The Adventures of Whistling Badger

I've Moved!

2011-01-01T19:54:00.000-08:00

For those of you who read my blog (and I know there are at least two of you!), here is the new web page.

See you there!

--the management

The Stone of Beth El

2010-11-09T12:35:00.000-08:00

This is a rather rough mix of the title track from my (hopefully) soon to be released CD. Piano by Kelly Dehnert; art by Mara Schasteen. That's me on whistles, euphonium, and percussion. Enjoy!

A strange thing about blogging...

2010-07-29T19:14:00.000-07:00

...is that the more there is to write about, the less time there is to write it.

A Mercifully Brief Easter Thought

2010-04-02T20:28:00.000-07:00

The weapons of evil are hard, but brittle: Coercion. Arrogance. Confusion. Fear. Selfish desire. When used skillfully, these tools are powerful, even irresistible. But they cannot stand the test of time.

The weapons of good are soft, but enduring: Patience. Truth. Generosity. Simplicity. Humility. These things take time to do their work, and because they cannot be forced on anyone, they are easily derailed, distracted, silenced, and stifled. But even death itself cannot seem to destroy their lasting influence.

That is why, even though evil always seems to have the upper hand short-term, good always wins out in the long run.

As the very personification of good, Jesus' humiliation and execution were as inevitable as the change of the seasons...

But so was His resurrection.

A Challenge to Sing

2010-02-21T07:53:00.000-08:00

I am leading the singing at church this morning, and recent events might just compel me to commit oratory. Ahem...

Today, I challenge the people of God to sing. Not to stare at the hymnal and idly mumble out the words—that is a waste of the voice God gave you.

This morning, I challenge you to sing, to throw aside your inhibitions, to quit worrying about whether you can carry a tune or not, and lose yourself in the beautiful gift God has given you:

Sing as if God himself, creator of the universe, were listening.

Sing as if your voice can add something beautiful and peaceful to a world that desperately needs it.

Sing as if your combined voices can open the gates of heaven and shake the very pillars of hell.

Sing as if God the almighty loved you so much that He gave up his son to torture and death, just so that you could be with him.

Sing as if your doom is demolished and your victory is assured, as if you deserved the sentence of Hell, but have been offered the gift of a new life.

Sing as if you have nothing to worry about; as if our faithful God has promised you that he will see to all your needs.

Sing as if you have been rescued from a life of selfishness and smallness, and set free into a life of generosity, service, and love.

Sing as if you have an amazing savior, a perfect example to follow.

Sing as if His love is at work in you, accomplishing more than you can ask of imagine.

Sing as if Jesus were with you always, through good and bad, to the end of the age.

Sing as if there were nothing in heaven or on earth that can separate you from the love of God.

Sing as if everything, no matter what, is going to work out for your good.

Sing as if the gifts God gives us are too great to be met with shyness, self-consciousness, or laziness. Open your heart and your voice to all that God is, and all He can make you. People of God, I challenge you to sing!

The Wilson Mash

2009-10-31T12:45:00.000-07:00

Happy Halloween!

From Tom, Sarah, Katie, Rocky, and Stup

Small Miracles

2009-10-13T05:34:00.000-07:00

"You are my greatest adventure."
--Mr. Incredible

I used to get a chuckle out baby parents who talk about their kids' age in weeks or months, rather than just using years like everybody else. I still think it's funny, but I finally understand why. Katie's world has expanded more in the past three months than mine has in the past ten years.

Two weeks ago, I had the great blessing of being present when Katie discovered what her hands are for. She was playing on her floor gym, which at ten weeks (see, I'm doing it too!) means thrashing her arms and legs around randomly. While thus busily engaged, her hand happened to bump against a little turtle toy hanging down above her. It swung out a bit than bumped back against her hand. She froze, did a perfect double take, looked at her hand, then back at the turtle. I could almost see her thought process: "Well I'll be darned! When I hit that thing, it moves!" So she hit it again. And again. For fifteen minutes, she was completely enraptured as her hand smacked the daylights out of that poor little turtle. She was happy for hours afterward, no doubt overwhelmed with the thrill of scientific discovery.

This past weekend I got to spend more time than usual with Katie. She is on a fairly regular cycle by now: Eat. Play. Sleep. Repeat. She is, by now, an old pro at Smacking Stuff. She has even expanded her repertoire to include Grabbing Stuff. Her floor gym plays music for her, Twinkle Twinkle and Animal Fair and Skip to my Loo, in calypso/reggae arrangements that were charming and clever the first four hundred or so times we heard them. I want to expand her musical experience, of course, so yesterday during Play Time I got out one of my low whistles to play for her. Might as well start getting her used to the harsh realities of sharing a home with a whistle player.

I played through a couple of Irish tunes, which my sweet daughter completely ignored. That was actually a better result than I dared hope for, but not particularly entertaining. So on a whim, I started playing "Twinkle Twinkle," with the same rhythm as the music on her floor gym.

Katie's head instantly swiveled my direction, eyes and mouth wide. She watched me breathe, watched my fingers move, and as I cycled through her floor gym songs, she listened. And even though the sound was very different, she knew.

Parenthood makes adults and children of us all. Every day I see new textures in Jesus' teaching that I cannot enter the Kingdom of Heaven unless I accept it as a little child. Let go of the old ways, and be exhilarated by the discoveries of learning a new way of life.

To my non-parental friends, I make this request: Try not to roll your eyes when parents rhapsodize about their children's most mundane accomplishments. Try to keep groans to a minimum when you hear young mothers discuss, with straight faces, how many diapers their tykes dirty in a twenty-four hour period. It's hard to believe, I know, but from this side it almost makes sense.

This is a time of epic discoveries for my young explorer. I'm glad I get to be along for the ride.

Love in the Time of Colic

2009-10-05T17:20:00.000-07:00

We had our first serious snow storm yesterday. None of us were quite prepared for it. Our young trees, most of them still fully leafed out and green, were soon bent almost to the ground under the weight of heavy, wet, fall snow.

Late in the afternoon I went out and shook them, hoping they would get through the night without too much damage. But the snow kept coming. By the time I got back to the house, they were already bending under the weight again.

I can identify with them. These are tough times at Wilson Manor. Somewhere around eight or nine weeks ago, Katie started showing symptoms of colic, and it has steadily gotten worse since then. Just like the trees, there are moments of respite--such as yesterday, when our wonderful friend Becky came over and spent the day helping us out--but the pressure keeps coming, and we are soon bent to the point of breaking again.

At risk of over-dramatizing things, it feels like I imagine it must feel to live in a war zone. Even during the good times, we are never completely at ease because we never know when the enemy will strike, when the giggles and coos will turn into those horrific screams. Nerves are shot; health deteriorates; relationships are strained. I'm afraid to pick up my little girl and play with her, because often that's all it takes. Our days are defined by the frequency and duration of screaming fits.

So we plod through our hours and days and weeks, doing our best to keep smiles on our faces and in our hearts, to dwell on all the amazing discoveries and developments taking place, to excel at our jobs, and to love each other, no matter what, like we promised we would. Doing our best to stay in touch with the God who can turn even the most horrible of times into something beautiful, something sacred.

I woke up this morning and looked outside to see our young trees bent to the ground, but somehow unbroken. When I relieved them of their burden of snow and ice, they very slowly, almost deliberately, started righting themselves. This encourages me. I guess most of us are stronger, more resilient, than we think we are. It just takes time.

We're going to get through this with our love intact. Thank God, I really think we're going to make it.

A Father's Protection

2009-08-27T05:48:00.000-07:00

Tuesday night chapel talk at Wyoming Bible Camp.

Song of Solomon: Nine Months Later

2009-07-21T14:42:00.001-07:00

If Solomon had waited nine months before writing his song of songs...

May he wash the dishes with the washings of his hands!
For your housework is better than wine!
Draw me after you and let us run away together!
For the baby has come into the king’s chambers.

While the King was at his table,
the diaper gave forth its fragrance.
I said to myself: I will change the diaper,
and remove its fragrance far from me.
In the tents of Kedar, far to the east:
They should be about right.

My beloved is to me like a pouch of myrrh
which lies all night between my breasts.
Beware, oh daughters of Jerusalem:
Do not awaken love prematurely,
For that kind of stuff is what got us into this mess
in the first place.

Like an air raid siren among the lilies,
so is my baby in the night watches.
In the shade I took great delight and sat down,
but her cry was loud in my hearing,
and there was no rest.

The king has brought me into his bed chamber,
and his banner over me is bottle feeding.
Sustain me with caffeinated beverages,
refresh me with ice cubes down my shorts,
for I am catatonic.

I adjure you, oh daughters of Jerusalem,
my beloved adjures you; our dog adjures you;
the dead adjure you from their graves:
that you do not arouse or awaken my baby
until she pleases.

***

How beautiful you are, my darling,
how beautiful you are!
Your eyes are like hollow caverns in the rock.
Your hair is like a flock of goats
that have descended into the depths and drowned.

Your lips are like a scarlet thread,
drawn tight against the slow, creeping madness
of sleep deprivation.
Your breasts are like two fawns,
twins of a gazelle,
only larger,
and they hurt more.

Your lips, my bride, drip honey,
or perhaps it is just drool:
I cannot tell for sure.
The fragrance of your garments is like
the fragrance of someone who has not yet showered today.

A garden locked is my friend, my bride,
a rock garden locked,
a spring sealed up.
And so I said to myself,
Man, it’s gonna be a long, long, long time.

***
My beloved is dazzling and reddish,
at least his eyes are.
The locks of his hair are like clusters of dates,
and that is as close to a date as I am going to get.

His eyes are like doves, gunned down
beside streams of water,
lifeless, and shot through with red.
His lips are lilies, sprayed with herbicide,
drooping, blubbering, entirely without character.

His abdomen is like a bowl of mashed potatoes,
inlaid with bacon.
His voice is raspy from singing of lullabies
late in the night watches.

His mouth is full of nonsense
and his jokes are not funny.
This is my beloved and this is my friend,
oh daughters of Jerusalem.

***
Who is this who groans in the dawn,
as pale as the full moon,
shrinking from the sun
as from an army with banners?

Oh you who lie in the nursery,
my companions are listening for your voice.
It is pretty hard to miss.

Hurry, my beloved,
and be like a gazelle or a young stag
on the mountains:we can catch a quick nap before she awakens.

Kathryn Elizabeth's World Debut

2009-07-21T14:09:00.000-07:00

Katie finally joined us Thursday, the 9th, at 7:13 pm. There was considerable drama early on, and she almost had to be flown to Salt Lake with lung problems (two pneumothoraxes and a good deal of gunk sucked down), but she rallied, pulled herself together (literally), and after a couple speed bumps, she is now healthy as a horse. Tough girl.

But enough about that, you say. On to the pictures!

Sarah being very brave right before they induced her. I am so proud of her for coming through it so well.

Doesn't she look like a fighter pilot? I think she looks like a fighter pilot.

Resistance is futile. You will be assimilated...

Katie's first view of the world was from inside an oxygen mask.

It was almost a full day before we finally got to hold her. Torture for all of us!

Ah, ain't she purdy?

Happy girls

Having a snooze with dad at the hospital

"WARNING: USE OF THIS PUMP IN A MANNER INCONSISTANT WITH THE USES DESCRIBED IN THIS MANUAL MAY RESULT IN BODILY INJURY."

We're outta here!!!

Katie and dad in their Sunday-go-to-meetin' clothes.

Veni. Vidi. Vici.

2009-05-15T14:54:00.001-07:00

Ladies and Gentlemen, as of 8:30 this morning it is official: I have completed and passed all necessary work to recieve a Master of Education Degree in Curriculum and Instruction (Technology).

Thank you. Thank you. There will be refreshments in the lobby.

I will not attempt to describe the tribulation this program has caused over the past two years for an active, outdoorsy person such as myself, nor the havoc it has wrought upon my bowhunting, rock-climbing, back-packing, and thowing-sticks-for-the-dog careers. It is too horrifying to put into words.

But no matter. It is over. Done. I never have to do this again.

The following video perfectly captures my feelings concerning this triumph over the nefarious forces of Acadamia: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rGa70tVYVKo

The world is shiney and new again. Real life awaits. Bring on the mountains. Bring on the world. Bring on the baby. I'm ready.

Certainty and Meaning

2009-04-06T07:18:00.000-07:00

The Lord of Hosts is on our side.
The God of Jacob is our refuge.
--Psalm 46

Bill, my boss at school, has a sign in his office, attributed to some really smart person. It says "The need for certainty interferes with the search for meaning" (my paraphrase; I can't remember the exact words).

I have thought a lot about that saying, and I think it contains a lot of truth. Dogma is often the enemy of meaning. We pick through the teachings of Jesus and his followers with a fine comb, analyzing every word and tense, trying to find rules and regulations to impose and/or follow, often where none was intended. In the process, we utterly miss the bigger meaning of the teaching in question. In almost all of Jesus' teaching, the emphasis is on the internal, not the external. But we tend to look for certainty in practice, often at the expense of the true meaning.

This is nothing new, of course: Jesus once accused the religious leaders of his day of "straining out a gnat and swallowing a camel"--what a great mental image.

The problem with Bill's saying, though, is it is only partially true. Certainty is important, too; in fact I don’t think you can have one without the other. Through some extensive research, I have become convinced of the physical reality of Jesus' resurrection and other miracles. Some say it doesn’t matter whether Jesus’ resurrection was physical or just spiritual. But it does to me. Here's why:

I have often struggled with the problem of suffering in this world, especially among innocent children. Twice in my life I have visited pediatric hospitals; in both cases I was a wreck for days afterwards. On a daily basis I come into contact with little kids who have experienced things no little kids should even have to know about. Some of these kids just don’t seem to have a chance. Attempts to find meaning in the mutilation or death of a child come across as hollow at best. More often such attempts are downright insulting.

But that is where certainty becomes important. I am certain that God is powerful, just, and merciful, and that he conquered death through Jesus. And that certainty is enough. I don't have to impose some sort of trite "meaning" on something that really just doesn't make sense. I can seek for a meaning, but in the end I might not find it, and that is alright (if not exactly comfortable). I do not need to articulate what God himself has not articulated. I just need to trust God to be who I know him to be. It is enough that HE is all-knowing. I don't have to be.

Isn’t that what Psalm 46 is getting at? Be still (stop struggling) and know that he is God; trust him even when he is hidden and things are scary. Also Hebrews 11. All those people accomplished great things, but died—often in horrifying ways--without seeing God's greater purpose. They trusted him.

And of course the entire book of Job, especially 38 through 42:6. Job's friends very comfortably found meaning in Job's suffering, explaining it away in a series of well-reasoned arguments. Job, meantime, is not at peace because it doesn’t make sense, and his friends' arguments don't reconcile with what he knows to be true. In the end, confused, conflicted Job was vindicated as the one who was right. But God never did explain himself--he just showed who he was and told Job to trust him.

That's one reason that the certainty of Jesus' resurrection is important to me. It shows, in a very real way, who God is and what he is up to in the world. And being certain of that, I can be OK letting some other things go. In my certainty of God’s goodness, I find true meaning. I can be still, and know that He is God.

All-You-Can-Eat Crab at the Oxbow

2009-03-07T18:36:00.001-08:00

You know it has been a truly amazing dinner when you have to wipe butter off your glasses before you can drive home.

TW

Valentine's Vagabonds

2009-02-14T21:12:00.000-08:00

I have never much cared for valentines day. I always felt like the only people who profit from valentines day (other than the card, choco, and jewelry companies) are ladies who have attached themselves to clods too unromantic to do anything special the rest of the year. Besides, when you are single it stinks intensely having a whole day set aside to remind you of what you're missing. My lovely wife is of another opinion, however, so I have mellowed somewhat, especially this year. Any excuse to celebrate and give gifts can't be entirely bad, and at worst today is as good as any other.

All that said, we had an almost-perfect day today. Around mid-morning we got in my trusty blue 4-wheel-drive steed to do some exploring. Before pulling out of the driveway, I presented Sarah with her valentine present: A "Lander Nordic Skiing" tshirt. We are expecting a youngster in June, and Sarah has been a bit saddened about all the things pregnancy has taken away: Things like intense outdoor activity, ability to sleep comfortably, all that sort of thing. This shirt served as a reminder of better times to come.

Then we hit the trail. We had set aside this day to explore several roads which we had been meaning to check out for a long time. After a brief trip down Hidden Valley Road (yes, there are several Ranches there, in case you're wondering), we spent most of the day exploring the west shore of Boysen Reservoir, one of the bigger lakes in Wyoming which is completely surrounded by sagebrush desert and mountain ranges. Truly fascinating country, especially in winter when the lake is frozen solid and the fellow visitors are minimal.

Once we got as far as we could go on the roads, we got down to the business of relaxation, with a couple nice walks on the frozen beach, scrambling about in the blissfully rattlesnake-free rock formations, some snuggling and a nap in the back of the truck (do not attempt this in Wyoming Winter without the proper equipment and training), and lots of staring in awe at the lake and the mountains.

Having had our fill of the lake, we headed off toward our next planned destination, a tiny ranching town nearby called Pavillion, where there was rumored to be a good burgers-and-steaks restaurant. Avoiding the easy highway route, we found ourselves barreling west down Sand Mesa Road, a dirt track through some beautiful ranching country which is swarming with wildlife--big muley bucks, antelope, and thousands upon thousands of ducks and geese. All with the Owl Creek Mountains towering on the right hand, and the Wind River Range on the left.

There are worse ways to drive to dinner.

We finally got to the chosen restaurant and were surprised to be asked if we had a reservation. It is Valentine's day, of course, but this is a town of 150 people, for crying out loud! Having been found lacking, we were nicely seated at the bar, only to find that the normal burgers and steaks menu had been replaced with a "Special Valentines Menu" of lobster tails, prime rib, and lots of stuff we couldn't pronounce. Cheapest thing on the menu was $25; most things were over $30. Well, our experience has been that usually restaurants that charge that much really shouldn't.

So, we got back on the road, and soon found ourselves at the Midvale Bar and Grill. Midvale is a town on the maps only--in real life it's a loose collection of farm houses without so much as a Mormon Church. But they do have a bar and grill, and generally these little middle-of-nowhere places really put on the chow; if they didn't, they wouldn't stay around long since they rely on local business. Here we found the menu (and the prices) more to our taste: A good ribeye, potato, beans, grilled bread, and a good salad. Since cigarette smoke really sets off asthma, the friendly patrons directed us through the bar into the non-smoking dining room, which--get this--we had all to ourselves.

Now, how many valentines days do you get to eat steak with your sweetie, in a dining room all to yourselves, without so much as making a reservation or even knowing where you are going?

You can have the fancy chocolates and flowers and all that stuff. Those things are all well and good, but if that's all there is, it wears thin pretty fast. Spending some time just enjoying the world with the person you love--that's what romance is all about in my book.

Sorry for the long post. Just couldn't decide what to leave out.
Good night--
Tom

January Fly Fishing

2009-01-12T05:58:00.000-08:00

My dad blessed me with a new fly rod for Christmas, and I just couldn't wait until summer to try it out. So this past Saturday saw me embarking on the first fly fishing trip of 09 down at Wind River Canyon, a fabled tail water where legend has it that three to five pound rainbows and browns are there to be taken.

The canyon was beautiful under a light dusting of snow as I bundled up in multiple layers, bag-lady style, complete with fingerless rag wool gloves, and hit the river.

I had never flyfished in the winter before, and I have to say it has its pros and cons. Most of the positives involved things that were missing: there was nobody else on the river except a couple of bait fishermen a quartermile downstream who were gone by the time I geared up. Also, not a rattlesnake in sight. No bugs, either, except for a few hardy midges scooting along on the surface of the river.

Cons? Well, it was cold. Really cold. I can put up with a good bit of cold, but when the guides on my rod started clogging up with ice, it's hard to cast. Hard to navigate, too, with the steep banks frozen and dusted with snow. I did manage to stay out of the river, though, which brings me to another disadvantage to winter fly fishing: If I do this much, I am going to have to invest in a pair of waders. The Wind is a fair sized river by Wyoming standards, and most of the good holes are out of reach from the bank, but it's just to chilly to get in the water this time of year.

The result? Nothing. Skunked. Whatever the legendary five pound rainbows and browns of the Wind River were hungry for, it was not clumsily presented green wooly buggers or bead head hare's ears.

But I'll be back.

Maybe after it warms up a bit.

My sphere of influence grows...

2008-12-02T18:07:00.000-08:00

CDBaby, the company which sells my CD's online (and a whopping dozen of them I've sold on line so far!), informed me yesterday that someone in Hawaii had ordered my latest offering. I am intensely curious who in Honolulu would know I exist, let alone pay good money for a CD. Unfortunately, the individual in question chose to remain anonymous, so my curiosity remains unsatisfied.

No matter. My CD's are now halfway across the Pacific. My goal of world domination seems just a little closer.

*

Sunday Morning

2008-11-16T07:04:00.001-08:00

It is 8 a.m., and as usual I have already been up a couple hours. Sarah will wake up soon, but for now she is still sleeping, exhausted from building that little body. The chickens are doing whetever it is chickens do out in the yard; a big, smelly dog snores worshipfully at my feet; the sun is bright; there is frost on the lawn and ice on the pond.

I like to get up early. Once the critters are fed, they tend to quiet down, leaving me a few moments to sip my tea and do my thinking in peace. Just for a moment every morning--usually as I'm headed out to feed los pollos estupidos--the first rays of sun light up the peaks while the valley is still dark. I have seen it dozens of times, but it never fails to catch my eye. No matter how rushed I may be, it never fails to make me stop and whisper thanks to the God who made the world so beautiful.

And it never occurs to me to grab the camera until it's over. Just as well. Some sights just don't translate to film.

Tiny Things, Enormous Things

2008-11-05T20:21:00.000-08:00

According to the latest census data, there are 783,051 Wilsons in the United States. If all goes as planned, around the end of next June there will be 783,052.

(pause to let that sink in just a bit)

We had a bit of a medical scare yesterday. The doctor had reason to believe something was seriously wrong, and had Sarah go in for some emergency tests. Everything was just fine, and although it was a tough afternoon, it turned out to be a blessing: they took an ultrasound, several months before they normally would, and we got to see what is happening in there. The little critter looks sort of like a little oblong light gray blob right now, smaller than a jellybean. But here’s the thing: on the edge of that blob, there was a tiny little white fluttering movement. The beating of a heart.

I’ve seen a lot of amazing things in my life, but that little tiny beating heart about takes the cake. How can something so commonplace be so miraculous? I know this happens thousands of times everyday, and it has happened to some of you numerous times. It’s just that it has never happened to us; it has never happened to this child.

783,052? No. Just one. Just this tiny one...

Is this supposed to be sad...

2008-11-02T06:31:00.000-08:00

...or comforting?

Overcoming

2008-10-14T18:51:00.000-07:00

Commit to the Lord whatever you do,
and all your plans will be established.
--Proverbs 16:3

This past weekend we had a guest speaker in church, Russ King from Nashville. Sunday morning he talked about the journey from victim, to survivor, to overcomer. To extremely condense a very rich sermon, the victim is still living in the tragedy, expecting special treatment and/or sympathy. "I'm one of the Hurricane Katrina victims." The survivor no longer expects to be treated special, but still defines him/herself by the tragedy, maybe even takes pride in it: "I'm a hurricane Katrina survivor." The overcomer has incorporated the experience, learned from it, and moved beyond it, thinking of it as an experience, not a tragedy, and refusing to be defined by it. "Oh, why yes, I did live through Huricane Katrina. It was quite an experience..."

Moving from one phase to another is not an entirely natural process: It takes effort, courage, and faith. It is very much like the process of forgiveness: If you still define the person--and your relationship with them--by what he did to you, you have not fully forgiven.

Glued on the dashboard of my truck is a little purple metal plaque with Proverbs 16:3, given to me a very long time ago by a very special person with whom I was parting ways. When I glance at that plaque, as I have just about every day for the past thirteen or so years, I do not think of the person who gave it to me, nor of the exquisite pain of our parting. I think of the God who has established my ways, through that and many other good and bad times.

When all the distractions go away, that really is how I define myself: Not by the triumphs I have savored or the tragedies I have survived, but by the God who is teaching me to overcome both.

Thank you for bringing me this far, Father.

Free Advice

2008-10-14T18:45:00.000-07:00

Don't stack your firewood pile up to the rafters on the side of your shed.

Why, you ask?

OK, I'll tell you why: When one of those ridiculously wet, heavy fall snows occurs, the snow will have nowhere to slide off the roof of your shed. And when a thousand pounds or so of wet, heavy snow has no way to go other than down, that's the way it will go, roof or no roof.

Much to the detriment of your shed.

That's why.

Kipling on Common Sense

2008-10-10T06:09:00.000-07:00

The following poem was brought to mind by the current financial mess (not to mention the current presidential election). We really never learn, do we?

The Gods of the Copybook Headings by Rudyard Kipling

As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place;
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know."

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four—
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man—
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began:
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will bum,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!

Aspen Camping

2008-10-04T20:22:00.000-07:00

I got home yesterday and was delighted to find that Sarah had the truck all packed up and ready to go camping! YES! We drove up the Loop Road, and down into what I think is Lower Townsend Creek. God really pulls out all the stops this time of year when it comes to decorating. Rather than make some sad effort to describe it, I'll just save several thousand words and let the pictures do the talking.

Making the Scene

2008-09-22T06:11:00.000-07:00

Morning!

The Woods Tea Company, from Vermont, is my favorite folk band, pulling off sea chanties, Irish tunes, and random goofiness with equal panache. They have had a rough couple years with the loss of two of their band mates, but they continue to make great music.

Several years ago, I learned the Robin Hood song from one of their CD's. It has been a perennial favorite of my kids at South.

So, the other day I was goofing around trying to learn to use some new recording software, and recorded my first graders' warm-up song. It was good for a chuckle. So I emailed it to Howard, the band leader, thinking they might get a kick out of it.

It appears that they did:

http://woodstea.net/Blog/Entries/2008/9/18_Robin_Hood.html

Quick Draw at Silas Canyon

2008-09-07T13:55:00.000-07:00

I take a break from painfully dull graduate studies to bring you the following overdue update.

Last weekend, Sarah and I went hiking into Silas Canyon. It's a fairly remote region where neither of us had ever been before. It was a suprisingly easy hike, though, and before long we came to Upper Silas Lake, about three or four miles in. We had the whole place to ourselves, and lingered long over a lunch of squashed peanutbutter sandwiches and cold water.

After a while the wind off the peaks got chilly and it was time to move on. We moseyed up the trail, gorging on grouseberries (insanely tiny but intensely delicious) and enjoying the forest. Ah, is there anything quite like the smell of a mountain pine forest in the sunshine? The mountains have air you breathe intentionally, slowly. It tastes different. The drought seems to have finally lifted, and I can't remember the last time I saw this many wildflowers in late August.

Soon the forest began to open up, the grouseberry began to give way to grass, the lodgepoles to fir as we neared timber line.

Crossing a small clearing, I abruptly became aware of the medium-sized, shaggy, black dog in the trail just ahead. I drew breath to mention this to Sarah, as we have had unpleasant experiences with uncontrolled dogs on trails elsewhere. In the moment it took for this to get from brain to mouth, the little voice in my head said, "Um, that ain't a dog."

There is only one critter that size and shape in the mountains, and this was a little one. I immediately started looking for mama, and in a couple seconds spotted a large patch of shaggy brown fur in the bushes. OK, must keep an eye on that one. (Alright, kids, listen closely: these were black bears, ursus amaricanus, which can be brown; furthermore, brown bears, ursus arctos, can be black. Everybody still with me? Good. On with the story) They were twenty, maybe thirty yards away. And about the time I spotted her, she spotted us.

Now, I had immediately grabbed for the camera, hoping to snap a quick picture of a cub before beating a judicious retreat. But when mama took a couple steps our way, it occurred to me (and to my lovely wife) that getting out the bear spray was probably a pretty nifty idea, too.

"It's OK, mama; we'll just be moving along; there's a nice carnivore," I said. Or words to that affect, letting her know what we were lest she should become curious and decide to investigate. One of the cubs had run up a tree; another was still standing in the trail staring at us, as kids are wont to do when they see odd things. Sarah says she saw a third cub, a brown one. Mama stuck her head out of the bushes to get a good look at us.

Now, some wild animals are big. Moose are big. So are elk. But there is a special category of big which relates only vaguely to actual size, a bigness reserved for animals in very close proximity which have both the means and the motive to work severe harm upon one's person.

As mama bear stared me down from a stone's throw away, it occurred to me that she was big.

Big, but fairly agreeable, as it turned out. Having confirmed that we were, in fact, merely annoying hikers, mama turned and started up the trail at a quick walk. Cub #1 was still in the trail staring at us; an annoyed "whoof!" from mom sent him up a tree, too, with exactly the same facial expression human children get when their parents bark at them for doing something stupid.

My picture? Yes, I got it. Here is is. It really isnt' that bad, considering that I was holding the camera at arms length in my off hand, going for the bear spray with the other, all while talking to mama bear and backing up a bolder-strewn trail. I think that oblong, dark blotch in the upper center might be cub #2. I'm not sure where mama is. The old west art of the quick draw in action.

Tools

2008-08-15T14:45:00.001-07:00

Up at Bible camp, there was a guy whom I will call "Dan."* Dan is an amazing guy. A professional cabinet maker with a deep Arkansas drawl and a reputation for a truly awsome work ethic, Dan is also a servant. He is always among the first to volunteer when there's a job to do, and he was just about always in there cleaning up the mess hall after meal times--get this--even when it wasn't his team's turn! His service is consistant, high quality, and low key; you have to pay attention to catch him at it.

For all of this, Dan is extremely reluctant to receive praise and encouragement. For one thing, he doesn't seem to need it. For another, he is concerned that complements to him diminish the credit given to God and detract from the service of others.

I tend to crave compliments a bit more than I should, but this sort of thing puzzles me when it comes up, as it seems to quite often. In a discussion at church this past Sunday night, we talked about how much is us and how much is God?

All this has me thinking about tools.

As a musician, I value my tools. I have a whole page on my website devoted to my instruments. This might seem odd to a non-musician, but there is a very good reason I love them so much. I consider myself an decent-to-pretty-good player, but here is the thing: A player can only sound as good as his instrument. I have owned enough clunkers to know that even in the hands of a competent player, a piece of trash, at best, will sound like a well-played piece of trash.

So, if someone walks up to me at a gig and says, "That is one sweet sounding whistle," am I offended because their comment detracts from my playing? No! Quite the contrary--I thank the person, and feel rather satisfied that someone has noticed both my good taste in instruments and my ability to do justice to a fine tool.

Jesus once pointed out to his followers, "You did not choose me; I chose you." When we complement the sound of an instrument, we are in truth complementing the musician who chose it and is playing it. When we recognize the service of a brother or sister, we also recognize the Spirit which moves them to service. Perhaps we should give and receive compliments accordingly.

Because here is the other thing: An instrument can only sound as good as its player. It is nothing but a pretty piece of wood or metal until a musician blows into it. That is when it comes alive.

Lord, let me be a reliable, well-tuned instrument through which you can breathe your music into the world.

*because that's his name

Bucket List

2008-08-10T14:19:00.000-07:00

Have you seen the movie? It's hard to go wrong with Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman. It was good. Hillarious and sad and thought provoking. Especially thought provoking.

October, 1995. I was 25, student teaching, and a month into a new phase of life: alone again and learning to be OK with that. I had lost something more than a girl I loved, though. I had lost my future, all my dreams. So I took pen and paper and wrote out the inelegantly titled, "Things to Do Before I Die." (I know, "Bucket List" is more fun to say) It was an important thing to do at the time--part of the process of convincing myself that I could do this, that life could go on and be meaningful, maybe even enjoyable.

Back to the present. Watching that movie this afternoon got me to thinking about this, and a short dig through some old notebooks produced the list. Here it is, word for word, with some modern comments. I guess I haven't done too badly.

Things to Do Before I Die. October 31, 1995.
1. Have a bow made for me; become an expert with it.
The first part was easier than the second, I can tell you that.

2. Own a four-wheel-drive.
I traded in the legendary Purple Truck a couple years ago. It was everything I expected.

3. Learn to accompany myself on the guitar, dulcimer, and/or celtic harp.
Doing OK with the guitar. I doubt I'll ever get to the others, but I'm OK with that.

4. Travel to Scotland, Alaska, Taiwan, and maybe, possibly Nepal
I made it to Scotland a few years ago and I'm aching to go back. Alaska is being talked about. Doubt I'll ever make it to Taiwan or Nepal. This makes me sad, but there are other priorities.

5. Climb a really big mountain.
Check. I've climbed three so far, on two different continents no less.

6. Live in the mountains or by the sea.
We're short on sea but long on mountains around here.

7. Climb an oak tree.
I haven't done this one yet, but I planted an oak tree a month ago. Grow, little tree--I'm not gettin' any younger here!

8. See a grizzly bear, wolf, yak in the wild.
Saw my first grizzly in the Tetons just over a year ago, a silver mama with three cubs. Heard a wolf howl the fall before that. I'm having trouble locating any yaks, though.

9. Open my own inn in the foothills.
Ah, my inn. Sarah and I still talk about that dream now and then. It isn't on the current priority list, but who knows?

10. Learn to identify and understand wild plants.
This has been a very fun one, one of the few I've consciously worked on.

11. Sail on an old-fashioned sail boat.
No luck on this one, mostly because there aren't a lot of sailboats in Wyoming.

12. Learn the constelations.
This one isn't happening effortlessly like I hoped it would. I'm just going to have to get to work on it.

13. Be an old man.
For the next nine months I get to officially say, "I'm thirty-seven! I'm not old!" After that, we'll see.

14. Build a log cabin.
Well, we built a scrap lumber chicken coop this summer. I'm sort of working my way up.

15. Someday, somehow, fall in love again.
How did I know to save this one for last? I guess I always had my priorities straight. Sarah and I have been married four years now. I am glad I had so many years alone, if for no other reason than how much it makes me appreciate what it is to be loved by her.

It is fun to see how many of these I have accomplished, and it is tempting to make a new list. But somehow putting "killing an elk with my bow" on the same list with "raise a child who loves God" seems incredibly shallow. Besides, I feel less need than I once did to fill up my future with stuff. We'll just do the best we can, pray for wisdom and love, and see where God takes us.

That's really all I've ever done, anyway.

With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility

2008-08-05T16:57:00.000-07:00

Saturday saw the ending of another session of Wyoming Bible Camp, where I have served the past several years as Head Counselor. The job description for this position is intentionally vague: The work entails some measure of authority but very few actual duties, allowing me to sort of play free safety and jump in wherever I am needed. If there was ever a job tailor-made for me, this would seem to be it.

It isn't all fun, though. On Thursday, the tougher high school kids went on a long hike, from Worthen down to Sheep Bridge, then all the way down Middle Fork to the trail head. I used to be the Guy who led these hikes. But nowadays, I am the head counselor. It's my job to make sure everything gets covered. So while the younger guys were burning up the trail, baling off the waterfall, and doing deeds of legend to be recounted with much laughter over dinner, I sat on a creeky bunk in cabin six and sang ridiculous songs with preadolescent boys. Yes, with great power comes great responsibility. And sitting there singing "The One Legged Chicken" with the boys, I was struck once again with how little bearing Spiderman has on real life.

Saturday morning it was wrapping up, though. Sleep-deprived mumblings over cold cerial gave way to the required team chores and cabin clean-up, followed by the snapping cameras, the tearful hugs, the joyful goodbyes, and at long last the quiet drive down the mountain. Several of us met for some well-earned quiet time over Tony's Pizza.

Funny thing about an enormous job well done--the lifted responsibility leaves a vacuum which sooner or later gets filled up with goofy jokes and helpless, gut-busting laughter. Throw in a pizza or five and, well, things are about as good as they get.

Until next time...

Dreams

2008-07-21T15:20:00.000-07:00

I have been having very vivid, very odd dreams lately.

My friend Craig and I were waterskiing on a large mountain lake, with an old man from church named Joe driving the speedboat. We were barefoot, and neither of us had waterskied before, but it came quite easy, enough so that I was rather proud to be able to flash the peace sign to the admiring onlookers on shore.

A plantet was discovered with liquid water, a stable climate, and a CO2 atmosphere. Rockets were sent carrying plant seeds, which would sprout into trees, shrubs, and grasses, producing oxygen and rendering the place habitable. But there were no soil fungi, so all the plants died. So rockets were sent carrying soil fungi, which also died because no plant roots had broken up the soil. Once that all got worked out, the plants failed to reproduce because there were no critters to polinate them. So rockets were sent carrying bees, moths, hummingbirds. These didn't make it because by the time they arrived, all the flowering plants had given up, leaving them nothing to eat. And so on.

I learned that a friend of my long-deceased grandma Diemer was alive, well, and in good health and mind, living very near the old ranch in southern Colorado. I was excited to call her and ask her questions about the lives of my maternal ancestors.

And so on and so on. Is something wrong with me, Herr Doktor?

Pond Therapy

2008-07-17T21:04:00.001-07:00

Last night, we floated around our pond in an inflatable boat.

This is something we have done since we first dug the pond several years ago. Around sunset, we get in the boat and float around until we decide to go in. Sometimes we talk; other times we sing. Occasionally the guitar finds its way into the boat; other times there is just comfortable silence. Stargazing and bat watching tend to happen. The only rule is that nothing stressful or negative is allowed on the pond.

Sarah and I are both convinced that the divorce rate would plummet if every couple had a pond and a row boat.

It has been a very fulfilling summer, but a very frustrating one, too. There has been almost no down-time. Not counting firewood expeditions, we have only been to the mountains twice!! It seems like this summer has been one hard job after another, made more frustrating by my uncanny ability to find every conceivable wrong way to do something before stumbling on the correct way. We're both really, really tired, in a way that couples aren't supposed to be until they have kids.

And we had only done pond therapy twice all summer. The pond is clear and clean (benefits of the new liner) and more beautiful than ever, but the days have left us more in the mood for collapsing into bed than for inflating a boat. Amazing how stress and exhaustion reduce life to mere survival.

But last night, the evening was cool, the chicks were bedded down, the sunset was spectacular, and the work was done for the day. I blew up the boat. We got in and shoved off, and almost immediately the world changed. The waterfall drowned out barking dogs. The water level was low enough that we didn't have to worry about prying eyes. Sarah and I were alone in the world. Alone, and thankful.

We talked about how good it is to have a pond and a boat. How wonderful it is to have water clear enough that we could actually see fish from the boat! How blessed we are to live in a place where we can see the Milky Way from the front yard. How amazing all of our trees and bushes are doing. How good it will be to have fresh eggs and fried chicken all winter, with lots to share. We shared favorite childhood memories, and discussed the amazing spiritual journey from which God seems to have returned us--changed, but safe and sound.

Around ten, the timer turned off the waterfall, and everything was still. Sarah had brought along a flashlight for the walk back to the house, and we got it out and shined it into the clear water. In a couple minutes, the light had attracted a swarm of water fleas. Now, unlike their terrestrial namesakes, these critters are not nasty parasitic insects. What they are is almost-microscopic crustaceans, relatives of those hideous sea creatures we pay lots of money to eat at fancy restaurants. They eat single celled algae, and are thus largely responsible for our crystal-clear water. They, in turn, are good chow for fish, and are thus largely responsible for some rather obese goldfish and minnows.

The baby minnows showed up first, eating the water fleas, darting around in the light. Then we started shining the light all over the pond. Everywhere we pointed it, something amazing. Fat goldfish, deep crimson in the night, some of whom we haven't seen for weeks. Bugs. Even the rocks in the pond look different by flashlight.

Today we cut two loads of firewood. I mowed hay for the chickens. Dirty, hard, hot work. But last night, for a little while, we remembered what all the hard work is for. And for a little while, the world was perfect.

Fast Times at Wilson Manor

2008-07-08T16:50:00.000-07:00

I spent most of the day today out in the yard. This has become the normal way of things, much to the detrement of both my graduate GPA and my musical career. Wilson Manor has been undergoing quite a transformation this summer.

Since not much happens in Wyoming without water, we started with the pond. Roberto brought over his big scooper and dug it out, then, with a little help from some extremely good friends, we moved a 900 pound piece of rubber into it. After all the friends went home (smart friends), we moved several tons of rocks into the hole so it would look all nifty. Then we filled it up (it holds water, more or less), threw in some fish to eat mosquitoes, and moved on to the next project.

Trees. New ones. 200 of them. Digging holes on our land feels sort of like scraping paint with a toothpick. So again Rob came to the rescue, punching nice, deep holes through the hard clay with his power auger. After that, planting was easy. We now have lots and lots of cottonwoods, native plums, chokecherries, and junipers, planted in several windbreaks, mostly to protect things that aren’t there yet. Also in the ground are some apricots, sand cherries, and an oak tree. Of course, all of these are very small and don’t look like much…yet.

So, now we have water and trees. How to bring the two together? Last summer I spent around 9 hours per week hauling hoses around the yard. That wasn’t happening again. So this past spring we took several crash courses in drip irrigation. Once the trees were in the ground, we got the equipment and I installed a quarter-mile long drip line. And get this: It works perfectly! Now I go out at bed time, turn on the pump, and wake up in the morning to nice, healthy, well-soaked trees. Getting work done while I sleep. Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.

So, now we have both planted trees and taken steps to assure they don’t die—something new we’re trying this year. Are we content that soon we will be wallowing in fruit, relishing newfound privacy, slinging our hammock in the shade? Ha.

We had been talking about getting a few chickens for quite a while. A fateful day came when Sarah reported the price of eggs, and we decided to go for it. Just a few, understand, to learn the ropes and get started.

Well, this is getting long, so I’ll make a long story short. One thing led to another, and we are now the proud parents of one hundred twenty four baby chickens. No, that isn’t a typo. They live in a large coop creatively constructed out of recycled scrap wood. Almost all of them are roosters that will go in the freezer as soon as they get big enough to be annoying and/or delicious. We’ll keep the hens for eggs, of course, and one rooster to help keep them safe (and pay back the neighbors for their annoying dogs. Mwuah ha ha ha ha haaaaa!)

Oh, there’s more—the outdoor run for the McNuggets currently under construction, then the raised garden beds, not to mention cutting firewood, painting the coop, spraying noxious weeds, always a favorite. But you know, things are starting to feel reasonably under control around here…