Shalom, friends, and shalom.
This blog is no longer going to be active, as a result of several changes that have occurred in my life to wake me up to the things that chain me and hold me down to the pattern of society. I would love to talk personally with anyone about what's been going on lately, so you can give me an email at cwarner19@gmail.com and I can send you my phone number here at the dorm, or my address so you can come visit me. Any of the potential conversations sitting on this page can happen in real life, so just call me up; I'd love to talk with you.
Justice, mercy, humility,
-Caleb-
11.22.2008
10.26.2008
Autumn Musings
Shalom, friends. It's been awhile.
These are just words, and I wish I could write in a manner so that you could experience this place, as I have, but my language continually fails to be adequate. Please accept my humble apologies for this meager description.
---
I know that house in Indiana, second on the right down Dakota Drive. There was an old tree in the front yard, and in the autumn its leaves would blanket the lawn with orange and gold. Walking up the small strip of cement raised up between the lawn and the driveway, I remember the big window upstairs, where so many people have watched family's approach after the long 5-hour drive. I can feel the key in the door, that you could turn to ring the doorbell. I turned it just for fun every time. The white door swings wide, and there is my Grammie Penny, always the first one giving hugs and bringing us in. We enter on a landing, and have to go up the stairs to hug Grampa, whose clothes smell like his aftershave, year after year.
The floors used to be carpeted with deep blue shag, matching the walls and the lighthouse runner Grammie had put up. The house didn't belong in Indiana; its heart had always been with Grammie in Maine, with the loons and lighthouses, so she filled the place wtih both things; we even called it the Lighthouse, for that was their surname. There was a loon in a can, the loon lamp, the fish nets hanging over the stairs, the lamp made out of a ship's wheel, the blue carpet and white ceiling: sky above, sea below.
There was no carpet in the kitchen, just yellowed linoleum floors where my sister and I sat with Grampa and ate Oreos before bed. There were always Oreos, chocolate donuts, poptarts and peanut butter in the cupboards, and we drank our milk from Smurf glasses or cups made out of old jelly jars. The fridge was covered in pictures held up by strange magnets of family and friends, homework and drawings. Out the back door was their deck, which had originally been open to the air and smelled of old pine boards. Every bedroom was clean and neat, and the living room was comfortable but tidy.
Downstairs was a different story. Grampa lived down in the basement, and the whole area had become his domain. The stairway decorations were mostly dominated by the stark painting of Uncle Dion, hanging on the left, his wide eyes following you down each step. To the right was the TV room, furnished with plush recliners, beer cans, and the things of Alvin's childhood. Most of the time, that's where we could find him, stretched out in his chair, surfing between the match, the race, and COPS. To the left of this room was the fireplace, which was rarely used, and the bathroom that always smelled like Grampa. Finally, the back hallway was straight in front, with the washer and dryer on the right, and the fridge where he kept beer and soda separate from upstairs. There were no magnets on the fridge.
Farther back, past the heating pipes, was Grampa's gun room. He was a full member of the NRA, and would go out every now and then to the gun club outside of town to shoot his .38. This room was his shop, where he could clean and store guns, and the air in there smelled of black powder and gun oil. I used to reload shells with him, help him create his death-bullets.
His room was the farthest door back in the basement. It was a simple room: a bookshelf, a dresser, and a bed. As children, my cousins and I rarely went in there. His closet opened into the storage room, and we would dare each other to go in the room, simply so we could play Narnia, pushing through jackets and ties to enter a world of all the junk my grandparents couldn't throw out but didn't want on display.
These are just words, and I wish I could write in a manner so that you could experience this place, as I have, but my language continually fails to be adequate. Please accept my humble apologies for this meager description.
---
I know that house in Indiana, second on the right down Dakota Drive. There was an old tree in the front yard, and in the autumn its leaves would blanket the lawn with orange and gold. Walking up the small strip of cement raised up between the lawn and the driveway, I remember the big window upstairs, where so many people have watched family's approach after the long 5-hour drive. I can feel the key in the door, that you could turn to ring the doorbell. I turned it just for fun every time. The white door swings wide, and there is my Grammie Penny, always the first one giving hugs and bringing us in. We enter on a landing, and have to go up the stairs to hug Grampa, whose clothes smell like his aftershave, year after year.
The floors used to be carpeted with deep blue shag, matching the walls and the lighthouse runner Grammie had put up. The house didn't belong in Indiana; its heart had always been with Grammie in Maine, with the loons and lighthouses, so she filled the place wtih both things; we even called it the Lighthouse, for that was their surname. There was a loon in a can, the loon lamp, the fish nets hanging over the stairs, the lamp made out of a ship's wheel, the blue carpet and white ceiling: sky above, sea below.
There was no carpet in the kitchen, just yellowed linoleum floors where my sister and I sat with Grampa and ate Oreos before bed. There were always Oreos, chocolate donuts, poptarts and peanut butter in the cupboards, and we drank our milk from Smurf glasses or cups made out of old jelly jars. The fridge was covered in pictures held up by strange magnets of family and friends, homework and drawings. Out the back door was their deck, which had originally been open to the air and smelled of old pine boards. Every bedroom was clean and neat, and the living room was comfortable but tidy.
Downstairs was a different story. Grampa lived down in the basement, and the whole area had become his domain. The stairway decorations were mostly dominated by the stark painting of Uncle Dion, hanging on the left, his wide eyes following you down each step. To the right was the TV room, furnished with plush recliners, beer cans, and the things of Alvin's childhood. Most of the time, that's where we could find him, stretched out in his chair, surfing between the match, the race, and COPS. To the left of this room was the fireplace, which was rarely used, and the bathroom that always smelled like Grampa. Finally, the back hallway was straight in front, with the washer and dryer on the right, and the fridge where he kept beer and soda separate from upstairs. There were no magnets on the fridge.
Farther back, past the heating pipes, was Grampa's gun room. He was a full member of the NRA, and would go out every now and then to the gun club outside of town to shoot his .38. This room was his shop, where he could clean and store guns, and the air in there smelled of black powder and gun oil. I used to reload shells with him, help him create his death-bullets.
His room was the farthest door back in the basement. It was a simple room: a bookshelf, a dresser, and a bed. As children, my cousins and I rarely went in there. His closet opened into the storage room, and we would dare each other to go in the room, simply so we could play Narnia, pushing through jackets and ties to enter a world of all the junk my grandparents couldn't throw out but didn't want on display.
9.04.2008
A Smattering of Memory
I can remember walking through the driveway to church one day in mid-autumn, telling everyone that I saw as we walked toward the church of the Nazarene that I had turned five that day. I was five years old, not holding my mother’s hand anymore as we walked past rows of early-90’s model cars, in the sunshine, with the smell of leaves circling around me and the heat rising off the blacktop. I knew that I would be seeing Roxanne sometime soon, and she would take care of me and the rest of the kids.
I have gleaned the score of memories allotted to me from the pictures and movies of my past. Who can say whether they really belong to me?
I can remember walking in the park with Jonathan and Clarissa, in Bjoin Park (the one that we always argued over the pronunciation, until Leah and I just began calling it the park by Jonathan’s house). I can remember sitting by the train tracks in the woods with my Three Musketeers, the Three Inseparables, waiting for the circus train to roll through town. For some reason on that day, I felt like arguing with Jonathan. He and I always had a continuing rivalry over the hand of our mutual friend Clarissa, the older wiser woman who remained the voice of reason and the anti-testosterone for several years—yes, all the years we were together. That day, in the sunlight, Jonathan had spotted something blue in the crook of a tree—probably something a bird had brought in there to add to her nest—and a debate began over the identity of our mystery substance. Jonathan and I agreed right away, in our childlike romanticism, that it was a sapphire, lodged for thousands of years in a tree trunk that had really only been around for twenty. The real debate started over what we should do with the sapphire now that we had found it. Jonathan wanted to let it remain in its natural habit, a shrine standing to all wayward children to remind them that nature is best observed and not touched. I, on the other hand, had an immense desire to snatch it from the hole in the tree and sell it for a fortune somewhere. During this period of my life, I consistently had grand aspirations to buy a plot of land out on the highway, and build a magnificent clubhouse/fort right on top of it. So, naturally, I thought that the money from the pawned gem would pay nicely for the expense of our hideout. From here, my best friend and I got into a very heated debate about the ethics of leaving nature untouched. We were seven and eight, he and I. In the middle of our fight, wise Clarissa went up to the tree and deftly plucked the “sapphire” from its hidey-hole, revealing it to be no more than a discarded and formless scrap of blue plastic. That day, we learned that woman’s wisdom would always triumph over the delusions of man.
I can remember my father, working hard every chance he got, to finish the basement. From my place at the island in the kitchen, I can hear the saw turning on in his shop. I know he’s working, so I think I’ll go down to see him. Walking through the remains of last night’s excursion into Lego Land with Leah, I hear that sound again: almost earsplitting but not quite. There is sawdust everywhere on the floor of the shop, and it smells like Dad, or perhaps he smells like the sawdust. To my right is the drain I was always afraid of, even when we moved when I was ten, going down, down into the floor with a wet smell rising off it. The shop is laden with the projects of the past, present, and future. There is the fort that I made myself that I could barely fit into, but I loved it anyway and no one discouraged me. There are the “pretty marks” that I made on Dad’s brand new workbench with the claw of my hammer. There is the light blue paint that never seemed to run out or leave his workspace. There is my toolbox, and the 2x4’s that I nailed holes in to spell words, or just for fun. Dad is wearing an old sweatshirt and jeans. Maybe the jeans have paint on them, maybe the sweatshirt does; one does, that is for certain. I can’t help but smile, as I see him turn around and notice me, turning the saw off with its special yellow key, and say “Hey schmuster, whatcha doing?” as he runs his free hand through his long unkempt hair. (Even now, I’m smiling.) He is my father, and I love him more than my childish heart can handle.
Years later, down in our freshly carpeted basement, I can smell the clean smell that a vacuum leaves behind, feel the carpet under my bare toes, warm and inviting, and there is our old couch, the one with the bed in it, that my sister and I would watch so many movies on, and the one that I slept under with Jonathan and Carl at my Three Musketeers birthday party, the one that felt carpeted itself, just like the floor. I remember in the basement, running full speed at Jonathan, bean bag in my hand, sleeping bag in his hand, and getting my front tooth knocked out two weeks early, feeling the warm gush of blood in my mouth, and mumbling to him in mushy syllables, “I fink my toof’s knocked ow.” Running upstairs to rinse it out with warm salt water, spitting pink, diluted blood into the sink, and cherishing my new tooth that I would most certainly place under my pillow that night for an extra dollar or two. I remember the next morning, waking up a little sore in the mouth, but happy for my additional bit of cash, crawling into my sleeping bag upside down, and trying to knock Jonathan over, Pickle Wrestling, I think we called it, since our bags were green.
I remember the car rides up to Maine every year. Looking forward to the pool at the hotel, dreading the long stretches of Ohio and New York, getting excited about going to Kimball’s Ice Cream and getting chocolate chip cookie dough. Arriving at the house in Maine, seeing Hannah and Haley and Grammie O. Going down to Crystal Lake, playing in the attic, needing to check and see if the bathroom upstairs was still pink! Watching the sun set out at Uncle Dick’s camp, while eating brown bread and red dogs with corn on the cob, sitting at the long picnic table with the whole family, going out on the boat. Listening to Grampa snore. These were the greatest times of my life, the quintessential summer, the month that dreams are made of. And it lasted for so long before it ended.
I remember going to the Dude Ranch in New York for Nanny’s 50th anniversary, sitting in the cabins that smelled (reeked) of pine sap and sawdust and horse manure. Sitting on the wicker furniture with the whole family, after a night of Gin Rummy and sarsperilla drinks, listening to my cousin Nicky the Hippy play Simon and Garfunkel on her acoustic guitar, letting the eerie melodies wash over me from her quiet guitar and peaceful voice. The day after, we went riding through the forest, galloping, something I’d never done before and Leah could show me up on how it was done, listening to our quirky guide Keith shout, “Come with me, my people. I will lead you into the promised land!” Kicking the flanks of my favorite horse Spider, we rushed into a fast gallop, and I was caught up in a wind of air and emotion, the tears given no time to trickle as they gusted off my face. That afternoon, I finally beat Nicky in ping pong.
I can remember standing on the edge of the boat. I’m in Florida, in the Keys, offshore of some small island where my troop had set up camp for three nights, and I’m wearing blue flippers and snorkeling gear. I’m terrified. Back at the base, our swimming instructors told us all about the dangers of swimming in open water, the same water which I’m about to leap into, and we were educated in the horrors of the deep. Right now, all I can think about is my goggles glinting off the sunlight, which would catch the attention of the neighborhood barracuda, who would proceed to then rip my face off and leave the rest of me for the sharks. I would rather drink rancid milk than jump into the water right now. Yet something compels me to take that first huge step out of the boat. Maybe it’s my friends: already in the water, egging me on. Maybe it’s a burst of self-confidence or courage. Maybe I’m just scared enough to ignore my impulse to chicken out. Whatever the cause, I jump. – There’s something about being underwater, and still being able to breathe, that scares the shit out of me. Thankfully, that feeling didn’t last too long in Florida. Once I got my initial fears and freakouts under control, I was able to swim around and enjoy God’s marvelous creation suspended in water. I have never had another experience like jumping off that boat, and now that I’m older, and those fears have begun to regress, I’m unsure if I’ll ever experience something like that again. Perhaps I need to find a new fear.
I can remember shade on a hot day in June, standing at a table behind a small house. It’s the same place we saw Shane and Chris do the Jesus for President session, but today, the focus is all about pie. “The Lost Art of Pie Baking” is what the sheet says, and it is a toss-up between the circus or delicious peach pie. Naturally we choose the option that includes the prospect of eating food. Nick came to PAPA Fest with me, which made the whole trip. Just he and I at a table making pie from scratch. First we mix all the ingredients together in a big bowl, smushing the dough and getting it all over our hands. There is a dust cloud of spices added to the beautiful orange slices of peach. The dough is rolled and formed to the bowl, and a lattice is placed over the fruit and sprinkled with sugar. We baked it and ate it afterwards. Such a simple thing, but it was a trip that gave me a chance to become closer to my friend. I’ve known him for a year, but it feels longer.
I have gleaned the score of memories allotted to me from the pictures and movies of my past. Who can say whether they really belong to me?
I can remember walking in the park with Jonathan and Clarissa, in Bjoin Park (the one that we always argued over the pronunciation, until Leah and I just began calling it the park by Jonathan’s house). I can remember sitting by the train tracks in the woods with my Three Musketeers, the Three Inseparables, waiting for the circus train to roll through town. For some reason on that day, I felt like arguing with Jonathan. He and I always had a continuing rivalry over the hand of our mutual friend Clarissa, the older wiser woman who remained the voice of reason and the anti-testosterone for several years—yes, all the years we were together. That day, in the sunlight, Jonathan had spotted something blue in the crook of a tree—probably something a bird had brought in there to add to her nest—and a debate began over the identity of our mystery substance. Jonathan and I agreed right away, in our childlike romanticism, that it was a sapphire, lodged for thousands of years in a tree trunk that had really only been around for twenty. The real debate started over what we should do with the sapphire now that we had found it. Jonathan wanted to let it remain in its natural habit, a shrine standing to all wayward children to remind them that nature is best observed and not touched. I, on the other hand, had an immense desire to snatch it from the hole in the tree and sell it for a fortune somewhere. During this period of my life, I consistently had grand aspirations to buy a plot of land out on the highway, and build a magnificent clubhouse/fort right on top of it. So, naturally, I thought that the money from the pawned gem would pay nicely for the expense of our hideout. From here, my best friend and I got into a very heated debate about the ethics of leaving nature untouched. We were seven and eight, he and I. In the middle of our fight, wise Clarissa went up to the tree and deftly plucked the “sapphire” from its hidey-hole, revealing it to be no more than a discarded and formless scrap of blue plastic. That day, we learned that woman’s wisdom would always triumph over the delusions of man.
I can remember my father, working hard every chance he got, to finish the basement. From my place at the island in the kitchen, I can hear the saw turning on in his shop. I know he’s working, so I think I’ll go down to see him. Walking through the remains of last night’s excursion into Lego Land with Leah, I hear that sound again: almost earsplitting but not quite. There is sawdust everywhere on the floor of the shop, and it smells like Dad, or perhaps he smells like the sawdust. To my right is the drain I was always afraid of, even when we moved when I was ten, going down, down into the floor with a wet smell rising off it. The shop is laden with the projects of the past, present, and future. There is the fort that I made myself that I could barely fit into, but I loved it anyway and no one discouraged me. There are the “pretty marks” that I made on Dad’s brand new workbench with the claw of my hammer. There is the light blue paint that never seemed to run out or leave his workspace. There is my toolbox, and the 2x4’s that I nailed holes in to spell words, or just for fun. Dad is wearing an old sweatshirt and jeans. Maybe the jeans have paint on them, maybe the sweatshirt does; one does, that is for certain. I can’t help but smile, as I see him turn around and notice me, turning the saw off with its special yellow key, and say “Hey schmuster, whatcha doing?” as he runs his free hand through his long unkempt hair. (Even now, I’m smiling.) He is my father, and I love him more than my childish heart can handle.
Years later, down in our freshly carpeted basement, I can smell the clean smell that a vacuum leaves behind, feel the carpet under my bare toes, warm and inviting, and there is our old couch, the one with the bed in it, that my sister and I would watch so many movies on, and the one that I slept under with Jonathan and Carl at my Three Musketeers birthday party, the one that felt carpeted itself, just like the floor. I remember in the basement, running full speed at Jonathan, bean bag in my hand, sleeping bag in his hand, and getting my front tooth knocked out two weeks early, feeling the warm gush of blood in my mouth, and mumbling to him in mushy syllables, “I fink my toof’s knocked ow.” Running upstairs to rinse it out with warm salt water, spitting pink, diluted blood into the sink, and cherishing my new tooth that I would most certainly place under my pillow that night for an extra dollar or two. I remember the next morning, waking up a little sore in the mouth, but happy for my additional bit of cash, crawling into my sleeping bag upside down, and trying to knock Jonathan over, Pickle Wrestling, I think we called it, since our bags were green.
I remember the car rides up to Maine every year. Looking forward to the pool at the hotel, dreading the long stretches of Ohio and New York, getting excited about going to Kimball’s Ice Cream and getting chocolate chip cookie dough. Arriving at the house in Maine, seeing Hannah and Haley and Grammie O. Going down to Crystal Lake, playing in the attic, needing to check and see if the bathroom upstairs was still pink! Watching the sun set out at Uncle Dick’s camp, while eating brown bread and red dogs with corn on the cob, sitting at the long picnic table with the whole family, going out on the boat. Listening to Grampa snore. These were the greatest times of my life, the quintessential summer, the month that dreams are made of. And it lasted for so long before it ended.
I remember going to the Dude Ranch in New York for Nanny’s 50th anniversary, sitting in the cabins that smelled (reeked) of pine sap and sawdust and horse manure. Sitting on the wicker furniture with the whole family, after a night of Gin Rummy and sarsperilla drinks, listening to my cousin Nicky the Hippy play Simon and Garfunkel on her acoustic guitar, letting the eerie melodies wash over me from her quiet guitar and peaceful voice. The day after, we went riding through the forest, galloping, something I’d never done before and Leah could show me up on how it was done, listening to our quirky guide Keith shout, “Come with me, my people. I will lead you into the promised land!” Kicking the flanks of my favorite horse Spider, we rushed into a fast gallop, and I was caught up in a wind of air and emotion, the tears given no time to trickle as they gusted off my face. That afternoon, I finally beat Nicky in ping pong.
I can remember standing on the edge of the boat. I’m in Florida, in the Keys, offshore of some small island where my troop had set up camp for three nights, and I’m wearing blue flippers and snorkeling gear. I’m terrified. Back at the base, our swimming instructors told us all about the dangers of swimming in open water, the same water which I’m about to leap into, and we were educated in the horrors of the deep. Right now, all I can think about is my goggles glinting off the sunlight, which would catch the attention of the neighborhood barracuda, who would proceed to then rip my face off and leave the rest of me for the sharks. I would rather drink rancid milk than jump into the water right now. Yet something compels me to take that first huge step out of the boat. Maybe it’s my friends: already in the water, egging me on. Maybe it’s a burst of self-confidence or courage. Maybe I’m just scared enough to ignore my impulse to chicken out. Whatever the cause, I jump. – There’s something about being underwater, and still being able to breathe, that scares the shit out of me. Thankfully, that feeling didn’t last too long in Florida. Once I got my initial fears and freakouts under control, I was able to swim around and enjoy God’s marvelous creation suspended in water. I have never had another experience like jumping off that boat, and now that I’m older, and those fears have begun to regress, I’m unsure if I’ll ever experience something like that again. Perhaps I need to find a new fear.
I can remember shade on a hot day in June, standing at a table behind a small house. It’s the same place we saw Shane and Chris do the Jesus for President session, but today, the focus is all about pie. “The Lost Art of Pie Baking” is what the sheet says, and it is a toss-up between the circus or delicious peach pie. Naturally we choose the option that includes the prospect of eating food. Nick came to PAPA Fest with me, which made the whole trip. Just he and I at a table making pie from scratch. First we mix all the ingredients together in a big bowl, smushing the dough and getting it all over our hands. There is a dust cloud of spices added to the beautiful orange slices of peach. The dough is rolled and formed to the bowl, and a lattice is placed over the fruit and sprinkled with sugar. We baked it and ate it afterwards. Such a simple thing, but it was a trip that gave me a chance to become closer to my friend. I’ve known him for a year, but it feels longer.
8.23.2008
Another Summer
4 High Street, Harrison, Maine
The place where my great-grandmother lived
(it’s just a house it’s more than a house)
The place where she grew old
The place that stands without her
The place of memory
Hidden in the pink bathroom, the dusty beds, the
Old refrigerator and the rotary phone,
Playing Dr. Saggyboo by the
Bells and the hummingbird feeder,
Brown bread, and Crystal Lake,
My mother reading on Uncle Dick’s dock,
Hannah and Haley and Leah
Summer after summer after summer
Now I smell must and age in the attic—
Old books in boxes
Sounds of bagging from the other room
Two cents for the 1921 paper my father reads now
90 years later
Dry burlap sacks and broken trunks
Barely hanging on in the dust—
Age is bundled away, but to where?
Where is memory stored, when
It’s time for spring cleaning?
We’re all a little older, and
A little sadder now
Waves of nostalgia wash over me,
As I gaze at the fading words on my desk,
And the books my father used to read to us.
I wonder where I’ll put them
When I am old.
-Caleb Ryan
(19 Summers I've been there, but this year it was different.)
Maine Pictures
The place where my great-grandmother lived
(it’s just a house it’s more than a house)
The place where she grew old
The place that stands without her
The place of memory
Hidden in the pink bathroom, the dusty beds, the
Old refrigerator and the rotary phone,
Playing Dr. Saggyboo by the
Bells and the hummingbird feeder,
Brown bread, and Crystal Lake,
My mother reading on Uncle Dick’s dock,
Hannah and Haley and Leah
Summer after summer after summer
Now I smell must and age in the attic—
Old books in boxes
Sounds of bagging from the other room
Two cents for the 1921 paper my father reads now
90 years later
Dry burlap sacks and broken trunks
Barely hanging on in the dust—
Age is bundled away, but to where?
Where is memory stored, when
It’s time for spring cleaning?
We’re all a little older, and
A little sadder now
Waves of nostalgia wash over me,
As I gaze at the fading words on my desk,
And the books my father used to read to us.
I wonder where I’ll put them
When I am old.
-Caleb Ryan
(19 Summers I've been there, but this year it was different.)
Maine Pictures
7.21.2008
Finally, An Update!
Shalom, friends, and thanks for nagging me enough to start posting again. :) No reply from the mystery commentator, and I am moving on from that mess. No worries.
So, in the two months it's taken me to start this up again, a lot of stuff has happened that has really shaped the way I view the world and the way I view myself and others. My travels have taken me to western Illinois, Colorado, and finally Massachusetts and Maine. The scarce months of summer have become the beginnings of my grand adventure.
However, the beginnings of my summer were not as grand as I originally envisioned. I mulled and stewed at home for an entire month trying to acquire a job, with little success. Everything I wanted to accomplish over the summer required sufficient funds to do so, and without a job, I was in a bad spot. Although the choices were limited, as few businesses were appparently hiring, I eventually landed a job working for a new restaurant that recently opened in town, as a waiter. So thankfully, that issue was resolved, and now I have a job.
The first trip taken was down to the little town of Tiskilwa, Illinois, to attend my second PAPA (People Against Poverty and Apathy) Festival on the Plowcreek farm. The byline for the event was "A convergence of communities and movements," but it was so much more than that. There were 750 of us camped out in a field for a long weekend, and our days (and nights) were packed with excitement. During the mornings, we had learning sessions, where we could hear people speak on different topics, such as "Dismantling the Empire," "Jesus for President," and several others about community, poverty, anarchy, and other larger focuses. Then there was an open mic concert after lunch, and after that, we ran through another round of sessions. These, however, were focused more towards different skills that we could learn to better our world and ourselves. These sessions ranged from West African drumming, circus acts, an informative talk on pilgrimage, and the lost art of pie baking. The latter session was one that merited the most excitement and pictures, as Nick and I were overjoyed to have baked a delicious peach pie all on our own. This excitement resulted in the "Pie High," which is documented among other photos here: PAPAFEST. And that was my adventure for June. It was great to have the time with my family, as well as two other families that joined us, and Nick and Taylor. Memories were made, and hopefully will be made again the next time around.
Once July rolled around, things began to get crazy. The first adventure of the month occurred from the 8th to the 14th, when I traveled to Colorado into the Rocky Mountain National Park. Thankfully, my friend Natalie was willing to pick me up from the airport and opened her house to me for the night, as my flight got in around 9 at night. The next morning, she dropped me off at the Lumpy Ridge Trailhead on the eastern end of the park, with nothing but a pack on my shoulders and a warm farewell. I set off into the mountains for 5 nights on my own, to the concern of my parents and friends. However, I was prepared with a bear rope, water purifying tablets, a knife, plenty of food, a compass and map, rain gear, and all the other items I was constantly reminded about in the weeks beforehand. I made a 12-mile loop over those 5 nights, staying at three campsites. The middle site I was at was the Lawn Lake site, which I recommend for anyone traveling to that area of the world. It was breathtaking, placed right on the lake-front, with a smattering of nearby sites that were comforting yet not intrusive. On the 4th day, I hiked up to the Saddle, an amazing overlook between the Mummy and Fairchild peaks. I half-expected Julie Andrews to come running out singing the hills are alive with the sound of music! It was very alpine, very beautiful, and definitely somewhere I'd return. During that trip, I had a lot of time to sit and read Thoreau (which I found quite fitting), and think, and it made me realize how much I need other people in my life. Looking back, even though it was wonderful there, it was also the loneliest place I have ever been. Perhaps I'll type up my journal of my time there, and if anyone wants to hear more about it, about my bear story, or anything else, send me an email anytime. Oh, and here are the pictures: COLORADO.
And currently, I reside in Harrison, Maine, in the company of my mother's family, in the same small town I've come to every summer for 20 years. However, this year, we did make the usual trip to my dad's parents' house in Massachusetts, and the exception to the rule was the two day venture to Bar Harbor, to see Acadia Nat'l Forest. While it was a little foggy, it was still a gorgeous hike through the woods with my family. We stayed in a hostel for the night, which has always been a good experience, and then drove back down to Harrison. It's beautiful here as well, with two lakes nearby (one right across the street, practically), and an old dusty house to explore and write about. I'll be getting back into Stoughton on Sunday night, and there will be pictures eventually. For now, I remain here, still adventuring each day.
Each day, for today, for arête,
-Caleb-
So, in the two months it's taken me to start this up again, a lot of stuff has happened that has really shaped the way I view the world and the way I view myself and others. My travels have taken me to western Illinois, Colorado, and finally Massachusetts and Maine. The scarce months of summer have become the beginnings of my grand adventure.
However, the beginnings of my summer were not as grand as I originally envisioned. I mulled and stewed at home for an entire month trying to acquire a job, with little success. Everything I wanted to accomplish over the summer required sufficient funds to do so, and without a job, I was in a bad spot. Although the choices were limited, as few businesses were appparently hiring, I eventually landed a job working for a new restaurant that recently opened in town, as a waiter. So thankfully, that issue was resolved, and now I have a job.
The first trip taken was down to the little town of Tiskilwa, Illinois, to attend my second PAPA (People Against Poverty and Apathy) Festival on the Plowcreek farm. The byline for the event was "A convergence of communities and movements," but it was so much more than that. There were 750 of us camped out in a field for a long weekend, and our days (and nights) were packed with excitement. During the mornings, we had learning sessions, where we could hear people speak on different topics, such as "Dismantling the Empire," "Jesus for President," and several others about community, poverty, anarchy, and other larger focuses. Then there was an open mic concert after lunch, and after that, we ran through another round of sessions. These, however, were focused more towards different skills that we could learn to better our world and ourselves. These sessions ranged from West African drumming, circus acts, an informative talk on pilgrimage, and the lost art of pie baking. The latter session was one that merited the most excitement and pictures, as Nick and I were overjoyed to have baked a delicious peach pie all on our own. This excitement resulted in the "Pie High," which is documented among other photos here: PAPAFEST. And that was my adventure for June. It was great to have the time with my family, as well as two other families that joined us, and Nick and Taylor. Memories were made, and hopefully will be made again the next time around.
Once July rolled around, things began to get crazy. The first adventure of the month occurred from the 8th to the 14th, when I traveled to Colorado into the Rocky Mountain National Park. Thankfully, my friend Natalie was willing to pick me up from the airport and opened her house to me for the night, as my flight got in around 9 at night. The next morning, she dropped me off at the Lumpy Ridge Trailhead on the eastern end of the park, with nothing but a pack on my shoulders and a warm farewell. I set off into the mountains for 5 nights on my own, to the concern of my parents and friends. However, I was prepared with a bear rope, water purifying tablets, a knife, plenty of food, a compass and map, rain gear, and all the other items I was constantly reminded about in the weeks beforehand. I made a 12-mile loop over those 5 nights, staying at three campsites. The middle site I was at was the Lawn Lake site, which I recommend for anyone traveling to that area of the world. It was breathtaking, placed right on the lake-front, with a smattering of nearby sites that were comforting yet not intrusive. On the 4th day, I hiked up to the Saddle, an amazing overlook between the Mummy and Fairchild peaks. I half-expected Julie Andrews to come running out singing the hills are alive with the sound of music! It was very alpine, very beautiful, and definitely somewhere I'd return. During that trip, I had a lot of time to sit and read Thoreau (which I found quite fitting), and think, and it made me realize how much I need other people in my life. Looking back, even though it was wonderful there, it was also the loneliest place I have ever been. Perhaps I'll type up my journal of my time there, and if anyone wants to hear more about it, about my bear story, or anything else, send me an email anytime. Oh, and here are the pictures: COLORADO.
And currently, I reside in Harrison, Maine, in the company of my mother's family, in the same small town I've come to every summer for 20 years. However, this year, we did make the usual trip to my dad's parents' house in Massachusetts, and the exception to the rule was the two day venture to Bar Harbor, to see Acadia Nat'l Forest. While it was a little foggy, it was still a gorgeous hike through the woods with my family. We stayed in a hostel for the night, which has always been a good experience, and then drove back down to Harrison. It's beautiful here as well, with two lakes nearby (one right across the street, practically), and an old dusty house to explore and write about. I'll be getting back into Stoughton on Sunday night, and there will be pictures eventually. For now, I remain here, still adventuring each day.
Each day, for today, for arête,
-Caleb-
5.16.2008
...
There have been a couple comments lately that were directed at me and addressed issues discussed in the last post. I don't know if this is just one person or two, but right now that doesn't matter. They were posted anonymously, and so this is to whomever is writing:
I'm sorry if there's anything I've done that has offended you in any way. I'm doing my best to let my actions mirror my words, and sometimes that doesn't always happen. The things you wrote were pretty bold things to say, and I'd like to give you my perspective on such issues and offer some explanation for any questions you might have as well.
I know that you're someone who knows me, because of your references to the past and what your perception of me back then was like. It's unfortunate that you made your comment(s) anonymous, because I would really like to have a conversation about the things you said, but I don't know who you are. If you would like to email me, my email is cwarner19@gmail.com, or if you know me well enough to have my number, give me a call and we'll sit down and talk about it. You obviously care enough about me to call me out on something you perceived in my writing, so talk to me; don't just let your words become empty without a name behind them.
So, in a nutshell, you said a lot, I'd like to talk, don't know your name, would like to so we can have a decent conversation. Please get back to me if you can.
-Caleb-
I'm sorry if there's anything I've done that has offended you in any way. I'm doing my best to let my actions mirror my words, and sometimes that doesn't always happen. The things you wrote were pretty bold things to say, and I'd like to give you my perspective on such issues and offer some explanation for any questions you might have as well.
I know that you're someone who knows me, because of your references to the past and what your perception of me back then was like. It's unfortunate that you made your comment(s) anonymous, because I would really like to have a conversation about the things you said, but I don't know who you are. If you would like to email me, my email is cwarner19@gmail.com, or if you know me well enough to have my number, give me a call and we'll sit down and talk about it. You obviously care enough about me to call me out on something you perceived in my writing, so talk to me; don't just let your words become empty without a name behind them.
So, in a nutshell, you said a lot, I'd like to talk, don't know your name, would like to so we can have a decent conversation. Please get back to me if you can.
-Caleb-
5.02.2008
What I Learned, and What I Learned For
Shalom, friends.
So, it's been another 40 days, and tomorrow I'll start wearing regular clothes again, rather than a white t-shirt and jeans. The main thing that's been on my mind this week about this deal is whether or not it was worth it, whether I actually learned something. Honestly, I was scared for a while that I hadn't learned anything, that it didn't count because it was too easy. All I did was cut my hair and put on the same clothes everyday. It really got to the point where I wasn't even thinking about it anymore. Naturally, I began to assume that if this was my dominant mindset, then I had gained nothing from the experience except an easier way to dress.
Right now, I feel pretty good about the whole thing. I suppose that, just like the fasting over Lent, I have isolated the problem of idolizing something trivial in my life, and tried my best to wean myself of such thought processes. During all this time, I have summarized my thoughts into two points. 1) I realize that I think way too much about what people will think of me based on what I put on or what my hair looks like in the morning. I have also fallen into a pattern of deriving my identity through the style of my hair and dress, and I don't think I should do that anymore. And 2) I have seen that almost all of my shirts and pants were made in countries where sweatshop labor still thrives and workers are still exploited. I don't think I want to wear symbols of those things anymore either.
So, I'll be making my own clothes over the summer and giving most of my clothes I have now away to people who actually need them. Other than that, it's been another wonderful learning experience and another step down my path towards arête. I don't really know what the next step will be, but you'll know eventually. Thanks for reading.
-Caleb-
So, it's been another 40 days, and tomorrow I'll start wearing regular clothes again, rather than a white t-shirt and jeans. The main thing that's been on my mind this week about this deal is whether or not it was worth it, whether I actually learned something. Honestly, I was scared for a while that I hadn't learned anything, that it didn't count because it was too easy. All I did was cut my hair and put on the same clothes everyday. It really got to the point where I wasn't even thinking about it anymore. Naturally, I began to assume that if this was my dominant mindset, then I had gained nothing from the experience except an easier way to dress.
Right now, I feel pretty good about the whole thing. I suppose that, just like the fasting over Lent, I have isolated the problem of idolizing something trivial in my life, and tried my best to wean myself of such thought processes. During all this time, I have summarized my thoughts into two points. 1) I realize that I think way too much about what people will think of me based on what I put on or what my hair looks like in the morning. I have also fallen into a pattern of deriving my identity through the style of my hair and dress, and I don't think I should do that anymore. And 2) I have seen that almost all of my shirts and pants were made in countries where sweatshop labor still thrives and workers are still exploited. I don't think I want to wear symbols of those things anymore either.
So, I'll be making my own clothes over the summer and giving most of my clothes I have now away to people who actually need them. Other than that, it's been another wonderful learning experience and another step down my path towards arête. I don't really know what the next step will be, but you'll know eventually. Thanks for reading.
-Caleb-
5.01.2008
Arête
Shalom, friends.
So, I've gotten some comments from people at school and at home, asking me, "What is this word arête that you keep throwing around and saying 'Seek arête, seek arête'?" Now you get to find out.
Arête was defined as virtue or excellence by the Greeks, specifically Aristotle, in whom the word found a high usage. Wikipedia defines it as the fulfillment of purpose or function; the act of living up to one's full potential. I came to define it as the highest form of living that humans can aspire to. Gerard Manley Hopkins has another word for basically the same thing--inscape. He derived the concept to mean the distinctive design that constitutes individual identity. He also thought that every object has an inscape, and we can perceive this through instress, but only through divine intervention or assistance. This seems to me to be relatively the same idea as arête.
I was originally introduced to this phrase in my English 215 class, when we read through The Odyssey. Another phrase that seems to correlate to this same thought process, and is in Latin this time (and is also from a Lit class, one I'm taking right now), is "Paulo maiora canamus," which translates roughly to "Let us sing of somewhat higher things." These two words and phrases became icons for me as I went through Lent, and as I finish up the next set of 40 days with my focus on humility of appearance.
So there you go, the lowdown on arête. More on clothes, dating, and the essence of Christianity coming soon.
4.27.2008
FOOD! AND LASERS!
Hurray for a new look!
I took the picture on top this winter. It's from atop the train tracks by the Forton Street Bridge in Stoughton. I'm thinking that I'll change it once the seasons change, but keep taking it from the same spot.
So I'll be taking the trip back home in another two weeks, and I can't wait. Even though this year has gone by so fast, I'm really surprised that I made it this far. For all the fun I've had, and all the things I've learned, right now I really just want to be home and be with my family. That sounded a lot more melodramatic and whiney than I tried to make it sound. Oh well.
PS - highlight of my week: making super awesome 7 layer bars! Here's some more pictures:
This picture was taken by shining a Class 3A laser into the lens of my camera.
4.26.2008
Burrito Goodness
Shalom, friends.
Just wanted to say: finals suck and Qdoba is a great way to take my mind off of them.
Doesn't that look delicious? Yum.
Just wanted to say: finals suck and Qdoba is a great way to take my mind off of them.
Doesn't that look delicious? Yum.
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