Each summer on the road I assign myself some new reading, choosing an author such as Steinbeck or Dostoyevski (ugh - never again) or a genre like journey stories such as Travels with Charley, The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, On the Road, The Dharma Bums, & Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
This year as a bit of a lark I decided to read the classic horror stories of the 19th century - including Dracula, Frankenstein, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde, The Phantom of the Opera, The Picture of Dorian Gray, and The Invisble Man among others. It was this last one, The Invisible Man by H.G. Wells, that got to me thinking during my current long ride.
The story is bascially about a scientist who figures out how to refract light in a particular way to mke himself invisible; the problem is that he cannot reverse the process and goes mad. It's that last part that got me to thinking: How many of us would, or have, gone mad because we feel ourselves "invisible", that is, without any sort of authentic corporeality in the world?
I think of the young men of Columbine, who were "invisible" except as objects of scorn. I think of those who have lost jobs and the experience of invisiblity which drives them mad, that is to extremes of behavior, usually sociopathic in form. I think of times in my own life when others have treated me as virtually invisible, and the anger and hurt I felt.
I wonder how often I have treated others as invisible, as not worth my time and effort. I think of the literally hundreds of people with whom I interact on the road - do I treat them as invisible? And what gift I can give to them by treating them as visible, as real people with real feelings and real needs, especially the need to be treated as a real person. A little kindness, a please and thank you, a smile, a door held ... each of these small actions tells them that I see them, that they exist to me, that they have some meaning, however small and momentary, in the world.
It seems such a small thing, to see and be seen. But perhaps these small acts can save the sanity of another, not to mention ourselves: "For when you have done it to the least of these my brothers, you have done it to me also."
Friday, July 30, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Coffee Snob
My wife says I am a coffee snob. Not the grande-double shot-chocolate-mocha-machiatto-with whip cream kind of snob, but the kind who likes strong coffee with real flavor. That doesn't mean I won't choke down a cup of Sanka if offered by a gracious parishoner, it's just that if I have a choice I would rather drink nothing at all rather than a weak cup of coffee.
While on the road I stay at the cheap places, like those your mom used to veto when you were on vacation, or the decrepit but probably something back-in-the-day kind of place. I find several consistencies in such places: the proprieters are friendly, they are usually a good value, and IF they offer any coffee in the morning it ain't very good.
The other night I stayed in a cabin in a camping & RV park. It is a fact that you get what you pay for and I did not pay enough to expect a cup of coffee upon my 5 AM rising. So I loaded the bike and hit the road, figuring I would find something somewhere down the road. After a couple of hours of beautiful early dawn riding it was time to find some coffee. I pulled into a little place, the kind with a hand lettered Coffee & Baked Goods sign and, given my location between nowhere and can't see nowhere from here, my expectations were not very high.
Man, was I mistaken.
The baked goods smelled wonderful so I ordered a croissant the size of Rhode Island and asked for a cup of coffee. Imagine my surpise when asked "What kind would you like?"
Huh? What do you mean, "What kind?"
To which she responded that they had two Italian blends, one light & mild and one dark & strong. Needless to say I opted for the latter and with my first sip I knew I had made a very good decision. With my coffee & croissant I could have been sitting in a bistro in Paris or a backerei in Berlin ... but I was sitting in Backwater, USA with a satisfied smile on my face.
Just a good reminder of how dumb pre-conceived notions (prejudices) are.
While on the road I stay at the cheap places, like those your mom used to veto when you were on vacation, or the decrepit but probably something back-in-the-day kind of place. I find several consistencies in such places: the proprieters are friendly, they are usually a good value, and IF they offer any coffee in the morning it ain't very good.
The other night I stayed in a cabin in a camping & RV park. It is a fact that you get what you pay for and I did not pay enough to expect a cup of coffee upon my 5 AM rising. So I loaded the bike and hit the road, figuring I would find something somewhere down the road. After a couple of hours of beautiful early dawn riding it was time to find some coffee. I pulled into a little place, the kind with a hand lettered Coffee & Baked Goods sign and, given my location between nowhere and can't see nowhere from here, my expectations were not very high.
Man, was I mistaken.
The baked goods smelled wonderful so I ordered a croissant the size of Rhode Island and asked for a cup of coffee. Imagine my surpise when asked "What kind would you like?"
Huh? What do you mean, "What kind?"
To which she responded that they had two Italian blends, one light & mild and one dark & strong. Needless to say I opted for the latter and with my first sip I knew I had made a very good decision. With my coffee & croissant I could have been sitting in a bistro in Paris or a backerei in Berlin ... but I was sitting in Backwater, USA with a satisfied smile on my face.
Just a good reminder of how dumb pre-conceived notions (prejudices) are.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Sign, Sign, Everywhere a Sign
Remember the 1970 tune Signs by the Five Man Electric Band:
"Sign, Sign, everywhere a sign,
blocking out the scenery, breaking my mind.
Do this, don't do that,
can't you read the sign?"
The song was a rejction of accepted cultural norms like profiling (Long-haired freaky people need not apply) and exclusivness (You got to have a membership card to get inside), while offering a paean of thanksgiving:
I got me a pen and paper and I made up my own little sign
I said thank you Lord, for thinking about me
I'm alive and doing fine
Yep, there are signs everywhere and I honestly think some of them should be disobeyed. But signs do have value, especially on the road. A warning such as "Dangrous Curves" can keep you alive and the "Duck Xing" can keep you from beinb labeled a mass murderer. While we may not always like the signs that block out the scenery or break our minds, and may choose to do 60 MPH in that curve instead of the recommend 50 MPH, it is wise to at least consider the information the signs provide, even if you aren't sure what they portend.
Like one sign I encountered on a back road in Utah: Motorcycles use Extreme Caution.
Not just caution or extra caution, but EXTREME caution. I didn't know what it meant, but I sure as heck slowed down and looked around. I really don't think the folks who post those signs are just trying to mess with drivers and probably had some reason for posting that information in the first place. So I paid attention, and extreme caution was warranted as the turns were very tight and rocks littered the road. And even though I was using extreme caution I was still dragging hard parts avoiding rocks and leaning into the turns.
So signs are important, especially those that require a little thought to interpret. In fact I think the less obvious signs are the most important because they point to not so obvious underlying problems.
Signs like manure on the road. It was dawn and I was heading east into the sun, up into some of the most awesome country on the face of this planet. As the sun rose the shadows cast by the mesas and mountains added a glorious wonder to the morning but also left some blind spots. It was when I saw the manure that the alarm bells went off and I remembered that those less obvious signs are very important.
And I was right, because suddenly one of the "shadows" started moving. It is amazing how the mind can say "That ain't right" even as the feet and hands are braking, downshifting, and preparing for evasive action. Which is good, since the shadow turned out to be a calf just wandering across the road. I was never in any real danger and because I had paid attention to the manure doubling as a sign I was able to swerve and avoid the calf with only a minimal rise on the sphincter scale ...
About a mile down the road there was a posted sign, one of the helpful obvious kind: Open Range. Yeah, thanks but I figured that out.
We don't pay enough attention to the signs all around us, especially the less obvious ones that point to truths we deny even as we act them out. We are so busy posting our own signs that we don't pay attention to all the danger signs in our culture, like lying as an accepted norm to achieve an ends, property before people, and jumping to conclusions with no consideration of facts. These are the signs we need to observe very carefully.
To intentionally disobey a sign is a matter of free choice; to pay no attention to a sign is dangerous.
"Sign, Sign, everywhere a sign,
blocking out the scenery, breaking my mind.
Do this, don't do that,
can't you read the sign?"
The song was a rejction of accepted cultural norms like profiling (Long-haired freaky people need not apply) and exclusivness (You got to have a membership card to get inside), while offering a paean of thanksgiving:
I got me a pen and paper and I made up my own little sign
I said thank you Lord, for thinking about me
I'm alive and doing fine
Yep, there are signs everywhere and I honestly think some of them should be disobeyed. But signs do have value, especially on the road. A warning such as "Dangrous Curves" can keep you alive and the "Duck Xing" can keep you from beinb labeled a mass murderer. While we may not always like the signs that block out the scenery or break our minds, and may choose to do 60 MPH in that curve instead of the recommend 50 MPH, it is wise to at least consider the information the signs provide, even if you aren't sure what they portend.
Like one sign I encountered on a back road in Utah: Motorcycles use Extreme Caution.
Not just caution or extra caution, but EXTREME caution. I didn't know what it meant, but I sure as heck slowed down and looked around. I really don't think the folks who post those signs are just trying to mess with drivers and probably had some reason for posting that information in the first place. So I paid attention, and extreme caution was warranted as the turns were very tight and rocks littered the road. And even though I was using extreme caution I was still dragging hard parts avoiding rocks and leaning into the turns.
So signs are important, especially those that require a little thought to interpret. In fact I think the less obvious signs are the most important because they point to not so obvious underlying problems.
Signs like manure on the road. It was dawn and I was heading east into the sun, up into some of the most awesome country on the face of this planet. As the sun rose the shadows cast by the mesas and mountains added a glorious wonder to the morning but also left some blind spots. It was when I saw the manure that the alarm bells went off and I remembered that those less obvious signs are very important.
And I was right, because suddenly one of the "shadows" started moving. It is amazing how the mind can say "That ain't right" even as the feet and hands are braking, downshifting, and preparing for evasive action. Which is good, since the shadow turned out to be a calf just wandering across the road. I was never in any real danger and because I had paid attention to the manure doubling as a sign I was able to swerve and avoid the calf with only a minimal rise on the sphincter scale ...
About a mile down the road there was a posted sign, one of the helpful obvious kind: Open Range. Yeah, thanks but I figured that out.
We don't pay enough attention to the signs all around us, especially the less obvious ones that point to truths we deny even as we act them out. We are so busy posting our own signs that we don't pay attention to all the danger signs in our culture, like lying as an accepted norm to achieve an ends, property before people, and jumping to conclusions with no consideration of facts. These are the signs we need to observe very carefully.
To intentionally disobey a sign is a matter of free choice; to pay no attention to a sign is dangerous.
Friday, July 23, 2010
A Taxing Situation
I don’t mind paying taxes. I think there is a very important place for government and the taxes to finance government. I know being against “government” is all the rage and lots of folks, like the so-called “Tea Party” movement are very much against taxation and any form of government involvement. At least until they need help. Witness the BP oil disaster and the cries for “the government should do something”.
But I digress.
I don’t mind paying taxes because each and every time I ride the roads of America I am reminded of how much I get for my taxes, whether local, state, or federal. Yesterday I road through some of the most incredible scenery on the face of the planet, all through the courtesy of tax financed roads and highways. I marveled at the engineering that had to take place to blast pathways through canyons and construct bridges over rivers. I actually stopped at one point to examine the roadbed, trying to imagine the thought that went into grading and laying the road. I did some quick math to try to figure out how much it cost and could not come up with even a gross estimate. And my tax contribution to the total cost was miniscule but there I was enjoying the gift of that road.
The past couple of days I have ridden through about five national parks/forests, all financed with tax dollars. And I benefitted from the foresight of politicans and conservationists who made sure that land was avialable for everyone to see and not limited to a few privileged folks who have the personal resources to do whatever they want. All financed with tax dollars.
Often the people who holler most about taxes are those who benefit the most from the infrastructure which the taxes provide. A defense system which is often used less as a tool to protect Americans and more as a means to expand American capitalist interests and protect our materialistic way of life. Roadways, airports, ports - necessary to transport the goods from which people make so doggoned much money - all financed with tax dollars. And not current tax dollars, but past. The Federal Highway Act passed in 1956 and it was dollars from back then that financed much of the road system on which I am privileged to ride today.
Is there waste in government? No doubt … but how much of that waste can really be laid at the feet of private industry which takes advantage of government systems?
Are politicians fallible? Of course ... But thirty years in the ministry have taught me that EVERYONE is fallible. Welcome to the human race.
Millions of citizens before me have paid their taxes and I am the recipient of their contribution to the commonweal. So send me my tax bill and I am happy to pay, because I get a heck of lot for my money in this great land of freedom and I am determined that my children’s children shall enjoy the same benefits.
But I digress.
I don’t mind paying taxes because each and every time I ride the roads of America I am reminded of how much I get for my taxes, whether local, state, or federal. Yesterday I road through some of the most incredible scenery on the face of the planet, all through the courtesy of tax financed roads and highways. I marveled at the engineering that had to take place to blast pathways through canyons and construct bridges over rivers. I actually stopped at one point to examine the roadbed, trying to imagine the thought that went into grading and laying the road. I did some quick math to try to figure out how much it cost and could not come up with even a gross estimate. And my tax contribution to the total cost was miniscule but there I was enjoying the gift of that road.
The past couple of days I have ridden through about five national parks/forests, all financed with tax dollars. And I benefitted from the foresight of politicans and conservationists who made sure that land was avialable for everyone to see and not limited to a few privileged folks who have the personal resources to do whatever they want. All financed with tax dollars.
Often the people who holler most about taxes are those who benefit the most from the infrastructure which the taxes provide. A defense system which is often used less as a tool to protect Americans and more as a means to expand American capitalist interests and protect our materialistic way of life. Roadways, airports, ports - necessary to transport the goods from which people make so doggoned much money - all financed with tax dollars. And not current tax dollars, but past. The Federal Highway Act passed in 1956 and it was dollars from back then that financed much of the road system on which I am privileged to ride today.
Is there waste in government? No doubt … but how much of that waste can really be laid at the feet of private industry which takes advantage of government systems?
Are politicians fallible? Of course ... But thirty years in the ministry have taught me that EVERYONE is fallible. Welcome to the human race.
Millions of citizens before me have paid their taxes and I am the recipient of their contribution to the commonweal. So send me my tax bill and I am happy to pay, because I get a heck of lot for my money in this great land of freedom and I am determined that my children’s children shall enjoy the same benefits.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Freedom in Motion
After five hundred miles I am in Escalante, Utah. Northern Arizona and southern Utah have remarkable geographic diversity and beauty. I went through mountains and moonscapes, forests and fields, rain and shine. I struck up conversations with Japanese tourists, a developmentally disabled chap on vacation, and the owner of the local bike shop. Now I am sitting outside my little cabin at Bob’s RV park just thinking about how lucky I am.
As I motored along today and gaped at the incredible scenery, I thought how lucky I have been in my life. I have been able to take advantage of the world of motion and have been privileged to visit many places and to imbibe much of what creation has to offer. I find incredible freedom in movement and travel, and as I gazed at the glory around me I began to wonder about those who have not been so lucky.
Some folks simply are not travelers and have no real interest in seeing something other than what they already know. I must admit I don’t understand those folks.
Some folks simply don’t have the economic means to go very far from home; when I was in High School I worked at a marine science center one summer, and our job was to introduce elementary age kids to the wonders of marine life. I was stunned to find out that children living in Florida had little or no experience of the beach, the ocean, or forms of river life. It broke my heart then and it still does today.
And there is a third category of person who has not been as lucky as I have been: the one who has some sort of physical or mental impairment that prevents him from seeing or doing, that prevents them from finding freedom in motion.
But perhaps I am judging from my own limited perspective. Perhaps I am the one who limits himself to finding freedom in motion. I mean, think of folks like Christopher Reed or Stephen Hawking. A tragic accident bound Reed and a vicious affliction still holds Hawking in its grip. Yet both of these men … and many, many more like them … have refused to be limited by the physical world. Hawking has gone places in his mind that most of us mortals cannot even conceive, and up until the very end of his life Reed reached out to others.
Finding freedom in motion is a gift. Finding freedom in spite of the lack of motion is a blessing.
As I motored along today and gaped at the incredible scenery, I thought how lucky I have been in my life. I have been able to take advantage of the world of motion and have been privileged to visit many places and to imbibe much of what creation has to offer. I find incredible freedom in movement and travel, and as I gazed at the glory around me I began to wonder about those who have not been so lucky.
Some folks simply are not travelers and have no real interest in seeing something other than what they already know. I must admit I don’t understand those folks.
Some folks simply don’t have the economic means to go very far from home; when I was in High School I worked at a marine science center one summer, and our job was to introduce elementary age kids to the wonders of marine life. I was stunned to find out that children living in Florida had little or no experience of the beach, the ocean, or forms of river life. It broke my heart then and it still does today.
And there is a third category of person who has not been as lucky as I have been: the one who has some sort of physical or mental impairment that prevents him from seeing or doing, that prevents them from finding freedom in motion.
But perhaps I am judging from my own limited perspective. Perhaps I am the one who limits himself to finding freedom in motion. I mean, think of folks like Christopher Reed or Stephen Hawking. A tragic accident bound Reed and a vicious affliction still holds Hawking in its grip. Yet both of these men … and many, many more like them … have refused to be limited by the physical world. Hawking has gone places in his mind that most of us mortals cannot even conceive, and up until the very end of his life Reed reached out to others.
Finding freedom in motion is a gift. Finding freedom in spite of the lack of motion is a blessing.
Monday, July 19, 2010
The Sound of Silence
We live in a pretty noisy world. We are constantly bombarded with sound from televisions and telephones, computers and Blackberry’s, all demanding our immediate attention. And while I think this potential for communication is great, my own observation is that the gizmos keep us tethered rather than connected.
In communication theory the actual process of communicating is quite complicated and filled with lots of opportunities to mess up: we can encode a message improperly, we can send it along a poor channel, it can become distorted by various kinds of “noise”, it can be improperly decoded … about a million chances to make certain that what I said is not what you heard. And a big part of this problem is that we don’t really listen. We may hear, but we just don’t listen.
There is a neat scene in Pulp Fiction where Mia (Uma Thurman) says to Vince (John Travolta), “Do you listen or just wait for your turn to talk?”
I think that is a key point – most of the time we wait for our turn to talk rather than really listening, and miss a whole lot as a result. Our ego needs are so great that we find it impossible to be silent and listen.
Silent is an anagram for Listen. Being Silent is not necessarily an absence of noise, an external reality, but rather the intentional focus of one’s attention, an internal decision. There is a lot of road noise on a motorcycle, even with ear plugs. But that doesn’t stop you from Being Silent and hearing many things that would otherwise float away.
I was headed down the road, cruising along the Mississippi River towards Memphis. As I was rolling along a song started playing in my head: Precious Lord, by Tommy Dorsey. I don’t have an iPod or MP3 player, so the only music I hear on the road is what rolls around in my brain. Usually the music is classic rock & roll or Reggae but Gospel music is virtually NEVER part of the playlist.
But the song was there and it was on replay, so I just went with it and was quite surprised at how much of the tune I actually knew – I guess a lifetime in the church has left its’ mark! Eventually the song ended its run and I pulled into Memphis and headed for the National Civil Rights museum, located in what was the Lorraine Motel, the location of the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. As I worked my way through the motel I was reminded of how our legal system has so often sanctified injustice.
At last I made my way to the site of the assassination and was stunned by what I read: Dr. King was standing at the railing speaking to the band leader for the evening, making sure that his favorite song, “Precious Lord” was played that night, when the bullet struck.
Wow. For just a little while on that road to Memphis I had been listening, really listening to something far beyond my comprehension. And as I stood in silence and awe I wondered: How much have I missed just because I couldn’t be silent and listen?
In communication theory the actual process of communicating is quite complicated and filled with lots of opportunities to mess up: we can encode a message improperly, we can send it along a poor channel, it can become distorted by various kinds of “noise”, it can be improperly decoded … about a million chances to make certain that what I said is not what you heard. And a big part of this problem is that we don’t really listen. We may hear, but we just don’t listen.
There is a neat scene in Pulp Fiction where Mia (Uma Thurman) says to Vince (John Travolta), “Do you listen or just wait for your turn to talk?”
I think that is a key point – most of the time we wait for our turn to talk rather than really listening, and miss a whole lot as a result. Our ego needs are so great that we find it impossible to be silent and listen.
Silent is an anagram for Listen. Being Silent is not necessarily an absence of noise, an external reality, but rather the intentional focus of one’s attention, an internal decision. There is a lot of road noise on a motorcycle, even with ear plugs. But that doesn’t stop you from Being Silent and hearing many things that would otherwise float away.
I was headed down the road, cruising along the Mississippi River towards Memphis. As I was rolling along a song started playing in my head: Precious Lord, by Tommy Dorsey. I don’t have an iPod or MP3 player, so the only music I hear on the road is what rolls around in my brain. Usually the music is classic rock & roll or Reggae but Gospel music is virtually NEVER part of the playlist.
But the song was there and it was on replay, so I just went with it and was quite surprised at how much of the tune I actually knew – I guess a lifetime in the church has left its’ mark! Eventually the song ended its run and I pulled into Memphis and headed for the National Civil Rights museum, located in what was the Lorraine Motel, the location of the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. As I worked my way through the motel I was reminded of how our legal system has so often sanctified injustice.
At last I made my way to the site of the assassination and was stunned by what I read: Dr. King was standing at the railing speaking to the band leader for the evening, making sure that his favorite song, “Precious Lord” was played that night, when the bullet struck.
Wow. For just a little while on that road to Memphis I had been listening, really listening to something far beyond my comprehension. And as I stood in silence and awe I wondered: How much have I missed just because I couldn’t be silent and listen?
Friday, July 16, 2010
American Pickers
One of my favorite television shows is American Pickers, broadcast on the History Channel. It is about Mike & Frank, “two ordinary guys looking for extraordinary things” and the show “follows them as they scour the country's junkyards, basements and barns for hidden gems.” I am always amazed at the breadth of knowledge they demonstrate as they root through what seems to me like junk and find “stuff” that commands some amazing prices.
But what I like most about the show is not the stuff they pick, but the stories. Each episode involves not just buying stuff, but interacting with the people who own the stuff. And it is the picking of the stories, the narrative and history behind the stuff, which I find most fascinating.
Every summer for the past few years I have been able to wander around the country on my motorcycle, usually traveling the back roads and Blue Highways located throughout the country. It is along these routes that I am able to see stuff like the Blue Whale in Catoosa, OK; Carhenge in Alliance NE; and the World’s Biggest Ball of Twine in Cawker City, KS. But more important than seeing this stuff are the people I meet and the human stories that I am privileged to “pick” along the road.
Like one little town in New Mexico. When I pulled in I stopped for gas and the attendant came out to talk. He looked my bike over, asked where I had been and where I was going, and then talked about his plans to get out of that town: “Ain’t nuthin’ here but gas stations and motels – everybody is just passin’ through.” He dreamed of a finding himself somewhere else.
The town seemed interesting even if somewhat decrepit, so I decided to stay the night. After checking in at a run-down hotel which had been quite The Place back in the day (various fading autographed pictures of long-dead movie stars lined the walls), I wandered around and found a local museum. There I met the curator, a middle-aged woman who shared her story. She grew up in that town and left for the Big City as soon as she was able; in the Big City she imbibed deeply from the well of a dissolute life until many years later she found herself waking up from yet another binge of “the good life” and realized that instead of finding herself, she had lost herself. So she returned to her hometown, cleaned up, and was now the happiest she had ever been.
I hit the road early and the next morning was loaded by 5:30 AM; there aren’t many folk awake at that time of day. I was rummaging around the motel looking for some coffee when the night auditor offered me some of his and we got to talking. He had grown up “back east” and lived a good life there but was just never satisfied. Then a few years ago he packed his bags and headed west, looking for … he was not sure what. One day he stopped in this town, loved it, and will never leave.
Twenty-four hours, one town, three people and three stories. Now that’s American Picking.
But what I like most about the show is not the stuff they pick, but the stories. Each episode involves not just buying stuff, but interacting with the people who own the stuff. And it is the picking of the stories, the narrative and history behind the stuff, which I find most fascinating.
Every summer for the past few years I have been able to wander around the country on my motorcycle, usually traveling the back roads and Blue Highways located throughout the country. It is along these routes that I am able to see stuff like the Blue Whale in Catoosa, OK; Carhenge in Alliance NE; and the World’s Biggest Ball of Twine in Cawker City, KS. But more important than seeing this stuff are the people I meet and the human stories that I am privileged to “pick” along the road.
Like one little town in New Mexico. When I pulled in I stopped for gas and the attendant came out to talk. He looked my bike over, asked where I had been and where I was going, and then talked about his plans to get out of that town: “Ain’t nuthin’ here but gas stations and motels – everybody is just passin’ through.” He dreamed of a finding himself somewhere else.
The town seemed interesting even if somewhat decrepit, so I decided to stay the night. After checking in at a run-down hotel which had been quite The Place back in the day (various fading autographed pictures of long-dead movie stars lined the walls), I wandered around and found a local museum. There I met the curator, a middle-aged woman who shared her story. She grew up in that town and left for the Big City as soon as she was able; in the Big City she imbibed deeply from the well of a dissolute life until many years later she found herself waking up from yet another binge of “the good life” and realized that instead of finding herself, she had lost herself. So she returned to her hometown, cleaned up, and was now the happiest she had ever been.
I hit the road early and the next morning was loaded by 5:30 AM; there aren’t many folk awake at that time of day. I was rummaging around the motel looking for some coffee when the night auditor offered me some of his and we got to talking. He had grown up “back east” and lived a good life there but was just never satisfied. Then a few years ago he packed his bags and headed west, looking for … he was not sure what. One day he stopped in this town, loved it, and will never leave.
Twenty-four hours, one town, three people and three stories. Now that’s American Picking.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Beginners Mind
Do you remember when you first started to learn a new skill? It was a feeling of fear – “Can I do this?” – mixed with excitement and anticipation – “I want to do this!”. I love to watch people get their first lessons on a motorcycle – it is really neat to see how in such a short time uncertainty and fear are transformed into confidence and joy.
When we first learn a new skill, we love the act of learning and practice, practice, and practice some more, reveling in the enjoyment of the act itself, losing ourselves in the pure feeling of the moment. Hours pass and it but a short moment.
The great 19th century Japanese Swordsman and Zen Master Yamaoka Tesshu said that there are two aspects of practice: Technique and Principle.“Particular and Universal are the two aspects of practice. Particular is technique and Universal is mind.” Technique simply refers to the “how” or specific skill itself; in swordsmanship it is the form with which you make a particular stroke, in motorcycling it is such things as pressing or leaning, in sewing it is using a certain kind of stitch. Universal is the principle, what we might call the “Why” of a technique; understanding the principle allows us to apply it to various new situations, not being limited to a simple laundry list. Technique is mechanical and specific to the art while Universal is principle and transcends any specific art; Universal can be applied to many kinds of situations, becoming a sort of metaphor for much of life.
Anyone can learn technique; I can teach anyone how to ride a motorcycle with a modicum of skill in about two hours. But therein lay the danger: once the technique is learned, we begin to think of ourselves as experts, and experts can become dangerous: “In the beginners mind there are many possibilities, but in the experts mind there are few.” ~Shunryu Suzuki.
The true expert is the one who keeps Sho-shin – Beginners Mind. In motorcycling these are the folks who never lose their awe of, and respect for, the machine. These are the folks who constantly train and go to classes to improve, realizing that true mastery is never attained. Beginners mind is the mind of the student, the one who experiences the same excitement the millionth time s/he cranks the engine as s/he felt the first time mounting a ride. Every moment is a new experience, and instead of being limited by what one already knows one is freed by the endless possibilities that exist. With Beginners Mind, no two journeys are the same and even the most familiar road is filled with new possibility.
When we first learn a new skill, we love the act of learning and practice, practice, and practice some more, reveling in the enjoyment of the act itself, losing ourselves in the pure feeling of the moment. Hours pass and it but a short moment.
The great 19th century Japanese Swordsman and Zen Master Yamaoka Tesshu said that there are two aspects of practice: Technique and Principle.“Particular and Universal are the two aspects of practice. Particular is technique and Universal is mind.” Technique simply refers to the “how” or specific skill itself; in swordsmanship it is the form with which you make a particular stroke, in motorcycling it is such things as pressing or leaning, in sewing it is using a certain kind of stitch. Universal is the principle, what we might call the “Why” of a technique; understanding the principle allows us to apply it to various new situations, not being limited to a simple laundry list. Technique is mechanical and specific to the art while Universal is principle and transcends any specific art; Universal can be applied to many kinds of situations, becoming a sort of metaphor for much of life.
Anyone can learn technique; I can teach anyone how to ride a motorcycle with a modicum of skill in about two hours. But therein lay the danger: once the technique is learned, we begin to think of ourselves as experts, and experts can become dangerous: “In the beginners mind there are many possibilities, but in the experts mind there are few.” ~Shunryu Suzuki.
The true expert is the one who keeps Sho-shin – Beginners Mind. In motorcycling these are the folks who never lose their awe of, and respect for, the machine. These are the folks who constantly train and go to classes to improve, realizing that true mastery is never attained. Beginners mind is the mind of the student, the one who experiences the same excitement the millionth time s/he cranks the engine as s/he felt the first time mounting a ride. Every moment is a new experience, and instead of being limited by what one already knows one is freed by the endless possibilities that exist. With Beginners Mind, no two journeys are the same and even the most familiar road is filled with new possibility.
Monday, July 12, 2010
You Go Where You Look
One of the most important lessons of riding is that the motorcycle will go where you look. Countless accidents and fatalities can be laid on the doorstep of this simple to understand yet difficult to affect principle: the motorcycle will go where you look.
Our human tendency is to focus on the things that scare us, the people and places and objects from which we perceive threat, rather than those things that liberate us. That kind of threat-based focus can lead to a self-fulfilling prophecy:
if we think we are going to run into the wall, our tendency is to stare at the wall, allowing it to fill our consciousness, and we are drawn into it;
if we expect our children to lie to us, we often put them in the position of lying. Instead of saying “Why did you take that toy from your sister?” we say “Did you take that toy from your sister?” Why are we then surprised when the kid seizes the opportunity to tell a lie to try to get out of trouble?
if we think that the world is a corrupt place, then we will see the only the corruption;
if we think that all French folks are rude, then we will re-tell the story of the one obnoxious jerk we met or the perceived slight from someone who simply did not understand what we were asking on our two week vacation instead of the dozens of folks who were kind and helpful.
You go where you look. Certainly I have experienced this more than once in my riding, since it requires incredible discipline NOT to focus on the threat you perceive. For example, a few weeks back a buddy and I were way out in some Arizona desert and got into this nasty, talcum-powder fine dirt that was about six inches deep and allows virtually no traction. I was skidding along when I spotted a rise to my left. So I thought “Nuts with this; I’m going to jump the rise and get on solid ground.” So I fish-tailed left and started the climb … and then looked down. The picture captures the result. I was spitting dust for a week. If I had kept my eye on the horizon, on the solid ground, I would have made the climb. But I looked down at the danger – “OMG!!!” - and sure enough, I looked myself into a crash.
We are living in a time of Civil War, a time when too many folks on both sides of the political spectrum are going where they are looking, and are looking only at the perceived threats. We may be shooting at one another with words rather than guns, but families are divided, sides are being chosen, and propaganda and lies are used to reinforce pre-conceived prejudices. We are going where we are looking.
We expect undocumented workers to commit violent crimes, and use any instance of violence as proof;
We label Conservatives as racist and see every statement of political disagreement as reinforcement;
We label Liberals as socialist and use any argument for government intervention as proof;
We hang on to a single ideology with such might that we refuse to recognize that no one solution fits every problem.
We go where we look and our human tendency is to look at the perceived problem rather than the possible solution. We focus on our fears rather than looking beyond the threat, towards the horizon. It takes incredible discipline to look to the horizon, as it means we must let go of our preconceived notions, release fear’s control, and force ourselves into seeking solution rather than spinning around in problem. To look at the horizon is not easy … but failure to do so leads to dangerous consequences. Just look at the picture of my bike and imagine what I looked like …
You go where you look.
Our human tendency is to focus on the things that scare us, the people and places and objects from which we perceive threat, rather than those things that liberate us. That kind of threat-based focus can lead to a self-fulfilling prophecy:
if we think we are going to run into the wall, our tendency is to stare at the wall, allowing it to fill our consciousness, and we are drawn into it;
if we expect our children to lie to us, we often put them in the position of lying. Instead of saying “Why did you take that toy from your sister?” we say “Did you take that toy from your sister?” Why are we then surprised when the kid seizes the opportunity to tell a lie to try to get out of trouble?
if we think that the world is a corrupt place, then we will see the only the corruption;
if we think that all French folks are rude, then we will re-tell the story of the one obnoxious jerk we met or the perceived slight from someone who simply did not understand what we were asking on our two week vacation instead of the dozens of folks who were kind and helpful.
You go where you look. Certainly I have experienced this more than once in my riding, since it requires incredible discipline NOT to focus on the threat you perceive. For example, a few weeks back a buddy and I were way out in some Arizona desert and got into this nasty, talcum-powder fine dirt that was about six inches deep and allows virtually no traction. I was skidding along when I spotted a rise to my left. So I thought “Nuts with this; I’m going to jump the rise and get on solid ground.” So I fish-tailed left and started the climb … and then looked down. The picture captures the result. I was spitting dust for a week. If I had kept my eye on the horizon, on the solid ground, I would have made the climb. But I looked down at the danger – “OMG!!!” - and sure enough, I looked myself into a crash.
We are living in a time of Civil War, a time when too many folks on both sides of the political spectrum are going where they are looking, and are looking only at the perceived threats. We may be shooting at one another with words rather than guns, but families are divided, sides are being chosen, and propaganda and lies are used to reinforce pre-conceived prejudices. We are going where we are looking.
We expect undocumented workers to commit violent crimes, and use any instance of violence as proof;
We label Conservatives as racist and see every statement of political disagreement as reinforcement;
We label Liberals as socialist and use any argument for government intervention as proof;
We hang on to a single ideology with such might that we refuse to recognize that no one solution fits every problem.
We go where we look and our human tendency is to look at the perceived problem rather than the possible solution. We focus on our fears rather than looking beyond the threat, towards the horizon. It takes incredible discipline to look to the horizon, as it means we must let go of our preconceived notions, release fear’s control, and force ourselves into seeking solution rather than spinning around in problem. To look at the horizon is not easy … but failure to do so leads to dangerous consequences. Just look at the picture of my bike and imagine what I looked like …
You go where you look.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Peace in Motion
From the moment that unknown stranger invited me into the riding clan, the road called to me, awakening nomadic genes which had lain dormant. I was born in the same year as the Federal Highway Act, which set the stage for the construction of 44,000 miles of interstate. Many of my ancestors were nomads, from Jasper Crane who boarded the ship Hector in England in 1635 and helped found New Haven, Connecticut and then Newark, New Jersey; to my great-grandfather Edwin Thomas Crane, who in 1870 as a fifteen year old orphan left the farm in Pennsylvania and walked to St. Joseph, Missouri; to my mother, Helen Maurine Crane Brown, who in the late 1920’s flew around Missouri in a bi-plane with her boyfriend and sold rides, worked on the Al-Can Highway during the Second World War, and later opened a flower shop in Gallup, New Mexico. So it is no wonder that I am a wanderer.
Hence my fifth lesson: the discovery of Peace in Motion. Sometimes it beckoned for me to ride alone and other times in the company of good friends. Sometimes I travel by motorcycle, sometimes by car, and sometimes by train or bus. But I travel.
Counselors and psychologists often recommend that individuals journal when they are going through a process of self-discovery. Certainly that is a helpful technique, and I think many people do journal - maybe this blog is a sort of journal. But I have a hunch that most men journey a great deal more than journal.
So maybe cars and motorcycles are good metaphors for men. Whether we salivate over the latest and greatest, most power-under-the-hood ever new car, or fantasize about the old first-love car of our youth, it is about journey. The former seeks to drive into the future with an illusion of new power, the latter hold on to something good, but mythic, from the past. But both are really about the current journey, just from different angles.
I’ve made a lot of road trips in my life, and basically there are two ways to make the trip: fast and furious with only the destination in mind, or slow and meandering, with only the driving having any importance. I’ve burned across America from Miami to San Francisco in three days, and I have meandered around the Southwest, Midwest and the South with no place to go and nothing but time. Both are ultimately about journey; it’s just that sometimes it is the getting there that is important, and other times it’s only the going that matters.
Sometimes on the journey we keep our eyes focused on what is ahead, like the twenty-year old, and sometimes we let someone else take the wheel and we look back on where we have been. I think a lot of fifty year-olds are taking time to look back. I know I am. And every good driver knows that you have to be smart enough to watch the road ahead AND remember to check the rear-view mirror now and then. It is appropriate to watch ahead and glance back … on any journey you gotta’ consider where you’ve been in order to decide where you want to go.
Some time you have been to places you to which you definitely desire a return; at other times you wouldn’t go back to a place for love nor money. All kinds of things blow us off track; we take a wrong turn, get a flat tire, or see a sign for the world’s largest ball of twine and decide to make a side trip. That’s often the most fun part of the trip. So there is always a need to make course corrections; where we have been has a lot of influence on where we are going, whether we admit it or not.
I am told by those who know about such things that the most stable platform is a tripod and certainly it is true that authentic spirituality, of whatever tradition, consists of three legs which in Zen are often referred to as Attitude (one’s mental state), Practice (learning and repeating the techniques), and Understanding (awareness of the principles which transcend the specific art). So I am on the road, seeking to effect attitude, practice the tradition, and ultimately obtain understanding.
Hence my fifth lesson: the discovery of Peace in Motion. Sometimes it beckoned for me to ride alone and other times in the company of good friends. Sometimes I travel by motorcycle, sometimes by car, and sometimes by train or bus. But I travel.
Counselors and psychologists often recommend that individuals journal when they are going through a process of self-discovery. Certainly that is a helpful technique, and I think many people do journal - maybe this blog is a sort of journal. But I have a hunch that most men journey a great deal more than journal.
So maybe cars and motorcycles are good metaphors for men. Whether we salivate over the latest and greatest, most power-under-the-hood ever new car, or fantasize about the old first-love car of our youth, it is about journey. The former seeks to drive into the future with an illusion of new power, the latter hold on to something good, but mythic, from the past. But both are really about the current journey, just from different angles.
I’ve made a lot of road trips in my life, and basically there are two ways to make the trip: fast and furious with only the destination in mind, or slow and meandering, with only the driving having any importance. I’ve burned across America from Miami to San Francisco in three days, and I have meandered around the Southwest, Midwest and the South with no place to go and nothing but time. Both are ultimately about journey; it’s just that sometimes it is the getting there that is important, and other times it’s only the going that matters.
Sometimes on the journey we keep our eyes focused on what is ahead, like the twenty-year old, and sometimes we let someone else take the wheel and we look back on where we have been. I think a lot of fifty year-olds are taking time to look back. I know I am. And every good driver knows that you have to be smart enough to watch the road ahead AND remember to check the rear-view mirror now and then. It is appropriate to watch ahead and glance back … on any journey you gotta’ consider where you’ve been in order to decide where you want to go.
Some time you have been to places you to which you definitely desire a return; at other times you wouldn’t go back to a place for love nor money. All kinds of things blow us off track; we take a wrong turn, get a flat tire, or see a sign for the world’s largest ball of twine and decide to make a side trip. That’s often the most fun part of the trip. So there is always a need to make course corrections; where we have been has a lot of influence on where we are going, whether we admit it or not.
I am told by those who know about such things that the most stable platform is a tripod and certainly it is true that authentic spirituality, of whatever tradition, consists of three legs which in Zen are often referred to as Attitude (one’s mental state), Practice (learning and repeating the techniques), and Understanding (awareness of the principles which transcend the specific art). So I am on the road, seeking to effect attitude, practice the tradition, and ultimately obtain understanding.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Discovering Solidarity
Well, as stated previously, my first lesson in motorcycling was actually two lessons: the technical aspects of riding a motorcycle and the love of a rider for his bike. So as Norm picked up his bike and I picked up myself, a relationship was born.
And thus in spite of my bruised backside and the discovery that I was not as important as a machine, I had $300 saved up and a couple of months later sans the blessings of my mother, I bought a Honda CL 70 and got my first dose of mobility and freedom. But with freedom comes responsibility, and before my girlfriend would be allowed to ride double with me, her parents had to check me out. So they came over, watched me ride up and down and all around, and feeling quite accomplished, I decided to do a quick u-turn in the driveway. Unfortunately said drive-way was dirt, and I promptly dumped the bike.
The third scooter lesson: over-confidence is a vicious mistress.
Later that same day, downcast and passenger-less, I took a ride. I headed along Ocean View Blvd (a name reflecting more of a dream than a reality) in Jensen Beach, Florida and coming towards me I saw a guy on a chopper. Long-hair blowing in the wind, with loud pipes roaring, he was for me the epitome of cool. And there I was riding a single cylinder bike that could do only do fifty miles an hour going downhill in a hurricane. But as the gap between us closed, I saw his face break into a smile as his arm rose from the handlebars and his left fist clenched in the motorcyclists sign of brotherhood.
To me.
I was a just a skinny kid riding a scoot that most good athletes could outrun on foot. But I was riding two wheels, and I had just been accepted into the fraternity. For a boy seeking identity (and wondering if he would ever get his girlfriend on his bike), in those few seconds that act by a complete stranger had taught me my fourth lesson in riding: solidarity.
This was a pivotal moment for me, not just as a rider, but as a human being, and a fourth lesson from motorcycles remained: little acts of kindness can change a persons’ life in ways we will never know.
And thus in spite of my bruised backside and the discovery that I was not as important as a machine, I had $300 saved up and a couple of months later sans the blessings of my mother, I bought a Honda CL 70 and got my first dose of mobility and freedom. But with freedom comes responsibility, and before my girlfriend would be allowed to ride double with me, her parents had to check me out. So they came over, watched me ride up and down and all around, and feeling quite accomplished, I decided to do a quick u-turn in the driveway. Unfortunately said drive-way was dirt, and I promptly dumped the bike.
The third scooter lesson: over-confidence is a vicious mistress.
Later that same day, downcast and passenger-less, I took a ride. I headed along Ocean View Blvd (a name reflecting more of a dream than a reality) in Jensen Beach, Florida and coming towards me I saw a guy on a chopper. Long-hair blowing in the wind, with loud pipes roaring, he was for me the epitome of cool. And there I was riding a single cylinder bike that could do only do fifty miles an hour going downhill in a hurricane. But as the gap between us closed, I saw his face break into a smile as his arm rose from the handlebars and his left fist clenched in the motorcyclists sign of brotherhood.
To me.
I was a just a skinny kid riding a scoot that most good athletes could outrun on foot. But I was riding two wheels, and I had just been accepted into the fraternity. For a boy seeking identity (and wondering if he would ever get his girlfriend on his bike), in those few seconds that act by a complete stranger had taught me my fourth lesson in riding: solidarity.
This was a pivotal moment for me, not just as a rider, but as a human being, and a fourth lesson from motorcycles remained: little acts of kindness can change a persons’ life in ways we will never know.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
A New Journey
I have reached middle age and am reflecting upon my life thus far, and it occurred to me that there are a lot of similarities between me as a fifty-year old and me as a twenty-year old. Both want to figure out who they are based on the circumstances and experiences, and the particular perspective, of their lives. When you are twenty, the whole world lay before you, the choices and possibilities seem endless, and you are certain you can change the world. You know just enough to be hopeful … even certain … that the world can be a better place for everyone, and you can help make it happen.
When you are seeking identity as a twenty-year old, you are looking at the future, at potentialities, at what you can become. You head down the road without a glance in the rear-view mirror. When you are fifty, you are looking as much at the past, at reality, at what you have become, as you are looking at the road ahead. Hence the proverbial mid-life crisis, when far too many of us men spend a great deal of time trying to recapture our youth (staring in the rear-view mirror) and doing stuff, ofttimes stupid but sometimes healthy, to remake ourselves.
At fifty you pretty much look in the mirror and have to say, “This is it.” The big advantage over being twenty, however, is that you can look back on far more choices, good and bad, and far more experiences, both favorable and unfavorable, and reflect upon them with a different kind of perspective. One can look back and discern pivotal moments in life, realizing how small those moments seemed at the time but how many important lessons they imparted to us.
Like when I was fourteen years old and my buddy Norm Wantland taught me how to ride motorcycles on a Honda CB160. Norm, though only fifteen years old himself, was quite a patient teacher. But in spite of his thorough and well thought out teaching methods, like any beginning rider, I dumped his bike in the street while trying to make a u-turn. And like any normal rider, Norm left me lying in the street while he picked up the bike and cleaned it off.
So my first riding lesson actually involved two lessons: the technical aspects of operating a motorcycle and the emotional aspects of a rider for his ride.
When you are seeking identity as a twenty-year old, you are looking at the future, at potentialities, at what you can become. You head down the road without a glance in the rear-view mirror. When you are fifty, you are looking as much at the past, at reality, at what you have become, as you are looking at the road ahead. Hence the proverbial mid-life crisis, when far too many of us men spend a great deal of time trying to recapture our youth (staring in the rear-view mirror) and doing stuff, ofttimes stupid but sometimes healthy, to remake ourselves.
At fifty you pretty much look in the mirror and have to say, “This is it.” The big advantage over being twenty, however, is that you can look back on far more choices, good and bad, and far more experiences, both favorable and unfavorable, and reflect upon them with a different kind of perspective. One can look back and discern pivotal moments in life, realizing how small those moments seemed at the time but how many important lessons they imparted to us.
Like when I was fourteen years old and my buddy Norm Wantland taught me how to ride motorcycles on a Honda CB160. Norm, though only fifteen years old himself, was quite a patient teacher. But in spite of his thorough and well thought out teaching methods, like any beginning rider, I dumped his bike in the street while trying to make a u-turn. And like any normal rider, Norm left me lying in the street while he picked up the bike and cleaned it off.
So my first riding lesson actually involved two lessons: the technical aspects of operating a motorcycle and the emotional aspects of a rider for his ride.
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