Nostalgic Signs

Clarksville Train Station
Clarksville, Tennessee

     Nostalgic moments are weirdly unpredictable. Yesterday, I remembered my first train ride. One minute I was having a conversation and the next I was in the mid 1960's, I was 9, and my Cub Scout Den was taking a field trip to a small town in Kentucky to see one of the banks robbed by the infamous Jesse James. 

     The train car smelled of musty wood. The seating consisted of old park benches, bolted to the floor. In the back of the car was a pot bellied stove. Nine-year-old butts are squirmy, especially with the prospect of banks and bandits looming up the tracks. Maybe Jesse dropped a bullet. I was determined to find one. My Mom was seated beside me, keeping me seated beside her with that 'look' that only Mom's possess.


     Nostalgia is a strange pond. Some days it seems larger, better than you remembered. Other days you feel there should be a 'No Fishing' sign. Funny thing about my first train ride- I don't remember the arrival, only the ride.

A nostalgic moment, a video from one of my former students-

99.9 °F from Harrison Keller on Vimeo.

A Face, A Book and a friend

The Most Powerful Button in the World

    

 I have 485 friends. I know because I just checked my Facebook. Of course, I've never met some of them. When I was in High School I could count my friends on one hand. On the other hand, well, things were different then. My 'friends' sat with me at the same lunch table. The word 'friend' was more often a noun than a verb. I certainly couldn't 'add' (or remove) a friend with the click of a button. Not long ago I received two friend requests, both from former High School classmates. One request was from the least popular girl in my class, the other was from the most popular (my perspective). I don't remember ever speaking to either. Thanks to Facebook, the great leveler of humanity, I can now be 'friends' with both. 

Carpet Buffet

My first teaching experience involved helping Mrs. Lambert with her four-year-old Sunday School class. Mrs. Lambert was a master teacher. Four-year-olds exude passion without apology and she had a gentle strength that would comfort without compromise. They laugh, they cry, they sing, they dance, they play, shifting from one to the next as swiftly as the turned pages of waiting room magazines.


There was a time when the classroom supply of Play-doh began to decrease. Then, we realized that Johnny (name changed) was eating it. And one Sunday morning it was gone. Johnny had eaten every can of play-doh in the room. He was, however, not finished. From the corner of my eye, during a song, I noticed Johnny had his face to the floor. He had discovered a patch of dried doh and was gnawing it from the carpet. Johnny's doh pica was undaunted by the empty cans. 


I wonder, what appetites take me to the carpet? 

Taste and See

"Nothing exists in the intellect that has not first gone through the senses."

Plutarch

Seeing, hearing, smelling, touching and tasting; my senses are beautiful gifts, with each being proximity relational. My sight allows me to view stars- millions of miles afar. My taste, however, requires closeness.  


Yesterday ended a 21-Day fast from pleasure reading. Yesterday was Yom Kippur. I didn't plan the fast around the High Holy Day, but I am grateful for the timing.


The Children of Israel are known as People of the Book, stewards of the Word of God. After hearing that expression, many years ago, my love for Judaism began.


The Psalmist wrote, "Taste and see that the Lord is good."
In Him, things afar draw near.


So, I will begin again with my reading.

Black and White

The Way Home
Michael Carter

"We never really know enough until we recognize that God alone knows it all."

I Corinthians 8:2,3

The Message

Reading Fast-Day 14. Sunday.

Yesterday I read this note from the margin of my Bible-

'The Baal Shem Tov taught that every person is allotted a given number of words during his life. When he has used up his quota, he dies. Thus, by guarding his tongue, one assures himself of greater longevity.'

The writer of Proverbs put it this way, "Words kill and words give life. You choose." 

We don't fully know the personal importance of anything until we choose to avoid it. For 14 days I have chosen to avoid the reading of books and I am wrestling with my restlessness. Ink on paper; 'agreed upon' vertical and horizontal strokes we call letters shape meanings that direct our thoughts. Is it really that black and white? The gestalt of a book astounds me.


This morning I read:
"The words of wise men are like goads, and masters of these collections are like well-driven nails; they are given by one shepherd. But beyond this, my son, be warned: The writing of many books is endless, and excessive devotion to books is wearying to the body." Eccl. 12:11,12. (italics mine)


In the margin, after this passage, I had written this quote:

"You have made us for Yourself, and our hearts are restless until they rest in You."

Augustine, Confessions

A song from Steve Earle

Whiteboards, Blackboards and Wordscapes

"It is not enough to like good books.

You must be a good book yourself."

Francois de Fenelon

1651-1715

"In the beginning was the Word.."

John 1:1

Today is day seven of my fast and my books are calling to me. I love books. The affair began with Pop's Reader's Digest Condensed collection. They made a good highway for Matchbox cars. The uniform size and large quantity afforded me bridges, tunnels- even skyscrapers to frame my literary landscapes. Everything changed when one day I looked inside them. I discovered wordscapes. My Mom allowed me to join a Book of the Month club, in lieu of allowance. Still, five decades later, books remain my highway.  But it is from books I am fasting.

Sunday, my wife asked, "Why do you read so much?"

My immediate response was, "It interests me." I knew there was more but I couldn't articulate more. So I  pondered that question the rest of the day. Then it occurred to me, the truer reason why I read- first, I continually seek answers to a never ending list of questions and second, I want to know what others think.

These titles patiently await my return:

Visio Divina

edited by Mel Ahlborn and Ken Arnold

Universe of Stone

by Philip Ball

Bright Earth

by Philip Ball

The Artist's Rule

by Christine Valters Paintner

The War of Art

by Steven Pressfield

Rumors of Water

by L.L. Barkat

and

A Long Obedience in the Same Direction

by Eugene Peterson

I haven't placed all reading on hold, just 'informational pleasure' reading. For twenty one days I have chosen to read Scripture, work-related emails and student work only (I teach a creative writing class... I can't ignore their words for three weeks. If you'd like to read some of their words, click here).  I have noticed that, while I am not reading more scripture, I am 'chewing' on the text longer. After all, one of the purposes of fasting is re-focusing, restoring clarity to our time-perspectives through reflection, or as they say in the South, "Chewin' on somethin' different for a spell." As an aside, I've noticed notes and drawings that have worked themselves into my Bible. Here are a couple of them, transcribed to my Moleskine pocket journal:

Theatrum Dei
Calvin Seerveld

Four Stages of Mastery
Lance Wallnau

As I reflected on the sketches, I thought about the lectures associated with them. Both, Dr. Seerveld and Mr. Wallnau, used Whiteboards for visual aid. I like chalk. It's earthy. I like the residue of words on my fingertips. Sometimes I let it remain. But, this is the 21st Century. This is the age of the Whiteboard.


Fourteen days of "chewin' on somethin' different" remain.


Here is a photo from one of my lectures for you to chew on- 

The Hands and Feet of Art
Michael Carter

Photo by
Samuel Carter

sacro speco

There is a wet chill on the deck this morning so I grab a jacket from the hall closet. I am in sweat pants, a t-shirt and a tweed jacket. A spectacle for none to see. In the near distance a woodpecker is searching for breakfast. This is my 'alone-time' with God, my sacro speco. Him, me, coffee and Harry. Harriet is her name but we call her Harry.


Harry came to us, or as my wife says, "was brought to us". It happened in Memphis, Tennessee. One day there were two cats on our deck. One was small, the other 'looked rough', battle weary. Memphis can be hard on a cat. "He looks like an Ozzie," my wife said (alluding to a rock star of that name). "How about Ozzie and Harriet?" Perfect. Ozzie stayed for a day or two. My wife said that Ozzie was making sure Harry had a good home.