In the Eastern Sierras is a very salty lake–Mono lake. It is saltier than it used to be. It’s smaller than it used to be.

That’s because Los Angeles, quite some time ago, began sucking away the fresh water that used to flow into Mono. Los Angeles was thirsty, and also needed the water to grow cows and oranges.

Because Mono lake wasn’t getting water to refill itself, the waer level went down. And something incredibly beautiful showed up.

Tufas.

The waters that flow into Mono lake mingle and react in such a way that makes a sort of mineral snowflake. Those mineral snowflakes flow around in the water, and eventually settle or attach themselves to stuff in the lake.

And tufas grow up like ghostly monuments.

This is my metaphor for my thoughts. Some of my thoughts float around in my consciousness, being of some kind of substance that doesn’t fade away. The ideas and insights, or questions, float around looking for a place where they fit. And eventually, they end up making their own place to fit. A place–a tufa–that doesn’t really fit anywhere, but is still a kind of cool something.

I read once something that may not be true. I can’t’ confirm it on a quick perusal of the internet, but I like the story, so I’m going to tell it. Take it for what it’s worth.

Egyptian cotton was pretty much the best cotton around for a super long time. Maybe as long as it took to find america and fill it with cotton plantations.

It was the best because it had the longest fiber. Cotton is useful for being made into thread, and the thread into fabric. But to make the thread, you have to spin the fibers together.

As I was told, the Egyptian cotton was the best because their cotton had the longest fiber. When the fiber was short, the thread would be all fuzzy and thick. But when the fiber was long, it spun all tightly and smooth. You could have super-fine, satiny almost, cotton fabric.

And people didn’t even want to mess with cotton if it wasn’t long fibered. That is, until a particular cotton spinning machine was invented to do the work mechanically. THEN the thread could be twisted tight enough, even when the fibers were stubby.

I’ve been thinking about my stories, and my thoughts. I have a lot of thoughts and stories. YET, I am not posting about them on my blog, or telling other people about them.

Why not?

Like the tufas, I am not sure how to explain what I’m thinking about. I’ve been thinking about certain stuff for a long time. And I’ve arrived at some structured ideas and concepts with all those thoughts.

But to explain them, and to share my mental tufas…well…It’s not that I wouldn’t love to do so…but…that brings me back to the cotton.

But to explain the cotton, let me tell you another story.

When I started at my current job, I realized almost immediately that I was joining a group that talked about themselves a lot. More than any other job I had ever been at.

These people talked a lot about stuff that was not work.

And I couldn’t quite deal with that. “Small Talk” was what I thought. I just can’t quite do that. I rummaged deep into the topics that are appropriate. Sports? the Weather? The news is dangerous, because that delves into politics and that could get too deep really fast.

So basically, I didn’t talk very much. I pretty much avoided my co-workers, because this sort of conversation was too much for me.

But I didn’t quit. And eventually I got sick of trying to keep to a line of “Appropriate.” I wanted to talk about whatever was on my mind. And if they found me weird, so be it.

So, I decided to start telling a story. I got a little way in, and the phone rang. So of course I dropped it.

But after the call was finished, the guys said, “Keep going.”

I started up again where I had left off, and kept on with my story.

The phone rang again.

And they finished and said again, “keep going.”

huh.

I realized that most of my life, I had had this experience. I would begin to tell stories and get interrupted before I could finish.

There were only a very few people who could sustain interest through my long trains of thought.

Those are my dear dear friend. You know who you are. I will love and cherish you forever.

But for those who didn’t hear the ends of my story…Maybe it’s because I abandoned my attempts. I maybe have given up telling it too soon.

Remember the cotton? Maybe my threads are long. Maybe my threads are fine and marvelous and desirable, a part of a superior experience.

For sure sure sure my stories and thought-trains are long.

And like the tufas, they are often curiously formed.

For example, this very blog entry is long and curiously formed. But this is the way it came to me, and I am choosing now to share it with you all.

IMG_6365

Originally uploaded by murphy_h2001.

Before Chris and I moved into this house, I lived in a condo. It was a 4 story building, and I lived on the second floor.

The first floor was actually the basement, and that is where we parked our cars. It was also where we had a storage space. We kept a lot of stuff in the storage space.

I remember when Chris moved in, and I had to make room in the closet for not only him, but also all his business inventory. We discussed what could reasonably be put in the storage space, which was admittedly huge.

“Why don’t we put all our luggage in the storage space?” he said. “We don’t use it all the time, and when we need it, we can go down and get it.”

We put my luggage in the storage space. And then I always used his rolly bag when I had to go on a trip.

The thing was, the storage space just seemed outside of our path.

This is how I began to understand about human territories. Just like creatures in the woods, we have our trails we follow. And even if a certain thing is not far at all from our territory, we may still never go to see that thing. Because it’s ‘out of the way’.

And the storage space was out of the way. It just was.

This range of territory can be especially true in Los Angeles. This huge sprawling populated area is close to everything and far away from everything. When I lived in Los Feliz, Pasadena seemed very far away. It was not actually far away, but it seemed easier to get to Canter’s Deli than Vroman’s bookstore.

Los Feliz was more or less in the middle of things. But I do not live in the middle of L.A. anymore.

I live in Claremont. That’s definitely not the midle of Los Angeles. But it’s kind of in the middle of the populated area of Southern California.

Kind of.

But my new hometown, in combination with my new job, has widened my territory. I have to go to a lot of places not. There are a lot of places that are no longer out of the way.

I spend a lot of time on freeways.

Which brings me to my point:
Freeway are beautiful.

I mean really, These are amazing works of architecture. They soar, and often have 5 different levels of street. Each one has it’s own particularities.

It makes me think.

Remember the part in the Lord of the Rngs movie, where Aragorn and the fellowship of the ring are passing through the Valley of the Kings? These enormous statues of kings, carved out of the sides of mountain, loom over the group as they float on the river?

I feel similarly about these freeway overpasses. They are majestic.

And that leads me to think. How much money are we spending on these things? They are not cheap. And if we are already spending money on these extremely useful stuctures, why can’t we make them a little more beautiful?

Look at the photo I have included. It’s on highway 15, between L.A./Orange County and San Diego. I love that bridge. It’s gorgeous.

Why not do more of that?

Not so long ago, I came to the conclusion that I am a deeply unsatisfied person. Almost at any given moment, I am thinking of how that moment could be better. How I could be doing something, being something, or experiencing something higher.

I usually consider it my own fault—that I am not organized enough to be the best self I can be. Or perhaps I am lazy and slothful. And St. Paul’s words echo in my mind: the good that I would I do not: but the evil which I would not, that I do [Romans 7:19]

I never get around to doing what I want to do, but all the shit I say I will stop doing—that’s what I end up being very faithful with.

For these and many other reasons, I figured out that I am just an unsatisfied person. This will not change, and I had better find a way of living with it.

I don’t mean that I don’t have things I enjoy. There are also the exciting and exceptional moments of action that absorb my total attention. Sometimes I get in the zone while writing; very very often when I am dancing I am utterly taken away, and sometimes a project can fill me and satisfy me well.

But those are rare and precious moments. For all the other moments, I am wishing for the higher thing—the greater, the more.

I was trying to explain this to Chris. The explanation went somewhat awry, since he is a sweet and wonderful man who wants me to be happy. For him, it is not a good thing for me to be unsatisfied. It is a problem, and must be fixed.

We are both interested in my happiness—he even more than I. But this new understanding I had about my nature seemed both under and over the stuff of “happiness.” Metaphysical realities are not so susceptible to temporal fixes.

But what was it I had really discovered? What did I mean by all this? Maybe it is really a personal problem, something that pills or prayer would fix.

Maybe it was all in my head.

But then I read this from John Stuart Mill:

It is indisputable that the being whose capacities of enjoyment are low, has the greatest chance of having them fully satisfied; and a highly endowed being will always feel that any happiness which he can look for, as the world is constituted, is imperfect.

But he can learn to bear its imperfections, if they are at all bearable; and they will not make him envy the being who is indeed unconscious of the imperfections, but only because he feels not at all the good which those imperfections qualify.

It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied. And if the fool, or the pig, are a different opinion, it is because they only know their own side of the question. The other party to the comparison knows both sides.

Mill, no fool, got it! I discovered my dissatisfaction on my own, but I am not on my own in the feeling.

AND I am a “highly endowed being.” I’ll take that.

Of course, I am also required with my endowments, to bear all the imperfections I so keenly perceive. That brings my mind back to the Bible, this time the red letters of Jesus’s words:
For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required: and to whom men have committed much, of him they will ask the more. [Luke 12:48]

I guess the Endower of my gifts would have a right to require me to do something with them.

And I would not have it any other way. I want to be and make the best of myself that I can.

I’ll just have to find a way to bear my imperfections.

They should tell you to wear chapstick. Heck, they should provide you with chapstick. With your mouth hanging open for hours and your whole head anaesthetized so you can’t feel anything, split lips must be common.

I hate dentists. But they are something that must be endured.

I’d wished I’d had chapstick on my last visit to get my teeth x-rayed. I came prepared this time, so my lips were well lubricated. But why do dentists expect you to converse with them while your mouth is full of their hands and metal equipment? I suppose for the same reason none of them ever think of providing lip lube for the procedure.

I was scared. There were needles. It took three injections to make me numb. One big needle, then ZZZZZZ goes the drill. “Ow!” goes me. In with another needle. Repeat.

Think peaceful thoughts. Tell yourself how professional this dentist is. The mantra: he knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

Why does it feel like he’s drilled entirely through my upper canine into the other side? What’s going on?

Breathe. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

I breathe. Then I count to one hundred repeatedly to tick off the necessary seconds it will take to complete this.

Then I search around in my head to think of something else to think about. I decide to think about my credenz. In my head, I imagined all the things I needed to do to refinish this piece of furniture.

First, I would need to take the old and discolored stain off. The top, the sides, the drawers would all need to be stripped and scrubbed. I’d take off the drawer handles and scrub every nook and groove down to the bare wood.

I’d wash it, and then sand it, and wash it again.

There would be a few repairs to make. The two front legs are wobbly. I think that just takes a nail to secure in place. But the one drawer sticks when you pull it in and out. I’m not sure how to fix that. Maybe I can look it up.

These thoughts kept my mind away from the dentist drill.

I love to think about all the parts and steps of a process. One of my earliest memories—I was maybe three years old—was lying under the pew at church trying to figure out how it was made.

Naturally I was bored with the sermon. So I wiggled underneath the pews, which had been lovingly made in the pastor’s garage.

First, I was struck by how different the pew looked from underneath.. I even got up to look at the pew from the top again. Yes, it was the same object.

Then I started trying to understand why it looked the way it did. I saw the bare wood and the edge of the fabrics tacked down by staples. I saw edges of nail on the sides where the legs were.

I began to see how this pew was constructed! It was very thrilling to me. I could see in my mind, how they very carefully tucked the fabric around underneath and stapled it in place, and then took the backs and sides and nailed them in place after the upholstery was there and not before.

I could tell how the whole thing was put together. I ran it like a movie in my head, all the steps along the way to make this familiar thing.

All the steps that must be done carefully and in their right time—any other way and it wouldn’t work.

I think of these sorts of things all the time. What step? What’s needed? When? Anything else? How will it get there? How will people know they need it and find it when it’s needed?

Not everyone thinks this way. Perhaps some people just can’t. I can see the far goal and the immediate steps that start the motion towards that goal.

I try to have patience with those who don’t see that near/far view. The little and the big make the world go round.

Of course, my credenz is an unchanging object. It will stay still until I get around to it. Other projects are actually processes.

Processes are things that you do repeatedly. Every morning I must wake, shower, dress myself and drive to work.

Can I improve that? What would happen if I set my clothes out the night before? What about the shoes? Shower the night before? These are all ways to work on and improve a process.

It takes thought. It takes FORE thought. It takes AFTER thought. It takes awareness and willingness to notice and try.

It takes faith. You have to believe that what you are doing is important and worth doing better. You have to believe that your time and your life’s quality deserves attention and thought. You have to believe that you CAN improve the processes.

I saw a representative from Wal-Mart discuss this principle on TV. Wal-Mart is known for squeezing their suppliers to get the best price.

There is a bottom to how low the prices can go. Even Wal-Mart can’t get all their stuff for nothing.

But they have a commitment to getting more and better ‘deals’. If they can’t get a cheaper pair of shorts, then let it be a better-sewn pair. And once it’s quality workmanship, there is still a way to go one better.

Let it have cute little flowers sewn on the pockets—‘fashion.’

Never never rest. Always look for a way to do better.

Is it any wonder Wal-Mart has the staggering success it has?

I want that. I want to be with a bunch of people that want the bar of ‘better’ to be raised on a regular basis.

Good enough should never be good enough. Good enough is boring.

I want to be like the kids playing outside. ‘Can you reach that tree branch if you jump? Jump as high as you can. Yay! Made it. What about the next one?’

Jump high! Be better. Because it feels good to be good. And it feels good to be better.

That’s what I want for my credenz. I want to remake it beautiful, and I want to do a good job at this difficult task. I know that I can do it all by myself and I don’t have to rely on anyone else. No worries, I can make it perfect. It makes me happy just to think about it.

The dentist is finally done. He tells me that my new crown is “temporary” and I have to come back for a permanent one in two weeks.

Bad process. Why didn’t they tell me this when I made the appointment? Come to think of it, they didn’t even tell me what work they were doing before I arrived.

Bad process.

I think about telling them about my chapstick idea, to help with patients’ lips.

But I do not have faith in them. I do not think they will hear me.

Every woman has a magic mirror in her heart. In it, she can see foggy images that others don’t see. She can see her family her friends, and the wider world in that mirror.

She will share her visions with the man in her life. For him, to believe what she sees takes faith.

If he doubts, it infects her and the mirror gets even foggier. And she may need to fight him to find her mirror again.

But if he can find that faith, her vision grows stronger. She can believe and be strong and wise. Both of them will be blessed.

I don’t share my poetry on this blog. I figure maybe I should. I wrote this one today. Enjoy!

This one doesn’t count
Because who’s counting anyway?
It’s for you
All of you

But I’m lying
Someone is counting
One Two
Tick Tock
Fast Handing
Around the clock

I’m getting very sleepy. Things are feeling freaky
Roman numerals with Egyptian eyes
Sphinx eyes turning me to unkinetic stone
Unmotioned by the unbroken hand sweep
The caged bird in my chest batters the cage
FLEE! MOVE
No amount of panic is enough
The soft black feathers scatter and flutter from the violence
The hopeful bird croaks “Evermore!
More More MORE.” Battle this cage
With every small mustered strength
One nudge must one day be enough
To jostle and break the gaze

I am not stone. The eyes tell lies
Motion is my birthright.
Action Production
Distance before and behind
Each footfall might be
Well-placed and unstumbled
Unbungled
Disturb the road dust
The coal dust
Mighty step of weight and substance
Pressuring the stuff of the world
Reform
Realign with beauty and order
My steps to leave diamonds underfoot

The road untraveled stretches
I can’t see it
Snowshoes and machetes plow the ground
Follow stars and leaning shadows
The sun wheels overhead

Let the path find me
It’s for me and for you
I know you are counting on me

Okay, i thought of what I want to write about. It’s disorganized, but let me see if I can explain it.

“Open-Minded” used to be a popular phrase. I don’t hear it as much as I used to, but certainly, “Closed-Minded” is a well-established bad thing.

I am seeing more and more the stance that used to connote open-minded as being a closed minded one.

I met a woman at a social event, and she worked with gangster kids. This caught my interest right away. ‘Tell me more about that. I am astonished at the lack of attention given to helping kids stay out of gangs.’

She was surprised at my interest. “What do you want to know?”

I said that I thought we needed to ask until we got an answer. That we should not stop and be satisfied with the bad situation that our children are in.

She was taken with that idea. To ask until you find an answer. But she wasn’t sure you could ever find an answer. In any question, really.

She had a good point. What happens when you find the answer? Are there questions with no answers?

I believe no. There are no questions without answers.

But then, like the hitchhiker’s guide tells us, are you sure you are asking the right question?

Often, the answer to a question will be another question. And when you reach that the question/answer to the question, have you made progress?

I believe yes. I believe that as we sincerely question, even if our questions result in more questions, the understanding broadens. And when we understand we can do more or better than we have before.

I like people who question. I like it when people ask. But I have noticed there are people who ask, but do not believe in the answer. Not that they think the answer isn’t correct, but the deny the premise of an ‘answer’s existence.

They enjoy questions, but only for their own sake. No answers required, or, indeed, allowed. These clever people can deflect any proposed answer with reasons to deny it.

It is as if they wish only to maintain the integrity of the perfect unanswerability of the question.

They stick tot their question until a new more intrigiung question presents itself. Sometimes, this question is what I would call and ANSWER to the first question. But, they don’t think of it that way.

I am interested in asking to the answer. Questions are TOOLS to me, not toys.

I knew it was coming. It was waiting for me when I got home.

I picked it up. I had to find a knife to open it. But I had to pace around is an addled way first.

I found a knife. I sat on the couch. Chris sat with me.

I slit the tape, but I had to stop. I held it a moment longer. Then I opened it all the way.

I held it. It rested in my hands. I turned it over. Chris touched my shoulder.

Only a few moments more. I couldn’t breathe.

I put it away.

I paced around the house in my addled way again.

I knew the next day at work would be long.

It was. But I didn’t forget about it.

It was waiting for me when I got home.

This time, I remembered to breathe when I held it. I flipped the pages.

I smelled it. It smelled subtley wonderful. I know the smell will mellow nicely.

I walked around addled some more, but this time I was holding it.

Then, I sat down to read it.

It was bound. It was a book. It was mine.

It felt like a book. When I read it, it had pages with numbers. I turned them, and I read it again like I wanted to know what happened.

I got about 20 pages in before I stopped myself, laughing. Of course, I already know what happened.

I wrote it.

There are times when thoughts come together like objects, and bump against each other. I want to share this thought-object group with you.

I am finishing Buddha by Karen Armstrong. It’s a book on CD.

And I just finished Cold Mountain by Charles frazier, read by the author.

First, I would like to say, both of these books were much easier to take as being read to me. I would have found the book about Buddha not such a page turner, but I did want to hear about the enlightened one, so having it ‘pushed’ at me suited.

And Cold Mountain…well…First, I have seen the movie, which was a good movie, but it was so sad.

But beggars can’t be choosers, when it comes to my little library and it’s collection of books on tape. I took it.

The book is a masterpiece. The recording of the author reading his book is a masterpiece. I have high standards for books, and this one exceeded my expectations dramatically.

Wow. And wow again. The words. His phrasing and timing. I didn’t know it was the author reading it until I sat down to write this post. I continually thought that the reader was perfect for the work, little did I know how perfect. Authors are not always the best ones to read their work, but this one was.

Now, it would have been an excellent read. I loved his writing.

But remember, I saw the movie. I knew the ending. The book, however, was so much richer than the movie. So very many things happened, and so many ponderances took place. It was a leisurely story.

I forgot about the ending, and was enjoying the journey. I was enjoying the way he said ‘of’ and the old-fashioned-to-the-point-of-ancient phrases he used. They seemed deeply rooted in the time.

But the end of the book got closer. And I couldn’t help remembering the end of the movie.

And I couldn’t help but hope it would end different. At times I hit stop. I couldn’t face that lilted voice telling me what happened next.

I cried sheets of tears fully through the last two cassettes. I remember thinking again that I was glad to be listening to the story. I wouldn’t have been able to read the words through my crying.

What a powerful story.

Next thought-object:

In Buddha Karen Armstrong had talked about Siddartha’s journey to enlightenment. Siddartha is Buddha’s pre-enlightened name, if you didn’t know. I didn’t know.

He was born Siddartha, and the Brahmin prophesied that he would achieve enlightenment. Either that or be the King of the Universe. Buddha’s Dad prefferred Siddartha to be King of the Universe rather than just a boring old enlightened one.

Siddartha, however, chose the path of enlightenment. And when I say “chose” I mean to say he leaned into it. He didn’t just meander along and WHOOPS–fall into enlightenment. He worked really hard at it, and sacrificed a lot to get it.

Ms. Armstrong said something that stuck with me about Buddha’s road to enlightenment:

Siddartha was totally and completely sure he would achieve it. He had no doubt, he had utter faith, that enlightenment was a destination that existed and he would get there.

She mused for a little bit about what might have happened if he had given up. No Buddhist monks, no marvelous Buddhist scripture, what a loss, she seemed to say. Buddha knew the end of his story: Enlightenment. It was just a matter keeping going until he got there.

Now, I am not Buddhist. I know very little about Buddhism, but from what I’ve learned, it does not quite appeal to me. It does not fit the world I see around me, and although I would be pleased to learn more about the philosophies of the Buddha, I am a Christian to my core.

It was interesting to hear that Buddha is not supposed to be a god. Literally, he’s “The guy who figured it out”–how to avoid suffering and pain. In his world view, and according to Buddhist thought, there are gods and he is not one of them. He is actually better than a god, because the gods need him to help THEM figure it out.

Now, that’s a mind-bender to a mono-theist like me. Whoa. It made me think about the nature of Christ.

Next thought-object:

So, Christ is God. And Christ is Man. That’s a mind-blower for anybody.

What knife could separate the God from the Man? According to orthodox philosophy, he totally God and totally Man. Which doesn’t answer anything at all, really.

Easter is coming up, you know. It’s Passion week for most of America. Passion, also known as suffering. Just the sort of thing that Buddha was trying to avoid.

Jesus did not avoid His suffering. In fact, He walked right into it. The whole story of the crucifixion is how He gunned for the cross.

Which part was doing that? The man part? I have always tended to think that it was the God part that gave Him the character to do it, but the man part was the body that they tortured.

But, comparing the story of Buddha to the story of Christ put it in a new light.

How confident was Jesus that everything would turn out okay? Did He ever wonder if He was nuts-a faltering of confidence? Did he have a little voice in His head saying, ” ‘Son of God’–give me a break! Who are you kidding?”

What was the nature of Christ’s faith? Buddha had faith in his story; he believed he would reach enlightenment.

Did Jesus have such faith? It is human to falter. In my experience, it is the nature of faith to include faltering. Part of the mustard seed that is faith includes the part that doesn’t quite believe. The part that doesn’t believe but does it anyway.

Was that how Jesus had faith?

While I was listening to the end of Cold Mountain, and crying and wishing-wishing-that it would end differently, I thought about suffering. All the suffering that Inman and Ada has been through, and the whole country suffered in the Civil War. All they had struggled and suffered for…why did the story have to end that way? I wanted so badly for it to end another way.

And I remembered Christ in the garden of Gethsemane. He suffered terror and dread, a suffering before the physical suffering. Sweating blood in his pain, he asked God the Father if there was another way for the story to end. He really wanted a different ending.

O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me

He knows what’s coming. He knows he’s going to be tortured and killed. But does he know the rest? Does he have confidence that He will be the saving of all mankind? What if He didn’t know? What if all He knew was that God said he had to suffer and die?

Suffering and dying is the state of all humans. Suffering and dying doesn’t require godhood. God could require me to sacrifice my life, and I can only hope I would do as he demands. It is possible that He would enable me to do it. It is certain, though, that if I died for some noble purpose it would not result in the redemtion of all creation.

In Jesus’s case, though, it did. My life doesn’t have the currency of Christ’s.

But that doesn’t mean He knew that. Perhaps He knew no more than I know. That the bigger story of suffering, pain and death is in God’s hands and He works it all to good.

Jesus suffered so much in His death. And every step along the way, He could have stopped it.

I think about that, and how much I wanted to stop the sad suffering end of Cold Mountain.

Jesus didn’t stop his end. Because He believed in the story. I don’t know how much He knew of the story. I don’t know how much _I_ know of the story. But in this case, in this story, I know it works out with perfect justice, symmetry and beauty. It’s the story that God is telling, and it’s a story about Him.

Me, and my experiences with suffering and beauty, is only a story inside the big story.

The story, not even a real story in the sense of historical fact, of Cold Mountain is an experience of suffering and beauty and justice because it lines up with the big story, the way the world works, the way God works.

God is the original storyteller. It makes me feel humble to put my spun stories inside of His.

Believe in the stories. That is saving faith.