Episode IV: A New Hope

Some dreams die hard; some don't die at all. For me, the idea of living communally is so central to my ideology that it is never far from my thoughts. What can I say, I was raised on a fishing resort with my parents, my grandparents, and my uncle. Everyone lived together and shared the work (except for me because I was too little -- maybe that's why my memories are so fond). It was a wonderful way to live, and I have wondered again and again throughout the various stages of my life how it would be possible to re-create a similar situation, living together with friends or family.

Six years ago several of us were talking quite seriously about trying to set up some sort of community. We already bought groceries together, made meals together, helped each other out whenever there was a need. It was a good dream, but the timing was wrong: our resources were too meager at the time.

A few years later, we found ourselves actually living in the same house with several of you, sharing our days and our responsibilities, and the garden that we started.

It all makes me wonder about community living/communal living. How can it be done, or rather, how can it be done well? I've done some research on communes and found that most of them fail abismally. It seems that too often, communes are the brainchild of idealistic youth, strong on hope but often lacking in pragmatism, wisdom, and resources. On the other end of the spectrum, you have retirement communes. I've only read a bit about these. They seem to work better, but I can't help but wonder if such late communal living is missing too many of the benefits for which people decide to live together in the first place.

This brings me to middle-age communal living. I cannot help but wonder if people in their thirties and forties (that's most of us) should be the ones thinking about communal living. We have the resources and the earning potential, not to mention more maturity than we had in our twenties. At the same time, we are still young enough to reap the full benefits of communal living. It seems that there is so much that we could share, so many benefits on both personal and financial levels, that we should really consider the idea. I have so many thoughts on this topic that I'll publish them in a separate post, so this won't get too long.

However, before I close this, let me ask a few questions:
1) What would be necessary for the creation of a viable community?
a. In financial terms, how close to a metropolitan area would a community need to be?
b. What social conditions would need to exist? In other words, what would be required in
terms of shared values?
2) Preferences:
a. What degree of autonomy would be most likely to make such a community work?
b. How much land would be desirable, per family?
c. Is the idea of a shared business venture (farmers' market; bed and breakfast; etc.)
appealing?

I know that some of you are interested in this idea because we've talked about it before. One thing that I like about it is that there is no hurry at all. This is a dream that has persisted for me, and rather than withering like a raisin in the sun, it has only evolved. So, as far as I am concerned, if this is something that could happen five or ten years down the road, I would be happy with that. Besides, a successful community requires serious planning.

Two Christmases

I just celebrated Christmas, both of them. I think that we've all heard before the voices of people bemoaning the excesses and business of the Christmas season, glanced over article after article offering tips for de-stressing the holidays. I think a large percentage of people are coming to the conclusion that Christmas, as it is currently celebrated in America, is out of balance, somewhat out of control. But the conclusion that I have come to this Christmas is that there are actually two very distinct holidays that are taking place at the same time: Christian Christmas and secular Christmas.

After a year of sadly neglecting my spiritual disciplines, I decided that I would make a concerted effort to participate in this advent season. I resolved to pray and fast according to the practice of the Church. As part of my regular prayer time, I decided to read the Philokalia (a compilation of Orthodox monastic writings). As I read and prayed, one idea became more and more clear: the key to prayer is the abandonment of distractions, the discovery of silence. The writings emphasize a detachment from worldy cares of all sorts, all appetites, all possessions.

Meanwhile, I couldn't help but feel that secular Christmas is a daunting barrage of distractions.
And all this time, I have been attempting to participate in this advent season with quiet reverence and anticipation. I don't really have anything against secular Christmas per se; I just prefer Christian Christmas. I prefer the season of quiet contemplation and anticipation.

The Order and Chaos of Nature

I just stepped in from a hike through the Grand Forest on Bainbridge Island, Washington. The forest is quite nice, if you like all spongy and mossy (which I do). The dominant trees are douglas-fir and Western Red Cedar, but none of these are old growth trees, so there is a proliferation of smaller plant life under the moderate canopy: Sword Fern; Huckleberry; and a ton of other plants that I'm not familiar with. The relative density of plants creates a habitat for lots of small animals, various birds and squirrels.
Anyway, as I looked into the messy tangle of plants, I remembered a line from The Mission: referring to the jungle, Father Gabriel says, "It's a trifle overgrown." This, in turn, made me think of a comment that one of you had made to me privately, saying that left on its own, nature tends toward chaos. This comment reminded me of the Genesis passage in which God tells the people to subdue the earth.
This is all very fascinating to me because I have always been of the camp that views the natural world as balanced and ordered, self-balancing and self-ordering. Once again, you my friends are pushing me into more nuanced ways of viewing the world.
I would love to hear more of your thoughts on this topic.

An Old Analogy that I've always wanted to turn into a Drinking Game

I came up with the following analogy several years ago:

Each person is like a glass of alcohol (this is off to a good start already, isn't it?). So, you take three people; one is like a glass with Vodka; one is like a glass with Kahlua; one is like a glass with cream (OK, cream isn't alcohol, but I need it for the analogy). Each person-glass contains her own substance and some empty space. Each one brings something unique to the table. Still, each one alone is incomplete. However, together, they can become so much more than what they are alone: the Kahlua pours some of herself into Vodka; Vodka pours some of himself into Kahlua, and together they become Black Russians. They have given and taken, and as a result, each has become more complicated, more nuanced, more complete. Still, they each have empty room in the glass, so Cream pours some of herself into them, and they pour themselves into her, and they all become White Russians (this would be even more fun making Long Island Iced Tea).

Friendship is like this analogy: each person contains something unique to offer the world and some empty space to receive the world. When we give and receive from friends, we become more whole, more complete people. Conversely, when we fail to receive, we remain limited. When we fail to give, we deny others an opportunity to become more. I have allowed my friends to shape my life in various ways, and I am a better person thanks to all of you (seriously, I'd be even worse if it weren't for your influence).

Cheers

American Culture(s)

I recently read a book called Balthazar. It's book number two in a series called the Alexandrian Quartet -- four novels about a collection of characters who live in Alexandria. One of the central themes of the novels is that idea that the city makes the people who they are: in the first novel, Durrell (the author) goes as far as saying that it is not the characters who live but rather Alexandria that lives through them. In other words, the characters' personalities are the manifestation of the character of the city itself.
I have wondered about this a lot. To what extent is this idea real? Are we manifestations of the consciousness of our city or town? To what degree? We live in an incredibly mobil society. Most of us have lived in multiple places. In what ways are we conglomerations of the cultures that we have belonged to, or at least the cultures that have surrounded us?
On a related note, I think about the homogenization of America a lot. It seems to me that we are becoming less regional, in terms of cultural distinctions. We watch the same movies and TV shows; we shop at the same stores; eat at the same restaurants; listen to the same music; wear the same clothes. As we move around, our regional cultures blend. What have we lost in terms of regional character? What have we held onto? What have we gained?
I'll close this with the words of Jack Kerouac: "Whither goest thou, America, in thy shiny car in the night?"

A Few Thoughts on the Nature of Religion

I had the opportunity this weekend to spend a lot of time with a friend of mine here, driving to the outer banks to surf. We talked about faith, mostly Christianity, for a good solid seven hours. The two of us have some different ideas regarding the interactions between God and people. It was nice talking with him because it forced me to think and to articulate some things that I have come to believe in the last five years (maybe longer, really).

One thing stands out particularly to me. He asked me, "If we were to die in a car accident right now, do you know that you would go to heaven? What assurance do you have?" I was raised in the camp that asks this question, so I knew the question; I knew the philosophy that informed the question; and I knew the answer that would be considered the right answer. But that was not the answer that I gave. I found that I couldn't answer, "I know that I would go to heaven because I asked Jesus Christ into my heart, and I have faith that the saving blood of His sacrifice covers my sin and allows me into heaven." I could not give this answer, even though I hold much of it to be true. Instead, I fumbled about a bit, trying to articulate my experience that the closer I draw to God the more I become aware of my unworthiness. But this wasn't really at the heart of what I wanted to say.

Then, the answer I wanted came to me: going to heaven is not the goal -- loving God and becoming like Him is the goal. So I told my friend that I'm not really concerned about whether or not I get into heaven. What is religion? The word itself means the reunification of God and humans, a coming together. I find that I am much more moved by the love poetry in Song of Songs than I ever was in the past. True Christianity, true religion, is an intense love between a person and God. "I am my beloved's, and he is mine." Religion is not a legal contract -- it is a burning, passionate love, a desire to be near the One you love, and a desire to become like the One you love. That is all.

I cannot talk about this adequately at all. I'm sorry. I don't mean to preach, and I certainly don't mean to criticize anyone's philosophy. Love is not the stuff of essays; it is the stuff of poetry. Leave philosophy for the philosophers and love for the lovers.

The Thusness and Suchness of a Skinny Whiteboy

I have always been a skinny whiteboy. But there have been times when I've wanted to be something else (I've never minded the boy part; it's the skinny whiteness that I've had issues with). Over the years, I've tried at various times to be less skinny and less white. This is sounding ridiculous to me as I write it down -- good; it should sound ridiculous. I composed the following haiku about it:

Does the Walking Stick
Envy the Bumble Bee?
Utter foolishness

I watched a movie last night called The Painted Veil (starring Edward Norton and Naomi Watts). It's the story of a married couple who do not love each other. It's the story of them learning to love each other. My favorite scene is one in which the couple are sitting and talking together for the first time in months: they discuss the incongruities of their relationship; she tells him how she loves games like tennis and golf -- "and I like men who play games." She laughs about the way he tried to interest her in the art and canals of Venice that were so moving to him. Then he says, "I suppose you're right. It was silly of us to look for qualities in each other which we never had." This sounds tragic, but it's actually the turning point in the film. Once they are finally able to see one another for who they truly are, they are able to begin to fall in love with a real person, rather than being frustrated by the illusions of an imagined lover who never materializes.

There is great liberation in learning to see the world as it truly is.