The Garden of Forking Paths

            My freshman comp teacher (whose name I have mercifully forgotten) believed himself to be a deep thinker. During class, he often dispensed wisdom about things he found witty, interesting, or absorbing while maintaining the façade of an academic elite. On a rainy day, he once said in a serious tone:  “The thing I hate most about rainy days is the rain leaves little brown circles on the toes of my tennis shoes, and they won’t wash out.”

He was study in contradiction who kept changing the rules.  This created frustration for students trying to determine exactly what their instructor required to get a good grade.  At the beginning of the semester, he promised a term paper at the end of semester would count for a large percentage of the final grade.  This produced hope that, while he gave out very low grades on essays, a good term paper could save us. 

But then, near the semester’s end, he suddenly had a mathematic epiphany and realized that allowing the final term paper to count so much would negate our earlier efforts.  This was exactly what we desired!

 

The most memorable thing about the class, however, was a single short story.  While we were required to purchase a literature book, we read only one story in the book.  We spent long, tortuous weeks reading and re-reading that story: The Garden of the Forking Paths by Jorge Luis Borges.  We studied the story line by line, word by word. With mind numbing determination, we discussed every nuance of the story, whether intended by the author or not.

 

"Red," he would say. "What deep, philosophical implications do you see in that word?"

 

This exhaustive examination of an obscure short story produced in most of his students a deep desire to bang heads against the brick walls of the class building.  The teacher’s motivation for such in-depth study of the story was lost on his students.

 

But the reason became clear to me a couple of years later when I learned that this instructor had written a thesis on The Garden of the Forking Paths by Jorge Luis Borges.  So we, his students, were unwitting and unpaid research assistants in his pursuit of a doctorate.

 

When I realized how the instructor had subtly coerced students to assist in his research while pretending to teach, I was outraged.  I felt disillusioned, cheated, even used.

 

He used his position for personal gain.  And the world seems to be sadly full of people like that today. What do you think?

Can you hear me now?

Remember those Verizon wireless commercials in which an employee is shown in unusual places trying to get good cellular service - in a tree or on a rooftop, always asking, “Can you hear me now?”

This commercial seems sadly symbolic of communication in our modern culture.  We have never had so many forms of communication available to us, and yet personal communication has never been more endangered.  Can anyone hear me, we wonder.

Email, texting, social media networks, cell phones, twitter... the list of communication tools is endless in today’s world.  We have more ways of being in contact than ever before but many people are starving for meaningful connection with others. 

A handwritten note or letter could be treasured for years, but letter writing is a dying art.  Conversation has been replaced by short messages sent electronically, and texting, with its own abbreviated language, is the preferred mode of communication for most young people.  Brevity, convenience, and speed are valued more than personal contact.

To know and be known is a basic desire of all human beings.  Does the distant, impersonal nature of modern communications meet that need?   

          While we may use and enjoy many forms of current technology to   communicate, we long for a more intimate link with the people around us. Feeling understood, validated, and valued come through human touch, honest conversation, eye contact.  There is no electronic substitute for these.      

          Communicate.  Listen.  Reach out and touch another life.  You will be touched and changed, too.    

Safe!

          In baseball, when a runner reaches base without being tagged, the umpire signals and yells, “Safe!”  This seems to be strangely symbolic of my adult life.

I wonder when I began to value safety more than risk-taking?

          I used to love the Tilt-a-Whirl and riding my bike downhill with no hands, the wind tearing at my hair.   I was a wild child who once “ran away” from home through the town drainage ditches and culverts, while my family searched frantically, making it all the way to the other side of town before a good Samaritan returned me home.

My younger brother and I, accompanied by our usual cohorts, spent entire days “exploring” creek beds, and no one knew where we were.  We were fearless… unafraid of snakes, drowning, or danger.

We were daredevils who played chicken at night by lying down on the center line of the highway in front of our house, a risky venture considering it was a main thoroughfare with a dangerous curve blocking view just beyond our house.   

We swam in rain-swollen drainage ditches, climbed trees, slid down tin roofs, and shared grand adventures.  The town and surrounding area were our frontier, and we were daring explorers who knew no fear. 

I envisioned myself exploring Egyptian pyramids, solving mysteries like Trixie Belden, or becoming a spy like the Girl from U.N.C.L.E. 

When I look back on the child I was, I wonder how I became the adult I am.  Was it growing up? Becoming a parent?  Experiencing the inevitable failures and disappointments life brings?

Or is it growing old, trading the thrill of the dare and the lure of the unknown for safety and security?

          Vance Havner said: “Many people are in a rut and a rut is nothing but a grave - with both ends kicked out.”

I need to kick out the ends of my rut and see where the adventure leads.

Halfhearted or Lukewarm

            I have pondered these two words for several weeks since they popped up in my reading.  The quote that started it all was this: “Halfhearted efforts produce mediocre results.”(*)

            What a simple and yet profound statement.  How often has my own effort been halfhearted and yet I expected, or hoped for, good results.  While this is certainly not a novel concept, it is one that had an impact on me.  It was one of those “aha” moments when I gained insight into my own nature as well as human nature in general.

On a much larger scale, this attitude appears to pervade much of modern society.  We are content to just get by, putting forth the minimum effort required but hoping for the maximum reward.  We want success but don’t really want to invest the work, discipline, or time necessary to achieve it.  We applaud overnight sensations, easy money, and instant gratification. 

Our society seems to value the acquisition of power, money or fame even more when it is attained with less effort.  In fact, the person who finds a way to make a quick buck or reach star status without “paying dues” is often perceived to be smarter than the one who worked hard.  Climbing the ladder to success without really exerting oneself is a no brainer in today’s world.

This makes me wonder how values like character, integrity, determination, and hard work are perceived by most people today.  Is the student who studies diligently seen as less savvy than the one who makes the same grade by cheating?  What about those who have attained incredible business success but dropped out of high school or college.  We celebrate shortcuts, get rich quick schemes, and lottery winners. 

What does this say about our society, our world?  I fear where it leads.  And I am challenged to be wholehearted and committed, to give my best and pursue excellence – not mediocrity.

 “So because you are lukewarm – neither hot nor cold - I am about to spit you out of my mouth.” Revelation 3:16

 * Quote from Made to Crave by Lysa Terkeurst

             

A little smoother...

Have you ever been recalibrated?  Recalibrate - to calibrate for a second or subsequent time.   Calibrate is a technical term meaning “to adjust precisely for a particular function” or “to measure against a standard.” In layman’s terms, this can refer to resetting the function of a device to original or enhanced performance levels. 

            Have you ever had your reset button pushed so that your priorities were realigned?  We can go along in life, blissfully ignorant in our own little world.  Then suddenly, something causes us to take a u-turn, assess the situation, and have a seismic shift in our attitude.

In his book A Bend in the Road, Dr. David Jeremiah describes how a diagnosis of cancer dramatically readjusted his own priorities and attitude.  He called such life events “a bend in the road” and relates stories of difficulties, adversities, and challenges others faced which shaped their character and values.  Course corrections in our lives can come in a multitude of ways, both good and bad – success, tragedy, the birth of a child, loss of a job, death of a loved one, a new place, empty nest, full nest, milestone reached or missed, triumph or defeat.  There are infinite ways in which our vision may be tweaked and fine-tuned by life circumstances.


            A Peanuts cartoon depicts Lucy sitting in her five-cent psychology booth dispensing wisdom when Charlie Brown stops by for advice: “Life is like a deck chair, Charlie Brown,” she says. “On the cruise ship of life, some people place their chair at the rear of the ship so they can see where they have been. Others place their chair at the front of the ship so they can see where they are going.”


          Lucy looks at Charlie Brown and asks, “Which way is your deck chair facing?” In his typical pessimistic fashion, Charlie replies, "I can't even get my deck chair unfolded."


          There are times when, like Charlie, we struggle to get our deck chair unfolded and rail at the chaos and confusion of our lives. There are times we feel overwhelmed by thundering waters of despair, accosted by past failures, and crippled by fear of the future. All of our life experiences shape who we become. They can recalibrate us, in a sense.

In her beautiful song “Rolling River God,” Nichole Nordeman portrays God as a river and humans as little stones in the riverbed being buffeted and polished by the rushing water.  Sometimes raging and swollen, the river’s work never stops until stones once rough and grainy become smoothed by the relentless power of the water.  I especially love these words:

“And when the sunset comes,

My prayer would be this one.

That You might pick me up
And notice that I am

Just a little smoother in Your hand.”

            Praying to be a little smoother in His hand....

Rolling River God

By Nichole Nordeman

Rolling river God
Little stones are smooth
Only once the water passes through
so, I am a stone
Rough and grainy still
Trying to reconcile this river's chill

But when I close my eyes
And feel You rushing by
I know that time brings change
And change takes time
And when the sunset comes
My prayer would be this one
That You might pick me up
And notice that I am
Just a little smoother in Your hand

Sometimes raging wild
Sometimes swollen high
Never have I known this river dry
The deepest part of You
Is where I want to stay
And feel the sharpest edges wash away

 

How I met (and fell in love with) books…

          My love affair with books began quite early. Some of my first and most vivid memories involve reading, being held as I listened to stories read aloud.  As the fifth of six children, I was read to by my parents and siblings, but I don’t recall favorite books, other than Little Golden Books, The Child’s World: Stories of Childhood (which I still have), and the big family Bible story book. 

Kindergarten was taught in her home two blocks from mine by Mrs. Doolittle, whose most memorable talent to me was being ambidextrous, a huge factor in my own ability to write left-handed without the awkward grip so many lefties have.  We learned together, played, and had homemade birthday cakes made by our teacher with pastel pink, green, or blue icing, the color choice up to the birthday boy or girl.  Every day, we walked across the street to the elementary school cafeteria to drink chocolate milk. 

I don’t remember learning to read or any favorite books from kindergarten.  But I do remember the very large (coat size) shiny green box I toted to school daily containing my most valued possessions, including an extremely large, heavy family Bible.  That’s the only thing I know was in the box.  Why a gift box instead of a book bag, you may wonder?  So do I.  And why a family Bible?  Who knows.  

 My first real recollection of learning to read comes from first grade.  My teacher, Mrs. Cook, taught us to read about Dick, Jane, and Sally from the huge, oversized reader in the front of the classroom.  As a reward, we were sometimes allowed to sit in the back of the classroom and read books when our work was done.  I have happy memories of sitting under the shelf containing verdant houseplants cascading down in shady green curtains.  Hidden away under this lush tent of fern fronds and trailing vines, my best friend Anna and I would become lost in the books and stories we read.  We loved being in this secret world where we felt both safe and daring at the same time, sharing our newfound reading skill and exciting literary adventures. 

As I grew older, my reading experiences increased and expanded.  The library in our little town became a favorite destination.  Housed in the building with city hall, it was rather small by modern standards.  Sometimes my mother would take my brother and me, or I would walk or ride my bike the few blocks from our home and spend hours curled up in a corner reading, scanning the shelves for the next book I wanted to read.  The librarian, Mrs. Cole, did not seem to mind my long visits and exhibited remarkable forbearance with my library habits.  I once checked out a biography of Mozart for weeks on end simply because I thought it looked good propped on my bed for passersby (my family) to see through the open doorway.  The book cover matched my room décor perfectly! I am happy to say that since then, I have never chosen books to read based on their color scheme or decorating potential.

In college, my roommate and I often swapped paperback romances.   I almost always read a book to completion, and I seldom re-read books.  Once I know how it ends, it has lost its mysterious attraction.  But my roommate selected books by first reading the ending.  If it seemed good, she would read the book.  If not, she didn't read it.  To me, this was sacrilege! 

From my earliest memories, books and reading have been a big part of my life.  My professions, first as an English teacher and then working in libraries, have been closely related to my passion for literature and reading.  And the adventure continues…..   

The little soap bird...

          Opening a cabinet, I discover her perched there on a high shelf… the little bird made of soap.

I haven’t been a teacher for over 30 years, but I still have the little soap bird, a gift from a former student.  It was so lovely I decided to save it for a special occasion – which apparently never came.  So there sits the little soap bird on the shelf, exactly where it has been for all these years, waiting patiently to be used, never fulfilling its intended purpose.  She’s only slightly the worse for wear, with a tiny chip missing from her beak.  Why have I kept the soap bird so long and never used it?  Why do we save things for some future time and deny ourselves the enjoyment and pleasure of using them in the present? 

Upon opening a gift of a scented candle or beautiful note cards, a friend often exclaims, “You know I can’t use it!”  Just like me with the little soap bird, she finds it difficult to make herself use the gifts she is given, saving them for some unknown future day when the time is suddenly right to burn the candle or write on the note cards.

My mother stockpiles nightgowns and robes for the possibility of a hospital stay.  Her closet and drawers are filled with new pastel robes and gowns while she continues to wear old, threadbare ones. 

What is it within us that chooses to save, hoard, or postpone using the gifts we have been given?  Is it some deep-seated feeling of unworthiness that makes us believe we are undeserving of gifts.  Maybe we fear some future time of need in which we will require just the thing we have been saving.  Or possibly we cannot bring ourselves to open the gift and thereby destroy forever its pristine newness. 

We are all given gifts every day which we choose to use or store.  Used, they can bring delight and fulfillment.  Unused, they sit high on a shelf, neglected and unable to fulfill their created purpose. An unused gift is lost potential, stifled joy.  A gift is meant to be opened, used, and shared….like a box of Godiva chocolates.

This year, I resolve to open and use gifts, not save and hoard them.  I want no more little soap birds but a life of extravagant thankfulness and grateful generosity.