Epiphany (Christmas Trees & Communism)
I had an epiphany today, while washing the dishes. Let's call it a bonus to go with my usual dish-pan hands.
Earlier, Esther and I were having a discussion about Christmas trees. She wants a real tree. I also love and would prefer a real tree, but I felt some concern. I had a hard time putting it into words, but the issue seemed vaguely to be one of supply and demand. "If everybody in the world wanted a real Christmas tree, well... that would be a problem", I said. She replied that not everyone in the world wanted a real Christmas tree, so "Crisis averted!"
The thing is that she's right. Not everyone celebrates Christmas, those that do don't all celebrate it in the same way, and even those who do celebrate it the way we do don't necessarily want dry needles all over their living room floor. Still, this reasoning didn't allay my initial concerns, and I wasn't sure why. A few hours later, while washing the dishes, I reached for the strainer that we'd just used for my favorite of all Christmas tree like vegetables, broccoli. As I was rinsing the stainless steel strainer, it hit me.
"If everyone in the world wanted a stainless steel strainer, that would be a problem", I abruptly yelled across the room to Esther. "It might be possible, but it's just a waste, and those resources could obviously be put to much better use. This thing lies around in our cupboard most of every day, not being used. I mean, we only strain something every couple of days, for a few minutes. It's a waste." And that was the realization: the modern Western world is unsustainable.
It was a this point that Esther wisely said "Listen: We're still getting a real Christmas tree" and began ignoring me, but my internal conversation took over, so I barely noticed. The fact that our family subdivisions have broken society down to the smallest possible unit above the individual has meant that we all "need" everything. If we were more involved in other people's lives, we could share things (strainers, for example), thus significantly downgrading the overall number of... things.
Then I said to myself that the entire world doesn't live like Westerners do, so the problem might be contained. However, the issue is not that everyone wants their own strainer, it's that everyone could want their own strainer, and that outcome is more and more possible everyday. Our global population just topped 7 billion. This last year has seen massive revolutions in the Middle East, leaving millions and millions more people free and feeling potentially entitled to a standard of living that was hitherto unthinkable. Europe and North America is seeing it's proletariat stand up against austerity measures and a perceived hoarding of funds by an elite minority. Will there be enough strainers to go around?
I am not a scientist, but my uneducated guess is "No".
There are enough resources for every human to live, but there are no guarantees as to how glamorous that living will be. As medical science progresses, however, and we increase our odds of surviving and living longer, where will all these resources come from? Where will we ever find enough land to grow enough Christmas trees if everyone wants their own?
This was the point in the conversation where I stopped myself. I am not an idealist. I am not a Communist. I am a realist.
As a believer in Jesus, I am obviously inclined to reference His teachings as the answer. That said, from a logical, objective position, I can't see any way out of this other than placing the needs of others above our own (aside from terra-forming Mars or some other standard sci-fi solution). My questions are: 1) Do I have the guts to do it? and 2) If individuals rather than society at large participate, will it make a difference?
I don't know.
What I do know is that my wife and I are more than likely going to enjoy the smell of a real Christmas tree this year, unsure of how many more opportunities we'll have. We're also going to try and live a life that is open handed with our stuff (in the most mixed-motivational state of mind possible). Only time will tell of our success. For now, I'll find comfort in one of the many open source clichés I picked up over the years: "Waste not, want not."
A Day Like Annie Otter
Typing away at night while laying on an air mattress. What do we amount to? I can't escape it. John Lennon and George Harrison are rotting skeletons. JFK is gone. Marconi, Shakespeare, Caesar... we all go. We rot. There can be nothing but eternity and its benefactors.
All light is an image of the Light. When fireworks explode, they are beautiful. As they fade, though, in the distance we see the stars. Burning clouds of gas that can last for millennia rather than moments. There is barely a comparison between the two. One day, every star will cease to burn. Yet the source of that less definable Light will endure, longer than fireworks, lightning bugs, or stars... for He is not consumed.
Motherhood is a coocoon, or possibly a reversal. It's a performance without rehearsal. It's a killer that's not remorseful. It is beautiful.
I was able to play tennis in shorts yesterday. It's been unseasonably warm. I saw a mosquito caught in a spider's web today. He'd probably already be gone if it weren't for this weather. Now he faces a painful and frightening death... What's good for one is bad for another.
I wanna go back. Way back. Back to when "XXX" meant "30".
Breath of Life
I can't quite explain it, but lately I've been overwhelmed by the weight of life. Not the weight on my shoulders. Moreso the weightiness of it. The gravity. The significance. What is it? I don't mean "Why are we here?". I mean "What IS life?", be it in man or insect. Where does it go? Not us, but life. Even writing this, my heart is racing and my mind is winning. I wonder how people take lives, and I wonder what they do with them. I wonder how much of "me" is a certain balance of neural chemicals, corporeal elements, and social/historical/cultural conditioning. How many of these tiny but significant details would need to change before my wife would stop recognizing me? Would I still be me if I no longer looked, sounded, acted, or thought like me? Where would I be?
Maybe my soul is the real me.
I'm ashamed to say that these thoughts frighten me. As someone who claims to follow Jesus, I'm supposed to believe that what happens after this life is to be looked forward to, not feared. The 12th chapter of John says that "The man who loves his life will lose it, while the man who hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life." I'm afraid that I love my life. How am I supposed to hate something that is so full of blessing? I'm afraid that I'm confused. I'm afraid that I'm afraid.
God breathed into us, and we've been struggling to catch our breath ever since.
A Life Undocumented
A life undocumented is a life wasted. We should all be scribbling furiously into notebooks with each passing moment. If we don't, how will future generations know we were here? Rather, how will they know what we did and how we felt every single moment of every single day?
The benefits would be manifold. We all know that it's difficult to believe our parents were ever teenagers, but it might be slightly easier to swallow if we could read detailed accounts of what they thought, wore, and ate during a typical day in their 15th year. Also, it's not at all uncommon to have world-changing thoughts while performing menial tasks and to be perfectly unable to recall them later on. These thoughts would no longer be lost thanks to our running commentary.
Perhaps not everyone's life warrants such scrutiny, but surely mine does... doesn't it?
It was said of Jesus that He accomplished so much during his earthly life that were it all written down the whole world couldn't contain the written words. Thanks to the digital age, this would more than likely no longer be a problem. Of course, The Gospels would still need to be edited for reasons beyond space. Even Jesus committed the mundane.
Who would ever read my life story? I could use it as a refresher. Maybe my kids would pick it up. My grandchildren would at least marvel that it exists. But then? In the bid for immortality, the text won't help. Augustine is dead, and one day I will be too.
Currently, many of us use technology to document and declare much of what we do. I "Tweet". When I stop to think why I do it, I sometimes arrive at the thought that I'm screaming "I exist!" into the void that surrounds. Other times, I think it's just something to do. But mostly, I'm screaming. We're all screaming.
A life undocumented is a mysterious life. Perhaps someday mystery will be all that's left.
We Do It To Ourselves
Where two or more are gathered
We're more or less alone
The blinds are drawn, we're on our knees
Pretending no one's home