fifteen year old wisdom.

"i want a job because i want money but i don't want to have to work."

don't we all, dear, don't we all.

what we talk about.

A few days ago, I sat at the dining room table in my friends' house. There were four of us, sitting around the table, college friends drinking tea and catching up on each other's lives.

A scene playing out, not for the first time.

Only this time, the dialogue took a slightly different turn.

Our conversations used to revolve around such topics as classwork, professors, global injustices, relationships, philosophical principles, how little sleep we'd gotten recently, and how much better Wegmans is than any other grocery store.

This time: rising public transportation costs, healthcare benefits, networking and applying for jobs, other people's weddings, our respective jobs, gardening, and how much better Wegmans is than any other grocery store.

A lot changes as we grow up.

But some things never change.

Like how wonderful it is to drink tea with old friends.

The Thing about Knowledge.

Towards the end of his memoir, The Worlds of a Maasai Warrior: An Autobiography (1986), Tepilit Ole Saitoti reflects on the educational opportunities that he sought and received in the UK and US. Contemplating the increased awareness resulting from his cross-cultural and inter-continental experiences, he writes:

"By then I had come face to face with the painful realities of knowledge. One who understands is freer in the head but sadder in the heart. It is sad to know that there is so much wrong in our world, and for the most part we are helpless to do anything about it.

...

Western education had opened up so many vistas for me, and made me aware of so many complications. It confronted me with the broader spectrum of things within which I live. My brothers live according to the seasons and accept death and rebirth as normal. They are spared the anguish and the failures I sometimes experience."

'cause everything is never what it seems.

a few weeks ago, i spent a saturday evening hanging out with a very good friend in harrisburg, pennsylvania. we went to midtown scholar for coffee and to browse the shelves of used tomes. i searched through an entire wall of poetry shelves but found nothing from africa. which was sad.

far more enjoyable, however, was encountering another good friend, who just happened to be working at midtown. our conversation started with her informing me - quite emphatically - that i was now dating my boyfriend, a surprise that had absolutely delighted her when she was facebook stalking one or the other of us. the evening progressed: coffee, smuggling food into the theater, (2d) alice in wonderland, film criticism in the car. all good times.

at the end of the evening, liz gifted me with some old calendar pages she had found while cleaning the bookstore. use them, she told me, for some creative purpose. such a delightful charge.

so tonight, i did.

a few old calendar pages, a handful of glue sticks, some coloured paper. the result: a pile of eclectic and quirky postcards. such fun :)

*note: should you appreciate such craft enough to desire such items yourself, i may consider selling some of them. interested? send me a message.

Vocation.

During my undergraduate years, "vocation" was one of the buzzwords we heard often. Recently, it's been on my mind again - the concept more than the word.

The future looms high, a blanker slate than I've seen in a very long time. At this point, I know where I'm planning to be living a few months from now, but really, I have no idea what I'll be doing. As I start to apply for jobs and contemplate the possibility of graduate school, I have high hopes - but also more than a little fear. It is exciting to think of walking unknown paths, in part because they are likely to hold both joy and sorrow, blessings and frustrations.

In a couple months, I will be starting again - again. New place, new people, new job (hopefully), new routine and rhythm of life. As I navigate yet another transitional space, I find my mind naturally contemplating my own identity - and my vocation. I think about who I am and who I want to be, and I am drawn ever more to writings that reflect those thoughts and challenge my imagination.

Below, two pieces which have been floating in my mind today.

The first, a quote that I heard at a church service this morning. My immediate response, after hearing it, was to wonder what currently developing, formerly colonised country the speaker was from.

"If you have come to help me, you are wasting your time. But if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us walk together."

--Lila Watson, Aboriginal activist.

And the second, quite possibly one of my favourite poems, which was posted at the Reconcilers blog this morning. Written by Wendell Berry, it captivates my thinking anew every time I hear it. It is the last line I have been contemplating most today: the mandate to "Practise resurrection." It is, I do believe, the most perplexing line in the poem, in part because "resurrection" is a concept foreign to my daily existence. But there it stands, the closing line, as if to summarise all the rest, calling the phoenix to rise from the ashes and beckoning light into dark places.

Manifesto:

The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

by Wendell Berry

Love the quick profit, the annual raise, vacation with pay.

Want more of everything ready-made.

Be afraid to know your neighbors and to die.

And you will have a window in your head.

Not even your future will be a mystery anymore.

Your mind will be punched in a card

and shut away in a little drawer.

When they want you to buy something,

they will call you.

When they want you to die for profit,

they will let you know.

So, friends, every day do something that won't compute.

Love the Lord. Love the world.

Work for nothing.

Take all that you have and be poor.

Love someone who does not deserve it.

Denounce the government and embrace the flag.

Hope to live in that free republic for which it stands.

Give your approval to all you cannot understand.

Praise ignorance,

for what man has not encountered, he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.

Invest in the millenium.

Plant sequoias.

Say that your main crop is the forest

that you did not plant

that you will not live to harvest.

Say that the leaves are harvested when they have rotted into mold.

Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus

that will build under the trees

every thousand years.

Listen to carrion - put your ear close,

and hear the faint chattering of the songs that are to come.

Expect the end of the world.

Laugh.

Laughter is immeasurable.

Be joyful

though you have considered all the facts.

So long as women do not go cheap for power,

please women more than men.

Ask yourself:

will this satisfy a woman satisfied to bear a child?

Will this disturb the sleep of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.

Lie down in the shade. Rest your head in her lap.

Swear allegiance to what is nighest your thoughts.

As soon as the generals and the politicos can predict

the motions of your mind,

lose it.

Leave it as a sign to mark the false trail,

the way you didn't go.

Be like the fox who makes more tracks than necessary,

some in the wrong direction.

Practice resurrection.

A Guest Entry

Life has been busy and full lately: I haven't had much time for reading or writing of any sort. Perhaps you've noticed (or not) my lack of recent blogging; my journal has been receiving a similar dearth of ink. Even having someone comment daily on my non-blogging hasn't helped. All of my good intentions - and occasional thoughts of "I should blog about this" - haven't amounted to much. I'll be back here before too long: the writing urge will overcome my tiredness one of these days. But for now, thanks to those who check in every so often just to see if there's anything new. Slowly, slowly, it will come.

And in the meantime, mostly because it amuses me in the grandest sort of way, I thought I'd share a piece written by my youngest sister, Rachel. She recently found a box of old photos and school papers. Sorting through it tonight, she came across an essay she wrote at the beginning of fifth grade. Titled "Pillars in Person," it required her to write about a person who demonstrated the school's six pillars of character: trustworthiness, respect, responsibility, caring, fairness, and citizenship. Our school system enacted the Character Counts program when I was in middle or high school: the thing that I remember best about it is that our book covers contained the same typo for years, "repsonsibility" instead of "responsibility."

But here, dated 1 September 2004, and written in her very best cursive handwriting, is my sister's essay. Clearly she paid a bit more attention to the character pillars than I ever did...

Pillars in Person

My essay is about my older sister Kristina. She is 18 years old and her birthday is in November. She is taking classes at Messiah College in Pennsylvania this year.

Kristina is a very caring person. She often baby-sits my brother Nathan and I to help out my mom. She also forgives people very easily. For exampale [sic] if we keep bugging her while she is trying to do her homework she will say "will you please stop" instead of yelling at us. She shows this in many examples here is one, if we have a homework assignment we do not understand she will help us with it.

Kristina also shows that she is a good citizen by encouraging us that we can do anything we set out to do! She also shows this trait by respecting my mom even when she doesn't like what my mom wants her to do. She also shows this by not littering even if it's very tempting.

Also Kristina shows that she practices the character pillar of trustworthiness by never cheating in card games such as Bridge and Spades. She shows this trait also by never lying about grades or anything else. She never breaks promises, and is usually on time. Kristina is the best example of a person I know showing these character traits.

Today's reflective moment...

.

i wish for you

the strength

to let it be,

to simply

live

at peace

with the questions

in your heart.

.

Quotable Moment.

"Boys. They're like luxury items."

-From a source who desires not to be named.

Edit: An additional bit of context. The quote above occurred after dinner at my house a few nights ago (mere minutes before I posted it, actually). I cooked that night: spaghetti with homemade sauce, plus salad. Forty five minutes isn't really quite enough time to prepare sauce from scratch (raw vegetables from the pantry and tomatoes we canned last summer); it was a little chunky, but actually quite tasty, if I may say so myself.

But then there was the question of how much spaghetti to cook. I expected a mere seven people around the table (the same number as our family when everyone is home): parents, two sisters, one brother, one boyfriend, and myself. At the time of cooking, only my youngest sister, my boyfriend, and I were present: this may have been a mitigating factor in my slightly conservative decision to cook exactly one pound of spaghetti noodles.

And then, my brother came in from riding bikes and playing basketball with his friends. His hungry demeanor, coupled with the fact that his friends were still hanging around outside, made me second-guess my cooking decision. I knew there would be plenty of sauce, but had I made enough noodles?

My sister and I discussed the matter and decided that there was probably enough, unless his friends came in to eat too. If we added another couple teenage boys to the aforementioned head count, we would have to prepare more food (and set the larger table). What to do?

The boys didn't end up coming in, but mom still decided to throw more spaghetti in a pot when she came in from the garden. We actually had enough with just the first pound; the additional leftovers have made nice lunches for the last couple days.

So where did the opening quote fit into this story? Toward the end. As we cleaned up after supper, the discussion turned to the phenomenon which is the male appetite... and the related costs of keeping a boy around.

morning conversation.

Brother: Are you packing a lunch, Kristina?

Me: Yes.

Brother: Cool!

Mom: Why's it cool, Nate?

Brother: I don't know. I do it.

Green Loc-Tite: Or, Learning to Be Less Efficient.

It's almost 9 pm. I'm tired. My feet are reminding me that they still aren't used to being confined in socks and shoes all day. My hands are dry, and there's still grease under my fingernails. Eight hours at work today, most of them in the parts room or shop, and how good it feels to have actually accomplished some really concrete tasks today (and to have marked hours on a timesheet). I must head to bed soon: tomorrow will be an even longer day, particularly if I work in the evening as well. I won't complain though: I like my jobs, and after two weeks of hanging out at home, I'm thankful to have something to keep me busy.

And laughing.

I've worked in the parts room at my dad's shop often enough. In the fall, I was the one to receive and stock each day's inventory; I've pulled and shipped many an order. I did some of that today, too (the shipping, not receiving). While Clarence welcomed me back with the suggestion that I go sweep the roof of the shop (this will likely remain at the bottom of my to do list forever), Dave quickly handed off a few invoices to pack and ship. Including one to Canada - which meant I got to jump right back into not only the regular aspects of shipping, but also customs and commodities declarations! I remembered most of what to do, and he walked me through the rest of it once again.

But the biggest lesson of the day came when Clarence and Kevin and John put me to work pressing bushings and bearings into pulleys. For the non-mechanically inclined among my readers, this basically means that I was inserting small metal pieces into larger metal pieces, which will eventually (tomorrow!) be connected to other pieces to become large mechanical equipment. The pieces fit together very tightly, so I had to use a press. The first batch went fine: two bushings per pulley until I ran out, and then we ordered more.

And because I had done so well, the guys decided I should do some more. But this next batch was a bit different, so we added a couple steps to the process. Now, instead of just setting a bushing into the pulley and using the press to push it in, I would be smearing a bearing with green loc-tite, using the press to push it level with the edge of a (different-shaped) pulley, then using a rod with the press to push it into the middle of the pulley. Trust me, the steps are easy enough when you see them done.

Now, this "green loc-tite" stuff was obviously held in high regard: that much was obvious from the way the guys talked about it. Reading the label, I learned that it was supposed to "augment" the connection between two pieces of metal. But I wasn't told, nor did I quite figure out until (much) later, how it did this. Maybe it should have been obvious from the name; perhaps, in the midst of remembering and learning so much, my brain wasn't functioning at quite it's fullest speed. Regardless, when I began my task, I hadn't yet learned to respect green loc-tite nearly as much as it deserved.

There were three shelves of pulleys, but not nearly enough bearings. For the first group, John had given me 24 bearings, which I was to fit into 24 pulleys. He had demonstrated on one, but I didn't see any reason to do them individually, so I set myself up with a nice little assembly line on the receiving table. I opened 24 boxes, then removed 24 bearings from their plastic wrappers. Wearing gloves - at John's demand - I smeared green loc-tite on each one and paired it with a pulley. Then, I used the press to push each bearing level with the pulley. 24 presses: so far, so good.

But then, disaster struck.

Just as John had, I set the rod in the first bearing and stuck it under the press again. I pulled down, and, nothing. All my strength couldn't budge the bearing any deeper into the pulley. I readjusted the press - a few times - with the same result. I tried a different pulley: still no luck. Thinking there was something wrong with the press, I paged Kevin, the Shop Manager, to the parts room. He couldn't get the press to move the bearing either. But, being far better acquainted with green loc-tite than I, he quickly recognized the problem.

Green loc-tite is like super glue - only superior. It sets fast and solid. To unstick something which has been stuck with green loc-tite apparently requires heating to a very high temperature.

By trying to be more efficient with my assembly line style, I had created a problem on par with the sticking power of green loc-tite. I was horrified. We don't stock cheap parts, and I thought for sure that I had ruined these pulleys and would never be allowed near anything mechanical - or sticky - again.

A couple more guys got involved, mostly laughing at my predicament. Clarence, however, knew how to solve such a problem. Taking one of my super-stuck pulleys and the press rod, he led me out to the shop - and to the hydraulic press. Warning me never to pull the press when my hand was near or under it, he quickly proved its power: this press was more than able to push the bearing solidly into the pulley. I breathed a sigh of relief (maybe a few) and went to fetch my other 23 stuck pulleys.

The story ends happily: I finished the rest of the pulleys (including another 20 or so from each of the other shelves) using the hydraulic press and didn't have any trouble; I learned to respect green loc-tite as much as any of the guys; and the frequent retelling of this story throughout the afternoon to various employees and vendors provided much comic relief.

Moral: Efficiency isn't always a virtue, particularly in the presence of almighty green loc-tite.