First Day of School

I have always loved the first day of school. Even when I was a student, I looked forward to going back, seeing old friends, and learning new things. I still love the first day of school, and in some ways it is now doubled for me. Last week we had teacher's inservice, and it is always so much fun to go back to work and see old friends and catch up. Then today classes started, and I enjoyed seeing former students and meeting new ones.

Highlights of the day include:

1) Named AP Teacher of the Year--I found out that my AP Art History students absolutely CRUSHED the exam at the end of last year. I had a 95% passing rate (the next closest teacher was at 78%), and was also mentioned in two other categories (third in greatest increase of students enrolled in the course, and second in greatest increase of students taking the test). Even more, the students did not "just pass" (the final score ranges from 1 to 5, with 3 being a score that is typically accepted by universities as "passing"); I had never had a student score a 5 prior to last year, and I learned that at least four did so, and everyone else I talked to earned at least a 4. That is absolutely amazing! And I'd love to be cocky and say that I'm some great teacher, but really it just shows the quality of students I was able to work with last year.

2) A student walked out of my class.

First he was tardy. Then he refused to work. Then he started texting and when I attempted to confiscate his phone, he refused. When I informed him that an administer would be coming to take it from him--and then made the call to the office--he bolted. He was later found and dealt with. I'm curious to see if he'll be back in class tomorrow. I could joke and say, "I'm sure great times are ahead with this kid!", but instead I've been praying for a way to interact with him and see what's going on in his life.

3) These two little buggers.

My sons were far and away the biggest highlight of my day. They had on their LeBron t-shirts, their new shorts and shoes, and they were ready to go.

Brennan started 3rd grade today. It amazes me how big he's getting.

Aydan is now in 6th grade (his last year before jr. high/middle school!) and wanted to ride his bike up to school by himself, as usual. He did consent, however, to me following him and taking a picture in front of his school.

The highlight on top of this highlight was the moment when Aydan turned to go into school and Brennan called his name, ran after him and gave him a hug. It was so good to see, because they've been getting on each other's last nerves as the summer ended, and it made me realize how crazy I am about them and how I couldn't be more proud.

I did not remember to take a picture of me in my first day outfit, but I am not ashamed to tell you, dear readers, that I was indeed looking pretty fly.

My "Half" Summer

This summer has been...interesting, to say the least. It has also felt like the summer of halves. Let me share some of these with you.

Thing Half Done This Summer:

Paintings

This one was meant to be decorative and I intended to finish it quickly. It's a design by Charlie Harper (genius), but the precision got to me and I never finished (but I will).

This one is also an homage, but it also serves as an example for a project we do in my art classes. It's David's "Napoleon at Saint Bernard Pass (or, Napoleon Crossing the Alps)." I may have stuck with this one had I not finished Napoleon and been instantly frustrated. I'm sure even the most casual observer can see the fatal flaw that I did not take the time to stop, analyze, evaluate and correct: the two halves of his body are in different scales. The end result is that he looks ridiculous, and I'm ashamed of it. Definitely not my best work.

I'm not sure if this one even counts. I can't remember if I worked on it this summer, and it's been half-finished for over a year. Anyway, here's what it looks like now.

Marriage

I don't really know how to elaborate. It's been weird.

Books
Certainly one of the more entertaining half-read books from this summer.
This one had some good thoughts that hit me at the right moment.

And this one was nice, but for some reason I didn't feel like I needed to finish, since it was just a collection of short stories. Regardless, it's my own fault that I didn't finish any of these books. What sane person tries to read three books at one time?

I have one day of freedom left, and then summer is over. I return to a classroom without a working projector (which is kind of a big deal, especially for art history), lacking the cart of 30 Macbook Pros (I hope they don't dock my pay to compensate for their mysterious absence), and ready to receive 39 students (my largest class ever). And you know what's crazy? I'm actually looking forward to it.

Boys Like Huck Finn

I think of Huckleberry Finn as a carefree boy, daily seeing what mischief he can get into and never missing an opportunity to head to the creek and catch a fish. This summer my boys have caught that same ethos, especially the part about catching fish. They fish almost daily and have gotten astonishingly good. When we go to Walmart they don't beg for toys or candy--they want lures and worms. And its a great pastime to indulge: giving them knowledge, skills and practice, connecting them with nature, and getting them outdoors. This last one I marvel at even more than their ability to pull sizable fish from a very tiny (and even more so with the lack of rain) creek. They can go out for hours at a time, even in the middle of the day, and contentedly fish. Currently, we are on a 40 day streak for consecutive days over 100 degrees. If we get over a hundred into mid next week we will break the streak, established in 1984, of 42 days. Still, I'm sure the boys will be out in it, living it up and snagging fish left and right. I think it's awesome and it makes me smile.

I'm No Superman

When I was in junior high I loved comic books. They were one of my main artistic influences, and for a time I thought that "when I grew up" I would be a professional comic book artist.

Then, in high school, the Superman "S" became a convenient emblem for a warm-up shirt I wore to track and field meets. It was convenient because it could have stood for Shelby...but really, it was my way of expressing to everyone how great I thought I was.

The "Superman thing" became something of a gimmick, and provided easy presents from friends in high school and college (I remember receiving Superman lunch boxes, puzzles, mugs, etc.). I still clung to what was really my own ridiculous identification with the Man of Steel: I was invincible.

But I remember reading a graphic novel called "Kingdom Come" when I lived in Saint Paul. In it, Superman retires permanently to the Fortress of Solitude after he was unable to save Lois Lane from being murdered. The story deals with former heroes--disillusioned, washed-up, burnt-out, exiled--and the aftermath caused by their absence.

Since that time Five for Fighting has sung, "I can't stand to fly. I'm not that naive. Men weren't meant to ride with clouds between their knees. I'm more than a bird, I'm more than a plane, I'm more than a pretty face beside a train and it's not easy to be me." Lazlo Bane sings, "I can't do this all on my own, no I know I'm no Superman."

I have come to realize (and this is really no great shock) that I am not, in fact, Superman. Just as society has started deconstructing the myth and looking at how hard it would to be him, I have seen my life experience tremendous challenges, and I have experienced my own weakness and inability to do the right thing time and time again. Superman may not even be a superman, and I certainly am not.

Disappointed? Sure. Clouds cleared from my eyes and able to see clearly? Absolutely. Hopeless? Hopelessly uncool, hopelessly flawed, hopelessly frail, hopelessly needy...but not without out. Because I am unconditionally loved, I am irrevocably saved, I am endlessly strengthened, I am constantly facing death so that Christ's life may be made manifest in me. Even if all is stripped away, including the Superman machismo, it is well with my soul.

Days Gone By

Summer makes me think of days gone by. In more than one sense, too. Especially now, at the end of the summer, I'm counting the number of days that have passed and comparing it to the ridiculously few days that remain until the start of another school year. But in a more "big picture" sense, summer can really take you back to when you were a kid; the time when days were endless and free of care. I was waiting for one of my favorite summer moments--5 pm on a Saturday night when the old refrain of the "Tishomingo Blues" starts, followed by Garrison Keillor singing the introduction to "A Prairie Home Companion"--when I caught an interview on NPR. The following quote is absolutely brilliant.

It reflects a time that feels incredibly complicated but, in hindsight, is very simple

and we have this gift of NOT knowing...that it will never be like this again.

(Wil Wheaton, on the coming-of-age film, "Stand By Me")

I have never seen "Stand By Me." In fact, my only recollection of Wil Wheaton as an actor comes from "Star Trek: The Next Generation." But I intend to remedy that soon, especially with the promise of dwelling on such a bittersweet truth. Can you imagine how your childhood would have been spoiled if you KNEW that someday soon it would all be gone? If somehow a person could have flipped a switch in your head and you would have understood that you are living some of the best days of your life, and soon it would stop and those days would never come again? I love the way Wheaton says it: it's a gift that we don't know that the simple, endless days are passing, never to return.

But I have allowed myself to be sidetracked. My main purpose was to talk about the days that have gone by this summer and how we have filled them. At long last, here is my report on the summer of the "M" states--Minnesota, Montana and Missouri.

A little over a year ago, the family came together to grieve for the loss of my Grandma Liechty. Early in July, we came together again for the funeral of my Grandma Asp. I feel no shame in saying that both funerals were a celebration of a life, and so it was good to see family and be together with them. But this year I was not in a place to enjoy my family as much as last, and I think that was reflected in the number of pictures we took. Eric did a good job photographing, as he always does, but though I had my camera with me the only shot I took was this one (with my phone). It was ironic, and comforting, I guess, to see another Minnesotan in southern exile remembering their roots. And it was nice to see Grandma Asp's oft-used exclamation on a license plate.

I did enjoy my time with the family, especially the pool-side conversations with my siblings. They were the types of conversations I wrote about in my last post: weighty, but good.

I flew into DFW on Wednesday, returning from the funeral, and we drove out on Thursday. Much of the Montana trip seemed like a really long commute just to get a vacation started, but I pulled out the "travel presents" parenting gem (inherited from my mom) to help pass the time. Every few hours the kids would get a new present that was intended to help them pass the time until the next gift. Most of them were duds, but the boys still enjoyed opening them; and for some reason, focusing on the amount of time until the next present eliminates the question, "Are we there yet?" or "How long until we get there?"

Technically, the photo above isn't Montana--it's Wyoming. But our border crossing happened somewhere in the great Yellowstone National Park.

I love natural places. I had dreamed of seeing Yellowstone. There's nothing like a good wilderness, I always say. (As the joke always concludes...) "And Yellowstone is nothing like a good wilderness." Don't get me wrong--it is beautiful and largely untamed. But I feel like my sons were more wild than the Yellowstone we saw. It was WAY more touristy that I thought it would be (I don't know why I wasn't expecting that). Herds of cars would park by the roadside to snap photos of herds of deer. And they weren't really herds--three or four together, at most.

There is a lodge not 100 feet from Old Faithful that serves ridiculously over-priced (and bad) food. As you can see behind the boys, hundreds and hundreds of tourists sit on benches, munching their crappy food, waiting to see the next scheduled eruption. And even that seemed too domesticated. It was like a movie theater: "The next showtime for 'Old Faithful' will be in 25 minutes!"

I am largely to blame for my lack of enjoyment at Yellowstone, however. We made it there on the third day of driving and were on a bit of a time crunch to see everything. Exhausted from driving+needing to get somewhere=no way to enjoy a national park.

But the rest of the trip was fantastic. Being good Texans we brought along our cowboy hats. The horses were great, the Neal family, owners and operators of the Black Otter Guide service, were wonderful, and the scenery was gorgeous. Here Aydan sits astride Cassidy (must have been named after Butch, because he was a male).
The boys did so unbelievably well on the trail ride in. It was probably close to an hour or hour-and-a-half, but they never complained--in fact they loved it!--and they were finally QUIET. After 22 hours of them chattering in the back seat of the car, it was a blissfully silent ride up the mountain to our campsite. I prayed and sang "How Great Thou Art" and "Great is the Faithfulness", just soaking in the glory of creation. Above, Brennan gets a feel for Snip (short for Parsnip).
The riding was one of the best parts of the trip. Here's the fam, with Heather riding Chica.

And of course the scenery was amazing.

Being the old cowhand that I am, having ridden EXTENSIVELY at Crossroads Camp in St. John, ND, I was glad someone as skilled and experienced as me had some challenges, like crossing this river.

But seriously, it was pretty challenging riding a horse (even my faithful steed Doc) with a broken leg. The place where the stirrup rested against the side of the horse was just at the break line and was somewhat uncomfortable. Then on the way home, I leaned out of my saddle and returned to an upright position using my left leg. Big mistake! The ride down the mountain was excruciating.

If you would have asked me what I wanted from Montana, I would have described a scene like this. Emerging from a dense forest into a rolling mountain pasture, ringed by mountains and covered with a blue sky, all on a glorious, sunny-but-cool day. Amazing. This is where the wildness and the true beauty were.

While Aydan may look like he is in blissful repose, he had in fact just sprained his ankle running through the meadow. He is moaning and wailing under his hat in this picture, but had you not known that, it would have been picturesque, right?

What good cowboy doesn't chew on a piece of grass?

Each day in mid- to late-aternoon the mountain storms would roll in. We all had rain gear, so it was no big deal, and we didn't let it slow us down. Sometimes, during the heaviest rain, we'd huddle under the big central tent where we shared our meals. Fortunately, I brought some card games along and we still enjoyed that time as well. When the rain was light we would still go adventuring.
I mentioned Aydan's injury before because it prevented him from going with Brennan and me when we started exploring on our first day in camp. We just kept climbing higher and higher until we reached the top of the mountain. Unfortunately, it caused Aydan to worry so much that he couldn't eat dinner (such a sweet kid!), which we missed. Still, it provided one of my favorite pictures of the trip.
This may look like an ordinary landscape photo, simply demonstrating the beauty of the mountainside. But look closer.

On the second day we took a ride through the surrounding mountains. Riding was a definite treat, and we got to stop and eat lunch in magnificent surroundings. Some other favorite activities included gathering fuel for and stoking the fire, and feeding and saddling the horses. Seriously, the boys could have done these two jobs all day long. Aydan so enjoyed helping out that he desperately wants to return next summer to work for Black Otter. And the Neals were so kind and appreciative of the boys' help. Gary, the trail boss, even taught Aydan and Brennan how to crack a whip.

Unfortunately, the creek (which is a misnomer--it was like a roaring, cascading river) was too high and fast, due to an unusually high amount of snowfall from the previous winter, which is still melting and flowing down the mountainside. Sadly that meant that the boys could not fish, which has become the ultimate of activities for them this summer. (I'll have to post a picture about that later.) All in all, though, a great trip.

Then last week we went to Missouri to celebrate the 60th wedding anniversary of my father-in-law's parents. It was a good time to re-connect with family, some of whom I haven't seen for ten years. In fact, we went to the exact spot for Jack and Annette's 50th anniversary. Above, all the "grandkids" sit and talk to Grandpa Jack. For me it was all about hanging out with Heather's family and enjoying time with her brothers and sister. Oh, that and cliff jumping.

See me behind the tree branch? This is a pretty decent cliff, right? Maybe 15 feet.
Well this was just a warm up for the real, main event.

This photo was taken 10 years ago. I'm almost positive it's the exact same cliff we jumped off last week. The previous trip was taken in Autumn, so we weren't as crazy about getting out and swimming. As a result, the picture isn't very descriptive in terms of scale.
Well, we remedied that problem this year. Here I am standing in the water at the base of the cliff. And don't worry--the water depth drops pretty rapidly. We jumped into approximately 8 feet of water, with good soft mud at the bottom.

Seen here is the top of the cliff face from which we jumped. The highest point of rock you can see, just right of center in the photo, was our launch place. The goal was to jump over and clear (aiming just slightly to the right) the tree branches below.

Here I am in mid-plummet. We estimated that the cliff was probably 40-50 feet tall. It had a pronounced affect upon ones bottom when one hit the water. That's a polite and proper way of saying it made your butthole sizzle when you splashed down.

To give you a better feel for what it would have looked like watching from a boat in the middle of the lake (and yes, we did have spectators), here is Kelly in mid-jump. I must say, for the honor of all the Faszholz children, that (although not pictured) Heather, Jason and Kyle all jumped as well. But I was an idiot and forgot the camera for the first time. So Kelly and I paddled back to the cabin, got the cameras (there is also video footage this time), and were the only ones to repeat the jump for documentation. Did I mention the butthole situation?

But thankfully I did not remember the butthole stinging from 10 years previous, and I was only too glad to be the first to make the jump again this year. I have included pictures from the last time just for nostalgia's sake.
This shot of Jason really does well to capture how huge a jump it was. I'm not going to try to sound all tough: it was terrifying standing up there, trying to get the nerve to jump.

And here's me. Unfortunately my scanning job made an already off-center situation much worse, so you can barely see me in the top left corner.

Ah...what beautiful days this summer has held!

The Good Stuff

"Didn't our hears burn within us?" (Luke 24:32)

Have you ever had a good conversation? I'm not talking about mere fun or stirring intellectual topics. Have you ever talked with someone about what God was doing in your life and by the end you feel like the Holy Spirit was within you, within the other, swirling between you and wrapping everything in that moment into an almost utter holiness? Or have you listened to the aching heart of a friend and tried to walk in their shoes and help them bear their burden so that by the end of your talk you feel like their is a solidarity and togetherness that is just somehow deeply meaningful?

That's what it comes down to: meaningful. Fun is fine, but it's terribly fleeting. When you have a meaningful conversation, it sticks with you. It could have been absolutely terrible and heart-wrenching, but it lingers and you feel it and you remember you are alive. See, the thrill of joy, the rush of excitement, the glow of happiness--these aren't the only reminders of being alive. To loss of death, the weight of sorrow, the suffering of pain; these remind us that life matters, and that existence is full of a complete range of emotion. Often in our sorrow we find ourselves. Often we are refined and life becomes sweeter still.

I haven't written much about it here because this is, should anyone in a far-flung corner of the world come up with a ridiculous desire to read this, a global forum. Granted, my world is significantly smaller than that and typically consists of a handful of readers, some of whom know what is going on. But to my wider readership and to the world (if they care to read): I am going through a difficult time. Still, God has caused me to pause and marvel at least three distinct times today, and it's as if the pain clears away distractions, focusing vision and allowing moments of clarity. My most recent astonishment is that even a tough conversation can produce joy, especially when the "meaningfulness" is evident right away and the glory of God can be seen in it. I've heard before that one word for God's glory in Hebrew is "kavod", and it means a sort of weightiness or heaviness. I find it beautifully ironic that God is often clearly felt in the weighty and heavy matters of our lives.

I Am Thankful for God's Love

There's a wideness in God's mercy
I cannot find in my own
And He keeps His fire burning
To melt this heart of stone
Keeps me aching with a yearning
Keeps me glad to have been caught
In the reckless raging fury
That they call the love of God

Joy and sorrow are this ocean
And in their every ebb and flow
Now the Lord a door has opened
That all Hell could never close
Here I'm tested and made worthy
Tossed about but lifted up
In the reckless raging fury
That they call the love of God

I'm Back

It's been quite some time since I last posted. This is due to a variety of factors: personal pain and loss (including, but not limited to, my Grandma Asp's death), a vacation (in the mountains of Montana), painting (nearly 20 hours in the last two days), and just general summer style (the carefree, slow and easy-going pace of days uncrowded by a demanding schedule).

But here is my return. I plan to post about each one of those things in days to come, but I was just reading and was prompted to write some recommendations, for those who, like me during the summer days, have a little extra time on their hands and want to know what to do with it.

Books:

"The Four Loves" (C.S. Lewis) It's by C.S. Lewis. That's pretty much all you need to know. The guy is amazing. I like the treatment of a subject I am currently investigating, that is, what do we mean when we say we are "in love"? I like his perspective on what it means to love.

"A Kind of Flying" (Ron Carleson) I've mentioned him before--just earlier this summer, I think--in connection to his fantastic short story, "Towel Season." So I checked out a book of his short stories from the library and have really enjoyed them. Some aren't as great as others, but "The H Street Sledding Record," "I Am Bigfoot," and "Life Before Science" and "The Status Quo" are some of the best in this collection. Maybe they resonate with the stage of life I find myself in, or maybe because many of his stories swing round to hope in the end, or maybe because they're just well written and entertaining, but in any case I have been enjoying them. If you want some bite-sized fiction, check it out.

"The Book of the Dead" (Lloyd and Mitchinson) I heard about this one on NPR. NPR gives you tips on all sorts of great stuff. I picked it up for the Montana trip, thinking I'd read it in the car. Then I remembered that I can't read in the car without getting violently sick. So I just picked it up this morning and have been devouring the little vignettes on the "lives of the justly famous and the undeservedly obscure." I just got done reading about Ben Franklin and it made me appreciate him so much more. The glimpses into the lives of the deceased are grouped based on theme (a dead, inadequate or absent father--Bad Beginnings; or a positive life philosophy or happy outlook--Happy-Go-Lucky). It is fascinating and entertaining and fun. I highly recommend it.

Viewing:

"Mad About You." Maybe my favorite TV show ever. I just started re-watching old episodes on discs from Netflix. It is the perfect telling of married life--funny, difficult, annoying, complex, and (as one character puts it in the series finale) "better."

"Black Snake Moan." HUGE caveat here. It would rightfully be considered by some to be filthy. In the first 20 minutes there are 3 sex scenes. The cover of the DVD shows Samuel L. Jackson holding the end of a chain, at the other end of which is a scantily clad Christina Ricci. But if that doesn't scare you away, if you can fight through some nudity and language, you will enjoy one of the most beautiful (albeit gritty) redemption stories in film. I want to love like Lazarus and Ronnie.

Music:

I've got two Sarah's for you.

Sara Watkins

Formerly of Nickel Creek. Since then she has guest-hosted "A Prairie Home Companion" (preparing for Garrison's announced retirement in a year and a half) and released her own solo album. I was not particularly keen on the music at first, so give it a couple listens before you decide. But now I absolutely love "Long Hot Summer Day," "All This Time," and of course, her version of "Give Me Jesus."

Sarah Jaffe

A Denton, TX native (just up the road), Jaffe is part of a collection of local musicians I just love (I think I've mentioned Seryn before, and Air Review, but also Doug Burr). Her song "Clementine" is great. (There's another "Clementine" by Washington that's pretty good, too.)

So I've returned and now I've given you plenty of things to keep you busy. Look for more soon.

Sad Songs and Waltzes Aren't Selling This Year

Okay...nobody freak out. I thought of a sad song today and it made me think, "What are the saddest songs ever?" So I've put together this little list. Your contributions of what you think is a sad song are always welcome.

"Running Dry (Requiem for the Rockets)" (Neil Young)

"A Man Needs a Maid" (Neil Young)

"Where's the Orchestra" (Billy Joel)

"Fred Jones (Part 2)" (Ben Folds)

"Goodbye to Love" (The Carpenters)

"Rainy Days and Mondays" (The Carpenters)

"Hurt" (Johnny Cash...not the original Nine Inch Nails version)

"Eli the Barrow Boy" (The Decemberists)

"Another New World" (Josh Ritter)

"Mad World" (Michael Andrews & Gary Jules)

I almost hate to include "Another New World" as a sad song, but it is mournful and beautiful. It is an amazing song. If you haven't heard it you must find a way to check it out.

Ch-, Ch-, Ch-, Changes

I may not be Ovid, but I've written a series (if you can call two a series) of short stories on the theme of Metamorphosis. I hope you enjoy and let me know what you think.

Another Story

There are a million fish in the ocean, but in a swampy bog off the coast of Louisiana only a handful of fish resided. There were many reasons for this: the fear of alligators, the murkiness of the water, the above-average warmth of the water. Amongst this handful of fish, two herrings, Rhett and Ol' Blue, swam their days away. The two had been best of friends since their early days in the school, and on several occasions Ol' Blue had rescued Rhett from certain death at the end of some fishing line.

The two would often have the other fish in stitches with their unique talent. Rhett would start a sentence, and Ol' Blue would jump right in and finish for him. Sometimes it was ridiculous and silly, but other times it was downright eerie, for everyone could tell that it was as if Ol' Blue had read Rhett's mind.

One day a funny looking fish swam by. Being the kind and generous boys they were, Rhett and Ol' Blue took to protecting the awkward little thing and spent as much time as they could with him. Especially Rhett. He learned the fish's name was Bo, and he learned that Bo had a completely different way of doing everything. When Ol' Blue had chores to do and couldn't be with them, Rhett would find him later in the day and tell the funniest story of how Bo actually jumped out of the water and flopped around on dry land--something Ol' Blue would never even dream of.

As you might imagine, before long it didn't feel like Rhett, Ol' Blue and Bo. No, it seemed like Ol' Blue didn't fit in the picture any more. Mostly it was because he didn't like Bo. Bo's scales had never fully developed, and so he looked and felt odd. And maybe he was a little touched by the sun, but Ol' Blue could swear that every day Bo's flippers looked longer and his tail looked shorter. But the clincher for him was when Bo's death-defying antics became all too regular, and his jumps onto dry land lasted longer and longer.

So one day Ol' Blue swam up to Rhett and asked him what it was he liked so much about Bo.

"I'm not real sure," Rhett responded. "He sure is different, though."

"Different! I'll say! Look at him just sitting on that log there. How does he hold his breath that long? I mean it just ain't natural for a fish to be out of water like that."

"Yeah, ain't he a hoot!" Rhett said.

"He might as well hoot for how weird he looks," Ol' Blue answered. "What manner of fish do you suppose he is, with his smooth, green skin and them awful spots? And how is it his flippers fold up and tuck under his body like that?"

"Ah...you just don't understand him," Rhett told his friend. "He sings these beautiful songs and jumps across the water almost like he's flying for a little bit."

"You call that croaking singing?" said Ol' Blue. "And we can jump, too. But he don't jump up out of the water, he jumps across it. I'm telling you, it ain't natural."

Ol' Blue decided he better study Bo and see what he was like. Of course it didn't take long, but with a little study he learned that Bo wasn't a fish at all, but a big, fat bullfrog. He didn't understand why Rhett couldn't see the differences between the two of them, Rhett being a fish and Bo now changed out of his fishy state. But if Rhett liked a frog, well Ol' Blue was going to be more like one himself. After all, he missed his old friend.

While Rhett and Bo frolicked about, Ol' Blue fashioned some legs out of branches floating on the bog. He figured out a way to wrap and tuck his tail so it almost looked like it wasn't even there. Finally, and most difficult of all, Ol' Blue learned to overcome his fear of land and wanted to try flopping up on it to impress Rhett.

One day as Rhett and Bo were holding a "Swamp Olympics", Ol' Blue readied himself. He heard them talking about the course for the next race, so he swam ahead and positioned himself for them to come by. He strapped on his prosthetic legs and tucked his tail, then sat and waited. In no time at all he could hear their voices coming, so he swam as fast and he could and leaped as far as he could onto a bumpy little island with tufts of swamp grass. The problem was, when the other two raced by, they didn't see or hear him, but just raced away. Ol' Blue began to panic. He gasped for air to call out their names, but there was none. He tried to use his new legs to hobble back into the water, but they were awkward and only held him down. Finally, he flopped and trashed, but it was no use.

As the darkness closed in on his terrified mind, on final thought flashed through. "So this is what they mean by, 'A fish out of water.'"

Winning, Towels, and Family

Winning and losing. Keeping score. Maybe I'm just a competitive guy, but any personal interaction can feel like a head-to-head. Comparisons are made and I attempt to find in what arena, or in how many, I am superior to another person. That's pride--I struggle to keep it in check. But relationships can be similar. Keep track of what happened: perhaps it will be worth making into a highlight real. Count the score: you have to know where you stand, if you're getting ahead. Make sure you come out on top; make sure you win.

It turns out that is type of thinking is diametrically opposed to the mind of Jesus. Take a fleeting glance at his life, and you will see giving, serving, sacrificing. "Love keeps no record of wrongs." That is why it is hard to be like Jesus. Not because it's complex--it's surprisingly simple--but because it is so divine.

I recently re-listened to a podcast of Selected Shorts entitled "Figuring It Out." The story there is one of my favorite short stories of all time, Ron Carlson's, "Towel Season." It's very apropos because it takes place in summer suburbia. What I enjoy almost as much as the story is an interview with Ron Carlson at the end of the reading. His life motto is, "Make haste to be kind." I love that his stories reflect hope and intentional kindness. He says of his motto, "There's no time to waste. If you have to cross the street [to be kind], do it."

Would I rather "lose"? It's so hard to choose kindness and love sometimes--you feel like you're giving up so much of yourself to do it. They cost. They don't give a glorifying sense of victory. There's no vindication in them. But they are right. They are good. I guess in the end I choose to be the "loser." I hope in doing so I'm choosing to be like Jesus.

"Happy families are all alike. Every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way" (Tolstoy). Poor Anna Karenina. How tragic to live the life of duplicity and heedless chasing after the wind. But don't we all do it? Don't we all "fight [Jesus] for something I don't really want" rather than to "take what [He] gives that I need"? We just hope that somehow there won't be train wheels waiting to crush us at the end. I confess that I spent years of my life doing it. I repent of being a poor leader and a distracted follower. We all must jump off those tracks of selfishness--it's easy enough to look down the line and see where they lead--and follow the new course Jesus offers. I somehow don't think there are rails for that path. I think it sometimes feels like you are pulling the entire train's cargo through the sand to follow him, but even the struggle (at moments of true clarity) seems worth it.

A Story

Many people have heard the tale of Pygmalion, but they have been sadly misinformed. I knew the artist well and have heard his own account of the now well-known events. Here before you are his very thoughts, told to correct the error and share his woeful story.

The workshop resounded with dull thuds and resonant clangs as the hammer hit the chisel. Many a day Pygmalion would leave at sunset, joyful for the productivity, but with hands numb from the vibrations carried through his chisel. He would take the short walk home, often thanking the gods for his talents and savoring the beautiful Mediterranean breeze that sweetened the corpuscular hour.

At home, he was greeted by his adoring wife. She was a beautiful and diligent woman, always hard at work when he arrived at their house. Some days he would walk over and kiss her gently while she continued to work. Others, he would rush about the house, excitedly talking about the day's creation as he prepared a meal for them to share. She was not an artist, but always listened politely and when she did see a finished statue she would praise Pygmalion for his giftedness and the beauty of his work.

These habits continued for many years, until Pygmalion's wife began to wonder what life in the workshop was like. She began following Pygmalion to work in the morning. She pulled a chair into the corner, away from the shower of falling marble, and watched intently as he worked. After days and weeks, she was no longer perturbed by the chips of stone, nor by the dust and noise. She drew her chair closer and closer, desiring to be more a part of Pygmalion's creation.

Pygmalion reveled in his wife's attention. He lavished affection on her, often making sculptures for her or dedicating them in her name. With her in the studio he had a ready model and began posing her for works he was making. It is true that some evenings she would rub her hands and complain of an almost arthritic ache, but these occurrences were so rare and separated by so much time that he thought very little of it. When her hands ached, he pulled her to his side and rubbed them gently with his own calloused, scratched and bruised fingers.

This was a time of flourishing. The statues Pygmalion created were adored by the public. His wife now regularly stood on a model stand right next to the block of marble Pygmalion was carving. Once Pygmalion glanced at his wife while swinging his mallet and missed the chisel entirely, crushing his hand beneath the blow. They rushed home together, bound up the hand, and sat together gazing at the sky while the sun dipped below the edge of their beautiful island.

In the morning, Pygmalion told his wife he would stay home for a few days to let his hand heal. She responded that she would still like to go to the workshop, perhaps to tidy up or just to ensure that no one bothered his things while he rested. Pygmalion consented and watched his wife walk away. When he finally retuned to the workshop, Pygmalion felt something unusual. The workspace was the same. His statue was as he left it. Even the mallet that had done so much damage still felt comfortable and familiar in his hand. He worked through the day, though he took more breaks to rest his hand, and at sunset began to walk home with his wife. She stepped down from the platform and stiffly walked to the door. Pygmalion's trained eye could see a slight difference in her form, though he could not tell what he was perceiving. That whole evening she seemed less herself, rigid and cold. He asked if her hands were hurting her and began to rub them. She did not respond, but he could feel a tremendous tension in the muscles of her hand. Even his hardened digits could feel the stoney flex of her frozen fingers.

In the morning, they returned to the shop. As Pygmalion's wife climbed onto the model stand, he watched in disbelief as the dust from the floor of the studio swirled around her feet and began clinging to her peplos. She stared at him and did not seem to notice, striking a pose instead to prepare for the day's work. His wife's toe peeked from beneath her clothing, and her noticed not only how pale it was, but the rich luster it had. He reached for her garments and slapped at the dust to shake it away, but he stubbed his finger as it bounced of the granite folds. The dust of the room rose higher up her thighs. He rubbed and smoothed, shooing the dust away, but her once supple flesh was replaced with unbending stone. He began to sob, feeling her arms, her breasts, her elegant neck, and at last her soft cheek. He caressed her cold flesh, trying to tell her how he loved her and staring into her eyes for some sign that she understood. In an instant, all light was gone from her eyes. All that remained were the dull, white orbs of a statue.

To be sure, Pygmalion did love a statue. Certainly, a metamorphosis did occur. But the story of Pygmalion is not a comedy; it is a tragedy.

The Best Ever

I was recently contemplating the big questions in life, and I had to stop and ask myself:

What is the best movie ever?

The best movie to depict a conversation about "the best ever" is "City Slickers" (they talk about their best days and worst days). I watched that scene today, but that is not exactly where I was going with this.

Perhaps my favorite movie of all time is "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind." Not on the top of many peoples lists, I would venture to say. But its uniqueness, its humor, its poignancy all combine together to make it an amazing film. (Of course, timing is everything; often my "favorite" reflects what is most significant to me "right now".)

And as I thought about it more, I would say that the viewing experience I enjoy the most has just the right mix of humor and poignancy. I'm not sure "poignant" is always the right word. Sometimes it's more about what is true. It's light and funny, and yet weighty and rings of the terrible beauty that comes with living. "City Slickers" is like that. "Eternal Sunshine" is too. I just recently watched "Punch Drunk Love" again and LOVED it (again). It does such a good job of creating a mood and delivering a message in a unique and creative way. My favorite TV shows off all time do the same. "Scrubs" is hilarious, but J.D. always "learns" a valuable lesson about life. "Ed" brought together law and bowling--a moral compass mixed with a laugh track.

So here's to life: serious and heavy at times, but always mixed with a little bit of joy.

The Long and the Short of It

Summer can be an endless stream of undifferentiated days, but it can also be a mad dash of time between one school year and another.

This is the dichotomy I live with each year. There is so much to be done during the summer: plan for the next school year, paint, complete projects, etc. Yet in another sense there is so little to occupy the time, and there is pure bliss is just bumming around the pool, traveling, and relaxing.

So here we are, two weeks into summer vacation. It feels like a lifetime ago that I had to work. It feels like the summer has just begun. But the dates betray the fact that the summer is speeding along. If I take into account dates that have already been "committed" to activities or trips, the summer is already almost over. But then that's the way it usually goes.

A Confession

May I make a (perhaps startling) confession to you, dear readers?

I have never in my life sustained the practice of daily prayer, for any one person or thing, nor simply for the experience itself.

As a Christian this is a shameful thing to confess. Admitting to our shortcomings, however, in some way takes the shame away and robs the devil of the power to hold it over our head. I've had several conversations with friends about prayer in the past few weeks. At the heart of the matter, I believe, are two intellectual objections I have never been able to get beyond.

1) I do not know how it works.

This must be due, in large part, to the fact that prayer is a great spiritual mystery to begin with. But I struggle with many aspects of the inner-workings of prayer. How do prayer and providence work together? How does my sin affect my prayer? Is prayer really about asking God to give me what I want (he's probably a bit better as a judge of what I need and what is best in the universal scheme of things)? But is praying "your will be done" the only thing I can do, or does God also hear and move and respond to our requests? Being an all-knowing God, is there great need in me praying every day about the same thing...of which he is already aware and working on? The questions seem endless.

2) The lure of the novel

This is the name I give to a deep-seated desire I find at work within me. When given a choice between the commonplace or ordinary and the new and the fresh, I almost always choose the novel. As a child my father often said, "variety is the spice of life" and now as an adult I have apparently taken its meaning to be "novelty is the spice of life." While this guiding principle is not always true, it certainly makes repeated, daily prayer more of a challenge.

I am saying all this because I was challenged at church this morning that the very act of connecting with God, abiding in him, is transformative. I want prayer to be something transformative in the world at large: lives changed, events altered, the power of God brought to bear for me in my life. And, incidentally, I am often like Veruca Salt: "I want it now." What I was reminded of this morning is that the effect is very often within me, and often any discernible effect will require patience to notice.

Just moments ago I read something about C.S. Lewis in a book, and he told a friend that daily prayer for that friend felt a little like short meetings despite their geographic distance from each other. That's a beautiful picture I can get behind. I then jumped online to look for some information on Lewis's book, "Pilgrim's Regress" and read of an exchange between Lewis and his friend. His friend asked, "When will you write your next book" and Lewis's response was, "When I understand prayer." I guess in a sense it's comforting that others have wrestled with this subject as well, and at the same time have practiced what they could not fully understand.

I've started lifting weights again after the accident, and determined to gain back some weight that I had lost. As I read more about weight training, I was reminded that so much of it has to do with diet. A friend told me once, "You can't out-train a bad diet." I say all this because even though I didn't fully understand the correct way to lift or to gain muscle mass when I was a younger man, I still lifted weights. I drew pictures before I fully understood value and color. Part of living and growing is doing, and progressing as you go.

So I am resolving to make a list (I almost shudder at the thought) and pray daily. It may be the most horrible way to go about counteracting the problem, but it will be something. I simply feel I can no longer neglect something so important and blame it on ignorance.

Incredible Historic Document

By no means is hoplesslyuncool as valuable as a real historic document, such as the Declaration of Independence. I mean only that it is an extremely helpful reference that I can use to look back at my own life history.

This morning I was scrolling through old posts, as far back as 2006. My post "Subterfuge" seems more relevant and accurate today than it did five years ago. I notice familiar patterns in my thinking, and in the events that were happening around me. I see a former view of myself--what I thought was anemic and spiritually weak seems stronger than I am today...like I've wasted away to become the man I am now.

What will the next five years hold? From my perspective today, they seem very scary and uncertain. So much will happen. Who will I be when I emerge in half a decade? Only time will tell.

A Rare and Unique Creature

Let me begin by saying that I am not in the habit of snapping pictures with my camera phone while lounging at the local pool. I know, I know...just by having to declare that I make myself somewhat suspect, but nevertheless I am not THAT weird.

But what I encountered today simply had to be documented. The mere description of such a marvelous beast would defy credulity to such an extent that I was afraid no one would believe me without some type of evidence. Sitting right next to this beautiful specimen made it all the more difficult to take its photo unaware, but with a little patience and much craftiness, I was able to do so.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: Poolside Business Dad.

This breath-taking natural wonder can be easily identified in its natural habitat by its distinctive markings, resembling business slacks and dress shoes. Just...stunning.

P.S.--

You may be thinking to yourself, "Bold move, sir." But you should have seen his previous two attempts. They raised quite a few more eyebrows.

Mission Accomplished

This is how I started the day:

And this is how I ended it:

This is only a 4"x6" card. It's only colored pencil. It's far from perfect. But it's a major success in many ways.

1) My summer "return to painting" invariably puts me back to work on a canvas started months if not years earlier, and while I'm knocking the rust off and relearning everything I've forgotten I manage to ruin what had started out as a decent painting. Consider the rust knocked off.

2) Color mixing is a challenging thing. The colored pencil practice won't translate directly to painting, but it puts me back in that mindset.

3) I successfully completed a goal. I told myself I would finish this little card TODAY. When I calculated (each square/pixel takes 4-5 minutes to duplicate. There are 400 total squares. The total time, then, is close to 33 hours) that became a daunting task. Half of that (as seen in the first picture) had been completed over the course of the last two school years. Still, I forced myself to get back into disciplined time in the studio, and close to seven hours later I had done what I set out to do.

4) I saw the torture to which I was subjecting me students. This is an assignment for my Draw 2 class. I noticed this year that the completion rate for the project was way down, and the success rate was smaller still. Knowing that the value in learning to see and mix color was necessary, I used that motivation to justify the project, even though I knew kids were hating it. Having finished my own, and having forced myself to work on nothing else for hour upon hour, I can see how monotonous and tedious it is. Sure, it's valuable...but man was it a pain.

5) I think I'll change the requirements for the project this coming year.

6) I set the tone for the summer. Summers tend to fly by. I'm usually a couple weeks in before I ever start painting, and then after a couple weeks I need to start thinking about school again. This year I'm trying to be more balanced. I've already done some school work, and I refused to let the first days of the first week escape without getting some art done.

Tomorrow I'm off to the Dallas Science and Nature Museum to sketch bird specimens and take photos for a project I've been dreaming about doing for several years. This will be a preliminary step, and I'm not sure I'll start working on that painting this summer (it will be massive!), but I'm excited about two "art days" in a row.

Seated and Drawing

I haven't been able to paint recently because my common practice is to stand while doing so and standing has been something of a chore of late. In the early days of the injury it was fine for two reasons: 1) I was too uncomfortable to feel like doing anything productive, & 2) I hadn't really painted for about...hmm, let's say a year....so it's not like I was breaking some great streak by not painting. But I have 4 days of school left, so there's very little to do in terms of work-related planning, and I am still largely immobile (although I've been doing some rehab-type stretching and strengthening to bring back my range of motion) and that is a great recipe for wanting to do something creative.

So I present to the world my two most recent creations. Both media are outside my norm. Both are mostly for fun. But most importantly, both could be done while I remained seated with my leg slightly elevated.

#1--The 4-2-1 T-Shirt Design

I don't know if I've written about the 4-2-1 Tournament before. It is a fundraiser for the CHS girls volleyball program in which each girl recruits a team of four guys who pay to play in a tournament conducted on two playing surfaces: court and grass ("Four men, Two surfaces, One Champion."). For the past 3 years we have had the same "coach" from the volleyball team. I say "we" but that has really been very fluid each year, but we still use the same name regardless of who is on the team: THE FIGHTING UNICORNS. The Unicorns played without me this past weekend.

A lot of times I am asked to come up with designs for t-shirts related to various events or causes around campus. I made the 4-2-1 shirt two years ago, and it's production got me thinking about other ideas I could use in the future. I kind of like the idea for the artwork shown here, and the drawing itself didn't turn out too badly. I created it using Adobe Illustrator, with which I am far from proficient, but using it to create things like this has made me better as I go along. In the end, the girl who asked me to create a design apparently waited too long, and so it wasn't used for this years t-shirts, but at least I'll have something ready for next year if they need it. If not, at least I enjoyed making it.

#2--Customized Shoes

We got Heather a pair of TOMS for Mother's Day, and while I was paying for shipping I thought I'd get one for each of us. The great irony is that Heather's were too small (despite the fact that I ordered the size shoe she typically wears) so she was the only one who is still without a pair. I haven't been able to wear mine, due to the elephantine proportions of my left leg, so they have sat in my closet, hidden in their little bag, preserved in pristine whiteness. I'm really into wearing white these days, but I knew I wanted to "modify" my TOMS in some way. So they sat...and I sat...and I finally I came up with an idea. This weekend I completed their creation. The images here show 3 phases: original, artists conception (done in Photoshop), and final version (Sharpee on shoe). The inspiration for the art comes from Tlingit and Haida tribal art--Native American tribes from the North West coast of America (and southwestern coast of Canada). I have always thought it beautiful and simple. I chose to make the top of the two shoes slightly asymmetrical, with the left depicting an eagle and the right showing a raven.

The inside of the shoe (seen above) differs from the outside, but I feel like they compliment each other pretty well. Aydan sat by me last night and helped me deliberate on the choices I was considering, and I was really impressed by his visual reasoning and his strong sense of what made a good design. I then based by drawing on the Photoshop mock-ups I created, but made some slight adjustments for scale as I went along. Again, I'm pretty pleased with how they turned out.

I've also made some trips out to the studio to work on a colored pencil self-portrait that's been sitting around since I started it as an example for what kids were to be doing in class (back in November, maybe?). So even if I can't finish the still life painting that I have set up in the studio, I can tie up other loose ends and get back into the creative swing of things. In a way, it's preparatory for the painting. That's a good feeling as we head into summer and what I hope to be a more artistically productive time.