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.
4.13.2008
(im)patient
Shalom, friends.
I feel like I'm standing on the verge of another great change in my life.
I feel like it's on the tip of my tongue, and I can't quite say anything.
I feel like all the deadwood, all the chaff, all the rubbish and rubble in my life that's keeping me from changing is being cleared and burnt away.
and i'm impatient
I feel -
I feel like I'm on fire.
I feel like I'm standing on the verge of another great change in my life.
I feel like it's on the tip of my tongue, and I can't quite say anything.
I feel like all the deadwood, all the chaff, all the rubbish and rubble in my life that's keeping me from changing is being cleared and burnt away.
and i'm impatient
I feel -
I feel like I'm on fire.
3.31.2008
One Month
Shalom, friends.
April comes, and with it brings no respite from the books. Tomorrow is the first of the month, and from there until the 8th of May, I will remain here and crunch out the final days of my first year at Wheaton. Sounds pretty dire once I put it that way, doesn't it? Well, it's not. So stop worrying.
I think this larger chunk of time without a long weekend or extra day here and there will somehow, somehow, help me to buckle down and work out the wrinkles in how I define myself--no scratch that, begin to work out those wrinkles--while still getting a better opportunity to focus on my schoolwork.
Other than that, I have the summer to look forward to, full of bartending, mowing lawns, and chilling with the chillun's down at the youth center. I hope to do some heavy writing over the months as well, meaning more than just a poem a month. At this point, it's not even anything right now. The summer will help. The summer will come. Yet, the summer is not everything. Remember these thoughts, Caleb. Ok. That's all for now. Thanks.
You know the drill,
-Caleb-
April comes, and with it brings no respite from the books. Tomorrow is the first of the month, and from there until the 8th of May, I will remain here and crunch out the final days of my first year at Wheaton. Sounds pretty dire once I put it that way, doesn't it? Well, it's not. So stop worrying.
I think this larger chunk of time without a long weekend or extra day here and there will somehow, somehow, help me to buckle down and work out the wrinkles in how I define myself--no scratch that, begin to work out those wrinkles--while still getting a better opportunity to focus on my schoolwork.
Other than that, I have the summer to look forward to, full of bartending, mowing lawns, and chilling with the chillun's down at the youth center. I hope to do some heavy writing over the months as well, meaning more than just a poem a month. At this point, it's not even anything right now. The summer will help. The summer will come. Yet, the summer is not everything. Remember these thoughts, Caleb. Ok. That's all for now. Thanks.
You know the drill,
-Caleb-
3.24.2008
Bagel of Joy
Shalom, friends.
I can't think of a time when food has tasted better than yesterday morning. There I was, sitting at my grandmother's table in Indiana, eating a delicious cinnamon bagel with cream cheese slathered over it, already melting. Any other morning, it would have been an ordinary meal, but after not eating for 7 days and only eating dinner for 33 days before that, it was the best bagel I've ever tasted.
Just thought I'd share that with you,
-Caleb-
I can't think of a time when food has tasted better than yesterday morning. There I was, sitting at my grandmother's table in Indiana, eating a delicious cinnamon bagel with cream cheese slathered over it, already melting. Any other morning, it would have been an ordinary meal, but after not eating for 7 days and only eating dinner for 33 days before that, it was the best bagel I've ever tasted.
Just thought I'd share that with you,
-Caleb-
3.21.2008
The Next Forty Days
Shalom, friends.
EASTER approches, and brings with it changes, anticipation, and hair loss.
TO begin, I have been thinking a considerable amount about the idea of abstinence. Not the sex version that everyone always thinks of when they hear the word, but the dictionary definition. Dictionary.com defines abstinence as "any self-restraint, self-denial, or forbearance." This year, I have celebrated the Lenten season for the first time, and the main focus of Lent is the idea of abstinence. That is why people give up something for Lent, something they want and indulge in frequently. Giving up something like chocolate does not line up with the idea of Lent, because unless you idolize chocolate or eating it hinders your communication with God, you are not recognizing Lent in the way it was orginally intended. All this is to say that I began with giving up video games for Lent, because I was using too much of my time to zonk out to a TV or computer screen.
IN order to anticipate the resurrection of Christ through the Lenten and Easter seasons, I have been fasting as well: only eating dinner for the past 40 days. Through this experience, I have learned that I allow food to slow me down, and I depend on it far too much. It is the "American Way" to idolize the food we eat, and that is exactly what I realized I have been doing. Now that I have been denying myself the food I depend on, I have learned to depend on Jesus to provide me with my energy for the day and to maintain my health. Thus far, He has not failed in these things, and I trust Him to nourish me for these last days. One change that has taken place in my fasting habits this week came from my friends at school. We have been talking about fasting, and they suggested we do a week-long fast for this last period through Holy Week. So now, I have not eaten any food since Monday lunch. It has been Hard! Really hard. We have lost a lot of energy and had a couple days where no one wanted to do anything productive, but all of us agree that we are learning so much from this period of hardship.
--And one last thing. I will not merely forget this idea of abstinence once Easter is over and done. For the next forty days from Easter till the day of the Ascension, I will attempt to abstain from vanity. I'm not saying I'm totally obsessed with the way I look, but I do spend a lot of time thinking about what I should put on in the morning or how to make my hair look good. So, I've decided to remove both of those problems for the next 40 days. No, I'm not going to be a nudist. I'm going to wear a white t-shirt and jeans from Easter Sunday until the third of May. Also, I shaved my head!
I'll be keeping it like this for the next forty days as well, to attempt a break from my preconceived notions of what people think of me. In a lot of ways, my hair defined me when it was longer, and that shouldn't happen in a life that strives to seek Christ. I thought way too much about whether it was messed up or not, and found myself looking in the mirror a lot to fix it throughout the day. All these things aren't good. The end. I've been rambling too much, so I'll just stop here on this subject.
So anyway, Easter is right around the corner, and today has been great fasting-wise so far. Since I know I'll be able to eat tomorrow, waiting one more day doesn't seem so bad. Because of this, I've been able to enjoy the fast without worrying about my health or my hunger. Ultimately, I will say that deciding to recognize Lent has changed my life in so many ways, and all of them for the best. Thanks for taking the time to read this. News on the Ascension in 40 more days.
Seek all good things,
-Caleb-
EASTER approches, and brings with it changes, anticipation, and hair loss.
ANOTHER thing that has changed my life dramatically during Lent has been my break-up with my girlfriend Lauren. If you have questions about it, send me an email or something. My point in putting that information here is to inform anyone who reads this of the occurance, and mark it as a huge change that I underwent through this Lenten experience.
--And one last thing. I will not merely forget this idea of abstinence once Easter is over and done. For the next forty days from Easter till the day of the Ascension, I will attempt to abstain from vanity. I'm not saying I'm totally obsessed with the way I look, but I do spend a lot of time thinking about what I should put on in the morning or how to make my hair look good. So, I've decided to remove both of those problems for the next 40 days. No, I'm not going to be a nudist. I'm going to wear a white t-shirt and jeans from Easter Sunday until the third of May. Also, I shaved my head!
I'll be keeping it like this for the next forty days as well, to attempt a break from my preconceived notions of what people think of me. In a lot of ways, my hair defined me when it was longer, and that shouldn't happen in a life that strives to seek Christ. I thought way too much about whether it was messed up or not, and found myself looking in the mirror a lot to fix it throughout the day. All these things aren't good. The end. I've been rambling too much, so I'll just stop here on this subject.
So anyway, Easter is right around the corner, and today has been great fasting-wise so far. Since I know I'll be able to eat tomorrow, waiting one more day doesn't seem so bad. Because of this, I've been able to enjoy the fast without worrying about my health or my hunger. Ultimately, I will say that deciding to recognize Lent has changed my life in so many ways, and all of them for the best. Thanks for taking the time to read this. News on the Ascension in 40 more days.
Seek all good things,
-Caleb-
2.28.2008
CLC crazyness
Shalom, friends.
The wait is finally over. The fates of the five compadres have been decided, at least for another year. The big question of "CLC?" was answered last night around eleven o'clock. Before I go any further, perhaps you'd appreciate another explanation.
The Community Life Council (CLC) is a group made up of 12 members in the Fischer dorm, one for each floor, that meet at least once a week to plan events for the Fischer community to enjoy. These include things like Coffeehouse, the Beach Party, movie nights, and other events to bring together a multi-floor group. CLC is made up of sophomores only, mind you.
The supposedly most important aspect of making the council (and the one that spawns the most drama and hearsay) is first preference for housing next year. This creates an environment of competition so powerful that by the end of everything, we had all forgotten what
we were striving for in the first place. In the end, it was all about getting back on the floor and NOT going over to Evans. In the end, it wasn't about wanting CLC for an opportunity to make change in Fischer. Also, the manner of communication between those applying and those deciding became rather "high schoolish." By this, I mean that the decision process fell instantly to rumor and "he-said, she-said" discussions. I understand that those sorts of things happen all the time, but I just didn't expect it from a college council. Plus, it only added to the drama and to the shallow side of competition.
The strangest thing about all this is that I never applied! And yet, since I am rooming with Jeremy and Nick next year, I aligned myself with them without a second thought. I'll admit, I totally bought into all the aspects described above, and only now am I fully realizing my error. For example, I supported Jeremy and Nick completely, without a thought to the possibility that there might be someone better suited for CLC. Now, I'll say right here that I think Jeremy is going to do a fantastic job
(YES JEREMY GOT CLC!!! I'LL JUST LET YOU ALL KNOW RIGHT NOW! MERGH!)
but I'm saddened by my own haste in not considering the possibility that anyone else would also be fantastic. It was also pretty awkward with my roommate, who also applied for CLC and actually wanted it for the council's purpose, because he already knows that he'll be back here next year. This whole thing created a false animosity between us that was mostly just awkward silence whenever CLC came up in discussion, and now it'll be a little weird for a while since he didn't get on the council. I guess I just feel selfish. This stems directly from my desire to get back on the floor, get back on 2E, because if we don't get CLC then we have to go to Evans. That's all CLC was in the end: a ticket back on the floor.
However, I know that Jeremy really is looking forward to working with the next RA and I guess I should let him speak for himself if he wishes to comment on the post that's all about him...Jeremy?
I am pretty excited about being back in Fischer, no matter what I said above. All that doesn't change the facts: we'll be sophomores next year. We'll be able to be around the new freshmen. We'll be awesome. And most important of all, there's a ping pong table in the basement. That makes everything better.
Justice, mercy, humbleness, arête.
-Caleb-
The wait is finally over. The fates of the five compadres have been decided, at least for another year. The big question of "CLC?" was answered last night around eleven o'clock. Before I go any further, perhaps you'd appreciate another explanation.
The Community Life Council (CLC) is a group made up of 12 members in the Fischer dorm, one for each floor, that meet at least once a week to plan events for the Fischer community to enjoy. These include things like Coffeehouse, the Beach Party, movie nights, and other events to bring together a multi-floor group. CLC is made up of sophomores only, mind you.
The supposedly most important aspect of making the council (and the one that spawns the most drama and hearsay) is first preference for housing next year. This creates an environment of competition so powerful that by the end of everything, we had all forgotten what
we were striving for in the first place. In the end, it was all about getting back on the floor and NOT going over to Evans. In the end, it wasn't about wanting CLC for an opportunity to make change in Fischer. Also, the manner of communication between those applying and those deciding became rather "high schoolish." By this, I mean that the decision process fell instantly to rumor and "he-said, she-said" discussions. I understand that those sorts of things happen all the time, but I just didn't expect it from a college council. Plus, it only added to the drama and to the shallow side of competition.
The strangest thing about all this is that I never applied! And yet, since I am rooming with Jeremy and Nick next year, I aligned myself with them without a second thought. I'll admit, I totally bought into all the aspects described above, and only now am I fully realizing my error. For example, I supported Jeremy and Nick completely, without a thought to the possibility that there might be someone better suited for CLC. Now, I'll say right here that I think Jeremy is going to do a fantastic job
(YES JEREMY GOT CLC!!! I'LL JUST LET YOU ALL KNOW RIGHT NOW! MERGH!)
but I'm saddened by my own haste in not considering the possibility that anyone else would also be fantastic. It was also pretty awkward with my roommate, who also applied for CLC and actually wanted it for the council's purpose, because he already knows that he'll be back here next year. This whole thing created a false animosity between us that was mostly just awkward silence whenever CLC came up in discussion, and now it'll be a little weird for a while since he didn't get on the council. I guess I just feel selfish. This stems directly from my desire to get back on the floor, get back on 2E, because if we don't get CLC then we have to go to Evans. That's all CLC was in the end: a ticket back on the floor.
However, I know that Jeremy really is looking forward to working with the next RA and I guess I should let him speak for himself if he wishes to comment on the post that's all about him...Jeremy?
I am pretty excited about being back in Fischer, no matter what I said above. All that doesn't change the facts: we'll be sophomores next year. We'll be able to be around the new freshmen. We'll be awesome. And most important of all, there's a ping pong table in the basement. That makes everything better.
Justice, mercy, humbleness, arête.
-Caleb-
2.24.2008
Explanations
Shalom, friends.
I suppose this is the part where I explain myself and go through what this is all about. My reasons for placing my thoughts where other people can see them are varied, but this seems to be the dominant purpose: I best articulate my thoughts through writing. I know that everyone who reads this and has talked with me in person knows that my spoken words are not the perfect vessels that other people are gifted with, and my memory escapes me quite frequently. I have discovered that through writing out my thoughts and taking time to think about what I really want to say, I can better communicate what is actually going on in my head. I hope this is not seen as a selfish endeavor to gain attention, but rather a gesture of openness from my life to yours (and hopefully, the other way around as well).
I've realized that my life is changing dramatically again this semester. Having a solid group of guys that I can trust and be encouraged and be uplifted (and rebuked) by is really something that I have never had before in my life. They have taught me so many things, whether it's how to have a better ping-pong game or read my bible more often or a conversation that lasts for 4 hours just talking about what we really see in our lives. I look forward to next year, when we are all living together.
I have also found a wonderful source of conversation in these past weeks: my family. The talks we've had about our changing lives are so totally different than the words we spoke when I was still living at home. I find new things to think about every time they drop me off here or hang up the phone. This new stint of conversation seems to mirror the change in the rest of my life and makes me think that someday I actually will grow up. Not yet, but I'm getting there.
And finally, my relationship with my girlfriend Lauren has also changed dramatically over the course of this year, and even over the few weeks that I've been back at school this semester. With the fact that she is still at home while I'm away at school having new experiences, it's been hard for both of us to adjust to the new circumstances. However, I definitely think that we have both grown and become more mature in relation to each other through this separation. She's a big part of my life as well, so you'll hear a lot about her as well as my friends and my family.
Overall, I think the largest source of change in my life since I've come to college at Wheaton is my relationship with Jesus. Honestly, there wasn't much to speak about for the years I was in high school. I had developed a mentality that I was "saved," so I didn't have to do much except talk about it, pray well in front of a group, and keep up appearances. Because I had prayed "The Prayer" (you know, the one that you pray and get your ticket into heaven with), I was set for life and could do whatever I wanted and sort of take life as it came. Since I've been here, I have seen things differently. I don't think I was ever told right out that my previous thinking was flawed, but I could see something different in the actions and lives of the people I began to look up to here at school. Also, since I have started to read some of Brian McLaren's books, along with Shane Claiborne and others, I realized that I need to redevelop my view of everything. I've realized that everything must change in the way I think about God and people in order for me to truly love God and love people. As of right now, the words that I need to further explain myself are escaping me, so I will sum up by saying that I know I need God to mold my view of Him and His creation into something different than the lukewarm, apathetic version I've stuck with throughout high school, and I am trying to figure out what to do after that happens.
Well, that was long-winded. Hope I didn't frighten you off. See you later.
Do justice, love mercy, walk humbly, seek arête.
-Caleb-
I suppose this is the part where I explain myself and go through what this is all about. My reasons for placing my thoughts where other people can see them are varied, but this seems to be the dominant purpose: I best articulate my thoughts through writing. I know that everyone who reads this and has talked with me in person knows that my spoken words are not the perfect vessels that other people are gifted with, and my memory escapes me quite frequently. I have discovered that through writing out my thoughts and taking time to think about what I really want to say, I can better communicate what is actually going on in my head. I hope this is not seen as a selfish endeavor to gain attention, but rather a gesture of openness from my life to yours (and hopefully, the other way around as well).
I've realized that my life is changing dramatically again this semester. Having a solid group of guys that I can trust and be encouraged and be uplifted (and rebuked) by is really something that I have never had before in my life. They have taught me so many things, whether it's how to have a better ping-pong game or read my bible more often or a conversation that lasts for 4 hours just talking about what we really see in our lives. I look forward to next year, when we are all living together.
I have also found a wonderful source of conversation in these past weeks: my family. The talks we've had about our changing lives are so totally different than the words we spoke when I was still living at home. I find new things to think about every time they drop me off here or hang up the phone. This new stint of conversation seems to mirror the change in the rest of my life and makes me think that someday I actually will grow up. Not yet, but I'm getting there.
And finally, my relationship with my girlfriend Lauren has also changed dramatically over the course of this year, and even over the few weeks that I've been back at school this semester. With the fact that she is still at home while I'm away at school having new experiences, it's been hard for both of us to adjust to the new circumstances. However, I definitely think that we have both grown and become more mature in relation to each other through this separation. She's a big part of my life as well, so you'll hear a lot about her as well as my friends and my family.
Overall, I think the largest source of change in my life since I've come to college at Wheaton is my relationship with Jesus. Honestly, there wasn't much to speak about for the years I was in high school. I had developed a mentality that I was "saved," so I didn't have to do much except talk about it, pray well in front of a group, and keep up appearances. Because I had prayed "The Prayer" (you know, the one that you pray and get your ticket into heaven with), I was set for life and could do whatever I wanted and sort of take life as it came. Since I've been here, I have seen things differently. I don't think I was ever told right out that my previous thinking was flawed, but I could see something different in the actions and lives of the people I began to look up to here at school. Also, since I have started to read some of Brian McLaren's books, along with Shane Claiborne and others, I realized that I need to redevelop my view of everything. I've realized that everything must change in the way I think about God and people in order for me to truly love God and love people. As of right now, the words that I need to further explain myself are escaping me, so I will sum up by saying that I know I need God to mold my view of Him and His creation into something different than the lukewarm, apathetic version I've stuck with throughout high school, and I am trying to figure out what to do after that happens.
Well, that was long-winded. Hope I didn't frighten you off. See you later.
Do justice, love mercy, walk humbly, seek arête.
-Caleb-
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