For of Such is the Kingdom of Heaven

Tea: Stomach Soother

Music: Pink Floyd, "Learning to Fly"

Time: Night.

Christians, of which I am (or at the least aspire to be) one, are told we should have childlike faith.

Then we're told to shut up, listen and accept, because that's what good kids do.

This is what's known, or should be known, as an Epic Theology Fail.

Have you been around real children? They ask questions. Over and over. About everything.

What's that? What does that word mean? Why did that man do that? Why? Why? Why?

Children throw themselves into their interests. When I was in grade school, I read everything I could find on ghosts, dinosaurs and Bigfoot. (Yeah, I was a weird kid.) I couldn't get enough, even if I did have trouble sleeping sometimes.

And when they see something wrong, they'll let you know about it -- and they know what needs to be done.

You won't hear, That lady looks hungry. Let's tell him he's going to hell if he doesn't accept Jesus right now! or Look, she fell down and she's bleeding. Let's go hand her a tract and ask her if she has found God yet! from a four-year-old.

Here's what you'll hear:

That man's cold. We should give him a coat.

That woman's lonely. Someone should go sit by her.

That little boy is crying. Let's help him.

That's the faith of a child: Open to joy and quick to offer solace in sorrow, quick to make a new friend or forgive an old one, voraciously seeking knowledge and unafraid to ask the hard questions in order to get it.

Does that mean maturity is somehow bad? Absolutely not. There's a world of difference between childlike and childish. But wonder, fairness and curiosity don't inhibit growth. They foster it.

Were I a preacher, there might be a sermon in that.

More than Instinct

Tea: Mandarin Green

Music: Brookville, "Golden"

Time: Night.

Bear with me here. I might not get all the way around to anything resembling a point. I'm circling, as a friend says, toward something.

I've been rereading Diane Ackerman's A Natural History of the Senses of late. I've also been, as ever, listening to a good deal of music and viewing a huge amount of art (including one installation which combined prints on rice paper with the scent of sixty pounds of loose-leaf jasmine tea, adding another sense to the mix).

And it's got me wondering how much biology has to do with our appreciation of -- and emotional responses to -- art.

The sadness inherent in minor keys, I can comprehend. A friend of mine once observed that life sings in a minor key, and life is a fragile and (physically) finite thing.

I understand the links between red and violent emotion. Your opponent/prey is bleeding, and it's up to you to keep that gusher going until (a) the threat is ended or (b) dinner is served. (There might be more than one "and" in there. I prefer not to think about that too much.)

And I get that the ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump of a blues shuffle echoes the heartbeat.

But is that really all there is to it? Is it only our DNA, some trace race memory encoded in the genome, that makes the heart soar with the Bach-Gounod Ave Maria or causes us to shudder at Munch's The Scream? Why do Buson's haiku slip tiny needles into our memory centers, making us sure we should remember the scenes he describes?

Maybe there is. I'm sure there's a wealth of research on the subject (and on the subjects), all of it beyond my powers of comprehension.

But at heart (and call this blind faith if you will), I don't believe it's purely physical. I believe we're made -- fashioned -- with a spiritual bent toward beauty, toward harmony -- and yes, toward joy.

Art doesn't have to include all or even any of those elements, obviously. Sometimes, for the sake of a greater good, we must be shown what upsets, even repels us. A Modest Proposal is hardly beautiful, joyful or harmonious. Neither is Guernica. But our response to them -- horror at the effects of modern warfare, shocked compassion for starving children -- reinforce our humanity.

We are our DNA, yes. But we're more than that. We're body, mind, spirit, each resonating to its own frequency. And when those frequencies harmonize ... that's where art lives.

Driven to Reflection

Tea: Vanilla Jasmine

Music: Jim Croce, "I Got a Name"

Time: Almost midnight.

Sorry I've been away for a while. I'm still sorting the new site and re-sorting out life with daily deadlines. (I used to have them as a journalist. I can get used to it again -- and before long, I will rediscover the benefits of writing several days' worth of work in advance so I don't have to freak out as evening rolls in and I don't have the next day's post written.

I meant to be back last night, but my car had other plans. It died. (I don't think it meant to. It just did.)

The battery worked. The ignition didn't -- not even a click. This had me speaking fluent ARGH, a language composed entirely of those four letters (always capitalized) in varying sequences. To wit: "ARGH! GHRAHHH! RRRRAGHAAAH!" translates roughly as, "Why won't this car start? The batttery's working! Please start, car! I have to pick my son up at the high school ten minutes ago!"

This threw me for several loops. Picture third grade, cursive practice, learning to write the letter "l" in lower case, and you have an idea of the number of loops.

I had places I had to be tonight. The kids had to get to school this morning, and wanted to get to a church activity this evening.

And the car was dead.

If we lived somewhere with decent public transportation, this wouldn't be a problem. But this is the suburbs. It's car country. The buses run in the morning and the evening.

And the car -- the only functional car -- was dead.

I've been trying to cultivate equanimity, to breathe and count my blessings when faced with this sort of thing. And I failed ... miserably.

I let myself be wrung out by circumstances, to the point where I had no energy left for anything but dragging myself to bed.

And you know what?

It wasn't as bad as it seemed.

The kids got where they needed to go. The problem turned out to be a blown fuse, not a dead starter. Help came from several directions.

And the car is no longer dead.

There's a lesson in here for me, if I'm smart enough to learn it. If I claim to believe that my daily needs (and those of my family) will be provided for, then I'd better start acting like it.

Reconstitutional, Part I

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: The Rainmakers, "Small Circles"

Time: Night.

I've never been able to wear a wristwatch. Not that I don't like knowing what time it is, but I can't stand having anything around my wrist while I type -- which is pretty much all the time for me.

But on my left wrist, there's a makeshift bracelet of red cord, flecked with black and yellow. It's knotted in such a way that I can adjust the fit with a simple tug, but that's not why I've been wearing it since December the 30th.

The bracelets were given to all the adult sponsors at the two-state church youth conference I attended just before the turn of the year. The idea was to differentiate us from the teenagers -- not so much a problem for me, I know, but some of the sponsors were in their early 20s and looked younger.

The theme of the conference was "Goodbye Ordinary." The guiding principle: that risks must be taken and patterns broken if spiritual progress is to be made. I have much progress to make, spiritually and otherwise (although the "spiritually" should, ideally, drive the "otherwise." So I'm leaving the bracelet on not as any outward sign -- it doesn't proclaim that "Jesus is My Homeboy" or even ask "What Would Jesus Do?" -- but as a reminder.

That bright red bit of cord reminds me that I am nowhere near any kind of There -- and that I won't ever reach it if I don't take the steps to get there.

The Gift of Letting It Go

Tea: White Garden Aria

Music: The Pretenders, "2000 Miles"

Time: Night.

I ran into a former pastor at my church today, while we were both out getting some late-hour (not quite last-minute) Christmas errands done.

His departure was not a shining moment in the history of the church. There were factions and accusations, resigned memberships and broken friendships.

It was a sad thing to see. He's a decent, caring, intelligent man.

We talked for a few minutes, then I got called to another register to make my purchase while he continued checking out.

His wife came to the front of the store, and they left together. I remembered her as a smiling, gentle woman. Now, she looked angry, pinched, drawn-in. She looked at me, and I smiled -- and then realized that she was (or so it seemed) looking through me.

They left, a study in emotional contrasts. He had let go of whatever angers and pains (many of the latter unjustly afflicted) he might have taken from the split. She had not.

It makes me wonder what grievances I still hold that I would be better served to fling away. I have recently yanked out a deep-rooted anger -- and while the site where it grew is still healing, I know I am better (and can be better still) for it.

There are other grudges, small and not so, which remain to be uprooted. Seems as good a time as any to do it. Healing is a fine Christmas present to the self -- and to the ones we care about.

The Polenta Bridge

Tea: Mandarin Green

Music: Potato Moon, "Let's Ride"

Time: Almost midnight.

Mrs. Steep and I went to a Christmas party tonight, despite all the predictions of ice and freezing rain and whatever else the ratings-hungry weather-blatherers were yammering on about before we changed the channel.

Late in the evening, when most of those remaining had repaired to the living room to sing Christmas songs (a familiar moment in heartwarming holiday specials on the Hallmark Channel, but a new -- and enjoyable -- one for me), I wandered back into the kitchen to refill my cup of hot cider.

The woman who prepared the main dishes for the party (coq au vin, butternut squash polenta and Caesar salad) was there, putting away the last of her serving dishes.

We had never gotten on all that well in the past. Nothing hostile, mind you, but little that could even be called cordial. But I had enjoyed the dinner -- especially the polenta, which was lighter than any I'd ever had before -- and I told her so. No sense in withholding a compliment where one was due, after all.

She lit up, and talked animatedly of her search for a fluffy polenta recipe (which, when she found it, was simple: four cups water, one cup cornmeal and one 12-ounce package of cream cheese). I later learned that she had been a professional caterer but had to give it up. She seemed a bit sad about that.

The exchange wasn't a huggy holiday special moment, but it was a good one -- and it reinforces my belief that sharing food (both physically and verbally) can be a way for people to get to know each other better, to build bridges rather than walls.

Someday, I'll try the recipe. And it will be a reminder that whatever our relations with others, sometimes it doesn't take a grand gesture to make them better.

The minor fall, the major lift ...

Tea: Lapsang Souchong.

Music: Jeff Buckley, "Hallelujah"

Time: Almost midnight.

Yesterday was warm enough that a quilted jacket over a long-sleeved knit shirt felt like too much.

Today, it snowed. Somewhere during the afternoon, the wind kicked up -- and it's still blowing.

Tonight, it feels as though the cold is something not quite alive but also not entirely dead, something that wants to drape itself around my shoulders and dig in its claws.

But the warmth will return. It always does ...

Doesn't it?

Now More than Ever

Tea: Mandarin Green with ginger and honey.

Music: Elvis Costello and the Attractions, "Almost Blue"

Time: Night.

I know ... we're in a recession, and every nickel counts.

But now is not the time to stop giving, even if the form the gift takes has to change.

I don't mean Christmas presents. I mean the things that keep people fed, warm, clothed.

No spare change to drop in a kettle? I'm not going to call you a liar. I've been there.

But you -- we, I, whoever -- can volunteer to serve meals. We can donate clothes. We can help each other look for work. Sometimes, we can just listen to someone who's facing a first holiday season without a job or a loved one -- or both.

It's a different and more intimate investment, giving yourself along with -- or instead of -- your money. But in the book I hold sacred, we're asked to give what we have ... even if all we have to give is ourselves.

An Odd Sort of Growing Season

Tea: Chocolate Cherry

Music: Heart, "Treat Me Well"

Time: Night.

It turned cold and windy tonight. Goodbye, Indian summer. Hello, pre-winter.

It's not entirely a bad thing. I seem to be sort of an anti-plant (which might not make sense outside my own head).

To wit: When the days get shorter and cooler, that's when I tend to grow the most -- and not merely in the "pack on the winter pounds" sense.

Autumn has always been a season of change for me, a time of doing something new (sometimes shedding something old in the process). It's when I feel most productive, most in tune with the world around me -- in short, most alive. Paradoxically, it's also when I tend to rent a room in my own head and live there for long stretches. The sense of engagement with the world is no weaker and no less real -- it's just that the definition of "world" is particularly fluid this time of year.

What will this year's change be? I don't yet know. I believe that I'll be shown, somehow, and that the sign will be unmistakable.

Here's hoping for a good harvest ...

Hello, I must be going

Tea: Wild Berry Green

Music: Phil Collins, "Through These Walls"

Time: Night.

I'm still going through my notes on the art I saw and the artists I encountered last night at First Friday. I covered a lot of ground, making sure I saw (a) everyone who sent me an invitation to an opening and (b) everyone who will be included in the art stories on my "to write" list.

That kept me on the move, although I'm not complaining about the walking (a little more than two miles, all told). It was cool but not bitter, and being able to park and rove saved gas.

The only bad thing was that I had to breeze through some of the galleries more quickly than I would have liked, and I had to cut several conversations short to move on to the next must-see location.

On the other hand, having to be so many places in not a lot of time kept me from glomming onto anyone for an extended time. It's easy enough to do -- I find artists and their work fascinating (probably a good thing for an arts writer), and wow, do I love to talk to people. (I did get the "Don't Talk to Strangers" memo, but I blew my nose on it.) But First Fridays are for the artists, who need to be able to circulate through their openings, talking to potential buyers and making other contacts. Having someone attached at the hip can't help.

And, to borrow a phrase from several songs on a single theme, how can people miss me if I never go away?

More tomorrow on the art itself. It's the night that keeps on giving.

Pans, No Flash

Tea: Mandarin Green

Music: This Train, "Technology"

Time: Night.

I can't honestly say that I love my cast iron skillets and my woks. They are, after all, only worked metal, and could be replaced if necessary. But I am rather fond of them.

Part of it is remembrance of stir-fries and fish fries, of sizzling bacon and twice-cooked pork. Good meals nourish more than once. But there's something else.

These particular pans aren't low-maintenance. They require care. None of this dishwasher-safe nonsense. Put soap in a well-seasoned cast iron pan or steel wok, and you undo -- in some cases -- years of work. Try to wipe them dry, or let them air-dry, and they rust. Forget to oil them after they're dry, and you run the risk of losing the conditioning.

With all that work, why put up with them? There are electric woks and nonstick pans. And in certain situations, those have their uses. I wouldn't rig up a charcoal fire in the dining room for hot-pot, for example.

But when you want a crisp crust on your corn pones, you want cast iron. When you want concentrated heat at the bottom of the pan and a cooler place along the sides, so your beef cooks and your broccoli doesn't get mushy, you want a hand-hammered wok.

The really good stuff takes work, more than might seem reasonable to people who don't "get it." But it's worth it. And that's true in the kitchen, too.

Tonight's scary story: Algernon Blackwood, "The Wendigo"

Brutality Uncovered (and Un-Covered)

Tea: Chinese Melon Seed

Music: Bob Walkenhorst, "Primitivo Garcia"

Time: Night.

Missions day at church today. Pot luck (always a good thing) and presentations from missionaries, in fields as far-flung as Asia and Italy and as close as my home county.

One of today's speakers is a member of our church and a friend of mine. He and his wife work in Orissa state, India.

Orissa is home to a Hindu ultranationalist movement that aims to force the conversions of all Christians, Jews and Muslims. The alternatives: departure or death. The violence has been appalling, and it's still ongoing.

And for the most part, it's been ignored by the Western Press. (That may be changing. I found this from the New York Times and this from the Sunday Herald tonight. Now that the Pope has issued a condemnation of the attacks, I can only hope more coverage will follow.)

Darfur has gotten a lot of press, and rightly so. So, over the past week, has the political marginalization of Christians in Iraq. Any killing is a tragedy, and no one -- of any faith or none -- should have to worry about persecution for what he or she believes (or doesn't).

But where has Orissa been in the mainstream media? Buried, pardon the bitter expression.

My friend has a theory. The violence in Darfur has been committed by Islamists. Christians in Iraq are concerned about their place in an overwhelmingly Muslim country. It's safer to write about "bad Moslems" than about "bad Hindus," because Muslims are our officially approved boogeypeople -- the Other du jour, as it were.

(Please don't think I'm demonizing all Hindus, either. My friend and his wife are able to coordinate relief efforts in Orissa because one of their agency's local partners is a Hindu priest. My friend choked up today, relating the bravery of this man risking his life for -- well, for Others.)

We're not at the point of sectarian violence in this country, but we've been there before. There were atrocities on both sides in the early years of the Mormon movement, and in 1857 the prospect of open warfare between the U.S. and the Utah territory was quite real. That's an eyeblink ago, as history goes.

Somewhere, there's a notebook with one of my rare epiphanies (I get them occasionally). I don't remember all of it, but it runs somewhat thusly:

"If I hate in my own name, I am wrong but still within my 'rights.' If I hate in my country's name, I am wrong -- but still within my 'rights,' insofar as I have a citizen's stake in the matter. But if I hate in God's name, I am not only wrong but utterly in the wrong. One cannot hate in the name of One who commands us to love our neighbors -- and reminds us that everyone is a neighbor."

So tonight, remember not only the Christians of Orissa, but the Muslims and the Jews. And if you pray, say one for the persecutors, too. Hate hurts the hater. And there's too much pain in the world already.

Lighter post and three scary stories tomorrow. I promise.

Single-Region Courtesy

Tea: Chinese Melon Seed

Music: Norah Jones, "Come Away with Me"

Time: Night.

Being a freelance writer, just building a career, I am bound by a state law requiring me to be broke at nearly all times. So when arts events with free food and drink surface on my calendar, as they do nearly every Friday, I count them as gratitudes. It does get me wondering, though ... what do I bring to the table, besides a pen, a notebook and the hope of being written about?

A beyond-dear friend of mine is in the same leaky economic boat. Still, she takes good chocolate with her wherever she goes and shares it liberally -- not with the aim of getting anything in return, but because she is a sharer. It makes her happy to treat people to new tastes.

That's not why people are glad to see her, though. They're glad to see her because she treats people as people -- not as parts of the machines they operate, not as cogs in the engines they serve. In today's hurried world, that's a rare thing.

It's a lesson for me. I often have to go empty-handed, physically ... but each of us can offer the gift of interest in other people, the taste of respect and regard. It's both sweet and nourishing -- to everyone involved -- listen, ask questions, cut down on the use of the pronoun "I" unless it's absolutely necessary.

Best of all? No calories.

Tonight's scary story: John Kendrick Bangs, "The Spectre Cook of Bangletop"

Moderation in Moderation

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: Jayhawks, "I'm Gonna Make You Love Me"

Time: Night.

I'm trying to lose the phrase "It's the strangest thing," because -- well, really, how do you quantify that?

It's a strange thing, though: I'm becoming more efficient. I'm getting better at follow-through. I'm catching up on things I've been putting off for months.

Heaven help me, I may be growing up. Not that that's a bad thing, entirely. Has to happen sooner or later, I suppose.

It's not all bad, you know. Getting up early and staying up, for example, means I can get the routine things out of the way before they take over the day, thereby making me feel a little less guilty when it's time to slack.

What, you thought I was going all the way over to the Beige Side of the Force? No way. Sure, my inner child might have an earlier bedtime now -- but you can have my ratty Chuck Taylors, my cheesy monster movies and my rubber duck collection when you pry them out of my cold, dead fingers.

It's a balancing act, to be sure. Structure is good and necessary, but it can't take over my life. I need something of the random, the chaotic, the downright goofy -- or I'll die. Not physically, mind you, but the body is only a house for the self. And this self has to have the sparks, even if they must be a bit more controlled.

And now, time to hit the rack. Tomorrow, I get to organize the garage and make some calls on a shared story that's due next week -- and then I get to hang out with artists until well past dark-thirty.

I can live with that.

Tonight's scary story: Charles Collins, "The Compensation House"

Among the Living

Tea: Peach, iced.

Music: Naked Eyes, "Always Something There to Remind Me"

Time: Night.

A funeral took me out of town for the last couple of days. It was my wife's grandmother, who lived to be 90.

Hers was a full life, in measures of both joy and sorrow. (No one should have to bury one child, much less two.) And she will be missed.

It's been a rough patch, recently, for my family and friends. Lots of departures -- some sudden, some expected but no less hard to take.

But life, as they say, goes on. Here's to the full living thereof, and the memories of those gone on before.

Aren't They All?

Tea: Arctic Storm

Music: King Crimson, "Starless"

Time: Night

This will be short. My leg hurts (the price of playing football past whatever passed for my prime) and it's been a semi-rough night.

With most members of my church's youth group off on a mission trip, and their director overseeing the endeavor, it fell to me tonight to run the show for those who stayed behind (six kids, five of them seventh-grade girls.)

Before the short lesson, on forgiveness and thankfulness, I got to tell them that one of the girls who went on the mission trip is now without a mother. She was found dead in her car last night.

I don't know details, and I'm not going to speculate on what happened. The senior pastor described the circumstances as "tragic" -- but really, isn't any death that leaves an adolescent motherless tragic?

Isn't each death a tragedy, or the culmination of one?

Reunions, Perchance Goodbyes

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: Johnny Cash, "In My Life"

Time: Night.

The bags are packed, the trunk loaded. Tomorrow morning, we'll set out for southwest Kansas (picking up two of the kids along the way in Salina, where we'll snag a bag of sliders at the Cozy Inn.)

There are two family reunions planned, both on my mother-in-law's side of the family, along with a visit to my late father-in-law's parents. Both of them are now in their 80s, and in failing health.

My wife's grandmother, meanwhile, is in a nursing home -- fairly hale in body, but in an amiable fog.

I have already said goodbye to my own grandparents and both parents -- but any death is all deaths, as my friend/collaborator/undefinable kindred spirit Seánan Forbes is wont to say, and impending farewells evoke memories of past ones.

That said, this is not an extended series of pre-wakes. As long as there is life, it is to be lived and celebrated. Besides, tomorrow's not promised to any of us. Grim thought, perhaps, but also an incentive.

The More You Know ...

Tea: Oolong Pouchong

Music: Peter Gabriel, "Big Time"

Time: Late afternoon.

It used to be that when CNN brought news of something like this, it registered -- but only briefly.

Things have changed. I know people, and they know people. Now, any disaster in -- or attack on -- New York or London warrants a phone call to make sure people are accounted for.

Were I a better person, perhaps, it wouldn't have taken knowing someone in an affected area to care more about what happened there.

We wonders, yes we does ...

Tea: Mandarin Green with ginger and honey

Music: King Crimson, "Cadence and Cascade"

Time: Night.

I'm sure I'm not the first to wonder things like this, but here goes a set of three random questions to cross my mind lately (and yes, you may wish they'd been run over while crossing):

Why don't we call other countries what they call themselves? Why is it Germany to us and Alemania to the Spaniards -- when it's Deutschland to the people who live there?

(Not that it isn't kind of cool to see Ivory Coast -- okay, Cote d'Ivoire -- in German. It's "Elfentbeinkusten." See, I did learn something new at the World Cup.)

Why are there inverted green crosses spray painted at several locations in Westport? Environmentally conscious devil worshippers? (Free range sacrifices and all that ...)

And why are clowns just so flippin' creepy?

Pizza, Pizzicatos and Parental Pride

Tea: Blood Orange (Herbal)

Music: Various selections for strings.

Time: Night.

My son's strings group was one of five (one grade school, three middle school, one high school) ensembles playing tonight at his high school. It's an annual fundraising event dubbed "Night in Italy" for the simple fact that pizza is the main food offering. (There's also a dessert bake sale. We made marshmallow brownies. I, of course, had the bread pudding.)

My son plays the cello -- while walking around. His group is the Strolling Strings, you see, and only the double basses and the drummer get to stay put.

He has a lot of fun, and it's a lot of fun to watch and hear him. (Lest I be accused of playing favorites, I also love watching and hearing the senior daughter play in the chamber orchestra and sing with her choral ensemble, and hearing and watching the eighth grade daughter sing in her chorale.)

Tonight was his night, though, and I came away with -- not an epiphany, but a renewed understanding of something.

I'm proud that he's my son -- as I am that my daughters are my daughters -- but even prouder to be known as their father. There's a difference, although I have neither time nor energy to parse it tonight. Suffice it to say that it's gratifying to see them be their own people, using their own gifts and pursuing their own interests.

I see parents trying to make their children into carbon copies of themselves. That's wrong on so many fronts. They are mine, yes, and their mother's, but not in the sense of being "owned" and powerless to be themselves.

They may not take paths I would have taken. In several cases, that's a good thing. The important thing is that they find their own gifts, their own passions, their own personalities.

So far, so good.