I like to stay in one place for a while, and settle into that life. I don’t really know what that life is about, or what I’m doing there, until I’ve been there a long time. But there are people who are constantly looking forward, and thinking about their next move. They aren’t really living in the present in its fullness, except as a conduit toward the ever-receding future.

Maybe that’s too harsh; I guess I’d say that some people have a knack for seeing their next steps clearly, for planning strategically. Boy is that not me. This, incidentally, is no doubt why I’m such a lousy chess player. I’d rather sit and look at the cool pieces and how they are arranged so neatly on the board than think four moves, three captures, and two sacrifices later to my winning combo. Can’t we all just get along as we are?

But the other side of this is that I often miss my opportunities for growth.
I stay in that one place, like a meditating monk, as life happens around me. It’s not that I don’t want to grow; it’s that these things take time to sink in; truth has to saturate you, and that can’t be rushed, unfortunately.

So the seasons of my life seem longer than they do for other people, I guess. It’s a feat that I can even start to think in terms of my next job, or my down-the-road life; it’s perhaps a hallmark of an experienced perspective that I can think ahead to the day when I go to counseling school. I see that as a definite stop in the future, and in some respects what I do now is helping angle us around to be ready for that time.

It’s not hard to look back on eight years in Chapel Hill and find fault with my way of living and learning. After all, I went to the town with an M.A., and eight years later I leave, some would say defeated, with no more than an M.A. What took so long to learn?

Perspective is what took so long. I had to learn to see myself! Over the past eight years I’ve learned to see crucial facets of who I am:

• A guy who struggled early and often with anger
• A guy who retreats into small stories when life gets difficult
• A guy who has held onto available certainties (like the Bible, formerly) out of fear of faith and intimacy
• A guy who has ADHD, OCD, and chronic depression, and frequent flatulence
• A guy who has been called to teach transformative truth
• A guy who asks good counseling questions
• A guy who has been called to wrestle with God and with the idea of the divine, probably forever
• A dang good teacher

Learning all of those things took great pain, and a long time. I think I'm one of those people who needs to be still long enough to get to these moments. You have to smoke a lot, drink a lot, sleep a lot, work a lot, hurt a lot, waste a hell of a lot of time, and be willing to talk about it all directly and honestly.

And a Game Boy Advance doesn't hurt, either.

Shel and I went to see Keane last night at Park West in Chicago. We met Mar and her roommates Mel and Pat there. The show was really good. After the 40-minute test of patience that was the opening act, we were rewarded with Keane playing very tightly, expressing lots of appreciation for the crowd, and pretty much causing mass swooning among the female audience members. Here are some pics I took:


They played pretty much every song we wanted to hear (read: the entire album), and two tunes we'd not yet heard. After the show, they stuck around and autographed CDs; not being ones to miss that, we coughed up $10 for a new CD right there, just so Shel could stand in line with groupies to get the CD liner notes signed. And I watched the band members during the signing; they were altogether nice guys -- great to the fans. I'd definitely go see 'em again.

Eeeyep. Another world-beater of a forgettable meal in the cosmopolis of Utica. "Bistro Salmon" turned out to be a slab of overdone fish slathered in a honey-mustard glaze.

Well, guess I better head out and look for some dinner.

So here I sit in my room at the inn in Utica. Yep, back again for more madcap zaniness with those crazy funsters the professors of Utica College. Hoo Boy!

There was no place to stay at the usual joints around here -- they must be having some kind of gathering around here (though why someone would have a convention here, I can't guess. Maybe the theme is "Sales Techniques of the Damned"). So I ended up at the Rosemont Inn, a sorta lovely kind of B&B run by a family with more kids than I can count. The sheer kid count left me a little wary, as did their ultra-polite manner; I've been casually looking about for the odd Book of Mormon. No luck yet, but the money's on these folks as being a little too nice.

But the room's alright enough. In typical B&B fashion, they have given slightly smarmy names to all their rooms; mine's "The Othello." It's described on their website as being a more masculine room, with dark burgundy and forest green accents. I'm having a hard time understanding what parts of a bouquet over the bedstead, a pink divan, a cloying print of a little girl being nuzzled by a puppy, and a bow-bedecked wreath (on the inside of the window, no less) are supposed to communicate manliness.

They have a semi-dodgy wireless network up here that has been up and down for the past 20 minutes; somebody must be running a hair dryer off the same outlet. But hey, I get a full breakfast! Beats McDump or Dunkin DooDoo anyday of the week.

Well, I'm off in search of dinner. The top prospect: a local seafood hotspot called Hook, Line, and Sinker. Here's hoping!

At last Shel and I have a day to putter around with little to do and no one to see. She's been dying to get some music (she has a gift certificate waiting to be used right now, but isn't sure how best to use it), but hasn't been in a position to sit down and listen to anything new for a while. That used to be a common part of our life, as we'd regularly trip over to Barnes and Noble, with their Red Dot Net listening stations. Unfortunately, there's no B&N close to us, and Borders is a joke in this area. The Audiofilly is getting desperate!

So we're going to head into the city this afternoon and give Shel a thumping good dose of music sampling at the big B&N downtown. Also, I'm running the Bucktown 5k tomorrow, and we have to go by there and grab my race packet.

Speaking of which, I've been rather a slug this week when it comes to training. After the 20 miles of groundpounding on Monday, I loafed all week long. Hoping to get out early this evening for a jog, in advance of the race tomorrow. Mind you, I'm not really looking to break the land speed record tomorrow at all; I just want a bit of fun in the middle of my training for the Chicago Marathon. That, and you get a boatload of goodies for registering for this race. I need some more running togs, and you get a coolmax longsleeve T-shirt and a running cap (plus a thermos and some other schtuff) just for signing up.

Temperature is lovely, if a bit on the warm side; skies are blue and beautiful. Can't wait to get out and kick around with Shel.

EWS, why don't you get the heck out of Hurricane Alley and come up here for a coupla days? For those of you out of the loop, my sis just moved to Tampa. She closed on a house like two weeks ago, just in time for the first of three hurricanes to come blowing through. Fortunately, she's not sustained either damage or injury as yet, but with a Class 5 storm coming I'm feeling a bit on the nervous side.

Here are some snaps from our various toodlings around Chi-town with CAC and BC. Click on each image for a larger view.

CAC and BC visited this past weekend. A walking-intensive time was had by all, as we trapsed across downtown Chicago several times during the course of their stay. We went to Millenium Park, which is actually really neat, and walked past Buckingham Fountain, all the way down to the Field Museum and Shedd Aquarium.

We did this two days in a row, because we didn't check the times on an exhibit we were trying to catch at the Field Museum, and arrived fifteen minutes too late to be admitted. Doh!

The next day, though, we caught it. They've got an exhibition right now on one of China's greatest emperors, Qianlong, called "Splendors of China's Forbidden City." Apparently the guy was a real Renaissance man; he was tolerant and supportive of many religions (including xianity and islam), he was a supporter and practitioner of the arts, and he was Athlete Xiansheng to boot. On display were numerous examples of his poetry and scrollwork, along with paintings of him hunting tigers and other wild game. He seems to have embodied a synthesis of the urbanity of the Han emperors and the fearlessness of his Manchu forbears.

And he did cool stuff like name his weapons. They presented several of his weapons for viewing, including his saber "Frost Clear." All of the weapons were ornate and decorated with jade and gold.

It was well worth the visit -- we were encouraged by Ma Pesky to go, even though we've been to the Forbidden City ourselves. She quite rightly surmised that the Chinese curators would bring out items for such a display that would normally not be viewable in the Forbidden City on a daily basis.

Listen, I know I have to wrestle with God. Probably for the rest of my stay on this here earth. And, like Jacob, I feel like I have to take a few of God's cheap shots before I can get through this stuff. That hip dislocation trick was downright dirty. Bart Ehrmann wasn't a bag of laffs either. It might as well have been a mental hip break; it stopped me walking "normally."

But even if I am made to wrestle with him, even if that's exactly who he made me to be and what he made me to do, I can't do it all the time! I'm worn out, Gentle Reader. I feel like it's time to take a break from wrestlemania and retire to my corner.

And that's okay. What that means, practically speaking, is that I'm just not worrying about the spiritual trauma at the moment. I'm praying, talking to God, and even doing both with my wife. I feel that I can speak of spiritual things and with wisdom.

That is to say, to switch from wrassling metaphors to boxing, there are plenty of times when I need to put the gloves on and go a round with God. But I also need to hear the bell ring, and go sit on the chair and rest.

The funny thing is that the God who has such a propensity for hitting below the belt is the same guy who hands me a towel and squirts water in my mouth between rounds.

That looks absurd even as I write it, but somehow it's true.

These past couple of days I haven't been as effusive as I might; I come to the computer, think about what I might write, and find myself blocked. I think of sharing what's deep and real, and it makes me tired. I think about all of the various amusing things that have happened lately, and I can't think of a decent place to start. I suppose this is the kind of dilemma all Misters Spectator face from time to time.

Shel and I have been spending time with SCW and EW recently, and even attending their church. The church is known for doing a great job in the design and implementation of small groups, and the thought has occurred to me that that format might actually work here.

For those of you who don't know, I have an aversion to small groups. To be frank, I think the small group structure is inherently flawed, and that practically speaking it has been the source of tremendous isolation and the locus of ostracism in churches everywhere. I know few people -- even those who recommend small groups -- whose experiences with small group activity is predominantly positive. On the whole, people I know harbor a lot of disappointment with the format, and disillusionment with the prospect of deep relationship in a community setting.

But wait! What if it did work, somehow, someway? Wouldn't that be worth doing?

And so, ever the fool to return to my folly, I return to contemplate joining a small group. Mind you, this is nothing against those who do well in that setting; I just wonder if I'll ever do well there myself.