One Ring, One of a Kind

I started reading The Lord of the Rings to my eight-year-old son last night. We finished the Narnia books a few weeks ago, so, I figured it was time to introduce my boy to the book that changed me forever -- the book that made me want to live among words for the rest of my life.

I've said this before, I think: at some point as a scholar of English literature, I figured out what makes a great novelist great; I figured out why Tolkien is no Steinbeck and why C. S. Lewis is no Thomas Pynchon. But, fortunately, I have never completely snobbed over.


"The Horn of Boromir," Matt Stewart

I still love Tolkien, for all his "weaknesses" as a novelist. In my opinion, he can string together as many adjectives as he wants; he can use "perilous" a dozen times per page. There is something in his work that is just right, as far as I'm concerned. His imagination is the unashamed creative abandon of a child who is living the fantasy every step of the way. His world existed, as he wrote, every bit as much as the pile of papers waiting to be graded at his elbow.

Zen and Front Lawn Catches

My son loves to have catches. I love of have catches. Still, I find myself not wanting to have catches with him a lot of the time, even though I usually do acquiesce when he asks. The reason is as simple as the difference between two minds in two different stages of development.

If you wanted to, I would stand in my front yard or in my back yard and toss a baseball back and forth for hours on end. Nothing beats an orange evening sky, a cool/hot summer breeze, the sound of lawnmowers in the neighborhood distances and the warm crack of a baseball metronomically hitting glove leather. Nothing is more zen-like than the casual rhythm and the automatic reaction of catching the ball -- in front of the body; down at the side; scooped with a staccato da-blap from one hop on the ground.

Throwing and catching a baseball is one of my favorite meditations. But not with my son.

See, he is still gearing up to slay the dragons of the world. I'd rather sit on their backs and fly above the landscape.

He still wants to be the star on the stage. I'd rather watch, smiling, as someone else takes the accolades I helped him to achieve.

He still wants to land crippled airplanes; wander mysterious lands through forests lit up with the glowing eyes of night-creatures, and win the love of a beautiful princess. I'm comfortable in my little castle, with my queen and my two little knights-at-arms, sitting and soaking up the sweet sounds of laughter and the soft blips of a video game in the next room as I read.

Olympus or Mars?

This deserves a little more than the Facebook post I gave it a few days ago. I have heard so many people complaining (not just now, but over the years) about the expense of space programs -- about how we should use that money for problems on Earth. Recently, lots of people were bent out of shape about the landing on Mars -- of the new rover, Curiosity.

What cracks me up is that I never heard one complaint about the expense of the Olympics: 14 Billion dollars; as compared to the 2.5 billion it cost to build an exploration vehicle to send to Mars.

In lots of places on the web, you can find lists of things, from kitchenware to aviation safety, that have benefited from the technology that NASA has developed for space travel -- I won't spend time looking stuff up. But there is a lot, believe me. (I'm sure the computer I'm working on wouldn't be quite what it is if scientists hadn't had to develop computer technology for space...)

Apollo 11 crew at work.

As you might expect, it's the human nature piece here that interests me. It made an impression that the Olympics were going on when Curiosity landed and the complaints started flowing, but none of them about the exorbitant amount spent on the Olympics. We tend to miss the obvious stuff, don't we?

Burning Fuel (for Dreamers in a Dreamless World)

Ever spend a long, tossing-and-turning night before the morning that would determine the direction of your immediate future? -- after having thought for hours, alone, in the dark, through what decision you should make? -- after having spent the day looking at your children and your wife and at yourself in the mirror and wondering how much your personal dreams really mean in comparison to their simplest needs? -- after having awakened that morning, sure that it was time to make the change that would allow you to pursue the things you desire with more energy? -- after having gone to sleep the previous night with a churning heart full of undying teenaged longings?

Did you ever come to the conclusion that the huge change you felt you needed to make in order to remain happy was just a red herring being used to cover up for the fact that you are not enough of a man to gain ground on your dreams, in spite of it?

The Root of Civilization (A Parable)

Kwai Chang Caine ("Grasshopper") and
Master Po, from Kung Fu

Two boys, ten years old, clad in crisp white and bound about the waist with red belts, bowed and stepped on to the floor of their karate school's floor.

They joined their fellow students to stretch muscles and warm up with kicks and punches at the air.

When their instructor arrived, he lead them in calisthenics, then settled them down into kneeling position -- backs straight, eyes closed (most of them), and the boys meditated to the music of orient that gently wafted into the room from hidden speakers.