Twenty-one percent

Ian is finally off of oxygen and is breathing room air. "Twenty-one percent", as they say in hospital lingo, which is what we all breath. We're still not sure if that means coming home this week, but that is what we're hoping for. All the trips to the hospital has been a bit taxing, especially for Silvi. I'm back at work today. It's hard. I know that most people don't know what to say. I don't. I just can't stand to hear about how "happy" Down Syndrome children are, or about "God's perfect plan", etc. I just want to sit next to Ian and read to him. It's safer there. I don't want to face the real world; the looks of pity; the endless suggestions for "maximizing Ian's potential;" the "extra special gift" that Ian has for us. That all may be true. I'm just not there yet.

I wish that Annie, Silvi, Ian and I could crawl into one of those inflatable bouncy castles and hide from the world.

Trilogy

Most of you know that I co-host a monthly documentary group called First Friday Films where we meet and discuss various cross-cultural films. Some of them address issues of faith, most are just glimpses into how the rest of the world thinks and lives. We often conduct phone interviews with the directors, and the group is able to ask questions and interact. Last month we had over a hundred people show up.

It is a good thing, this documentary group. I believe that it is affecting some of the attendees, and that they will be better people because of it. That said, it has always been a dream of mine to host a film group in a more intimate setting, addressing the Big Questions as well as matters of the heart. One idea is to present four films by one of my favorite directors, Nanni Moretti. His films are small stories that are largely autobiographical snapshots of his life and thoughts. I would present these four films, in this order: Caro Diario, Palombella Rossa, Aprile, and The Son's Room. I may go into more detail about this a little later.

There are another three films which I think make an incredible trilogy: Lost in Translation, The Girl in the Cafe and My First Mister. They each share a common thread: Two people (an older man and a younger woman) find friendship in the midst of deep, undefined loneliness. These three films, placed side-by-side, are powerful and possess the ability to turn anger (often at the root of loneliness) into sadness. And it is in sadness that we are finally true.

Perhaps one day...

The ordinary

It's hard to write about the ordinary when I keep reading the extraordinary over at my sister's blog. Read her two latest entries here and here.

Accidental world

A Baha'i friend and I recently met for dinner at an Indian restaurant, with a buffet straight from Vedic heaven. We talked about all the turmoil in the world and how we might, in some small way, mollify some of the pain and conflict around us. Most of the Baha'i faithful work for world peace. My friend supports the United Nations financially and believes that disputes between nations will one day achieve pacifism.

There are many reasons why I do not believe complete unity between nations will ever be possible; I could discuss theories of human nature and emphasize the inherent traits of greed and corruption and revenge and lust. Or I could make my point by addressing the limitations of living in a broken world of famine and drought and the innate drive toward self-preservation when one is threatened with extiction. I could make my case using Scripture, pointing to verses about the poor always being with us and reapers sowing and brothers against brothers.

My Baha'i friend believes that if the people of the nations somehow were able to really know the other, that this level of intimacy and understanding would solve most discord. Knowing is loving.

But I want to talk about accidents.

Suppose my Baha'i friend asked me to pick up his grandchildren from the airport. God forbid, but suppose, caught up in conversation, I missed the red light and his grandchildren were stripped from him. My friend then finds himself at a crossroads. Does he forgive and embrace me and we continue our friendship, or does he seek restitution, or even revenge?

Assume my friend chooses to 1) forgive me. Is it possible to return to the former level of intimacy? Or will the pain of loss prevent my friend from sharing the part of him that is so necessary for the transparency of friendship? Or perhaps my friend 2) cannot forgive me and breaks fellowship? Or maybe he now 3) hates me and seeks my destruction?

I assert that the loss due to accidental misfortune creates an impenetrable wall of sorrow. I further assert that this sorrow can only be consoled from without by He who heals. Therefore, it is only He-who-heals who can unite daughter with mother, son with father, brother with brother, wife with husband.

The greatest contribution I can make toward the reconciliation of the sorrowful is to remain receptive and vulnerable to the touch of He-who-heals.

"Blessed are the peacemakers."

"If you don't have a sword, sell your cloak and buy one."

Shots and dead birds

We took Silvi for her shots last night. Four of them. I don't think I'll ever forget the look in Silvi's eyes when the two nurses simultaneously pierced her fragile, beautiful skin. Annie and I each held a hand. Her fingers are so small. She was nervous about being held down. As the needles reached their mark, her look of suprise seemed tinged with betrayal. Then sorrow. I, a helpless father, had to betray my daughter. This is where the seeds of distrust are born.

On the drive home, Silvi asleep from exhaustion, I hit a bird and killed it. Two birds, flying together, tried to make it in front of the car. A moment of hesitation by one bird, and then the other was alone.

Some days are just sad, you know?

A life observed

My daughter, Silvi, will be born any minute now. At the risk of being a stereotypical new father, I feel this huge, almost overwhelming, desire to change everything about myself, and the world, to ensure that Silvi is safe and loved. As someone who tries to control the chaos of life, I realize just how much there is that can come between that safety and love. Life is dangerous, and love even more so.

I have chosen to call this journal Narrow Ridge because I believe that I must walk along the narrow ridge in this world. I must live between hope and despair, between certainty and doubt, between laughter and tears, between community and solitude. Truth be told, I am not very good at walking the narrow ridge. It is all too easy for me to slide into a life of despair and doubt and sadness. And solitude.

As my daughter joins our family, I realize that I will live a life observed. Lately, I've been feeling as if I'm about to meet my inlaws for the first time and they will be staying with me for a week. I got rid of all our old coffee mugs because none of them matched. We now have six new matching coffee mugs. I sold half of my books. I took three carloads of clothes and lamps and old furniture to the thrift store. The closets have been straightened, the dishes done, laundry washed, floor swept, carpets vacuumed, and we're buying a new coffee table this week. And I bought a soccer ball to lose the spare tire(s).

None of those things, of course, address the real issue. I want my daughter to look up to me, to respect me, to love me. And there's just so many things about me that are, well, unfinished.

This journal is an attempt to share just a little of a life well-lived along the narrow ridge.

Deep end of the pool

You ever swim to the bottom of the deep end of the pool and sit there, looking up at the surface? After about thirty seconds, the water pressure begins to squeeze tighter and tighter, and your lungs feel like weights. That's how I feel most of the time right now. It's kind of a bad time, to put it blandly. "Bland" is the taste of the month.

Many of you know that my dad was recently diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease. None of the medicine he's taking is working, so he can't stop shaking. The pain of his broken ankle causes the shaking to be more pronounced. Doctors are talking brain surgery, but dad isn't quite ready for that yet. The uncertainty of what the disease will do is always with me.

There's something else that's constantly with me. I've always been horrible with money. They put those magazines and candy bars at the checkout counter for impulse buyers like me. A few years ago, Annie and I had a few bad months out of work. Seven months, to be more precise. There's almost no way to catch up from something like that. It just doesn't go away.

This is supposed to be a good time. My daughter will be born in less than a month. I want to be happy. Truth is, I'm scared most of the time. Afraid for my dad, scared the money people won't let up, afraid I won't be able to show my daughter a life full of laughter. Man, there has got to be a way to get to the surface for a breath once in a while.