch down and look into the grass. You turn your gaze upwards. You scan the tops of the trees and see a myriad of imperial birds perched in the sunlight.

Everything is slight. Everything is subtle. The broad shallow river of the Everglades flows at a slow incomprehensible rate. To enjoy the Everglades fully it seems one must move at a similar pace.

London Day 2

2010-02-09T23:22:00.006-05:00

We are admiring the works of Raphael, Michelangelo, Leonardo - all of the Teenage Mutant Ninja artist are represented at the National Gallery - except Donatello. Many other artist's works are there as well. The Italian and Dutch Renaissance painters, the French Impressionists. There is Van Gogh, Monet, Goya, Rembrandt, Seurat. In each room we quietly wander from painting to painting then we pick our favorite. I'm impressed with the technical aspects: the use of light and shadow, composition, brush strokes. Sharon admires the stories they tell: battles and beheadings and love and emotions.

I discover a new favorite painter: Joseph Mallord William Turner. A series of four different but complimentary paintings hang in a row and they stop me for some time. I'm lost in their simplicity.

There are over 50 different paintings featuring the Virgin Mary here - my favorite is "The Virgin and Child Embracing" by Sassoferrato. I could study the folds of those fabrics for hours.

The Gallery features three paintings from one of my favorite painters. That one-eared wonder Vincent Van Gogh. Prints of his paintings are amazing. But they can only be truly appreciated when you see the texture of the originals - those subtle ridges of wild brushstrokes.

We cover only half of the gallery before time prompts us to move on. We still have another half of London to see.

We are proud owners of tickets on the Big Bus guided Tour. The tour guide's quips are expected and right on cue we all laugh. It is too cold for the exposed upper deck of the bus so we peer out the windows below. The tops of the buildings and statues and monuments are cut off by the window's frame. It is a good way though to view a major portion of the city and know what it is you are are gawking at. We could only walk so far. And the city just doesn't look the same from the underground.

We drive through the old city of London, through the financial district and on to St. Paul's Cathedral. We learn of the great fire of 1666 which destroyed much of the city. There is a monument commemorating the event and marking the location where the fire started. It is a 200 foot Roman Column topped with a gold urn of fire. I crane my neck as we drive past but from my vantage point I only see the bottom portion.

We cross the River Thames at London bridge and after a brief jaunt in Southwark we cross the river again at Tower Bridge and get out at our next destination: the Tower of London. Sharon's first responsense is "Oh I thought it was going to be a tower." After having lived for many years in a three-story condo named Bay Harbor Towers (much more horizontal than vertical) she should have known better than to make such assumptions. The Tower of London is not a single tall tower but a medieval castle composed of various small towers with quaint little names like "the bloody tower".

We learn of coronations and crowns and royal jewels. I'm especially intrigued by the display of the 530 carat Cullinan I diamond in the Royal Sceptre, the 105 carat Koh-i-Noor diamond in the crown of Queen Elizabeth, and the 317 carat Cullinan II diamond in the Imperial State Crown along with the Black Prince's Ruby and Stuart's Sapphire.

Evening falls early and the clouds begin to darken. We head to the pier for a boat ride up the Thames and back to Westminster. The cold has gotten to us and we fight it off with hot chocolate as we learn more about the city from the vantage point of the river that helped create it. We are unboarding just as the misty rain begins to drizzle from above.

We are back to walking the streets. Along the Thames. Umbrella aloft warding off the cold mist. Then towards Covent Gardens. We dip in and out of shops hunting for the perfect souvenirs. On to Leicester square where we eat fish & chips and cheddar bacon potato skins. We finish our stroll at Piccadilly Circus. We heard it said that if you waited long enough at Piccadilly Circus eventually you will meet someone you know. We hang around under the bright colorful lights for 5 or 10 minutes but soon get too cold and decide to call it night. We never bump into anyone we know.

It was a quick two days but we feel we have had a good taste of London. We have stepped on stones traversed by millions of people over a hundreds of years. We have walked were kings have toiled, where merchants gained fortunes, where writers poured out their souls, where bombs fell, where musicians were inspired, where my ancestors lived and loved and died.

"You find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London. No, Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford. ” - Samuel Johnson

Sammy, one of these days maybe I'll be intellectual enough to stay.

London Day 1

2010-02-06T21:10:00.003-05:00

She is a stand out. In a coat of ocher yellow. Green and white striped gloves and matching scarf. White knit hat. Amongst a sea of black. Black coats. Black pants. Black caps. It is good because this way I can't lose her in the crowds. The crowds of the Underground. The crowds milling about Harrods Dept store and Westminster Abbey. The crowds of the National Gallery and the Tower of London. I'm distracted for a moment by an interesting tid-bit of historical information on a plaque next to a weathered monument or statue or relic and then she is gone. But only for a moment. My eyes pan the area and seconds later I find her. That spot of ocher floating on that sea of black.

Sharon and I spend the first few hours in the cold London morning exploring on foot. Constantly losing ourselves and find ourselves in various nooks and crannies of this English city.

We stroll through Hyde park trying to figure out if we are to stay on the right or left side of the walkways. We stroll through Hyde park under the skeletonized branches of the trees, imagining them full with green leaves in the summertime. There are some people jogging and a few on horseback but it is still early on a Saturday and few people are out and about. We pass under Wellington Arch and through Green Park before we see the crowds. They are congregated in front of Buckingham Palace.

The landmarks are familiar - we've seen them all in pictures and postcards, movies and TV. But what they always leave out of the picture just beyond the frame are the crowds of tourists shooting pictures and pointing and speaking a hundred different languages. Our very presence en masse seems to detract from the grandeur of the buildings and monuments. To pollute the aesthetics. If the postcards were true and honest they would show the famous building in the background partially blocked by a lightpost and in the foreground would be the frozen crowd of camera-happy tourists with their black coats. . . And one blonde tourist with an ocher yellow coat.

Big Ben slowly leaps out at you around the corner as you make your way along St. James Park. The park is filled with fat squirrels and swans. They'll never know hunger as long as they remain in this park between the Houses of Parliament and Buckingham Palace. There will ever be a continuous supply of tourists to feed them.

Upon entering Westminster Abbey we do exactly what I'm sure the architect originally intended hundreds of years ago: we look up. We look up to the colorful mosaic of stained glass. We look up to the vaulted and lofty ceiling. The stone arches and ribs of masonry converge in and radiate out. The lines and embellishments flow from floor to ceiling and the carved and sculpted stones keeps my attention in room after room. The abbey is a haunting place filled to capacity with the dead bodies of kings and queens, poets and heroes.

In the afternoon we fulfill the purpose of our trip. We are to meet with owner of an ice cream manufacturing company. We find him at his restaurant in Camden across from the Roundhouse theatre. Gino is a short Italian-Brit with a protruding nose. I recognize him instantly from his voice alone as we have spoken on numerous occasions but never met face to face. He is seated with his girlfriend Nikki at a Table near the back. His family's Italian restaurant has been there for over 70 years. We sit and we talk about a little of everything and it will take an hour to get around to ordering. Gino's girlfriend Nikki is hungry and keeps reminding us that we should all look at the menu and order. Gino is telling us about his car collection and his home in Italy near Monaco. We talk about other cities as well: London of course and Miami, Boston, New York, Naples and Nice.

Nikki is from Slovenia but has lived in London for 6 years. She perfected her English here so she speaks with an impeccable British accent. Her instructor was American though which means she messes up sometimes and says "sidewalk" instead of "pavement".

We enjoy the conversation and we enjoy the food. I finish the Swordfish quickly and savor the Ice cream that follows. I have two scoops, one my hometown favorite: Mint Chocolate Chip and one that feels a bit more English: Toffee crisp. Sharon has a scoop of Ferrero Rocher, which of course I have to try as well. Sharon has told Gino that Ice cream is my favorite food so he is curious about what I think as an Ice Cream connoisseur. I'm honest with him. I love it. He then shares a little bit of ice cream trivia: Americans are the second biggest consumers per capita of ice cream. "Who are the first?" I immediately wonder. "You're never going to believe this when I tell you," he pauses for dramatic effect. "The Swedes." He is right, I never would have guessed it.

********

We are running up the escalator stairs of the Leicaster underground station. The station is packed but fortunately droves of people are abiding the signs instructing them to "stay right" so we can pass them on the left. The escalator is spanning an enormous vertical distance of at least four "floors". At the top of the escalator we are winded and our thighs burn but we continue as fast as we can. The tunnels are clogged with people who - unlike us - are in no hurry, so we must weave and bob to gain ground. We know this is the station but we still don't know where to go once we have arrived so just we are about to emerge to street level we stop at the map on wall and scan the area. Queen Theatre, Queen Theatre, Queen Theatre, Where are you!? Sharon's green and white gloved finger is zipping over the surface of the map searching for the theatre. "There it is!" I point and then trace the path with my finger back to the station memorizing the street names and turns we must take. "Let's go!" We rush up the stairs in a panic.

Gino was nice enough to get us tickets for the musical Les Miserables. We had previously arranged to meet him for dinner prior to the show. Which meant we needed to leave his restaurant around at 6:45 for the 15 minute tube ride to Leicester square so we could be in the theatre around 7:10 for the show which started at 7:30. We left on time and the underground was straight forward and simple. Just six stops down the Northern line. No transfers. Nothing. But the Northern line does split after just one station. We didn't realize we were the wrong train until a few stops later which meant we had backtrack and switch to the Piccadilly line and travel four stops. Which meant by the time we arrived at street level in Leicester it was already 7:20.

Sharon and I are running under strings of glowing red lanterns. I'm constantly looking for landmarks and street signs to make sure we are on track. Perfect, there's Leicester square to the left and Whitcomb street coming up. Turn right. We are running up the middle of the street. No cars are coming and the sidewalks are too crowded. Then I see it. Up ahead on the left hand side of the street. The over-sized head of Cosette on the theatre marque is watching us run towards her in the distance. When we arrive it is 7:25. We hand our voucher in at the ticket booth and the man in the booth is hurrying to find our tickets. He knows what is at stake. If we don't get in before it starts then we may not get in for a while. The man in the booth doesn't find anything in his file so he begins scanning a list. "When did you buy these tickets?" he asks. "Earlier in the week." I tell him. He hands us over to his manager who also scans the list And then gets on a phone. The minutes are ticking by. We are going to miss the beginning. I hear snippets of his phone conversation and it sounds like our tickets were sold twice. I look at Sharon in disappointment. We aren't going to get in at all. But wait. He's printing tickets! He passes them through the window informing us that we ended up with better seats but that we needed to hurry. We scramble into the theatre down to the fifth row, shuffle past about twenty people who are forced to stand up as the lights are dimming and just as we sit down the conductor in the pit unleashes the music.

Puzzled

2010-01-27T01:05:00.002-05:00

All 750 pieces have been sorted. There is a pile of sky. There is a pile of water. There is a pile of crumbled and jagged steel - these girders and cables and rails must eventually be constructed into a bridge to span the harbor. And there is a pile of white and cream - the Sydney Opera House is but a distant vision at this point.

When the pieces line up, when they meet and mingle and fall into place there is an instant snap of joy. Strings of abstract amoeba-shaped pieces line up and eventually form understandable images. Formed. Structured. Entire chunks of minutes are transfered into chunks of cardboard collecting into a meaningful picture. Organized. There is a feeling of construction, a feeling of creation. I'm building a landmark. I'm creating the very sky. I'm dabbling in the water, marking the line between sea and land.

Hours have passed.

"What are you going to do with it when you are done?" Kiara asks when she comes to check on my progress.

"I'll keep it out for a day or so then I'll break it up and put it back in the box," is my reply.

Her question stops me though. It accentuates the fact that hours upon hours are being fed into this flat two-dimensional mess of shapes and colors, sorted and organized and completed only to be deconstructed and swiftly returned to a state of chaos. Am I wasting time? I wonder. . . if the collective problem-solving brain power of the worldwide population of puzzle consumers could somehow be compiled and harnessed and applied to the grander problems of life. . . imagine the possibilities.

I consider this for a moment.

Then I realize that there is currently no way to compile and harness the collective brain power of puzzle consumers - but I had better be well prepared for it when that day comes. And what better way to prepare. . . Found it. Another chunk of the Opera House.

Phish

2010-01-01T19:44:00.005-05:00

Scores of glowsticks - red, blue, green - spill from the upper levels, cascading down the moving sea of arms and heads and hands. A cluster of balloons bob and bounce their way down the stands, spreading out above the masses on the stadium floor. An assortment of various colors and sizes have made their way to the stage, propped up against Page McConnell's grand piano. The music and the lights and the turbulent swaying movement of the crowd are one. Bathtub Gin sounds that much better when someone three rows up is blowing a swath of delicate luminous bubbles that hover above us in the glowing haze.

After my first Phish concert nearly 15 years ago I wrote the following of the experience:

You know the feeling when you allow the music to not flow around you, but to physically pass right through you? It kind of starts to throw you around and then you not only hear the music but you are the music. It was happening to many: The entire Delta Center was full of movement (a physical manifestation of the music).

Fifteen years later the same is true. These are not concerts to go and merely listen to the music, or appreciate the music - whether you intend to or not you do much more. You fully participate with the music. And the community of fans is just as vital to the experience as the band.

This is how we end our year. And this is how we begin the new one. Sharon has always longed for that "When Harry Met Sally" kind of New Years Eve Party. Everyone all dressed up, live band, dancing, a countdown, balloons and confetti raining down at midnight. If you consider capes, leprechaun hats and the occasional chicken costume as "all dressed up" then this concert just about fits the bill. . . right?

Go ahead and jump

2009-12-27T19:28:00.002-05:00

Surviving the Blackout

2009-12-17T23:09:00.002-05:00

The wind and the rain are conspiring again. Normally these attempts are feeble, the elements racking their blunt force against the impenetrable walls and towers of civilization and technology. The howls of the wind and the pelting of the rain swirl around outside while we watch our flatscreens and surf our laptops thinking nothing of the forces that battle around us. We are insulated by human ingenuity that almost always seems to hold up unscathed.

But it is nice to have the underdog win every once in a while. The power wimpers. It falters. It sputters. Then. . . Blackout. Nature has reminded us that we aren't always in control. Nature has reminded us that night, for example, is meant to be dark.

The kids aren't sure how to react. Their young emotions bounce back and forth from excited to scared to elated then back to frightened. I light a few Christmas candles that cut into the darkness. We find their flashlights, the focused beams of white light dance around the floors, walls and ceilings of our home. We tame the power outage as best we can.

But Indigo breaks out crying during our dinner of chips and salsa (our soup remains cold in the microwave, caught off guard by the power loss). Samuel is nervous, worried about bed time without power. Kiara joins in and asks if they can all sleep in one bed (which of course happens to be mine.)

As a father it is my job to keep the moral up. So I change the topic and tell them a story around the dinner table. It is a candle story. It is a story from my childhood. It is the story of gathering together as a family around the table each evening in December. We would turn off all the lights and eat our meals by the flickering light of the advent candle that would shrink by one "day" each time we ate, counting down the days until Christmas. Some days we would miss the ritual which meant the candle would be left burning extra long the next night to make up for it. Eating our dinner in this blackout reminds me of that story.

The kids aren't satisfied, so I pick a flashlight story. It is a story from my youth. It is the story of climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro. We had made our final ascent to Uhuru peak in the middle of the dark night. The path ahead of us was marked by a loose string of flashlights snaking its way up the steep incline. My small flashlight went dim from the cold after just an hour. Our only source of natural light were the starry specks of white and yellow in the black cold ceiling of heaven. That ceiling seemed to be getting closer and closer with each step. Our guide had a flashlight that he pointed at his feet; so we could see where he was stepping; so we could follow. This I focused on all the way to the top.

A few minutes later the Christmas tree lights spring back to life along with the hall light and kitchen light. The refrigerator begins to hum again. The blackout has ended. Technology has reclaimed its throne. The fear is gone. . . but so is the excitement.

"Finally it's over," Indigo comments in relief.
"Aawwaaawwwwwww," moans Kiara in disappointment.
"Let's turn on the TV and watch a movie," says Samuel matter-of-factly.

Thanksgiving Music

2009-11-27T12:04:00.000-05:00

The golden green grass along the blurred edges of interstate 75 suggest autumn. The misty fog laces the distant tree tops with a false frost of snow, hInting of winter. Fitting for a Thanksgiving morning - sandwiched right in between the two seasons. In Florida these changes are subtle. The signs of the season are slight. They include things like heavier traffic on the roads, and less sweat on your forehead. It helps to drive north to central Florida on a day like today and feel the 10 degree drop in temperature. The cooler air is accompanied by a fog and a damp mist that hits our windshield at 80 MPH.

We are shuffling through Sharon's iPhone listening to random songs forcing them to fit into the genre of Thanksgiving Music.

Some fit easily: Johnny Cash "Thanks Alot" - no brainer.

Others are a stretch:

Radiohead "Everything in it's Right Place" - "Yesterday I woke up sucking a lemon" = lemons = lemon pie = Thanksgiving.

Aerosmith "Dream On" = dreams = napping = tryptophan = turkey = Thanksgiving.

Again Radiohead, this time "Paranoid Android" - "Kicking, squeeling, Gucci little piggy" = pig = ham = Thanksgiving.

And then Alanis Morissette "Uninvited". . . This game was just getting too easy.

The Gate

2009-11-08T23:59:00.000-05:00

I step slowly into the still water, descending the tile stairs. Opposite me is Kiara - beaming. The water is warm and creates a unique sensation as it soaks through my socks and pant legs. The white fabric becomes heavy and clings comfortably. I meet Kiara at the small landing and reach for her hand. Her hand has lost some of its childlike suppleness. That hand is getting older. Her fingers suddenly longer. Today is her eighth birthday.

Her frazzled hair has been pulled back successfully behind her ears. Over the years freckles have danced their way across her cheeks and nose. Her excited smile reveals the slight gap in her front teeth. She is tall, her wild energy momentarily subdued. She is in a new white baptismal jumpsuit - the pant legs rolled up one or two times. Her feet and her legs are lost in the ripples, distorted by the now stirred water.

Together we step down into the font. The waterline is up to my waist and up to her chest. Hovering above us is a crowded room of faces looking down on us. All of the faces are familiar - the faces of family and friends. They are all smiling too. They are there to witness something special; something significant; something spiritual.

Kiara and I position ourselves in the small six by six square font. I raise my hand and pronounce the words prescribed by revelation: "Having been commissioned of Jesus Christ I baptize you in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."

All is quiet. Just the sound of displaced water echoing on the tiled walls of the font as she is immersed. Falling backwards with my hands supporting her. She is under the water for a moment and then she is coming back up. Water runs over her face, slides off her damp and darkened hair, down her neck and shoulders and back into the rippling pool. There are audible sounds of approval from the crowd of faces above us. Kiara doesn't say anything but I see a joyful look on her face. I hug her approvingly before we turn towards the dry towels that await us.

Nephi describes baptism as a gate. A gate that opens up to the straight and narrow path leading to heaven. In my minds eye I try to picture that gate. Is it ornamental and elaborate or simple in size and style? Is it grand like the Arc de Triumph or plain like the gate of a white picket fence? It is metaphor I know, so I suppose that gate could look like anything you wanted it to. So I ask Kiara what her gate looked like. She ponders the question for a few seconds then replies: "Silver. . . But no bars. Its like crystal clear. Like glass. And kind of like a rectangle or square. Like a squarish rectangle. With a long carpet leading up to it."

Sounds beautiful.

Sandy

2009-10-27T21:40:00.002-05:00

I pull out the rolled up mat from the top shelf and a shower of sand spills down its woven synthetic fibers. It sound like a rain stick - the sand trickling down the hollow tube - then it empties out the bottom to form a pile on the tile floor of our entry way.

Indigo is sitting on the couch getting ready for the day. She decides to wear boots and is preparing to put them on. She pulls out a crumpled sock lodged in the top of her right boot and sand suddenly seeps out, spreading all across the black leather, pooling along the seem of the cushion.

The tile floor has a certain grit to it. Need to find some carpet fast.

The beach has invaded our home. The salty, sticky eroded and broken down stone, coral & shell particles have made their way up the stairs, across the pool deck, through the lobby, up the elevator, down the hall and finally through our locked and bolted front door. Sand has hitch-hiked in on the tires of our stroller. It has stowed away in the folded cuffs of my pants. It has been kicked up and then picked up by our feet and ankles. Filled our swim trunks. Clung to towels and chairs and toys. In the cool AC it looses its stickiness and drops to the floor and is spread throughout the house by five pairs of feet.

The broom stays busy taming it and eliminating it. But you can't really get upset about it. It is the basest and purest and most elemental symbol of summer.

And it is nice to keep a little (or in our case a lot) of that around all year long.

Big Pink

2009-10-19T06:58:00.003-05:00

Big Pink on the corner of Collins & 2nd is humming with hungry patrons. The waitresses glide around the small space, maneuvering through the small aisles between packed tables, carting back and forth the oversized menus, oversized platters, and oversized bills. We've filled a semi-circular booth - Sharon and I are bookends keeping the kids from spilling out. We are an anomaly. The only other kids in the place are two curly-haired blonde boys - they are waiting for the same casting that we are - it will begin across the street in 45 minutes.

Big Pink is crammed with row after row of stainless steel, orange-topped tables lined with youthful, non-committed singles filling their mouths with hamburgers, sandwiches, salads and fries. Tattoos on bulging muscles peeking out from t-shirt short sleeves. Bikinis hidden by sun dresses. A multi-ethnic mesh of the super chic.

Nine years ago, Sharon and I were twenty-somethings living in Forte Towers (which has since gone through two different name changes and extensive remodeling to the point that it looks younger now than when we lived there). We were care-free then, though we didn't fully realize it at the time, in that narrow sliver of time before becoming parents. We loved living in South Beach then without any kids and love that ironically now it is our kids that most often bring us back here. South Beach is the kind of place where wandering the streets is all you need to enjoy yourself. Every street and every corner and every alley is alive and unique and filled with character.

There are so many restaurants in South Beach that you could eat at a different place indefinitely. I had only eaten Big Pink one other time when I was 24 years old. It was delivered to our studio apartment in Forte Towers. At 2:00 am we were craving hamburgers. Where else can you crave a good hamburger at 2:00 am and have it delivered? This time however I'm feeling in a "deli" kind of mood and order a turkey reuben on rye. Sharon orders the barbeque burger even though she knows she will never be able to finish it or the bucket of hand-cut french fries it comes with.

New buildings have sprouted up all over in last eight years - particularly around South Pointe and the Marina. There aren't as many pink buildings either, their property owners opting for white paint to cover their brightly colored past. The roller-blading population seems to have dwindled. This place is ever changing, yet somehow it all feels the same. South Beach has grown a lot in the eight years since we moved - but it hasn't aged at all. Everyone here is still in their mid-twenties (even those who aren't.) South Beach is an ever flowing spigot of twenty-somethings. The Fountain of Youth that Ponce de Leon never found, only because the McArthur causeway hadn't been built yet. They flow in. . . and they flow out. No one is from here. No one stays here. The vibe makes me feel exactly nine years younger.

Natural Typography

2009-10-04T08:55:00.001-05:00

Nature has placed the characters in a seemingly random array across the page of earth near my shuffling feet along the path. Words of vines and stems and leafs branch out into phrases. Asterisms call attention to certain passages. Phrases group into sentences and paragraphs. And as I walk the length of the path an entire story has been told. Asterisks denote thousands of footnotes . . . where no further explanation is offered. The meaning of the tangled green text left open to interpretation.

Hot Hot Hot

2009-09-26T10:00:00.001-05:00

The heat is driving us delirious. Our air handler had frozen solid - a big dripping block of ice - which all sounds very nice and cold. . . but it's not. After years of persistent salt water-laced ocean breeze, torrential rains, high winds, hot sun, (maybe even an occasional solar flare?) the A/C unit on the roof had rusted and corroded to a point of no return. The freon had leaked out leaving the system inoperable. Getting a quote on a new unit, getting the quote approved, getting the permit application, sending the application to the landlord, having him sign and notarize the application, overnighting us the application, ordering the unit, scheduling the installation - this all takes days. Hot muggy miserable days.

Target does not sell fans in September.

The heat has made us short-tempered and cranky. We don't want to cook. We don't want to clean. The only thing that helps us battle the heat just a little is laziness. We drink copious amounts of ice water and pink lemonade. Condensation forms instantly on the cups and leaves watery rings where ever we set them down.

Costco does not sell fans in September.

Samuel woke up the other night an hour after he fell asleep. His hair wet and matted. His pajamas dark with sweat. He needed a drink. He wandered around the kitchen and living room picking up random near-empty glasses of water and finishing them off. A little water thief. I laid him back down trying to convince him he didn't need his blankets. He persisted. He wanted them on. All five of them.

Home Depot, let it be known, does sell fans even in the "cool" of September.

We pick up two of the 20" inch box fans. White & bland. Not very stylish. But they do the trick and offer some necessary respite.

SLC

2009-09-22T23:25:00.001-05:00

We are flying over Kennecott. One of the largest open-pit copper mines in the world. Its reddish-orange concentric circles always remind me just a little bit of Dante's Circles of Hell from the Inferno. Across the aisle beyond the three random travelers who share my row I see the exact opposite. The Paradiso. Zion. The city of my youth. Perfect squares of suburbs are jutting right up against the brown and gray mountains that encircle the city like a great protective wall. Downtown appears with its hand-full of simple skyscrapers. Quaint. Small. Going back to Salt Lake after living in Miami for 9 years is like going back to your elementary school as an adult. You can't help but be amazed at how a place that looked so big when you were young suddenly has small halls and ankle high urinals.

I love Salt Lake and always will. Around each corner is a myriad of memories. It is full of places that define me - that made me who I am today.

I'm driving now from the airport - out on to I-80 east-bound toward downtown - the familiar skyline of buildings and mountains in front of me. West Temple and Broadway: I pass a familiar parking lot and crane my neck to the see the building on Main and Broadway where I interned at CitySearch back in the early internet days (when CitySearch meant something). Third floor - great city view. I remember taking the short walk to Sierra West Jewelers in the ZCMI mall one day before work to buy Sharon's wedding ring. I pass the Salt Palace and Symphony Hall. I love those fountains. Though I'm not sure why. Perhaps there is a memory there that I can't quite recall.

Across the street, the Inn at Temple Square has been torn down making way for a new residential high-rise condo. The landmark of our Honeymoon is gone. And then I arrive at the campus of the LDS Church Headquarters. Temple Square to the right - museums to the left - the Conference Center ahead - beyond to the east is the Church Office building (the tallest skyscraper in Salt Lake) - and the Joseph Smith Memorial building. The entire area is so rich in personal history. So rich in shared history with my wife Sharon. It is palpable. It is like opening a thick volume of my life. Conferences, Christmases, Endowments, Solemn Assemblies, Dinners, Lunches, Concerts, Carriage Rides, Pictures, our Wedding Day. . .

I drive east towards another campus steeped in personal history: the University of Utah. A pivotal highlight of my academic and intellectual life. Literature and Writing and Philosophy and Religion and History and Yoga. . . My favorite thing to do was to sit outside near the bustling pedestrian walkways in early spring feeling the sun breaking through the chill air and feeling that my thought was being expanded in ways I never before considered.

Then it is on to my old neighborhood, filled with the familiar streets and homes and businesses and schools. The pitch and angle of Morningside Drive is so familiar as I walk it and drive it. The view of Mt. Olympus is solidified in my permanent memory. At any point in time I can close my eyes and see that view perfectly. Each house means something different to me. They emote myriads of feelings and memories. A tree has been cut down since last I was here. The unfamiliar gap messes with me. Something isn't right. I consider this for a while. It just isn't the same. Though, it all has changed really. The old people are older . . . or gone. The young people have moved on. The babies now have facial hair and are barely recognizable.

I'm also different - I'm older and I've moved on and I'm in a completely different stage of life, though I long for the familiar to help make the nostalgic more permanent; to help seal and preserve an ever eroding personal history that without effort fades like so many unrecorded memories.

You can save the historic buildings that are filled with meaning for the masses but you can't always count on your Junior High locker still being around for years in the future to enshrine and hold your adolescent memories. . . Mine, for example, burned down a few years back.

Isa

2009-09-16T23:20:00.003-05:00

It only seems right. After all she's gone now. What's left? A body that soon will be ashes? Memories that eventually fade? It only seems right. I should write something down. It is all that is left of her here. Words and phrases. Sketches and scenes of her life, recorded in black and white. Letters, characters, some punctuation throughout.

She is waking up in another world and I wonder if it is what she expected. Did it solve her problems? Are there people there she can turn to? I wonder if the regret was immediate. I wonder if the feeling is overwhelming.

It's been years since I've seen or spoken with her. The break was clean and complete. Before that we worked together day in and day out for about five years. It is a little sad that we spend more waking hours with co-workers than we do with family & friends. I suppose work is more lucrative than love. But it means, at least on a professional level, that you can get very close to those you work with.

I was always surprised that I never bumped into her at least. We lived in the same neighborhood. I thought our paths would have crossed more than just the single time I saw her at an antique jewelry show and she wouldn't talk to me. Of course I didn't approach her either. I didn't know what to say. I was forced to take a side when she left and I think she assumed I would take hers, that I would stick up for her, that I would prefer to leave rather than work there without her. Somehow I was stuck in the middle of the whole mess. I wanted to just stay safe on the sidelines. But there I was. And that was the end of that.

In the years since, I would hear snippets of her comings and goings in and around the small world of the Miami jewelry industry. Most of them, unfortunately, were negative little snippets. (Remember, I was on the opposite team). She was always very talented yet she obviously came up short. Can't say exactly what it was. She liked being in control. This much is evident in the way she chose to go. When you like to be in control though, you have to know how to yield to those things outside of your control.

It's all sad. She was always very nice to our young family. She lavished Kiara with gifts, like a massive pink stuffed dog from FAO Schwartz. That dog wasn't the only way she left her mark on our house. At one point she lived in the same building as us and when she moved we bought and were given a number of objects that served as a constant reminder of her: a table, a television, a couch, a glass shelf, a set of dishes. All of those are now gone. Slowly, one by one, they too dropped out of our life.

The most lasting reminder will probably always be a photo of her and our family taken at the Bellagio in Las Vegas. She had just treated us to breakfast at the Paris Casino. Somehow the downloading of this photo to our computer coincided with the advent of iPhoto. Meaning this picture had the honor of being the very first photo in our library. Since then, every time we have ever imported pictures, and scrolled through them, we knew we had reached the end when the library would loop back to this first picture. Which means that we have viewed this picture (though inadvertently) more frequently than any other picture in our entire library. She hated having her picture taken. This is one of only two pictures I have ever seen of her.

What the picture can't tell us is what transpired in the years since. How did she get from point A in that photo at the Bellagio to point B. . . She was only 31 years old when she lit the charcoal grill, sealed the room, took the sleeping pills and let the carbon monoxide do the rest. There are a million details that I'm leaving out. Leaving out because I do not know them. Leaving them out because I will never know them. Leaving them out because even if I knew them I can't say that I would ever truly understand them. Trying to understand other human beings is a complicated and risky thing.

She is waking up in another world now. She left behind a little mess. A little mess that I suppose she felt incapable of cleaning up. I wonder if she is finding any peace now?

Liquid Light Show

2009-09-13T19:40:00.005-05:00

Red, green and white stains of light drip in long streaks across the wet black canvas of the road. The psychedelic riffs of Pink Floyd pour from the speakers, accompanied by the pitter-patter of rain on the sunroof and the windshield. The street lights stream through the speckled glass creating a liquid light show on our dashboard. The colored light soars above us and slides below us. It dances to the music.

The performers are hidden, but the stage surrounds us.

The Rescue

2009-09-11T01:22:00.004-05:00

It must have been raining throughout the night. The beach path is wet and littered with puddles. Pockets of reflection. The sunrise-drenched clouds are something unreal. Too perfect. Beyond reality. Like they have been painted straight from the mind of an imaginative genius. It is that time of morning when there hangs in the air a certain buzz and vibration and electricity that is just beyond reach. You walk on the ledge. On the cusp. The hinge. The threshold. Vibrant and bright and cool.

I push the stroller over the smooth sand - dark and damp. Who knows what captures Samuel's attention as the landscape slides by. Perhaps the jagged edge of the sea-grape leaves, the dull curve of his blue Crocs, or the rhythmic foot prints overlapped by winding bike tire tracks. Kiara and Indigo walk along either side of Sharon, each holding one of her hands, enthralled by the telling of a suspenseful story.

We prepare to leave the beach path by crossing diagonally the broad swath of sand in front of the Best Western. We are twenty feet from the stairs when something stops me in my tracks. I have just come inches away from running over something in the sand. It is small and slightly darker than the sand around it. It is twitching slightly and I crouch to get a better look. It takes a few seconds to register. I'm looking at a newborn baby sea turtle.

I announce my find and suddenly it is surrounded by my crouching family, all of us peering in amazement. It is moving slightly but going nowhere. Looks like it is confused and alone. It had also been heading towards the stairs, but looks like it realized its mistake once the rain had stopped and morning had come. Clearly it was going in the wrong direction. It must have struggled all night long using its tiny flippers to crawl through the sand, over the dunes, through the shallow puddles, and across the vast expanse of sand towards the lights of the hotel.

Helpless. Lost. I know we can't leave it. But I also don't know how we should save it. The kids want to touch it. We keep telling them not to. Samuel is excited and at one point throws a little sand on it. Not appreciated, I'm sure. I scold Samuel and tell him to move back. Kiara draws a circle in the sand around it. Protection?

I'm Googling the Wildlife Care Center on my phone. They are a non-profit organization out of Broward County involved in animal rescue. Not sure if they deal in Sea Turtle rescue specifically but they are the first thing that comes to mind. Sharon is dialing 411. I find the phone number first and call. It rings. I follow the instructions and listening carefully to their automated menu (because it recently changed).

Sharon and the kids unload the backpacks from the stroller. They have to continue on their way to make it to school on time. I agree to stay with Samuel to protect the baby turtle and call in the reinforcements. I press 1-0 for an animal rescue emergency. The operator picks up then puts me on hold. . .

Barbara picks up the line a minute later and I explain the situation. She asks a few questions and then tells me I should speak with the Florida Wildlife Commission. "Do you have a piece a paper to write down this number?"

"Um. . . uh. . ." I don't have anything and am trying to think how to do this.

She senses my hesitation and tells me to write down the number in the sand. Brilliant! You can tell she has done this before.

So using my finger I carefully transcribe the number into the sand. Then I hang up and begin to dial. Is that a 5 or a 3? Shoot. Gotta be a 5. It rings. 5 ends up being the right number. I had initially called thinking that maybe I would report the location and - I don't know - a team of environmentalist would swoop down in a helicopter or come peeling around the corner in a converted SWAT truck. I didn't think it would be as simple as "pick up the turtle and take it the water's edge." Wow. You mean I get to be the hero here? OK. I can do that.

I pick up the baby turtle with thumb and forefinger on opposite sides of the firm shell just behind his flippers. The lost and confused sea turtle is now flying and it isn't so sure yet if this is helping or not. It begins flapping back its front flippers, hitting my fingers in defense. The rough flippers feel foreign and strange against my skin. I'm worried for some reason. Worried that I'm holding it just right, worried that some cranky jogger will see me and demand to know just exactly what I'm doing carrying around a baby sea turtle, worried that I'll drop it, worried that it will figure out a way to move its head around and bite my finger. I ask Samuel to climb into the stroller and I begin to push him with one hand while carrying the turtle with the other. We move quickly. The turtle's head is poking around trying to make sense of what is happening. We get to the beach and the stroller stops in the deep sand. I call for Samuel to hop out and follow me down the slope of the beach to the ocean.

As soon as I place the small turtle in the sand at the edge of the surf it knows exactly what to do. Instinct kicks in and it scampers quickly toward the bright ocean. The surf submerges it briefly then recedes. The turtle continues its journey rapidly crawling in the wet sand. The surf approaches again. The frothy water lifts the turtle for a moment then places it back in the sand. The turtle keeps going. Then for the final time the gentle wave laps the sand, lifts the turtle and rapidly drags the turtle into its new home. . .

For the rest of the day there will be nothing that can spoil my mood. Nothing will bring me down. Because no matter what else happens today, I'll know that the morning was magical, that the clouds were an unreal ideal, and that I found and rescued a baby sea turtle.

School is back in session

2009-08-29T17:05:00.001-05:00

On the first day of school they were there to greet us. Stopping us for a moment as we walked over the bridge. We stared and pointed and beamed in amazement.

On the second day of school they were there again. Again we stopped, peering over the chainlink fence down into the bubbling and swirling water below.

On the third day we anticipated them. As soon as the blue ribbon of intercoastal water came into view we started looking. From the low angle at the start of the bridge we could see an indiction of their presence by the surface rippling - it was almost fizzing like club soda. As we reached the middle of the bridge we could look straight down into the water to see their dance.

On the fourth day we saw the reason for their presence must have been the enormous school of tiny shimmering fish. Thousands of them fluttering just below the surface - covering an expansive section of the water flowing below us. At first we didn't think we would see them. But soon they emerged from under the bridge. Swimming through the field of plentiful bite-size fish. It was breakfast time. As Thom York sings: "The big fish eat the little ones. The big fish eat the little ones. Not my problem, give me some."

On day five we followed a family pushing their bikes over the bridge. RIght on cue they stopped in the middle of the bridge and began staring and pointing and beaming in amazement. We already knew what to expect.

I've walked over that bridge probably 2000 times over the last 8 years. Whenever I cross, I always look down. Sometimes the tide is going out and the water is murky. Sometimes the tide is coming in and you can nearly see all the way to the bottom. Occasionally you see nothing, but frequently you will spot at least a fish or two wandering aimlessly through their water world. Sometimes you can spot a school of ten or so fish swimming in synchronicity. Rarely you'll spot a sting ray or a dolphin. But I've never before seen such a large school of such large fish. By "large school" I'm talking about at least 50. By "large fish" I'm talking about 20 to 25 inches - probably some kind of snapper or sea bass. For at least the first week of school, as we walked with our backpack-toting kids, the school of fish became a familiar landmark on our path. As familiar as the sandy beach path, the intersection by Publix, Bella's house, the park, the bridge, and the cross-guard guarded cross-walks of Bay Harbor. School is back in session for us and for them.

Life on the Bindery

2009-08-27T23:36:00.003-05:00

I find myself getting hypnotized by it. Copy after copy after copy. I get a little motion sickness. Every book is exactly the same. Exactly the same. Exactly the same. Exactly the same. It repeats and repeats and repeats. Every book is exactly the same - except for the ink-jetted address. When it comes out of the trim cages, bound and cropped, the address area of the glossy catalog is completely blank. The catalog then travels on the conveyor belt under a small metallic box. The small metallic box hovers just an inch above the highway of speeding catalogs. A black stained tube feeds ink to the metallic box, a thick cord feeds it electricity, a thin cable feeds it the names and addresses. It chews on these for half a second then spits out a blob of ink in completely coherent numbers and letters onto each passing catalog. You don't see any of this. It just happens. One second the corner of the catalog is blank and the next thing you know Dr. Berg has his name on the catalog along with his address. Mrs. Shepherd has her name on the catalog along with her address. Mr. Keough has his name on the catalog along with his address. 30,000 times this happens. 30,000 different names and addresses. I don't watch all 30,000. That would take hours. I watch just enough to be satisfied.

I had originally thought that if forced to watch all 30,000 that I would eventually find the zen meditative quality in it all. The entire mechanical production of belts and chains and hydraulics all reduced to one simple koan hurling the enlightened observer towards Nirvana. But it isn't there (or perhaps I am not enlightened enough to find it). It is relentless. It beats you down. It makes you sick. And on top of that there is no punctuation to it. No cadence. No melody. No dramatic pauses or breathes. It is moving too fast. Sure there is rhythm. Monotony followed by monotony followed by monotony followed by monotony. An incessant rhythm. Industrial and draining and racing at a pace that is incomprehensible. By the time you focus on one printed piece the next is already there taking its place and before there is enough time to comprehend what has happened, that catalog has already been stacked in a bundle and stuffed in dingy postal bag. And the line of catalogs keeps coming. I have to look away every once in a while. I'm worried that I will get dizzy and stumble and stick my hand in a grinding piece of machinery.

There have been no smudges. No misprints. No missing characters or lines. I walk away satisfied. . . though somewhat perturbed.

Alligator Alley - Twilight

2009-08-14T19:26:00.000-05:00

A ceiling of red and purple is crashing down on the blackening expanse of the Everglades. The mighty trees suspect nothing. The flat void of grass and shallow water suspect nothing. They go on in a near suspended animation - motionless as the spinning mass of the earth hurls them collectively toward nightfall.

Costa Rica - to sum up

2009-08-13T05:50:00.003-05:00

Costa Rica Day Eight

2009-08-06T20:38:00.001-05:00

Sharon and I laughed as we drove past a hand painted sign that read in
perfect Spanglish: "Sunset View Desayuno". Is that even possible? How
do you eat breakfast anywhere in the world with a view of the sunset?
We laughed at the Ticos for this innocent mistake. They obviously
meant "Sunrise" not "Sunset".

Then this morning as we sat down to eat our breakfast in the sidewalk
cafe of the Hotel Presidente in downtown San Jose, we looked across
the street and there it was, in perfect view, a small clothing store, named, in perfect English, "Sunset".

Collectively the entire nation of Costa Rica sneered at us. Who's
laughing now Gringos!

Costa Rica Day Seven

2009-08-05T20:34:00.008-05:00

Day seven is like a rain soaked page torn from the book. All that
remains are a few random words along the inside margin:

Animatronic Sloth
¿Donde estan los monos?
Rain-speckled steamy glasses
Vampire Bat
La Selva
Muddy, wet, stinky, cold
Comida tipica
Fat gray crocodiles
A box, a purse, a hammock, a frog
Downtown San Jose
A pedestrian is a very dangerous profession in Costa Rica.

And two Random pictures:

Costa Rica Day Six

2009-08-04T20:28:00.001-05:00

Solitario walks right through the thick mud - no regard for his shoes getting dirty. No worries about slipping. No attempts to move to the right or left where it is not so thick or deep.

Solitario walks right through the river. No concern over getting wet or cold. No leaping from one shallow or exposed stone to the other. No fear of slippery or sharp or unstable stones.

I attribute all this to the fact that Solitario has four legs - which gives him much sturdier footing on such difficult terrain.

Solitario follows Pajarito who follows Chestnut who follows Blue Eyes who has been on this route so many times that he knows by instinct where to go and when to turn. We arrive at our destination and Solitario is tied to a post along with the other horses. They wait there patiently as we swim in the river, as we climb the waterfall, as we lay down on the smooth rocks and let the river rush over our bodies. We snap pictures and eat our snacks. We chat and relax.

When we return to the horses it is pouring rain. We wear heavy rain ponchos to keep us dry. No one asks Solitario if he wants a poncho.

Solitario is trodding through the river again. The splashing of his feet is soaking his underside while the rain is relentless from above. We break from the river and the horses begin up a steep muddy incline. They decide on a full trot and reach the top without breaking a sweat, without complaints, without a loss of breath.

Solitario only complained once the entire trip - throwing a little horsey tantrum when it was time to enter the stable. When the trip was done.

Costa Rica Day Five

2009-08-03T19:45:00.000-05:00

We are bumping along the dirt road. The rain is continuous and light. It makes the smooth rocks slick and fills the pot holes with bright brown mud. We've passed the last of the eco-lodges and the road narrows to a single winding jeep track. More and more frequently the road fills with running brown water. Occasionally the water mistakes the road as a river bed and it follows for a time before meandering off the edge.

The road is showing fewer and fewer signs of regular travel, and then we see why. A river is up ahead, crossing the road. A narrow wooden bridge spans it but a locked metal gate blocks our passage. We've already seen a few warning signs next to other shoddy bridges: "Puente en mal estado" . . . Bridge in bad shape . . . but you can still cross them (in theory). Looks like this one is completely out of commission though. We could attempt to drive down the slope through the river and up the opposite slope, the tracks reveal that others have done it before. But I'm not feeling that confident in our vehicle.

It looks like "Garmin" the GPS receiver, was right. It had told us to go the long way but there it was on our map: a dotted line, indicating a dirt road, that lead right to where we needed to be - a short cut off the beaten path. So we turn around and back track. Should have listening to Garmin. . . but it was a beautiful drive anyway.

We are road trippin' from Arenal Volcano to the Manuel Antonio National Park on the Pacific Coast. We have our music playing, snacks at the ready (bought from the local Mega-Super - which by the way was neither "Mega" nor "Super"), and the windows down.

The Red Hot Chili Peppers sound even better in Costa Rica.

We find ourselves high in the mountainous terrain. Either the clouds continue to drop lower and lower around us or we are climbing higher and higher to meet them. Either way it adds a misty and mysterious dimension to the forest around us. Here they don't call it the rain forest. . . they call it the cloud forest. Visibility has dropped to no more than 15 or 20 feet. Power lines along the road droop from visibility to invisibility ahead. The white and yellow lines of the road fade into a continually advancing nothingness - a false horizon that we never reach. The richly colored scenery has become monochrome gray scale - all the color sucked from the surroundings by the wispy misty clouds.

Radiohead sounds even better in Costa Rica.

We are wandering through villages and towns. Sometimes Garmin gets it wrong, telling us to continue the wrong way down one-way streets. We steer clear onto adjacent streets and eventually end up on the purple line again (the path Garmin wants us to stick to). We wonder if there are any real highways or freeways in Costa Rica. If there are, Garmin hasn't showed us any yet. We haven't seen even a semi-straight road in a very long time. Winding. Always winding.

Regina Spektor sounds even better in Costa Rica.

We get to a fork in the road and Garmin remains quiet on the subject of which way to go. We veer to the right - which after a minute we can tell was the wrong choice. Our little car on the screen is definitely off the purple line. Garmin announces "Recalculating!" and provides us an alternate route to get back on track. From the look of it, this road just loops around to get us back on the "main" (I use this term loosely) road.

This road takes us down one of the steepest inclines of the trip - both sides are lined with shacks of brilliant colors teetering on the edge of slipping down the mountainside along with our car. With that feat under our belts Garmin asks us to turn left up one of the steepest inclines of the trip. Once this is accomplished Garmin asks us to turn left again - a single lane dirt road heading back down the mountain. We chuckle, "Garmin are you serious?" and then start heading down. So far I see no way to turn around if this is a dead end. And I doubt there is any way to go back up this incline in reverse. I see a parked truck ahead and worry that it is blocking the path - there proves to be just enough room to squeeze by on the left. An old man standing outside his home looks at us pass - an inquisitive look on his weather worn face. Another 20 yards and we reach a small clearing. I can see where the road continues down but it is disappearing quickly. I stop the Suzuki and hike back up the road to where the old man still watches curiously. I ask if we can continue down this track to get to the main road. He shakes his head "No" and I can tell that inside he is laughing at us. We shouldn't have trusted Garmin on this one.

Pink Floyd sounds even better in Costa Rica.

It is early afternoon and we have descended from the mountains and finally reach the Pacific coast. The jungle drops from the mountains nearly right into the ocean. A thin slit of dark sandy beach or an outcropping of jagged black rocks mark the boundary. We pass these surfer towns that, although we have never been to them, seem very familiar to us - Jaco Beach, Hermosa Beach. . . We've been seeing them on the map and hearing accounts of them from others who have visited. An international surfing championship is going on all week. The streets are crowded with spectators. We are getting anxious to stop but have a little ways further to go.

Michael Jackson sounds just the same in Costa Rica as he does in the US. (Perhaps this helps explain his international appeal).

We pull into the parking lot of the Mariposa Hotel in Manuel Antonio, engage the parking brake and remove the key. We have arrived. Garmin's original estimate was about 4 hours of drive time. It took us 5. We remove the GPS unit from the windshield and turn it off. Garmin is filled with loads of useful information and knew the path to get is here from there. But I don't think Garmin has ever actually driven these wild Costa Rican roads like we now have.

Costa Rica - Day Four

2009-08-02T19:57:00.000-05:00

First it must break you... Only then can you overcome it...

The parade of bright blue, red, and yellow marches down the Rio Sarapiqui - visually opposite of the brown, gray, and green that dominates the natural landscape. Our colors accentuate the fact that we are visitors here. It is our primary colored equipment that enables us to tame this wild force, to ride it, like a mere plaything.

We have just cleared the first set of rapids and are now regrouping in the still brown waters on the left-hand bank near the gradient gray boulders. I turn to look at Sharon who is seated directly behind me. Her face tells a different story than mine. Before she says a word I already know: she has been broken.

Sharon has run rivers before - together we've done both the Snake river near Jackson Hole, Wyoming and the Colorado River near Moab, Utah. But two years ago while tubing the Provo river near Heber, Utah she got tangled in a nasty current, caught by the branches of a half-submerged willow tree. It was tenuous to get out and it genuinely spooked her. She has been living with that fear ever since. It took only three minutes on the Rio Sarapiqui and the fear broke her.

This morning we awoke to heavy rains. She hoped this was a way out: "You don't think they'll still do the trip if it is raining this hard do you?" I looked out our window at the nearby river that flows from the mountains above to Lake Arenal below. It was swollen and fast and brown from all rain runoff. "I'm sure it will be fine," I said. I thought of pointing the swollen river out to Sharon but I didn't wan't to add to fear, so I remained quiet. She noticed it a few minutes later anyway.

There is nothing I can say to her at this moment on the Sarapiqui. I put my hand on her knee in reassurance and then a moment later our guide is calling out commands and we must move on. No time for consolations or apologies, we have to focus on the churning brown water ahead.

This morning we drove over three separate rivers on our way into town. All three of them were significantly higher and rushing much faster than we had seen them just the evenin before. Two of these rivers spilled over onto dirt road which we navigated in our rickety Suzuki Jimmy. Sharon began talking to me seriously about death.

The shock of cold water as it pours into the raft, as it splashes your face, as it drenches your body. The suspense of not knowing what will happen on the next swell, on the next dramatic dip in the water. The rush of the deafening sound as te rapids get closer and closer and closer until WHAM you are a Rodeo cowboy riding the wild bull.

We had actually set out that morning to ride the Rio Toro. Just after Sharon had signed the waiver form releasing the company from any liability should she die or get seriously injured, she received her second glimmer of hope. Our guide in the expedition bus paused from his narrative about the papaya and pineapple plantations to our right and to our left, to take a phone call. In his rapid Spanish Sharon caught one phrase: "Ooooooh, mucha agua." There was bad news, he told us, the Rio Toro, was too high from all the rainfall... Too much water. We wouldn't be able to ride it. The pit in Sharon's stomach lifted. The good news, he continued, was that we would go to another river, the Sarapiqui, only 30 minutes away. The pit in Sharon's stomach returned.

We slide under an overhanging tree, an iguana's tail hangs lazily from its perch. We bounce on a few light rapids then our guide begins to spin the raft slowly, giving us a 360 degree view of the incredible scenery around us. Pirouettes on the winding flow of the frothy water. I turn again to Sharon - the panic is gone but she is still not smiling. I tell her to force a smile, that it will help. She obliges. A village passes us by to left. Smoke rises near a small shack with a slack hammock on the porch. It smells good. They must be cooking lunch. Then we hit a few more rapids, getting soaked in the process.

We stop at a sandy beach to drink some water and eat freshly cut pineapple and watermelon. She is doing better now - she whispers a thank you to me. Whispers because maybe she doesn't want to admit it outloud - she is also still a little frightened of what we may come across in the second half. She had already threatened that if she fell into the river it would be the final time she would ever go rafting again. That was still a possibility...

In the second leg of the journey however, Sharon stayed firmly seated in the raft and began to overcome the fear. The bumps and the spins and the collisions were accompanied by something I hadn't heard during the first half: laughter. And it kept happening over and over again. She was overcoming the fear. Triumphing. Taming it. Grabbing it by the oar and riding it like a rodeo cowgirl.

Saying, "Give me more!"

Costa Rica - Day Three

2009-08-01T23:29:00.001-05:00

We avoided the guided tour of the hanging bridges trail and denied the eager tour-guide at the Arenal National Park. I'm sure they were full of useful information that we missed out on but the trip so far has been "touristy" enough without the ever looming presence of a guide telling you what to look at and where a really good photo spot is.

But inevitably there are those things that we couldn't go without doing - and you can't do them without a guide and a group. You can't, for example, do the zip line canopy tour self-guided. So we reserved a 9am spot and unknowingly joined a tour group of 20 other thrill seekers who for the next two hours (and for those two hours only) would become our best friends. We had four local guides into who's hands we trusted more than just our lives - we trusted them with showing us a good time. And they did their job wonderfully, we had a great time... And neither of us died.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz... That's what I thought it would sound like as you were zipping hundreds of feet above the ground with the canopy of the rich green rain forest sliding by at 50mph. It was actually not quite that high pitched. Not sure there is a letter out there that when strung together repeatedly can precisely match the tone and pitch and feel of the zip line. Somewhere between zzzzzzzzzzzzzz and hmmmmmmmmmm.

The thick metal cables zig-zagged down between two ridges of the mountain connected by metal platforms where we would wait our turn, take pictures, and shoo exotic colorful bugs from our necks and faces and helmets. (On one platform a pair of flying red and black insects sought refuge down the back of my shirt. The harness made untucking my shirt too difficult so Sharon was nice enough to remove her hands from the heavy gloves and reach down my collar removing first one and then the other from the small of my back - they must have been mating. I'm sure Sharon ruined the moment for them but hey - that's survival if the fittest - it's rough out there in the jungle.

It had been raining just before we started on our first line. The wet cable and pulley marked all of us with a faint line of mud splatter on our clothes, faces, and helmets. I looked at Sharon and could immediately tell she had been smiling on her first trip down - her front teeth were mud speckled.

With each line we enjoyed it more and more. Slipping through the misty air, through the towering trees, racing towards the next platform that always came way too quickly.

The whole thing was a well-oiled money-making machine. We could tell that from the moment they swiped the credit card to the DIsney-esque photo-op on the last little mini-line (they take your picture and attempt to sell it back to you in the gift shop as you exit.) One look at the number of cars and "tourismo" vans in the parking lot and you realize they must churn through a couple hundred tourists a day who want to zipline through the jungle like Diego and his Rescue Pack.

But that is OK. It's easy to forgive the guides' scripted quips when you are experiencing something so fun and amazing. Easy to forgive the whole Tourism Industry, where everyone speaks English just as readily as Spanish and accepts US Dollars just as easily as Costa Rican Colones, when you get to experience a country with your own two eyes and your own two hands and your own two feet. If you had a couple months or a year then maybe you could experience it like a local. But we only have a week... So serve it up to me hot and fast.

Just the way I like it.

(The video is "borrowed" from another tourist smart enough to video the last of the zip lines)

Costa Rica - Day Two

2009-07-31T23:27:00.002-05:00

Plant life upon plant life upon plant life. It grows and climbs and crawls on one another. Green upon green upon green. The rocks and trees and dirt are furry with moss, tangled with vines, and breaking out in ferns, flowers and fungi.

The sounds and smells too are multi-layered. Stacked upon one another. Thick and rich and beautiful.

From the hanging bridges we count over a million leafs in our panoramic view. Stretched out over the elaborate canopy. When one of those leafs has fulfilled its purpose and falls from the tree that gave it life, chances are that the leaf won't even hit the ground. It will get tangled in other branches among other leaves and vines. Plant life upon plant life upon plant life.

It is here that the spider monkeys and white faced monkeys do their aerial dance. Acrobatics of the everyday for them. They shake the tree tops - shake the leaves. We stop and peer up at them - or down at them - depending on our position. They perform for us playfully. Jumping. Climbing. Swinging. Swaying. Hiding. Bouncing. Leaping. Ascending. Descending... Playing... Dancing...

Costa Rica - Day One

2009-07-30T22:02:00.000-05:00

The road bends sharply this way... Then that. Down the incline, my foot ready at the brake. Up the incline, I downshift for power. The road is narrow and flows like a river. We wonder what this land looks like. It is early evening but completely dark out.

I'm straining my neck to look around the next bend. I'm hugging the edge of the road wary of pedestrians and trusting that the roads are wide enough to fit at least one car going in one direction and one large semi truck or bus going the other. And with the exception of a few narrow bridges they are... but only by inches it seems.

We have no idea where we are or what direction we are heading, but fortunately the satelites do. We trust them even though they are hundreds of miles away floating in outer space. They lead us this way and that... through crowded city streets and up over mountains into the clouds. The yellow signs on the side of the road accentuate the danger: "Peligro Adelante". Very comforting. The GPS would also occasionally warn us of a dangerous bend or a narrow bridge, but only after I was already hitting the brakes to thread the needle.

I drove while Sharon prayed - her knuckles white, her toes clenched. We had come to Costa Rica for, among other things, a little adventure. We had no idea we would get it so intensely in the first two hours driving from the airport to our hotel.

. . .

It was the sounds that impressed me most as we stepped out of the car and into the dense evening. The choir of birds, beetles, insects and who knows what else accompanied by the nearby river. There was an incessant drone to it. A unique rhythm and harmony to it. An all encompassing loudness to it. True surround sound. We were right there. In the thick of it.

Our eyes adjusted enough to the darkness to faintly make out the shape of the black wall of trees beyond the river. Ominous and tall.

Puffs of steam rose from bubbling pockets in the flowing river. The towers of steam ascended high into the sky where it cooled and condensed into drops of water which lightly fell on our heads. We explored what we could in the dark, excited to wake up to a full view of the rain forest that surrounded us.

Long Walks on the Beach

2009-07-26T07:53:00.001-05:00

The sand is still dark from the rainfall earlier that day. It rained for hours today - the light drizzly kind. Now the clouds have clumped together in other corners of the sky leaving nothing in between us and heaven. The air is cool and pleasant in the wake of the day's rain. Dusk is not far off. There is no beach path here. No boardwalk. No broad walk. Not even a hard-packed trail. So our feet sink a little with each step in the sand - it takes the first hundred paces to get accustomed to the slightly different rhythm of our steps - after that we no longer even notice.

We are heading down this narrow alley of beach - bordered on one side by the daunting buildings of glass and steel, jutting up into the darkening blue sky, and on the other side is the familiar lapping ocean, the vast volume of saltwater seething for its turn at crashing onto dry land. . . a novelty I'm sure.

We walk along the uneven fringe of civilization. Where manicured gardens of salt-tolerant plants and harsh concrete pool deck walls form a border between the "man-made" and the merely "man-tamed" (the sandy beach itself appears wild but is occasionally groomed and trimmed of unsightly seaweed.)

For the most part our eyes are focused on the sand directly in front of us - but occasionally they fix on a particularly dramatic cloud, up the face of a particularly pleasing piece of modern architecture, and then. . . every once in a while. . . on each other. Sharon is wearing a billowing white skirt and a blue blouse whose hue and saturation match her eyes. Her hair is down. Her smile constant.

We talk as we stroll - after 14 years of knowing each other we have yet to run out of things to talk about. Sometimes we hold hands. Sometimes my arm is around her. I apologize for the dating cliche of taking a long walk on the beach and she laughs a little. It has actually been a very long time since we took a long walk on the beach together.

We have settled on a particular land mark up ahead where we will turn around and start heading back. But we are lost in the conversation and realize we have passed the turn around point by several hundred feet. So we re-orient ourselves and start walking back, sinking in many of the same footprints we created moments earlier. But the change of perspective has transformed this same stretch of beach into something entirely new to explore. And it is over before we know it.

The Neon Bands of Summer Camp

2009-07-18T07:05:00.002-05:00

They wear them like badges of pride. The oddest little things to collect. Neon Yellow-Green Fluorescent arm bands. Ragged from the days of playing and swimming and art projects and craft project and cooking projects.

It first happened on a Tuesday during the second week of Summer Camp. Kiara and Indigo thought it was so hilarious that Indigo still had on her arm band from the day before. They couldn't wait to show their camp counselor when they showed up at the sign in table.

"Look!" Kiara said excitedly to their favorite counselor Kim. "Indigo still has hers from yesterday."

"Cool," Kim played along. "But you still have to get a new one on for today. Hold out your arm." Kiara and Indigo looked at each other and with no words communicated pure childlike glee. Kim placed the crisp new paper band next to the wrinkled day old one, peeled off the adhesive strip and wrapped it around her small wrist sealing it closed.

As I was leaving I saw a boy from the Green Team (that is the older kids group) show up with four wrist bands - three on his right - one on his left.

In the sub-culture of Surfside Summer Camp this was obviously a sign of coolness. Kiara & Indigo caught on quickly and week after week began collecting them. Unlikely jewelry. A fashion statement. The more. . . the better. Sometimes they would go on field trips - the water park or museum - requiring their own brand of wrist band. Blue bands and Pink bands mixing with the every day bright yellow.

Being the Stick in the Mud father that I am, I would make them remove the tattered paper bracelets, with their twisted crumpled tongues sticking out at all angles, at the very least for church on Sundays. They would carefully remove them over their tiny hands in the hope to put them on again later. . . and when they weren't looking I would throw them out. They are durable and nearly indestructible but tend to look sloppy after a full week.

I suppose I should let them keep at least one on though - that way if Kiara or Indigo ever gets lost while we are out, at least the town of Surfside Parks and Recreation Department might get a phone call from someone wishing to returned a lost, albeit cool, kid.

Charlie the Hygienist

2009-07-08T22:02:00.000-05:00

My gaze wanders. It floats like helium to the top of the room. The slowly spinning ceiling fan. . . was that deliberate? Was the speed of its rotation planned just like the light jazz pouring in through the speakers? Maybe not, but if it was moving any faster it wouldn't have been right. It would break the hypnotism. The white florescent lights. Clean and white. Florescent and white. Clean and bright. The overhead lamp by contrast is yellow and harsh; it blinds slightly, diverting my gaze. The window is all blue skies. I was hoping for tree tops - there are other windows here with green leafy tree tops. Relaxed, I close my eyes for a minute and listen to the sound of metal scrapping bone.

Charlie the Hygienist is like a walking ad for good dental hygiene. His smile is as white as his freshly bleached scrubs. He probably spends his down time flossing and polishing and whitening just for fun. He makes just the right amount of small talk and says comforting things like "Your not bleeding as much as usual" and "OK you can spit now." Because of this we have recommended him to many of our friends. He is just as deliberate as the spell binding ceiling fan, the flowing jazz music and the framed blue skies.

I have slipped into a sort of dental coma. Charlie is raising the chair and my head is swimming in a fog as it returns to its full upright position. Man was not meant to be suspended at such angles for extended periods of time. I feel like I have just been raised from the dead. I know where I am but it take a minute. I'm swishing mouth wash and rinsing before I feel fully free from the spell that has been cast upon me. The Hygienist's hypnotism is over. Couldn't they have kept me under until after I paid the bill?

Two stories that just so happened to take place inside of my mouth

2009-07-04T07:52:00.002-05:00

I burned my mouth on frozen pizza - although it wasn't frozen at the time.

Fresh out of the oven and I was too impatient. Which meant that I continued to eat even though I could feel it was burning the inside of my mouth. I wasn't aware of the damage until I finished chewing and felt the roof of my mouth with my tongue. The texture had changed. The layer of skin had peeled back in a few places. I could taste the roof of my mouth. Was that blood? And why do they call it the "roof" of the mouth anyway - wouldn't "ceiling" be more accurate?

Over the days that follow I can feel that it is slowly healing. Magically repairing itself. The "ceiling" continues to be particularly tender though and I'm reminded of this every time I eat. Granola is cruel. Toasted bagels, rough. Croutons are particularly thoughtless and hurtful. On the other hand, my damaged mouth seems to favor chocolate-covered almonds (but then again who doesn't?)

..............................................

I chipped a tooth on Cream of Wheat cereal. Well, actually it wasn't really a tooth. And it wasn't really on the Cream of Wheat cereal. But it felt that way.

I had just sat down with a warm bowl of Cream of Wheat - steam lightly dancing above the bowl. The texture was prefect and smooth. I spooned it into my mouth and it felt like it was melting in mouth - my jaw was moving, my teeth were chewing, but more out of eating instinct than by necessity. And that is when I felt it. Starkly contrasting the soft smooth texture was something hard and foreign. I had bit down on it and a shock of surprise surged through my teeth. What was this? a pebble? I clamped down on it with my teeth so as not to swallow it along with the rest of the cream of wheat. I then retrieved it with my fingers, and held it up in the light to make sense of it. Smoothly domed on one side, flat on the other, white and hard. It was pretty small - felt much larger inside my mouth. I couldn't figure out what it was or how it had ended up in my cereal. So I flippantly discarded it and continued eating. A spoonful or two later my tongue discovered a sharp gap between my last two molars, upper left side. Then the flood of understanding.

The little pebble was actually a small sliver of my molar. What had happened? I felt like a great random injustice had occurred. If I had been chomping on something hard then I could understand, but the cream of wheat was too innocently soft to do this. Perhaps it was just in the wrong mouth at the wrong time. . . And as it turns out it wasn't really a chip of tooth that I had so flippantly discarded moments earlier. It was a chip of porcelain. A chip off a crown that had been installed a few years back. I wondered if crowns were covered under any kind of extended warranty. . . well it turns out they aren't - at least not at my dentist's office.

Holes in time

2009-06-28T20:37:00.003-05:00

The valet enters the black BMW, shuts the door and turns the key. The engine fires up, the orange lights on the dashboard greet him, and the stereo turns on. He picks up where I have left off.

Led Zeppelin, Kashmir.

There is no lead in. No crescendo. It begins right in the middle of a prolonged emotional Robert Plant wail. Epic and grand but only lasting a minute before he shifts into park and abruptly turns the key shutting off the car. The music ends.

This scenario is played out over and over again throughout the day. Brief drives in a myriad of cars. Snippets of rock, and rap, and R&B, and NPR, and Sports, and inane morning shows, and occasionally a little classical or jazz. All jumbled together one after another. The valet collects them all, like the keys in his cabinet dangling on hooks in orderly rows and columns.

Tomorrow morning I will get in the car and I will pick up where the valet has left off - but it will never be where I have left off. Entire minutes of the music go missing. And it feels like little gaps in my life. Holes in time.

Like a record.

Skipping.

The Selfish Sunrise

2009-06-22T22:16:00.002-05:00

I emerged from the pink ocean dripping as I stepped onto the damp sand. The sun was still swimming beyond the horizon but was actively coloring both sky and sea. I had been immersed in that salty sunrise. The air temperature and water temperature had meet an equilibrium where there was little difference between wet and dry. It was all the same feeling. All the same color. The humid air. The still surf. All the same. Sand caked onto my feet as moved away from the sunrise, away from the sea-swell. I sat on the blue and white striped mat - my sandy feet hanging over the edge.

There I was, staring at this incredibly colorful and dramatic display and the first thought that came to my mind was "I should take a picture of this". Then a second and more powerful thought came to my mind: "No."

It felt like doing so would steal the sunrise's soul - capturing only a fraction of a second of something that existed in a constant state of fluidity and nuanced shifting light - preserving indefinitely what is meant to be only temporary. Part of its beauty was the window of time in which it was framed. And that window was only a quarter of an hour in length and breadth and depth. It was not meant to live beyond that.

The decision was also a selfish one. I was already forced to share this with the guy fishing up the beach to the north and the couple to the distant south. Wasn't that enough? They easily faded though into periphery when I focused on the infinite horizon. . . or closed my eyes in meditation. The rhythmic sound of my breathing, The rhythmic sound of the surf. Breath and water, air and sea, one. This was just for me. This was my sunrise.

The Curse of the Grouper

2009-06-13T07:11:00.002-05:00

It was a quick exchange of "Hello" "Good-bye" "Have a nice night" "Dinner is ready". She was out the door as I walked in. I closed the door behind her and paused for a second. Something wasn't right. Something in the air. But I paid it no attention and moved on with my evening. I gathered the kids and dished up the meal that Sharon had prepared but never got the chance to eat. On the stove top: green spinach linguine slippery with EVOO (that is what Rachael Ray calls extra virgin olive oil - because simply saying "Olive Oil" is too much of a mouthful). In the oven: breaded baked grouper.

We sat down at the table. Samuel's turn to say the blessing on the food. He remembered how to start the prayer and how to end it, but left out everything in between. After the "Amen" Kiara snickered and told Samuel, "You forgot to bless the food." . . . I shrugged it off, "That's alright," I said. And that may have been the biggest mistake of the night.

Indigo was quick to announce "I don't like it." She was referring to the fish which she nudged to the far side of her plate. The other kids didn't say anything but when I looked at their plates after a few minutes I saw that they too had only taken one bite of the fish before turning their sole focus onto the noodles. I ate the fish. It's not like it tasted bad. . . it just really didn't taste good. The best part of the fish was the bread crumbs that covered it. I began to wonder what mercury tasted like.

I didn't notice the smell at any point that evening - but I did consider the potential. So immediately after dinner the leftover grouper was sealed in tupperware and entombed in the fridge. The shunned pieces on our plates were thrown away and the garbage taken out. The dishes were all washed. But by this point it was too late. . . the damage had already been done. The curse of the grouper had been unleashed.

The smell was most potent when you were outside of the apartment for a time among the fresh air and then walked in through the doors. It was like a tangible palpable wall. Once you were in it for a while you grew accustomed to it . . . somewhat. But it was always there - in every room of the house. At random points it would gather in strength. There was no source of it. Once we had identified the problem we went to the fridge and threw out the entire fish filled tupperware coffin - taking no chances of unsealing it and compounding the problem. The smell was omnipresent.

Three days after the Grouper event the smell still lingered. We had Frebreezed. We had cleaned. We had opened all the windows. We had had enough. In desperation we consulted Google. What would Google do? (WWGD?) Well Google would use vinegar to neutralize the smell. Brilliant! The answer to all of our problems! What in the world did people do before Google? I guess they just lived with foul odors in their homes indefinitely. . . So the following morning I mopped the floor with water and a healthy dose of EVWV (Extra Virgin White Vinegar). When I had finished we both breathed in heavily. The fish smell was gone - now our place smelled like. . . vinegar. Which in and of itself isn't the nicest smell but it was a nice change from the grouper.

A few hours later though the fish smell was back. By this point Sharon had vowed never to eat fish again (the overfished populations of the sea rejoicing at her announcement). She had spent the better part of the week with a stomach ache that cannot be fully explained by the smell of the fish alone, but the smell certainly wasn't helping.

On G-Day + 7 (one full week after the curse began) I was at work - far out of nose-shot from our home - when I smelled the fish again. What was going on here! I smelled my hands - the grouper smell must be in my clothes, my hair, my skin! But then something very interesting took place. It was getting close to lunch time. I was getting hungry. I brought a little left over chicken to eat that day but when a co-worker passed by and said "I'm going to Subway - you want something?" I nearly jumped at the opportunity. And my answer surprised me. "I'll have a footlong Tuna on white with American cheese, lettuce, tomatoes and green peppers." I was giving into the smell of the fish, embracing it, hungering for it, and in a way kneeling down before it and proclaiming "I'm not going to fight it anymore - YOU WIN!" The sandwich was delicious.

That same day the smell was lifted in our home. The curse was over.

Off to School

2009-06-02T20:26:00.000-05:00

I pull on the cord that swivels the blinds that reveals the sunrise. The ocean is a turbulent mirror reflecting the red sun. I breathe in. Enjoy the moment. Then get to work.

The first task is to wake the girls. I turn on the light. Nothing. "Good morning," I say this gently at first, sing-songy. Nothing. "Time to wake up." Nothing. I peer into the top bunk. "Good morning Kiara." Something. "Good morning daddy," she struggles. One down - on to the next one. I sit on Indigo's bed and place my hand on her back. "Good morning Indigo." Nothing. "Indigo, time to get up." I shake gently. Nothing. I then put my face very close to hers, "Indigo guess what today is?" I exclaim with an undue amount of excitement in my voice. This stirs her. She lifts her head from the pillow. "What?" she wonders. I pause for effect. "It's Tuesday," I report. Her head hits the pillow again. I can tell she is disappointed that she fell for my trick.

Next is clothes. School uniforms have been kept in my closet ever since mid year when we discovered it greatly reduced my morning stress to know exactly where all their uniforms were. Before that I was sifting through their entire wardrobe only to find a green shirt with a ketchup stain on it and no more time to spare. Kiara has grown out of most of the pants and shorts that we started the school year with so there are just a few options. Indigo is rather particular with her wardrobe so I have learned which combinations just don't work out for her. I select two hunter green shirts, a pair of khaki shorts for Indigo, and a pair of gray shorts that I'm crossing my fingers will still fit Kiara. Both of them are still laying in their beds. I toss the clothes on top of them. "Come on, get dressed," I encourage.

Cereal time. I grab four bowls and place them on the counter. "What kind of cereal do you want?" I holler to the kids, "Raisin Bran, or Special K?" Our options are limited this morning. Samuel wanders in and tells me his choice, "Life." I respond with, "We don't have any Life Samuel, just Raisin Bran or Special K." He ponders that for a second and asks, "Kashi?". . . I grab the two options to show him. "No, we don't have any Kashi. Do you want this one?" I hold up the Raisin Bran. "Or do you want this one?" I hold up the Special K. He looks at me with full sincerity in his big brown eyes and responds, "This one." He doesn't point or indicate in any way which one. I realize he is just repeating me so I decide for him. Kiara and Indigo call in their orders and I pour the cereal. Samuel has already opened the fridge and is struggling to bring me the gallon of milk.

"When you are done with your cereal get your shoes on." Every morning it is exactly the same but if I don't tell them precisely what to do then inevitably Kiara will wander to the computer to play Club Penguin or Indigo will start drawing and wait for further instructions. "Get your backpacks ready," is the next command. Then we search the entire house for a brush so I can brush their hair. Again every morning it is exactly the same. We can never find the brush. Eventually we do but I always have to factor at least 5 minutes in to our morning schedule for finding the brush. For a few weeks we were using Indigo's American Girl doll brush (besides being overly small it actually worked pretty well).

Five minutes to 8:00 and we are out the door. The girls got a snack in their bags so Samuel has to have one to. He holds onto the ziploc of crackers as he waddles down the hall to the elevator. Kiara pushes the down button. Once inside Indigo pushes the "L" button. This is their system and it works pretty well - except for when Samuel is thrown into the mix. So Samuel wants a turn and when the doors are nearly closed Samuel pushes "2" - which is where we are - so the doors open again - and all three of us (Indigo, Kiara and I) simultaneously blurt out "Samuel NO!" But he is satisfied having pushed his button.

There are 5 minutes that are also factored into the schedule for the Lobby. Before he even turns the corner out of the elevator Samuel calls out "Hi Marta!" Marta works the Front Desk of our building. "Hi my love!" She says in her thick Brazilian accent, her gruff countenance softening instantly at the appearance of Samuel. "You off to School?" She asks. Samuel helps himself around the counter and begins pointing to each video camera monitor on the desk. "Pool?" he asks as he points to the black and white image on the screen. "Yes that's the pool," Marta confirms. The same thing ensues for each of the monitors - the gym, the gate, the garage . . . "Hey Sammy!" Robert the maintenance worker is now there at the front desk. "Hi Robert," Samuel says. Samuel gets out from behind the desk to come talk with Robert. "What's that? he points to Roberts Doo-Rag. Robert squats down so that Samuel can get a better look "That's to cover my head, see?" "Hair?" Samuel asks. "Yeah, that covers my hair". This could inevitably go on forever but our five minutes are almost up and we still have to get past David the Valet. "Alright Samuel time to go." And we are out the door - Kiara and Indigo are already waiting patiently in the Odyssey. "Where'd David go?" Samuel asks. David is not at the valet booth. "He must be getting someone's car," I answer.

Drive time. I am not only chauffeur but radio DJ and I am taking requests. Samuel requests "Hey Oh" by the Chili Peppers. I turn it up as we squeak out on to Collins. Indigo surprisingly knows all the words. Even I don't know all the words. Through the singing I am quizzing Kiara on her spelling words and she keeps sticking a random "H" into certain words and mixing up her vowels on others. By the end of the drive we have listened to "Hey Oh" twice and Kiara now has all of her spelling words right. We pull up to the drop off lane and I let them out. "Have a good day at school, love you," I call out to them as they scamper away. Kiara is already out of earshot, Indigo turns and offers me a wave and a smile.

Life and Fiction

2009-05-30T07:28:00.002-05:00

Arrakis teaches the attitude of the knife — chopping off what's incomplete and saying: "Now it's complete because it's ended here." I'm cleaning the windows with water and vinegar. Rhythmic straining motions. Trying to keep the names and characters and vocabulary straight.
. . .

"You will not buy us off with water," Jamis growled. I'm walking along the beach path - looking out at the boundless ocean contemplating the value of water. Water as currency. Water as jewelry. "Later," Chani said "I will show you how to tie them in a kerchief so they don't rattle and give you away when you need silence."
. . .

And that day dawned when Arrakis lay at the hub of the universe with the wheel poised to spin. I'm driving through a downpour - windshield wipers on high speed. The cars around me are spraying tall fins of water from where their tires meet the flooded roads and Paul is in hand to hand combat with Feyd-Rautha.
. . .

Over 20 hours have passed while walking, while driving, while cleaning. Now there is just 6 minutes left. I'm running into Publix to pick up a few things. Do you know so little of my son? A loaf of bread. See that princess standing there, so haughty and confident. I'm in the frozen food section deciding on garlic rolls. They say she has pretensions of a literary nature, let us hope she finds solice in such things, she'll have little else. I pass the spice aisle. Grab rootbeer, and some Sunchips. Think on it Chani, that princess will have the name yet she'll live as less than a concubine never to know a moment of tenderness from the man to whom she is bound. I'm at the check out counter now. While we Chani, we who carry the name of concubine, history will call us wives. And then the audiobook ends. Just like that. Now I'm fully surrounded by reality - the fiction gone. And I pay for the groceries.

Flamingo Park

2009-05-25T20:54:00.002-05:00

The sun is pouring in through the thick leaf-filled boughs of the great trees above. Even in the shade it is getting hot. Beads of sweat are forming on the brows of the children.

Trista rides a dolphin. The dolphin rides a big yellow spring.

The children are color coded to help the parents identify them in the melee. Mine are Red, Pink and Pink. All accounted for. None have slipped past the perimeter.

Bryant is . . . wait where is Bryant?

Park dads follow a few feet behind their wandering toddlers. Park moms gather under the great tree where the strollers have parked in a haphazard semi circle. The strollers spill with kid clutter.

Kate is sitting in her stroller devouring a cupcake - green frosting smeared across her face.

Food has been pilled onto the small table under the great tree. A random collection. Fried Chicken next to Apples next to Cookies next to Watermelon next to Cupcakes. We all take turns collapsing into the center to grab and then retreating to eat. Like the rhythmic inhaling and exhaling of a living organism.

Samuel wanders like a pinball from one end of the playground to the other - juice box in hand (his third in less than ten minutes).

The playground is well equipped. Bars and Slides and Swings and Steps and Platforms and Trees and Sand and Sticks and Leafs. No kid has yet to find an end to the possibilities.

Kiara, Kade & Taylor have control of the train.

I wonder if you could stick a genius mathematician on that blue park bench with a pad of paper in hand and let him devise the complex equation that explains the movements of the forty children.

Pheonix zig-zags (or is it Ashton?). Grant does a loop. Will runs straight through.

Personalities surface on the playground. Social and Physical and Mental skills are developed. Friends are made.

Indigo is on the monkey bars forming blisters.

Now exhausted. . . the parents take their reluctant kids home.

Drowsy appendages

2009-05-23T05:54:00.003-05:00

Occasionally I will awake in the morning. . . but my arm or hand will remain asleep - having been kinked or gently crushed in the night. Usually this is when I have been pulled a little too abruptly through that tunnel connecting sleep with awake and it feels like my arm or hand was left behind. The upward journey out of the depths of sleep taking just an instant. Dreams too suddenly crash into reality and it hurts just a little. The suddenly aware mind does a quick inventory and assessment of the situation. Where am I? What time is it? What day is it? Am I late for anything? Did I really just dream I was selected to replace Howie Mandel as the new host of Deal or No Deal? Wait, was it just a dream? Why is my arm tingling and sluggish? How come I can't feel my hand? I'll flex my fingers and move my arm into a position more conducive to proper blood flow. . . then wait.

I'm thinking of this because I took that abrupt journey this morning at 6:47am. And left behind was not a hand or an arm - not even a leg or a foot. This morning I woke up and the first thing that I became aware during that instantaneous mental evaluation were the pins and needles near the foot of my bed - my big toe had been left behind. How odd.

May 10th 8:45 am

2009-05-10T07:20:00.001-05:00

She lays there encased in the flowing black & white, floral-print cocoon. Her breathing rhythmic. Hair covers her face - one leg is bent at the knee, the other fully extended - one arm is lost under the pillow, the other reaches for something unknown. Airy sunshine spills through the blinds covering her in soft light. Without even having to think - as if by blind instinct alone - she has sensed my absence and in a just a few slight unnoticed movements has sprawled onto my side of the bed. I ponder this instinct knowing that I do the same when the roles are reversed. The grass is always greener. . .

I enter with a plate: two eggs golden centers. . . then white. . . then light brown. The nooks and crannies of the English muffin filled with yellow butter and red bubbly jam. The smell of bacon is somehow even better than the taste (which alone is always something to write home about). And Freshly-poured orange juice.

"Good Morning," I understate.

MRI

2009-05-02T05:37:00.004-05:00

Ascending black & white cross sections of his chest animate on the screen.

Perfectly sliced.

His lower half amputated one centimeter at a time.

Reminds me of flipping through a corner of the book where someone has painstakingly drawn a stick figure hundreds of times in slightly different positions. The stick figure walks.

Only the flipbook we are looking at is the interior of his small body. Flipping through the slices of Samuel. Moving up through his frame.

The organs balloon as we move up through them.

There are his lungs.

There is his heart.

His spinal column.

There is the lymphatic malformation - a lopsided pocket - that starts out small - then grows - then protrudes beyond the silhouette of his chest.

The doctor tries explaining how the MRI works.

A powerful magnetic field pulling and pushing on the atoms of the body something something polarizing realigning something imaging something. We're trying to understand and we do what anyone does when listening to someone speaking a foreign language: we smile and nod.

"Beyond that I'm not really sure how it works," he concludes. I find his honesty somehow comforting. Watch out for the ones who think they know everything, especially when you are looking for someone to give you all the answers.

More comforting is the fact that despite being a pediatric surgeon he recommends something other than surgery. . . a little patience. I admit that a part of me wants him to grab the scalpel and carve it out. Perhaps so I don't have to see it every time I take off his shirt, or feel it every time I pick him up. Selfish, I know. But a larger part of me is glad that it is only affecting surface tissue and so is nothing to be too concerned about.

The bulge had surfaced a week ago - swelling to the size of a lime, or a plum, or a small Asian pear (pick your Harry & David fruit of the month). The malformation of lymphatic tissue has been present (albeit undetected) since birth but grew in size when it hemorrhaged and pooled with blood. The doctor shows on the MRI where the blood has separated - gravity pulling the darker red blood cells to the bottom - the clear plasma floating on top - a perfectly level line separating the two - the only straight line in his body.

"You could hang a picture by that," the doctor comments. That's our boy - the human level.

The swelling should go down as the blood is reabsorbed. The malformation hopefully can be treated with injections. So we wait and see.

Having made three visits to Miami Children's Hosptial in less than 10 days and having spent hours upon hours sitting around in waiting rooms watching the Disney Channel - we are ready for the one month break until the next appointment.

"Don't you wish they could have just called us on the phone and told us all of this," Sharon says as we leave the hospital.

"Yeah, but then we wouldn't have been able to see the cool MRI pictures," I reply.

"They could have emailed them to us."

Can't argue with that. . .

James

2009-04-26T06:24:00.002-05:00

I received an email the other day. From a friend. His name is James. James died nearly two years ago.

Every once in a while Sharon will drive by a particular section of Biscayne Blvd and get a little sad. She used to "bump into" James here a lot. Her on her way to Miami Shores - driving the kids to the playground or the water park or to storytime. He on his way to the bus stop, walking in the mid-day heat. A small towel slung over the shoulder of his large frame. Sweating profusely.

The towel was almost always with him. James would sweat heavily even when it wasn't hot outside. The towel was for wiping the perspiration from his face and head and arms and hands. No - a simple handkerchief would not suffice. The sweating would embarrass him. The shaky hands too. These the side effects of the antidepressants.

You expect to have these memories of the dead. You never expect to receive an email though.

When I see the bamboo floors of our condo I think of James. We spent two full days together, James & I, cutting and gluing and laying the planks of wood. The only pay he would accept was lunch and dinner. The glue was an awful mess. We went through two whole bottles of acetone cleaning it up. I only knew half of what I was doing. Good thing James knew the other half.

Intrigued, I click on the email message and begin to read.

I met James when the missionaries called one day asking if we could pick someone up for church. The address was on our way. When we got to the address there was James waiting out in front of the apartment building. Stocky & tall - he didn't fit so well in our Honda Accord. An oversized Jersey boy, military veteran - you would have expected a certain gruffness about him. But his manner of talking was filled with niceties: He called me "Sir" and Sharon "Ma'am" even though we were at least 10 years younger.

I see now that the Spam Pirates must have hijacked his Hotmail. When you expire, your digital identity lives on. The Spam Pirates must have sent messages posthumously to everyone in his address book of low interest rates, suspect pills, the latest products from China. . .

After the investigator called me on the phone to inform me of James' suicide I began looking through my old emails. For some reason I needed to know when our final communication had taken place. How long ago had I talked with him? What happened since that last phone call, that last email message, that caused him to finally succeed when his other attempts to take his life had failed?

I never pretended to understand what he was going through. What demons his mind was plagued with. All I knew is sometimes I talked with James and it wasn't really him. Like the time I visited him in the intensive care unit following a drug induced heart failure. He was in arm constraints, he looked at me - but not really - it was like he was looking through me - like I was transparent. His words were slurred as he pleaded with me to get him out of there. That wasn't James. Someone else. He wasn't there.

Perhaps it was the Spam Pirates. . .

Between 89th & 96th

2009-04-21T19:41:00.005-05:00

I am the only person walking along the beach path in business casual.

My brown dress shoes dust the white sand and leave behind a semi-formal set of prints. The air has decided on the ideal level of movement - barely enough to brush against my face and dance the sea oats. The sky is stained with the finger-streaks of dusky purple clouds.

The joggers are out. The bikers. The dogs are out walking their people. A couple sits on a bench - at the edge of the land, looking off into the infinite watery horizon - an otherwise romantic scene - if not for the construction site portable toilet 15 feet to their north.

Work went into extra innings tonight, and it is perilously close to 8 o'clock. I was getting antsy, ready to get out of there, ten hours is enough. Time is just something the Swiss invented to help them sell watches I tell myself. . . but it is too late in the day to contemplate such things.

I had to navigate a few sidewalks and cross a few streets but as soon as my tired feet hit the sand and the boundless open spread out to my east and my zenith, something changed. I'm now lost in an oasis bordered to the north & south by worlds of responsibilities. Here there are no deadlines or demanding customers. There is not a single domino-clogged toilet between 89th Street and 96th Steet.

Even my digital companion churning ones and zeros in my pocket knows no pending emails or voice mail messages - only the music of Bright Eyes which it pumps through the thin white cords and into my ears. The soundtrack of life.

Fifteen minutes later my feet leave the sand for wood. . . then concrete. . . then marble. I enter the evening.

Manny the Barber

2009-04-18T20:39:00.003-05:00

Tucked away quietly between Cafe Ragazzi and Flanigans it hides behind shuttered blinds: Carousel Barber Shop. Teal paint, pink chairs, wood paneled walls. As I sit in the chair draped to my neck I wonder why it is that I keep coming back here. Every other person there is at least twice my age. This is a true old school barber shop. Perhaps my hair has an "old soul". I'm not sure. All five barbers are lined up trimming, shaving, shampooing. All five should be retired by now but either lack the desire or the funds to do so. The barber shaving the gentleman in the next chair over has large purple marks on the tops of his hands and wrists - the skin thin and translucent. It morbidly reminds me of my grandma in her last years of life. Two older gentlemen are getting manicures - I decline when one of the manicurists asks if I need one.Nice of her to ask though, I think. It is then that I notice that well over half the men there are wearing loafers and no socks.

I never had a need to go to any kind of barber shop or salon for a hair cut until I was on my mission in Spain. Before that, my mom (and the occasional friend) took care of this for me. So in the various villages and towns of Spain I grew accustomed to the old Spanish barbers (none of them from Seville by the way) with their straight edge razors and brushes dipped in talcom powder. I reason that this is why I choose Carousel.

Manny the Barber has already spent an inordinate amount of time with his razor getting the edge of my hair line just right. He is my barber at the moment. I usually like to jump around. For some reason I've never really wanted a regular barber. Fear of commitment I guess. But this is my third time in row with Manny. Again I pause to consider why I decided to call that morning and see if he was available to cut my hair. Probably because even though he doesn't remember me from one appointment to the next he seems determined to help me with my emerging bald spot. On the last appointment he provided me with some mystery tonic in an unlabeled plastic bottle to put on my head every day. Regenerative conditioner or something like that. He is the only barber there with a full set of hair so I can't argue.

A little old man comes by with a broom and begins collecting the tufts of dark hair that have spilled onto the floor. His broom makes quick work and the dark hair blends with the white and gray hair deposited by the other men to my right and to my left. The colors swirl and mesh together on the speckled floor.

Manny is almost done. He is blow drying my hair and brushing it repeatedly. This is the first time my hair has felt the stroke of a comb or brush since the last time I was here. He continues brushing and blow drying but more than anything he is sculpting. A final spray of hair spray and he reveals to me the completed work.

I hate it.

But the cut is good. I'm just not one for styling. My product is water. My brush is my fingers. I let gravity do the rest.

As soon as I'm out the door my hand tussles the freshly trimmed hair - thick and stiff from the styling. I then glance at my reflection in the store front glass of a travel agency. Better already.

This morning

2009-04-15T06:12:00.001-05:00

Up early. The darkness on the eastern horizon promises nothing of the coming dawn - though sunrise is scheduled in less than an hour. Samuel is at my side. The side of the bed. He is fumbling around in the dark his hands scattering the un-opened letters on the bed stand looking for my glasses - which he hands me - and my watch - which he hands me. His way of helping me face the day. "Put on your glasses, your watch; your daytime accessories that only come off for sleep," he would say if he had the vocabulary to articulate. Instead he just jabs me with the objects waiting for me to respond. I'm reminded that a few years back Indigo did this exact same thing when she was the youngest and the first to awake each morning. This couldn't have been a learned behavior. That baton was never passed from the one to the other. Just instinct - as if it were hard-coded into both of their genetic makeups. Before even swinging my legs over the side of bed I check his underwear to see what I am up against. All dry. Good. Let's go. Now where did we put the potty?

The morning begins.

The To Do List

2009-04-08T22:31:00.004-05:00

My list is resting there at the foot of my keyboard. 24 hand written items to do. 6 have been crossed off. I keep having to transcribe the unfinished lines onto a new sheet of paper every few days. I've considered keeping the list in TextEdit or Excel where I could easily Copy & Paste & Delete. But the act of transcribing is like a self punishment - encouragement to finish them already. I'm having a really hard time getting through some of them. I scrawl bubbly exclamation marks next the ones that are important - then I move on and do something else entirely. I get distracted by a phone call. Start one thing. Stop and decide to do something else. Decide I should finish what I have started and go back to the first thing. I have at least 10 applications all running at the same time. At least 25 Firefox tabs that have been hanging out with each other for days. My virtual desktop as cluttered as my real one. I stop with the list and start cleaning off my desk. Shoving all the loose papers into a folder that I will go through some other time. Throw away the random Post Its. Collect the scattered paper clips. I look again at the deadlines. I'm running through my mind the packages that must get out, the invoices that must be processed, the emails that must be churned. My phone already has 4 missed calls, 2 new voice mails, 1 text and 9 emails waiting that I already know I won't be able to get to until after 7pm. My small plastic box 4x10x4 contains a quarter million dollars worth of jewelry and watches, all of them demanding a little piece of my attention. And then a co-worker approaches (maybe with a piece of paper in her hand, perhaps with a slightly distressed look on her face) and inquires, "Rich, are you busy?"

ice cream

2009-04-05T05:54:00.003-05:00

Publix. Frozen food section. Staring at the ice cream. Bright eyed. Rushed. Its 10:30pm. People are waiting. Finnegan's is waiting. The bananas, and nuts, and chocolate topping and whipped cream are all waiting. I'm over-thinking it. Should be a simple decision. I keep the glass door open for too long and it fogs up. I'm calculating how much to get, because I know our freezer won't be able to handle the left-overs. Rushed. Probably two. Perfect. Breyers is Buy One Get One Free. But the selection has been pretty picked over. If they even make a mint chocolate chip none remains. I can't skip on the mint. So I move to the left. Rushed. For a minute I consider the Haggen Daas but can't bring myself to paying the price for the tiny containers. I browse the Edy's. Ding Ding Ding Ding. Sirens go off: Girl Scout Thin Mint. I grab it. Now for one more. I'm about to grab plain Jane chocolate right next to it. Then I freeze. The Buy One Get One Free offer still nagging at me. If I'm going to get one more, I might as well get an additional one for free. You can't beat free - especially when it comes to ice cream. And now that the mint flavor has been settled on I'm free to get pretty much anything else from Breyers. I pick triple chocolate & rocky road. Good. Settled. Now Go!

Scattering Leaves

2009-04-04T08:23:00.003-05:00

A thousand discarded leaves litter the earth at the base of the tree that gave them life. Orange and brown. Dry and stiff. Having exhausted all of the photosynthesizing life in them and giving in to the relentless force of time . . . and gravity.

Autumn is six months late in Miami.

Samuel carefully selects one of the thin fragile disks and holds it proudly above his head. "Leaf!" he announces its existence then carries it for ten or fifteen steps before he abruptly throws it to the ground with purpose - as if it was meant to be alone, outcast from its tribe of fellow fallen comrades, removed from the protective boughs of its mother. Samuel, the enabler of this drama, doesn't even give it a thought - he runs on chasing a pair of birds.

wake up

2009-04-02T06:27:00.002-05:00

Good Morning Blog. I think I have discovered your new direction, at least for the immediate future. It can be summed up in this loosely translated Zen Buddhist koan:

A monk asked Joshu,
"What is truth?"
Joshu said,
"The cypress tree there in the garden."

To which Wanshi Shogaku explained in The Book of Serenity:

The cypress tree in the yard, the windblown flag on the pole, it's like one flower bespeaking a boundless spring; like one drop telling of the water in the ocean.

Goodnight Blog. . . Goodnight Cow Jumping Over the Blog.

2009-03-20T23:21:00.002-05:00

I started writing this blog nearly five years ago, back on July 29th, 2004 - at that time I didn't personally know any other blogger. It was like the wild wild west and at various times over those months and years I experimented in different ways with what to write and post and share. In the end what triumphed was the family journal format that it seems most blogs out there tend to follow (memorializing birthdays, lost teeth, vacations and holidays). It has been a good way especially to let interested parties around the country know what we were up to and I have tried to keep it something more than a mere frilly digital scrapbook. On the flip-side I have enjoyed keeping up with friends and family and the occasional stranger through their blogs (and I've stumbled upon a few people that are actually very good writers and photographers).

But then came along a little thing called Facebook. . . and suddenly the average 5 blog posts per month I was writing has dropped to 1 per month. Wanna post a picture? Ten times easier on Facebook. Wanna tell the world about your day? Quicker to do it on Facebook. Want to share a video? a link? the book you are reading? Facebook. Facebook. Facebook. So what is left to blog about?

That is the question I am currently pondering. I've always been a man of few select words and the 140 characters of a Twitter Tweet or a Facebook status are well suited for that, but I do see the value from time to time in digging a little deeper than 140 characters allows. But about what?

I see now that this blog if it is to survive the cannibalization of other social networking media has to change direction and evolve into something different. Not sure what that is yet, not sure if I will even ever figure it out. So for now we say goodnight to the finlinsonfamily blog - a phoenix in the ashes I quietly await your rebirth. . .

A New Creation

2009-02-23T21:37:00.004-05:00

I've been on this planet for nearly 33 year now - much of that time spent enjoying thoroughly two kinds of milk: chocolate milk and strawberry milk. Either one is the ultimate "comfort drink" and has soothed my stress and calmed my nerves on more than 100 occasions. In all my chocolate & strawberry milk-drinking days though, did it ever occur to me mix the two.

As I was listing off the drink options tonight for dinner (water, milk, soy milk, strawberry milk, chocolate milk, orange juice etc) Kiara and Indigo both opted for a mix of strawberry & chocolate milk. Immediately my eyebrows furrowed questioning the soundness of this decision. "I don't know," I replied. "I've never heard of mixing of strawberry milk with chocolate milk." But I mixed it according to the their desires. One part chocolate, one part strawberry. The white milk quickly turning a brownish pink color you don't normally associate with something you would normally choose to consume. But then it hit me: chocolate . . . good; strawberries . . . good; chocolate covered strawberries . . . really good. So why would it be any different in milk form?

After one sip from their cups I was convinced and immediately mixed one up for myself.

I wonder if this is how all the classic food combination where at one time discovered.

Sunrise, Moonrise

2009-01-10T06:51:00.004-05:00

Sunrise. Picture taken at 7:23am 1/9/09. I am spoiled with a beautiful sunrise to witness almost every single morning. Not sure what part of our view I enjoy more: the sea or the sky. Alot of the time the sky wins.

Moonrise. Picture taken at 7:23pm 1/9/09. Sharon/Santa got me an 8 inch Dobsonian telescope for Christmas. It has been amazing to look at the moon in all its phases, Venus on the western horizon after sunset (I never knew that Venus had phases as well - lately it has been a half crescent shaped), and of course the stars (we were looking at one little star yesterday up above the world so high that was twinkling like a diamond. How we wondered what it was. . .

Anyways the telescope is not necessarily meant for astrophotography but I tried sticking my camera lens in the eyepiece and trying it out. I got a pretty good picture (better than I expected) although nothing like the detail you can see by looking in the telescope directly. So here is my open invitation to all my friends and family: you are invited over for a star party. We can look through the telescope, play Super Mario Galaxy on the Wii, buy boxes and boxes of Lucky Charms and separate out just yellow star marshmallows and eat them for dinner. You get the idea.

Boy-Boy's Birthday

2008-12-15T23:04:00.000-05:00

Song of the Day

2008-12-10T08:45:00.003-05:00

Moving up in the ranks of my favorite bands at the moment is Bright Eyes.

So I though I would share this little ditty: "Road to Joy" (in true Rock fashion they even bust up their instruments in the end).

Love it.

It Finally Arrived

2008-12-06T19:42:00.004-05:00

I've been working on Holiday related marketing material since October.
We've been playing Christmas music at the jewelry store since November 1st.
Had my first glass of egg nog for the year shortly there after.
I began that end-of-year uniquely Mormon tradition of Tithing Settlement (which will always in my mind coincide with the Holidays) in mid-November.
We had a traditional Thanksgiving complete with the Macy's parade and Christmas movies.
We hit the Mall on Black Friday and started decorating our house that same weekend.
We've even had a few cold spells in the past few weeks that have reminded us that it actually is winter-time.

But somehow even with all of that, the Christmas Spirit has eluded me.

Not sure why, but it just wasn't there - the excitement, the emotion, the special feeling in the air. Perhaps because my mind has been preoccupied with so many other things I haven't given myself time to accept Christmas.

Well finally today on December 6th it arrived.

We spent a good portion of the day Christmas shopping. Not just wandering the Mall but on a quest for the perfect gifts. One of my favorite shops at the mall is Urban Outfitters. Kiara found a great pair of glasses there.

After the mall had thoroughly exhausted us, we picked up at Christmas tree, littered our van with its needles and then rearranged all the furniture in our house to accommodate it. Christmas just ain't Christmas without a tree.

A Quick Poll

2008-11-23T23:29:00.005-05:00

Now that the elections have come and gone I've noticed that the media doesn't feed us very much poll data anymore. After all the months and month of campaign polls with profound questions like: "If the election were held today who would you vote for?" and "Does Obama's mole make you A) more likely to vote for him; B) less likely to vote for him; or C) Neither less likely or more likely", I've got a hankering for a good quick straw poll on a completely different subject.

So here it is, a quick question that I was pondering earlier today, and I'm interested in finding out what America thinks (or at least the 0.0001% of Americans that read my blog).

Would you rather be involved in an incident or an accident?

Leave a comment and let your voice be heard!

Atlantic Sunrise

2008-11-08T17:14:00.002-05:00

With a view like this to wake up to every morning it just might make "Morning People" of us. It worked this morning anyway. . . after an exhausting day and a half of moving, and even with all the kids sleeping, Sharon & I were both up at 6:30am. We'll see how long that lasts. . .

Halloween Pics

2008-11-01T21:12:00.002-05:00

The Latest Government Bailout

2008-10-10T21:17:00.005-05:00

One of the great worldwide economic institutions that we all thought to be invinsible is the latest to succumb to the ongoing financial crisis and is seeking billions of dollars in government money.

That institution is none other than the Tooth Fairy.

And the reason the Tooth Fairy is now bankrupt:

Four teeth in less than three weeks!

Who would have thought that the used teeth market was just another bubble waiting to be popped.

Unstuck in time

2008-10-10T20:26:00.003-05:00

I just finished reading perhaps one my favorite books this year: Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut. I was not aware of it until just now but through some inexplicable coincidence this book also happens to be the Lostpedia Book Club read of the month for October (though an occurrence such as this should come as no surprise to fans of Lost who are well versed in inexplicable coincidences). Any of you Lost fans who in particular enjoyed the episode "The Constant" this last season would definitely enjoy this book. The enigma of Desmond's travels through time closely resemble that of Billy Pilgrim in Slaughterhouse-Five (a perception of time travel that I find much more interesting and grounded than the confusing time travel of Heroes for example - where no storyline seems to matter because the sequence of events can always be changed on a whim by any one of its time traveling characters. . . ).

Anyway, beyond the similarities to Lost it was a very enjoyable book. I loved the structure and juxtaposition of the narrative jumping through time & space to seemingly random points in Billy Pilgrim's life. It is the kind of story that you wouldn't expect to be told within the frame work of Science Fiction - the hard reality of the horrific massacre of the firebombing of Dresden during World War II seems to be beyond logic and explanation, which is why the fantasy of time travel and flying saucers seems to go right along with it.

So for those who care here is one of my favorite parts of the book:

Billy looked at the clock on the gas stove. He had an hour to kill before the saucer came. He went into the living room, swinging the bottle like a dinner bell, turned on the television. He came slightly unstuck in time, saw the late movie backwards, then forwards again. It was a movie about American bombers in the Second World War and the gallant men who flew them. Seen backwards by Billy, the story went like this:

American planes, full of holes and wounded men and corpses, took off backwards from an airfield in England. Over France, a few German fighter planes flew at them backwards, sucked bullets and shell fragments from some of the planes and crewmen. They did the same for wrecked American bombers on the ground, and those planes flew up backwards to join the formation.

The formation flew backwards over a German city that was in flames. The bombers opened their bomb bay doors, exerted a miraculous magnetism which shrunk the fires, gathered them into cylindrical steel containers, and lifted the containers into the bellies of the planes. The Germans below had miraculous devices of their own, which were long steel tubes. They used them to suck more fragments from the crewmen and planes. But there were still a few wounded Americans, though, and some of the bombers were in bad repair. Over France, though, German fighters came up again, made everything and everybody as good as new.

When the bombers got back to their base, the steel cylinders were taken from the racks and shipped back to the United States of America, where factories were operating night and day, dismantling the cylinders, separating the dangerous contents into minerals. Touchingly, it was mainly women who did this work. The minerals were then shipped to specialists in remote areas. It was their business to put them into the ground, to hide them cleverly, so they would never hurt anybody ever again.

The American fliers turned in their uniforms, became high school kids. And Hitler turned into a baby, Billy Pilgrim supposed. That wasn't in the movie. Billy was extrapolating. Everybody turned into a baby, and all humanity, without exception, conspired biologically to produce two perfect people named Adam and Eve, he supposed.

So it goes. . .

A tip for my fellow bishops out there. . .

2008-10-06T12:01:00.000-05:00

After a long day of bishoping, it is easy to let your head get over-filled with the struggles and challenges and questions of those you are meeting with. This can really begin to consume you unless you can find an adequate method of release. For me that sometimes means driving in my car with the stereo turned up really loud and wailing out a really good rock song - something with a lot of emotion ("bishop angst" you might call it - kind of like teenage angst - only not really). Weezer is good. Green Day. The White Stripes can do it sometimes too. Something with just a little "punk" to it.

But not if it is a Sunday - that would be wrong.

Brains and Armpits

2008-10-05T21:48:00.003-05:00

You know how they say that the left side of your brain controls the right side of your body and vice versa?

Well I think my right brain (random, intuitive, subjective) must have to work harder than my left brain (logical, analytical, sequential). Because by mid-afternoon my left armpit is all sweaty and my right armpit is completely dry.

Is that weird? Should I seek medical attention?

Samuel's Spot

2008-09-30T20:52:00.005-05:00

You know how when you go to bed you might begin laying in one position, then toss around change position, spin around, move your pillow etc - but when your body is really finally ready to go sleep you settle into that one position that is just right and you fall asleep. The funny thing is that it always seems to be the exact same ending position. Why don't we just start out in that position and save all that effort?

Well Samuel's end sleeping position is a little different than it is for the rest of us. We start off tucking him in to his fire truck bed with one thin blanket rolled up close his face and another blanket on top of him with a stuffed animal by his side. All nice and cozy.

And this is where he ends up. . .

On the hard floor next to his door. Where he calls out for his mommy & daddy until he zonks out.

Reaching out. . .

Hey what ever works for you - that's what I always say.

Ulysses is hard

2008-09-26T23:36:00.005-05:00

Since I started listening to audio books about a year ago I hadn't attempted a real literary classic. . . opting instead for "easy listening" books, real "page-turners" (I'm stumped on an equivalent of this phrase for audio books). So two months ago I decided to tackle a more difficult literary work: Ulysses by James Joyce. Though the events of this book take place over the course of single day (kind of like that TV show "24" without all the split screens and FBI agents), the unabridged narration is 27 hours long (figure that one out).

This has definitely been a tricky read. I've had to continually resort to reviewing chapter summaries on Wikipedia to make sense of it all. When you are reading a physical book you can read and re-read the text to make sure you understand before moving on, but it is not so easy with audio books as the text just keeps on flowing by sometimes leaving you grasping for understanding. At one point I accidentally hit the wrong button on my iPhone and re-listened to an entire 15 minute segment before realizing that I had already heard that part (and still I wasn't exactly sure what was going on). Despite the difficulty of listening to this book as opposed to reading it - I think this is really the only way I could ever get through the book, otherwise I would have gotten too bogged down reading and re-reading and given up. But listening to it I feel like I've made real progress (I only have 4 hours left).

Just to give you a sense of what I am talking about please tell me how you are to make sense of a random paragraph like this without being high on something:

16 years before in 1888 when Bloom was of Stephen's present age Stephen was 6. 16 years after in 1920 when Stephen would be of Bloom's present age Bloom would be 54. In 1936 when Bloom would be 70 and Stephen 54 their ages initially in the ratio of 16 to 0 would be as 17 1/2 to 13 1/2, the proportion increasing and the disparity diminishing according as arbitrary future years were added, for if the proportion existing in 1883 had continued immutable, conceiving that to be possible, till then 1904 when Stephen was 22 Bloom would be 374 and in 1920 when Stephen would be 38, as Bloom then was, Bloom would be 646 while in 1952 when Stephen would have attained the maximum postdiluvian age of 70 Bloom, being 1190 years alive having been born in the year 714, would have surpassed by 221 years the maximum antediluvian age, that of Methusalah, 969 years, while, if Stephen would continue to live until he would attain that age in the year 3072 A.D., Bloom would have been obliged to have been alive 83,300 years, having been obliged to have been born in the year 81,396 B.C.

Now you are probably saying to yourself: why go through it if you don't understand what is going on. My answer is two-fold:

Number 1: When I decided to read Ulysses I saw it as more than just reading another book, but more of a literary challenge to myself - my English major past is getting more and more distant from me as the years go by and taking on a book like this is my attempt at some deeper literary analysis, to hold on to something I really enjoy though I have little time to devote to it anymore. So I couldn't quit (although I was briefly tempted).

Number 2: Although I'm often lost in terms of plot I enjoy the prose and language of James Joyce. Most books keep the reader engaged primarily by using the tools of plot, conflict and occasionally a well developed and interesting character. But Ulysses keeps the reader engaged through more: imagery and parallax and stream of consciousness prose. I've also always liked the idea of simple small things as a metaphor for the bigger issues of life (understanding the ocean by looking at a drop of water, the mysticism of ordinary experience, etc). So I love how this modern "Epic" takes place in a single day in a single city - "celebrating" as it were, the mundane every day existence of life. Ulysses is more the story of Dublin itself rather than the story of any of its individual characters.

One more passage that I particularly enjoyed (Leopold Bloom contemplating being blind after helping a blind man cross the street):

Mr Bloom walked behind the eyeless feet, a flatcut suit of herringbone tweed. Poor young fellow! How on earth did he know that van was there? Must have felt it. See things in their forehead perhaps: kind of sense of volume. Weight or size of it, something blacker than the dark. Wonder would he feel it if something was removed. Feel a gap. Queer idea of Dublin he must have, tapping his way round by the stones. Could he walk in a beeline if he hadn't that cane? Bloodless pious face like a fellow going in to be a priest.

The way the words have been put together in this book and they way certain sounds work together is brilliant and point to mind much higher than my own. . . That being said I'm looking forward to finishing this book and going back to a simple straight-forward best-seller easy-listening plot-driven novel. My brain could use a break.

Lake Hawthorne

2008-09-26T20:50:00.006-05:00

You know that map of Florida that Al Gore shows in An Inconvenient Truth? The one that shows how global warming will change the entire coast line of Florida. . .

I think it is already happening - as evidenced by the small lake that has formed on our street during high tide over the last couple of days. . .

The weatherman blamed it on "higher than normal astronomical tides along with a small northeast swell". But we all know that it is really the big oil companies with ties to the news media attempting a cover up of the TRUTH.

The labels of favoritism

2008-09-20T16:21:00.007-05:00

In November of 2006 Blogger added the "Label" feature which allows you to tag or label your posts with certain keywords. So over the last two years I can easily see what I write about most. As of today Kiara came in first with 15 posts, followed closely by Samuel with 14. Is it a validation of the "middle child syndrome" that Indigo only has 11 posts? I've only written 6 posts dedicated to myself. But here is where it gets a little sad. . . Sharon only has 2 posts! Now granted, it is the same amount of posts as Radiohead which is pretty cool, but still I've got some catching up to do.

So here we go with an all out attempt to even the score, here is something you might not know about Sharon. . .

Mosquitoes love Sharon.

And I mean really, can you blame them. Everyone loves Sharon. My good old mission friend Clyde even refers to her as "Lovable Sharon" (which by mere coincidence also happens to be the name of a little lingerie boutique on Avenida de Castillo in Guadalajara, Spain.)

(Indigo took this picture of Sharon right now - You can't really see it in the picture but she is sitting on the couch all bundled up in a blanket, not because she is cold, but because she is hiding from a mosquito as we speak. . .)

She is such a good wife and mother of our children. Every day is a busy adventure for her: taking the kids here and there, working with them for hours on their homework (yes I said "hours", which means either: 1. Kindergarten & First Graders are required to do a lot more homework than I ever had to do at that age or 2. She is exaggerating. . .)

There are many other cool things that I could tell you about Sharon (such as her love of staying up late, independent movies, reading books, discussing politics, eating healthy, living green, cleaning bathrooms, etc) but I'll have to save those for later posts. (I tried listing "Sharon" as 10 separate labels for this post but Blogger is too smart. . . it only added it once). So now Sharon is just one post away from being tied with Pink Floyd.

Something tells me Halloween is getting closer. . .

2008-09-17T21:50:00.001-05:00

Playing that Great Gig in the Sky

2008-09-15T20:25:00.006-05:00

When a member of your all-time favorite bands passes away, you can't help but pay a little tribute. It seems like the keyboardist/pianist of most bands can be easily overlooked, but when you stop and listen to his portion of the band's music it is without doubt that he was a great musician. It seems like as the band aged the bulk of the song writing and singing shifted away from him but I love those early albums where his participation in the forefront of the band is more prominent. In my opinion here he is in his prime:

One of my favorite Floyd songs has always been the Great Gig in the Sky. Certainly the vocal improvisation of Clare Torry sends that song over the top, but it is grounded in that simple piano melody incessantly pounded out by Wright. Listen to that song again and just single out the piano - it's great. And now that he really is playing that Great Gig in the Sky his music certainly lives on here.

Biking Key West

2008-09-01T18:49:00.008-05:00

For our Labor day adventure this year we trekked down the biggest "Dead End / No Outlet" road around: Highway US1 to Key West. We drove down last night hopping from key to key, driving into the sunset. Then this morning after a dip in the pool at the Southernmost Hotel we got on our bikes and headed over to the Southernmost Point.

Then we went over to the slightly less popular Second-most Southern Point.

We continued down US1 on our bikes past the run-down and restored Key West homes. . . the Hemingway home. . . the lighthouse. . . until we arrived at mile marker Zero.

The beginning and the end. The Alpha and Omega of Hwy 1. In this case the difference between the beginning and the end only depends on the direction you are facing.

Kiara, Indigo & Samuel's favorite part of the trip was the Kapok tree in front of the Monroe County Courthouse.

Then we ended the afternoon in Malory Square.

The Making of a Rock Star

2008-08-30T18:03:00.003-05:00

There were a number of comments on my penultimate post (I love that word "penultimate", I try to use it whenever possible) about Samuel looking like a bona fide rock star. So here he is in his first music video. . .

The Car

2008-08-19T21:57:00.004-05:00

So I've had a few requests to post pictures of my new set of wheels - the 2001 BMW 325i. Here are some pictures I had nabbed from the dealership's internet ad:

What strikes me as interesting about these pictures is that at no point did I find it even remotely odd or strange that the car is parked on grass. That is when you know you have lived in Florida too long. . .

Our Little Rebel

2008-08-18T20:17:00.001-05:00

The latest kayaking trip

2008-08-17T16:29:00.005-05:00

This morning as I rolled out of bed my arms felt weird - at first I thought maybe I had slept on them wrong. Then I remembered why they were aching: the 2 1/2 hour kayaking trip the day before. I went kayaking with Andy which is good for me because he is faster than me and always pushes me to go faster and further than I would otherwise. I'm kind of a leisurely kayaker - Andy on the other hand is a competitive mountain bike racer and that translates into pushing his limits in kayaking as well. Here is a map of the loop we did with a few highlights pointed out:

A. Our starting point: Bay Harbor Towers. As we were putting in I got the tip of my kayaking stuck under the dock. After some wiggling and maneuvering and using the paddle as a lever I got unstuck and we were on our way.

B. We paddled out to Haulover cut and dabbled in the ocean for a bit. We could feel the tide was starting to go out and not wanting to fight a stronger current decided to head back into the bay.

C. We then paddled along Haulover Marina seeing the restaurant that burned down. This area always brings back memories of Sharon laboring with Samuel about an hour before he was born.

D. Our conversation turned to the Olympics. Interesting how the "prime" age for athletes competing in the Olympics varies so greatly between different sports. Why does America get so many gold medals every year? And at what point will the human race have pushed itself so far that we stop breaking world records?

E. We stopped off at this small island because Andy's kayak had a leak and was slowly filling with water. The back of his kayak was fully submerged. He ended up dumping at least four gallons of water and locating the small hole on the back end of his kayak causing the problems. Luckily it was on the top of the kayak so it wasn't constantly taking on water - only sometimes.

F. The temporary shade as we went underneath this section of the Broad Causeway was refreshing. Andy pointed out a nice place to sleep if you were homeless. I made a mental note of it - you never know when you might need information like this.

G. A rainstorm rolled in the large cold drops of rain cooling us down. The air was calm and the water was clear - the only disturbance being the million little drops all around us.

H. We returned back feeling tired and satisfied and glad we spent some time on the water. . . determined to do it more often.

Keys

2008-08-09T21:41:00.003-05:00

My key chain is growing. . .

We've put it off for as long as we could. For the last 8 years we've managed with having just one vehicle. There were times when it was an inconvenience, but for the most part we've gotten by with one car, my bike and my two feet.

But recent circumstances have forced us to re-evaluate our "one car" policy. So we spent the afternoon bouncing from car lot to car lot - like Goldilocks: this one too hot, this one too cold, this one too big, this one too small, this one too soft, this one too hard, until we found the car that was just right.

So now my house keys, my work keys, my church keys, and my Odyssey keys have a new companion on the chain - and I think they like the addition.

Santa Kiara - our Lady of the Trees

2008-08-06T22:58:00.004-05:00

I took this picture the other day while Kiara was sitting in a tree at the park. I think I snapped it at the precise moment when she was channeling a Catholic Saint.

Happy Bishop Day

2008-08-03T21:17:00.003-05:00

For the last year or so I've had the opportunity to serve as a counselor to two great Bishops: Bishop Marriott for 8 months, and then Bishop Beck for the short 6 months that he served in this calling before he had to move to California. I will always be grateful for both of their examples and for the instruction and training that they gave me. It will prove invaluable to me as I now have been called to serve in this same daunting and overwhelming calling in the Church.

Today in Sacrament meeting the ward sustained me, and then later the Stake President ordained me the Bishop of the Miami Shores Ward. In both these instances I felt the rush of the Holy Spirit - confirming in my mind and soul the divine reality of this calling. I have never felt so strongly the true value of a sustaining vote. Knowing that this call is not only sanctioned by God but also sustained and supported by those whom I have been asked to serve has comforted me greatly and calmed my nerves.

I was reading this past week about the life of Edward Partridge who, for those of you familiar with church history will know, was the first Bishop called in this dispensation. Edward Partridge was in his mid-thirties when he joined the church, just a few years older than I am now. He was called to be a Bishop for the entire church just a few months after he joined the church. I'm sure he felt a tad overwhelmed as well. Edward Partridge is described by the LORD himself as having a pure heart and being a man without guile like Nathaniel of old. A pretty good compliment especially when you consider the source. Bishop Partridge was required to leave behind his business as a hatter (that's a profession you don't see around anymore) and was shunned by his parents, brothers & sisters. His position in the church required him to spend long periods of time away from his wife & children and he at times suffered greatly to serve the LORD and the church. On one occasion he was attacked by a mob and tarred and feathered - the preferred method of torture/public humiliation at the time. Something that Bishop Partridge once said is impressive to me: "If I must suffer for my religion, it is no more than others have done before me." I share a special kinship with Edward Partridge as I am a direct descendant of him. Serving as a Bishop in the Miami Shores ward will be difficult - I'm not sure how much "suffering" I will go through, but if I do have to "suffer" a little then I hope to keep in mind my great-great-great-great grandfather's words and know that it is no more than others have done before me.

Sharon has been very supportive - she is trying to get used to the idea of being the Bishop's wife. I guess that means I have to get used to being the Bishop's wife's husband. Kiara & Indigo were excited about me being Bishop - they wanted to throw me a party (but I think they'll find any excuse to have a party).

In case you can't read it the cookies say "Happy Bishop Day". You can also use this picture in the future to see how much I've aged since becoming bishop.

Sharon's World

2008-07-25T18:29:00.003-05:00

We were going through some old books and papers at my parent's house today and I found this little gem: an essay that Sharon wrote back in junior high about what her life would be like in twenty years. The date on the paper is September 19, 1989 - which means she still has a whole year to get there. . .

My Life in Twenty Years

In twenty years my life will be fantastic. I will be so rich. I will be able to do what I want when I want.

My job will be an important part of my life. I will be a lawyer. In my job everyone will look up at me. I will be excellent. I'll earn one million dollars a year. I will have my own office witha jacuzzi in it. My office will be extrememly big. My window will face a beautiful ocean. I went to Harvard for eight years.

My family will be incredibly smart. I will have a boy and a girl. I would like them a year apart. The boy will be older. My son will be extremely athletic. He will have a 4.0. My daughter will be an excellent dancer. She'll also paly the violin. My husband is going to be extremely handsome. He will also be truly loving!

My life will be the envy of all my friends. My house will be six levels: one for my swimming pool, and all the others for everything else you'd want. I will have a tennis court outside in my backyard. My family and I will have a summer home in France. We will go on vacations all the time. I will live in a beautiful mansion. My childrens' rooms will on one level each. My husband's room will on the top level with a huge bay window.

My life will be extremely great as you can see! I will be an extremely excellent lawyer, have a great family and have an extremely fun summer!

If you are going to dream - dream big! The funny thing about this is that just yesterday while we were driving from Provo to Salt Lake, Sharon decided to take a few minutes to share with me what her current dream house looks like. Comparing it to her dream house from 19 years ago she has settled for just 6 rooms instead of 6 levels and the tennis courts don't seem to be as important to her anymore. I just hope she always maintains the dream of her husband's room being on the top level with a huge bay window.

Just to help convey the overall feel of the essay, I should note that it is handwritten in very bubbly cursive and the final exclamation mark features an adorable little heart with a line above it instead of the standard dot - very cute.

Sunday Morning Sunrise

2008-07-21T20:47:00.005-05:00

Sure I show up to my 7am Bishopric meeting a little sweaty, but the 45 minute early morning bike ride to church has fast become one of my favorite parts of the sabbath day.

I was looking through some old pictures and came across a sequence of pictures I took one day on my walk from Bay Harbor Towers to Gray & Sons: pictures of the buildings, the sidewalk, the bridge, the water, the mall etc. It helped solidify and magnify the memory of this daily ritual that was such a part of my life for so many years. I was so glad I did that, to have a photographic record to keep that in memory for a lifetime.

So yesterday morning I decided to take the camera along for my ride to church and snap a few photos to memorialize this commute. It begins with the familiar terrain of Surfside - through the canyon of palms & condos in Bal Harbour - over Halouver bridge and then along the beach path at Halouver Park (don't worry the wall of seagrapes hide the view of any early morning skinny dippers). After Halouver I'm back out onto the mostly empty streets of Sunny Isles, over the 163rd street bridge and then onto the home stretch through North Miami to the Chapel.

It is interesting how dark it is when I leave and how gradual the light from the sunrise begins to dominate the sky - and then without even realizing it the world around me is fully illuminated.