Why Don't You Go Outside or Something?

A light sweat drips down my cheeks as I head down into the trees from the mountain peak. I've just spent a satisfying hour picking my way up the rocky slopes of Mount Finlayson, clambering over boulders, the hot afternoon sun beating down on me, lighting the surrounding environment ablaze in all its brilliant beauty. The world is beautiful. A sculpture of God's magnificence. He paints the world in broad strokes of green and brown, a dash of yellow and purple, a streak of blue. All around us He molds such unique beauty, every stone or leaf its own singular expression of His creativity, as if to shout, "Here I am, look what I've done for you." That He should allow us to live in this world, experience it, touch it, see it, smell it, feel ourselves and it in perfect interaction, a perfection far greater than our narrow and selfishly defined ideas of "imperfection," is one of His greatest gifts to us. My feet step heavily, my body tired and thirsty, the heat and the rough trail a hindrance, a challenge: the perfect God experience of the imperfect human experience. My mind is elsewhere.

It's on my approaching exam. The one I haven't studied for. Not the one tomorrow, I've done plenty of studying for that one. My philosophy of mind exam on Saturday night (I've been thinking about becoming a Seventh Day Adventist just so I can get out of writing exams scheduled on Saturday by claiming Religious discrimination). I really should be studying for it rather than being out here. If I don't I'll probably only end up with a B (or worse), rather than an A- or better to keep myself up to that oh so wondrous A average that's oh so important to me. Then it hits me.

I don't care.

Really, I don't care. It's my last exam of my entire undergraduate career, in a course that has no bearing on my career. Who cares if I don't get that A on this one? I don't. I doubt an employer would. The exam is going to happen whether or not I'm prepared for it, and then it will be over. Is it really worth my time to put my life on hold just for two hours of writing and a stupid letter?

That's not to say I don't find the material interesting or engaging. But spending the whole day holed up in my room, reading and re-writing notes till my eyes and brain are dry is hardly what I would call, "engaging." Sure I could spend hours pouring over the opinions of a bunch of self important (though admittedly very intelligent) guys who decided that their definition of the way the world works is the right one (because it makes sense... wait... isn't that what faith is about... but I digress). I could learn all the pretentious and needlessly complex terms created by a bunch of folks who wanted to make their "science" exclusive. I could spend hours reading about how no one knows how to physically define the conscious experience (yet don't want to throw it out because "they experience it," so it must be real... sound familiar?) Or, I could simply enjoy HAVING a conscious experience.

So often we're more concerned with defining experiences: recalling them, recording them. We spend our moments trying to keep the important bits in our head, to recall or retell them later, rather than just experiencing and appreciating those moments for what they give us at that very moment. Through science and mathematics we can develop the most intricate and accurate models of the word's complex workings: weather systems, particle interaction, the physical interplay between light and matter in a sunset, all are definable and quantifiably describable. A team of engineers may design the perfect race car, performing thousands of design calculations and creating hundreds of computer models. Within all that they can obtain the specifications, every minute detail, for building the perfect race car. Yet they've no more (and less so) made a race car than a father and son have on a Saturday afternoon using some plywood and and an old lawnmower.

Often, I think, we forget to simply have experiences, to feel things. Who cares why or how we experience it, or what it is? Just be content that it exists and that we get to experience it. We are too content, even obsessed with, representations of the world. A set of ideas and characters are useless if not written down in a book. A set of notes alone does not make a song, or we would have no need for singers or instruments. A script alone does not make a movie, or we would have no need for directors, actors, cinematographers or special effects wizes. These are all experiences that must be... ahem... experienced. What good is a book that is never written nor read, a song that is never sung nor heard, a movie that is never filmed nor watched?

So I say good riddance to this incessant pursuit of "knowledge." Sure there is an important need for a deeper understanding of the workings of God's world. There is awe to be found there too. But I'd much rather feel it than just read about it. Besides, what good are watching the DVD extras if you haven't first seen the movie itself?

Walk of Faith or Survival of the Selfish?

I finished reading Cormac McCarthy’s The Road (are novels italicised or underlined?) a couple days ago. In it, a father and son slowly make their way across the ashen remains of the United States of America, heading toward the sea, “carrying the fire,” as the father tells his son. They are the “good guys,” and everyone else is held up to suspicion as a “bad guy,” and most are—horrific suggestions of cannibalism and accounts of mankind at its worst abound in the book. A clear sense of hope drives the two forward, each sustained by the other, fellowship, friendship, father and son ship (ships seem like the place to be for community these days). They pick their way across the land—lightless and lifeless—with the simple hope that something better lies ahead. Their journey is an inspired illustration of hope and love in uncertain times, when the world around them has collapsed into a selfish bid for survival, human dignity be damned.

Yet, ever so often they come across other “good guys:” A shuffling victim of a lightning strike, his flesh burnt; a blind old man; a desperate thief. Maybe they’re “lost guys?” There is reluctance on the part of the father to help these people. They ignore the man struck by lightning, and strip the thief not only of what he stole from them, but the clothes off his back. Even the old man, whom they feed and spend the night with at the behest of the boy, is left to fend for himself, too slow to keep up with them. Why should they help them? In such desperate times, it’s every man for himself, right? Their provisions are nearly non-existent, why waste them on another sole, especially one who is sure to die?

I wonder how often we as Christians act like this. We push on through this life of troubles with the hope and faith that beyond God has prepared something much greater for us. We carry the fire of God’s torch, proclaiming to be the “good guys.” Yet, when we come across the lost ones, we ignore them. Why should we let them hinder our Journey? It’s easier just to pass them by—maybe drop them a Bible or a few encouraging, or worse, reproachful, Scripture passages.

I wonder how often on my Journey to draw closer to God, do I come across those who are lost on their way (as if I too am not always lost), and ignore them, even strip them down in my mind, because I won’t let anyone or anything stop me from achieving full righteousness in the eyes of God; anyone or anything but myself of course, I’m happy to cease that Journey if I think I can survive off a nice distraction for a while (The father and son spend days stopped at an underground bunker, feeding on the abundant, preserved food they find there).

In the end, how am I any better than the “bad guys?” They commit terrible acts in a selfish bid for survival, but so do I. I selfishly ignore those I might give aid to, just so I can make it to where I believe God wants me to be, afraid I might not survive the Journey otherwise. As a self ascribed “good guy,” my Destination and Journey may be right, but my conduct is just as reproachful. But then who am I to suppose God wants me to be somewhere else on this Journey? Should I be closer to, or even at the end? Is there an end? Maybe I’m right where God wants me to be. If my faith is true, God will ensure the safe end to my Journey. Maybe He wants me to stop and water the roses.

The Engineer's Poem

Elasticity,

It governs this city.

Our Buildings,

Our Bridges

Tower around us,

Monotonous.

Pushed towards the edges,

Of our world.

Covering it all.

Built up around principles

Trusted and proven,

A web of cables and beams,

Of welded seams,

Woven

About a concrete canvas.

Tension and compression hold it in balance.

A delicate dance

To avoid the Fall.

We are elastic.

It defines us,

Our feeble flesh

Like a rickety old sign

Pointing the way to our end.

Lasting only by our own stubborn design.

We bear our loads,

And spring back.

Never understanding fully

Their impact,

Their weight.

We feel their pull,

And ignore the cracks.

Like the force at a node,

We approximate our Fate.

With approximations numerical,

We do our best to understand.

The strain,

The pain.

We feel the stress of this dying land

Yet we do not yield even a fraction.

By Newton’s Third we resist

Action and reaction.

Not realising it is by our own stubbornness

That these forces still exist

So to you we call,

The great designer.

Tear down this city,

With its cold steel walls.

We pray that we no longer resist you

In those moments when you untwist us

Shape us

Form us.

Bend us.

Deform us,

With plasticity.

Part 3: The Human

I close my eyes. The sounds whir around my head, through my head. The rustle of leaves swoops down from somewhere behind. The soft, low hum of the wind swirls and dances around me, wrapping me in a cool cocoon. The cracking and snapping of twigs and sticks clambers up my legs, up my body, and writhes its way into my ears. I shudder. A bird chirps. Somewhere in the distance I hear the lonely drone of a car as it winds its way down the road. My heart skips, then stumbles. I listen carefully, but the rumbling sound of the engine seems to come from every direction. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter— listening, thinking, concentrating. I open my eyes again. I’m still lost.

It’s all my fault, of course. No one told me to go check out the new hiking trail, if you can even call it that, on my own. I’m sure if I even told anyone where I was going, they’d have told me not to go alone. But why would I want someone else to be co-explorer of MY trail? I found the thing. Besides, I like going on my own. It lets me think. I don’t have to listen to someone else blabber on about who cares what. It’s just me and my mind. I like it that way. I get along with myself, for the most part.

Now look where the stupid thing has gotten me. Well, actually, I have no idea where it’s gotten me. I’m lost. That’s the whole point of being lost. You don’t know where you are. I decide to run haphazardly around a bit. I see people doing it in the movies all the time when they’re lost in the forest. I think it must be some sort of reverse psychology tactic on the space time continuum; make it think you’re trying to get more lost, that it ends up letting you get un-lost. Of course, it never seems to work for those people in the movies. They usually run around randomly until they fall down a steep embankment, only to pull their faces out of the mud at the bottom to find that they’re even more screwed than before. But then again, I’ve already gotten my self lost in the forest alone, so you can’t be expecting any rational thought on my part at this point.

I sprint through the forest at full tilt. Actually, I’m pretty much upright with little tilt to my body, except the times when I need to duck under a low hanging tree branch, but only the big ones. Twigs and small branches whip my face. I squint my eyes as the branches claw and tear at my skin, stinging with an acute pain. But my mind is oblivious to it, focusing on one thing—nothing. I’m lost now in my own mind, unconsciously striding through the trees, the thick ferns brushing my bare legs.

My mind is dark. Nothing flows through it. All thought is gone. I’m running on pure instinct. The whole forest twists and sighs around me. My vision flashes between the empty darkness of my mind, and the incomprehensible greens and browns, and splashes of soft white streams, of my blurred vision. I feel the ground underneath growing soft, wet. I know what’s coming. I try to stop, but I’m no longer in control of my legs. I slip.

One moment, the world is racing around me; the next, I’m staring into the mud. I pull myself up, my legs trembling. I rub my hand on my shorts, smearing the remains of a beetle into them. My vision narrows as the trees around me slowly stop spinning. In front of me lies a great log.

The log stretches, for miles it seems, in either direction. It looks squished, sagging under its own weight, the remains of a once great tree, humbled by the invisible, the formless, gravity. Its once thick bark covering is now gone, long since rotted away. I lean against it to rest and it caves in under my weight, its soft inside crumpling into a powder of dusty wood. I pull my hand out of the stinking corpse of the tree.

Along its top, a little ways down from where I stand, I see a flash of bluish purple. I hobble over, my ankle still hurting from my fall. I hadn’t really noticed it until now. As I draw closer a myriad of colour bursts from the top of the fallen tree. Purple, blue and yellow flowers blossom forth, their roots digging deep in the trees great well of nutrients. The greens—some soft and pale, others vivid and bright, still others dark yet no less beautiful—of ferns, ivies, and other plants (I’m not a botanist, I’m doing the best I can here) clothe the rotting tree. Simply put, it’s beautiful. From the very top of the tree I see a new one growing. A small sapling has sprung up from the bruised and broken side of its fallen brother. And beyond this little tree I see it. A sign, it reads:

Lord Nebby The Giant: Worlds Tallest Tree.

And beyond the sign, lies a well marked trail.

Part Two: The Beetle

She squinted her eyes in the darkness, peering into the distance through the mist, towards it. The spire stretched upward, silhouetted, obscured, its shape shifting behind the veiled layers of fog as they lazily glided back and forth. Its top disappeared into the dark clouds, unimpeded by their oppressive weight as they hung low over the world; an occasional flash of light; a sudden, intense glow from within their depths and a low growl to remind all of their power.

She lurched sideways, caught by a sudden blast of wind. Another grabbed her, an invisible hand, crushing her in a fist of competing air pressures, and tossed her spiralling downward. Her mind reeled as she struggled to regain control. Below the sea of green seemed to rise, clawing its way up towards her, long fingers thrashing back and forth, grasping wildly at the air. The waves danced and undulated, one moment together, almost hypnotic, the next in unruly discord, choreographed by their temperamental conductor, sending up a green spray, needle like, that danced in his arms before being let loose, and dropping down beneath their swaying tips. Another gust caught her, heaving her upward. She looked down, the green fingers softly screaming in protest as she was pulled upward back into the sky, away from them.

A pocket of still air gave her a momentary chance to regain control, and she pressed forward again, flying toward the spire. She kept her eyes fixed on it. At this distance it seemed to stand motionless, unaffected by the tumultuous weather. It stood upright and proud, like a militant commander, above an endless mass of marching soldiers below, the winds carrying his command through the thick air. She faltered, she feared him, but knew she must take refuge from the weather. If she could reach the spire she knew the illusion would slip away, for that’s all she feared, and she could find respite there from the winds.

Something flashed by her, disappearing into the green mass below. Another hurtled down in front of her; another grazed her wing, sending up a cold mist, as it plunged downward. Suddenly, with a brilliant flash and a great shout, the clouds above exploded, sending out a burst of shimmering, transparent flak. She flung herself from side to side, diving then climbing sharply again, dodging the bits of falling cloud. They whizzed by, one after another, on top of another, encasing her, trapping her in a cage of shifting bars. Another flash of light from above— the plummeting crystal orbs surrounding her caught the light, spraying it outward again, blinding her. Her body shook violently as one struck her. Cold, wet, she spiralled downward. Her muscles tensed as her wings quickened their pace, beating with a more hurried thrumming. She regained control once again.

The spire loomed closer now, she was nearly there. Through the mist and rain she could make out his features better now. Like thousands of twisted, ugly arms, his branches jutted out in all directions, covered in needles like course hair. Water cascaded down his gnarled bark. She hurtled herself inward, taking refuge under a branch, huddled close against his trunk. He shook angrily, throwing her off. She tumbled downward, the wind violently shaking his branches all around her. They swung at her, grabbing, striking, and throwing her to the ground. She struck the dirt of the forest floor. Picking herself up, she crawled towards one of his roots, slipping underneath it as it burst from the ground, arching upward, before plunging back down into the muddied earth.

She dug, all six limbs ripping up dirt and rotting plant as she tunnelled beneath the root. Deeper and deeper she clawed her way into the earth, trying to escape the violent wind and rain. She heard him moan indifferently from above, insensitive to her plight. She felt a cold rush as rain water flooded her tunnel, engulfing her in a wet, soggy quagmire. The water seeped through the dirt all around her, softening it, loosening it.

He moaned louder now, staggering sideways. She could feel the earth around her opening up slightly. More rain rushed in, tearing apart his foot hold. Then, almost silently, he began to fall. The earth loosed its grip on his roots. Slowly the great beast stumbled, striking the ground with a deafening THUD!

Part One: The Tree

He stood in the middle of the forest. Well, generally speaking it was the middle. The borders of the forest traced a decidedly irregular shape, so geometrically (or would that be geographically?) speaking it would be near impossible to define the exact middle (or centre) of the forest without resorting to some nasty calculus and making some assumptions regarding the shape of the forest... but I digress... what I mean is that he was nowhere near any of the borders of the forest, of which technically there is only one, which encompasses the forest in an irregular shape as previously mentioned, but I thought I'd remind you anyway. He was The Tree. Not the Tree, with 'the' beginning with a lowercase 't,' but The Tree, with an upper case 'T' beginning the word 'The' (and the word 'Tree' for that matter). Kind of like how we call really cool people in our society, 'The Man," or, "The Woman (Okay that one's a bit awkward sounding... not that women can't be cool)." Yes he was The Tree (in case you missed its mention the first couple times, or for that matter didn't read the title); tall and powerful, he stood above the surrounding trees... and bushes, though I'm sure that's obvious to most people's immaginations (though the alternative might make for some pretty cool visuals... but I shant go there).

His (or her... but I won't get into discussions of tree sexuality here) roots stretched deep into the earth, penetrating the soft soil, clawing their way around the roots of the surrounding flora, and squeezed through the crevaces in the bedrock before anchoring themselves to said bedrock. Near his base-- which might cleverly be refered to as his butt in a bit of low-brow, messed up, metaphoric analogy funny making, but I'm not going to go there, oh wait I just did-- his immense trunk, with its thick knobly bark, made for a nice photo spot for someone wishing to show of the massiveness of the trunk by having herself attempt to hug the tree by unsuccessfulling wrapping her arms around it; it tappered gradually upward towards a blunted point at his peak, hundreds of feet above the forest floor. His boughs, some long and twisted, other short and the opposite of twisted, some medium length and somewhere in between twisted and not twisted in which it really comes down to a matter of personal judgment as to the degree of twistyness to define them as twisted or not, and others falling into some other category defining their dimensions and orientations jutted out from his trunk in all directions except one; given that his trunk could more or less be described as having a circular cross-section, there are in effect, an infinite number of directions from which his boughs could jutt out in, and thus it follows that there must be at least one direction in which the boughs do not jutt out since they can only jutt out in a finite number of directions.

Yes, he was a formidible tree. He looked just like all the other trees, and in fact was just like them in every way with regards to function and internal chemical processes. Yet, he was taller, bigger and wiser (metaphorically speaking, or so one might use that as a way to stereotype his prodigious grandeur) than all the other trees, and so was better than them for it. He was master of the forest-- watchtree and protector. If it were not for his presense, those nasty humans, with their blunt teeth, scrawny arms and manicured fingernails would have long ago invaded the forest and stripped it of its natural and percieved supernatural beauty to put up another shopping mall or some other waste of space and money. But thanks to his massive size, and some arbitrary human law derived from our own vanity that size does matter and thus we must protect things that are really big because they're somehow "special," the men were kept at bay, and so both himself and the surrounding forest were protected, not that he needed the other trees around; though they did make for nice, if slightly anemic, company.

Nothing could ruin him, destroy him, bring him down. He snickered as the wind rustled his needles (did I forget to mention, he's a coniferous tree), in its feeble attempt to blow him over. He was imovable, impenetrable, and immobile. He was the greatest tree in all the forest; he knew it, and all others did as well.