Infographics and wordmapping have caught my eye lately.   So when I found Inkscape, I decided to start fiddling around with it.   Here’s a first attempt at beginning to think visually about things running around in my head.

The biggest objection will probably be the “I” being in the middle, but I put it there simply because it’s our perceptual center, and we can’t escape that position.  We can imagine and rethink and reposition ourselves in our mind’s eye so that we know that we are not the center of things…and we do that from the place of our own centeredness, looking out.   All the information, images, and ideas that come through our processes of thinking have to pass through that center we call the self, so I leave that I-ness in the center of things.

There are a world of things to think about when it comes to the way we are ordered in mind, body, spirit, and soul–and who knows if there is an ontologically correct way of referring to them or ordering them.   But how we map it out is part of the (largely unseen and unnoticed) daily task.

So if you happen by and have a look at this thing, I’m wondering what you think I left out or misplaced.   It’s an interesting tool to talk about the way we see our lives.

Obviously, it’s a Christian viewpoint, though I’ll bet many of my Christian friends will have a thing to say about how all things Christian enter the picture.

Another note:  at this point, I’m not trying to really make things clear, nor am I trying to simplify.  At least not yet.

I will keep tweaking this, I’m sure, but at least you can’t say you didn’t have anything to think about today.

How do you map things…?    

When I got the word that Wes had slipped over to the other side of things  (one of the ways I like to think of death), the force with which my stomach leapt into my throat surprised me.  I haven’t talked to him in so long, but the tears came immediately, and I instantly remembered how much I cherished this man.

I remember so much of the kind of man he was: his spirit, his heart, his passion, his courage, his sense of humor, and his humility and kindness.   But the first thing that comes to mind is his infectious laugh.   Wes, my old friend, teacher, and mentor (though he probably didn’t know I still think of him that way) from Abilene, died last Friday, and as always in these kinds of moments, I’m just amazed that he’s gone.   I’ll miss him, though we weren’t close over the last decade.   Life has a way of moving on, and Wes and I fell had fallen out of contact, but as I said, when I got the news, his presence flooded into my awareness all over again.

Wes had passion, and open-heartedness that mixed with a crinkly, ever-bearded smile.   Witty, bawdy at times, and effervescent with mischief and good humor sure enough, “Mr. Odell” could be tough, anger flashing, backbone strong.   It was a good mix for a teacher, and as I read through his obituary this morning, it’s obvious that those skills kept serving young people in more recent years.   I took some sort of humanities class in high school from Mr. Odell, and I remember him encouraging and challenging us, somehow making room for us to do the work we were capable of.   Laughing one minute, fuming the next, it was obvious how deeply he cared about his students.

Later, I went to work for Wes at Child’s Play, an upscale children’s toy store with all sorts of educational and progressive goodies, and we got to know each better.  He moved from teacher to boss and then on to friend, and I increasingly began to look forward to the time we’d spend together stocking or doing inventory, putting together a swing-set at a customer’s home, setting up a large scale train around the base of a customer’s Christmas tree, or playing nerf basketball when customers weren’t around.   He told me jokes I remember to this day (one in particular that I just can’t bring myself to repeat out loud, but if I let Wes tell me again in my mind’s eye, I bust out laughing just like I did the first time he told it), but it wasn’t the jokes that struck me—it was always the delight he got in telling them.  (In my mind’s eye, we laugh together.)  I remember his remarkably small hands making the Baylor Bear claw, and the giggle that came right after the growl.   I remember his eyebrows rising when he became frustrated or angry—maybe sales were off for that month or one of the suppliers hadn’t delivered on time, and I remember so well the light that would come chasing back into those eyes the minute LeMoyne (his wife) or Ketrin or Lauren (his daughters) come through the door.   I came to cherish Wes enough that when it came time for Anjie and I to marry, I asked Wes to be one of my groomsmen, and he graciously accepted.   I was thrilled to have him standing with me that day.

And then there was his beautiful wife LeMoyne.   To this day, LeMoyne remains one of the most singularly delightful people I have ever known.    I loved her forthrightness, her doggedness, and her great energy and spirit, and from the few times we’ve spoken over the years since the days at Child’s Play, that spirit seems so resilient still.   These have no doubt been hard, hard days for LeMoyne (and Ketrin and Lauren), and that great spirit of hers is leaning in grief just now.   All of us who knew Wes are leaning under the weight of that grief alongside her.  The memorial service was this morning, and seeing that I was a couple of thousand miles away, I thought, I’ll just have my own little time of remembering, and write a bit about my friend Wes, and what he brought to my life.

The world will miss him.   We will miss what I call his Wes-ness.   That would make him laugh.  I can hear him now.

I trust the grace of God in these moments.  It’s’ all I know to do.   Trust.

Go in grace and peace, Wes.   Rest…

I love conversation.  The exchange of experiences and ideas borders on the miraculous when you consider how specific our lives are to ourselves.  How to explain this thing going on inside my head?   This dance of images and ideas, memories and dreams, each of them presenting themselves for my further consideration constantly, falling into my mind like so many snowflakes.   But then I want to offer them to you as well, and say, “Look at that” or “listen to this” or “Help me understand why that thought just flittered in.”

Dallas Willard thinks our life is our thought-life.  I’m not willing to go that far, but he’s pretty close.  And to unpack these lives of ours seems to be one of the things we are built to help each other with.   It’s so strange that we have to pay people to be friend enough to sit and listen and ask the provocative kinds of questions that help us re-imagine our lives.   They’re called therapists, and they’re so helpful, but why can’t we just get more skilled at listening and asking wall-breaking questions?

I think one of the keys to opening the locked doors inside each other is to follow the advice of Jesus that St. Matthew records.   It’s simple really…”Do not judge.”   There’s the whole conversation about discerning and knowing right from wrong, blah, blah, blah, but it’s very profound to simple be present with the person you’re listening to, and create a space whereby they can speak their lives.   How strange that we want to control and comment and instruct and fix and otherwise really miss the person trying to offer us something.   Listening is a rare thing.   Listening because someone’s actually interested is even rarer.   Listening without judgment is a great, great gift.     It not only spurs conversation, but it fosters the kinds of connections people long for, that a Facebook post just can’t deliver.

Stay tuned.  I’m looking for ways to initiate and sustain great conversations.    I’ve got some ideas that will require intentionality and effort, but who knows.  Maybe this will be the year I’ll hear the world truly speak, and for the first time, listen…

Create a space for someone to speak their life today… 

by Czeslaw Milosz

A day so happy.
Fog lifted early. I worked in the garden.
Hummingbirds were stopping over honeysuckle flowers.
There was no thing on earth I wanted to possess.
I knew no one worth my envying him.
Whatever evil I had suffered, I forgot.
To think that once I was the same man did not embarrass me.
In my body I felt no pain.
When straightening up, I saw the blue sea and sails.

————

Breakthrough is like that…

I’m sitting in the middle of an experience that’s hard to describe, and yet, it couldn’t be simpler.  To put it into words seems ridiculous.

It reminds me of the day my first child was born.

It’s trying to turn a key in a lock in a door for over 30 years, and suddenly there’s a click, and the doorknob is freed.

It’s realizing the full weight of your own foolishness, and shaking it off like an old, well-loved, but too long worn shirt.

It’s realizing that God knew exactly what He was up to when He made a human being.

It’s mystery begetting mystery, and being overwhelmed with gratitude that you don’t control much of anything.

It’s realizing that all the stuff you thought you were…you’re not.

It’s free-fall into freedom.

It’s realizing that like the Apostle John explained about the Christ (John’s Gospel, Chapter 13)…you come from God, and you’re on your way back.  What else in the world is there to do but serve?

It’s realizing that when God created humans “in his image”, he didn’t leave out the “I am” part.

It’s detachment, like I’ve read about for years, but in experience, is nothing like what I thought those writings meant.

It’s a future opening like a heretofore unseen flower, petals in colors and textures I’d didn’t know were possible.

It’s gut-laughter in the middle of the night, connected to the long ache that’s always been there, but that is just now eased into friendly hope.

It’s wondering if you’ve lost your mind, but the coherence is too clear and sharp, like bright stars in dark, cold, midnight country sky.

It’s just an idea, a collision of thoughts, and an understanding that gives up all pretense of understanding.

It’s finding that faith, indeed, is what justifies life, and that the faith you thought you were on your way to losing has been powering up deep in the hidden places to await it’s  appointed emergence.

It’s realizing that indeed, “All is well.”

It’s weeping for love unrecognized and unknown.

It’s running toward home, where love and welcome waits, but it’s new, it’s surprising, and it’s enough.

It’s now, it’s here, it’s presence.

It’s also beyond words.   So enough.

A glimpse into Pascal’s fire?   

I was thinking about “thriving” on my way home from the gym yesterday, wondering about how to even begin talking about it.  What in the world is thriving?   The dictionary says this: “to grow or develop well or vigorously.”   That resonates, mostly because of my recent adaptation of the word “grow”, exchanging it for the words “change” and “transformation.”  (But that’s another blog post.)  Okay, to grow, I thought, but the notion of life’s hardness kept raising its head, that war (of art, of life, of spirituality)  that St. Paul and Stephen Pressfield remind us of.

What is human thriving anyway?

On the Christian side of things, the two great commandments are the primary orientation:  Love the Lord Your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength.  Love you neighbor as yourself.   Christ said not to worry too much about the bottom layer of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs triangle, that God would come through with all that stuff if we just chased after his kingdom first.  And the study of what many Christians might call “Kingdom living” is a massive study in itself, and the faith is, that following along behind the Christ, acting as he did for his reasons, is the foundation of human thriving.

On the psychological and sociological side, lots of study continues about just what it is that makes human being and personhood, and what thriving means.  Back to Maslow’s hierarchy…looking at that triangle again, it looks pretty solid.   Survival is need, safety, love and belonging, esteem, and that famous “self-actualization.”   I also love the list of “capacities” of the human person found in Christian Smith’s What is a Person?  (Existence capacities, Primary and Secondary Experience capacities, Creating capacities, and what he calls Highest Order capacities.)   Thriving in that world would seem to be the growth and “vigorous development” of these various capacities according to our “core gifts”, which is another idea I encountered somewhere on the web yesterday.

Well, truth is, I don’t know that I know just what thriving is, but yesterday, on that drive home, somewhere on 5th Avenue between Northgate and NE 80th, the word “now” presented itself, and it occurred to me that the possibility of thriving inevitably presents itself not in the past or the future, but in the present.   In the now.  This very now.

This one.

Lots of spiritual writing these days focuses on the idea of “Mindfulness” and “Presence.”   (“Presence” is another big word for me, but more about that later, too.)   The past is gone.  Strange to say it, but the river from yesterday has moved on.  Memory and remembrance is so vital for living, but it’s easy to get lost in images of memory that may or may not be all that accurate anyway.  And who knows why our minds are so fond of the destroying memories, the ones where we failed, were humiliated, were lost, confused, abused, and made to feel so much less valuable than we are.   Our brains seem to be bent that way, and it takes grit and vigilance and a strong faith in God and grace (or something far bigger than that gnarly, negative brain) “to grow and vigorously develop” in the face of the onslaught of memory.

And the future…it’s coming, sure enough.  But very little of what I project into it has anything to do with reality.   My best shot and growing and developing vigorously is to take on what’s in front of me.   This moment, choose to act in faith.   This moment, choose to push back the dark.  This moment, choose to follow-through, keep the promise, make the best start I know how to, finish with the best “kick” I’ve got, and in this moment, do what I know to pour courage into those next to me in this now.   This moment, take the plank out, pray the secret prayer, seek the next step in kingdom life.   This moment, serve.  This moment, walk.  This moment, make some beauty.

Every now matters.  Every now is a chance.   Every now is dense with life waiting to be lived.

Now…

Themes for the New Year abound.   Commitment, focus, discipline, simplicity, gratitude, service…there are many ways to frame a reorientation of living.  Here’s the one I’ve settled on as a hub for the work of my various writing platforms.

Thrive.

Funny word, thrive.  Makes me think of “hive.”  Which leads me to images of buzzing and working and community.  (But let’s not buy into the one queen and a bunch of drones idea, though some of you might like that just fine.)   And honey.   Good stuff, in general.   But that’s just word association.  What does it mean to actually thrive?

Before I riff on the meaning of the word, though, I think I’ll riff on why I’ve settled on “thrive.”  It’s simple: it has life embedded in it, it suggests both action and being, and it’s what I want for my wife, my kids, and everyone I care about.   Jesus said, “I came that they might have life, and have it more abundantly.”  Sounds like thriving to me.   And as I reflect, and reflect on my reflections (I know, I know…save the navel-gazing comments for later), it all seems to be trying to answer questions about what it means to be human, and what it means for human beings to thrive according to their nature.   Questions of being and doing, of art and mind, of beauty and goodness, of relationship and faith–all of these point toward something beyond happiness (which is not a bad thing, by the way.  Let’s not be reductionist on how highly we value happiness).   For me, “thriving” doesn’t deny the physical and emotional weather that can go dark and stormy for certain periods of time, but rather orients us to how to meet those days with energy, grit, optimism, and faith.

Of course, there’s going to be a fight over who’s to say what human “thriving” is.  I saw one comment on a blog where a commenter argued that a successful killer might feel like he’s thriving if he hasn’t been caught and is enjoying his “work.”    And I suppose evil can thrive.   Shoot…I don’t want that to be true.    But human “being” and “doing” is not thriving if evil is thriving.   Evil destroys the kind of thriving I’m talking about.

But I don’t want to amend my thought by saying “good thriving” or “thriving according our nature.”  Messes with the simplicity of things.

For the moment, here’s what I mean, and around these ideas is where you’ll find me writing, blogging, tweeting, and Facebooking.  (Really…Facebooking?):  Humans are designed to traffic in lots of dynamic process and states of being.   Certain things add to life, lift mind and heart, add strength for the moments when we have to go to war, and make life seem worth living in a big way.  Other things tear at us, destroy our confidence not only in ourselves but in humanity itself, dog us with constructions of reality that present us with doom and gloom scenarios from this moment until the day we die.    The moment-to-moment negotiation in mind/body/soul/spirit between the additive things and the destroyers is what days are made of.

My commitment is to work to make my writing and artistic work land on the “additive” side.   What words can I find that might add to the possibility of your thriving today?

Is “thrive” a word that works for you?

What do we need to thrive?   I think I riff on this one for a quite awhile.

Did you see the sky this morning?   Gorgeous…

Gratitude as spiritual practice can be tricky.  It’s a bit like trying to help actors understand the difference in thinking about doing something or pretending to do something, and actually doing something.

What are we truly grateful for?

For me, gratitude is extremely powerful when you come to the place of awareness where your eyes open to the incredible mystery and blessing of actually being alive on the planet.   “But it all seems so normal,” we say, “and there’s a lot of crap anyway, right?   Yeah, I’m thankful, but life’s beating the hell out of me right now…what’s to be thankful for?  I don’t feel thankful, and yeah, it’s easy from where you sit, in that fat old world of blessing you’re sitting in.”   And we mouth the usual, “Thank you God for this or that, the meal, the family, and the church, blah, blah, blah,” and whatever else is part of usual prayer pattern and language.   All the while gratitude as I think of it is slipping out the back door of our souls.

Maybe it takes a certain kind of stopping.   A dead stop in the day.  A shift in awareness, an intentional stoppage to the grinding.  To zero in on one fact of existence that’s right in front of us…a raindrop, a streak of light, the weight of morning quiet, a series of black marks that make an intelligible word.    The patter of a loved one’s feet as they make their way toward you.   The spreading coolness of water in your chest after a long, thirsty drink.   The lift of spirit as a tenor soars across a high “G”.   Sudden news of the joyful achievement of a goal by someone you’d give your life for.   The escape valve of sobbing, that miraculous way God gave us to move the pain of living through our bodies so we can breath again.

I don’t know the answer to pain.  All the answers seem inadequate.   Gratitude as spiritual practice is no answer to the searing pain that lives on both individual and national planes.   But if the answer to pain lies somewhere in a matrix of thoughts, behaviors, attitudes, medicines, and relationships, then I would argue that at the very least, gratitude opens the doors between all those slippery factors so that light and comfort can miraculously squeeze its way in.

This very moment, what am I grateful for?  For the girl that just got up and now sits across the room from me, my companion of 30+ years.  For the first morning time of 2012, and the fact that God has not gone anywhere, and for my battered faith, still standing after a year of heart-wrenching questions.  For the Christmas tree reminding me of my kids and their recent visit.  For the love I feel in my heart, because there was once a time when I felt so very little.  For the faces of my friends flickering across the screen of my mind, for the fact that I miss them, and for the hope I have of greater things for all of them.   For the music that I’ll play this morning as I lead worship for the first time in a year, and for the angels of my imagination that will be there as they always are.  For the leftover scones from yesterday that wait for me at breakfast.   For growing courage to face what I don’t want to face.   For God’s incredible patience.   For learning how to be grateful.

I have no idea what God has in store in 2012.   But gratitude for whatever is coming is not a resolution.   It’s a commitment.

Make thanks a part of your daily bread.   Say it whenever you can, whenever it’s truly true.  And let flourishing increase…

Wishing you more peace than you can stand in 2012…

How’s the old Kathy Mattea song go?   “Standing knee deep in a river, and dying of thirst.”

My wife puts up with me, but it has to be annoying.

“Isn’t it funny that we ingest food,” I say.   Or, “It’s so strange that we have these orbs in the front of our heads that rotate, and that using them somehow results in us ‘seeing.’”  There may be any number of these “isn’t life strange?” statements from me during the day, at which point those aforementioned orbs in her head start rolling.

But I can’t help it.   The fact that we are here astonishes me.

That markings on a material can create communication.   That the seemingly gibberish sounds of other languages have structure and syntax, and that those language emerged at all.   That hearts beat without being plugged in.   For years.   That there is now feverish activity going on in garages and offices and bedrooms and kitchens all centered around creativity and invention that will one day yield future technologies that will put the work of Steve Jobs into a distant, remote past.   Geniuses are being born even today.   Starlight millions of years old will tonight just be arriving in my Seattle sky.  Every relationship is a miracle.   Balance, eye-hand coordination, home runs (in season, at least), and self-sacrifice…all astonishing.   Concertos, voices that can hit high C’s, the warmth of a home, the compassion that wants the warmth of a home for everyone, the impulse to not follow the cruel impulse those that insult and demean us seemingly deserve.    Bodies, processes, architectures, leaves falling, petals of brilliant color inching into being, the storehouses of snow prepping at the hand of God to inflict both beauty and suffering on a wintered country.

I know…we’re too busy to be astonished.

So here’s five simple things to turn up your astonishment on any given day.

• 1.   Stop what you’re doing.
• 2.  Breathe
• 3.  Focus on one thing in front of you.
• 4.  Reflect on the following:  how did it come into being?  What might the world be like if it was completely absent from everywhere?   What if the thing under reflection was perfected?  What is its goodness in your life?  Who should you thank for that goodness?    Why is there any goodness at all, that we should enjoy it?
• 5.  Remember that your ability to “do”, to have agency, and to act–that thing that you stopped in step 1–that your breath that you thought about and noticed in step 2, that your ability to shift your mind into a focused point of reflection, musing, remembering, and imagining–steps 3 and 4–that all of this is frankly, miraculous.

We did not ask to arrive on the planet, and contrary to our beliefs, we do not control our exit.   The days are full of surprise, diving possibility (as Barbara Brown Taylor reminded me this morning), dangers, and moments of astonishing reality.

There is always something a bit healing about standing aware inside a miracle.

As you exhale, let your lips form a small “wow.” 

I’ve been hearing about this film for awhile.  ”You’ll either love it, or hate it,” people told me.  A few people who know me pretty well figured it would be my kind of movie.   Anjie travels, and I’d been contemplating watching it without her, but I kept thinking, “No.  I’ll wait for her.”  So Sunday night, we finally sat and watched it, and my first thought was, “What a mistake not to have seen this in a big theatre.”   We live on a busy street, buses going by, windows rattling.  We kept saying, “What did he just say?”  and rewinding.   Pitiful.  There were a couple of other interruptions as well, but we finally made it through.

Why, O, why didn’t I see this in the big theatre?

Frankly, even on my television, with buses roaring by bent on spoiling the most intimate film I’ve seen in a long time, I loved it.  I’ll love it a lot more the second time I see it.   To say that I loved it doesn’t mean I was completely satisfied by everything.  (The people wandering on the beach didn’t quite take me where I think Terrence Malick was trying to get me to go.)  But overall, brilliant work.

Maybe I loved it because I’m in the middle of looking very hard at the two roads suggested by the film.  The way of the Father and the way of the Mother.  The way of Nature, and the way of Grace.   The layering of the metaphors is subtle and dense, and the non-linear approach to the narrative serves the meditative feel of the film well.   I’m sure its very frustrating for folks who want answers to certain questions (how did that one character die? What happened?) that Malick has no real interest in answering, but for me, the quiet, the images, the sweep of trying to grapple with the full mystery of things left me thankful for a filmmaker willing to take those kinds of chances in story-telling.  Of course, I was also wondering how it ever got made.

I know we say that God is above gender, but there’s just no question that our language plays into the masculine side of the equation.  God is a man to most of us.   If that’s not true for you in your bones, good for you.  But my suspicion is that most of us see, uh…Him, as a masculine presence.  I’m not particularly fond of gender-inclusive language translations, but I can sure see why some people are passionate about them.  I do not pray to Him as “Mother.”  Neither did Jesus, for that matter.  What that means in the great reality that is beyond my consciousness to perceive about the reality of God, I don’t know, but on the street where most of us do our living, somehow it matters.   In The Tree of Life,  the father is tough, harsh, realistic, and ultimately deals pretty honorably with his failures, both of career and son-raising.   The mother is strong as well, but dances in the air, plays, protects, and extends ongoing opportunity for grace and change and life.

The two roads live together in all of us, as they do in the character of the grown son who talks (so quietly) about the way his mother and father grapple inside him.    And though we all walk both roads to some degree, my suspicion is that most of lean one way or the other.   I lean toward the mother’s road, unquestionably.   Is it right?  Is it the best?  Is it more complete, more God-like, more Christ-like than the harsh, demanding, warring, scrapping father?   The world is what it is, and we must make our way through it.   Truth is, Malick gives us some great images of the ups and downs of both roads.   Brad Pitt’s strong portrayal of the Father gives us glimpses of the work of grace, and Jessica Chastain’s vision of the mother has backbone and power and her own ways of demand.

To say God is not male is, I think, the right thing to say, the true thing to say.   To live as if He’s not, struggling to unearth the practical differences our thinking makes along these lines is a far different challenge.

And then there’s Malick’s framing.   We get intimations on the beginning and ending of time, and the fact that we are here in the particular now, and small, and forever kinds of people.

Gorgeous, stunning, troubling, and oddly, welcome.     As all good meditations should be.

Let me watch it again.   Maybe I’ll have more to say…