Tree, Wood, Lumber, log

For me taking a tree, removing the branches, and splitting it into boards is such an intimate, rich experience with the complex beauty that God created. If I had merely considered it a resource to be used, I would have bought wood that had been sawed by a machine, and dried in a kiln. The encounter would have been missed.

I sometimes get pulled into the idea that wood is a simple homogenous substance, but it is really a beautiful, complex teamwork of fibers, moisture, tubes, sap and the occasional bug. Different woods have a special snap when they are split. A find dust is dispersed into the air. The aroma of the sap is wonderful.

The Entire World

Sometimes people lie to their kids. It seems that this is most often dismissed as okay when the child asks an awkward question.

Imagine being a kid. There is so much that goes over your head. You want to learn and be included. You ask an honest question with complete sincerity. You get lied to. You remember this lie. When you are older you are confronted with the truth. This maybe the first time you started thinking that your parents are liars.

You are an adult. Imagine a child asks you a hard question. You don’t want to be transparent. You don’t think it is appropriate for the child to hear the full answer. You don’t want to lie. “But it’s only a child,” you think, “He might totally forget about it.”

I think Abraham told an amazing truth to the hard question that Isaac asked on the way to the sacrifice. The full truth was, Isaac was the sacrifice. Abraham’s answer wasn’t full disclosure. This difference between withholding information and deceiving is importing in avoiding lies. Abraham didn’t have to be totally open, but totally honest. His answer was a resounding truth. (It was also on topic. I don’t think that an appropriate answer to, “Where do babies come from?” is, “Christ died for your sins, son.”)

It may not have been difficult for Abraham to come up with this answer. It was the truth behind Abraham’s action. It was the truth behind pretty much his entire life. He left his homeland believing that God would provide a new home. He had belief that God would provide him a son in the first place. He had belief that God could resurrect his son. He believed that God would provide.

Wow. No wonder he was chosen to be a blessing to the whole world through his descendants.

Wild Grapes or Chemistry in My Kitchen

My lips itch. My hands itch too.

I found a beautiful wild grape vine. I saw grape clusters near me. I looked else where and there were more. This vine had produced richly.

I researched what was edible and found that all grapes are. There is a plant called moonseed that has fruit that looks similar to grape. It has a singular moon shaped seed, and is poisonous. The grape seeds are tear shaped and usually are more than one per grape.

The disgusting white of my supermarket bag veiled the purple of the grapes that were quickly filling it. Home I went. At first I used a blender and cloth to grind and strain the grapes. My hands itched. I was anxious that it was the wrong plant or I was reacting allergic. In an hour or so the itching left. I drank the juice will no ill effect.

Today, I pulled the grapes from the vine, my fingers purple. I looked at the white powder coating the grape. I’m told this is yeast. In places it was rubbed off, replaced by the shiny taught skin of the grape. Some of the grapes had bugs in them. These were shriveled or oozed dark juice. I was not living in a glass box. I was not living with industry imposed standards of no bugs. I was experiencing wild grapes. The bug free grapes felt hard with the tension inside. I was freshly experiencing the plant that becomes the drink that Jesus used as a representation of his blood.

This time I used a juicer.

“This grape juice is so acidic,” I thought, “That has to by why my hands itch. I wonder if it is as acidic as vinegar?” I remember the volcano experiment from grade school. The vinegar and baking soda mixed with a bubbling reaction. They were neutralizing each other. Carbon dioxide was produced. Did I remember right?

The little pile of baking soda blended in with the white ceramic bowl. What a stark contrast the grape juice made. It bubbled immediately. Then it turned blue. From purple to blue, I never knew. It really is a mystery. I wanted a drink, it made me think. I’m a part of grape history.

Don’t puke in that bucket.

I have phone anxiety. I sometimes, being faced with the need to contact someone, email because it is less personal, less confrontational. I am allowed the false comfort of putting off the development of my social skills, the maturity of personal issues and the other unknown but extensive benefits of verbally encountering another person.

Stretching often has the appearance and initial affect of being undesirable. (What I need to do is not look at the struggle but the result of engaging the struggle. Doing this also makes it so much easier to choose joy.)

I have heard of a creative way that some people have used to redistribute money. This way is as simple as a group of buckets that receive money from people who want to give. People who need money go to the buckets and take what they need.

I think that this is a neat, creative method, but what I think should not be left behind is the challenging method of getting people to give money or resources directly to each other. I think this forces people to address fears, insecurities, and worries.

For example one might be afraid to admit need. One might be embarrassed to give . People tackling (perhaps even choosing joy in) these struggles can be helpful for many. Those who experience the struggle can grow and those who witness it may grow also.

Listen

Oh, Frankie and I had quite the battle. I have been, as of late, getting off of my bottom to engage in some stick to teeth combat with a snake. My friends and supporters have informed me that the Frankster was not just any old slithery fellow. He was a real life aggressive Blue Razor. Please don’t mistake the similarity of his name with the very non deadly razor cell phone, or the potentially painful but not venomous razor foldable scooter. Frankers can pack a serious bite, and grow up to eight feet long. He has a very intimidating grey-ish blue color. He rattles his tail as a defense mechanism.

It was exciting. Frank found his way into the garage. I was using a long thin piece of wood to coax him from behind two stowed tables. I was jumping and yelling, “Oo!” He was slithering and hiding. He didn’t flee. I didn’t flee. I finally carried him with my death wand and placed him in the most humane way possible on the ground.

He tried to hide in the front of the car. His slender head poked through the holes in the bumper. I jumped in triumph with my muscles bulging.

The stories of my scars

Do, do, do, la, la, la, la, do, do. As the world has spun on its slant axis, many odd objects have found themselves in violent encounter with my largest organ, these are The Stories of My Scars.

My brother graduated high school in the mid 1990s. He went to college. My world was still filled with Ninja Turtles. In college he had his ears pierced. I remember thinking that getting a piercing was very cool.

Some how I had the idea that you could pierce your finger or toe. I had already pierced my fingernail. It wasn’t legitimate enough, my nail piercing.

In the cold snowy winters, after a while of playing, my toes would be numb. I felt that this was the perfect chance to pierce the edge my toe.

I had heard of people using safety pins to pierce their belly buttons. I just used whatever pin I could find.

Fortunately I am not a tough guy. The pin, being pressed into my toe, hit a spot a little too deep for my comfort. So I pushed it through the outer part of my skin that has less feeling. I never planned out how I would leave the pin in place so that the hole would heal. I think I just took it out because I knew that it wasn’t deep enough. I know I tried this between my toes and thumbs three or four times.

So to be completely transparent these aren’t really scars. They did leave scars at the time but they have been erased.

Scars that have been erased, scars that have been erased...

Apples and Oranges

The Art Prize is coming to Grand Rapids, MI. It is here, really. A 30,000 Pound Chair that will have a matching table is being installed atop of a downtown bridge.
This competition is being hailed as a great competition. It will bring art from around the world to west Michigan. It is judge by the public. It has a non-traditional method of admission. There is no jury or submission of slides. The artist has to get in touch with a local businesses within the perimeters set downtown .
This seems good. Anyone can enter. It frees the artist from the system of critics and the art elite.
I think that the art prize is what the art world doesn't need. ( I don't think it is harmful, but it doesn't help the situation.) The problem with art today is that there is no clear distinction placed on what is made. I have read art criticism books that speak of judging art by one context or another. But very few people care to take the time to find out what is behind different forms of art. I have heard phrases like, "I just don't get it", or "I don't see how that's art".
If one goes to an art museum a 3,000 year old artifact is just down the hall from 50 year old oil paintings. These things are divided by period but it lacks true distinction. It is all termed art.
In Grand Rapids at the Frederick Meijer Gardens and Sculpture Park, the roughly 2 story Da Vinci horse is just down the path from welded I-beams. There is no attention given to the motives, intentions, or general context that these radically different objects have been created with.
Art doesn't need less distinction but more. Painting and sculpture needs something other than being thrown together with dancing, and music in a category labeled "The Arts". I would like a distinction between splatter painting, technical realism, and 30,000 pound chairs, not because I think that some art should be excluded or discouraged but rather that these things that people are making should be set into context. How can the megalithic sculpture and the still life painting or the installation be judged in the same contest for a very large sum of money?
Perhaps critics, professors and artist do give distinction, but I'm not sure that the general public (who will be judging this contest) does much thinking, if any, about art. Perhaps in freeing the contest from the critics and art elite, one is taking the art out of the hands of the people who care about art and into the laps of people who don't.
I am critiquing this contest but the issue seems bigger than one contest. It encompasses terms like "The Arts" and institutions that tear artwork out of it's context with little clue for the viewer what the work is all about.