The Blessed Assurance of a Cloudy Sunrise

“All creation has a language / Words to say what must be said

All day long the heavens whisper, / signing words in scarlet red”

—Michael W. Smith “A Christmas Anthem”

This morning, I sat on a jetty at the Galveston Seawall, and watched the sunrise.   But… I did not see the sun.  

An early morning front had brought clouds and a smattering of rain while I slept in the hotel, and at 0600, a row of clouds scuttered on the horizon, like shieldmaidens protecting the king as he arose for the day, and they dutifully hid him from the voyeuristic eyes of me and the handful of other observers.

And yet, I knew He was there.  I **knew** it.

It is not just a matter of blind faith… even in this small vignette of the natural world, signs were given.  The brilliant blaze of orange on the underside of a higher cloud… the rapidly improving visibility of the morning hinting at a power and luminescence that mere clouds could not contain.

The Sun was there.  It was patently obvious, even without direct visual confirmation.

In much the same way, the Son is there.  Sitting at the right hand of His Father.  And on a surprisingly pleasant July morning on the Texas coast, God declared that this universe—that he created for us—despite the way said creation groans under the weight of The Fall…. this incredible world would continue for yet another dawn.

He is there!  I just know it.  The signs are there for those who are open to see.

What a blessed assurance a cloudy sunrise can be.

Of Moose and Magical Summers

Once again, we are in our special place that we call our second home-- the camp in Maine where my wife works and my sons have spent their formative summer years.  From the moment we pulled away from our driveway in Texas, I had begun to suspect that this might be a very special and magical summer for us... more so than most.

The last two weeks prior to departure were a dizzying rush of the kind of curveballs life normally throws you a couple of times a year:   we had to rush to get a newer vehicle when our old van proved once and for all it was not dependable enough for an 5000-mile summer romp; 6 days later I found out I was losing my job when I return in September due to massive layoffs at my company; and 3 days before departure, our new van was damaged when a delivery truck in a grocery store parking lot (which the driver did not put in park/gear) rolled across the lot and slammed into the front of our empty, parked, pristine new minivan.

You can't make this stuff up.

After the layoff notice, my wife and I talked and decided we would not change our summer plans.  In this day and age, there is no reason I shouldn't be able to look for a job effectively from a distance.  The new van was fine to drive (just looked like it had been in a bar fight), so we figured "damn the torpedoes... full speed ahead."

So we are here.  I am looking at a summer of grueling job searches, planning and saving for the mini-vacation we have to take at the end of camp because we have to do something for 8 days before taking Matthew to Michigan to get him settled at Hillsdale college... and I also realized that I inadvertently signed up for a "mini-mester" for my summer college course, which means I will be taking a full course in Philosophy 1301 in one month.   (Hey, this is what happens when an Ancient Crab tries to go back to college... I haven't registered for courses since Guns 'n Roses was at the peak of their popularity.)

Take all of that, and try to throw in the normal flurry of activities we do to take full advantage of this wonderful summer experience... and it's going to be a full, rich ride!

So, as I pondered all of these things, and the changes that next year might bring in our lives with graduating boys and new jobs... I just had a feeling that this summer was going to be a particularly special one.

And I was right.  Already.

Exhibit one:  my wife Allison has been wanting to see a moose up here FOR YEARS.  She has worked up here at least 9 years, and had yet to see one.  It became a running joke in our family that she was "moose-cursed."    Now granted, it is getting harder to see them around these parts... they seem to be much more populous further north in Maine, and they have been hit hard by a disease that is decimating their numbers... but still...  she has been so disappointed.

And this year it finally happened.  On the second day here.

Photo courtesy
Logan Welch

As the camp driver, she is default Uber choice for shuttling kids or adults all over Yankee land.  And on Saturday, she was driving north to pickup up two counselors who had been getting their archery certifications.   So there were witnesses... and one of them was my son, Logan.   The moose had been in the road, but moved off to the shoulder.  They were able to snap some pics which were, to be honest, horrible in quality due to the light and the fact they could not stop the vehicle at the time.  (In fact, I've seen better photos of Bigfoot!)  But there it was... a moose.  It didn't have antlers, which isn't surprising at this time of the year, or it could have been female. 

But the moose had been sighted.  After all this time.  My wife came home so happy and ebullient.  A moose!

Like I said... magical.   I talk a lot about the magic of this place.   I really do think this year is going to be a very special one--God is on his throne and is in control, and there is magic in Maine.

Bring it, summer.

A Whiff of the Air of Númenor

Of all the changes Peter Jackson made to the story of The Lord of the Rings when he crafted his brilliant trilogy of movies, the alteration of Faramir's character was and is the most grievous to me.  Sixteen years later, it still rankles, but especially so whenever I pick up the books to peruse them once more.

In the magnificent and elegant chapter "The Window on the West" (from The Two Towers), Tolkien paints us a picture of the man Faramir, a descendant of the High Men from Númenor of old.  Faramir is the younger brother of Boromir, a mighty warrior from Gondor who fell to the temptation of the One Ring at the end of the first book, when he tried to take "Isildur's Bane" from Frodo by force.
Yet, in this chapter, we see a man who possesses Boromir's good qualities and surpasses him in the resistance of temptation of evil.

J.R.R. Tolkien makes it quite clear that Faramir is of a different sort, through his words and subsequent actions that prove those words:

"If it were a thing that gave advantage in battle, I can well believe that Boromir, the proud and fearless, often rash, ever anxious for the victory of Minas Tirith (and his own glory therein), might desire such a thing and be allured by it..... "

"But fear no more!  I would not take this thing, if it lay by the highway.  Not were Minas Tirith falling in ruin and I alone could save her, so, using the weapon of the Dark Lord for her good and my glory.  No, I do not wish for such triumphs, Frodo son of Drogo"

Later that evening, when Sam drinks a bit too much wine (who would have thought a hobbit would overeat or over-drink?!?) and reveals the true nature of Frodo's burden, Faramir has them trapped, in a cave, surrounded by a whole troop of men... and yet, true to his word, he does not fall as his brother did:

'Now look here, sir!' He (Sam) turned, facing up to Faramir with all the courage that he could muster. 'Don't you go taking advantage of my master because his servant's no better than a fool.  You've spoken very handsome all along, put me off my guard, talking of Elves and all.  But handsome is as handsome does we say.  Now's a chance to show your quality.'

'So it seems,' said Faramir, slowly and very softly with a strange smile.  'So that is the answer to all the riddles!  The One Ring that was thought to have perished from the world.  And Boromir tried to take it by force?  And you escaped?  And ran all the way--to me!  And here in the wild I have you:  two halflings, and a host of men at my call, and the Ring of Rings.  A pretty stroke of fortune!  A chance for Faramir, Captain of Gondor to show his quality! Ha!'  He stood up, very tall and stern, his grey eyes glinting.

...But Faramir sat down again in his chair and began to laugh quietly, and then suddenly became grave again.
'Alas for Boromir! It was too sore a trial!' he said.  How you have increased my sorrow, you two strange wanderers from a far country, bearing the peril of Men!  But you are less judges of Men than I of Halflings.  We are truth-speakers, we men of Gondor.  We boast seldom, and then perform, or die in the attempt. Not if I found it on the highway would I take it I said. Even if I were such a man as to desire this thing, and even though I knew not clearly what this thing was when I spoke, still I should take these words as a vow, and be held by them.'
'But I am not such a man.  Or I am wise enough to know that there are some perils from which a man must flee. Sit at peace!'

 Now, I have heard some fans posit that the existence of that middle paragraph, where Faramir stands up with glinting eyes, is sufficient grounds for the liberties that Peter Jackson took with Faramir.  This line of thought, however, is flawed:  yes, Faramir must have this moment, just as Galadriel did in Lothlorien, Gandalf did in Bag End, and Boromir did at Parth Galen.  He must truly face the temptation, in full knowledge of what Isildur's Bane is, in order to stand the test.  Had Frodo and Sam simply passed from Faramir's company without that being revealed, then Faramir would never have been faced with the true choice that is one of the key leitmotifs of the book:  succumb to the desire for the Ring (re: a desire for absolute power), or resist that siren's song?

And yes, I realize that Faramir eventually makes that choice in the movie, but only after much time, distance, and a rousing speech by Samwise that was kit-bashed from other parts of the book.  In the movie, he succumbs to the temptation, if not for his own glory, then at the very least to try to win the approval of his father.  But he succumbs, in Peter Jackon's version of the tale, if only for a short while.

I have watched a documentary in which Jackson stated that he felt, given all the screen time and lines they had devoted to convincing the viewer that no Men could resist the lure of the Ring's power, that is was inconsistent to show a man who wouldn't fall to it.

And yet, Mr. Jackson, a certain Oxford professor felt no such inconsistency.  In fact, he went out of his way to portray Faramir as a good man, with much of the old goodness of Númenor pulsing in his veins, who faced the temptation of the One Ring just as his brother did, and passed the test.  If it was good enough for J.R.R., then it should have been good enough for Jackson's script.

     Sam hesitated for a moemnt, then bowed very low:  'Good night, Captain, my lord,' he said.  'You took the chance, sir.'
     'Did I so?' said Faramir.
     'Yes, sir, and showed your quality:  the very highest.'
     Faramir smiled.  'A pert servant, Master Samwise.  But nay:  the praise of the praiseworthy is above all rewards.  Yet there was naught in this to praise.  I had no lure or desire to do other than I have done.'
     'Ah well, sir,' said Sam, 'you said my master had an elvish air; and that was good and true.  But I can say this:  you have an air too, sir that reminds me of, of--well, Gandalf, of wizards.'
     'Maybe,' said Faramir.  'Maybe you discern from far away the air of Númemor.  Good night!'

In the character of Faramir, Professor Tolkien gave us an example to aspire to... a steward of the line of Mardil, a true man of Númemor, who faced the ultimate temptation and chose to do the right thing.  It is no accident that Faramir was portrayed as such.  On the backs of such men (and women!), and with the aid of Providence and a loving God, does the human race carry on in a fallen world rife with temptations.

 

 

 

Downpours on the Downside

Here we go!

 A little over a week ago, camp reached the apex that is Parent's weekend and began the hair-raising ride down the final grade to the annual conclusion of "Our Summer Place", and the sudden collision of silence and emptiness that is a summer camp after the kids have departed.

WetCon 1,2,5
I don't see a sandbar,
do you?

The zenith of camp was marked by an unusual spate of rainy days.  It rains a lot here in Western Maine, to the point where over the years I have developed my own system for judging the amount of rainfall.  WetCon One is where I have to look at the tennis area to even see if it is raining... if there are scattered drops or a silky sheen on the courts.  WetCon Two is if puddles start to form in the low points of the rough road that runs in front of our cabin.  Further levels are determined by the river:  if the water reaches the "No Trespassing" signs camp has on the sandbar opposite my cabin; if the water reaches the tree line; and if the warning sign disappears altogether. 

So, we are used to rain here...but from the 7 years of data that I have, I tend to expect the rainy days to be more toward the beginning of camp.  Showers in June, not the end of July.   But old mother earth decided to throw us a curveball, and sent several days of solid rain that interfered with Parent's Day and 95th reunion activities, and also quashed hours of normal camp activities.  Since said activities are what the boys enjoy most, a long string of wet days can lead to the feeling that Maine has somehow let us down.

However, I would posit that rainy days are crucial to us, both in camp and in life.  Rain is nature's way of resetting itself, of calling a mandatory timeout to refresh the earth, and to give it showers that sustain life.  Here at camp, foul weather provides the boys and their minders with a respite that is desperately needed, even as it chafes the young and energetic who are confined to quarters.  (Although many love the late breakfasts that also accompany rain, since the majority of folks are those bizarre creatures that will sleep late if allowed.)

In Robert Ludlum's novel The Bourne Supremacy, the main character says at several key points in the tale that "rest is a weapon."    That phrase has always stuck with me...as a writer, I love the tight, compacted impact that it has-- the juxtaposition of something many would consider passive with one of the most aggressive things we know.  But it is true.  Rest is a much needed arrow in your quiver.  Without it, all the other things you try to do suffer, no matter how many Red Bulls you drink, or how much money you are personally shifting to Starbucks's coffers.

In modern society, we seem to have forgotten how to allot some true downtime for ourselves.  We are like Montag's wife, enraptured with our Parlor Walls and wanting yet another, spinning from screen to screen with our bellies coated in electronic remoras.  Artificial light has shortened the night to the point where whole cities are deemed to "never sleep."  And yet this frenzied state of connectedness and activity facilitates a slow but insidious erosion on the soul and the psyche.

We need downtime.

I am not a disciple of the Eastern religions, but I do believe that some of the concepts of those faith systems are real things, based on very astute observations of this world and the human condition.  The concept of balance is one.  The universe, both the real and hidden realms, are studies in balance.  I won't hit you with a list of clichés... make your own list if you want.  But the universe has balance, and needs balance--it was created that way.

We must work, and we must sleep.

We must play, and we must chill.

We need balance.

One of the reasons I love coming to Maine is that somehow the magic of this place makes me feel more rested, even though I still do my job with an array of computers and screens in my cabin.  In general, I don't watch TV and I don't stream very much.  I read.  I do art.  I enjoy the beauty of Maine when my job and duties allow.  All of this is a much needed restorative to my spirit.

But why don't I make sure that happens back in Texas?  That's on me.

Wherever you are, whatever your lot... in this frenzied modern world... find some downtime for yourself.  Accept the rainy days in your life and reset.  Let the balance come back in your life.

Let it rain.

Beauty Begets Beauty

In my writings, I have often espoused the beauty of Maine, and for good reason...there is an incredible display of beauty here, sculpted by our Creator for our enjoyment; but I have yet to discuss the beauty that Maine, and indeed much of New England, inspires in human beings, and the special way it fosters the creative process.

Literature, music, and art are the expressions of the soul of a culture, the ethos of a people.  While hard work and capitalism advances the race and pays the bills, it is this triumvirate of creativity that tells all of eternity who we are, where we feel we came from, and what we see in this world and how it affects us.  We were made by God in his image... He is a creator, and thus so are we.

We are born to create, and we were given an incredible world to inspire us to do so.

Art gallery on
Vinalhaven Island.
Both Vinalhaven and Moneghan
Islands are known for their
artistic communities.

Maine has always been a haven for artists.  You won't find a Costco anywhere in this state, but you can't turn around up here without bumping into pottery studio, or a painting class, or an artists' commune.  And, having perused only a minute portion of the artistic works created by these everyday folks living here, I can tell you most of it is right smart stuff.  There are examples everywhere of artists creating the most breath-taking works not only with traditional methods, but often with new innovations that spring from their fertile minds: the crystalline glazes invented by the potters of Edgecomb Pottery and the photography of Cole Scott, which he chemically transfers to metal sheets to create stunning images, spring to mind.

Portland storefront... the crystalline
glazes make for stunning pieces of pottery.
Get yourself one!

The synergy of this gorgeous country and the creative mind makes for a frisson of expression that can lead even the part-time artist, the hobbyist, or even a downright bungling meddler, to capture that special essence of artistic beauty in paint, or clay, or watercolor, or pen, or digital image. 

Ormo's art, when he's not snapping
kissy-face campers...
Photo courtesy Rich Ormanowski
Check out his gallery!

Our camp photographer, Rich Ormanowski, spends most of his days taking pictures of the various activities around camp (and more than a few preening and glamming campers)-- it is hard work, and he is very good at it, but most of the pictures he takes to record the life of camp do not flex his artistic muscles.   But when he allows himself some time off, and heads out into this special place?  The results are often stunning.  (If you would like to see more of Rich's artistic endeavors, please visit his gallery)

I definitely fall in the "bungling meddler" category when it comes to art, and yet Maine has even managed to inspire art through me.  Up here I got my first taste of pottery, learned to do Zentangle, and this year I am dabbling with watercolors for the first time.  Oh, the writing thing... yeah that.   After years of not having written anything on a regular basis, my summers up here have led me back to writing.

This one by yours truly.  With a cell phone.
(No, really!)  My goal is to someday paint this
in watercolor from my photo.

So, if you get to come to Maine someday, make some time in your vacation plans to visit some galleries or shops.  Relish in the created beauty and maybe buy a piece or two to support an artist that particularly touches your soul.

But if the creative spark exists in you, or you feel it once did...bring your pen.. or your charcoals... or your paints... or your journal... or even just a good quality point & shoot camera.  Let yourself get caught up in the maelstrom of creativity here.  If it's been years since you've done "X", let go and try it again.  The results just might stun you... and inspire you.

Beauty fosters beauty.

Beauty inspires beauty.

Let Maine bring out the beauty in you.

The root of summer iniquity

I wish I could tell you this was
from some archive....
well, it isn't

This post comes in the middle of a rather unusual occurrence here in Maine--a heat wave.  The large red splotch covering the national weather maps has reached its hot little fingers into Paradise and driven the temps into the mid-high 90's. 

So, you are saying... "What's the big deal?  You come from Texas!  Those temps are NOTHING!"  And you would be right, but in Texas we combat such things with this technological marvel known as air conditioning.

And so...as we swelter in the cabin and the mess hall, and look longingly at the Saco River during the work day... the heat has forced me to a confession.

The (normally) delightful climate in Maine turns me into a bit of a boogerhead.

My iniquitous behavior comes in the form of blog entries, social media entries, and sometimes direct messages to certain folks back in Texas, hooting about how nice the weather is here in our summer place.  It all started with one particular friend, a person very dear to me (you know who you are), but, like most well-directed missiles, the collateral damage amassed as time went on....
Most of the time, I really do try to be a nice guy.  (I probably don't succeed as much as I would like, and I'm sure there are those who might confirm that.)  But in this matter, I'm guilty as sin.

And now I am being hung with my own hot rope.

But...as I thought about all this, I also realized something.  As booger-headed as my actions might be to those dear friends back home, at the root of it is something else.

I really, really wish they could be here.

Please board the plane
you-know-who-you-are

If I ever found myself with untold riches, one of the first things I would do is charter private jets to bring some special people in my life up here for an all-expenses-paid trip to see my second home.

Beneath all the teasing, my heart longs to share this place with you.

One of the reasons I decided to write again here from Maine was so I could make this (very) meager attempt to impart to you the magnificence of this place with my words, and a few chosen photos.  Added to this are pictures, videos and posts that Allison and I share via Facebook or Instagram.

The part by the arrow.
That's all you get.  Sorry

But it is just a taste... like licking the mixing bowl for chocolate chip cookie dough, after a particularly thorough mother has scraped it all out with a spatula.
So, my friends, forgive me the teasing.  Trust that I wish with all my being that I could float the Saco River with you, or hike up to Emerald Pool, or sail in Casco Bay, or kayak in Sebago Lake...

But let's wait until Friday, when this heat wave breaks, hmmmm?

A day of drizzling perfection

"Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain..."

-- The Cascades

Funny guy... you should listen
to his stuff sometime.

The Maine comedian Tim Sample has a bit where he talks about the "Five Perfect Summer Days" in Maine...the idea being that vacationers like myself come up here during the summer, experience one of those five days, and become so enamored of Maine to wish to move there permanently.  They then discover the joys of the long hard winters, the May O' Mud, and other non-summer trials that the locals can tell you all about.

The hidden side of the joke is that Mr. Sample says specifically five days.  He knows, as does anyone who spends a long period of time here during the summer, that even the months of June, July, and August can present some mercurial weather.   The biggest culprit in this, especially in the western half of Maine in the shadow of the White Mountains, is rain.

A soggy camp

Rain is the "forced reset" mechanism at our camp.  Camp changes when the day is entirely marked by rain... there are no boys playing sports on the upper fields... the tennis courts are deserted until the water goes away and the surfaces have been jet-blown and squeegeed.  If the administration knows (with as much assurance as anyone can have about weather forecasts) that the day will be rainy, they might even announce "late breakfast," which also means everyone can sleep in another hour.  As I write this post, my lovely bride is taking full advantage of that extra hour.  Almost everyone loves it when late breakfast rears its head.

I say almost, because I am an early riser, and I like to eat a hearty breakfast; and, unless the said rainy day occurs on the weekend, I have to start my normal job somewhat on time, no matter what time the mess hall opens.  So I combat the elements with an umbrella, a quick trip to the gym (to workout indoors!), and then I jaunt up to Lovell, ME, to a lovely little store & diner called Rosie's.   I get a great breakfast, Rosie gets some of my money, and there is even a 0.0005% chance I might see Stephen King having breakfast there as well--it has been known to happen.

But back at my desk in the cabin, I sat and listened to the rain...and I realized that this day is no less perfect than any sunny day I get here in paradise.  True, it's not as much fun, or even advisable, to go out and shoot archery or kayak or hike, but there is an inordinate amount of peace you can get just sitting in this cabin and watching the rain, listening to it, savoring the sounds and smells and sights of the Earth refreshing itself.

I realized that I can hear the rain in this cabin far better than I could in a house.  There is no insulation to interfere, and the lack of an interior ceiling makes the muted drops on the roof quite audible to one who listens for it.

Rainy days are vital to Nature;  today I realized they are vital to us as well... we all need time to contemplate, and to meditate.  Yes, it is uplifting to the soul to spend time in God's creation, floating down the lovely Saco River or paddling Moose Pond.  But...if you can see the opportunities that a rainy day presents... a chance to read, maybe peruse some poetry, or do a crossword puzzle, write a blog entry.. or a poem!...or to just sit and think... and to do all that to the soft serenade that whispers all around you... you realize that maybe this day is a perfect Maine summer day as well.