Two days ago I visited the local grocery store and was thrilled to find a seasonal favorite of mine back in stock. Those of you who enjoy good beer and the occasional port wine owe it to yourselves to get on over to your nearest Whole Foods and pick up a bottle of Delirium Noel Belgian ale. This stuff is terrific; comes in 750 ml bottles, usually. If you can find it on draught (unlikely), you're in for a treat.

Now, if you read any reviews of this, you'll be surprised to find that it doesn't really get a lot of respect. Most folks tend to prefer Brouwerij Huyghe's regular offerings Delirium Tremens or Delirium Nocturne, and consider this a bit on the odd side. To me, though, Tremens often feels a tad too sweet; Noel, though, makes me want to sit back and savor, in much the same way that you would a fine tawny port.

I'm at 27,000 feet in in a Northwest flight from Minneapolis to Chicago. I spent the day at one of our proprietary schools, while they did assessment and stuff.

As I often do, when sitting on a plane waiting to take off, this time I wondered what would happen if the plane crashed. And, as always, I came right up against that barrier that I never break through: the thought of consciousness beyond death. I just can't imagine never being conscious after death. But that -- the persistence of consciousness and the inability to imagine beyond it -- is no proof that there is such a thing as life after death. I think that death is just that -- death. There's no reason to suppose otherwise, factually speaking. What life does a squirrel have after we shoot it off of our deck? What life does a dog have after a car hits it?

I'm not really concerned any more about the possibility of a plane crashing -- I have more or less come to accept it as a risk of living. But part of that acceptance comes from the idea that death is like sleep. That it is a final summation, and somehow brings a closure that the dying can recognize and accept.

And yet I think of all the mornings that I wake, and hit the snooze button. I choose to sleep longer because the moment of waking brings with it the feeling that sleep was restful and right. It is not the sleep itself that makes me feel this way; it is the waking. This is why I hit the snooze button as many as five times in a morning: I feel that each time I drift off, informed by the memory of the previous waking, I am returning to rest.

The difference, of course, is that with death there is no waking, and no sense of closure. Except among the living who remain. So what is there in death that actually brings closure for the dying? Nothing. Death is the great nothing.

So the other day I was staring out the window and I noticed a man stooping down in the park in Austin Gardens, surrounded by what I can only describe as a bevy of fearless squirrels. Now, the squirrels in Austin Gardens are a singular lot; no timid biped fearers they. And yet I was surprised to see how they flocked around this guy. It was clear he was feeding them; but what?

So I go out, camera in hand, and snap a few shots. Turns out he was giving them filberts (hazelnuts), shell and all. They were insatiable, and apparently somewhat maddened by the easy abundance of such rich comestibles. As I was halfway turned to look at the man feeding another chubby park pet, I felt a strange shaking on my pants leg, and turned around to face this sight. I'm trying to decide if I dare buy a bag of hazelnuts of my own.

Here's the thing: the guy I was in high school was the not the guy I tried to be in college. I went to high school in a place that encouraged free thought, academic excellence and weirdness -- kind of like a Rushmore for hippies. At the time, I wasn't a spiritually directed kind of guy. At least, I wasn't as straight line evangelical as I tried to be in the subsequent university years.

I partied. I drank. I had sex. I smoked sometimes, and not always tobacco. I was a teenager.

And it was good. Sometimes, anyway. Of course, nothing like that transpires without leaving marks and scars.

I came to college, and believing myself lost, I happened upon a guy who was involved with a student ministry. A conversation later, I had found guidance from someone who took an interest in me. The rest is familiar history to most of you. As my freshman year progressed, I learned to disavow the wild lifestyle, and by extension, to look askance on my former activities and life in high school.

So Mara came by a synecdochal process to stand for that time in my life: a time of ignorance and happiness, of debasement and delight. I shut the thought of her away from me, as if I could seal that part of myself away in a vault. I tried to be different.

High school friends didn't understand. Mostly I got made fun of, and induced to do things that ran against the kind of life I was living. I think they were hoping that I would remember myself after a few drinks.

The disturbing part was that they were right, and I didn't have the guts to admit it. I was afraid of what it might mean.

What I think fuels the questions I had in Pensacola, and the urgency I felt there to act on them, is a sense that in reconciling in some way with Mara (or at least with that part of my life), I will recover part of myself. I will be able to look on myself without that part missing, and in saying a blessing over her, I bless myself. Does that make sense?

I just returned from a week on the road. Pensacola, FL, to be exact. I'm not sure whether or not I've conveyed to you, Gentle Reader, just how little there is to recommend Pensacola to a prospective visitor. And what with Hurricane Ivan's recent whirlwind tour, there's even less.

But I had to train faculty, so down there I goes. As the plane descended into the area, I saw that virtually every roof was the recipient of the Army Corps of Engineers' "Operation Blue Roof": blue tarp covered everything.

Along with the property damage, around 40,000 residents were displaced by the storm damage. What that meant for yours truly was that there was no room at the inn, the manger, or even the gutter. The closest available hotel was 1.25 hours away in Point Clear, Alabama. So I had early mornings and late nights dealing with the commute.

The unexpected thing was how painful staying in Point Clear turned out to be. See, that was the home of my high school girlfriend Mara Buffett (then Mara Lyons). She lived more or less with her grandparents Peets and J.D. down in Point Clear, when not at her mother's apartment on Esplanade Avenue in New Orleans. Mara was probably the most serious relationship I had prior to coming to Auburn and meeting Shel, and I was with her during my senior year of high school - a fairly formative year, all things considered.

The relationship didn't end well. As many do, it eventually got stale, and we were frankly too young, too selfish, and too unaware to know what to do about it. Things got hurtful toward the end, and it was a messy break. It hurt like hell for quite a while.

Well, we all like to think that we've grown since then, don't we? After all, it's been about fifteen years since then, and I know I've come a long way. Looking back, though, I still find that place to be one that hurts -- one that could use letting go of shame, and embracing some grace. In short, I'd like to find some way to set things aright.

I don't know if it's even possible, or wise. This will have to be a two part-post, but the long and short of it is I want to be able to tell her: Be well.