I am because we are.

Today finds me in northern Indiana, South Bend, to be exact, visiting dear friends from college. I've been here for the weekend, hanging out, visiting their lovely church, rehashing old memories and making new ones. Yesterday afternoon, a visit with my fellow Ugandan SALTer involved ordering our lunch in Spanish, an amazing play at Goshen College, and an evening of good coffee and catching up. Today, another dear friend and I will make a not entirely expected adventure into Chicago; I'll sleep in Michigan tonight.
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There have been some to question why I would take this journey out to flat "Michiana," why I'd spend the money -- and the time -- on Amtrak tickets, and especially, why I'd do it now, when the countdown to departure is mostly creating anxiety. Even my own heart has at times asked these questions, though mostly in the days before I came, and the sleepless hours of steady chugging and stoner seatmates.
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It took only a few hours here (well, a few conscious ones, at least) to know within myself how right this choice was. Travelling insomnia and ticket prices are nothing compared to the sweet comfort of conversing with a dear friend face to face. Emails are good, and letters are like gold, but still, how delightful to lay on a couch and let our hearts flow once again together. We talk about men and life and school and children and houses and future and past and questions and everything that matters, as well as much that may not. And somehow, in those moments of being together, we make more sense of who we are: and it is good, tov, the whispered blessing of a long-forgotten creator. This trip has been, is continuing to be, all about relationships, but also my own soul.

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You may have noticed the change to my blog title this morning. I've been contemplating the need for a new title for some time now, a natural part of the transition process. This morning, I realised what it must be. Ubuntu. I first encountered the term, as far as I remember, in readings borrowed from my friends' first year reader. A South African concept, presented often by Archbishop Desmond Tutu, it reframes human identity. Translated, or at least, paraphrased, it means, "I am because we are." My being is embodied, entwined, in your being, in our being together and relating. It is the cornerstone of a communal culture, the instinctual philosophy of people born to think of family, tribe, clan, and kingdom more than self. And these days, it is the beat of my own heart as well.

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These months in the US have been all about relationships: family, friends, new acquaintances. Coming to terms with who I am and how I've changed, mostly seen through the mirror of others' eyes. In college, community was an over-used buzzword; they tried too hard to teach us how to live together. These days, I know it's value on a deeper level: in the place where my heart and mind reach out for meaning, and my self is made manifest mostly when I am with those I hold dear. These bonds have formed me, transformed me, stretched and challenged me; these strange bridges of trust and honesty, love and challenge, painfully difficult in all their beauty. And, despite the frustration of physical separation, they will continue to.

On my mind...

(banner at Kern Road Mennonite Church, South Bend, IN)

Good Eating.

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"Food culture in the United States has long been cast as the property of a privileged class. It is nothing of the kind. Culture is the property of a species. Humans don't do everything we have to do -- that is arguably what makes us human. We're genetically predisposed toward certain behaviors that we've collectively decided are unhelpful; adultery and racism are possible examples. With reasonable success, we mitigate those impulses through civil codes, religious rituals, maternal warnings -- the whole bag of tricks we call culture. Food cultures concentrate a population's collective wisdom about the plants and animals that grow in a place, and the complex ways of rendering them tasty. These are mores of survival, good health, and control of excess. Living without such a culture would seem dangerous."

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"Doing the right thing, in this case, is not about abstinence-only, throwing out bread, tightening your belt, wearing a fake leather belt, or dragging around feeling righteous and gloomy. Food is the rare moral arena in which the ethical choice is generally the one more likely to make you groan with pleasure. Why resist that?"

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from Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life,

Barbara Kingsolver.

Train Conversation.

19:07 Direct quote from the conversation I just had with the older man behind me: "I was in Chad once. We were going to start an airline there. Air Chad. But there were only three markets we were going to create it for: narcotics, guns and ammo, and conflict diamonds. But the penalties for all that is really stiff."

19:14 Another direct quote from the guy behind me, this one in conversation with a friend on his cell phone: "Well, Tim, I'm on the train to Toledo, and I have no one to talk to. Except this cute girl in the seat in front of me..." ... Now he's asking Tim how he plans to prepare the turkey for Thanksgiving and if he has any plates without egg stains to eat the food off of. ... "You can always count on Tim for the latest in plastic ware [he's still talking to Tim at this point!]."

Listening Session (On a Westbound Train)

Swaying a bit as it rocks side to side, moving ever forward, the train has a steady purr. Sometimes it deepens into a growl: I think the track is a little less smooth at those times. Or perhaps it only wants to remind us that it is alive – and powerful. It is not a meek beast, this monster of heat and metal. Tamed for today, it rumbles occasionally to draw attention to its own power.

Here inside, the purring, mumbling, onward, onward is joined in the chorus by all of these other parts. Doors, windows, luggage shelfs, seat backs, roof panels: grumbling a bit, breathing loudly in tune. They make their presence known as well, call to mind a child's contraption. Blocks and plastic pieces, cast off string and bottle caps, perhaps a spoon from mother's drawer. Spliced together, they provide the course for marbles, cars, and sometimes rocks, but those don't roll as well. It works: you've seen it. The magic is in the held-in breath, exhaled only after the race has run its course without catastrophe. This car runs a more stable course, but still, it makes you wonder when you hear the constant shaking.

Then there is the door. Well, two of them actually. The one behind keeps quiet, the older sibling winning at that dastardly game: “Don't talk first!” It opens sometimes, it must. You can never catch it blinking, but there, and again, people appear and shuffle their way through. There are many of them who wander this path, this last leg of the pilgrimage between coach and dining car. Their passage is marked, time and again, by the solo of that other door, the one in front, whose song is neither beautiful – nor succint. Each time it opens, pulled aside, to admit an exit or an entrance, it sings a bit, in a whispering gush of words. Older brother always quick to open, easy to close. This younger child demands attention – listen to me! – as it struggles to master that delicate art of closing. It pushes too hard, strives to force. Calm down, little one, you want to say, go slow and rest easy. Perhaps it only learns by making its own mistakes.

Air ducts overhead breathe ever out, pushing oxygen into the box that is contains us. It is not quite breathing, though, this steady exhalation. It lacks the rhythm, the in and out, now, again. Carefully nurturing this artificial space, less than human in their perfect consistency.

Sound emanates metal and plastic, badly hung doors and ceiling ducts. Ah, but also, there are the other passengers. You are not alone in this journey, despite the isolation you sense as you stare into the black night, met only by your own reflection.

Come back inside, let the train itself fade into the baseline, and there are other sounds. Listen carefully, and you can hear it: this is life. As it is lived in a box passing through the early darkness. Living is being done here: living and loving and hurting and joy-making, longing and wanting and hoping and wishing, though mostly sitting.

The elderly couple ahead chatter with light voices, fading often into the silence of her crossword and his nap. They don't need so many words: they have journeyed long together. His gait is heavy, stumbling, as he brings her drink. Her voice is soft. She lets her words float on the moment, there for only him to find. Her movements slow, when she makes them, but hinting at the sweetest grace she used to have. Is this how aging sounds, comfortable in its obvious familiarity?

Every so often, the conductor strolls through, his footfall full of confidence and vigour. His shoes proclaim, with every step, he knows where we are. And maybe, also, why we are here.

Nearby, perhaps in the hidden seat in front of you, a young woman sings. Her voice is soft, though more melodic in its youth. Not even singing, really, but a tune hummed to accompany her magic music box. Tucked deep into her ears, swaddled like a newborn babe, these tiny pieces protect her from all that is silent.

A man coughs. Not deeply, no, he does not seem sick. There is a catch in his throat: of dust, perhaps, but maybe, also, of words unspoken and dreams just begun. It catches him there, tickles, plays that childish game, “catch me, catch me, catch me if you can.” He clears his throat, coughs, and again. But it persists, comes back to find him unawares: you won't be rid of me so easily.

Another couple, younger, still learning to be together. They pay much attention to each other, speak in whispers, but seem somehow less aware of each other's presence than their older counterparts. She leans in close to share a thought, not yet knowing how to say it with the touch of a hand. They want to be alone, but they draw an audience, wanting it so loudly.

Somewhere, a younger voice: the loudest in the car. Too young to know the rules of keeping quiet and to one's self, he murmurs, cries, and laughs. Phonetics blurring together, he is a storyteller, regaling us all with his tales of personal exploit. Until he tires, like us all, of this steady sitting, quiet being, this moving without moving. He is ready to be home, to see Daddy, to put on his pjs and eat his supper. The darkness is heaviest for him, you know, a metronome calling him to sleep. Mama tries to hush his cries, her voice soothing, “It's okay. We're almost home.” She speaks, unknowingly, to each of us, who, tired of traveling and playing and seeing these strangers, want only to be home.

Overheard at Messiah...

At my alma mater for a couple hours before catching a train to the cold midwest... just thought I'd share this, since it amused me quite a bit ;)

A bit of conversation at the beginning of class between one of my favourite theology professors and her poor student...

SB: "So, you're getting married in August?"

Student: "Yeah."

SB: "Did you buy her a ring?"

Student: "Of course!"

SB: "Ring by spring..."

Oh, I think I've missed this place...

Must Read.

A fascinating blog about the more intricate details of life:

Feynman's Flower.

I particularly recommend reading Dopamine Day and

the original post about Feynman's Flower.

1st November: Seeking Truth on a Rainy Autumn Morn.

Delta.

"The best way to change the world is to change your mind, which often requires feeding yourself. It makes for biochemical peace. It's almost like a prayer: to be needy, to eat, to taste, to be filled, building up instead of tearing down. You find energy to do something you hadn't expected to do, maybe even one of the holiest things: to go outside and stand under the stars, or to go for a walk in the morning, or in such hard times, both."

--Anne Lamott, Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith

Poetic Insomnia.

I fell asleep with verses and metaphors running through my head last night. Still, I wasn't expecting to wake up at 4 am with those thoughts still building. The following is an early morning, insomniac experiment with structure: mostly, it surprised me to watch it flow out of my pen. Oh, and I have absolutely no idea how "The Ants Go Marching In" got stuck in my head, nor why it blended with memories of my students. [And, the random periods are space savers, not punctuation: the failure to recognise my spacing might be one of my biggest annoyances with blogger!]

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The Ants: Morning Parade.

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Yes, but, they are

children --

...... not ants --

and they don't

...... actually

know how to march.

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Well,

they do. I

...... taught them --

more than once --

...... to lift their knees

in ordered rhythm.

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But they are children,

mostly;

...... such lessons (d)evolve

into laughter

...... and amusement,

mostly directed at me.

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So, it remains

that their marching

...... to class

is more like a fast walk

...... which lacks

specific beat.