I have tried, in the past, to write about mountain biking. But it tends to fall flat, becoming either over sentimental and cliche or hopelessly lost in vague-ry and stereotypes. However it would be unfair to downplay the importance biking has had on my experience in Bellingham -- ultimately mountain biking brought me to a healthier place (spiritually and emotionally) and led me into a relationship with my, next to my wife, the closest friend I have had since high school.
A few years ago, after the birth of our first son, in the throws of post part em depression (which triggered a host of other things) my wife entered a journey of intense spiritual healing and counseling. After initial skepticism, which I wholeheartedly regret, I threw my full support behind her and walked faithfully with her on her journey. A lot of what was revealed to her in the process was too much to bear alone and I have done my best to bear it with her. Through the grace of God, we have walked faithfully on this journey together. But I could not have done this without an external outlet into which I could pour my angst and sorrow and the horrifying range of emotions that I found myself struggling with.
At about the same time, maybe just after, I was, through a mutual friend, introduced to a local cabinet/furniture builder who was also a pretty devoted mountain biker. It so happened that we mutually needed a friend, initially to ride with. Me as I had been out of the sport for some time and before we had met had not really even thought of riding as a realistic outlet, he because the guys he rode with were generally much older and coming from a radically different place in life. We started riding together.
My friend and I rode together frequently, sharing our life experience on the long climbs up and gradually becoming very close. Without his friendship life in Bellingham would have been a much harder life to bear. With out biking into which I could dump my emotional refuse life would have been much harder to bear.
Galbraith mountain became, gradually, my sanctuary and escape and has taken on a reverent place in my life. My bike (a transition covert, the latest in my biking journey) is a money pit which I alternately neglect and spend too much time with is the medium upon which I have connected closest to Bellingham and my closest friend.
There will be riding in our new location -- where ever there are hills there will be those of us on two wheels building trails and pushing the boundaries -- but it will not be Galbraith Mountain which has become so much more than a system of trails.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Monday, June 25, 2012
Reflections on Bellingham: Out of Isolation
Yesterday dawned on the beginning of our last week in Bellingham -- literally -- we will be loading the trailer and driving out on Saturday. It has been a tumultuous 11 years in Bellingham in which I have run the gamut of human emotion. From the desperate isolation of the new guy in town to the euphoria of getting married and watching my children come into the world and all those experiences and feelings that come between that make up the rhythm of our lives. Today, while mountain biking on Galbraith Mountain, I was reflecting on Western Washington University (WWU), the reason I moved here in the first place.
My wife is wanting to take a walk, with our boys, across the campus, go back the beginning, as it were, and I am sure that spurred on this reflection. I drive here in a '93 v.w. golf, 4 door, with a yakima rack for my skiis and my bike, trunk full of cloths and climbing gear and camping gear and a head full of energy and fear. The majority of my gear stayed packed in boxes as I found I was a very small fish in a very small pond and everyone around me had the shape and speed of a predator.
I withdrew into a desperate search for a job (I had to pay the rent and I ended up with two) and a place to live, both happening at the same time. I moved into a little room in a big house and promptly became best friends, then romantically entangled with, the woman who would become my wife. I struggled with work and school and besides my bride to be I made few friends and when she applied for an Americorps position on the east coast I went to Australia. We re-united in Bellingham, got married, had kids, and have struggled to build a life here, watching friends move away and building our way out of isolation and into community one day at a time. But it has been a slow, long slog out of darkness and desperation for us as we have struggled to identify who we are, build on our dreams, on our marriage, and raise our children. Just now, at the end, can I look around me and identify a tangible community of friends and neighborhood, at the end, as we prepare to leave.
A couple of months ago I was working on small custom home with a local general contractor. I was nailing together sky light boxes -- that would then be fastened to the roof, flashed, and covered with a sky light -- with my framing nail gun, which "bump fires" (when trigger is pulled, the nose of the gun needs to be pressed against the work piece for a nail to shoot) and I double shot a nail which went past my sky light and into the pointer finger of my left hand which was holding things steady. The nail went through the big knuckle, out the other side and pierced the skin of my middle finger an inch away. I looked at my hand, saw the nail going through my glove and pulled it out. This entire sequence took less than 10 seconds. I wrapped my finger in tissue from the porta-john and duct tape, creating a splint of sorts, and went on to finish the day in near constant pain, though I had full mobility (two months later my finger still hurts to high heaven if it gets bumped or have done a lot of heavy lifting or a lot of breaking on my bike).
This incident was a microcosm of my life in Bellingham, taking on injury and pain in isolation and bearing it as best I can, finding inner strength and carrying on with the day as it comes. I have chosen to bear the burdens of my family, be the provider and to sacrifice, not always cheerfully but certainly willingly, to lift them up and carry them through the darkness.
I would like to dodge a bullet here and say that the strength I rely on comes from me, it is all buried within my innate human nature to summon reserves of strength and determination. But I am a weak person and I can only stand as determined and capable man by the strength of God. No matter how I fail to live in his image, no matter how I resist engaging the living God in relationship and worship, He always gives me the strength to be the man I have to be -- not for myself but for my wife and my children.
As I look back on WWU, looking forward to a walk across its ever evolving campus, I look back at the begining of a journey with God, one in which he carried me through isolation, depression, and darkness, and delivered me into my family, into community, and into a place from which I can confidently lead my family into the future.
My wife is wanting to take a walk, with our boys, across the campus, go back the beginning, as it were, and I am sure that spurred on this reflection. I drive here in a '93 v.w. golf, 4 door, with a yakima rack for my skiis and my bike, trunk full of cloths and climbing gear and camping gear and a head full of energy and fear. The majority of my gear stayed packed in boxes as I found I was a very small fish in a very small pond and everyone around me had the shape and speed of a predator.
I withdrew into a desperate search for a job (I had to pay the rent and I ended up with two) and a place to live, both happening at the same time. I moved into a little room in a big house and promptly became best friends, then romantically entangled with, the woman who would become my wife. I struggled with work and school and besides my bride to be I made few friends and when she applied for an Americorps position on the east coast I went to Australia. We re-united in Bellingham, got married, had kids, and have struggled to build a life here, watching friends move away and building our way out of isolation and into community one day at a time. But it has been a slow, long slog out of darkness and desperation for us as we have struggled to identify who we are, build on our dreams, on our marriage, and raise our children. Just now, at the end, can I look around me and identify a tangible community of friends and neighborhood, at the end, as we prepare to leave.
A couple of months ago I was working on small custom home with a local general contractor. I was nailing together sky light boxes -- that would then be fastened to the roof, flashed, and covered with a sky light -- with my framing nail gun, which "bump fires" (when trigger is pulled, the nose of the gun needs to be pressed against the work piece for a nail to shoot) and I double shot a nail which went past my sky light and into the pointer finger of my left hand which was holding things steady. The nail went through the big knuckle, out the other side and pierced the skin of my middle finger an inch away. I looked at my hand, saw the nail going through my glove and pulled it out. This entire sequence took less than 10 seconds. I wrapped my finger in tissue from the porta-john and duct tape, creating a splint of sorts, and went on to finish the day in near constant pain, though I had full mobility (two months later my finger still hurts to high heaven if it gets bumped or have done a lot of heavy lifting or a lot of breaking on my bike).
This incident was a microcosm of my life in Bellingham, taking on injury and pain in isolation and bearing it as best I can, finding inner strength and carrying on with the day as it comes. I have chosen to bear the burdens of my family, be the provider and to sacrifice, not always cheerfully but certainly willingly, to lift them up and carry them through the darkness.
I would like to dodge a bullet here and say that the strength I rely on comes from me, it is all buried within my innate human nature to summon reserves of strength and determination. But I am a weak person and I can only stand as determined and capable man by the strength of God. No matter how I fail to live in his image, no matter how I resist engaging the living God in relationship and worship, He always gives me the strength to be the man I have to be -- not for myself but for my wife and my children.
As I look back on WWU, looking forward to a walk across its ever evolving campus, I look back at the begining of a journey with God, one in which he carried me through isolation, depression, and darkness, and delivered me into my family, into community, and into a place from which I can confidently lead my family into the future.
Monday, June 18, 2012
I Am Convinced that Fear is a the Root of Most Bad Writing
"I am convinced that fear is at the root of most bad writing." (Stephen King, On Writing) I am certain that fear is the reason my writing suffers. In the past I have made excuses for my writing, or lack thereof, chief among them being that I don't have time to write but when the time presents itself I lack the discipline to enter into a process of writing, afraid of starting a project that will languish unexplored but a non-committal writer.
For a long time I have believed that being a writer meant I got paid to write and the key of becoming a paid writer was pursuing a graduate degree in writing. That somehow a MFA is a silver bullet that will slay my fears and lack of discipline and rocket me into a life of writing and literature. While I am sure that it would give me a leg up in the field, it is not the silver bullet I once believed. I believe there are two things that constitute a writer being a writer. A person must write and have a readership, or strive for a readership.
There was a time that writers struggled a solitary existence working at all manners of poetry and prose, sharing their work with a couple of select readers and submitting it to various publications who would then, for a long time, reject their work. The writers in question would continue a disciplined life of writing until they were no longer rejected or they would give up. With the endless availability of blogs, a readership is a mouse click away. It is so easy for a writer to share work with the world at large and full fill the two requirements necessary (in my opinion) to be a writer: writing and readers.
I have always dreamed of living a literary life, the principles involved have always come fairly easily to me. I read voraciously and write with competence. But I am hindered by fear, fear of the work involved, fear of rejection, fear of exposing a vulnerable heart, fear of failing to live up to the work I hold in such high esteem. I will never overcome my fear if I do not write. To pursue that which I feel a calling I can find time and muster the energy, of course I can. The question then: "will I?" I hope to God yes.
I can not leave my occupation, work as a carpenter, to pursue writing full time -- I am responsible and called to provide for my family. I can, however, pursue my vocation, writing, as time time allows and with a disciplined mind.
For a long time I have believed that being a writer meant I got paid to write and the key of becoming a paid writer was pursuing a graduate degree in writing. That somehow a MFA is a silver bullet that will slay my fears and lack of discipline and rocket me into a life of writing and literature. While I am sure that it would give me a leg up in the field, it is not the silver bullet I once believed. I believe there are two things that constitute a writer being a writer. A person must write and have a readership, or strive for a readership.
There was a time that writers struggled a solitary existence working at all manners of poetry and prose, sharing their work with a couple of select readers and submitting it to various publications who would then, for a long time, reject their work. The writers in question would continue a disciplined life of writing until they were no longer rejected or they would give up. With the endless availability of blogs, a readership is a mouse click away. It is so easy for a writer to share work with the world at large and full fill the two requirements necessary (in my opinion) to be a writer: writing and readers.
I have always dreamed of living a literary life, the principles involved have always come fairly easily to me. I read voraciously and write with competence. But I am hindered by fear, fear of the work involved, fear of rejection, fear of exposing a vulnerable heart, fear of failing to live up to the work I hold in such high esteem. I will never overcome my fear if I do not write. To pursue that which I feel a calling I can find time and muster the energy, of course I can. The question then: "will I?" I hope to God yes.
I can not leave my occupation, work as a carpenter, to pursue writing full time -- I am responsible and called to provide for my family. I can, however, pursue my vocation, writing, as time time allows and with a disciplined mind.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
We Are Moving
A couple of months ago I alluded to an extended time of impending change. That time is upon my family. Around Christmas we started talking about what it would look like to move away from Bellingham and relocate to the east side of the cascades. As we talked and wrestled with the idea the reality of it began to set in and gradually we realized that it was, indeed, time for us to move.
That realization came as a major blow to our family. We had, really, just been creating community in Bellingham, so it seemed, though where we are is the culmination of 10 years living in one place -- finishing college, getting married, bringing two boys into the world and finally settling in a church and neighborhood at which we feel connected and have a support network. Along the way has been immense spiritual growth and healing for my wife, several places to live, and, for my part, an uncertain construction industry that has seen me bounce through employers like a pinball.
I have found it incredibly hard to articulate why we are moving as the mitigating factors are complicated and twisted and don't flow in linear thought but at the end of the day the sense that we are making the right decision is unmistakably clear even through the lenses of the sorrow of leaving a place we have come to love and the anxiety of starting somewhere new.
And so we have started to pack and tie up the countless loose strings that ultimately tie a family to a place and we have entered a time of sustained chaos as we sort our belongings and pack them away for the long trek somewhere new. But it is the goodbyes that are the hardest. Leaving behind the watering wholes and coffee shops and restaurants we love and Galbraith Mt. (mountain bike trails, the importance of which I will not understate, there have been times that my forays out on my bike were the difference between complete emotional collapse and the energy to make it through the week). But hardest is letting go of the community it was so hard to create in the first place.
Yet there is a still small voice in the midst of the chaos and sorrow calling us forward, out of Bellingham, and into something new and when I take a moment to listen I can hear clearly the voice of God and I know that our decision is a faithful decision and when we act in faith we are blessed. That is not to say it will be easy -- in any way -- at first.
So we look ahead at the next two weeks with anxiety, stress, and continued sorrow as we grieve all that we will leave behind. But we are fortified by the presence of Christ and will take the challenges that lie ahead head on, with confidence and faith.
That realization came as a major blow to our family. We had, really, just been creating community in Bellingham, so it seemed, though where we are is the culmination of 10 years living in one place -- finishing college, getting married, bringing two boys into the world and finally settling in a church and neighborhood at which we feel connected and have a support network. Along the way has been immense spiritual growth and healing for my wife, several places to live, and, for my part, an uncertain construction industry that has seen me bounce through employers like a pinball.
I have found it incredibly hard to articulate why we are moving as the mitigating factors are complicated and twisted and don't flow in linear thought but at the end of the day the sense that we are making the right decision is unmistakably clear even through the lenses of the sorrow of leaving a place we have come to love and the anxiety of starting somewhere new.
And so we have started to pack and tie up the countless loose strings that ultimately tie a family to a place and we have entered a time of sustained chaos as we sort our belongings and pack them away for the long trek somewhere new. But it is the goodbyes that are the hardest. Leaving behind the watering wholes and coffee shops and restaurants we love and Galbraith Mt. (mountain bike trails, the importance of which I will not understate, there have been times that my forays out on my bike were the difference between complete emotional collapse and the energy to make it through the week). But hardest is letting go of the community it was so hard to create in the first place.
Yet there is a still small voice in the midst of the chaos and sorrow calling us forward, out of Bellingham, and into something new and when I take a moment to listen I can hear clearly the voice of God and I know that our decision is a faithful decision and when we act in faith we are blessed. That is not to say it will be easy -- in any way -- at first.
So we look ahead at the next two weeks with anxiety, stress, and continued sorrow as we grieve all that we will leave behind. But we are fortified by the presence of Christ and will take the challenges that lie ahead head on, with confidence and faith.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Privatized Liquor Sales: a bad choice.
To the People of Washington State:
In this time of deep political and spiritual divides, when we face issues of such pressing urgency that even the most moderate thinkers feel their blood boil as they pluck splinters from butts while rising from the fence upon which they typically sit to turn and yell at both sides of the political spectrum. The world presses in on us from all sides and our economy struggles and our weather has been a-typical. You have managed to unite in one thing: privatizing liquor sales.
I am so disappointed in you.
I have no moral objections to booze. Rather I am a champion of spirits and regularly have a bottle of whiskey in the cupboard and often tequila and vodka and take a great deal of pleasure and pride in mixing simple drinks with complex flavors and enjoying them in a mature and responsible fashion. But I choose and pursue my spirits in an intentional manner.
This past weekend liquor became available to purchase in stores over 10,000 square feet, or something like that. While I was at the store throngs of people flocked to the newly stocked liquor isles and displays and loaded their baskets with half gallon jugs of piss poor vodka and gin and fifths of bad whiskey and bottles of bad tequila all in the course of their regular shopping, picking out broccoli then their bad booze.
The fact that people have always bought bad alcohol is not lost on me. It was readily available in state run liquor stores as well and it was purchased just as greedily but intentionally so. But Costco has convinced us that they deserve to sell liquor as well and the general population has toed the Costco line...literally.
I will miss the small, state controlled liquor stores and diverse crew who manned them and I resent Costco and company for their manipulative efforts to gain control of one more aspect of consumer goods. I am frustrated that buying whiskey, gin, vodka, tequila, or whatever poison you prefer will be as casual as buying a dozen eggs, a loaf of bread, and a gallon of milk. I hate watching people (in my case mostly college students) lugging around cheap, clear, swill piss in plastic half gallon jugs and off brand Cheetos.
I hope you are happy Washington state. I hope you like your higher prices both in the stores and at your favorite watering whole. There is no way out of this one.
In this time of deep political and spiritual divides, when we face issues of such pressing urgency that even the most moderate thinkers feel their blood boil as they pluck splinters from butts while rising from the fence upon which they typically sit to turn and yell at both sides of the political spectrum. The world presses in on us from all sides and our economy struggles and our weather has been a-typical. You have managed to unite in one thing: privatizing liquor sales.
I am so disappointed in you.
I have no moral objections to booze. Rather I am a champion of spirits and regularly have a bottle of whiskey in the cupboard and often tequila and vodka and take a great deal of pleasure and pride in mixing simple drinks with complex flavors and enjoying them in a mature and responsible fashion. But I choose and pursue my spirits in an intentional manner.
This past weekend liquor became available to purchase in stores over 10,000 square feet, or something like that. While I was at the store throngs of people flocked to the newly stocked liquor isles and displays and loaded their baskets with half gallon jugs of piss poor vodka and gin and fifths of bad whiskey and bottles of bad tequila all in the course of their regular shopping, picking out broccoli then their bad booze.
The fact that people have always bought bad alcohol is not lost on me. It was readily available in state run liquor stores as well and it was purchased just as greedily but intentionally so. But Costco has convinced us that they deserve to sell liquor as well and the general population has toed the Costco line...literally.
I will miss the small, state controlled liquor stores and diverse crew who manned them and I resent Costco and company for their manipulative efforts to gain control of one more aspect of consumer goods. I am frustrated that buying whiskey, gin, vodka, tequila, or whatever poison you prefer will be as casual as buying a dozen eggs, a loaf of bread, and a gallon of milk. I hate watching people (in my case mostly college students) lugging around cheap, clear, swill piss in plastic half gallon jugs and off brand Cheetos.
I hope you are happy Washington state. I hope you like your higher prices both in the stores and at your favorite watering whole. There is no way out of this one.
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