January 4, 2008
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| By chattabooks | 6:52 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)
June 21, 2007
Where is home?
Since last summer's beach trip I have traveled to a bunch of cities: Philadelphia, New York, Baltimore, Washington D.C., San Diego, Los Angeles, Chicago, St. Louis, Houston, Dallas, London, Oxford, Belfast, Derry, Edinburgh, St. Andrews, Frierichshaven Germany, Liechtenstein, Geneva, Zurich, Paris, Amsterdam, Rome and San Franscisco.
Of all those cities, the last two are the ones that captured my heart the most. Rome, of course, has the best food in the world, the best coffee, arguably the best wine and bread. The mediterranean climate is lovely and the historical soil ranks as perhaps the richest in the world (though not the oldest). Visiting the Colosseum where Christians were fed to lions, and then visiting the Vatican where Christians dominate Rome and the Western world, is a stunning contrast. From the Vatican they likely planned the engraving of giant crosses on the side of the very complex that once persecuted and violated Christian martyrs.
San Francisco has a different and multilayered attachment to my heart. The bay area is probably the most beautiful piece of geography I have ever observed, which, this year, included the Alps and Eiffel Tower. The contrasts are striking when overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge: ocean waves crashing to your right, golden brown mountains behind you. Giant pine trees straight across the way, a major world city skyline across the blue bay to your slight left, Alcatraz Island just in front of you, beautiful sailboats and giant cruise liners and cargo ships traversing the bay, the Oakland Bay Bridge in the distance, and the quiet villages of Sausalito and Tiberon to your far left. Another layer of romance emerges when the fog rolls in from the ocean through the Golden Gate like a fluffy gray blanket being pulled by a tugboat.
Marin County, what you enter when crossing the giant orange bridge, has a personality and flavor unique to the world. Here you reach ground zero for organic concerns and the sustainability craze. Worldwide anti-war demonstrations probably germinate here. Signs in windows and bumper stickers on cars provide unsolicited maxims on world peace and politics (like complaints of big oil on a suburban).
While most cities hope to find one unique characteristic to promote tourism, the Bay Area has scores of them: Cable cars, Redwood forests, beaches, 17-mile drive, the Point Reyes Seashore, Napa Valley wine country, Chinatown, Haight-Ashbury, the beautiful bay itself . . . and the list goes on and on.
Some of you may wonder how such a culture might be attractive to me, given my heritage of strong morality and conservative politics. However, half of my DNA derives from Howard and Cecil Waite, my grandparents who purchased property an hour north of San Francisco in the 1960s after decades of traveling the globe helping war torn countries restore their infrastructures. Their seven acres on top of Vision Mountain in the village of Inverness on the Point Reyes Peninsula proved to be the nucleus of art and liberal activism that agreed with their sometimes naieve, sometimes sagacious, but always altruistic concerns. (One daughter went to Berkely right down the road, became one of the first beatniks, and helped trigger the 60s revolution. My mother attended UCLA and converted to Christianity in Bill Bright's first Campus Crusade for Christ group.)
Those twists of fate made me a more complex person I suppose, but the Bay Area is in my blood. Also, I visited there every four five years of my life, and driving up the road to my grandfather's several handmade dwellings at the top of the mountain--where the overwhelming scent of Bishop Pines compounds the nostalgia--always provides me with my own sense of what oasis and paradise might feel like. On this anomalous tract of land with Tomales Bay on one side and the ocean on the other, the temperature, like San Francisco, never exceeds 75 or dips below 40, and fluctuates quickly as the fog rolls in almost daily. A sweater and a burning woodstove are part of the daily lifestyle, perfect for a man who has been at an oceanside condo for the last five days now and has not yet stepped on the beach.
San Fransciso and Marin County does indeed connect with my internal psche and DNA in a poweful way. The town was named Inverness because the area so clearly resembles Scotland: pine forests, daily fogs, purple thistles growing on the sides of windy hills overlooking the stormy Pacific Ocean. My ancestor Stephen Arnold likely traveled to America from similar terrain in Scotland ten generations ago. He and his progeny continued moving West from their first settling in Southwestern Virginia, which also has an uncanny resemblance to the Scottish countryside I observed earlier this year. These frontiersmen were finally stopped by the Pacific Ocean. The friendly, laid back California lifestyle must somehow be related to these restless wanderers finally admitting the journey is over and its time to sit back and relax.
And what about the morality of the Bay Area? I disagree with the Gay agenda, certainly, but you actually see very little of it there unless you drive to certain areas of town where tourists rarely tread. And although the effects of evangelical Christianity are indeed small or fading, the Orthodox Church, now my faith tradition, has a uniquely strong presence in this eclectic city. Only a handful of saints have been canonized in North America, most from centuries ago. But the most recently canonized is named St. John the Wonderworker of Shanghai and San Francisco. Born in Ukraine, he became a bishop in Serbia, established a number of orphanages in China, then moved to San Francisco in his last years and built a major cathedral there before dying in 1965. Known for rarely sleeping, praying all night for his fellow Christians, and working miracles of healing, he was also reputed to scrap his heirachical garb at times and roam the streets of Haight and Ashbury in the early days of the Age of Aquarius, influencing and converting many young leaders in Berkely and San Francisco.
I visited the cathedral when I was there. St. John's body sits in a coffin to the right of the altar. The top is glass, but John Maxomovich's face is covered with a veil. His two hands, however, are completely visible, and, though darkened, have not decayed at all. During the service, many people will stop by the coffin, cross themselves, light a candle and say a prayer while observing the great saints' remains. Weird, but very powerful.
St. John of Shanghai and San Francisco
So the Bay Area even has a spiritual connection to me. In fact, the small village of Inverness saw an Orthodox monastery established there 25 years ago, and several devout monks prayed and worshipped there, and interacted with the local crowd, who found them to be surprisingly godly, loving, and fantastic representatives of Christ and humanity, despite their "female bashing" traditions (I got this straight from the woman who owns the local New Age shop.) However, the monks left a year ago and moved to Redding California. In several months, they say more people have expressed interest in Christ than they saw in their quarter century tenure in West Marin County. Although very spiritual, the people in Marin are in fact quite hostile to Christianity. Political viewpoints don't necessarily equate to spiritual health, but it is instructive to know that out of 50,000 registered voters in West Marin, only 76 are Republican.
While the Bay Area has a major spot in my heart--and may in fact feel more like home than any geographic area on the globe--I also feel that it could not remain my home for very long. Birth rates are below replacement; children are scant. The stark wilderness of the terrain reflects a lack of economic activity and a future unlikely to prosper. My grandfather's cabin, sublime and award-winning 30 years ago, now slowly deteroriates at the foundation, with little to no hope of a restoration. I am once again reminded: this world, under its current cosmic regime, is not my ultimate home. But I do love it, just like the One slated to succeed the current ruler.
| By chattabooks | 5:20 PM | TrackBack (0)
May 28, 2007
Behind bars of hate
Rock is an old buddy from college who is now in federal prison.
I visited him last week before I left for California. He’s in the Pennsylvania penitentiary, tens of hours from his home in Georgia. He hadn’t received a visitor since Christmas.
He succombed to his passions for a short season several years ago, and this choice led-- several years later--to a 2 to 7 years sentence. By then he had confessed his sinful actions to three different church sessions, was serving as an elder at one of the churches, and had seen the statute of limitations pass on his offense. Yet since he left the state, Pennsylvania authorities said he could still be convicted. He’s been in 3 1/2 years now, but is expected to leave by the end of the summer.
He greeted me with a broad smile and warm hug (they allow you to meet in a common room, not the sterotypical glass divider) and sported prison issue eyeglasses and a dark grey jumpsuit.
We give lip service to the theological maxim that we are all sinners like Rock. And practical experience over time convinces you that the maxim is basically accurate. A couple hours of experience with Rock persuaded me that he is my spiritual superior.
In college, Rock was the guy who really wanted to be accepted. This eagerness led to his getting abused now and then by the gang, and to getting referred to as the mascot of the group.
No longer. Rock knows who he is and speaks from a position of security and strength. He is a leader in the prison church. 275 men--nearly ten percent of the entire prison--attend on Sunday morning. Rock is one of the main overseers of the congregation and also does a good bit of ministry and counseling throughout the week. He is outspoken about his commitment to Christ and he encourages the others to make sure they act as good ambassadors of “The Kingdom,” a phrase he used many times.
For example, a lot of guys in prison, when the meal is good, will “spin,” a term for returning to the line to get more food when you are not supposed to. Rock won’t do it, and encourages the younger guys not to as well. He also watches his language and behavior in many other ways.
And here I am, on the outside of prison, having often lost sight of that fruit of the spirit called “goodness.” Frustration with the arbitrary results of obedience leads to many little compromises, and over time I find myself battling cynicism.
There are some folks that hate Rock. Not necessarily the recipients of his bad choices so much as others who take on a righteous indignation and consider themselves to be doing God’s will by making Rock’s life worse. This has had negative consequences for his wife and four children. Rock accepts the fact that he deserves problems for his bad choices, acknowledges that some people may need to “vent,” and notes that he needs to hear what people are venting. He refuses to return evil with evil, but by his conversation clearly is striving to overcome evil with good.
I know little of this in my life. In fact, the day after I met with Rock, I was the recipient of some criticism in an email and was ready to fire off some choice and vindictive rebuttals. But Rock’s example stopped me. I waited a day and responded with class and dignity.
I took a few notes from my moral mentor. The prisoner.
P. S. Another irony in Rock’s life is his relationship to his children. He has called them on the phone every single evening for the past three and a half years. They visit about four times a year, for two days. Every minute is cherished. Is it not possible that Rock is getting more quality interaction with his kids than many on the outside of prison?
| By chattabooks | 3:46 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack (0)
May 24, 2007
Marin County
I’m in the land of fruits and nuts.
It is truly gorgeous country. My view is similar to the picture in the entry below, but is better, with more focus on the mountain ranges along with the water.
As I sit on the deck to eat or write or read, the sounds of nature are everywhere, mostly birds, and giant hawks and other birds circle the valley. Once in a while a pine cone falls on the metal roof of my rustic mini-chalet. There is basically no sign of human habitation.
This is typical of a dwelling in Inverness.
Yesterday evening I began reading on the deck in a short sleeve shirt. It can get sunny and warm here. A few minutes later I put on a sweater, and a few minutes later I donned a windbreaker and a hat and lit a woodburning stove--all within an hour or so. This area just above San Francisco on the coast is known as the foggiest area of the United States. The famous fogs of San Francisco in the summer are even denser here.
Tall and mighty pine trees surround my area and the pine scent is a trademark of the area. The village here takes the name Inverness, as the area resembles the terrain of Scotland. However, just across the bay the mountains are golden brown. The bay itself (Tomales Bay) is part of the San Andreas Fault, and geologists say the two land masses eons ago were hundres of miles apart. Thus, the pine forests on one side and “Golden State” mountains on the other.
This morning I ate breakfast in a carved, wooden bowl: granola with fresh blueberrys and raspberries. This little area is served by a spring on the property, and a chicken coop nearby provides fresh eggs, which I also had for breakfast. My shower is outside and the facilities are a good old fashioned privy, something my grandparents used for a couple of decades before building a cabin on the property with a genuwine toilet.
My aunt Jony has been quite helpful in getting me set up to read and write. She told me she’s not a very good entertainer, but I quite disagreed. I think she meant she’s not the hostess type, but she’s quite entertaining. Yesterday I heard stories about her commissions for murals and sculptures in hotels across Africa, as well as her many commissions from the Aga Kahn, a great religious leader based in Kenya, and more stories about friends smoking pot in San Francisco restaurants and protesting against Bush in Philadelphia while spending the night on the floor of open cathedrals.
We’ve always known her as Jony, but she goes by “Yoni,” apparently desiring to de-Anglicize her name, which she says is pronounced with a “Y” sound by most people groups. Yoni sports long, gray dredlocks and tattoos like ringlets on the back of her hands. They represent the rings of life found in plants, she says.
Yoni (Jony)
She has an exhibition this weekend on the property and will be displaying several giant-sized paintings of pine tree brances and forests. (I think those rings are in there somewhere, too.) She typically paints African wildlife, but says she has to paint what is around her, and she has fallen in love with the pine trees of Inverness. The work is not abstract, as you can tell she has trees or animals as the subject, but her paintings are on the left end of impressionistic. I glanced at one while in conversation yesterday and noticed -- this after looking at it many times -- that a large mountain lion’s face was in the background.
Three companies have asked to read my movie script. One has a producing credit for “The Godfather,” another for “Crash” and the third for “The Squid and the Whale.” Hopefully, one of these companies will catch the vision for my screenplay.
| By chattabooks | 7:02 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack (0)
May 7, 2007
California next
Today I booked a flight to San Francisco and back.
I have a few weeks to kill before I pick up my kids in mid June for the summer. I was looking for a good place to hole up and finish a couple of writing projects, and the best place ended up being the property developed by my grandparents (now deceased) an hour north of San Fran on top of Vision Mountain in Inverness, next to Point Reyes.
My grandfather built a unique cabin in the woods there several decades ago which was featured in several magazines. There are a couple other hippie-type/artistic dwellings on the six acre property, and I'll be using one to get away and write a movie script based on my Trail of Tears book and also work on an annotated version of my Tolkien/Lewis script.
My exotic aunt will also be there. I've rarely interacted with her, as she has spent most of her life in Kenya. She owns the Watatu Gallery in downtown Nairobi and is a rather famous painter of African Wildlife, with a mural in the Nairobi Interational airport and commissions from some of Africa's leading citizens. I knew her as the mysterious aunt from far away with a pet Cheetah.
The view from my grandfather's mountain property. The Pacific Ocean is on the other side of the mountain.
A painting by my aunt, the famous artist.
| By chattabooks | 9:06 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack (0)
April 27, 2007
Comparing England and America
I have delayed writing an assessment of my trip to Europe (mainly England).
I have delayed primarily because I have some critical comments as well as positive. Anecdotally, a number of people I met and befriended in England--some immensely kind and generous--do not represent some larger trends I discerned. Those exceptions, including my host family in Stokenchurch, are people generally affiliated with active Christian organizations. That factor dovetails with the last few sentences of this blog entry.
That being said, here are some of my thoughts:
There are two primary positives where I think England and Europe have something to teach America (among many other smaller things).
I guess I can learn me something from him.
1. England is the international center of the world. London is arguably the capital of the world. Switzerland has four national languages (not including English, which most Swiss speak fluently). Europeans are wonderfully mulitcultural, which adds a depth and richness to life that Americans are only just beginning to strive after. Paradise is described as a place where people from every tribe and nation gather together. In this way, England resembles heaven far more than America.
2. Europe's village lifestyle is a superior way to live, in my opinion. The average family just does not need 3,000+ square feet of living space. Cars are overrated when communities are designed for pedestrians and served by excellent mass transit. Exercise goes up (rare to see an obese person in Europe; common in the U.S.), relational interaction increases, fuel consumption goes down, and more time is spent out and about interacting with others than at home caring for stuff that moth and rust will destroy.
On the negative side:
1. I did not find the English or the French to be particularly friendly. I was not surprised by the French, whose reputation preceded them. The English took me off guard.
The English are extremely civil, helpful, and polite. For about 15 seconds. Then they become curt, impatient, and mercurial. They don't like to repeat themselves and they let you know of their disdain only in disguised, cryptic quips that hit you so fast you don't know what happened to you. It's somewhat similar to the southern gal's syrupy sweet smile which disguises an irritation, except the English are quicker witted and can lay out three or four cordially-laced insults before the Southernor has drawled out half a sentence.
What did the English guy say?
The English do not like to repeat themselves. Among themselves they almost never do. In America there is a rhythm to back and forth communication. Repeating a statement is welcomed by comments like "what's that?" and "really?"
The English, who speak quickly and can be difficult to understand, expect to be heard and understand the first time. And they do not suffer a fool.
Assumiing any of my perceptions are true, the obvious question is why? Lots of reasons, I'm sure. Among them:
- All these fools (like me) are traveling across the world to get a piece of whatever the English have. I'd probably get exasperated after a while too, especially if I had to repeat myself constantly to people who should working on a better understanding of the fountain spring dialect of English.
- I sampled mainly Oxford and London (and I’m guessing the outlaying English terrorities are quite different). Oxford is unique with its own demands and London is one of the world’s greatest cities. Busy, productive communities don’t always have time for chit-chat. Last time I checked, New York and Philly and L.A. don’t have great reputations for friendliness either (although I’d give L.A. the edge).
The English do not suffer a fool.
- I toyed with the cold weather theory for a while. The damp, foggy English weather surely must have an affect on the psyche and make for a bit of corporate crankiness. And I was there during winter. But that theory got deflated by my trips to Ireland and Scotland--both colder--which I found to be extremely friendly and talkative. Overwhelmingly so. (In fairness to the English, many Scots were headed to England or already there to find economic opportunities.)
- I found the Germans more friendly than I was expecting. The Swiss were quite accomodating and lacked much disdain for Americans, which in England was not rampant but neither was it uncommon. It’s bad in France, but not as bad with the younger generation.
All these factors got boiled into a theory of the fallen empire. This would explain the friendliness of Ireland and Scotland, which have never known what it’s like on top. The English and French can still remember those days, and it may not be so easy to watch their younger brother (America) get rich and powerful and cocky. The Germans, who got so humbled fifty years ago, are in a different place.
Little brother suddenly found some power.
- As an American, I surely need to look inwardly regarding the fallen empire syndrome, because it’s likely coming our way in the near future. Birth rates, economic trends, and a slowly diminishing Christian culture (although we still retain more than Europe for now) are all indicators that instead of judging our European friends, we better learn as much as we can from them regarding how to lose power with dignity and grace.
- The Christian influence in America is still a major factor. We are generous and open-hearted and one obvious example is that we tip twice as much. We are also naive. And often self-righteous. Nevertheless, the religious spirit of the American colonists--followed by the wind of revival during the 18th century and the frontier revivals a century later--still remains as a soft breeze.
The Revivalist and the American.
| By chattabooks | 1:20 PM | Comments (4) | TrackBack (0)
