the cyberdeck dialogue

like father, like son

2010-05-21T16:17:00.001-04:00

like father, like son
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

I've enjoyed watching Jack process through precisely the same steps as I did in this tiny area of life for several years now. But it has all ramped up these past 3 weeks as I've watched the culmination of his work here at the end of his senior year.
I've bubbled with pride as I've watched his performance peak at exactly the time it should. I've felt deep emotions with him, simply because I've felt them before.
Track is a special sport because its main focus of competition is within each individual. Of course, to everyone watching, it appears as if the athletes are competing against one another. But don't be fooled, you're witnessing each and every athlete competing against himself together with all the others.
Of course, this is not said to diminish the importance of other sports that teach us to find our place, and to contribute within team and community, but track provides the opportunity to struggle within yourself to strengthen your contribution to team and community.
The track is a microscope that focusses weakness, laziness, fault, victory, overcoming, and success exactly where it must be dealt with - on each individual on the team. And it forces it to be addressed by the only appropriate person - the individual.
Perhaps, only when we learn to compete with ourselves are we equal to the task of contributing to team and community.

become who you are

2010-05-20T09:04:00.001-04:00

Our culture for quite some time has told us that we can become anything we want to become. These days, in our product-oriented world, the same concept is expressed by “you can buy anything you want to buy.” Perhaps for some time, these were merely two side-by-side attitudes. But I truly believe that today we’ve melded the two concepts.
Once upon a time, people educated themselves by sitting under the teaching, and being around people who knew what they wanted to know, who understood what they wanted to understand. We gathered knowledge, wisdom, understanding, and set about assimilating it ourselves. These days, we buy a product, a program, a fake transformation at a university, and expect - regardless of what the product is - that upon payment, we will become the result of the product.

You cannot become anything you want to be. There are things that are unavailable to you. You can become what you are supposed to be. But that is going to take a lot of commitment, devotion, hard work, and perseverance. No, you cannot buy commitment, devotion, hard work, and perseverance. Yes, it would be much easier to buy what you can’t become.
Don’t be fooled.
You will not be convinced that you’ve become what you’ve bought. Unconvinced, you’ll be burdened with the extra effort required to pretend like you’re convinced you are what you bought.
You’ll be burdened with the extra effort required to convince others that you’re what you bought.
You’ll be burdened by the extra effort required to deal with the knowledge that neither you, nor anyone else is truly convinced that you are what you bought.

Why would you want all those burdens? Why not simply become what you’re supposed to be? And gird your loins, because it’s a lot of hard work.

coffee spoons and paschal moons

2010-04-01T00:31:00.001-04:00

coffee spoons and paschal moons
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

Gather close my dusty friends,
and sip the cup of conversation,
as deep to deep, the calls go forth and
iron sharpens iron.

Remove the beam that’s in my eye,
then I’ll remove your splinter.
Huddle ‘round the Lenten fire,
and bid farewell to Winter.

Mingled smoke and blossoms’ scent,
fragrance of prayer and resurrection
wisping upward toward the morning –
to the dawn of our redemption.

Smudge my pride with ash and oil.
Teach me rightly numbered days.
I’ll count my friends with coffee spoons,
and measure life by Paschal Moons.

The Errant Evangelical 2

2009-11-27T23:02:00.001-05:00

Chapter 2, wherein the pitcher winds down

When the little boy left the team and headed home tossing bottle caps into trashcans, the team was absolutely thriving. The changes in the game had moved it to open fields where there was plenty of room for the game, and for spectators. And spectators certainly took advantage of this opportunity. They turned out in droves. Each game brought more spectators each time the team took the field.

Unfortunately, other changes in the game had slowed down the play. The larger space had spread the action out and the rules changes had slowed down play. The spectators and team manager began complaining about the lull in action.

As it happened, the action had been centralized to the pitcher, and therefore, he was thought to be responsible for the lull. The manager began speaking with him regularly about the complaints of the spectators. They discussed his performance. It was determined that his fast ball was fast enough, that his curve ball was curvy enough, that his knuckle ball was knuckly enough. He threw more strikes than balls, and his ERA was enviable. In fact, the only weakness that they could find was that his windup was not wind-y enough. The manager was sure that if they could just wind up the pitchers windup a bit, all would be better and the spectators would be entertained once again.

Always the good soldier, the pitcher agreed to try to lift his leg a bit higher, and to step left, then right then left again just before taking the ball from his glove and finally, to make a huge sweeping motion with his throwing arm, finishing in a rightward lean just as he released the ball. He practiced these visual theatrics until his arm (and legs, and shoulders and neck and ankles) ached, but no matter how well he did them, he couldn’t throw his fast fast ball, his curvy curve ball, or his knuckley knuckle ball any longer.

The manager insisted that he do this in the game, though, so he pitched loss after loss, embarrassing himself with walked and beaned batters.

He spoke with the manager time and again, but the manager expressed that the spectators weren’t concerned with the outcome of the game, only that they were entertained by the pitcher’s motions.

The pitcher didn’t last long knowing that he was no longer needed for his ability, and so left the team to find somewhere new to throw his fast fast ball and such.

Meanwhile, the team found a new windup man. The new guy couldn’t throw the ball across the plate any better than the last guy, but he was so enjoyable to watch that all the fans were delighted and soon forgot completely that the pitcher was supposed to throw stikes.

I Can See You

2009-10-28T22:33:00.003-04:00

More deeply than you might wish to be seen.

Darkened depths from where loneliness rises,
lighted halls you’ve forgotten exist -
both brought to light through flowered irises,
memories, and desires you fight to resist.

iris windows to soulful depths
widen in the darkness to gather the light.

I can see you.

for the future

2009-10-23T16:53:00.002-04:00

There are quiet, chilly nights
when no one has words to quiet the soul –
least of all, one’s self.
But there are words from the past –
past thoughts thought on wordless nights –
thoughts that moved through the future and
tonight,
alight.
Yesterday’s words comfort tonight,
And so for the future,
I write…

Where in North America is Uncle Rod? day 23

2009-07-06T23:56:00.000-04:00

July 7, 2009
Marion, VA
63,515
212 miles (5,125)

I was thinking today as I rode a 5 hour, 212 miles, that these miles are not like the miles out west that I rode last year. In fact, all the miles I rode this year are quite different than those I rode last year. Here, on the east coast, there are no wide open spaces. If it is not towns and people, like Connecticut last week, it is mountains and switchbacks. Curves that are 20 mph, even on a motorcycle. Last year’s 400-mile day of straight desert riding, is this years 200-mile day of straight up and low-gear downhills. Of Grouse, and Deer, and Wild Turkeys.
I rode from my parents’ house, straight into the country. For 200 miles, I rode narrow 2-lane country roads. Sometimes one lane got lost, and I squeezed through, narrower still.
Across the mountains of Southern West Virginia, I always feel like someone, years ago, drilled holes, from the top, down into the mountains, and planted little towns. There are no places for towns at all, and yet, one descends a steep mountainside, and there is a town. There are always sides of hills missing to make room for Mainstreet. Houses are stuck into hillsides like arrows shot from across the river. One side of each house is one storey tall, the other side is often 3 storeys high, just to find the foundation. Thus, it seems like a huge drill bit, from above just dropped down and drilled out a hole for these towns. Were it not for the fact that this is a coal-rich land, no one could possibly have ever lived here. There had to be a financial gain for carving out communities in places where only birds could reach easily.
Today, I saw no rain. First ride, since I rode from Cape Breton, to the Bay of Fundy, that I didn’t get rain. Today, the temperature was perfect too. I rode into town after I set up camp, and it was quite cool, but all day, the ride was quite comfortable.
For some reason, I expected the up and down, and switchbacks to stop after I crossed in to Virginia. Who knew they would intensifiy?
I’ve never been to Boone, NC, so I was headed in that direction. Nearby, is the tallest point in Virginia, so I thought I might camp there. I made it as far as Marion, VA, where I have actually been, and tomorrow, I will ride into Boone, begin to make my way home.
I had no idea, how many slices of mountains, and long valleys lie in this narrow portion of Southwest Virginia between West Virginia and North Carolina, but I climbed up and back down, several times, with rolling valleys between, before I happened upon this State Park. Only about 10 miles to the south is I-81, but you’d never know there was civilization nearby.
As I mentioned, Southern West Virginia, is tight. Extremely steep mountains, and very very deep valleys. One rides along rivers here, upon roads that are actually hewn from the sides of the mountains. Even the river bottoms aren’t wide enough to accommodate the river and a road, so extra width is extracted by excavation. At 4pm on a July afternoon, the sun doesn’t reach over the mountains, and so it is evening down between the hills. One meanders through mountain shadows for hours before the sun actually sets somewhere behind those hills.
The last couple of hours of incredible motorcycle roads were so freshly paved that they had not yet been painted. Smooth, without gravel, NO traffic, intensely curvy, and up and down. Who could ask for anything more?
I had so wished to get at least a day or two of what I’d planned to get for 21days. Even if it rains all the way home tomorrow, I’ll have today to count for exactly what I needed.
So here, I am, knowing I’ll see Al and kids tomorrow, sitting by a fire, merely 250 miles from home, depending on the route, and enjoying a fire and night sounds of Whip-poor-wills, and frogs. It is a fitting last night of the Windhorse trip.
The Windhorse, by the way, ran beautifully today after having been cleaned a bit, and is resting beside me enjoying the cool mountain, night air.

Where in North America is Uncle Rod? Day 22

2009-07-05T23:53:00.000-04:00

July 5, 2009
Milton, WV
63,273
194 miles (4,883)

Rolled into my parents’ at about 2:00pm. Dinner had just been placed on the table. Grilled Salmon, wilted lettuce, and pasta salad. Yum.
I had planned to take an all day ride to get here, heading south from Parsons and then east to get more fun mountain back roads, but alas, it was raining when I packed the bike, so I decided to ride straight home along with my brother. The scenery is exquisite either way, but the riding is less fun on 4 lanes.
It was nice to be here for longer though. I sat around, took a nap, and watched a couple Andy Griffith re-runs with dad.

Where in North America is Uncle Rod? Day 21

2009-07-04T23:50:00.000-04:00

July 4, 2009
63,079
99 miles (4,689)

Still in Parsons, but today, I got back on the bike for the first time since Wednesday. My brother and I rode over to Seneca Rocks, and took a tiny mountain road home. Over in Seneca, there were dozens of Harleys parked in front of Yokum’s Store, but standing out like a jewel, was an ’04 BMW R1200 GS. Turns out that about half the bikes there, all black Harleys, were ridden by Germans who’d apparently rented matching bikes for the ride, but the Beemer was ridden by a guy from Eastern Ohio.
We rode rt. 72 back to Parsons, which is about 20 miles of one-lane switchbacks and gravely, steep downhills until it finally descends along the river and comes out at the edge town.
It was raining again this evening, though we had absolutely no rain for our entire ride.
Cindy had taken a canoe ride down the Cheat, so after we returned, Scott and I went over to the river to take the canoe out and tie it on top of the truck.
Before Cindy and Carleigh left to drive back home, Scott and I took a little picnic with them and I played on the slide with Carleigh while Scott and Cindy visited at a picnic table. That was the first time Carleigh decided I was ok, and we had a really good time.
What a wonderful couple of days this has been. It has been a couple decades since Mom and Dad and all three of us young’ins have been assembled in one place without our daily schedules to contend with. Just hours of talking and laughing and no one having to run off to work, or jump up and tend to something. It was really wonderful.

Where in North America is Uncle Rod? Day 20

2009-07-03T23:44:00.000-04:00

July 3, 2009
62,980
0 miles (4,590)

Mom and Dad drove up this morning to hang with us. Close behind were Cindy and Carleigh in the Jeep, and Scott on his bike. We visited all afternoon, and then went out to dinner before heading to the fireworks in Thomas at the top of the mountain. The fireworks were spectacular. Who knew that such a tiny town could put on such a show?
I’ve driven through Thomas dozens of times in my life, but I’ve never seen a living soul moving there. I honestly thought it was a Ghost Town. But tonight the streets were packed, motorcycles everywhere, live music, and thick excitement. The dark storm clouds did nothing to discourage the gathering, and though some of the fireworks were actually shrouded by clouds, they were incredibly beautiful.

Where In North America is Uncle Rod? Day 19

2009-07-02T23:43:00.000-04:00

July 2, 2009

62,980
0 miles (4,590)

Still raining. After a leisurely, lazy morning, Jodi took me sightseeing. She took me to see Parsons’ swinging bridge, and then up to Olsen’s tower, an old fire tower, high up the mountain toward Thomas. We climbed to the top and shivered from cold winds and rain, and dizzying heights. Despite the heavy fog, we could see forever.

While we were exploring the area near the tower, Jodi saw goofy tree that she wanted to check out. We walked back in the woods through a complete undergrowth cover of ferns to check out the tree. I was taking pictures of various and sundry beauty when I very nearly stepped on a tiny fawn whose mother had hid her among the ferns under a fallen tree. She was doing as she was told and lying completely still until I nearly put my foot down on her, at which point she jumped and ran. I know she would have been obedient and laid there among the ferns for photos had I been clever enough to see a deer within 4 inches of my leg.

I showed her some tricks with the settings on her camera, so we drove over to Blackwater Falls so she could try them out. Ironically, the falls were quite different than they were last night. Apparently, I’d brought the rain with me, as I tend to do, so it had not been raining long when I arrived. Today though, there was a lot more water. Water was spilling over places on the ledge that had been dry last night. A different presentation.

Back at the house, we discussed religion and politics and weather, and the relationship of all three. Originally, the thought that ran as a thread through our conversation, regardless of what we were talking about, was inspired by my commentary on riding in the rain for 3 weeks. I’d followed up a comment with, “well you know what the Norwegians say – ‘there’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing.’” The more I thought about that statement, the more I realized how selfish I am in my expectations, even my prayers. I don’t often pray to be prepared for what challenges might come along, but rather, that challenges won’t come along. On this trip, nothing has turned out the way I expected. I’ve been mostly physically prepared for what I’ve experienced, but not at all emotionally prepared. Not at all.
It took me a lot of rainy riding days to realize that I was the one who was going to have to give. I could find a dry place and wait it out, but for how long? It has been raining for 3 weeks. Or I could change my expectations to match with reality, and accept that I’m going to keep experiencing something completely different than I’d planned. I realized that in the back of my mind, what I’d been praying for was not weather through which one could ride when properly prepared. I didn’t want to prepare. What I wanted was weather through which I could ride with a single pair of pants and a T-shirt. I wanted the weather to match my choice of clothing. I had no desire to match the weather with raingear.
“Here’s what I want to wear, God. Provide me with weather to make my choice of apparel appropriate.”
I think I’ll spare you the connection that this realization about myself made with the economy and politics. But it occurs to me that there may be much contentment to be found in what is, rather than constantly longing for what is not, or what is not yet. There will definitely be a sunny day – some day.

Where in North America is Uncle Rod? Day 18

2009-07-01T23:03:00.000-04:00

July 1, 2009
Parsons WV
62,980
180 miles (4,590)

From Greencastle I headed west into the mountains, and then south through the country and some of the most beautiful riding so far.
Cloud showers all along the way until the last 60 miles or so during which I rode, once again, through relentless terrible rain and thick fog.
The rain did relent within an hour after my arrival, and then just drizzled and misted. I borrowed Jodi’s car and drove back over the mountain to Black Water Falls to try to get some good photos of the falls in the misty evening.

I was convinced while riding across Rt. 9 that West Virginia truly is the most beautiful state. I was astounded by the beauty of Cape Breton, but honestly, it does not go on forever. West Virginia’s beauty just seems so much more unending, and natural. Last year, when I returned from 9,000 miles through 23 states, Allison asked me which state was most beautiful. Gee, I’ve got to say that I’ve still not seen one more beautiful than West Virginia. I realized that I could assign an awesome adjective to every state, and that adjective could probably translate to “beautiful,” but biased, or not, West Virginia is most beautiful. I decided that California was the most astounding. A completely different beauty around every turn. I also thought California had some areas that would certainly compete for most beautiful, but as far as entirety, and uninterrupted mile after mile of awesome landscape, well, you know...
One forgets though. I can say that, and still be taken aback every time I ride through the mountains of West Virginia. Rugged, steep, secluded, high. I also remembered a statement that a lady made to Molly last November when we were in Arizona. Molly told her that she was used to mountains because her family was from West Virginia, the lady smiled and said, “In Arizona, we call West Virginia “hilly.” Hilly indeed. But not much of Arizona knows the altitude differential that West Virginia is made of. It’s one thing to drive 100 miles on flat ground at 7,000ft, but quite another to go from 4,000 feet to 600 feet and back to 4,500 feet in only a couple miles – over and over and over again all afternoon. Much of this state has only been made passable by dynamite and special trains with top speeds of 4 mph, and tons and tons of torque.
The perfect heaven for a motorbiker.

Though it seemed like late evening because of the rain and thick clouds, after drying and sitting for a moment, I realized how beautiful all the misty goodness is I’d just passed within a mile of Blackwater Falls on my way in, but was unwilling to stop in the pouring rain, while already soaking wet. So I rode on down the mountain in thick fog.
By now, the rain was light, the air cool, and the foggy mist was moving around a bit.
The truck felt extremely odd to me. I’d not driven on four wheels for 3 weeks. When I climbed out of the truck there was man climbing the path down to the river. He said, “it’s worth it.” Of course I knew that, and the climb in both directions is rather easy, but I smiled and agreed, and started down.
I’ve pondered before about how our understanding of time and durability change as we age. It’s odd really. If we live to be 100, we still can only understand a tiny slice of a tiny slice of history. And yet, our ability to believe, and trust is greatly strengthened by watching faithfulness over only a short lifetime. When I was a kid, Dad used to bring us to these Falls. I say “used to bring us” as if it was a regular occurrence, which it very well may not have been. We tend to remember certain occasions as if they were regular occurrences, and sometimes remember a single instance of a regular occurrence as if it only happened once. Who knows what causes memories to be engraved in specific ways upon our psyches?
At any rate, when I was in college, I used to visit these falls often. I patrolled these hills in a little green car, armed with a tent and a fishing pole. When I visited the falls, I always remembered coming here as a kid. I was always surprised that the visitor center/tourist trap at the top of the hill was not as I remembered it, that the path and wooden stairs were more worn, or completely new, but the falls are always there, despite noticeable seasonal differences. For that matter, the rocks, by which I fished, were always there and always the same. When Allison and I were married, we drove there and spent the night in the lodge. When we walked down to view the falls, I noticed that a Hemlock tree that had always been there was gone. When we got home, I looked at photos I had taken earlier, and sure enough, there was the missing hemlock tree. The falls, though, are always there.
Things do change though. A portrait of me beside these falls does not show the same guy that scrambled around on these rocks 40 years ago. That’s why the faithfulness of the falls is so important. Most of life is about learning to deal with change. Constancy is a balm.

But even nature changes. There are other sites among my beloved locations that are not at all like they were years ago. When I was a senior in college, West Virginia experienced a serious flood. River towns all over the state were devastated, including the one where I went to school. A few months after the flood, I drove to Seneca Rocks, planning to fish in what I considered one of the most amazing trout streams in the known world. But it was no more. This stretch of the North Fork of South Branch of the Potomac, was forever changed. What had been wildly running, deep whitewater, was no longer even fishable.
Only a few years later, 1000 feet above this very same spot, the legendary rock pinnacle, known as “The Gendarme” fell during a rare quiet moment when it was not being climbed, and shattered into indistinguishable pieces below.
So, a waterfall, that accepts visitors, and their changing access; that watches trees grow and fall; that stands under the spring melt of surging, frigid water, and then trickles a slow stream under the colored spectrum of fall foliage, is a much needed symbol of constancy.
I’m not foolish enough to think that nothing is changing, that a thousand years ago, these rocks jutted out another 5 feet from where they stand now. I understand that the rocks lying in the deep water below the falls at one time provided the path over which the water ran before it plunged 57 feet. I understand that at one time the water fell further before wearing those rocks down and taking a lower path.
But these changes take place over such a long period of time that no lifetime can register them. They go on behind the scenes, until enough has changed to cause a weakened structure. Rocks topple, sands shift, and stone that has withstood flood and earthquake, crumbles under the sonic waves of an airplane 5 miles up, or a gunshot from across the gorge.
I’m reminded of my own strength and fragility. I think of the slow breaking down and weakening that don’t register in my day to day, until enough accumulation has occurred that I break down in a moment and am changed in the twinkling of an eye.

Where in North America is Uncle Rod? Day 17

2009-06-30T22:21:00.000-04:00

June 30, 2009
Greencastle, PA
62800 Miles
386 (4,410)

Last night, when I was ranting about the unfriendly people in Mass and Conn, I mentioned the exception of the guy camped next to me. After I’d written and closed my laptop, I heard him playing guitar by his fire. He was quite good, so I walked over in the dark and asked if I could sit and listen. What ensued was a 4-hour conversation and sharing of music. This was not just a normal, two strangers passing the time with small talk. It was a deep conversation about weighty things that old friends talk about.
The day started off really well as the fog and overcast burned off early to reveal blue. I rode through the rolling country of Western Connecticut and into New York. I’ve said before that my atlas did fine last year in the West where there are only a few roads, but in the Northeast, it is entirely insufficient. Add to that, the fact that New York does a poor job of labeling roads and using arrows to help get travelers to their chosen destination. As soon as I crossed into New York, the roads changed their numbers and began to be labeled with county road signs. No east, west, north, south, no Podunk, 5 miles this way. No nothing. I rode through farms (actually through farms – I thought I might be in folks’ driveways a few times) until I finally found a road with a route number and then directed myself back to the Atlas. I didn’t make it far once I’d found the road I wanted, before I rode up to a very large tree that had just fallen across the road. There was no way around on the left, and the shoulder was so steep and wet on the right that I knew I’d never get my bike through it. I turned back, found a northbound country road, then a westbound dirt road, and finally popped back out on my road about 5 miles west of the tree.
It was my desire, to find route 209 at Port Jervis, and follow that until it reached I-81 to take me down to Allison’s parents’ for the night. Before I made it to Port Jervis, a terrible storm blew in, so I stopped beside the road and suited up and applied RainX to my face shield. From there, it was a short ride in a really bad storm to Port Jervis, where I found a McDonalds to log on to the intertubes and check the weather. I looked at the satellite images, chose a new route north to try to ride around the storm, and got back on the bike. The next 30 miles were horrendous, but just as the satellite image showed, I rode out of it, and by the time I reached Scranton, the roads were dry again, despite the threatening skies.
I continued south on I-81 for a few miles, and traffic was getting thick as it inched its way through construction. When I saw a sign that warned of extreme delays at mile 261, I took the sign’s advice and chose an alternate route. I realized that I could work my way back to the 209 I’d originally planned, and set out to do so. When I reached I-81 again, a terrible storm struck, and I sought shelter again. The storm moved north rather quickly, and I climbed back on, and headed South toward Harrisburg.
When the weather looked stable and promising, and I felt I could make it all the way to Allison’s parents’, I pulled off the road just as the sun was setting and called them.
An hour later, I pulled into the driveway, unpacked the bike and settled in for another nice, warm visit. While we were visiting, Mom called and told me that Jodi was in the mountains for the week and maybe if I rode close by, I could stop in for a visit. At that point, I knew where tomorrow’s destination would be.

Where in North America is Uncle Rod? Day 16

2009-06-29T21:30:00.000-04:00

June 29, 2009
New Preston Connecticut
62,414
234 miles (4,024)

I left Danville, NH late this morning in pouring rain. I had to wear my jacket to pack the bike to keep from soaking my shirt. I headed west on four-lane 101 through Manchester, fast-moving, spray-spraying traffic. I traveled in fairly hard rain to Peterboro, and took 202 south into Massachusetts. Aubrey had checked the weather online before I left and told me the rain was supposed to become more intermittent toward the west. So I headed due west looking for a break.
About the time I crossed the state line, the sky began to lighten and a spot of blue appeared. For the next hour or so, blue turned to rain, turned to blue, until finally the blue sky and cumulus clouds won the battle, and the rest of the day saw only occasional showers. By then I’d rid myself of the jacket to let my shirt dry out, and the rain wasn’t enough to put the jacket back on.
I have to say that I cried when the sky cleared enough to show blue. Actual tears. Truth is, I rode the entirety of Friday with no rain, but not with blue skies. Honestly, I did have a night of flawless clearness and myriad stars, but daytimes have all been cloud and fog covered, whether or not there was rain. Today, I saw actual blue daytime sky, and it was more than my weary heart could take. First time in 12 days. Twelve days!!!

I entered Connecticut on the 202 and had no idea that Connecticut is just one huge small town. I carefully avoided four-lanes and tolls, but didn’t realize that I’d be riding down Main Street, Connecticut for hours. Truly, I came about 100 miles at 35 miles per hour. Once I got south as far as Hartford, I realized that all this was probably suburb world, once I turned east it began to wane the closer I got to New York. But you probably already know all that. I didn’t.
I felt confident enough about the weather to begin looking for a campsite, and after two tries found a State Park on a lake, that is quite beautiful. I have no firewood, but I’m sitting comfortably at a picnic table with my laptop wired into the bike battery while the western sky looks less and less promising. Actually, the clouds are rolling right overhead, and I think I’m probably going to get wet. So much for a change in the weather. Call it a respite afternoon.

Today, I remembered someone remarking before my trip to Canada, that I should be prepared for cold northerners. “It’s always a shock for us warm southerners,” they said. But, in fact, when I came into Maine, in the rain, last week, I thought to myself, “hey I think Maine gets put on the short list of friendliest states. My first stop in Maine consisted of two guys grilling hotdogs under a tent and giving them away free with a free cup of coffee. All during my long Maine stay, everyone I met was extremely friendly. When I left and entered New Brunswick, my first encounter was a teenage convenience store clerk, who was as friendly a girl as I’ve ever met. I walked into a restaurant in PEI, and the owner already knew my name, and why I was there. I had long, friendly conversations with countless people in Nova Scotia, ranging from a guy at Wendy’s, to the boat captain that couldn’t take me out to see whales. Instead of a whale excursion, we talked for an hour. When I came back into Maine, at both stops heading to Bar Harbor, I had wonderful conversations with complete strangers that struck up conversations.
All that came to an end when I entered Massachusetts and Connecticut. Store clerks, policemen, state park employees, all just cold business. Even when asked for help, they’ve offered as little as possible, in as few words as possible, hurriedly, with little eye contact.
The exception is the guy camped next to me. He and his family are very friendly, offering me help, stuff, and conversation. Perhaps it’s a work thing. Perhaps there’s a stark delineation between the work world and the personal world. I’ve thought today about how ironic that I finally got blue skies and warm air, and the people have turned cold. Thank God for warm people when the weather has been cold and wet. The friendly kindness of my camping neighbor is duly noted and appreciated.
It occurs to me. Hey, Canadians aren’t Yankees, they’re southerners. I read somewhere that X% of Canadians live within 50 miles of the U.S. border. Hey, for Canadians, that’s southern. I have no idea if you go far enough north in Canada, would you encounter cold, inhospitable Yankees?
Tomorrow I’m heading back into PA. Pennsylvanians are a strange lot. When I stopped along Rt. 30 on my third day, I met a guy from Sumter, SC. He’d been in PA 20 years. He said, “all the cities in the south are modern, but these cities up here think they’re living in George Washington times.” That roughly translates to, “we don’t care how you do it, our way works just fine.” Ironically, that’s exactly the way the folks in the South are. Probably, the civil war boils down to that.
I mentioned that statement to Jim while I was on PEI. I thought of a quote from (I think) Aaron Copeland. “The United States is the oldest country in the world because it was the first to enter the 20th century.” I love that quote. It is true that those who have lived in this reality longest are the oldest. When that quote was stated, that was entirely true. The United States seems to be the last country to enter the 21st century post-modern era, and as such, are green behind the ears. Ironically, those who have hung on to their previously cutting-edge ways, are not only last to take on new ways, but linger beyond the last. It’s a pride issue. And the result is getting left behind.
On the other hand, those who were slow to incorporate previously cutting edge ways, are often first to jump to the new. They skip a cultural generation.
The New South is this precisely. Perhaps they were slow to change from an agrarian economy to an industrial economy, but they were quick to jump into the informational economy. There’s a belt in the north, who still, despite waning opportunity, are proud to have jumped on the industrial bandwagon, and are terribly slow to move on. It’s a pride issue, and they still live in George Washington times, as my new friend stated.
Last year, I met cultures and people who are neither – who live completely in their own cultural world and are completely unaffected by all the worlds that turn in the United States. It’s not a pride issue. They just existed alongside everything else.

Anyway, that’s the kind of stuff I’m thinking about at my picnic table without a fire, and the cooling air as the waxing, half thunder moon, sets partially obscured by clouds. I can hear the water spilling out of the lake behind me as I watch the moon and clouds grow yellow through the trees.

Where in North America is Uncle Rod? Day 15

2009-06-28T23:53:00.000-04:00

June 28, 2009
11:00 pm
Danville, NH
62,180
ca 338 miles (3,790)

When I checked out of the motel this morning, I asked the girl at the desk, if Acadia National Park was worth a ride in the pouring rain. She hesitated for only a moment and pointed out that I was going to be riding in the rain anyway. “It’s really beautiful,” she said.
I decided to go ahead with it, and turned south in the rain and traffic toward the park.
It was definitely a misfire. 65 extra miles of heavy rain and dense fog. I couldn’t see anything but the taillights of the car in front of me, and the occasional tree on the side of the road. The occasional tree indicated that what I was not seeing was extremely beautiful, but it was shrouded in fog. The 65 miles represents nearly three hours, and by then, I was back to where I started on highway 1.
Another 60 miles and I stopped, soaked and cold, at a McDonalds and looked at the time. It had been nearly another 3 hours. During those miles, I’d stopped at a tiny gas station for fuel and coffee, and a man struck up a conversation with me. He really like my bike. “The Antique White and Forest Green are magnificent.” Somehow, I didn’t expect that phrase from the guy who rode up beside me in pickup truck filled with tree branches, chainsaws and weedeaters. I so appreciate a guy who is deeper than his surface. While we were talking, a huge explosion nearly caused me to spill my coffee. I noticed that the man didn’t flinch. Without the slightest change of expression, he said, “that’s the canon firing across the river at Fort Knox. They Fire it every hour. The fort is completely decommissioned, and is now a State Park. You should probably visit there when you cross the river.”
We said our goodbyes, I rode the amazing bridge across the Penobscot Narrows, and veered left at the entrance to Fort Knox. Too much time lost already, and rain too heavy to stop and pretend that any experience today would live up to what it surely would be in dryer conditions.
I made another stop in Brunswick, just before I took the 4-lane, got fuel, warmed up, and changed clothes. I was wet to the skin by then from rain wicking down from my collar. I put on all the dry shirts I had left, and set out for the final leg of the trip.
Once I hit the 4 lane, I booked it down to the New Hampshire line and stopped to warm up just when the toll road ended, just before entering New Hampshire. The entirety of those 70 miles was in thick traffic with trucks who threw their spray on me. The lanes were shifted so that the left lane was closed, and the shoulder was being used as a lane. The surface was removed for re-paving, so what was left, was grooved and bumpy.
When I left the gas station, I missed a turn and started back North on 95 and did another 10 extra miles and barely avoided having to pay toll twice more to get headed back in the right direction.
Finally back on I-95 South, I entered NH, and paid another 75 cents exiting to hwy 101. I found the next road easily, but turned the wrong way and drove exactly 6 miles north when I should have been headed south. Back to where I started I had a short jaunt of 8 miles to my place of rest, but alas, I got lost and those 8 miles took me 2 hours.
I arrived safe, but frustrated, dizzy from turning the bike around and shivered through.
This was a frustrating day. It is quite frustrating to stop the bike at a toll booth in the pouring rain, remove soaked gloves, dig through my inner jacket liner for my wallet, replace said wallet, re-zip and fasten 3 layers, and finally, to unsuccessfully attempt to put wet gloves back onto wet hands. All with a line of impatient drivers behind. All four times I paid toll, I had to pull off the Interstate beyond the toll booths and get dressed again before going on. Slightly wetter and slightly colder than before. Actually, the same thing happened in Saint John, New Brunswick and I had to exit to get dressed. After exiting, I returned to the highway headed in the wrong direction and nearly had to pay toll 2 more times to head east again.
Tonight, I’ve finally found the dry, warm home of my former student, Aubrey, who with her parents has offered to keep for the night. We’ve had a nice long visit, and I’m basking in the kindness of friends, known and unknown.

Many times after last year’s trip, I mentioned that there were several times when I realized that I hadn’t spoken to anyone all day, or for several days even. I could go through stretches where I was only near people at gas stops, and then, use a card at the pump and keep moving silently.

That was a trip about solitude.

Whatever I thought this trip was going to be about, it has been a trip about people.

Old friends and strangers.

I have learned a lot about myself this trip. Solitude may be like a mountaintop experience, but honestly, nothing grows on mountaintops. The view is beautiful up there, but as my friend Cong, points out, the lifeblood is in the valley. (he also said, “don’t forget to check the oil.)
I have learned that though I may find myself in desperate need of alone time, I can’t possibly live without people.

Old friends and strangers.

I have depended on the kindness of Allison’s Aunt Brenda and Uncle Joe, a former student and her father (for 2 night’s lodging and a day of wonderful entertainment), a dear old friend and his lovely wife and kids, and now another former student, Aubs and her parents.
Who knows whom else I may find myself grateful for during the rest of this trip? I’m actually finding myself shifting the mindset from getting away, to looking up folks to drop in on. I’m even seeing the folks that work at the State and Provincial Park campgrounds as people I’ve depended on, rather than people simply carrying out their duties.
I’m made to think about my ramblings about the disciples going out depending on the hospitality of others – about them providing a means for others to serve, to take part in the Kingdom of God. Take nothing but the clothes on your back.

Last year’s trip was for the most part, about the riding. Riding through gorgeous, exotic landscapes, and American, or even pre-american subcultures. I saw some very cool places, but they were usually on my way, and considered part of the ride. The destinations weren’t destinations at all, but merely randomly chosen places to stop and rest that represented roughly, about as far as a guy can comfortably ride on a good day. I had lots of good days. And when I didn’t, I could always pull up short, because the destinations weren’t the point in any way other than it represented a bar line in a measured distance that told me I was headed toward home and that I would get there when I was supposed to be there. In that way, if I fell short on a given day, I would have to make it up, because the final resting place WAS important, but the points along the way were simply to be enjoyed for what they were. After falling behind, I didn’t have to make up the distance all in one day, I could spread it out over several, thereby, proving that no point of destination was anymore important than the one I’d fell short of.
This year, the biggest part of my trip has been about making pre-chosen destinations where I can get warm and dry. And often, these destinations represent people who have offered to take care of me, dry my clothes and provide a warm shower and a bed. The soaked, cold riding has served to get me there, and has been what I’ve had to recover from. Quite the opposite experience, this ride. A complete shift of focus. Honestly, it’s a challenge to my personality – a short in my wiring. A guy can ride off on his own, all confident and brave, but he can never survive alone. Even if he doesn’t realize his company.
And the angels attended him.

Where in North America is Uncle Rod? Day 14

2009-06-27T21:44:00.000-04:00

June 27, 2009
Bar Harbor, Maine
11:30pm
61,842
401 miles (3,452)

I rode today without a destination, but only a direction. I felt it was time to come back to the states. I thought I’d hit Maine and stop. But, though it felt like I’d ridden for a long, long time, when I reached the US/Canada border, it was only 3:00pm. That’s 2:00 eastern time, and so I kept riding.
The day started out drizzly and with heavy fog as I rode along Fundy Bay toward Parrsboro. Once I turned North and made my way inland a bit, the fog lifted and the day was nice. By the time I reached Moncton, the sky once again became foreboding, and I rode in and out of rain for the next 150 miles. When I reached Saint John, the temperature had dropped considerably, and continued to get colder and wetter the closer I got to Maine. In all, there was about a 20 degree difference between Nova Scotia and Maine.
Every time I passed a Mom and Pop Motel along Coastal Hwy 1, I thought of stopping for the night, but I thought of the probable price of these little motels along the coast in tourist land, and realized it was still somewhat early, and so I rode on.
The rain makes a luggage-laden bike more conspicuous, so I responded to queries and participated in conversations each time I stopped.
Really unconcerned with how far I got today, and more or less numbed by the weather, I took every long cut off highway one that dipped down into villages and coastal towns. Eventually, I began to see signs for Bar Harbor and Acadia Park, and knowing there was campground near Bar Harbor, decided to make that my goal. When I arrived in Ellsworth, it raining pretty hard again, so I turned down Rt 3 toward Bar Harbor, ready to find some shelter. Almost immediately, I saw another Mom and Pop motel, and this time decided to take the chance and inquire as to price. When I pulled into the parking lot, I noticed the price on a sign. It was less expensive than the campsites at some of the tourist destinations, and actually had showers in the rooms! Now I’m no novice traveling fool, I know that the chances of a room actually being the price quoted on the sign is next to nil, so I was sure to quote that price when I asked if they had any available. The price was exactly what I asked, including, tax and everything.
So I’ve spread all my gear around to dry, and am lying on my back listening to the rain out the window contemplating tomorrow’s weather. The weather is supposed to get worse tomorrow. I’m going to continue down the Coastal 1, and deal with it.

Where in North America is Uncle Rod? Day 13

2009-06-26T21:30:00.000-04:00

June 26, 2009
5 Islands, Nova Scotia
10:55pm
61,441
275 miles (3,051)

Fuel: 24 dollars CDN
Garlic Pizza: 6 dollars CDN
Husband/Wife duo: 2 dollars CDN
Tent site: 21 dollars CDN
Campfire: 4 dollars CDN
Fireflies more numerous than mosquitoes: free
Clear sky sunset/crescent moon over the Bay of Fundy: Priceless

I arrived at my destination at about 6 pm. I was told by a police woman at my last fuel stop that there were a few really nice restaurants down the “mountain” from my campsite, so when I got here, I went into town to scope out the environment before I set up camp. Aha! I found Mo’s Café in “downtown 5 Islands,” so after I set up camp, I set off for a bite and some internet. I unloaded my bike when I set up camp, and showed up at Mo’s without my computer charger. I texted Allison via the internet, and posted a couple of yesterday’s photos before my battery went dead and packed up my tank bag to leave. When I bussed my table and went inside the café, the music was beginning. I couldn’t leave. My friend, Beth, an avid Celtic music fan and gifted musician, upon hearing I was headed to Cape Breton implored me to find some music. I thought that might be nearly impossible on a bike, camping, in this weather. But it looked like it was to come to pass.
There was a husband/wife duo just starting. Lots of folks were milling around, and everyone was interested in everyone else. Conversation was easy, and the music was so good that conversation waned and listening commenced.
I learned that this café had just opened last week. It is owned by a man from California (sitting in the corner) who had bought one of the 5 islands on a whim, site unseen, and after coming to see his purchase, had also bought and renovated this building and opened this amazing café. This was the second night of music he’d had.
As I listened to the music and watched two little toddlers constantly getting into trouble, I shed a tear, and then another, and soon they wouldn’t stop. The music was amazing. It ripped straight through to the soul and touched the deep places. I stood against a beam and sipped several cups of coffee, and quietly listened. My iPod hasn’t been turned on, or even taken out of the bag during the whole trip. There is always music playing in my head, and I’ve heard some fairly melodic feathered friends’ serenades, but tonight is the only music I’ve heard outside of Jim’s and Catherine’s living room since I drifted off to the strains of Federico Moreno Torroba under the stars in Ithaca. I stand there thinking about a time when real live people presented the only music available, and marveled at the community made easy by these deep songs sung from deep places. I hope I happen upon more people sharing their songs before I make it home again.
When the sun started setting, I realized it was time to make it back to camp, and so I rode up the “mountain,” started a fire and settled into a mood of gratitude.
Today was a good day. I can almost say, it was my first day in 13 without rain, but alas, I got rained on a little bit, so make that 13 days with rain. But this was not like the other rain days. This rain was just intermittent when the clouds became too thick to contain themselves. Then I would ride out of it, into lighter clouds. The sky is cloudy tonight, but oddly enough, the baby moon is shining hazily through a foggy break in the clouds.
It is 10:46 pm, and the sunset colors have not completely faded. That is strange for me. Sunset colors at nearly 11:00pm?
This morning, I couldn’t bear to ride back from Cape Breton Island exactly the way I’d come, so I headed east to Sydney, and rode west from there along the other side of Bras d’Or. Once I reached the Canso Causeway, I had no choice but to backtrack, but only for about 50 miles. The last 50 miles of the day were along, and in sight of, the Bay of Fundy, to this Provincial Park.
The ride was a good mixture of back roads and highway to make up time, so I arrived in early evening and had time to think, have some coffee, and listen to music.
So, at this moment, I’m sitting by my fire, watching the lingering sunset colors, and the moon, reluctant to set, reflecting in the Bay Fundy.
My heart is grateful.

Where in North America is Uncle Rod? Day 12

2009-06-25T21:28:00.000-04:00

Thursday, June 25, 2009
Cape Breton, Nova Scotia
61,166
239 miles (2,776)

I think it was the rain that caused it, but nevertheless, when I entered Canada, I felt extremely lonely. As if I had left everything that belonged to me, and everything to which I belonged. The money was odd – I couldn’t get used to dollar coins and two dollar coins. Gas is sold in litres and costs almost twice as much as it does at home.
I gassed up just before I crossed the border, but of course I only carry 4 gallons. At highway speeds, in the rain and extreme Bay of Fundy winds, I got poor mileage, and went on reserve at only 120 miles. I stopped to get gas, and my credit card was declined. I had been waiting for that, since I’d been zipping across the country and using the card every 100 miles. But it was a blow to have it happen first thing when I came into Canada in the cold rain. I used my backup card, and though I only got 3 gallons, and the pump charged me twelve dollars and some odd cents, the credit card was charged $88. I stopped sooner next time, worried about running out of gas, and got another 2 gallons. This time, the credit card was charged $115, and Allison got an alert that a hold had been put on that card as well. Fortunately, I’d stopped at an ATM and got some Canadian cash.
I called the card company next day, but they certainly did nothing to ease my mind. They did, however, remove the hold. The very next time I used the card, they called Allison again. I sure do appreciate how alert they are to irregular purchases and locations, but having a credit card does me no good if I can’t use it.
Anyway, this was my welcome to Canada.

Tonight though, when I arrived back at my campsite cold and wet, and built a fire, and watched the clouds and fog clear out, exposing myriad stars, the milkyway, and the brand new crescent moon, I finally felt at home. This is the same sky I have at home. This is a sky I share with the people on Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. This is the same sky I sat under in New Mexico, and Wyoming, and California last summer.
I’m thinking of Will, who is enthralled with the concept of seeing the milkyway, though he has never seen it. He has not yet spent these waking, late, dark moments beneath the clear sky. I’m looking up and seeing the occasional shooting star pierce through the hazy strip that is the reaches of our own galaxy. It is dark as dark out here. I’m thinking of Abraham, how one star he saw, had been lit for me – I am a stranger in this land, I am that, no less than he- and on this road to righteousness, sometimes the climb can be so steep – I may falter in my steps, but never behind Your reach…

Today, once again, I when I looked at the time, and realized that the miles traveled didn’t match, I was thinking of the difference in the perception of time when riding. On the bike, time doesn’t pass. That is, the perception of time doesn’t register. I feel the passage of miles, but am completely unaware of the passage of time. I was thinking today, as I rode, completely unaware of what the clock might say, that is not time passed that matters – it is time spent that counts. I’ve always been perplexed by the term “pastime.” As if we had nothing to do and were looking for something to pass the time. That is a foreign concept to me. Time passes in busyness, and I wonder where it went. I can’t remember ever wondering what to do with my time.
Leisure is not a luxury, but a decision, a discipline – a sacrifice even. I sacrifice, my family sacrifices. But it’s something that needs to be done. Time spent in Sabbath. Time spent in intentional space. Time spent beneath the milky way, far from the lights of industry, of busyness, of day-to-day.

And so, tonight, I sit beneath that hazy swath of light, stretching across the darkest sky, and realize that this is not a familiar sight to the busy person. This is not something that a healthy, wealthy and wise person can experience. Perhaps we’ve mis-defined healthy, wealthy and wise. Early to bed and early to rise. Space is healthy. The Milkyway is healthy. There is nothing more healthy than an easy soul, and that is accomplished only in Sabbath. -withdrawal from the day to day.

Today may have very well been the first day that my soul became easy. I’ve had a wonderful time visiting while hiding from the rain. I’ve felt loved and accepted, but I’ve been stressed about the unrelenting weather, even when shielded from it. Today, though, I rode off into a clear morning along an extremely gorgeous scenic route. About 50 miles in, I entered the Cape Breton Highlands National Park. I took a scenic detour at the northernmost point in the park and dealt with heavy rain for about half an hour. During the rain, I missed a poorly marked turn and followed a back road toward Bay St. Lawrence. I realized I was on the wrong road about 5 miles in, but it was so beautiful that I couldn’t bring myself to turn around.
Eventually, remembering that I wanted to catch a boat for whale watching, I turned around in the rain and headed back south to make the turn I’d missed earlier. There was road construction all along the way, and all the flagmen smiled knowingly at me as I passed on my way back to the right road.
When I arrived at Lake Pleasant Harbor, just as the rain subsided, I was told by Captain Mark’s crew, that the whale trip was iffy. There were no other passengers booked for the ride. They postponed the departure by 30 minutes and eventually closed shop and went home. The competition next door had gone many miles further out to sea because of the heavy fog, and were late by 2 hours and a half. I waited, however, and had a lobster roll and got on the boat at about the time I’d planned to be back to my campsite.
The wait was well worth it. We immediately came upon dozens of Pilot Whales and spent the next hour watching them surface, arch, blow and swim alongside and under the boat.

When we returned to shore, I mounted the bike, thinking I had seen everything the Cabot Trail had to offer. I’d just twist the throttle and head toward camp. Little did I know that the best of the Cabot Trail, and Cape Breton lie ahead. The next hour held the greatest frequency of “look offs” and photo stops. At Cheticamp, I stopped for gas, and another local biker struck up a conversation. I’d thought that distant travelers would be an everyday occurrence in a place like this, but apparently South Carolina is more distant than the average biker attempts. So I was met with awe, and an extra meaningful “welcome to Canada.”
During the last darkening hour before I reached my camp again, I road through swarms of bugs that completely blackened my face shield and blotted out my headlamp. The roads were wet, but I’d come through just as the storms subsided.
I reached camp beneath a clearing sky, and now as I sit beside the fire, the milkyway stretches brightly overhead.

Where in North America is Uncle Rod? Day 11

2009-06-24T21:20:00.000-04:00

Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Cape Breton, Nova Scotia
60,927
320 miles (2,537)

I left PEI this morning at about 11:00 in very heavy fog. I arrived at my campsite at about 7, under momentarily clearing skies. It’s 10:00pm now and the sun as finally ceased to show its colors on the clouds over the hills. Once I experienced the “four-lane” again, 55 miles from Summerside, I realized I wanted to find a back way until the “four-lane” disappeared. I took NS hwy 6 all the way to New Glasgow. It was about 90 miles, all in driving, beating rain. Just as I entered New Glasgow, the rain stopped, the road was dry, and the temperature was 10 degrees warmer. I stopped at a Tim Horton’s to stretch my legs and struck up a conversation with a guy at a picnic table beside his Goldwing.
He was a talker, he was, eh? We talked for a long time about bike trips, pretty places, rain, hills, and National Parks.
Back on the road, I made it 1 mile before a detour took me back through the country again, and into the rain. The rest of the trip was intermittent with the showers, and I arrived with only residual soak. That 90 miles presented the hardest rain I’ve experienced so far. Actually it was the first “cloud shower” (as they call them here). For a week I’ve been riding through this gargantuan weather system that just pours a consistent rain on all the earth. Today, I rode through a little of that, but mostly just thunder storms that popped up and went away. But when they popped up they obscured the road, soaked me all the way through, and chilled me.
I stopped in Baddeck, the last town before my campsite, to gas up and get a snack before settling in. Baddeck sits on the water and has a charm between small town and tourist destination. Perhaps tourists are recognized and accommodated, but not pampered or catered to. I enjoyed passing through here.
Tonight I’m sitting by a fire beside the Great Bras d’Or, hoping that the rain holds off tonight and tomorrow. As I settled into the campground at sunset, the clouds broke a bit and beautiful colors and formations occurred over the mountains behind my campsite. I’m tucked down into between high hills on either side facing the ocean water that flows between and splits the island with the Bras d’Or.
Tomorrow, I plan to ride the 186 miles of the Cabot Trail around Cape Breton Island, and through the Highlands National Park.
Tomorrow’s riding will be solely for sightseeing, and I will arrive right back here where I started, beside the Bras, d’Or, lighting a fire if it is not raining, and lying on my back thinking if it is.

Where in North America is Uncle Rod? Days 9 & 10

2009-06-23T21:09:00.000-04:00

Monday, June 22, 2009
Summerside, Prince Edward Island
60,607
0 miles (2,217)

Today, Jim and I went to a restaurant owned and operated by a lady from Texas and her British husband. The restaurant was quite a way out in the country. When we walked in, the proprietor said, “Hi Jim! Be right with you.” And, “oh! And YOU rode all the way from South Carolina on your motorcycle!!!!” I had a vision of the old movies when the whole town knew when a visitor was coming and everyone was excited. I felt like the talk of the island.
In the evening, Catherine prepared a feast for dinner. After Jim’s kids were sort of put to bed, he broke out the guitars and played a suite he’d written, and sundry other items. When Catherine came downstairs, they sang and played for me, and we exchanged songs, and solos. It was a wonderful evening.
It was wonderful to actually spend some time with Jim and Catherine together. What a wonderful woman Jim is blessed with. And put a song in her mouth and you find even more of her. Though we’d never met, I felt as if I knew Catherine from Facebook. I was not wrong, but she is more wonderful than I’d imagined. Good job Jim. You’re a blessed man.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Summerside, Prince Edward Island
60,607
0 miles (2,217)

What a fun day! Jim took me sightseeing on the island. His son, Leam, accompanied/entertained us. When we got home, I decided to spend another night there because I couldn’t make it to Cape Breton before dark. Jim and Catherine had a rehearsal to go to, so I stayed home and tried to figure out where to go next. I realized some things about myself tonight, and tweaked my plans accordingly.
Jim and Catherine came home while I was editing and uploading the pics of the day, so we gathered in the living room for some viewing and more wonderful visiting. We were up quite late, though my eyes popped open early just as if I’d gotten plenty of sleep.

Where in North America is Uncle Rod? Day 8

2009-06-21T23:55:00.000-04:00

Sunday, June 21, 2009
Summerside, Prince Edward Island
60,607
421 miles (2,217)

It’s Fathers’ Day and I’m not home. I miss my family badly today. I’ve thought about Dad all day today, but hadn’t a chance to call him. He was at church when I left this morning, and I’ve been riding all day long. Now I’m in Canada and can’t call even though I have time.

I lost hours today. Actually, the trip felt relatively short, but the clock says it took 11 hours. The rain and cold really slow things down, but I’m really not sure why. Last year I rode the first 700 miles of my trip in 13 hours. It just doesn’t add up.

I’ve said before, that time doesn’t pass when you’re on a motorcycle. This, for me, is the most solid proof of Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. Interestingly, once you stop riding, time rushes forward to the point where it would have been had it been passing all along, like some kind of compensatory rubato that Christopher was talking about last Wednesday. The catch here though, is that it is not always accurate, or punctual even. Often, there is lag between when you stop and the time it takes for time to catch up. It feels like the time keeper has been in sleep mode, and when it’s awakened, it has to recalculate, and now and then you can get a read out, while it still displays the time it was when you left hours ago. There have been times when I have stopped for such a short rest, that time really didn’t have time to catch up. I’ve looked at the time when I stopped and was shocked that no time had passed. But then on my next trip, upon stopping, twice as much time caught up so that it seemed I’d ridden twice as long that time.

Though still extremely wet and windy, today was the warmest day I’ve ridden since I crossed the Mason-Dixon line. Apparently, that is peculiar to the Maritimes. As I’ve read about this area, several locations have boasted “mild winters and balmy summers.” Of course, that, too, is relative. For me, a mild winter is 60 degrees and a balmy summer is 100. I can’t really know what they mean by that, except that as I rolled across New Brunswick toward PEI, despite the wind and rain, the air seemed to be much warmer than it’s been in New Hampshire and Maine.

It was a long, slow line to get through customs today. Fortunately, most of the sitting in line was pointing downhill, so I shut my engine off and coasted most of the way. Almost the entire ride from Parkman to Calais was in a cold, misty rain. The rain, wind and fog really picked up after I entered Canada. I attributed it to the fact that I was riding along the bay of fundy, but I don’t know if that had anything to do with it. My first couple miles in Canada was on slippery, pot-holed, wet clay, as road construction had removed the pavement, and water was standing in the clay holes. I honestly had trouble keeping my bike upright as I slowly rolled through Saint Stephen, NB. I stopped and hit an ATM machine about 30 minutes into New Brunswick because I feared the further I went, the less likely I was to find someone willing to take US dollars in case of emergency.
I’d gassed up in Calais to take advantage of the last chance for moderately priced gasoline, but I was running at highway speeds against an extreme headwind, and knew I’d drain the gas tank quickly. That happened as I went on reserve about half way between St. John and Sussex and slowed down, hoping there would be gas available soon. When I finally found some, it was a dollar and four cents per litre, and I used 13 litres. My credit card was charged $118 dollars for it and they put a hold on my card. This card was my backup card because my primary card had already been stopped due to suspicious activity – namely, me traveling on a motorcycle and spending 8 bucks every 100 miles.
I stopped to warm my hands in Moncton, and the cashier at the store told me, “it could be interesting crossing the bridge to PEI.” That was the second time I’d heard that in the last couple hours, so I asked her to explain. She said that the bridge is often closed to trucks because of wind, but added that there were rails and that I’d probably be low enough that they would shield me from the wind and blowing rain. I had thoughts of the cold, windy, rainy ride across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge and Tunnel, and began to worry/wonder at what I was going to face on this nasty night in the dark across the Confederation Bridge.
The rain and wind on the main road began to pick up as it got dark, and I rode hard to the PEI exit on the freeway. I stopped to gas up, not knowing how much further it was, and turned off into the unknown.
Immediately off the freeway, I began to get worried. The road was extremely bumpy, unmarked, or the marks were extremely worn, oncoming traffic, though sparse, blinded me with headlights refracting through the rain and reflecting off the wet pavement and the spray they kicked up off the road. Each time I saw the glow of headlights in the distance I took note of the direction the road took and slowed nearly to a stop to avoid running off the road while blinded. Also, about every mile there were signs that warned me of the moose population and asked me to use extreme caution. Having seen dozens of moose by now, and now being mostly weather blind and on a motorcycle, I began to get the willies.
I thought of Neil Peart’s words about the intense concentration that was required of him to ride his motorcycle on his Ghost Rider trip. He spoke of how it kept the grief from coming in and crushing him because the riding required every thought. Honestly, though constantly scanning the landscape, looking for tricky turns, low shoulders, uneven pavement, erratic drivers, gravel in the road, possible escape routes, I’ve never had to think that hard to ride. Now, though, I was using every brain cell to concentrate on staying right of an unmarked center, left of an unmarked shoulder, and rubber-side down, while scanning the invisible roadside for Moose. As I rode on, nervously, I kept hearing that warning, “it could be interesting crossing the bridge.”
When I finally arrived at the bridge, alive, I was elated to see that it was well lit, well marked and well paved. To make matters better, the rain almost completely stopped, and there was very little wind. The rest of the ride to Summerside was uneventful, if a bit chilly.
Jim was waiting at the door when I arrived, and there were leftovers waiting to be eaten for a late supper. Warmth, food and old friendship. The 421 miles of rain were worth it.

Where in North America is Uncle Rod? day 7

2009-06-20T21:34:00.000-04:00

Saturday, June 20, 2009
Parkman, ME
60,187
0 (1,797)

So I’m sitting still in Parkman, Maine, feeling really strange about not moving. Not making geographic progress. I have to remind myself that progress is not so small a concept that it can’t be happening while you’re not moving. I’m doing what I came on this trip to do. How easily I confuse my purpose with my methodology. How easily the riding of the bike from one point to the next supersedes the purpose of riding the bike from one point to the next. I’m at a point, and stuck there for longer than normal. But unless I realize that this doesn’t stop progress, I can’t make progress without moving. I feel like a cowboy that is stopped in his tracks for some dust storm, or washed out pass or something. Holed up and waiting it out.
This afternoon, I rode with the Johnstons in a van to see a bit of the North Woods and to look for Moose. We saw 10! And I saw some very beautiful country. The rain continued all day, but there was a moment, at the Canada border when the sun broke through a thin spot in a cloud and momentarily shown light. A few miles back down, we looked back over a lake and saw Canada’s sunlight spilling onto the water and the side of a mountain. All the while, it was raining. It was raining when I took a picture of the sunshine.
But it was nice to relax and take a respite from worrying about everything being wet.

Where in North America is Uncle Rod? Day 6

2009-06-19T17:51:00.000-04:00

Friday, June 19, 2009
Parkman, ME
60,187
211 (1,797)

When I woke this morning, the rain was still pounding down outside. I went early down to the “continental breakfast” and had a few muffins and cups of coffee. Things were still drying in my room, so I decided to wait until checkout time to leave. Everyone did. The dozens of French Bikers at the hotel were all milling around the continental breakfast and procrastinating the rain until checkout time. By 11:00, I’d packed everything up, dry or not, and loaded the bike. As I carried my gear downstairs, the rain stopped for a moment for the first time in two days and I began loading the bike. At about 11:30, the parking lot was full of bikers warming their engines, and we all took to the highway at the same time. I headed North on I-93 for 35 miles before taking rt. 3 through the White Mountains and up to rt. 2 to take me into Maine. As I turned onto a stretch of rt. 115 between 3 and 2, a sign warned me to “brake for moose, it could save your life.” Within a quarter mile, I braked for two Moose, a cow and her calf, as they wandered across the road.
The ride up I-95 was surprisingly beautiful through the White Mountains, and for the first time in my life, I experienced two-lane interstate, as the pass was too narrow to create four lanes. For 35 miles, I enjoyed the respite from the rain that started as I’d loaded my bike and merely dealt with the misty drizzle and road spray. But as soon as I turned east on Rt. 3, the rain started again, and became increasingly heavy for the next 185 miles.
I rolled into Farmington soaked, and bottom weary, so I decided to stop for a stretch in the pouring rain at the first gas station I found. I pulled into the parking lot and was met by two men who invited me to go inside for a free cup of coffee and then return for free hotdogs. These guys had set up a tent in the lot and were grilling in the rain. Customer appreciation, they said. I protested that it was the first time I’d been there, so how could they appreciate me. They assured me they did, and grilled me up two hotdogs, which I ate while standing under their shelter and enjoying conversation with them. When it was time to press on, they gave me their cards and invited me to call them for a free, warm, dry place to stay next time I’m in Maine. So Maine has now tied Arkansas for the friendliest state I’ve visited.
A few hours later, I arrived in Parkman, via a change of plans from a facebook offer of a warm dry bed. The Johnstons took me in, washed my clothes, fed me Moose meat, and invited me to spend an extra day waiting for the weather to subside.
I decided to take them up on the offer. I’m a bit relaxed now, knowing my stuff has extra time to drive, and I can stay dry for a bit longer before once again braving the wet and wild.

Where in North America is Uncle Rod? Day 5

2009-06-18T22:22:00.000-04:00

Thursday, June 18, 2009
Plymouth, NH
59,976
238 (1,586)

Those moments last night, beautiful though they were - were fleeting. The rain doused my fire just after midnight, and like someone just turned on a shower, rained steadily all night. I awoke at 6:00am from what little sleep I got, looked out of the tent and saw little streams running down to the lake all around the tent. There was water everywhere.
I laid in my warm sleeping bag for a long time devising a plan to pack up and load the bike without getting everything inside the tent soaked. The tent was a different matter, and I worried about it all day.
The plan worked, but it certainly didn’t matter. Within a very short ride, everything was soaked anyway. I donned my new heated gloves and felt them get heavier and heavier as the rain wicked from my jacket into the liner of the gloves. When I had to stop, it was nearly impossible to get my wet, clammy hands back into the gloves.
It was a slow-going day. I made several wrong turns early on, and couldn’t find a way around the lake at St. George to get to the road I needed. Like that triangulation of the outerbanks sounds on Monday morning, I found myself back where I started. I made the first 84 miles in exactly 3 hours, flat.
As soon as I entered New Hampshire, I began seeing dozens of bikers around every bend. It was somehow comforting to know that there were so many other people riding in the rain. But I also noticed dozens of bikes in every restaurant parking lot, in every Mom and Pop roadside motel. By mid-afternoon, I know I had passed a thousand bikers, and I kept seeing them all day. The further I got into New Hampshire, the more there were. Finally, when I stopped for gas, everyone would say, “ya’r headed for Laconia, ah ya?”
Aha! I realized I was headed into the biker hornets nest I’d seen 25 years ago when I was in Guilford. I decided to swerve North of Laconia, and try to skirt the worst of it.

Eventually, even the heated gloves lost the battle for temperature, and they ceased to keep my fingers from going numb and turning white. When this had happened, I was close to Plymouth, NH, so I decided to look for a place to stay. I needed to get dried off and re-compose myself.
I rented the absolute last Hotel Room in town (3 Hotels) for an exorbitant price, and set about unpacking my reservoir luggage, and devising ways of drying things. The lady at the desk told me all 3 hotels had been communicating all day because there were so many bikers and so much rain. The hotel had wooden blocks in boxes in the parking lot for bikers to use for their side stands. They also had towels and rags at all the entrances with signs that said, “Rags for bikers.”
As I unpacked my bike, I realized that there were only a couple of cars in the parking lot. Same with the tiny Motel across the road. Bikes were crammed in 2 and 3 to a parking space, so I shared a space with a Harley Sportster. Once inside, I saw folks sleeping 4 and 5 to a room, and noticed that everyone on my hall was speaking French. The hallway was like a train station with all the doors open, all the hairdryers blowing and folks milling from room to room, and NOone spoke English.
I unpacked all my clothes and took them to the laundry. I poured detergent into the machine and then noticed that money slot/start button was stuck so that the machine didn’t work. There was only one washing machine, so I beat the life out of it until the slot popped out and accepted my 50 cents.
I hung my gloves on the heater, my sleeping bag from the curtain rods, fashioned a display prop for my jacket after I’d disassembled it into its various components, and as soon as I’d taken a piping hot shower, unpacked the tent in the bathtub to hang it over the shower curtain to dry. I attacked my boots with the hairdryer until the circuit breaker kicked, and then I hung them by the heater blower as well.
What follows next is the most astounding thing….
I turned on the television – to the weather channel. Yes. I did it. I turned on the television. I thought maybe I could devise a flight path to get out of the rain, but I learned that it was raining from Indiana to Nova Scotia – Delaware to Quebec. So I turned off the TV and tried to think about dry heat that I experienced last summer in Nevada.

Where in North America is Uncle Rod? day 4

2009-06-17T19:55:00.000-04:00

Wednesday June 17, 2009
7:55pm
Lake Pleasant, Adirondack Preserve, New York

59,738
181 (1,348)

The birds woke me under a clear sky this morning, but before I had broken my bivouac, the clouds had rolled in. I loaded the bike and rode down to the waterfall to take some photos and think for a while before I went over to Ithaca College to attend Christopher’s lecture. At the waterfall, I actually heard thunder a few times, and was glad I’d had the foresight to put all the covers on my bags. When I came back to my bike, I noticed a spot of oil under it and realized I’d have to keep an eye on that. I found the oil running down my sidestand, but couldn’t find where it was coming from.
When I found a parking spot for the lecture, pondered whether to cover the bike and bags, but opted not to. I went in search of the appropriate lecture hall, and ran into a few people I know, or with whom I’m acquainted in the guitar world and exchanged hellos. The lecture was fantastic, and afterward, Christopher and I went to lunch at Moosewood Restaurant. I had the Schechuan Salad.
After a wonderful lunch and conversation, I headed north on rt. 13 and found a place to check my oil, buy a quart, and begin the nervous monitoring of my oil level. Each time I stopped today, I looked for a spot before I got back on, but there hasn’t been one yet.
So a ride along rt. 13 North took me through several amazing little towns. I stayed on back roads all day. The deeper into Adirondacks Park, the colder it got. When I got to where my chosen campground was supposed to be, I couldn’t find anything. I kept riding for several miles trying to decide whether to turn around and find someone to ask, but honestly, there was no one to find to ask. I guessed that I’d eventually find something, so I rode on. Eventually, I saw a sign for a NY State campground and turned down a long dirt road toward the lake.
There was a caretaker at the booth, which surprised me, because it’s been my experience that those guys go home long before any campers arrive, and judging by my luck on Sunday evening, lock the place up tight. But this guy lived in a little cabin by the booth and so was always there.
He sent me down the road to choose a site. I chose the one with the Pileated woodpecker pecking everything in sight.
When I came back, I asked if they had firewood. He sent me down another road where I could stick some money in a box and grab a couple armloads. I was nervous about carrying firewood on the bike for any distance, but I was determined to have a fire. I strapped a bit on the bike, but knew it wouldn’t last long. I decided if I made it back to my site with all the wood, I’d come back for the rest. So there I was, two trips, about a half-mile each, with a huge load of wood on the back of my bike. I was feeling silly when I rolled back into the campground, especially when I realized I had no matches. So I swallowed my pride and asked the caretaker. He loaned me a lighter, and off I went.
So I’m sitting here beside a lake in the mountains, watching the sunset over the water, with a fire warming my chilled bones. I’m wondering how in the world could I ever forget this moment? And as I ponder that thought, I think back to nights on my trip last year. There are a few that stand out, but I can’t imagine that there was a single evening when I didn’t think, “how can I ever forget this moment?”

Where in North America is Uncle Rod? day 3

2009-06-16T21:00:00.000-04:00

Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Ithaca NY
59,557
301 miles (1,157)
9:00pm

No sooner had I typed those last words with numb fingers, and got back onto the Penna Turnpike, the clouds thinned just a bit. Not much. Just a bit. But when you’re on a bike temperature sensors are super sensitive, so I could feel the slight rise.
When I reached Scranton, specks of blue sky actually broke through and I could feel the intermittent sun clear through my jacket layers and even in the wind on my face.
Across the New York line, blue sky overtook the cover, and the clouds became cumulus pulchritude and the sun warmed everything. Tonight the sky is fairly clear, for the first time since I left. The sun has gone down, and the woods are getting black.
I’m camped at Buttermilk Falls State Park, within a stone’s throw of downtown Ithaca. Ithaca College is just over the hill from me, but I have to go around the hill to get there. I was there tonight to meet up with my former teacher and mentor, Christopher Berg. I’ll go back in the morning to hear him lecture, “Re-imagining Performance” at the Guitar Foundation of America convention.
Even now as I lay on my back looking at the stars, there is a guitar being tuned a couple campsites away. I listened, expecting to hear some three-chord strummer. I don’t know why I was surprised when the player began Bach’s D minor Prelude BWV 999, and followed with the first movement of Torroba’s Suite Castellana, and continued with Villa-Lobos’ Etude 1.

Upstate New York is gorgeous country to ride. Allison and I experienced a spectacular ride from Buffalo, south through the country two summers ago, and this was no different. I’m really looking forward to tomorrow’s ride through the Adirondacks.

Today, as I crossed into New York, two forces came into play together, or rather began to weaken. I felt those forces as gravity and friction. Home is a body of incredible emotional mass, and therefore, tremendous gravitational pull. Leaving home is like breaking the surly bonds of Earth regardless of how desperately you need to be away. Not only is the gravitational pull tremendously strong, but the atmosphere provides heavy resistance and friction. Discomfort, inconvenience, etc., all add friction to the pull of home. Even so, were there no resistance outside the bonds of home, say, the weather was warm and sunny. Imagine that there’s a strong tail wind. Still, the object at rest will choose to remain at rest. This is because the heart knows that there is no place warmer than home. There are no souls warmer than those at home.
You can imagine the convincing one has to do to his begging soul. The soul begs for solitude and rest, but is drawn to what it knows best, because the day-to-day stress has a familiarity of its own. Familiarity is comfortable, no matter how stressful.
So as I crossed the New York state line, the friction of the atmosphere lessened and my move beyond the bonds felt less drag, and required less effort. There must be some scientific term that describes that point in the atmosphere where friction lessons and gravitational pull is miniscule. I wonder if weightlessness is first experienced there, in that place where momentum, inertia, and gravity find a perfect balance, and one accelerates through the turns effortlessly feeling slight forces in 3 dimensions.
Gravity gets weaker as you move away…

Where in North America is Uncle Rod? day 2.1

2009-06-16T13:48:00.000-04:00

Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Wilkes-Barre PA
1:48pm

BRRRRRR…. I’m frozen through. I’m geared for rain today. I haven’t experienced actual drops yet, but the air is foggy and thick, keeping everything damp and cold. The clouds are barely above my head.
Very slow day so far as well. I came through small towns from Wilmington, DE, to Exton, PA. Averaged less than 30 mph, so my first hundred miles were slow coming. I also missed my entrance onto the Penna Turnpike in Allentown, having no idea which side of town I’d come out of the country on. So I went the wrong direction and exited where there was no re-entry. It took 45 minutes of heavy traffic meandering to get me 3 miles back to the turnpike entrance. When I entered, I needed to use the potty, but alas that would happen for another hour of bumping along the turnpike.
So here I am in Wilkes-Barre, warming my hands and prepping for the next leg toward Scranton.

And on to Ithaca…

Where in North America is Uncle Rod? 2

2009-06-15T20:27:00.000-04:00

June 15, 9:30 2009
Newark, Delaware
59,256
355 miles (856)

I didn’t think it strange yesterday when I started away from home, to be remembering last year’s first day of the journey. As I left Charlotte yesterday afternoon, and headed eventually hit headwind four-lane for a long hard haul, I remembered the 691 miles I rode last year into Arkansas. That night I crawled into the tent without unpacking the bike and fell immediately fast asleep. That is what I expected to do last night as well, but each attempt at accommodations, no matter how humble, failed. I kept riding.
I did find it strange today though, that I began thinking about last year’s second day as well. Perhaps it was because the day started out similarly. Last year I awoke before dawn to a thunderstorm, and when light came, I headed back across the river into Memphis to see some sites. I kept getting turned around and crossing back over the river into Arkansas. This happened several times. This morning, I started up the wrong road, crossed the sound, rode on land for a few minutes, and crossed another sound. After 21 miles I arrived back at the very place I’d started. I started making progress 21 miles and 40 minutes behind. Last year I dodged rain all day through the Ozarks, and today, I dodged rain along the outer banks, across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, and through Virginia’s Eastern Shore. Well into Delaware, the blue sky coaxed me out of my raingear only a few miles before I rode into another storm. Last year, I rode out of the Ozarks and into Tulsa soaked.
Perhaps it’s not merely comparing, and remembering first and second days between the two trips. In fact, it just feels like this trip is the second leg of last years trip. It is as if no time has passed. Last year I rode from Chattanooga to Columbia, and yesterday I left Columbia for Nag’s Head. Just the next destination. Today, I remembered more details of last year’s trip than I did when I tried to write about it last year.

Virginia’s Eastern Shore is extremely beautiful. Vast flat farmland stretched in the narrow space between the Bay and the Ocean. Gorgeous old houses stand in the midst of fields.

Where in North America is Uncle Rod 1.1

2009-06-15T08:27:00.000-04:00

June15, 2009
8:27 am

As I fumble for my phone to dismiss the rude alarm, I realize that I’ve been dreaming about cruising around in the dark trying to get into that State Park. When I’d left the highway to follow signs to the park, I was a bit surprised, at how far I still had to go back through the woods to get to it. I was also a little nervous about how many turns and road changes I had to take. As I left the little town by the highway, I tried to take note of each turn as I rode deeper into the woods. I knew that while I had signs to follow toward the park, I may not have signs to follow toward the spot on the highway where I’d turned off. I did pretty well remembering the half dozen or so turns, but once I reached the park and meandered around looking for a way in, I realized that I could no longer remember which direction to head back. Indeed I remembered the turns, left, left, right, left…, but I had no idea from where I was starting. It felt like the norm of having strategy, maps and plans for the future but being so disconnected from the present moment that we have no idea where we are, and thus, no idea how to begin our plans.  There are several ways this plays out in our lives. One way is to always look for direction from someone else. Our culture is one that tries to sell us someone else’s road to success, but of course that road always goes from where that person was to where he is now. It does not usually go from where I am to where he is. We also plan and strategize about the future as if our plans are in no way contingent upon where we are now. We don’t have any idea where we are now. We’re so busy mapping our lives that we don’t know where the starting point is.
When I was planning my trip, I would open Google maps and typing in a location. Immediately, the map of that local area would pop up. I could study the surrounding terrain, look for points of interest, camping, and anything else I wanted to know. If I wanted to find the distance, or suggested routes, I would simply click “get directions.” It never surprised me that as soon as I clicked that button, the website wanted to know from where I was coming. They can’t tell me how to get there, unless they know where I am.
So odd that so often we go through life trying to find directions from who knows where.

This morning I’m on Roanoke Island, headed through Nag’s Head and up the Outer Banks.
I’ll see you in Delaware.

Where in North America is Uncle Rod? 1.0

2009-06-14T23:45:00.000-04:00

June 14, 2009
11:45pm
Roanoke Island, NC
58,891 (501 miles)

The plan for tonight was to camp at Pettigrew State Park. About 50 miles before I got to the park, it started getting dark, faster than the sunset would cause. I was riding due east into some pretty heavy storm clouds. I saw an exit sign that listed “camping” as one of the amenities, and got off the exit, only to get back on when I saw the sign that said how far it was from the exit. So I road another half hour as the storm clouds gathered, before I stopped to don water resistant apparel. I had just finished storm proofing my luggage, and putting on my raingear, when a man alerted me that there was a Motel about half a mile up the road. I fell to the temptation to avoid the storm and stop short of my goal, AND to sleep in a bed. So I inquired at the office as to the price for a room. I thought the price was too much, so I got back onto my bike and continued toward my predetermined State Park campsite.
Surprisingly, I found the State Park in the dark, in the middle of nowhere, but alas, it was closed. Not a light for miles, but my headlight assured me that there was a gate across the entrance, secured with a padlock. I continued on, disappointed that I’d turned down a campsite before dark. Little did I know that there just wouldn’t be any other place to sleep until I reached Outer Banks’ resort prices. So chilled to the bone, exhausted, and frustrated, I find myself paying twice the price of the moderately priced Motel that I deemed too expensive.
The day began with me packing my bike and then riding to church. After church, I rode to Charlotte to drop in on Carla’s graduation/22 birthday party. I left from Charlotte in route to the State Park that, like everything else, apparently, closes just before you need it.
The storm clouds I’d seen earlier were apparently coming in from the ocean and I was on the inland reaches of it. After dark, and all the way across the sounds and intracoastal waterways, it was apparent that it had stormed, but always just ahead of me. The raingear I’d donned served well to keep the damp, salt air from freezing me, but it was not needed for rain. For that I am grateful.

birth of the strawberry moon

2009-05-27T14:46:00.001-04:00

birth of the strawberry moon
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

I think I've done a fairly decent job lately keeping my lunar love affair in check. But summer's come, and the summer sky contains fewer non-lunar objects of affection. Already, Orion has ceased hunting and is resigned to eating jerky and smoked sausage until his season opens once again.
The Great Bear is nearly straight overhead circling my deck every night, his tail like the hour hand of my watch.
Last night, I sat on the front porch watching the rain drops grow fewer while I waited on Allison to come back from her dusk run. The clouds began to break up and there above the trees was my first glimpse of the Strawberry Moon.
I whispered gratitude for the break in the clouds and snapped a photo of the newborn.
Bring on the berries baby moon.
Summer is waxing.
I've got my rubber sandals and straw hat.
I'll see you in October, Orion.

on earth, as it is in heaven

2009-03-17T12:00:00.001-04:00

on earth, as it is in heaven
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

In most years, in most places, the calendar announces spring quite some time before nature does. Or, at least, the movement in that direction is so nuanced that one doesn’t notice until some progress is made. Let’s face it, if it has been ten degrees, fifteen isn’t all that noticeably warmer. When trees are bare and sleeping, one doesn’t necessarily notice when the circulation begins beneath the bark.
But rest assured, the mercury does begin to rise, as does the sap, and eventually the buds will form, and blossoms will emerge, and the whole earth will give birth.
At any given time in the process, folks at various locations will find themselves at different stages of labor. When I was in Mississippi this past weekend, the Gulf Coast was fully effaced with contractions less than a minute apart. Back home, as the week begins, we’re experiencing 70%, with contractions at 5 minutes. Further north, folks haven’t even begun clocking the pangs.
But, at whatever stage of the process, excitement has begun to build. We’re pulling out photos of last year’s foliage like late-term ultrasounds, longing for a glimpse of what is to come. Last year’s documentation provides hope in the surety of the promise, and that the keeping of the promise is imminent.
Even at this late stage, one has to look closely to find the signs. All around, the world is still monochromatic, but if you look closely there are hidden splashes of color - premature bushes, discontent to wait full term. Impatient midwives like myself, snap photos of these intermittent splashes and piece together views of the future – an early picture of what we know will soon be – and we walk around in that surety, braving the chill, colorizing the sepia, whispering to the tight little buds, coaxing the blossoms.

desiring beauty

2009-02-27T00:45:00.001-05:00

desiring beauty
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

I think it’s probably common, if not normal for people to face each day desiring to be confronted with beauty. Certainly, I begin each day with that very conscious desire.
Of course not only to see, feel, and experience beauty, but even
to know beauty,
to create beauty,

speak beauty –

to BE beautiful.

I want to be beautiful!

Maybe that’s a confession, or maybe it is simply admitting something that
everyone already knows about me –
something that everyone knows about everyone.

We all want to be beautiful.

Truly though, I have none of my own. Nor do you, I’m pretty sure. Realizing this shortly after I wake, I revert to my original desire of being confronted with beauty. I don’t have to settle for encountering beauty. Confrontation, that’s what I want.
Don’t walk by, Rod, face it head-on. There’s plenty of it out there midst the broken, fallen, decaying mediocrity. We walk by it every day. That’s what encountering amounts to - walking by.
Confrontation stops you in your tracks.

“My that’s beautiful,” you have to say.
And you take it with you ruminate over it throughout the day.

Who knows? If beauty confronts me often enough, and I’m wise enough to grapple with it, perhaps some will rub off, sink in, spill out and perhaps one day, if I’m very very blessed,
I might be able to confront someone myself someday.

being beautiful

2009-02-25T23:22:00.001-05:00

being beautiful
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

Suppose you learned you would become beautiful for 18 hours.
Suppose your time came to be beautiful and you found yourself locked up all alone in an empty building during your entire beauty period. Maybe you’d press your face to the window and scream, “look at me, I’m beautiful! It’s fleeting, Don’t miss it!” But since you’re stuck on the 5th floor, no one could see you anyway.
Even though you’re all alone, the 18 hours would no doubt fly by much faster than you’d like. Probably, toward the end of your beautiful period, you’d begin to realize that you weren’t made beautiful for people to see. Being seen beautiful may have nothing to with being beautiful. Regardless of how long it took you to figure it out, you realize that it is good that you’ve learned that if you’re beautiful, it is important just to be beautiful (emphasis on BE), whether or not anyone is looking. If you truly realized this, when you returned to normal, you may find that you are still beautiful.

symbols

2009-02-23T16:28:00.001-05:00

symbols
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

If you're a symbol person, symbols aren't just for your own good, but also, you can become a symbol for others around you.
Saturday I was reading N.T. Wright, and he said, when people aren't surrounded by beauty, they begin to lose hope.

Though, I'm not beautiful myself, I can certainly bring beauty to where it has long since gone missing.
Honestly, I think most people are about symbols as much as I am. There are symbols on display everywhere. Everyone seems to express beauty or the lack thereof. We've all got something to say.
There are places into which you can walk and have your breath taken by the decay, neglect, disrespect, and abuse.
Here is one. But I called it beautiful, took it's photo, and you agreed. Some things can become beautiful simply by being called beautiful. Space can be reclaimed, and ruin, reborn.

Early Sunday morning the sun rose across the Canal and Congaree River and shone it's light through these huge shattered windows. It does it ever morning.
I guess I could continue to let the sun rise on the forgotten, or I could go provide a soundtrack for the inevitable.
listen

growing young

2009-02-10T23:17:00.003-05:00

It’s still fifteen days until Ash Wednesday, yet I woke this morning with the reminder pressed in my mind. “Remember, you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

I really like old places and old things. There is a beauty in decay that equalizes grandeur. We humans experience it quickly. The Jock and Cheerleader deteriorate at the same rate as the Bookworm. Ten years out, and the only difference is the beer belly and upholstery print below the elbows, versus the increasingly thicker glasses.

Truly, Alles Fleisch, Es Ist Wie Gras.

I used to walk into old buildings and feel like I was walking into the past. Listening closely, one can hear the din of voices and noise of busyness from a long forgotten time. Looking closely, remnants of frozen moments can be found – a hairpin in a corner, a button wedged under a protruding baseboard.
This is something I still love to do, but the meaning has broadened to include not only glimpses and fantasies of the past, but also reminders of the future.

So goes all things.

Peeling paint, warping boards, rotting siding, sagging eves, are not only evidence of a past, but they were once the cruel promises of a future – and they are still promises - always kept.
Indeed, the knowledge of this truth creeps ever closer, day-by-day. And I feel them in numerous ways each day the sun treks across sky, moving ever faster with each new sunrise. But this is only true of the façade.

On the inside, I’m being replenished. I’m renewed with each sunrise rather than depleted. The decaying old me is being replaced. I’ve found the secret of regeneration. A new me is growing.
This is a process, folks – it takes time. As death is lazy, taking our bodies slowly, life is punctilious, using the passing years to meticulously imbue every soul-fiber with depth, wisdom, and dependence. It doesn’t happen overnight. In my case, the wisdom bit is particularly slow, but the dependence bit makes up for it.
If there is a one thing in life that I’m good at, one task that I’m equal to, it is waiting.
Waiting.
Today, at 45, I’m looking ahead to the completion of my aging process. I’m a bit sad that it’s manifest with sags and wrinkles and aches and pains, but I’ve got stamina that you wouldn’t believe. And I’ll wait until I’m finished growing young.

reflections of the future

2009-02-08T23:14:00.001-05:00

reflections of the future
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

everything, as it decays,
reflects the future

3 valves

2009-02-01T23:18:00.001-05:00

3 valves
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

All of life seems more easily understood if we create broad categories. If we find ourselves all in the same general context, we assume that we all have the same role, and thus, should all look the same.
The subtleties are behind the scenes.
Perhaps our jobs are all the same on some level, but the details of our jobs constitute a more precise level and at that point we are differentiated from the details of others'.
At this level, it is very important that we not be confused with others around us, that we not confuse ourselves with others around us. Even if we are in the minority, it could be that the minority is the absolute most indispensable aspect of the whole.

submission

2009-01-23T09:29:00.001-05:00

play along
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

if you are an instrument -
be played

views

2009-01-23T09:19:00.001-05:00

will in window
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

some folks see the world through colored glass.
some folks are above that.

climbing

2009-01-23T08:58:00.001-05:00

statue
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

Up is not the only way there is to climb.
Some people spend their whole lives climbing,
But rather than moving up,
They’re moving away.

feet of lincoln

2009-01-20T22:47:00.001-05:00

feet of lincoln
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

Everyone knows that I've always got a lot to say after a very meaningful event. This morning, as I sat with the world and watched the 44th U.S. President be sworn in, thoughts and emotions rolled. But I know that I can say nothing that hasn't been said, and prompt no thoughts that haven't already been thought. So I'll keep my mouth shut, and ponder internally the strides that have been made, even as I ponder the strides left to take.
Instead of rambling on, I thought I'd post this shot of my kids standing at Lincoln's feet about 10 years ago.
I am not growing up in the same America that my parents did, and my kids are not growing up in the same America that I did.

There are lots of broken things in our world right now, but I do believe that when relationships heal, lots of other broken things begin to mend. But broken relationships cause everything to get infected.

struggle

2009-01-17T21:34:00.001-05:00

struggle
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

I believe unless you struggle amongst your self, you will never be equal to any other foe.

grainy perception

2009-01-07T03:10:00.001-05:00

grainy perception
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

I have a friend whom, after a couple decades of reading lips, received a cochlear implant, and had quite a bit of hearing restored. When I spoke with her soon after, she expressed that she didn’t like to use her implant, because she couldn’t sort out what she was hearing. If someone spoke to her, she couldn’t differentiate between the sound of his or her voice, and any other noise in the room. The clicking of the computer keys drove her batty.
When a baby’s ears begin to work in utero, no doubt that little brain begins to sort out sounds because sometimes it seems that a parent’s voice is soothing to a newborn. I tend to believe that it is recognized and filed as comforting. But the baby continues to learn to sort sounds and their sources after she is born and after she has learned to sort visual stimuli.
Some people who have had sight restored reported seeing moving patches of color, but had no mental category in which to perceive what those patches might be. A blind man Jesus healed expressed that he saw “men like trees walking.” Who knows what his mental perception of humans was before he had ever seen. It is also said that though unsighted people negotiate furniture well, and obviously understand, depth as once they’ve walked around an object, they know that it is now behind them, some newly sighted folks lose this perception once they gain sight. Once the brain is able to see an obstacle, the perception of depth and environment changes so that some have stepped backward into things that they just walked past. Seeing it move from in front of them to beside them, did not register that it was now behind them. Space had always been a tactile perception.
So it would seem that a baby has some differentiation for sounds before he is born, but further categorizes their sources even after she is born and achieves the ability to process visual stimuli. The interesting thing about this, is that a baby has no choice but to consider (even if subconsciously at first) everything that comes across the cerebral cortex and over a long life of learning, to attempt to categorize, combine, simplify, and make since of all the various bits of information that are being received.
In the early years, there aren’t a lot of categories, maybe yeses and nos make up the majority of concepts. Connections and perceptions are grainy and lo-res. As she grows, the perceptions gain clarity and resolution and the foundation is laid for deeper understanding. Society though, perhaps unwittingly, places a graduation day on forming of categories, and humans begin to check out when offered ideas that challenge the premature closing of the door to concepts.

So why ramble on about all of this? I believe that there are those among us who never stop sorting out stimuli and creating new categories for processing it and understanding it. As we go through life, not only does new information often require new categories, but sometimes the new categories demand that we go back and re-file previous information that we now know has been filed wrongly (or, God forbid, actually delete information that has been shown to be unreliable.)
There are also those among us (perhaps a great deal more in the majority) who stopped creating categories long ago. For these people, every new experience, every new bit of information has to be filed in a previously created folder. Perhaps often, new things are filed in folders into which they don’t quite fit. At least as often, when there is not a handy category under which to file the experience or information, it is promptly rejected. An experience may be as real as the taste of chocolate, the information as obvious as the nose on your face, but it will be denied if it doesn’t have a pre-existent folder into which to file it.

I’ve often attempted to explain my odd filing system to my more modern friends by means of epistemology. I can explain that my elementary school understanding of the world was formed based on Einstein’s ideas, some of which hadn’t even been named yet (the term, “black hole” was not coined until I was in Kindergarten.) With this grid, or filter through which to observe and learn and believe as I grew up, my modes of understanding were created quite differently than were my parents’ and grandparents’ – even when we arrived at the same beliefs and conclusions. In fact, new scientific discoveries – or rather, the increased public knowledge of these discoveries – have demolished religious beliefs of a great many people who had long since closed their folders and locked in the criteria by which they would believe.

It is ever so difficult to communicate with someone who does not have a folder for the information or concepts you are trying to make them understand. In my experience, it is even more difficult when they insist that they do, and continually place your concepts in their own wrong folder.
The hardest people to make understand you are those who think they already understand. These are even more difficult than those who don’t want to understand. In these cases, they reject not only your info and your concepts, but often they write you off as well. If they’re kind, they’ll pat you on the head and pray that you “get with the program.”
I sometimes wonder if anyone understands anyone anymore. I do believe that outside of small groups of friends, conversation and dialogue are only euphemistic terms. I wonder if we’ve created a system in which we take turns talking within the hearing of others, but it needn’t matter what we say, because we use only a prescribed jargon set, and references to concepts that none of us could really explain if we were actually to begin a dialogue about them.

clarity 2.0

2009-01-05T01:46:00.000-05:00

Clarity is of no importance because nobody listens and nobody knows what you mean no matter what you mean, nor how clearly you mean what you mean. But if you have vitality enough of knowing enough of what you mean, somebody and sometime and sometimes a great many will have to realize that you know what you mean and so they will agree that you mean what you know, what you know you mean, which is as near as anybody can come to understanding anyone.

-gertrude stein

Tonight, in conversation with friends, we talked a bit about effective communication. During the conversation, I kept wondering if we’ve erroneously defined effectiveness by being understood. Indeed, with our accepted definition of communication, I could talk till I’m blue in the face and will not have “communicated” unless I got my point across. Probably this is the correct definition of communication. Unless one is understood, he hasn’t communicated anything.
So then I began to wonder if we’ve assumed we have to communicate when in fact, we’re merely asked to say what has to be said. At this point, I’m thinking of dialogue between God and the prophets wherein God tells them specifically what to say, and then adds the caveat that they won’t be heard or understood. (This of course is not the only way it ever happened – God told Jonah what to say, the people of Nineveh heard, obeyed, and were spared, and Jonah got pretty angry about it. I often wonder if it wasn’t Jonah’s norm to speak and be disregarded, so that he’d become quite fond of watching immediate consequences of ignoring him. Having been heard, he was robbed of the satisfaction of watching folks get what they deserved.)
Is the fact that people won’t listen, or can’t understand always indicative of a bad communicator? Have we not fulfilled the command to speak unless we’re understood and heeded? Or are we simply supposed to obey? Perhaps we’re simply supposed to speak when we’re told to, and keep our mouths shut when we’re not told to speak.

I remember a time when I was with a friend listening to a speaker deliver a telling of the story of Ruth. The speaker was wonderfully entertaining, deeply insightful, and very sincere. About ten minutes into his story, my friend leaned over and said, “this guy is an amazing communicator.” About five minutes later, my friend excused himself to make some phone calls. I wondered if perhaps our definitions of a good communicator differed somewhat. Truly, “this guy was an amazing communicator,” but to my friend, that simply meant he was entertaining (and that, only 15 minutes worth). There is, of course, the possibility that my friend was, in fact, commenting on the guy’s communication skills, but as it turns out, my friend wasn’t interested in what was being communicated, but only in how it was being done. Once he’d witnessed how it was done, he felt it more important to call someone on his cell phone. Perhaps he even called someone to tell them what a wonderful communicator he’d just heard, but of course he could not tell them what was being communicated.
Am I then to assess that in fact the guy was NOT an effective communicator? Or is it safe to say that he WAS an effective communicator, but that my friend was only interested in the communicating, not in the message that was communicated? Is communication in which no message was communicated communication at all? If my friend hadn’t the foggiest notion what the guy had said, what on earth did he mean when he praised him as an amazing communicator? Truly, hundreds of people benefitted from the message communicated that night – I was one of them, my friend was not. Was the speaker responsible for my enlightenment? Was he responsible for my friend’s disinterest in his message?

these questions are not merely rhetorical. I struggle with when to speak, when to keep quiet, and to what extent my responsibility reaches. Maybe yous guys can shed some wisdom?

Advent 4: Assessing the (con)Census

2008-12-24T00:25:00.002-05:00

penultimate night of the old world
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

(partial re-post)

“Are you ready for Christmas?” each clerk said as we stepped up to the register. “I am, but it really has nothing to do with what I’m doing here.”
Christmas will come and be accomplished regardless of who’s ready and watching. We’re all running around here signing our names at counters, registering our numbers, showing our IDs, being vouched for by banks, being approved and accounted for, like we’re a part of some kind of census or something. Rushing, no room in the parking lots, bustling, indulging - while quietly, behind the scenes, back in the service corridors, a young woman, tired from the bustling and bursting with abundant life, lies down to birth the new world.
If the musak were drowned out by a million angelic voices, and an invitation was issued over the mall speaker system, “to you is born in the service corridors… you will find the babe wrapped in discarded tissue paper and lying in a shipping crate…”, I really don’t know if we would hear. If we did, would we leave our shopping bags unattended in the primary hallways, and make haste to the cluttered mall alleys? Or would we clutch our plunder and say, “I’m sorry, it’s Christmas, I haven’t time to look at a baby born in the service corridor.” Time’s a-wasting.”

Advent 3 : assessing juxtapositions

2008-12-15T09:37:00.001-05:00

Advent 3 : assessing juxtapositions
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

One never knows where he may stumble upon hope or grace, or at least a symbol of hope or grace. And of course, wherever there is a symbol of hope, indeed, hope is not far behind. And wherever there is hope, grace is surely and sure thing. I’m certain of it.
Truly, if one walks often enough in less trod paths, and less often in familiar steps of his day-to-day, nearly everything he stumbles upon may take him by surprise.
I am an avid explorer of the less stumbled upon. Few things bring me more joy than venturing into winter woods, walking along - and in - mountain streams, catching a glimpse over one more ridge. But I have to admit that until recently, I’ve seldom veered off the main arteries of urban landscape. I’ve spent little time exploring the wilderness of cities.
Last Sunday afternoon as the family ran off to grab a quick bite after church and before ballroom dancing lessons, I opted to use the moments to quiet my nerves and emotions. I decided to walk back to the old boiler building at the other end of the parking lot where I photographed Molly in her tutu for some of my favorite pictures I’ve taken so far. The juxtaposition of grace and decay that day has intrigued me ever since.
Truly, the more I thought about it, I decided that perhaps grace and decay aren’t such a surprising juxtaposition after all. Or rather, it is more surprising that we would be surprised at experiencing grace depicted in the context of decay. After all, where else is grace needed? Imagine stumbling upon a stable on a brisk night and finding a neonate swaddled in a feed trough. Imagine later realizing that regardless of where that baby had been born, it would have been grace juxtaposed in relative decay.

The building sits atop the steep bank of the Columbia Canal, and directly across the freeway from the old Penitentiary, all but portions of the huge granite wall razed to the ground. In the weeds, beside the building I followed a light path that led through thickets down to the canal and along the water to the freeway bridge. I walked under the bridge and climbed back up the steep dirty bank to where at least a few folks live in community behind pilings and steel girders, in make-shift bedrooms made private with sheets of plywood, and blankets.
On this brisk, but sunny afternoon, no one was home, and I felt as if I’d just walked into the open front door of a family in my own neighborhood, and had stepped beyond what was appropriate for me to explore. As I made my way back down the bank to the canal, I stumbled across this ceramic Angel sitting on a splatter of concrete. I thought of symbols, and hope, and grace. I thought that surely there is not one alley, not one attic space, park bench, boiler building, or freeway bridge that is not permeated with grace. And there’s always something there to remind me. Symbols and feelings of recognition.
One might think upon walking under that bridge, “there but for the grace of God go I.” But I do know that even if there go I, it is not without grace.

Advent 2.0 : assessing direction

2008-12-10T21:59:00.001-05:00

Advent 2.0 : assessing direction
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

some people find it difficult to make their way in life. It's really not rocket science folks, you just get a shopping cart and follow the arrows

Advent 1.2.1: A Jordan River Baptism

2008-12-03T12:35:00.001-05:00

Advent 1.2.1: A Jordan River Baptism
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

I’d waited for nearly two years for Venus to reappear in the evening sky. I'd consulted all the texts and sky calendars online. I'd searched the web to try to pinpoint which part of the western horizon would be graced by it's glowing face.
Since last Venus appeared, I've watched Jupiter rise so early in the morning that no one in his right mind would make a regular viewing. Little by little, he rose earlier and earlier until he was not yet ready to set before the sky had grown dark enough to see him. In fact, a few months ago, he had made his way around the clock until just as the sun was setting, he was rising on the opposite side of the sky.
At about the time Jupiter reached mid sky at sunset, Venus began setting just after the sun, and each evening appeared just a little higher, as Jupiter continued in the early evening from east to west. At one point, just as the full moon rose at sunset, Jupiter stood directly in the middle of the southwest, while Venus followed the sun below the horizon. The sky was full of color and gradient, and lit in an arc by the moon and the two planets. Of course, one has to take in the entire sky to see this, and most people are unaware of the preparations for the display until all are in the same vicinity.
I’ve watched every clear evening (and during cloudy ones, made mental note of location) as Venus appeared slightly higher in the sunset and Jupiter moved slightly closer to the sunset. During this time, Jupiter has dimmed and Venus has brightened. The moon has waxed and waned, set with the sun, and rose as the sunset, until December began with a new moon and when it reappeared as a crescent in the sunset, Jupiter had made its way to Venus, and all three stood together falling toward the horizon.
Last night, Venus had moved slightly higher and Jupiter slightly lower so that they hung side by side until they disappeared below the horizon, Jupiter barely dimmer than the night before, and Venus ever so slightly more brilliant.
This will continue a few more nights until Jupiter bids farewell during an evening soon when the sun sets enough for us to see the waning light being welcomed at the far side of the lake. Perhaps if it is quiet enough, I’ll hear a small sizzle when he dips into the water.

I’ll be sad at the disappearance of Jupiter. The evening sky will be quite different. But I’ll be encouraged to know that it is meant to happen. And I’ll be encouraged to remember that Jupiter’s brilliant run across the sky was all alone until Venus appeared on the horizon many months later. I’ll remember that following Jupiter’s path for months in the evenings brought my eye westward little by little until the brighter planet appeared. I’ll remember that when they met, Jupiter was visibly dimming and Venus growing brighter. I’ll remember that glowing crescent moon above, appearing so pleased. I’ll remember the cloud formations that, though they appeared so beautiful, sought to block my view. I’ll remember that Venus shone through anyway moments before it disappeared into the wilderness over the horizon for a time.

I’ll remember that the moon followed it over the horizon.

And I’ll wait patiently for its reappearance just before dawn, and smile as it hides in the sunlight all day while moving across the sky until it has its shining moments, ever increasing, at sunset.

Advent 1.1 : Assessing Assessment

2008-12-01T12:12:00.002-05:00

Advent 1.1 : Assessing Assessment
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

A proper balance within views of yesterday, today and tomorrow, would perhaps include a tension that understood Yesterday as a powerful inspiration of endurance, hope, and promises kept. Today might be seen as a great gift even while Tomorrow is anticipated with great hope.
So while Tomorrow deserves our anticipation and hope (not our worries), Today is where we’re put.
Yes, it’s always Today.
Today is where we find ourselves.

Of course this brings to light a third focus in addition to methodology and theology. This oft out-of-focus focus is Spirituality. It is a terrible travesty that we find its elusive definition mostly by methodological means, and seek its meaning only in theological understanding.
But methodology is the work of the hands, and theology is the work of the mind, but the spirit transcends both.
To reduce spirituality to practice and knowledge is to find one’s self forever waiting. Forever dismounted, out-of-balance, and feeling discarded, forever in a surreal environment.

May we find ourselves in every Today until Tomorrow actually arrives, but when it does arrive, may we be found ready. May we keep our tires mounted and balanced, to paraphrase a Jesus metaphor. In fact, in the Gospel of Mark, he even says we need to keep our engines running (again – paraphrased).
But while our tires are mounted and balanced, and our engines are running, we mustn’t forget that the day now is and much of what we’re waiting for is ready to be grasped – Today.

Advent 1 : Assessing the Age

2008-12-01T12:11:00.001-05:00

Advent 1 : Assessing the Age
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

Among current religious “traditions” there are many attitudes and perceptions concerning yesterday, today and tomorrow. Furthermore, these three attitudes are filtered through two foci - methodology and theology. Among those focused on methodology, Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow take on a very superficial meaning. Yesterday was when everything was right, it represents the correct way of doing things, and Today is a sad state of affairs with no respect to heritage or tradition. Tomorrow, judging by Today, it’s all going to hell in a hand basket.
Among those focused more theologically, Yesterday was when I theoretically was a bad bad person, Today is the day to endure, and Tomorrow is the only thing that counts in my religious life.
But we all know that it is always Today, so regardless of which way you’re bent – methodologically, or theologically – things just ain’t very good.

ring

2008-11-17T21:56:00.002-05:00

finished ring
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

My friend Glenn, The Philosopher, allowed me to get in on the fun when he showed me a project he was beginning in which he was going to re-cast his wedding band so that once again it would fit his finger. Some of you have known me long enough to know my own wedding ring/finger story, but I’m not sure if I’d told it to Glenn, The Philosopher, yet.
I’d considered asking Allison if I could replace my wedding band. It had cut me a few times with its jagged bits from the quick melt, but Allison, out of context, had mentioned to me that wedding bands couldn’t be replaced – there was too much symbolism attached. So I kept my mouth shut. When I heard what Glenn was doing, I saw the chance to make it right, and ADD symbolism in the process.
I thought it would be totally awesome to re-cast the same gold from my original band, seeing as how that seems to be the secret to marital longevity. The re-casting of the original material is quite necessary every time we become aware that something is awry. Sometimes the original sheen is lost and merely needs a good polishing. Sometimes jagged edges form, and must be sanded and smoothed. Sometimes, the original purity is lost and refining is necessary.
One of the toughest bits of a relationship is the reclaiming of the sullied. Relationships have things stolen, carelessly discarded, or given away that are detrimental to the bond. Some of these things can simply be let go. Some of them have to be reclaimed, redeemed, bought back. And sometimes, the price is high.
Allison was right. As long as a wedding band still fits, it can’t be replaced. Too much symbolism. But just as a scarred and jagged gold band symbolizes all that has been overcome in a couple decades of marriage, a re-claimed, redeemed, re-cast wedding band symbolizes what has happened, and continues to happen to bring about healing, growth, and strengthening that holds a couple together.
Things that are lost in a marriage don’t have to stay lost. Even things that were stolen or carelessly given away can be redeemed and reclaimed.
So the Philosopher and I have been learning and practicing so that we can accomplish this important task. We’ve tried and failed to cast practice rings of brass and copper. On Saturday, we tried again, but I brought to the fire an ounce of Sterling, thinking that tonight was the night we’d have success.
Indeed, the result was my first self-crafted ring. And the entire process was full of meaning.

Truly, there are symbols and processes involved in making that symbol that I’ve never heard anyone talk about in any wedding ceremony. In fact, it may not matter to a couple just beginning. It takes time to understand anyway. Perhaps the mention of these things in a wedding ceremony would fall on deaf ears. I don’t know.
Perhaps it is enough to rehearse the bits about the purity and preciousness of the metal, about the never-ending nature of the ring, but one should at least know that his symbol was created by melting bits under extreme heat so that they puddled and formed a single precious object. One should know that the molten metal was poured into a cast formed by carefully modeling a ring that represented the final desired product. One should know that after it was formed, the ring was rough and discolored, and though it was precious metal, it required intense cleaning, and smoothing, and polishing before it could be worn as a beautiful symbol of a relationship that would require all the same processes to become beautiful.
Now that I’ve successfully been through the process, I’m looking forward to every step required to reclaim my bent, beaten, scratched, too-small, jaggy wedding band. I’ll apply the heat, surrender the gold to the mold and smooth and polish with intense tender love, just as has been done to Allison and me through these formative years of relationship.

(photos of the process are on my flickr site)

breakneck

2008-11-01T00:22:00.001-04:00

breakneck
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

It is our Hyper-modern modus operandi to rush forward at breakneck speed. It seems though that we are only rushing forward from a moment to a moment. Seems to me that if we had knowledge of more than the last moment, and concern for more than the next moment, perhaps we’d slow down a few knots and actually experience the present moment with a bit more intentionality.
To seize the moment doesn’t mean to seize this moment, but rather to seize the next, and of course, you’ve got to be first there to claim it as your own. So we press on, ever faster, ever greedier, without the slightest care about what lies ahead.

I truly believe that when we get there before we’re supposed to, it is not the same as it would have been had we arrived on time.

how to care for a husband

2008-10-27T22:15:00.001-04:00

how to care for a husband
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

Sometimes Allison gets aggravated with me because I keep bits and widgets that she (nor I) can see any reason for having. The difference is that I can imagine that there may someday be a reason for having such bits and widgets, and woe upon us all when that day arrives were we to have no bits and widgets.
Once when I had to replace the dishwasher, I stripped the old one of all its possibly re-usable bits and stored them statically in the garage in preparation for that inevitable day. I can’t even begin to tell you how handy those dishwasher parts have been. The washing machine motor and clutch, however, are still waiting patiently for their day in the limelight.
Sometimes the future use of an item is immediately foreseeable. One doesn’t have to be a rocket scientist to realize you can never have enough lengths of wire around the garage. The more colors and gauges the better.
Sometimes though, there needn’t ever be a use to justify keeping an item on hand. Although one should always have several rotors and brake drums stashed in case he ever wants to perform an orchestral work by George Crum, he needn’t ever to actually perform a work by Crum to feel satisfied in having always had drums and rotors at the ready. Another worthy exhibit is the old oil pump gears and filter bracket from my old Mitsubishi Mighty Max. And I should not forget to praise the head bolts from my now-deceased Explorer. How can anyone who has ever cherished a pair of cracking baby shoes question the cherishing of head bolts by one who has babied, bathed, and built the engine of a trusty truck? Those things just feel good in one’s hands, and their weight and balance bring joyful smiles to all who handle them, much in the way a fragrant candle, or bouquet of flowers can brighten the hearts of folks who visit the kitchen.
And speaking of kitchens; we no longer live in a society in which a man goes out and works while the woman waits patiently for him to return to his supper. These days, a man is just as apt to wander through the kitchen as a woman is likely to cook him some supper. Could be that he feels uncomfortable walking through the kitchen when all he finds are fragrant candles and floral bouquets. A quick cure for this discomfort is the randomly placed ratchet or allen wrench upon countertops and dinner table. Nothing says to a man that he is valued in the home like seeing a bit of his own tempered steel fragrant with 80 SAE.

neomysticism

2008-10-21T23:55:00.001-04:00

neomysticism
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

I wonder if we’ve come to a place in which we marvel at the easily explained and knowable, while we pretend to know the inexpressible and mysterious.
We seem to define God, make him finite, and then invent things to pretend we don’t understand.

listening

2008-10-19T23:07:00.001-04:00

listening
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

Have you ever been sitting in a meeting, or someplace with other people where you’re all supposed to be listening to what’s being said to all of you, and suddenly the person next to you gets a look of sudden thought and leans in toward your ear to share the thought? You had probably forgotten the person was even there, beside you, expected to listen to the same blather as you.
But suddenly, his look, combined with the urgency of the lean toward your ear piques your interest in what he has to say. Most likely, your boredom with what’s being said up front, has also raised your desire to hear the sudden insight. So you meet the lean with a tilt of your head.
You feel breath on your ear and hear the sound of breath behind teeth, but can’t quite make out what is being whispered.

You turn your ear.

You hear a hollow vowel shaped by tongue and palate, but can’t make out the consonants that define the envelope.

You temporarily cease breathing,

You make out an attack consonant and a vowel, but the end of the word trails off like a path that suddenly disappears in undergrowth and erosion.

I know this experience well. At times, the whisper comes from the person beside me. At times, it comes from the breeze rustling the trees, and sometimes from my own head or heart.

I feel the urgency, the need to break the blather,
to pierce the din of nonsense and the silence of meaning.

But try as I may, I can’t quite make out the diction.

I heard this imperceptible voice this past weekend below the rim of the canyon. I heard it over the crackle of the campfire, between the howls of the coyotes beneath the moon. I heard it on the wind across the Painted Desert blowing through the cracks in the adobe of the Wupatki ruins.
Three days later, I heard it in the constant rain outside my bedroom window last night as I drifted off to sleep. I’ve ignored the blather to which I was expected to listen, and am diligently trying to hear the whisper.

There’s a quiet in my heart that hears the whisper, but there’s still din enough in my mind that obscures the message.

Shhhh. Rod, be still…

soledad

2008-10-17T00:43:00.001-04:00

soledad
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

Solitude is a very important condition for me. I get so very little of it. Truly, I believe we live in a society that is increasingly terrified of solitude, and those of us who are fueled by it, find it increasingly difficult to come by. Those who are terrified, need us to protect them from it. Imagine protecting someone else from the thing you need the most
I certainly didn’t expect to get any solitude on my trip with Molly – that was obviously not the point of the trip – but the 6 mile hike, the 14 degree nighttime temp, and jetlag had taken their toll on Molly by campfire time on Sunday evening. As a result, I found myself tucking her into her cozy sleeping bag beneath the full moon, pulling the drawstring up around her face, and sitting by the fire alone from quite early in the evening.
Given an unexpected gift of time to parse the trip and the day’s events, I sat quietly in an attempt to think the thoughts that I’d put on hold – even for weeks. I
said a prayer of thankfulness for time to think, and set about thinking. After about an hour of quiet interrupted only by coyotes howling at the rising full moon, I realized that I had thought not a single thought for quite some time. I searched my short-term memory and found the most recent thought – I hope Molly’s not cold. I whispered through the tent door to ask her, and upon getting no response, returned to the fire and promptly resumed thinking no thoughts.
When eventually thoughts returned, I thought it odd that I spend so much time wishing I could simply empty my head long enough to put things in order. I think it would be like cleaning the garage – take everything out onto the driveway, and then put it back neatly and orderly, discarding everything that is no longer needed. That is a fantasy of mine (both mentally, and the garage!), but I was so taken aback by the experience when it actually happened. Grateful, mind you, but surprised.

supplication

2008-10-01T11:35:00.001-04:00

supplication
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

God of paint and canvas,
Have mercy on us.
God of light and composition,
Hear our prayer

God of pen and paper,
of Phrase and
line-break, Have mercy on us

God of Sound and Silence,

Hear our prayer.

God of Melody and Rhythm,
God of strophe and refrain
God of diction and dialect
Have mercy on us

God of the mops and washing machines
of the weed-eater and lawnmower
Hear our prayer

God of breakfast, lunch and dinner
God of hockey, ballet, band and ball
Have mercy on us
God of accountants and weekend warriors
God of admin assistants and closet poets
Hear our prayer

We’ve abandoned you in our abandoned ambitions.
We are masters of the mundane,
bereft of expression.
Our focus is short of the sunsets you paint.
Our sleepy eyes miss the eruption of
multi-chromatic mercies.
The hum of HVAC drowns the rustle of leaves.

We’ve replaced your art
with our mediocrity,
We’ve replaced our art
with daily drudgery.
Even the daily glory of the grind,
The beauty in the banal, is
Lost on us in our rush.
Show us your creativity in our craft,

Let us feel your pleasure in
A colored canvas and unmade bed.
Smile on our song,
and dirty dinner dishes.
Show us the beauty of a floor
Swept as unto the Lord.

Grant us the solace of solitude,
Grant us the comfort of community.
Teach us the art of hospitality,
And how to be received.

God of form and function,
God of shape and line,

Hear our prayer.

strength and beauty

2008-09-27T15:25:00.001-04:00

strength and beauty
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

Perhaps I am not too simplistic or presumptuous to scrunch the perseverance of a marriage to two key ingredients. I would not dare say that these are the key ingredients of all marriages, or even most marriages, but I’m ready to contemplate their importance in ours.
Strength and Beauty. And not necessarily in that order.
Also, contrary to what might be expected here, gender roles have not necessarily dictated the shifting distribution of those two ingredients. Perhaps at any given time, one of us has corrected the imbalance created by bringing the neglected ingredient into a moment that was heavily flavored with the other. But over time, we’ve shared these two ingredients between us until each of us strive to bring both to our union. Lest you think that my strength and Allison’s beauty have combined to create what we have, you may have a very simplistic, superficial view of beauty and strength.
Perhaps even, her obvious beauty and my obvious strength have had to be struggled through to overcome buried ugliness and hidden weakness. Eventually, we both bring a bit of strength and beauty, but neither is quite enough without the other’s strength and beauty. Together, we are quite beautiful and strong!
Truly, at any given shared moment, one of us can perceive the moment as sheer beauty, while the other feels only sheer strength. This is a phenomenon that we can become only merely aware of through continued growth toward intimacy. I wonder if one of the greatest achievements in a marriage, is to realize the beauty of strength and the strength of beauty. I’m guessing that it is possible that this realization is what stops two people from living as though each bring the missing piece of the relationship, and find that the division between the two pieces has disappeared.
Is this what it means to become one?
What an incredible mystery that two individuals can become more complete, individual, self-aware, and real when melded together with another.

ravine

2008-09-18T16:56:00.001-04:00

ravine
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

Yesterday when I woke, I had thoughts. So many thoughts pouring indiscriminately from my half-awake mind that I couldn’t get to my computer fast enough to catch them all. When I did get to my computer, I couldn’t type fast enough to turn them all concrete. When I looked back from my seat at the computer, there were thoughts strewn all about in a trail leading back to the bed from whence I’d sprung. Some of them lay there still recognizable and recapture-able – pick them up and blow three times on them and all is well. Some of them though, had already begun to melt. Little puddles of melted thoughts with soft, shrinking mounds in the middle like pats of butter in the omelet skillet.
Even so, there were still plenty left unspilt, or at least recovered to keep my fingers flying and my brain confused for a good while as I tried to sort them out and place them neatly in paragraphs that would make sense to me later.
I tried opening several blank documents and sorting them as they spewed forth, but I couldn’t shift between windows fast enough. Instead, I used the “cork board” in Scrivener and just tacked them up as fragments to be sifted later.
Everything came to a screeching halt when I typed the word “rivine,” and had to deal with the squiggly line beneath it. “hmmm,” I thought. I’ve used that word all my life. I dug around in my dictionary widget. Nothing. I googled, yahood, dict.com’d, you name it. I couldn’t find that word. Surely I’ve not used a word that doesn’t exist. Everyone has always known what I meant by it. I gorge, canyon, hollow, deep and steep. Come on dictionary, it’s a bit of land that has been riven by a stream, rent by an earthquake, or some other such earth-shaping action.
I ceased to think my thoughts and instead, obsessed on the word that had riven my flow of verbiage, had rent the very fabric of my stream of consciousness. Eventually, it occurred to me that since my correct etymology and spelling were unrecognized by the dictionary, perhaps I’d do well to misspell it purposely and trick the dictionary into finding it for me. So, I typed in “ravine.” Ha! I did it. I tricked the dictionary. I tricked google, and yahoo, and dictionary.com. All of them said, “canyon, valley, a deep narrow gorge with steep sides.” See? Why would it be spelled that way? Allison said, “maybe it comes from the word, “ravish” instead of “riven.” No way! Way!

Ravine – from 18th c. French, Ravine – from Latin, rapina, to pillage, or rape.

Go figure.

gentle filling

2008-09-11T00:26:00.001-04:00

gentle filling
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

It is impossible this morning merely to sit at the kitchen table and watch the gentle play of low morning light spotlighting the ballet of breeze and green in the backyard. In fact, the play of light is not readily apparent. It is diffuse through thick, stationary rain clouds. One has actually to sit still in the midst of the morning for quite some time to acquaint his skin with the temperature and humidity even to perceive the ever-so-gentle stir of the air. He must become acclimated to the stillness to detect the stir.
The rain is falling steadily, but so gently that it can’t be seen by looking through the air at the deep, damp green canopy and walls of the yard. It can be heard though, and of course felt. Heard to play its under melody, not a counterpoint exactly, but more like the chant tune above which the birds and tree frogs have added their vernacular text in florid lines to create this morning motet of supported stillness. The stir of atmosphere against my skin is so slight that it doesn’t move the leaves – they only jitter at the gentle drops dropping from the higher leaves.

I think it is profound that midst a barrage of beauty, it is easy to completely miss it, or at least miss most of it. Storms are quite common here this time of year. One moment, the sky is blue and suddenly, over the trees roll dark, strangely lit greys that roar and shoot bolts of bright white among themselves and toward the earth. They don’t open valves, but rather burst a main and pummel trees, break branches, and wash lawns and gardens into the streets to overflow the storm gutters and leave patterned lines of debris scattered on pavement.
Just as suddenly, this outburst of emotion seems to abate, and for a moment the sky seems to go about the process of pulling itself together, sobbing and wiping away the final tears. It’s as if the blue has come to calm the grey and wraps its arms around the angered clouds and presently around us all.
It is difficult to see the beauty in the purging of meteorological emotion. Perhaps it is as difficult as it is to see the beauty in the deep blue of joyful skies. It all comes so fast and furious that one can’t perceive it. It is almost as if the elements must be separated and experienced one at a time in order to appreciate truly their beauty and power.
This summer, while riding across utterly flat, vast Colorado wilderness, I saw a storm an hour ahead of me. During that hour, I rode in still, dry desert air while watching black clouds hang wispy sheets of smoky mist against the ground. I watched bright, undefined flashes illuminate the blackness from the inside, I saw sharply defined, jagged bolts of brilliant neon white reach across the sky, flashing. I saw thick, heavy electric spears flung to the ground as if they would stab the earth and stand there lighted, smoking, and consuming the desert sage and blackening the loose, rocky soil.
As I approached the blackness, the air cooled by 20 degrees, and the wind pushed my bike sideways. Huge drops of water pelted my faceshield and pricked my arms and legs. The bolts were landed in the soil so close to me that I imagined I could feel their heat. I saw space behind the bolts and experienced the storm in three dimensions rather than against a two-dimensional backdrop of dark, cloudy sky. Unfathomable power unleashed at once in a display of overwhelmingly terrible beauty.
I rode another hour in the midst of this awesome anger before reaching the breaks of dusky blue on the other side at the edge of the Rocky Mountains. I stopped my bike to breathe and realized that the storm hadn’t stopped, or moved on, I’d simply come through it and out of it and left it there, still kicking and screaming and pouring out its wrath on the desert landscape. Days passed before that storm ceased to be a part of my current experience, and became instead a powerful memory of fear, power, respect and submission.

Rarer though, are these slow, long lasting drizzles. A couple weeks after the Colorado storm, I rode nearly 700 miles northward along the Pacific ocean in a three-day, chilly, foggy drizzle. A slow ride in slow rain allowed the beauty to be slowly absorbed through my layers and trapped inside where my capacity for beauty was stretched.
Such is the rain of this rare morning. Evening’s gentle thunder and occasional flashings subsided, but without the blue to come from behind and hug away the anger, the sky remained melancholy through the night. I woke at intervals to hear the gentle, constant patter of rain in the leaves outside the window, and at first light, I was past being satisfied with only sound. I made my way to the covered front porch and stepped out into the drizzle, just long enough to prime my skin to feel the practically imperceptible stir of rain-breath, and perched myself in a rocking chair to watch, feel, listen and absorb.

These are the gentle, washing mercies, new this morning. They are slow, constant, and faithful - gentle, so as to be absorbed. The whelming storm is awesome, powerful, terrible, and cleansing, washing away accumulation and dispersing it in the runoff. But this welcome morning is experienced, absorbed and cherished.

I suppose it is difficult for me to accept that mercies come in many -often contradictory -forms. But of course, sometimes one needs to be washed, and sometimes he needs to be filled.

future past

2008-09-06T19:08:00.001-04:00

future past
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

So I’m sitting alone at the kitchen table past any sane person’s bedtime, staring at my son’s canvas wallet. It is much too thick and stuffed for a kid who is unemployed and dependent. I lift it, hold it, weigh it in my hand. I’m surprised to find that it is filled with coinage. Bulky, and heavy with coins. It is also a bit soiled with light dirt, from serving as an inadvertent hand rag for the hands of a teenage boy.
Will was right, this bit of pocket organization will probably go on forever. Never wear out.

A couple weeks ago, Allison presented me with a new wallet. I’m not sure why, except that I actually needed one. But that doesn’t really seem like an adequate reason. I’ve used the same wallet for all the years we’ve been married, which in 16 days will be 22 years. That wallet has held up quite well over the years, but of course 22 are a great many. The edges are worn, torn, and the seams are opening,. When I reach in to pull out a bill, if there are any, I also always pull out a thread as well, and of course this furthers the deterioration process. The once textured leather, alligator-like, is worn smooth and flat and polished to an unnatural sheen.
Upon receiving the new one, I sat at this very table and emptied its contents into sorted little piles and rid myself of the bulk of bits of paper and notes that had long since lost meaning, of receipts for possible returns that showed no signs of ever having contained any written information. Several years of expired car and motorcycle registrations found their way to the trash. I carefully folded and stowed bits that would of course, always be needed – like the yellow legal pad corner that contained, in the blue ink, all-caps, block printing style of my father, the fuel/oil mixture ratio of gasoline and 30-weight detergent motor oil on which the boys’ Maytag engine runs.
When finished, the new wallet made its way to my pocket and the old, no doubt feeling suddenly cold and deserted, lay where it was emptied.
The next day, Will asked me what I would do with the old wallet. “I have no idea,” I told him, “I suppose it will lie around until mom gets frustrated and throws it away.” Will asked if he could have it. I told him of course he could, but asked why he’d want a falling-apart, worn-out billfold. He answered that he thought he’d like a wallet that could be worn out. He didn’t think his wallet could be worn out, and that there was something friendly about a wallet that would grow old and worn.
My heart smiled and wondered at the depth of his contemplations. I wondered if he was feeling vibrations of my years in the emptied, frayed folds. Perhaps he was picturing me in younger, more textured, less worn and thinned days. Maybe he was reaching into a past that he could only trust existed but of which there is no evidence, save bits of weathered and worn leather, textile, and saggy skin. It is possible that he could be merely fantasizing that he, too, as apparently his dad had, could grow older, and richer, and have a deeper past on which to ponder, for at the moment there was no evidence that he was any different than his canvas wallet. In fact, they seem quite the same – rough, indestructible, sturdy construction, and slightly soiled.

There is a moment, maybe a long one, between the invulnerable, immortal, forever-young freedom of adolescence and the growing responsibilities and reality of growing up, during which a boy’s thoughts begin to morph. He begins to contemplate if maybe this slow becoming never actually comes. Suddenly his short past life and shallow experience whisper to his untrusting heart that he’s had all there is. His short past grows longer in his mind and he feels as if he’s lived forever with nothing to show for it. He begins to look for himself before he existed. He searches through the past of his father for glimpses of his becoming, and perhaps sees his reflection, but as of now, he feels no gathered wisdom, no garnered confidence, no assurity of future success based on past work. He glances at himself in the now and sees smooth skin, peach fuzz, lean muscle, tender feet, and green behind his ears. These observations provide little confidence for the young man who has only begun to imagine the road that lies ahead, has measure himself against, and found that his whole being is out of balance.
It may seem like a strange request, the owning of a discarded, worn out leather wallet to replace a newer, indestructible, hip, canvas one. But there is great solace in knowing that hard work makes a mark and assures us that we’ve done well. Reminds us that we work toward an end, and that the infinite vanity we feel in our seemingly pointless pursuits and preparations actually moves us slowly forward toward a goal that brings with it the trophies of physical erosion and the marks of the passage of time as evidence of work well done.
Indeed, many of us carry the previously discarded, the finished-with, the no longer needed. I carry, and use a pair of 60 year-old pliers, and wire clippers in my guitar case as I live out my routine and search through my pre-existence for images of me as assurance of purpose, and meaning, and perhaps even immortality in the post-Rod era.
Until now, I’ve had only the past for promise. I’ve had only the bits that I carry. But I guess I’ve reached a stage where I begin replacing the used-up and the used-up is used for future promise.
It is profound what promise is held in the empty folds of worn out leather, what image is reflected in the polished shine of the tired surface of an old wallet.

Promise and reflection, these are elements of wealth, and one should always carry them.

park

2008-09-05T02:29:00.001-04:00

park
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

So here I am tonight, alone in my own bed. Only the fifth time I’ve been in a bed in a month. The windhorse is resting in the garage. The first time he’s been in a garage in a month. The barely waning sturgeon moon has risen above the house at exactly the same phase as the thunder moon when I left 28 days ago.
I looked at my total mileage for the trip and noticed that it’s one of those numbers that reads the same flipped and turned. How appropriate. Coming or going, forward or back. I’m back where I started, and hopefully, as T.S. Eliot says, “to know the place for the first time. “

winding road coffee

2008-09-05T02:28:00.001-04:00

winding road coffee
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

August 17, 2008
To Home
429 miles (9,006)

When I woke up this morning, the dew was so heavy that everything was soaked. The insides of the tent were soaked with condensation, and it was cold. I certainly didn’t expect it. I’d chosen the route south through Chattanooga, and Atlanta because I’d miss most of the mountains, and I was seriously contemplating riding late into the night for an early arrival home. I knew I’d freeze out across the smokies. By the time I was 50 miles south of Nashville, it felt like I was back in Wyoming. So I found a campsite and gave up for the night.

This morning’s coffee cup shocked me. As I sat beneath the tree at my site, I looked at the cup, which read, “Winding Road Coffee – The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, but isn’t the meandering road more fascinating?” You can laugh at me, but I feel those kinds of things as blessings of affirmation.

An hour’s ride this morning, put me in Chattanooga, where I pulled off for gas at apparently a pre-appointed place. Before I could finish pumping 2.5 gallons into my tank, I’d been approached by a homeless man. Actually, before I climbed back on my bike, I’d had conversations with 3 homeless men. All had different stories, but the most interesting, and the one that grabbed me most deeply, was a man who was released from prison 5 days ago. He’d served 7 years for stealing cars. We were headed to the same destination, but I hadn’t room on my bike for him. I gave him shuttle fare to Atlanta, and bid him godspeed and quick work. The other stories were only slightly less interesting.
I don’t think I’m exaggerating to say that I spent an hour at the Exxon station talking to homeless guys. The most amazing thing to me though, was that each one told me, “thanks for your time and for talking to me. I’m glad you didn’t run from me.” Honestly, each of their departing statements were barely paraphrases of that very sentiment. I got back on my bike with “Message in a Bottle” playing in my head.

“A hundred billion castaways, looking for a home.”

All this loneliness only strengthened my need to be home already. I rode south with a growing loneliness. I thought of nothing else, and a few miles into Georgia, I began to calculate miles, speed, and ETA. I determined to see Allison before she went to work, and was positive I could do it. When I stopped for gas just north of Atlanta, I realized that I’d crossed into the eastern time zone. I thought I’d done it last night, and that I wouldn’t lose an hour today. My hopes were dashed.
Further on, the hope returned as I started devising plans to see her. Finally, I realized I could redeem 20 minutes if I intercepted her on her way to work rather than getting home before she left. So in the end, I rode the 331 miles from Chattanooga with only short gas stops without even removing my helmet. It began to rain as I came into South Carolina, and I rode the 65 miles from the Savanna river to Columbia watching the rainbow I’d become so familiar with welcoming me home.
I actually got to downtown Columbia a full 15 minutes before she did and was waiting beside the street when she came by. During those 15 minutes of course, I met 3 more homeless guys. One guy from Miami, a guy from Columbia, and a fellow who had JUST gotten off a freight train from Illinois and was looking for the Salvation Army. I told him I was in Illinois yesterday, and gave him directions to Oliver Gospel Mission where he could get a change of clothes and a bed.

“Seems I’m not alone in being alone…”
“I’ll send an SOS to the world…”

When Allison came by she stopped for a kiss, and we lingered too long. I’m sure I made her late for work. I rode home, got the same from the kids, complete with welcome signs, Will making supper, and the whole enchilada, so to speak.

arch

2008-09-05T02:27:00.001-04:00

arch
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

August 16, 2008
To Almost Chattanooga, Tennessee
590 miles (8,577)

No sleeping in today. No No No. I set my alarm for 5:30 and yeehawed when I woke. Then yeehawed again when I awoke a second time 90 minutes later. Yeehaw.
Still early enough though to get a good start I thought. So I packed up, and headed on east to Hannibal, MO, birthplace and forever in the moment, of Samuel Clemens, aka Mark Twain.

Actually, Hannibal is a cool little town in which every single building, street, business, or idea, is named after Mark Twain. I remembered mentioning the quote about San Francisco’s weather that is attributed to Mark Twain, though he never said it. Apparently, Hannibal isn’t the only place who capitalizes on Clemens’ wit and fame.
I headed south from Hannibal to St. Louis. There, I experiences the usual “rod is not a city boy” assurance. There was a lot of road construction going on, so there were signs directing me to roads and exits that were closed, signs that had fallen over, and signs that were just plain wrong. Without any “tour turns” I made it downtown to the Gateway Arch, but I am sure it took me an hour longer than it should have. I had traveled over 20 miles in town traffic, rather than found my way through the intricate freeway maze that could have taken me there in minutes. Not to be beaten, I kept to my plan to have a walk on the riverfront, and beneath the arch, which I did.

From the Arch, I had no problem finding my way across the river and into Illinois, but by now, it was certainly getting late. I spent the rest of the day trying to imagine an accomplishable destination goal that would still allow me to arrive home at a reasonable hour tomorrow. My original goal had been Chattanooga, so I decided to stick to it.
Tonight, after I passed through Nashville, avoided the temptation to just call it a day and stay there, the moon rose bright and beautiful, and suddenly I decided to ride under the moon for the next 8 hours, and arrive at home before Allison made it home from work.
That would still take me to Chattanooga, so I set out, energized for an all-night trip that would accumulate well over 900 miles for the day.
Yeah right.
Though my body felt fine, my thermostat gave out about half way to Chattanooga. This, I didn’t realize until I saw a campground sign along the I-state, and I realized it was time to stop and warm up.
Here I sit then, all cold and tired, shy of Chattanooga, but well beyond Nashville. Tomorrow I’ll be home for sure.
For sure.

tom's fence

2008-09-05T02:26:00.001-04:00

tom's fence
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

August 15, 2008
To Macon, Missouri
469 miles (7,987)

Determined to make up the miles I’d lost to the storm, I set my alarm for early and promised myself I’d make it to St. Louis and be back on track. Apparently, in my morning stupor, things weren’t all that important to me, so I turned off my alarm and slept myself out. When I finally did become coherent, I had a moment of panic and then decided I would still be ok. I was determined not to get on the freeway until I absolutely had to, so I decided to go directly east when I hit Norfolk, NE, and catch the I-29. When I got to Norfolk, I was having so much fun on the back roads that I decided just to stay there and ride them all the way in to Omaha. This decision cost quite a few temporal bucks, as I drove through intense traffic and stop and go signal lights finally to reach the interstate.
My own boss used to work in Omaha, so I decided to look up his old school and play a little joke on him. His school, of course, was registering new students, so I dropped in, took a photo and played like I was interviewing for a job there. This little side trip didn’t take long, but I was already behind.
From Omaha, I headed down the river in Iowa with all hopes of removing myself from the freeway as soon as possible. The Midwestern wind can be really hard on a windjockey such as myself, and I felt that I was hanging on to the bike for all I worth. I took the first opportunity afforded me, and hopped an only slightly more accommodating rt. 36 directly east across Missouri.
I’d given up hope of making it to St. Louis, but I thought maybe I could drop down and make it to Columbia, MO. Eventually, I realized that there was no reason to head due south toward Columbia, when I could ease my way east toward St. Louis if I rode all the way to Hannibal.
Darkness and chill befell me before such a goal could be accomplished, so I stopped at a State Park in Macon, just as the sun was setting and the nearly full moon began to rise over the lake. I found an ultra-dark, secluded campsite beneath a heavy tree canopy, and watched the moon rise over the lake. In fact, that’s where I am now, typing these words in the moonlight by the fire.

maintenance

2008-09-05T02:24:00.001-04:00

maintenance
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

August, 14, 2008
To Omaha, Nebraska Norfolk, Nebraska Oneill, Nebraska
399 miles (7,518)

As I sit down tonight to type the tale, at the tail of today, my mind is whirling. I’ve had no time or chance these past two days to catch up on my trip log, and so I’m two days behind, but with SO many thoughts,
So tonight, I have not only to type the tale of today, but finish my started tales of the past two days as well.
Today, I had planned nearly 550 miles to Omaha. Never mind that I also planned to visit Mount Rushmore and take my time through the Badlands. I got up fairly early, showered and broke camp and visited the all-you-can-eat pancake, and bottomless-cup-o-coffee deal. As I finished my coffee, a nasty, all-you-can-stand wind blew in dark clouds and harassed all the tents in the campground. Stakes were being pulled up, picnic tables cleared, and folks were scurrying about to batten down the hatches. I took it as a sign to mount the windhorse and get out of Dodge. I headed south to Mount Rushmore, less dressed than I should have been, but more dressed than was comfortable hiking around at the feet of the presidents.

I have to say that as I drove around the bend and got a glimpse of the carvings, I was less than impressed. This, I thought, was one of those rare things that are more impressive in photographs. Honestly, even after I arrived, parked and milled about the observation area, I kept thinking that it was less hulking and large than I’d thought it would be. I knew, intellectually, the dimensions, but visually, it just wasn’t happening. As I walked about the trail, I noticed some workers standing on top of Thomas Jefferson’s head, and soon they began to rappel down to his nose.

This was the perspective I needed. From that point on, the whole thing took on a new meaning. I’d have to say that my preceding itinerary had its affect on Mount Rushmore. The enormous, cliffs and rock faces that I’d ridden between, and under in the Big Horn forest had definitely eclipsed the size of the Black Hills. One should see Rushmore first, before riding from Cody to Sheridan along scenic, seasonal, route 14.

There was another factor eclipsing my experience of Rushmore though, and that was the juxtaposition of natural beauty and human accomplishment. I stood there and wondered at how someone could carve such incredible likeness from stone stories high. I wondered at the fact that most who worked on the project were merely laborers, hired by the artisan and told what to do and how to do it. That the ordinary finesse of bringing out the art in a hunk of stone was rendered by dynamite and pneumatic hammers powered by huge air compressors hundreds of yards away from the work being done. All this was wonder worth pondering.
Meanwhile, back at Yosemite and Yellowstone, rain, wind and rivers whittled formations in granite and earth. Wildfires burned away vegetation that had held topsoil in place and exposed the ground to those same elements. Nature formed its abstract patterns, structures and ever-changing landscapes. The hand of God rendered never before seen, or dreamed of wonders. Nature constantly awes us in its ex nihilo art, while humans merely imitate it.
In fact, as I gazed upon Mount Rushmore, all this took on two dimensions.
The first was that the “art” that was created here was a perfect illustration of man’s imitation of the creativity of the creator. God crafted humans, and in we are so completely bent on exact imitation. Here is art in which the likenesses of men are carved in stone, hundreds of times larger-than-life. Also, the likenesses carved there are not really the point, but are to commemorate human accomplishment. The irony in that moment was profound, though I cannot properly verbalize my thoughts.
Yes, Rushmore is really cool. Yosemite,Yellowstone, and all the paths to get there -breathtaking. In the commonplace of nature, we forget that it, in its inception is abstract, innovative and so creatively created.
But, I digress…

After I visited Rushmore, I made my way to East route 44 to take the scenic route through the badlands, and to make an appearance at the National Park. This, my friends, despite the chill, and winds, I’d experienced in the Black Hills, and the threatening storm clouds that remained above the desolate landscape, was a string of magic motorcycle miles. Back here, in no-man’s-land, the airl was calm, the windhorse purred, and the rolling, gently winding landscaped smiled on me as I barreled through. I rode at 75 mph, and seemed to sit still while I felt the silence and stillness of the badlands simultaneously with the three-dimensional forces of the bike. I felt as if I could be moving and experiences stillness at once. I experienced a moment, and a span of time, simultaneously. It was a tremendous 60 miles.
From the badlands loop, I decided to head down into Nebraska and make my way to Omaha on the back roads to avoid the wind-pummeling from the elevated freeway stirred by tractor-trailers enjoying a respite to the high fuel costs. At first, I was turned back, yet again, by an unexpected gravel road, but finally I found a paved two-lane to take me south through the Rosebud reservation, into Nebraska.
Frankly, though I notice, I try not to comment on the physical beauty of people, except to them. But I gotta say, “Rosebud” is an understatement. I stopped for fuel in the tiny town of Mission, and everywhere were beautiful people.
Also, at Mission, I thought I’d successfully dodged a storm that I’d been following for quite some time, but shortly after I left the town, I caught it and we fought for the rest of the evening.

Eventually, the storm won, and I stopped 150 miles short of Omaha, beaten. I’d stopped once and waited out what I thought was the worst of it when it was getting too painful to my legs. When I started out again, the rain was manageable, but as darkness joined the dark of the storm, I began to have intense knowledge of wildlife waiting in the alfalfa at the edge of the road to cross in front of my bike. After 60 more miles, I came to rest in O’neill, Nebraska, where the store clerk told me I’d chosen wisely. Two men had been killed this week by collisions with deer while riding motorcycles.
I prayed the prayer of gratitude, and drifted off to sleep.

find me in the river

2008-09-05T02:23:00.001-04:00

find me in the river
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

August 13, 2008
To Rapid City, South Dakota
410 miles (7,119)

Today’s ride was an unexpected gift. I had no idea what would await me from Cody, to Sheridan, except that route 14 on the map says, “closed in winter.” The 140 miles through the Big Horn National Forest was breathtaking. Frankly, more breathtaking than Yellowstone itself, though that could be due to my state of mind and circumstance in the park.
I woke very early and showered, did my laundry, wrote some thoughts, and stuffed myself with all you can eat pancakes. During my walk-around, I saw that I was dripping fluid. It was dripping from the side-stand bolt. The only fluids are oil, gasoline, and coolant, and this was too clear to be the fresh oil I had just changed. I guessed that it was coolant and worried myself all the way to a fuel stop, keeping an eye on the temperature. At the fuel stop, it was no longer dripping, and didn’t for the rest of the day. Apparently, it was just condensation from the cool night whose path of least resistance flowed over the side-stand bolt.

After a short jaunt on fairly straight, valley road, I turned off to the closed-in-winter road. This road wound, and banked on wide, high-speed fun up to 9,500 feet where I had to stop and put on more clothes.
When I reached the junction with I-90, I couldn’t bear to think about interstate, so I caught route 14 and stayed in the backwoods for another 108 miles, before a storm rumbled in, and I dressed and took to the I-state.
This storm and I raced for the rest of the evening. All the way to Rapid City, I would catch up with the storm, stop and wait awhile and take off again until I caught up. Also, because I was riding east, and the sun was setting in the west, between the storm and me, for the entirety of the ride was a glorious rainbow, stretched end to end across the road in front of me. As the road twisted and turned, the rainbow perspective changed, and it seemed as if I was starting to ride through it. Then, as suddenly, the other end would move and I chased that rainbow until it finally disappeared into the strange, sunset/storm riddled sky of twilight.

When I arrived in Rapid City, just behind the storm, the sky was tremendous. I texted to Allison that it was the strangest, scariest, most beautiful storm sky I’d ever seen.
I set up the tent, built a fire and settled into a short mental moment before drifting off to sleep.
I’ve been thinking of the fact that I considered the ride through the Big Horn National Forest to be more beautiful than Yellowstone. It strikes me that there is really too much beauty to be understood. We tend to take for granted, the beauty that is around us, so that we have to look elsewhere to find it. It only makes sense that beauty would be found in a designated beautiful place. A place to which you travel in order to see it. A place to which you could fly, and there would be the promised beauty. A place, set aside, to be beautiful. A place quarantined from the ugly world, preserved as an oasis midst a dry and thirsty land.

But beautiful places don’t tend to exist like that. Actually, beauty tends to exist in the midst of beauty. We tend to notice a particular because the beauty around it increased right up to its edge. The increasing beauty began at the edge of another beauty.
I traveled from the beautiful Mojave Desert, northward into the Eastern Sierras. I was awestruck that there were no beauty boundaries. What I saw was a brilliant morphing of beauty to beauty. There was not gate-to-beauty that one passed through to view the wonders of Yosemite. I traveled from Oregon desert into Hell’s Canyon and across the Idaho lava fields into the Tetons and each beauty morphed into the other.
If one decides to travel the country, he finds that he merely travels from one beauty to another, via beauty. If he meets people along the way, he finds the same to be true. Beauty to beauty. One beautiful person to another. One is wearing a cowboy hat, another, a John Deere cap. One holds a Stop sign while you wait on construction traffic, another works at the feed yard and a short conversation teaches you that we’re all the same. One worries about deadlines, and the other about hailstorms. One celebrates seeds planted and one celebrates seeds harvested.

evening thunder

2008-09-05T02:21:00.001-04:00

evening thunder
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

August 12, 2008
To Cody, Wyoming
289 miles (6,709)

I awoke this morning about to pop (sorry for TMI) and shivering, so I fumbled around, found some pants and sprinted to the bathroom. On the way back, the light coming over the mountain across the river behind me caused everything to glisten. How odd and beautiful, I thought, and when I got back to my campsite, I noticed that my motorcycle was glistening. I scraped my fingernail across the saddle and scratched up an ice-cube sized chunk of, uh, ice. Very hard freeze.
Once the sun reached over the hill, it didn’t take long for things to warm up, and it was already nearly 70 degrees when I came through Jackson again on my way to Yellowstone. I
was glad for the warmth, but made a mental note to be aware of time all day because, obviously when the sun goes down it get very cold, very quickly.
Almost immediately north of Jackson, I entered the Grand Teton National Park. These glacier-cut ridges are tremendous with sharp, jagged edges, and glaciers flowing down around the summits. I stopped at the visitor center to get my passport canceled, and the first of a series of unfortunate events began, though I didn’t realize it at the time. I put the Grand Teton Stamp in the Pacific Northwest Region rather than the Rocky Mountain Region. No big deal? Of course not, except that it bothered me a little bit, but only a little bit until other things began to go wrong. Then I began to dwell on every little thing, being distracted from all the beauty around me.
So I paid my half-price motorcycle fee, and entered the Grand Teton Pay area, and moved on toward Yellowstone. I was cold for a good long time through the long loop of the park. But managed by frequent photo stops. I successfully made it to Old Faithful only minutes before it erupted to throngs of people cheering, and screaming, and applauding. Within 5 minutes of the eruption, the entire area was empty save a faithful few. Everyone had moved on, having seen the climax of their visit to Yellowstone. I was unsure how long between the faithful eruptions, so I sat down beside a couple to contemplate the whole ordeal. The man was David Eveningthunder, and he sat quetly playing a wooden flute while his wife stared off at the rising steam from the geyser.
When I sat down, David immediately quit playing and struck up a conversation that eventually led to his giving me his address and asking for a postcard to announce my safe return home. I also heard the short version of his life story, past experiences in this very spot as the big dipper slowly circled Polaris, and brief theology of his spirituality.
David Eveningthunder was definitely the highlight of my visit to Yellowstone, and as it turned out, I could have met him a year ago when I passed through Livingston, Texas on my way east to the Natchez Trace Parkway.
Soon after I left Old Faithful, I saw an Elk that I thought might be a Moose grazing about 100 yards from the road. I stopped suddenly to get a photo. I was in a hurry, so I pulled off, carefully steady the bike, and climbed off. Not carefully enough though, because when I relieved the bike of my weight, the front wheel slipped in gravel and awesome and strong, and tough as I may think I am, I was not strong enough to keep the 600 pound bike from toppling into the ditch beside the road. I stood and stared, terrified that it would be un-ridable. Momentarily, 5 Mennonite boys sprinted across the road to help me right the bike. I told them to be careful of the hot pipes, which they did, while I burned my shin. I gave the bike a careful inspection a number of times, and the only damage I could find was that my brake lever and master cylinder had been turned (not bent) on the handlebar. The handlebar was not bent, there were no scratches, and the bike fired only a little bit reluctantly. My prayer of thanksgiving was whispered even more earnestly as I engaged the clutch and returned the bike to the road.
As evening wore on, and chill began to permeate, I realized the long, slow miles to Cody would also be cold and dark if I didn’t start a purposeful trek toward camp. After this realization, the first thing I did was to miss a turn east and head north toward Mammoth Springs. In all honesty, I have no idea, why I realized what I had done. I didn’t even remember the junction. But it occurred to me that I was going the wrong direction amidst those hills, and creeks, and rivers and waterfalls, so I turned back and within 8 miles, came upon the road I should have taken.
Whew, only 16 miles, and 30 minutes wasted.
A brief stop at Artist’s Point, and I was on my way out.
No sooner than I’d set my destination beyond the park, I found myself sitting still in the middle of the road in a long, long line of traffic. After 2 hours (I am not exaggerating) I learned that we were stopped for a herd of bison that were just being stubborn a couple of miles up the road. After the 2 hour wait, and another hour of weaving between loud, huge buffalos, I reached a much needed gas station, long after I’d expected to have arrived in Cody and fallen asleep. I put on all the clothes I had, installed a T-shirt as a scarf, and headed off into the desolation and wilderness that doesn’t lie within the 90 miles between my present location and Cody, Wyoming.
The road between was long, dark and winding, with, as promised, absolutely nothing. There were several wildfires along the way, strangely lighting hillsides and sending off a haunting glow. I could actually feel the heat at times – probably why I didn’t freeze during the ride. Though there were many signs warning me to prepare to stop for fire activity, I never had to even slow beyond the careful, intentional speed at which I was already traveling. (I was later to find out, in Cody, that the fires were such big news that many folk at the campsite heading west, had decided not to move on to Yellowstone because of them. Maybe they’d been over-told in the news, at least as far as their danger to travelers.)
I did make it to Cody, though, and strangely less than frozen. Stiff and chilled, mind you, but still alive. I hadn’t eaten since the night before, so found a Wendy’s drive through open til 11, and walked through, at 10:55. I had to get the teenager in the SUV behind me to pull up beside me so the drive-through kids would see that I was there.
I found the campsite with no problem, and unlike the other sites, where everyone was fast asleep when I arrived at 8:30pm, this site was alive with nocturnal camping pleasures, with golden, dancing flames all around and quiet voices and occasional outbreaks of quiet laughter. I began setting up my tent, and a girl about the age and demeanor of my adopted college daughters asked if I’d like to come share their fire when I finished setting up. I, of course, obliged.
She, her brother and his wife and 2 wee ones occupied the site next to mine. I laid in the grass looking up, warmed by the fire, watched countless meteors until I woke, realizing it was time to climb into the tent and warmth of my sleeping bag.
Good night moon, good night bears, good night new friends everywhere.

I feel like a man on the moon

2008-09-05T02:19:00.001-04:00

I feel like a man on the moon
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

August 11, 2008
To Jackson, Wyoming
445 miles (6,390)

I’m sitting by the fire on the bank of the Snake River, staring up at the sky, watching for the Perseid shower, while the moon rises over the Tetons. The river is singing a lullaby. Actually to my left is the Snake River, and to my right is a creek - literal flowing surround sound of my favorite noisemaker in the world. The moon is rising over the mountaintops. It is a slow process. I watched it rise 3 hours ago as I fought my way through the less traveled passes on my way to Jackson, but here, by the river, it is just beginning to show its face over the hills.

Yes, it is cold. There is snow on the mountaintops. But the fire is warm and crackling and the occasional meteor shoots across the sky, and you tell me you don’t wish you were me right now!
I set the tent up in the complete dark, with only the glow of the baby fire, but I doubt I’ll get in it. The sky is crystal clear, and there’s a show up there. It’s the fireworks display at the end of a day of spectacular scenery.
In fact, the day started out well. I awoke early, and was actually awake when I woke. So I rolled out and got started. I showered the sleep from my eyes, sipped a cup, and packed the windhorse. Today, as expected, was the day that the horse hit 6,000 miles for this trip. That, of course, means 6,000 miles on this oil, so I set about looking for some accommodations for an oil change. I first tried a quick lube place and was refused, as I expected. Eventually, I came across a guy in a mechanic’s outfit, and asked him for assistance. Turns out that he services power company trucks and would be more than happy for the company provided my presence in his shop. So we made our way there and talked about marriage, bikes, trade-school, professoring, wives who make more money than we do, Three Dog Night, Oklahoma, friends who’ve laid their bikes down and suffered the consequences, heaven, heaven-oklahoma-and three dog night, college, air filters, and the weather, while he worked on a diesel engine, and I changed my oil and air filter. I’d been carrying around my air filter since I bought it in Albuquerque and subsequently rounded off a bolt head with my cheap, Honda-issued kit wrench and was unable to finish the job. A fine Craftsmen wrench was all it took to remove the rounded bolt, and all’s well that ends well.
I bid my new friend goodbye, wished upon him the peace of Christ, and made my way Eastward, toward the glorious US route 20 across Nowhere Idaho. Back here, on US 20, there is nothing, and no one. One can really peel away the miles on US20. Which I did.
In no time, I was upon the Craters of the Moon National Monument, which I expected to merely roll through, be amazed, and move on. Wrong.

I stopped at the Visitor Center to get my National Park Passport cancelled, and learned that there was a 7 mile loop along which one could climb craters, walk through underground lava tunnels and be otherwise amazed at this amazing wonder of a lava field. So I spent a couple hours being otherwise amazed.
Back on the road, I arrived in Jackson, Wyoming at sunset, and began looking for a campsite. I thought Jackson was an actual town, but it turns out that it is a fake town used to bilk bucks out of unsuspecting city slickers out to spend a week in the wilds of the Tetons.. Everything but McDonald’s Chipotle Chicken Snack Wrap is price-gouged. So a quick phone call home, and Allison googles me a price-gouged KOA just south of Jackson, smack on the Snake River.
That, folks, is where you find me tonight. sitting by the fire on the bank of the Snake River, staring up at the sky, watching for the Perseid shower, while the moon rises over the Tetons.
Good night moon. Good night bears. Good night people, everywhere.

evel kneivel land

2008-09-05T02:18:00.001-04:00

evel kneivel land
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

To Boise, Idaho
405 miles (5,975)

Before the flat tire set me back three-quarters of a day, I was to have stayed with another friend of a friend in Halfway, Oregon. I knew that I’d have no fun trying to make up the miles I’d lost, so I decided to do it over a few days. That meant that I couldn’t make it to Halfway as planned. I still wanted to meet them though, so I rode to Halfway today on my way to Hell’s Canyon, used a public phone to contact the Bryans, and drove to their house in the foothills for a wonderful 90 minute, relaxing visit with friends I’d never met.
Then it was on toward Hell’s Canyon. Once I crossed into Idaho, I followed the Snake River downstream (North) to the Dam through outrageously beautiful scenery in the deepest canyon in North America. Along the way, I saw a log floating near the bank of the river and fantasized that it was a huge fish. As I got closer, I saw that it WAS a catfish, belly-up, and walked down to the edge to see that it was at least 8 feet long. All my life, I’ve heard of these monster catfish in rivers like this, but I had no idea if it was just Rural Legend, or if there was truth. Now I know. But of course, you still don’t.
The winding, once again “magic motorcycle miles” to the dam, is not a loop, and I think it was the only road I’ve traveled so far, that I had to return by the same road I took. That is, if you don’t count my rejections by the back roads in Colorado, and New Mexico.
Returning from the dam, I crossed back into Oregon for a few miles on rt. 71, and then back over to Idaho through another 29 (yes, it was really 29!) magic motorcycle miles to catch rt. 95 South to I-84 and on to Boise.

bikes and guitars

2008-09-05T02:17:00.001-04:00

bikes and guitars
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

To Hemiston, Or
52628
430 miles (5,570)

I set my alarm last night for very early, so that I could hopefully make up time that I lost on the flat tire. It didn’t matter, I overslept anyway, and pressed out into the cold, damp, foggy, coastal morning and headed north. In about an hour, I came into Florence, Oregon, again frozen solid, and saw a shop with a huge sign, “Bikes and Guitars.” Perfect photo op, and chance to thaw, so I stopped. I noticed that I was right beside a coffee shop, so I stepped inside, grabbed a cup and waited out my circulation return. Once thawed, I pressed on another hundred miles or so, and turned inland toward Portland.
Poco a poco, the air warmed until I turned along the Columbia River Gorge and enjoyed the warm air and clearing sky. Under the first clear sky in days, I realized that it wasn’t as late as I thought it was, so I turned off the freeway onto the last remaining stretch of historic Rt. 30 toward Multnomah Falls.
When I returned to the I-state, I rode to Biggs, and crossed over to Washington hoping to camp on the river at Maryhill State Park. I rode up the mountain to see the Maryhill Museum and was astounded at the temperature difference. Once again frozen, and wind-blown, I came back down to the river and found several campgrounds full. This kept up – all campgrounds full. Defeated, I got back on the freeway and rode another hour to Hermiston and checked into a Motel 6, once again frozen, but still basking in the unbelievable beauty I’d seen ALL day.

For many reasons, the bikes and guitars photo op turned into a great thing. I thawed, I got the shot, I got a totally good cup of joe and a muffin, I got wifi and updated you, I listened to the banter of local folk in the shop, and...
I saw a guy wearing this awesome shirt.
See? I'm still with you Allison.
Orange for you Babe.

stuff happens

2008-09-05T02:15:00.001-04:00

lighthouse
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

August 8, 2008
To Lincoln City, Oregon
52, 198
238 miles (5,140)

But still in Eureka, CA.
I awoke this morning to rain, and chill, and worried about what to do. I had to wait for the tent to dry before packing it away, lest the mold and mildew gremlins invade the rest of the trip. I packed everything else up, shivering, and did the “walk around” on my bike. Lo and behold, a flat tire. I aired the tire up and found a tiny finishing nail buried to the head. After waiting to see what it would do, it appeared not to be losing air very quickly so I slowly made my way back south 4 miles to Eureka.
And now the most dreaded of nightmares… I am sitting in a Harley Store while the kind-hearted service people are replacing my tube. Aargh. This is not good, folks. Harley people fixing a Honda! Can you imagine the shame I feel? I just keep giving thanks that it was an external, outside, unavoidable, unseen road hazard (actually campground hazard) that caused the problem, rather than a mechanical failure, or part falling off, which, of course is what Harley service people are intimately familiar with. I’m also VERY thankful that despite the fact that Harleys don’t use 15 inch tires, for some unknown, unexplainable reason, they had a 15 inch tube in stock. The parts person was shocked.
And so, I’m waiting it out. More later, if I cover any ground today.

So I got my bike back on the road and headed down the highway to Target looking for some thermal underwear. Allison said, “would that have thermals in August?” Are you kidding?!? It’s freezing here. She was right. So I headed north along the coast, at mid-afternoon, frozen as I began.

With half the day shot, I knew I wouldn’t make it all the way to Lincoln City, but fortunately, the roads were straighter than Northern California, but no less beautiful. I made good time with stops at Redwoods National Park, to view Elk grazing in a field, and to take several shots of incredible vistas above the ocean.
Soon after I crossed into Oregon, the mist got heavier, and quickly turned to rain, so that my last 100 miles was colder, wetter, and less all-around-less-comfortable than before. I pressed on to Coos Bay, where, upon my arrival, even my feet were numb, white, and swollen. I used all the water I conserved while in the desert for 10 days, and took a long hot shower, before finding someplace to fill my belly.

chilled beauty

2008-09-05T02:14:00.001-04:00

chilled beauty
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

August 7, 2008
To Eureka, CA
51,960
304 miles (4902)
A.M.
While I woke up and rushed off from Bartow Monday morning, successfully beating the 108F day. This morning I loitered in Novato, waiting for the 50F to warm a little. Overnight, it began raining at my destination, Eureka, and the high for today has been dropped to 60F. No doubt this will be a beautiful ride, but I’m wearing layers…
P.M.

I arrived in Eureka at 8:00pm in a cloud of wet fog that even soaked the padding inside my helmet. I was actually warm and dry for half an hour when hwy 1 took me inland to Legget to join with 101. From the coast, to the hwy junction was 43 miles of twisting, turning, rolling, rising, falling Redwood Forest. I’ve now ruled that this road overtakes previous wonders for the best road yet. It is nearly as awesome as the Tail of the Dragon, but 4 times longer and not nearly as dangerous. No traffic.
At the end of hwy 1 is the “world famous” drive-through tree, known locally as “Chandelier Tree.” In fact, I’ve known of this tree all my life. I saw photos in textbooks in elementary school. So I paid my half-price motorcycle fee and parked my bike inside the tree for a photo op. Honestly, in my memory, the tree is MUCH larger, but it certainly was large. However, all the SUV drivers had to back in to avoid losing their side mirrors, and a few had only to park in front and pretend because there was not enough clearance.
Oh well. The tree is over 100 yards tall and 2,400 years old. That’s impressive. And it’s still pretty! More than I can say for myself after only 44 years.
But I digress…

After the tree, I remained warm for 30 miles until hwy 101 brought me back out to the coast. There I hunkered into the chill for the final 60 miles to Eureka. The campground had dry firewood, so I set up the tent, built a fire. Now I’m sitting, warm, in the misty fog beside the dancing flames on the chilly banks of the Pacific Ocean reliving the unbelievable ocean vistas I experienced today.
Don’t think that those 43 Redwood miles were all the biker dream miles. Truly, the whole 230 miles before hwy 101 were this way. It’s just that I was warm through the Redwoods.
So imagine 230 miles of 30 mph turns and switchbacks, ocean cliffs and vistas and thick-thick foggy mist filtering sunlight on the narrow beaches and enormous rock formations that lie in the water and on the sand. Every turn was a photo op, but I was dressed out and gloved and shivering, so I rationed my stops. Many of the vistas provided no view because the fog was so thick, but some were chanced upon as a break in the mist betrayed blue sky hidden above the green trees and the convergence of ocean and rock.
As I shivered my way along, I was in awe of the surfers who will not miss a great wave in ANY weather.
Despite the cold and damp, this was truly a spectacular day for scenery and fun riding.

switchback

2008-09-05T02:13:00.001-04:00

switchback
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

August 6, 2008
To San Francisco/Novato, CA
51656
247 miles (4,598)

Some lands just can’t be tamed. Earthquakes, wildfires, and rockslides. Ironically, while I was waiting for my tires to be mounted and balanced before I left, I passed the unexpected hours “riding” a motorcycling simulator at the Honda shop. I chose the mountain route, of course, and I’d swear that they used the very route I took today.

I left Mariposa via 49 North. I was warned by the Convenience Store Clerk, “oh, you don’t want to take THAT route, it just winds, and climbs, and falls, and turns…”
Some people just don’t get it!
Besides the tail of the dragon, this was the best bike road I’ve ever been on, complete with switchbacks that actually pass beneath themselves. At one point, I actually thought I was on one of those figure-eight, electric race tracks I had as a kid. More than fifty miles of biker bliss.

I also noticed today, that Californians back, in the day, had a warm spot in their hearts for the number twenty-nine. There is a very cool place 50 miles south of Amboy called Twentynine Palms, and everything east of the Sierras seems to be 29 miles apart. Mariposa to Sonora – 29 miles, Sonora to Oakdale, 29 miles.

serenity

2008-09-05T02:11:00.001-04:00

serenity
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

I have to confess that midst all the hype and hoopla surrounding the fantastical Yosemite since I was a kid, I’ve often wondered if I’d be disappointed if I ever got to go. Honestly, nothing could have prepared me for what I saw there. Well that is, if you don’t count the hundred miles of Sierra skirting I did to reach the park.
The exit to Mariposa was equally beautiful and exciting. Thirty miles of twisting turns, descents and climbs. I was stopped once for a ten-minute wait while east bound traffic crossed the two one-way bridges built to temporarily move traffic across the river and back after a rock slide completely obliterated the existing road.
(This event took it’s toll on the nearby town of Mariposa, whose sustenance depends on tourists exiting Yosemite, or holing up there during their Yosemite area vacations.)

Last week’s fires also changed the face of Yosemite a bit. Though I didn’t notice much on the main road through the park, once I dropped down toward Yosemite Valley, trees were scorched in large areas. Yosemite valley is perhaps one of the most spectacular places to visit. Towering monoliths rising straight up thousands of feet from the river, gorgeous meadows, and the evening sun cast a beautiful luminance on the rock faces. I timed my descent perfectly.

I tend to forget to eat. I’m not out here to eat, after all. I realized today, about halfway through the park, that I had not eaten since Saturday, save a half sandwich at brunch on Sunday. So when I arrived at my destination, the fine supper and conversation was most welcome. I was treated like a king by my friend, Michelle’s parents. I was sent away with another meal (an absolute first for the trip) and rode off into biker heaven of central California.

mojave rest stop

2008-09-05T02:09:00.001-04:00

mojave rest stop
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

Monday, August 4, 2008
Barstow, CA
432 miles (3,932)

And at the end of a long, beautiful day of riding, there’s the baby Sturgeon moon setting as I sit at a picnic table and relive the moments of the day. When I started this morning, everyone in Flagstaff was saying how strange that the clouds were hovering all day, but they never got rain. How strange that I rode in rain all the way to the exit. What’s more, I didn’t get more than a mile away from my campsite before I was pelted by huge, painful raindrops. They seemed to be framing the mountains in a gorgeous moisturized luminance. For several miles, the crisp, chilled air was invigorating. By the time I reached Williams, I was thoroughly cold.
The temperature stayed cool and refreshing though, until I began to descend toward the Colorado river. There, I could feel the heat rising.
I clipped the corner of Utah, for about half an hour before entering California and following the river to Needles. All the while, the heat was so intense I had trouble catching my breath.
I gassed up in Needles for $1.13 more per gallon than my last tank in Arizona, and started out across route 66. Within a couple miles into the California desert, storm clouds gathered and I could once again feel the familiar storm-brought chill. I rode in comfortable temps along route 66 through Essex, Amboy, Ludlow and finally into Barstow, where I pitched my tent.
Listen kids, this was all new territory for me, and I don’t know if I’ve ever been in such continuous awe for so long in my life. This is a scenic wonder. In next to no time, I descended from 7,000 feet to 1,500 feet and the heat was stifling, but the scenery was mind boggling. My apologies to those who’ve witnessed this, but I ask, have you ever done on a bike?

Despite the breathtaking views of the desert, perhaps the most exciting thing was chasing trains for dozens of miles. As soon as I got back on route 66, I raced a train in the typical, “who crosses first” scenario, but I had an overpass, so there was no worry about winning. We passed, nose to nose at the overpass and I felt exhilarated. Fifty miles later, I crossed with that train again just before entering Ludlow.

I honestly thought that Route 66 through the California desert would be cool because of the exciting history, but I didn’t expect it to be much more than I-40 otherwise. So perhaps I can’t quite put my finger on the thrill that I experienced for many, many miles. Most of my trip today was off I-40 and on old Route 66. After I entered California, I followed I-40 for a few miles, and then when I started on 66, I encountered a bunch of bikers resting beside the road. They flagged me down, so I stopped and met about 20 fellow travelers from France. They had 9 bikes and three cars.

I stopped at Roy’s expecting an abandoned Motel and gas station, but it was open, although the power was out and thus, the pumps wouldn’t work. Fortunately I hadn’t depended on Roy’s for fuel at $5.29 per gallon.
After a stop to visit the Amboy volcano crater, I rode on to Ludlow, where I did find fuel, and had only a 60-mile jaunt to reach my campsite.

beauty

2008-09-05T02:06:00.002-04:00

beauty
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

August 4, 2008
Flagstaff, Arizona
400 miles (3,500)

On the move again. I just spent seven days in one general location, and I gotta say, it didn’t take seven days to make me antsy. Nevertheless, I had a hard time to pulling away from Santa Fe – both physically and emotionally. There were people still around Sunday morning with whom I’d forged fledgling relationships. Having stayed put for so long, I’d accumulated paper, and info, etc, and scattered my life about the room. So after a nice long organizational and packing period, and then a leisurely goodbye brunch, I didn’t move toward the road until after 1:00pm.
As I was flitting about, showering, packing, and getting in order, I noticed a field about 20 yards from my campsite. It was contained by a split-rail fence, filled with that rare covering of grass and decorated with horseshoe pegs, bike ramps and other sundry recreation happiness. I had not noticed that field in the seven days I’d been around. Granted, I’d come in very late every night, and left quite early. I had not explored the campground, but I do tend to notice things. Beyond my normal ability to see things, I had also been in a sort of training for taking it all in and pondering my surroundings. So I realized that I’d come to the site each night without regard for it’s delights. That is, beyond the outrageous night sky with its backlit milkyway swath spanning the entire sky, it’s Jupiter shining brightly as the moon, its dependable consistency of shooting stars, and its nocturnal constant call of coyotes.
I set about taking in everything I encountered as I rode off toward Albuquerque, where I’d turn West and follow the legendary Route 66 to Flagstaff. The Sandias shone their normal brilliance as I neared Albuquerque, and when my attention turned right, I was confronted with ominous cloudage. Nothing new, I’ve been dealing with this eastern normality everyday since I’ve left home, but I seem to have brought it with me to the normal arid southwest, where I’ve given much appreciated drinks to the landscape, even as I feel the water being sucked out of my body.
When I entered Arizona again, seven days after I’d skirted its northwest corner for a half hour, I was confused when I stopped at the welcome center to dry out and armor myself against the increasingly foreboding storm clouds, and found it to be an hour earlier than I thought it was, though the sky and dim cloud covered light seemed to indicate I was correct. It took me several hours to remember that Arizona does not appreciate daylight savings time. So I’d gained an hour, but only in theory. No extra daylight.
The extra hour did forgive my late departure, and afforded me a long, slow ride through the Painted Desert and Petrified forest, where frankly I was quite surprised. As the park ranger had promised, the dampness I was encountering was a small price for the extra beauty it bestowed on the landscape. Extremely dark eastern skies framed the badlands with colorful desert foliage, all dimly spotlit from a beautiful, if struggling, sunset. Lightning accented the background, and the rain on the formations sent out a glow of gorgeosity.
I must admit, that when I entered the park at the last possible moment, I realized that I was definitely low on fuel due to the beating high winds and but irresponsibly opted to chance the ride with my remaining gasoline fumes. Through the gate, my odometer read 100 miles, and I had 47 miles to the next fuel stop. I went on reserve at 106 miles and was sure I’d never make it out on my bike. I was careful to do the 28 park miles at 35 mph, and the 19 wilderness miles at 50, despite the 65mph speed limit.
I rolled into Holbrook and added 3 more miles before I found fuel. I filled my tank with 3.98 gallons, the most I’ve ever used. I guessed that .02 gallon must be equivalent to a teaspoon. I literally could not have made it to the next street corner. I sighed, sat quietly behind the station and thanked God for bringing back to civilization via motorized propulsion rather than by foot, through the desert, through the chilly rain, in the dark.
When I climbed back on in Holbrook, I had 90 miles to travel to Flagstaff, in the dark. The storms became more fierce for this last leg, and pelted me the entire way. I reached my campsite chilled to the bone and quite tired. I set up the tent, crawled in and lay there in the Arizona gravel listening to the rain hit the tent and pondered the beauty of decay.

Perhaps it is only in ourselves that we see decay as ugly. No one could possibly deny the exquisite beauty of the mesas of New Mexico, whose edges seem to crumble before your very eyes. The Piñon snags against the blue sky call out to a hidden part of the soul and expose dying places into which new life needs to be invited. The palpability of the fragile ecosystem here makes it easier to see how pain and struggle, is the very sustenance of health, and thriving. When immersed in this world, one ceases to see the strong and thriving preying on the weak and struggling. One begins to realize that the strong sacrifice that others may thrive and survive.
The strength of the dying and decaying can only be visible in the surviving and thriving. But for any to thrive, death is required – the sacrificial death that feeds us, and the denying of ourselves in return.
I am an ecosystem. Death and sacrifice are commonplace in parts of my being, but the decay of my parts fertilizing and nourishes and brings strength and vitality to my other parts. With this intellectual knowledge, it is embarrassing to confess the oft contemplated mourning, and dwelling on the decay rather than the emergent, growing life that is nourished by it.

ALMIGHTY and everliving God, we most heartily thank thee, for that thou dost vouchsafe to feed us who have duly received these holy mysteries, with the spiritual food of the most precious Body and Blood of thy Son our Saviour Jesus Christ.

the origami phoenix

2008-08-02T19:44:00.001-04:00

the origami phoenix
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

When deep calls to deep,
My soul replies, “what were your thoughts?”

Of course they are too much to know,
but concerning myself,
Is it too much to ask?

When your fingertips gently folded
the first corner back, and
I began to take shape.

A careful crease,
A tear, a tear
You looked at what you’d formed
And called it good.

But I was not good –
When you had finished,
You knew I wasn’t finished, but
Would be consumed.
Wrinkled, wrung
Twisted, tilted, mistreated and torn.

You would re-create me-
Lifting me from the ashes
breathing wind across my wings.
The same wind that brought me to life,
the same wind that fanned the
flames that so thoroughly destroyed what
I had become,
lifts me a second time.

obstruction

2008-07-30T14:21:00.001-04:00

obstruction
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

When I left Farmington on Sunday morning, I was already ahead of schedule, because I’d forgone about 100 miles in Utah, and had driven straight down from Durango with only the detour of the Four Corners loop of hwys160 and 64. Finding no place to stay in Shiprock, I’d come another 30 miles of what would have been my Sunday ride.
I took a little extra time Sunday morning before climbing on the bike, and decided to have Rod church. For Rod church, I read some Psalms and scribbled some thoughts. The last Psalm I read was number 126. “He has done great things…”
There are very few roads to take one from Farmington, southeast to Santa Fe, so the ride consisted of four lane divided highway 550 until it meets with I-25 just north of Albuquerque. I hated the concept of driving all the way south of Santa Fe, just to ride back north again, so I looked for a little road to cut through the mountains. There were only two roads, both departed from Cuba, NM. The more direct route is 126, and I thought it apt to take the road named after the Psalm I’d read this morning. What’s more, Psalm 126 is a Psalm of Ascent, so it seemed quite appropriate to use that road to cross the mountains and make my own ascent into the town that has come to have deeply spiritual meaning for me.
I stopped, gassed up, and took a biological break in Cuba, and then headed out of the tiny village on 126. About a mile out of town, I passed a sign that read, “caution, mountainous, unimproved road 8 miles ahead, may be impassable in winter conditions. “ The scenery was spectacular, the road, winding and 3 dimensional. After 8 miles of sheer motorcyclist bliss, I came upon the sign that read the same as the first but without the 8 miles ahead part. The sign was perched beside the road upon a gate that could be closed across the road if it had become impassable. The winding, climbing, falling bliss continued for nearly 12 more miles until the road turned to washboard surface dirt. Figuring that this was temporary, I continued slowly for a few more miles until the road turned muddy and rutty and slippery, and I nearly fell off my bike a few times. I pulled over to the side of the road path to contemplate my options. At this tempo, I’d miss the first couple days of the workshop in Santa Fe. As I sat there on the bike, I began to hear cows mooing, and glanced up the road to see a herd of cattle being driven down the road by 4 guys on horses.
As the herd came closer, I realized how understated road condition is in New Mexico, and decided to follow C.S. Lewis’ advice and do an about face and go back to where I’d veered from the right path. By now I’d spent nearly two hours wandering in the wilderness, and was due for another biological break, so I stopped in Cuba again, at a different gas station to avoid having to explain to the attendant why I was back so soon.
Unable to contain the joy of having ventured to the road less traveled and been turned back by a herd of cattle, I called my dad to tell him the story, and climbed back in the saddle and made my way to Santa Fe by the more common means of four lane highway.
It should also be know, I suppose, that this is not the first time I was turned back on this trip. I was also rejected by a road in Colorado that didn’t lead me on nearly as long as this one did. In fact, it told me right away that I wasn’t welcome, but in my stubbornness, I pressed on until the road had to be more forthright. I descended the steep hill and switchbacks on washboards with my tail tucked between my legs.
I’m taking donations for a R1200GS. Allison won’t let me sell the kids.

shadowcaster

2008-07-29T21:10:00.001-04:00

shadowcaster
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

Sun rising in my rearview,
darker sky ahead.

If I could ride hard enough,
could I make the sun set behind me –
not yet risen as it just did?
Make time stand still,
or even grow younger as I strain the
muscle of my V-twin.

But I know I can’t outrun the sun,
and so, I’ll ride into the sunset with
darker skies behind.

Will pointed out to me the other day,
that all the cars’ shadows were directly beneath them,
the midsummer sun so high in the sky.
Hours later, the shadows had hardly moved.

One must get up early to cast a shadow
before or behind.
And so I’m riding off at daybreak to see where
my shadow leads.

For I am but a shadow of the man
I will become.

I am a poem
and its reader,
reading up the page,
following each short white line
as it passes before my eyes and
beneath and behind me to become
a moment ago, this morning,
yesterday.

safety

2008-07-28T15:34:00.001-04:00

safety
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

Yesterday, after an unexpected detour (actually, a turn-and-go-back!) I stopped at the same place I had early and took a biological break. When I was ready to get back on the bike, I glanced at my helmet and saw myself. You may not believe this, but I'm pretty sure this was the first time I'd seen myself in nearly a week. Now, be sure, out here all alone, long rides through nowhere, lying awake under the vast sky at night, I've seen myself alright - just not my outside self, not the visible part. (and as narly as that part may be, other parts I've seen this week are much less pleasant to contend with).
So here I was gazing in the shiny black, convex surface of my helmet and saw the outside, slightly distorted version of myself. I think probably my vision of myself is always a bit distorted- always as if I’m seeing myself reflected in a shiny black concave helmet.
We’ve all got protectors, we all wear armor, build walls, position ourselves safely behind, beneath, or within something that keeps us from seeing or knowing us, or keeps us from having to meet whom we know is there, or whom we are afraid we’ll find.
I don’t know, it just felt odd looking at my distorted self against the gorgeous sky reflected in my own protector – from the outside.
Ironically, a few hours later, while I was in an informational meeting for the workshop at St. John’s College, my helmet was stolen from my bike. Poof. Gone. Nothing between skull and the road, should I fail to keep rubber side down. Nothing to keep the rain off the top, or the bugs out of my face and eyes. Nothing to keep me out of jail should I not replace it before I ride into Nevada next week.
Truth is, I don’t feel comfortable riding out here in wonderful strange-land without it. I’ve spent a lot of the night thinking about protectors, vulnerability, openness, authenticity, etc. I’m here for a writers’ workshop, and as I’m mingling for the first time with total strangers, feeling self-conscious, wondering at who they are, who they think I am, out in the parking lot and protective tool is being stolen from me.
For five days I’ve been alone. Sometimes, in traffic, or among myriad people, and sometimes in actual solitude where no other human could be found for a hundred miles.
Last night, I was forced to mingle with a few hundred people with whom I actually do have to interact, have conversation, engage.
Wonder what other barriers, armor, and protectors will be taken from me as this week progresses?

rocky mountain high

2008-07-26T11:07:00.001-04:00

rocky mountain high
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

This morning, I’d revised my goals, and upon arrival in Walsenburg, had met them. But it was still only 4:00pm mountain time, so I decided to press on. It was only 72 miles to my original goal of Alamosa, and that would give me extra time tomorrow. Perhaps even a visit to Great Sand Dunes National Park.
I was cold and wet, but the rain had stopped for the moment, and the gas station attendant said, “I wish those clouds would come over here, we never get any rain!” So I figured I’d stay dry for the next 72 miles at between 7,000 and 10,000 feet elevations. I was wrong. Not only was much colder than I’d expected, but it also continued to rain all the way through the ride. Of course, it didn’t diminish the beauty of these early glimpses of the Rockies – if anything, it enhanced it. But I had to stop half-way there to warm my Raynaud’s hands on my hot pipes, and take out an extra shirt to keep the wind from entering my sleeves.
I arrived in Alamosa, wet, cold, hungry, and sore. The thought of setting up the tent in the dark, in the rain, and shivering from cold, made my heart ache, so I set out looking for a cheap motel. After 5 stops to fully booked establishments, that campground starting sounding more and more pleasing. Finally, I found a place that had a DNR (do not rent) because the air conditioner was out. AIR CONDITIONER? I’m freezing! So I got the room for half price and set about, unsuccessfully, looking for food.

riders on the storm

2008-07-26T11:06:00.001-04:00

riders on the storm
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

July 25, 2008
11:32 pm
Alamosa, CO

Today when I got the heck out of Dodge, I continued west across Kansas and entered Colorful Colorado.
I believe the miles are shorter in Colorful Colorado. In no time, I was in La Junta gazing west into dark clouds. Nevertheless, I set out across highway 10 toward Walsenburg. I saw absolutely no sign of humanity for the next 50 miles. At some point during that glorious trek, I realized it was time to pull over and dress out for the foreboding atmosphere that lie ahead. Lightning zigzagged across every inch of sky, and it didn't seem to be moving.
As I got closer, the air got cooler so that by the time I entered the rain, it was quite cold and windy.
By now, I could see the actual ground that was being struck by the bolts, some of them less than a hundred yards away. I'd never experienced lightning in 3D before - it's always been set against a black background in 2 dimensions. Seeing it strike specific spots close by was bone chilling.
I arrived in Walsenburg safe but shaken and cold.

a quicker way to travel

2008-07-26T11:05:00.001-04:00

a quicker way to travel
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

July 23, 2008
11:38pm
Tulsa, Oklahoma
(474 miles) (1165 miles)

Apparently, I slept through an awesome thunderstorm last night. I didn’t know that at the time of my last scribbled entry. As I was packing my bike this morning, a man from Holland came by and struck up a conversation. He asked me if I’d gotten wet last night. I said, I didn’t think it rained much. He replied, “not equal to the unbelievable thunder and lightning.” So there you have it. Rod slept hard.
After I’d waited out the rain and let the tent dry, I decided I had enough time to visit downtown Memphis. I drove down I-55 looking for Graceland, Graceland, in Memphis Tennessee, but alas, I didn’t find it. After the first time crossing back over the Mississippi into Arkansas again, I decided to cross back and forth a few times. No, really. This is a habit I picked up in Budapest a bunch of years ago when I crossed the Danube, walked down to the next bridge and walked back across. And so on…
Finally, I exited to downtown and rode down the riverside drive until I came to Union Avenue. Expecting to see the Ghost of Elvis, I parked my bike, fed the meter and set off walking. I walked up to Main Street, and then down to Beale. Besides the legendary Beale Street Buzz playing in my imagination, downtown Memphis was the quietest experience I’d had since I left my driveway 24 hours before. There were a few people walking about, and a few quiet trolleys ringing quaint bells as they stopped for the few people walking about.

I decided to do everything within my power to avoid interstate today, so I hopped Arkansas 64 to avoid driving south and then north again and to completely miss Little Rock. I’d pick up I-40 west of Little Rock and follow it to Oklahoma and then up to Tulsa. But about halfway across, I began to think I’d rather stay in the country and maybe begin my trek Northward before I reached Oklahoma. I spoke with a man at a gas station who suggested US-412 across the top of Arkansas. So I plotted a path to get me there.
Once again, it is proven true that the journey matters more than the destination. The hundred mile ride northward through the uninhabited mountains proved much more spectacular than the traffic-ridden, town-bespeckled, thunderstorm-laden 412.
As it turns out, 412 comes straight into Tulsa via the Cherokee Turnpike, and become I-44. I stopped at the first exit, and here I am, debating whether to set up the tent or sleep under the first clear skies I’ve seen since I left this morning.

look at me!!!!!

2008-07-26T11:04:00.001-04:00

look at me!!!!!
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

July 23, 2008
7:30am
West Memphis, Arkansas
(691 miles) (691 miles)

It is really quite difficult not to develop a destination – to begin living in the future. I woke up so early this morning that it was still dark for quite a while. I began to think of how early I could get to Tulsa if I got moving right away. But of course, I thought of how much I wanted to go back into Memphis and have a walk about. I truly began to consider skipping Memphis and all it’s musical magic to rush myself off to Tulsa where I have no plans whatsoever. I merely plan to sleep in Tulsa. I’d plan to feel Memphis.
I even thought, that if I got out early, I may keep moving past Tulsa, and get ahead of my schedule. Why is it that we have such a tendency to get ahead of ourselves? We are so product driven and destination-minded that we often miss the importance of the process and journey. Truth is, there are products whose only purpose is the process that produced them. Surely destinations are among them.
The point of the journey is not to arrive.

promises

2008-07-26T11:02:00.001-04:00

promises
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

Last night at sunset, I rode through Memphis and across the Mississippi River into Arkansas. Fifteen minutes later, I set up the tent and crashed. Seven hundred miles and 14 hours astride the Windhorse had taken its toll. That’s about 5 hours before bedtime for me. In fact, I woke up fully dressed in my nasty road clothes at 5:30 this morning, climbed out of the tent in a slight drizzle, and headed for the shower. Yes, I’m really roughing it!
When I returned from the shower, the sun was beginning to come up in the clear eastern sky, but it was still raining. Another degree above the horizon and the soft sun cast its rays through the rain around me and projected a rainbow above my head in the still-dark sky.

Somehow, a rainbow signifies that everything is as it should be. It doesn’t mean that everything is peachy, but as it should be. Trust is a very difficult skill to master. We begin each year, start each week, wake each day, and pour each morning cup with expectations, goals and destinations. When the unexpected arises, or obstacles block our paths, we become discouraged. But it’s like my (imaginary) friend Neil Peart says, “it’s not as if that barricade blocks the only road.” That’s what a rainbow says.
So when I arrived in Arkansas last night, road-beaten, sticky, and sore, got beat up more by the freshly eroded Arkansas exit ramps and service roads, set up the tent in the worst mosquito infestation I’ve EVER seen, and woke to rain, you can imagine how welcome a reminder was the rainbow that framed my tent as the sun began to rise.
So as the rain drizzled its last, I sat down to scribble at the laptop and wait for the tent to dry, content that regardless of obstacles, change of plans, bad weather, or rude people, I will accept the journey and realize that having never been there before, my expectations weren’t quite in line with reality.
In a perfect world, we would trust.

Sorry I missed:
Loretta Lynn’s Coalminer’s Daughter Kitchen Museum
Hi’s Berkenstock and Cigar Superstore

ctrl-alt-del

2008-07-11T16:27:00.001-04:00

ctrl-alt-del
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

I started grad school just as the digital age of interactivity was beginning. Seven years after sound could be captured digitally, but not played back. Six years after digital playback became available, and just as interactivity became possible. I existed in an interactive academic world just when the digital revolution put one-way communication theory into a half-nelson and turned it on its ear.
Immediately I got a computer login account, an email address, and a gopher browser and dialed, from home, into the internet where I could search the music library at Indiana University, look for microfilms at Cambridge, or browse titles and copyrights at the Library of Congress. All, from my 1meg RAM, 8mghz, Mac Plus through a 1200k phone modem.
Keep in mind that this was 4 years before Al Gore verbally fantasized about the information superhighway, and 6 years before the World Wide Web. My professors were issuing hand-written and typed exams with whiteout smudges, and we were submitting homework of laser-printed music scores.
We could converse with our more savvy profs about assignments via email at all hours, and we joined huge global listserv groups for the discussion of many apt academic topics. One of the things I remember most vividly, was typing into that computer with a dictionary on my desk. I was TERRIFIED of sending off misspellings, inappropriate word use, or other evidence of my humanity to these Doctors and Academic Titans. Suddenly, the comfort of home felt as formal as the classroom, or a submitted research paper. I felt as if my ability to think, write, and spell were being evaluated via my digital correspondence the same as my formal academic writing. No doubt, impressions were being formed.
So I re-read everything many times before pressing the hyperlinked “send” text, I looked up words in the dictionary even if I’d typed them hundreds of times before. I agonized over number vs. possession, whose and who’s, homonyms, farther, further, ie and ei, after c, and capitalization (or is that Capitolization?) Ha.
Ah, the handy-dandy hard-copy dictionary/thesaurus and, of course, MLA, or Kate Turabian for emergencies.

I have that issue still today, and like the old geezers who just couldn’t grasp the concept of interactive communication theory after a lifetime of reading published books, and gathering info from broadcasts, I now cringe 148 times a day, when I read consistent misspellings and improper uses of extremely common words. I definately can’t seperate teh edgicated from the nonedgicated. And THIS, in the age of spellcheck, grammarcheck, autocorrect, and automatic format. In fact, I had to figure out how to overpower the word processor lest Microsoft correct all of my cleverivity in that wonderful sentence back there. (cleverivity did not pass the test)

But of course, none of that is the point of my scribbling this morning. My thoughts were sent in this direction because I quickly typed a post reply on facebook this morning and as soon as I’d hit “post,” I saw that I’d used “there” instead of “their,” or some such display of stupidity. So I clicked the “edit your post” button and got a blank screen. Two hours later, when facebook came back online, the “edit your post” button was gone, and I was stuck for all eternity exposed to world for the fool that I am. This hurts folks.

Ouch.

So, I thought, indeed, correction and second chances seem quite easy in our world. Ctrl-alt-del. Undo. (Mac users just hit a button, Windows requires a key combo – different theologies for different folks, I guess) Redo, step backward.

These technological blessings haven’t always been available. A mulligan hasn’t always been as easy to secure. But through experiences like this morning, I’ve come to realize that though we seem always to get a second chance, we can’t always undo.
So, I think it’s imperative to accept that it is much less important to keep our failures secret than it is to know that they have no bearing on our being loved, respected, and cared for.

Of coarse, that definately meens that I’ve got to show a lot of grace two, lest their be les shone to me.

vox

2008-07-02T13:56:00.001-04:00

vox
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

I'm just not convinced, still, that where one is supposed to be is actually a place. There are exceptions, appointments, if you will, but these rarely have anything to do with permanence. I think we find our "place" by faithfulness where we are at any given moment.
Our Christian lives are so filled with preparation language, strategy, positioning, location location location, that we begin to think we are enlisted, boot camp grads awaiting deployment orders. Is it not such an irony that SO many College folk believe their call is to be "there", but an inordinate number hang around town for so long? I don't think there is anything wrong with the hanging around.

I truly believe that "there" is the air that touches our skin. I believe that God has infused us with tremendous amounts of God stuff that he expects us to breathe out into the atmosphere for others to absorb. Not only exhaled through our noses and mouths as sighs and songs and sermons, but also through our pores and being as perspiration of pungent Jesus fragrance. The kind that fogs up the windows in the driveway when goodnights linger a little too long.

So if the “there” is “here,” what are we supposed to be about?

The problem with strategizing and training is that we don’t get our gift skills honed, we set about learning new skills. Sometimes, but not always, these new skills are not even the gift skills of those teaching us. They, too, seem to have abandoned their being to be replaced with new strategic skill sets and methodologies.

I wonder if we all don’t innately understand how to emanate what is inside us, and that understanding becomes less and less trusted until we simply ignore it. I wonder if we were to take the word “training” off the end of the word pair, “discipleship training,” we’d find that we are less confused about doing and being and would allow ourselves to do based on how we’re made, and to be based on how we’re being made. What if discipleship were about relationship, and that relationship taught and caused us to express it?

I am saddened that so many of us have been given melody bits from the chanson de Dieu, but relegate singing them to our spare time creative outlet.
I have seen what makes your heart sing. I have smelled the fragrance of Jesus perspiration strengthen as the song grows louder. I have longed to hear it continue.

If you’re given a picture to paint, but anything else foregoes the painting; no matter where you are, the paint will just dry in the tube while the painting burns on your heart.
We have to do what we have to do, but we’ve got to sing the song, paint the picture, write the story, bake the bread, serve the wine.

jumping

2008-06-30T10:00:00.001-04:00

jumping
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

joy is felt on rainy days, in urban concrete, in cubicles, midst worries, in traffic, and while doing laundry -
but it's easiest to identify in a golden field, on a hilltop, beneath a blue sky.

gentle hands

2008-06-18T13:45:00.001-04:00

gentle hands
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

When the kids and I crossed onto one of the islands on our way to our campsite on Sunday, we came upon a field full of cattle at the edge of the marsh. As we got closer, we could see that for nearly every cow, there was at least one cattle egret milling about her feet, or riding on her back.
Will’s brain made the symbiotic connection, but he began talking about a completely different relationship. I can’t ever remember what it was, but it started us talking about symbiotic and parasitic relationships. The cattle and the egrets are such a wonderful, obvious example. The cattle kick up bugs for the egrets to eat, and in return, the egrets protect the cattle from pesky tickles and painful bites.
We were certainly placed here in symbiosis. We breathe in symbiosis with nature. We inhale what nature exhales, and nature inhales what we exhale. But we increasingly have become parasitic in our own environment. We’ve added exhalation that is detrimental not only to our symbiotic partners, but also to us.
Perhaps there have always been parasites, but it seems they have always depended on stronger hosts to support them. What happens when the strong become the parasites feeding on the weak? The answer is all around. Though nature is resilient and tends to bounce back, it is impossible for it to recover while it is still being abused.

The ultimate end is that humans become parasitic one to another. It fascinates me that most often when we think of humans being parasitic to others, our minds conjure images of panhandlers, welfare recipients, and thieves. And no doubt there are parasites among them. But the most damaging parasites are the powerful who feed on the weak. And I observe that this is the more common parasite. Soon, the weak are depleted and the parasite is fat, happy and powerful.
Human relationships are intended to be symbiotic. Iron sharpens iron. But even, one-on-one, often one partner feeds off the other in unhealthy ways emotionally, economically, narcissistically, and even sexually.
It is so encouraging to see gentle hands finding joy in another, without taking the other as a resource, a pet, or a trophy.

for sale

2008-06-09T21:07:00.001-04:00

for sale
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

Several years ago, I was riding a 1985 Honda Shadow 500. That’s a tiny bike for a rather large fellow like me. I’m the guy who causes everyone to think my 1100C2 is a 750 until they see it apart from me. All my students ask me why I play guitars with such short scale length. Fact is, my green guitar is nearly a full inch longer than standard.

But, I digress.

On the 500, the grips hit my knees before I turned it all the way to the stops. My bottom ached after 40 miles and my back after 90. Nevertheless, I rode it as much as 500 miles in a single day several times, and put 18,000 miles on it in 2 years.
Allison didn’t just give me permission to get the 1100 when a bargain opportunity came ‘round, she practically made me upgrade. I’ve been extremely happy with that bike. It has taken me through the mountains West Virginia, Virginia, Tennessee and NC, Texas hill country, along the coast, through cornfields of central Pennsylvania and Western New York, through the bayous of South Louisiana, and the Vineyards of Ontario, and all points between.
It is a musical instrument at any tempo, but at 70mph, on an open country highway, it plays all the parts. It’s the soundtrack to real-time, live action film in 3 dimensions, and a G-force theme park where you don’t stand in line for 90 minutes for a 90 second coaster ride.

In July, it will take me the length of Tennessee, across the river and into the Southwest for a week in Santa Fe, before carrying me across Arizona, and north to San Francisco then turning back east, through Yosemite and toward home.
I’ve been planning this trip in my mind since early spring, first thinking through proper, most-likely-successful approaches to getting permissions not to be places where I’m supposed to be at times when I’m supposed to be there. Then maps, itineraries, travel needs, etc. What things made me stop last year at Wal-marts in obscure little towns after dark, and how can I anticipate those things this time?
All this background thinking and planning and dreaming and imagining obtaining an actual touring bike rather than taking 6000-mile trips on a cruiser. My dream is an R1200GS and that’s what’s been playing in the back of my mind all week. I mentioned it to fellow who was admiring my Shadow at the top of the driveway, and he told me the State Patrol had switched to Hondas and there were some R1200s at the State Surplus.
Ha! So I got online and looked for those bikes. A simple surplus search turned into 90 minutes as I browsed about the world looking for affordable un-affordable BMWs.
By Saturday, I’d become so obsessed that I’d made it my primary (read, “only”) vehicle. Gas is projected to be over $5 by august, and I can’t afford to drive my truck anymore. If I could sell my truck…
… I was acting like a child dreaming.
Saturday night I dreamt about it all and by Sunday morning, I was doing budget calculations as to how to make it work. I’d sold my truck, a couple guitars, my Shadow 1100 and two of the kids by the time Jack banged on my bedroom door to wake me. When I heard his voice, I was still working out a calculation, and said, “hold on a sec, Jack.” He persisted. “Just a minute, I said.” A third shout, and I realized that I was dreaming and he needed me to take him to sound check.
When I did get up, I realized I still had my red truck, green bike, both my silver and green guitars, and all three kids.

Sheesh, what kinda guy would sell his kids to get a motorcycle?
Not to mention that I’ve been trying to acquire Sienna from Hippyhappyhay!

No wonder I need to get away.

the future is yours, child

2008-06-06T17:51:00.001-04:00

the future is yours, child
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

When I saw this beautiful princess mingling with her family between recitals on Saturday, I had to ask her if I could take her picture. She ran to a tree about 20 yards away and posed. Her Mom accompanied me and I went over and talked to her. As we spoke, I had one of those rare second-sight experiences. I saw joy, and fulfillment in her future. I could sense a depth of support and love for her that made my heart smile.
The photo is not very good because the light and leaf shadows and breeziness made it quite impossible, but she is beautiful nonetheless.

I love to take shots of Princes and Princesses, usually when they're at work playing. A child's work is the work of play. Play is the discovery, as well as the expression of one’s self. One explores, finds one’s self, and expresses one’s self through play and fantasy. In this sense, it is art.
I always feel that art is a form of play. It certainly is when considered with the concept of “work.” Now, lest you think that I don’t take art seriously enough when calling it play, might I suggest that you don’t take play seriously enough so as to feel the word, “play” demeaning to the concept of art?
Ironically, we use the word, “work” when referring to art, but if you think about it, the word is nearly always applied to product as a noun. “She will display her work next weekend,” or, “his work is always first quality.” When work is a verb in this context, it refers the creative process by which a work is created. And yes, the process of acquiring the knowledge of one’s self, the ability to dig deep, observe keenly, and develop the technical skills by which expression is made possible is a daunting, working task – but expressing, ought never to be work.
A water spigot is made to deliver water to me when I open it, but I would never feel that the spigot is working when I wash my hands. If fact, it seems more accurate to me to realize that the spigot is working when it is not being used because it is holding water back. When it is being used, it relaxes and allows the water to flow as it was made to do. It expresses, if you will.
Ballet is a beautiful, expressive art form. To watch a dancer become hidden by the dance, is to see her more deeply and clearly. Sadly, the culture of ballet too often draws those parents who desperately need vicariously to remedy their missed chances, denied dreams, stolen opportunities, or even personal inadequacies. They are not giving their children opportunities they never had, they are taking those opportunities vicariously at the expense of their children. In this too-common scenario, the child is working for the parent, and nothing is being expressed.
Play allows a child to enter a world of fantasy and thus learn to differentiate between fact and fiction, fantasy and reality; and when appropriate, to seek to meld the two. But when fiction and a parent’s fantasy are forced upon a child, the child has no ability to differentiate it from reality, and thus, never learns what is, or who she his.

bush battle

2008-06-05T16:40:00.001-04:00

bush battle
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

When we moved here, 5 years ago, there were two nasty, ugly, rude, mean, aggressive, assertive, vindictive, ruthless, relentless, sticker bushes in the front yard in the island between our yard and the neighbor’s driveway. I’m not talking about pansy little rose thorns, or wild vines that catch on your pant leg and scratch your arms. No, I’m talking about the kind of thorns that Prince Charming had to drill through to reach Sleeping Beauty.
These thorns are two inches long, sharp as needles, and strong as steel. They are covered with weakened rattlesnake venom, so that when one pierces your flesh (usually in the palm of the hand, or on the knuckles) it aches for hours like the intentional sting of a hornet. And like a hornet, you don’t have to be anywhere near the bush to fall prey to its evil aggression. It will chase you just for sharing airspace, despite the fact that it needs your CO2 emissions.
The bushes grow extremely fast, so that if you were to go on vacation and not ask someone to guard them with a machete, they will literally (not figuratively) take over your house, overthrow the county government, institute militia rule and form a hedge around your city (remember sleeping beauty) through which the National Guard wouldn’t dare to venture. One cuts the three week-old, three-foot shoots of thorn laden swords, lays them under constant watch until he is sure they are completely dead, and glances again at the bush to find they’ve been replaced by stronger, deadlier shoots. These are lopper-resistant strains of torturous thorn bushes, and are the best proof yet of Darwinism.
The branches grow straight as an arrow for 24 inches, or 3 inches and then suddenly make a right angle and repeat the process, myriad times until a maze of branches and two-inch thorns are tangled together in a weave so tight it sends shivers of awe through the unwitting homeowner cum thorn bush foe.

About a month ago, I realized that I’d finally found victory over one of the bushes. As I returned from work, I glanced, as I always do, a glance of anger and fortitude in the direction of the bush, and next morning, I realized that it was just enough to do the bush in. Apparently I’d weakened it over time, and that last steely-eyed glance had enough vitriol to finally kill the formidable foe.
With a new sense of masculinity, I headed to the garage for my chainsaw. I could feel the testosterone pumping as I primed the 2 cycle engine with pure hormone. It started and ran so rich on testosterone that smoke belched from the muffler as I attacked that bush. I didn’t even mess with the upper echelons of the thornical hierarchy, I went straight for the trunk. Cut that monster off at the feet.
Did I stop at seeing that helpless, dead, bush fall to my saw? No, I went straight for the remaining living bush and served it the same fate.

I’ve been doing yard work these past days and I knew eventually, I would have to contend with those thorn bushes. Initially I dragged them whole into the backyard and placed them out of the way. Today I attacked them again.
Much to my surprise, though they had been severed from their roots for weeks, they were only mostly dead. I’d been hoping they were all dead, and that all that would be left to do was go through their pockets for loose change. But no.
And man, were they mad.
This time I put on thick leather gloves, grabbed the loppers, and set about untangling those prickly swords and cutting them away so that I could feed them to the chipper/shredder. With every last drop of energy they had left, they resisted. I’d carefully pull a branch and it would snap back and swing at me with those evil thorns. My hands were bruised and bloody, bits of thorns lodged in my knuckles, arms scratched, legs ached, but eventually, I fed those bushes into the chute and listened with a sweet smile as I heard the bits shooting out the other side.
What is disturbing to me is the anger, and hatred that emanated from my soul as I fought the last bush battle. Would I be content only to clean up the yard? NO! I would not rest until every last fiber of hell-bush was chipped and shredded into nourishing mulch and fed into the lake of fire.
Frustration is an emotion familiar to me. Anger is rare. Hatred is unknown. But oh, the feelings I felt for those bushes.

So long hell-bush.
May your being consumed only increase the heat of the fire that consumes you.

colorblind

2008-05-30T13:02:00.001-04:00

colorblind
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

I got up very early this morning. The sky was grey as dark faded. Thick clouds blocked the sun as I made coffee and cleaned the kitchen.
My emotions bounced back and forth as I listened to lighthearted, happy music of Sufjan Stephens, and contemplated the depth of seriousness, despair, and hope in the lyrics.
Some days you need the day to define you, other days you need the day to express you.
The day was expressing me quite well, I needed to be defined, from outside myself.

As I sat at the kitchen table writing from my contemplative heart, I noticed a rainbow on my hand when I put it up to lean my chin on it. There’s a prism hanging in our window, and break in a cloud directed a beam through it to my face.
It is quite clear that I have no beauty of my own. Everything that I have to smile about comes from without and changes me within.
I will be patient sitting in shades of grey under heavy skies waiting for a beam of refracted light to cast color and beauty on my weathered grey face.

Shine a light through the clouds.
Separate the wavelengths.
Cast colors on my monochrome soul.

beams

2008-05-21T15:32:00.001-04:00

beams
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

cracks will be found by
even the first morning rays
when darkness decays

surface illusion

2008-05-07T00:23:00.001-04:00

surface illusion
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

Sometimes depth and height can be perceived in a single glance in one direction from those of us wallowing on the horizontal axis of averages and mediocrity. But going deeper and reaching higher is not as easy as realizing how short and shallow I am - though realizing is certainly a necessary first step.
Just as clothing can prove an encumbrance when plunging into deep waters, one must lay himself bare to fathom the depths of love, dependence and vulnerability required to reach the heights of joy available to us.
But it is so much safer and easier to stay covered and encumbered, and look at height reflected on the mere surface of the deep than it is to plunge in or rise up.

press on

2008-05-06T12:13:00.001-04:00

press on
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

Yes, I go to as many of Jack's track meets as I can, but honestly, this is what excites me more. I’m excited by the behind-the-scenes process by which one achieves.
What you can’t see here is that there are no other teammates on the track. Coach Moore is standing at the finish line with a watch and Jack is practicing the last 200m of his half-mile. This is the point when every muscle screams from depletion, lungs can’t get enough oxygen, and every fiber begs you to quit. But we push through the threshold of pain.
Some see vanity in athletics, but I see discipline. One learns the art of denying his body pleasure that is harmful, embracing discomfort that makes him stronger.

It is fun to compete against dozens of other runners, to place well in an event, but at the end of the day, what goes home with you is your time, and it is measured against your own previous times, not against someone else’s. The competition with others fades, win or lose, but we press on for an enduring prize.

Indeed, we are our most formidable foe. Perhaps we can’t be beat, but we try.

Also, what you can’t see here is that Jack is using a rabbit – a little guy, several years younger who paces him in his last 100 meters. Watching these two interact is a joy. I’m watching a metaphor for life’s marathon. Jack struggles toward the coach at the finish while trying to stay just ahead of the younger guy coming behind, looking to him for instruction and guidance. The little guy can pace him, but he has to be shown what to do, where to go.
Jack, you can do a lot in a lifetime if you don’t burn out too fast. You can make the most of the distance, but first you need endurance – first you’ve got to last.

context and appearances

2008-05-01T01:04:00.001-04:00

context and appearances
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

When I commented about how nice the silver looked against the log walls, Michelle responded with how tarnished the silver was. She quickly added though, that it doesn’t look nice right after it’s polished because it is so out of place in its rustic environment.
Oh, ain’t that the truth? Perhaps it’s thought that silver is silver and silver should shine. It matters not what its context may be. But nothing exists apart from its environment. There is context in which perfectly shiny silver is not beautiful, where it looks pretentious attempting to upstage its surroundings.
I feel I’ve spent much of my life as an everyday, weathered piece of tarnished silver comfortably fitting in with my natural environment. There are plenty of perfectly polished teapots and serving dishes attempting to mingle among us, but sticking out and remaining suspect in my rough-hewn world.
The irony is that the perfectly polished pieces have ceaselessly tried to put me under the cloth – to soak me in salt and baking soda to make me shine like they do and become suspect and inauthentic in my world.
Polishing the outside does nothing for the quality. The tarnish does absolutely nothing to the quality of the silver. The tarnish merely accumulates on the surface and what lies underneath is as pure as ever. Conversely, polishing up copper does not make it silver. On the outside, it may look perfect, but inside it’s still just a common metal.

every today has a sunset

2008-05-01T00:56:00.001-04:00

every today has a sunset
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

Every today has a sunset
and every tomorrow a sunrise.