Monday, January 22, 2007
INSOMNIA
It's 5 am and I have to be to work in two and a half hours. I tried to fall asleep at 1. I'm going to take a shower here shortly, eat breakfast, clean off my car...and waste time. Man! Today is going to suck. Maybe I can go home early.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
More Camping
After a day of activities worshipping the soil around us, we’d return to our sanctuary to sleep to for the evenings. Even this simple task became an event as we marched to the bathroom. Complete with showers, bathrooms, sinks, and toilets, it served host to the most enormous bugs I’d seen before in my life. Their wings seemed as large as the orioles and warblers singing in the trees. Their legs the size of the herons splashing in the lake. It was as if prolonged exposure to O’Brien’s mystic properties had distorted their bodies to the proportion of birds.
Standing by my father and brother’s side at the sink, we would brush our teeth in unison. With mint foam oozing from my mouth, I caught my dad’s eye and smile. My dad. My brother. Me. Like bandits, we’d steal back to our camp site, led by the familiar glow of our fluorescent lamp as our guide.
My parents whispered their goodnights, and soon, the tent would be filled with slow, rhythmic breathing and crackle-pop of neighboring fires. Kneeling at the point where God’s feet grazed the earth, heaven approached and dwelled around my slumbering family.
Sidenote:
Completely unrelated, but you'll all appreciate this if you know my inherent clumsiness...
It's been pretty cold here with January settling in. So, I ran out to get my mail from our box across the parking lot. As I was running back, I approached my front steps. I'm not sure what happened, but as I was running, I could feel my legs shutting down. I tried to operate them, but they just got heavier, and more stubborn. I could not lift them when I hit the base of the stairs...so I hit the base of the stairs. I fell in slow motion, with mail in my hands; my response time wasn't quick enough to put them in front of me to shield the oncoming steps. I SMASHED in to them with my chest, one arm, and my right leg.
I got up quickly, first moaning, "OWWWW." I realized that was the only thing I could do, because the blast to my chest had knocked the air out of me. I tried wincing in pain; nothing. Then I tried laughing, because I pictured how ridiculous the whole scene must have looked, but I couldn't do that either. After a while I caught my breath. I have considerable bruises on my body, and my sternum hurts pretty bad too.
Standing by my father and brother’s side at the sink, we would brush our teeth in unison. With mint foam oozing from my mouth, I caught my dad’s eye and smile. My dad. My brother. Me. Like bandits, we’d steal back to our camp site, led by the familiar glow of our fluorescent lamp as our guide.
My parents whispered their goodnights, and soon, the tent would be filled with slow, rhythmic breathing and crackle-pop of neighboring fires. Kneeling at the point where God’s feet grazed the earth, heaven approached and dwelled around my slumbering family.
Sidenote:
Completely unrelated, but you'll all appreciate this if you know my inherent clumsiness...
It's been pretty cold here with January settling in. So, I ran out to get my mail from our box across the parking lot. As I was running back, I approached my front steps. I'm not sure what happened, but as I was running, I could feel my legs shutting down. I tried to operate them, but they just got heavier, and more stubborn. I could not lift them when I hit the base of the stairs...so I hit the base of the stairs. I fell in slow motion, with mail in my hands; my response time wasn't quick enough to put them in front of me to shield the oncoming steps. I SMASHED in to them with my chest, one arm, and my right leg.
I got up quickly, first moaning, "OWWWW." I realized that was the only thing I could do, because the blast to my chest had knocked the air out of me. I tried wincing in pain; nothing. Then I tried laughing, because I pictured how ridiculous the whole scene must have looked, but I couldn't do that either. After a while I caught my breath. I have considerable bruises on my body, and my sternum hurts pretty bad too.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Rough Camping
A VERY rough draft of the introduction for the camping piece.
Camping with my family was a perennial tradition. Once the clamoring hallways of \school emptied, and the dog days of summer settled in, my family would pile in to the station wagon and head to the woods. Packing the snail cargo holder, and attaching it to the roof filled with me with a sense of exhilaration. It meant soon, the miles would be snaking beneath the blue station wagon’s rolling tires, and I would pester my parents from the back seat with the annoying, yet age-appropriate question, “Are we there yet?”
“We’ll get there when we get there,” was usually my parent’s response. It was an answer I knew by heart, as well as our family’s usual destination: William O’Brien State Park. When the park’s familiar sign rolled in to view, I knew summer had officially arrived.
While in the confines, sounds became more than a vibration on the eardrum. The place imbued each twig snap with the texture of dry wood, the rustle of leaves with the smell of autumn tucked around the corner, and the hushed whisper of my mom and dad with a soul-jarring simplicity. For these reasons, William O’Brien was hallowed ground for me.
When my sneakers crunched under the grassy trails, it felt like I belonged there. My sanctuary was an olive and green colored tent; my family’s prayer candles were propane lamps and Coleman flashlights. Communion consisted of bottomless cups of hot cocoa and turkey sandwiches. And at night, the sky would be filled with chirping crickets, and the rustle of leaves from undisclosed animals.
Camping with my family was a perennial tradition. Once the clamoring hallways of \school emptied, and the dog days of summer settled in, my family would pile in to the station wagon and head to the woods. Packing the snail cargo holder, and attaching it to the roof filled with me with a sense of exhilaration. It meant soon, the miles would be snaking beneath the blue station wagon’s rolling tires, and I would pester my parents from the back seat with the annoying, yet age-appropriate question, “Are we there yet?”
“We’ll get there when we get there,” was usually my parent’s response. It was an answer I knew by heart, as well as our family’s usual destination: William O’Brien State Park. When the park’s familiar sign rolled in to view, I knew summer had officially arrived.
While in the confines, sounds became more than a vibration on the eardrum. The place imbued each twig snap with the texture of dry wood, the rustle of leaves with the smell of autumn tucked around the corner, and the hushed whisper of my mom and dad with a soul-jarring simplicity. For these reasons, William O’Brien was hallowed ground for me.
When my sneakers crunched under the grassy trails, it felt like I belonged there. My sanctuary was an olive and green colored tent; my family’s prayer candles were propane lamps and Coleman flashlights. Communion consisted of bottomless cups of hot cocoa and turkey sandwiches. And at night, the sky would be filled with chirping crickets, and the rustle of leaves from undisclosed animals.
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