A Waste of a Unique Morning...

I had an interesting morning. I woke from weird dreams that I can't remember, had breakfast, went to the gym: so far so good.

In getting ready for work I realized that I had run out of what has been my staple cologne (but I've had this particular bottle for years since it only became my staple when I brought it with me to Korea), so I changed to another. Which is neither here nor there, but it ties into a theme I'll be exploring so bear with me.

Getting out of the Subway turnstile, I saw an unfamiliarly-decorated-military-uniformed gentleman cross my path, then a few steps down the wide halls of the station, another. Upon rounding a corner to a flight of stars there were a half dozen more. The last passage of stairs leading to the street opened into a mob of all sorts of military uniformed men, milling about with stern looks and cigarettes hanging from their lips.

As I wove through the mob, I started to hear music loud enough to infiltrate my ipod's offering, blaring in all directions from a van with four loudspeakers, some seeming war-time ballad-esque fare that reminded me of Lena Horne, or world war-era depictions of crackling gramophone productions ringing through prison yards, or battlefields, only in a language I couldn't understand, or perhaps that's part of why.

In passing the military men (sorry, I didn't see any military women) I was, in turn, passed by ranked police officers, all decked out in riot gear, with armor and shields, streaming by, two by two, towards the group. The streets were jammed with traffic, because police buses were lining the one nearest lane all the way to the top of the hill where the Korean Supreme Court offices are. The entrance to the courts was barricaded, which usually isn't the case until I'm leaving work. I assume all of this is related.

More police were dotted up the hill, most smoking, masking the usual smell of pine needles, that I associate with beaches (see previous note), with the choking fumes of nicotine and exhaust.

It's funny how having one sense thrown out of your routine can effect your thoughts. In seeking some solace once all the uniforms, smoke, and foreign sounds had passed, I thought of things I used to find familiar, starting with smells, and was drawing a blank. I still am, though I've been musing over smell since I received a towel from home; it was from my Dad, as requested, since bath towels are hard to find around here, and I distinctly recall that it didn't smell how I remembered my towels to smell, for the mere fact that I could smell it and identify an odor other than detergent. I remember loving some smells of certain homes or people if not for the mere fact that they're nigh impossible to replicate in memory or duplicate outside of the intimate places of their origin.

I remember a lot of second-hand smoke from my youth, but it's been so long since that's been a regular part of my days that the smell is as foreign as those emanating from the Korean cultural cuisine being served for lunch.

So I'm retreating here to try and organize the mess the morning has made of my mind and I'm still confounded, utterly unable to find an adequate, relevant thread in this to tie it all together into a neat little life-lesson or applicable sharing despite my lofty ambitions stated at the start. I keep realizing that that new smell I smell is me. And that this particular change means nothing.

Sorry to waste your time.

- Foster

A Confession... (at last?)

Given this blog's title, I thought it was high time:

I really didn't mean it when I wished everyone a "Happy Canada Day", nor is "Happy Fourth of July" or "Happy Independence Day" anything more than a colloquial well-wishing when it passes through my lips or fingers into the realm of communication, written or spoken as the case may be. To be honest, I haven't celebrated my personal independence since it was thrust upon me a few years ago now.

The last such holiday I was anticipating in any way was when I was living for a summer back in Canada, but I had still begun seeing the holiday, which happened to be her birthday, more as a celebration of co-dependence for years already. The only thing that made this one especially anticipatory was her agreeing to spend it in Canada with me, since she had told me she loved me when I left her two months prior. Alas, she didn't make it.

I should say before I continue that I wholly support and appreciate the privilege of living in a free country, however, in so doing I fear that many people take a social principle and transform it into a personal one whereas my recent conviction is such that our freedom exists for the sole purpose of choosing who we will serve and how.

In my time, perhaps prematurely, though I've never wholly thought or felt it was so, I chose a particular individual. Ultimately, she didn't choose me. Thus, I've spent the last few years thrust into an independence I have in no way relished, appreciated or celebrated. I took a walk with a friend up a mountain earlier this week and he reiterated his concern in his way, which I know others share, and I admitted, perhaps for the first time to him, and myself, that maybe I've taken particular measures to remain in such a state, but I've most certainly not done enough to effectively alter my circumstances in any significant way (I know: Africa, now Korea, but distance is nothing to the heart and mind).

The point remains that independence has never been a sincere goal of mine. I believe whole-heartedly that this life is best served with co-dependence. The primary tenets of my faith rest on that assertion. Even the word faith, which requires a relationship with someone, something, speaks of an inherent co-dependence, partnership, or some other form of requisite connection, between two or more individuals in a situation belying some risk given failure, be it emotional, psychological or physical pain, stress, or discomfort. If your faith in a chair is betrayed, you'll fall to the gound; the height you fall from determines the cost of that betrayal. With interpersonal relationships, the complexities of the consequences are seemingly endless. That I should be over this is a common refrain, and I believe for the most part that I am, despite the daily reminders, be they willful memories or happenstance recollections, triggered from our time spent together or the resultant shards of faith from that relationship which I'm still picking out, or leaving to fester, but given all this that I know I still don't think I have a problem (even if I am the only one).

At any rate, I do believe and am opening to the possibility that there is someone out there to share these life experiences with, physical and tangible, not to say that my salvation is insuffiecient for a life well-lived, with the God who cannot leave me alone even if I think I want it so, and that is indeed my goal in my self-percieved independednce, to see that such a term is a misnomer, and that I am dependant at all times on the grace I keep reaching out to find, sometimes grabbing hold of, but still too often letting go, and perhaps that is the first step to being ready to step up on the chair again, putting my faith not on the chair, but putting it all in my constant companion, God, who, even if I'm standing on a rocking chair on a balcony, putting up Christmas decorations, twenty stories above the harsh snow-covered concrete, should the chair fail, keeping my faith and focus on God, shall keep me secure until the work I need to do is done.

So I'll still wish her a "Happy Birthday, Canada!" and a "Happy Fourth!" to my American friends, but may my sincerest wish be for a "Happy co-dependent life for all!"


- Foster

Faith Fills Fetid Furrows of Filth

Over the past few weeks I seem to have encountered a theme of sorts in various writings, words, messages and images. It's one I frequently find myself confronting, as a member of humanity, but I've rarely given it the thought I have of late, whether due to the frequency, poignancy, or some latent revulsion, which perhaps should be the norm, to the vile, evil, sinful, pick your euphemism, definition, or palatable poison for the term that encompasses our collective fall, and subsequent damnation outside of grace, but that's the issue.

The recent fixation settled in and culminated with some recent blogs in this small community (for me at least). When I read Butterfly Dreamer's blog, "Howl on Baby..." I had just recently finished reading the long-censured chapter of Fyodor Dostoevsky's "Devils", wherein a man confesses to what I (and most) have always thought to be the most horrendous crime imaginable. Still the confession is preempted by a question: "...can you move a mountain or not?" and the response of the isolated, aesthetic, monk is: "If God bids me move it, I can." The monk's reaction to the horrific tale told by the amoral confessor is one of the hardest depictions of grace for me to fathom; I'm not sure such forgiveness is in me, but I'm sure such forgiveness exists.

So when I read about embracing our dark side my initial response was that I've been trying not to associate humanity with darkness, or, in failing that, to be grateful for the greater things that aid us in rising above our "humanity" to become something even better:

Grace, Love, Hope, Faith, Truth, Peace, Forgiveness, Patience, Peace, every (capital letter) virtue we can name that acts as light - and darkness is nothing but the absence of light.

Thus my rebuttal to any proclamation that professes that darkness is the, or one of the primary defining aspects of the human condition, is: I'd rather not be human.

However in reading Ronnie Kerrigan's recent post, "The Human Condition, Indifference, and Evil", and having subjected myself, in degrees, to the dredges of depravity in beginning to read "American Psycho" and having watched a few random horror movies online, among them the infamous Hostel 2, (we had just booked a Hostel for our upcoming China trip) though I well knew what was awaiting me in these endeavors, I found the conclusion that "we are not all cut from the same cloth" to be slightly misleading.

I think we are cut from the same cloth, however some of us, through the accident of birth, through choice and consequence, through the guidance, care, and concern of others, but all ultimately by grace, fall into the hands of a skilled tailor, and are thereafter wrought with beautiful embroideries and embellishments, cared for, having our frayed or loose ends cut away, our tears mended, or stains cleaned, whereas others fall themselves victim to the abuses, if not of a willful other, than life at large, definitely through some volition, but without the guiding influence of those care-filled skilled hands to help, to form, to free us to be something far more than the filthy rag we could all become besides.

I try to live in the light, but there are aspects of the effort that are outside of my control. It's taken me a long time to recognize that striving for perfection is a futile endeavor. All of us need some measure of grace in our lives because we all make mistakes, willful, ignorant, or otherwise. We are all in need of someone, some human, who has endured to perfection, overcome where we have failed, stood where we have fallen, tread where we would not follow, lived in a way we wish we could, and died for all that all might live, and we can find bits and pieces of that person in the greatest people and characters in our lives, in history and in literature, but there is only one who fits the bill, and paid it in full. Perfection has been purchased for us and is offered as a gift.

We often take gifts for granted, not realizing their costs, and cost is relative, but the cost of grace is one we can all appreciate if we look at our culminated mistakes, misdeeds, and miseries and realize that they are gone, wiped clean, erased from the record of our lives except so far as the consequences play out in the here and now among our equally flawed contemporaries, but the perfect abundant grace of the only judge of life that matters has deemed that the debt is paid in full, if one would simply accept the gift.

It's not easy. There are things I've never done that I want to say are worse than those I have. The things I have done seem to me to account for a pittance of pain in the whole of existence, and of that I hope the majority has been my own, but that pain is enough to warrant the need of perfection to pay the price.

- Foster

PS: I would not recommend "Devils". It's long and I found it less engaging than Dostoevsky's other works that are among my favorites, and the passage I refer too is difficult to say the least.

PPS: I neither recommend "American Psycho" nor "Hostel 2". I feel like I am covered by grace in having subjected myself to them, but while "everything is permissible, not everything is beneficial" (1 Cor. 10:23) and I do feel all the worse for the wear, but I'm still reading the book... go figure.

PPPS: I would recommend "The Passion of the Christ" which depicts depravity, (and is equally difficult to watch at times) but those instances, those images, pale and pass in comparison the revelation of the light of the grace that shines through. So may it be for you, and I, and all.

Changes

Last week was an interesting week, introspectively. I feel like it's the start of something great, like a change is on the horizon, but I don't know exactly how the change is likely to manifest, so I've been thinking of a few common changes that I know take place so as to prepare myself for whichever precedent I'm liable to follow.

The Pupa in the Chrysalis: Metamorphosis is not a bad thing, but the process is often slow, delicate, and leaves one vulnerable to attack. The pupa is the interim stage between the caterpillar and the butterfly, when the insect prepares a haven, designed for the twofold purpose of protection from enemies, and privacy for the transformation it is to undergo. Sometimes I feel like the self-imposed isolation I endure is my chrysalis, my cocoon, from which I will soon emerge, transformed.

The Diamond in the Rough: A much slower process, but a much richer exchange wherein, through immeasurable time, coal is compressed, condensed, crushed, with the weight of the world bearing down on it for the wait of the world, into a gem prized for the [supposed] rarity, clarity, and color of the process caused by immense geothermal forces where the greater the pressure borne, the purer the result birthed when unearthed, cut, polished, and set. It could be that I am only beginning to bear a particular burden and that the end ahead is something unforeseen but all the more beautiful for being so.

Changes of State (of Matter): Like ice, water, and steam, all matter has three hypothetical states in which they can exist (or so my limited understanding grasps the concept, though I'm sure there must be exceptions I'm too ignorant to cite, but my last science class was in my early years at Mayfield... so). These changes can happen relatively quickly, and with equal frequency, given the right catalyst for the change to occur, usually heat, or the reduction thereof. I'm not sure if the end result would be a harder or softer me, more or less pliable, I could find arguments for both, and a desire for either, but I'm equally unsure how much the coming metamorphosis has to do with my present, my past, my desires or my needs and least of all what say I'll have in the end manifestation.

There are myriad other illustrations I could use from the changing of the seasons to simply changing one's mind, but I've been waxing wordy lately and your patience is a virtue I don't want to consume too much of here and now. Whatever happens I think the important distinction is to make sure that it is understood that change is a good thing, almost always, but certainly that which I'm anticipating in the days (weeks, months, years) ahead.

- Foster

Don't be alarmed...

I awoke Saturday at about 10 am. I enjoy that I needn't set an alarm on Saturdays, but I try to remain within certain scheduling boundaries so as not to throw myself out of whack and have to make gross adjustments for the work week. I'm up for roughly ten minutes before the air raid sirens sound.

For any who may not know, I'm living in Seoul South Korea for the year, and while I don't pay much attention to the news, there are those around me who keep me dutifully informed to the extent I'm willing to pay attention regarding the goings on in the world, and more specifically, the growing uncertainty of North Korea's "posturing" antics... or so I've understood them to be, so when air raid sirens sound for the first time in six months, given the recent news, it gives one pause. I paused and waited, mildly curious what it would be like to hear a bomb drop, see an explosion outside of my window, or whether or not I'd feel anything during the imminent ordeal.

Questions arose: Do I remember my EMT training? Could I help if I lived? How many could I shelter in this meager abode if the need arose? What's the fallout radius of a nuclear weapon? Can I enlist in the US military from here? WWJD? Am I okay with God?

I found my peace pretty quickly. And with no whistling sounds from overhead, no growing panic in the street, no mushroom cloud on the horizon, the day soon settled into a regular Saturday with eggs for breakfast, a failed attempt to connect with Dad on Skype, a trip to the gym, a Starbucks coffee, and the added bonus of a small get together with some friends from work to look forward to in the evening.

So y'all know, there's evidently little to worry about. I try to live relatively worry-free anyway and find I'm pretty successful, I think largely in part for my willful ignorance of the so-called news. I like good news, which colloquially means either no news, or gospel, so I try to filter information appropriately, but I have it on good authority that there will be days' notice of imminent danger and I have a good US intelligence contact who (without breaking protocols) has reassured us that measures can be taken if necessary to get out of Dodge (Chrysler/Buick/GMC is another story, so I hear).

Anyway, Saturday night culminated in a great dinner, and the uncommon luxury of a game of Life. That's right: Milton Bradley's own!

The game started pretty quickly for me. I raced through college, got a job as a lawyer (as my mother always thought I should) making 90K, picked up my wife, had a kid (a little girl), bought a house, picked up a few raises, met a few risks, and was doing pretty well to the chagrin of my opponents. I quickly became a target, fending off lawsuits (despite my warnings), before succumbing to a few, but still doing my best to uphold certain standards when all of a sudden I spun the spinner, and lost my now 130K career, to become an athlete (I presume a golfer) quickly followed by a financial tailspin of fraternal twins, shared expenses, college funds, tuition costs, refurnishing bills and before I knew it, I was at the end of the game with the losing number: a measly million and change. The winner was the tortoise, as I predicted from the onset when she was miles behind the rest of the board, struggling along, stuck with the ones and twos through college, still single well past others' first and second children, and still I reiterated the fable, and indeed the tortoise beat not only the hare, but all others in the race with a whopping 4.5 mil.

I did some reflecting today on how apt the game of Life can be to our lives if we think about it... rather, if we don't. If we get caught up in the race and struggle to acquire wealth thinking that we'll somehow win if we have the most at the end of the game instead of taking all the experiences we have, the good and bad, and looking at them with the perspective that there is so much more of value than wealth. I really started to think that the "life" I lost with would be a great life, with kids and grandkids and relationships and stories to tell and trials and tribulations and victories and failures on a sliding scale from massive to miniscule, and it served to reinforce a lot of issues and ideas I've been working through over the last few years concerning what this game is all about, and what it means to win. Perhaps I should write ol' Milt, just to say thanks...

I have one last duty today, thanks to a fellow Blogger who "tagged" me (Ronnie at "http://www.ronniekerrigan.com/"), and now's as good a time as any to fulfill the imposition placed in doing so:

Eight things I've always wanted to do (or keep doing):

i. Love someone to the best of my ability for as long as I'm granted the privilege.
ii. Live well.
iii. Write a book, a screenplay, and a song, and see all of them through to their respective points of completion/production, being involved creatively, along the way as much as possible.
iv. Travel.
v. Learn a martial art.
vi. Do a one-armed pull up.
vii. Skydive.
viii. Believe.

Eight Favorite Foods (this is a bad list for me... I'm not sure if I have the liberty to change these parameters, but if not):

i. Communion.
ii. A hearty, healthy, delicious meal with friends and/or family.
iii. A paltry, healthy, delicious meal with friends and/or family.
iv: A healthy meal with friends and/or family.
v: Sustenance with frinds and/or family.
vi. A healthy delicious meal.
vii. A healthy meal.
viii. Sustenance.

Eight Things (I use the term "things" loosely... I'm trying to get over the love of most things) I Love:

i. The idea of Love in the Bible.
ii. Various expressions (ambiguity intended).
iii. Creative use of (the English) language.
iv. Truth in fiction/storytelling.
v. Stories.
vi. Relationships.
vii. Nature (after too much time spent in Urban Centers).
viii. Urban Centers (after too much time spent in nature).

If you've followed this post thus far I applaud you. I'm supposed to tag others, but I won't. I'll just look for others' willful expressions, thoughts, feelings, confessions and such and hope to continue learning a thing or two along the way. If you decide to post something along these lines, let me know. I'll read it.

Cheers.

Traumatic Happiness?

There's a stretch of sidewalk that passes by the Korean Supreme Court on the way to my school that I walk every day (M-F). It's lined with evergreens, and more importantly the detritus of their shed needles, worn away, eroded from the towering pines, creating a carpet of brown needles elevated above the sidewalk by a rising wall with a barricade of sorts, undoubtedly designed to keep the debris from the busy pedestrian and adjacent street traffic. On days when the rain is held at bay, and the wind coming down the gentle grade is not too severe, I can catch the scent of dying decaying needles and every time I recollect an era of childhood that I've forever associated with that wonderful aroma.

It's odd that dying evergreens remind me of the beach, but when I was young we used to visit a family cottage at Wasaga Beach on Georgian Bay. The path we walked to get to the water was a mix of sand and evergreen needles, being lined with pines, and always held that distinctive smell that I've cherished ever since. I have a scar on my knee from kneeling on glass at that beach, and so when I walk this busy Seoul sidewalk to work, and chance to smell the beach, I think of kneeling on a shard of glass too. Still the pain is gone, and only the memory of warmth, sun and sand remains in the recollection.

I've been thinking a lot about other memories. Some less pleasant, most... all, and because of that fact, I'm wondering why I can't duplicate that same experience with the evergreens and the beach to the other blessings I've enjoyed in life, abundant as they are. It struck me that most of my most vivid memories include some manner of trauma. Even the beach with the physical scar has that association, but the scar has lost its significance, and only the joy remains. I wonder if I can, in time, expect the same of the other scars, visible, or not so much, to simply point the way to the joys that led to their making, and forget the pain that still seems, at times, more potent than the pleasures.

Ideally, I'd like to have the pleasures to cherish without the suffering... but the propensity of traumatic recollection makes that seem less likely, unless of course I can find a means of obtaining traumatic joy, getting absolutely wrecked by happiness, and make the two the same. I don't want to sound masochistic. I'm not. I think most times that I have that in my realm of experience already, it will just take a little more time to see it because I keep picking at the wound. If I could leave the things alone, let them heal, I'd see that I've been more traumatized by the joys than these insignificant bumps and bruises profess.

Ultimately, I'm not driven by a desire for instances of momentary happiness, however repeatable or frequent they could be, but a deeper sense of peace, fulfilled purpose, and joy. The differences may be semantic, but I'm not going to get into meanings and definitions now, just know that I differentiate between the transience of a moment and the knowledge of enduring eternal elements.

That's all for now... time for class.

- Foster

Fruits of Labo(u)r: Musings and Writings from Lessons on Metaphor

Since these stem from the previous post I figured I'd put them here before transcribing them to my writing blog... after cleaning them up a bit. Enjoy!

Lesson 1:

The sparkling flower in the vast garden grows
In the darkest soil, shining bright,
Longing for a corner to share the light
With other plants planted in circling rows.
It feels too far from the nurturing stream,
The milky way that flows forth with life,
Where so many grow free of the strife
One suffers in the solitude of a dream.
The sparkling flower just longs to be picked
To grant a fellow dreamer's wish,
Perhaps an aphid in a distant place
Corralled with too many teeming mixed
Could be tricked into trading places with
The furthest glimmer it can see in this space.


Lesson 2:

This is an odd bird. She cannot fly. Instead of wings she has eight legs and hangs in stasis from invisible threads she has woven together to build her nest. Her silken home holds friend, foe and food, all together, and often the same. This bird's simple song is translated from silence to sing a Bard's verse;
"What's in a name?"