Right place, wrong time; Wrong place, right time?

Since we have been in Toronto, media personnel asking our opinions have twice approached us. The first time was Good Friday last year, as we were entering St. Mary Magdalene's Anglican Church (this is many of our friends' church, as well as the one that was Robertson Davies inspiration for his book The Cunning Man and the church that the queen goes to when in Toronto--in order of my engagement and interest with these random facts). Anyway, we were there with our priest from St. Anne's Anglican (see Course Papers, Community Dinners and Consuming Beverages, below), who had suggested that we experience High Anglican Mass at this highly impressive church on this highly significant day, and we willingly agreed. Because of the special-ness of the day and the special-ness of the church, I suppose (in retrospect) that it shouldn't be surprising when all of a sudden we hear...

"Did you give up anything for Lent?" There is a cameraman holding a camera next to a TV station's van right in front of me.

But, at the moment, walking into a new church on the most somber day of the church year, it did catch me a little off guard. So much for attaining a mood proper to the occasion...

"Well, yes. I gave up desserts." Not a difficult feat, since we didn't really have room for them in the budget.

"Did you keep it?"

I said, "Yes, I did, as a matter of fact." Probably wasn't the right answer. I could imagine he was waiting to hear about how someone blew it and all the appropriate details. But, better he asked me than Mike. Mike had given the intangible negative attitudes toward people that he had realized in himself as a product of soul searching and desire for Christ-likeness --something that marks the true spirit of Lent.

I felt pretty good about myself walking into church that night. I had curled my hair (good choice), I kept my lenten covenant, and I had some publicity about it--at least potentially. It was Good Friday and I was feeling good. Through the self-reflection and desire for Christ-likeness that the service provoked in me, however, much of that smugness disappeared. Why couldn't I have said something meaningful!?

Flash forward to today (Monday): Toronto Media Encounter #2. This time it's AM 680 talk radio. Unlike the first encounter, this one is a highly unremarkable day in the beginning of February--except of course for the extreme cold (-30 degrees Celcius wind chill!) that keeps us from biking--but little did we know it would turn into a subway fiasco.

Paying our fare, we rush downstairs as we hear the train stopping--hoping we can just hop right on. Alas, when we do arrive, it was only the other side--the doppler effect concept doesn't work so well when you are standing above the moving object. Instead of hopping right onto an on-schedule train, we descend into a veritable sea of people also waiting to head East-bound into the city. It's rush hour--this is normal. Three minutes--another train heading West-bound. Ten minutes--another West-bound train, then the third, fourth, fifth Over a half hour later... What is going on!?

"We are experiencing some mechanical difficulties at the Dundas W train station... There are crews on the scene... You may experience delay... Thank you for your patience." Not two stops to the West of us. So we wait. We leaned against the wall and chatted for awhile until a microphone was thrust in our faces:

"Do you take the subway often?"

"No, not really--this is our first time in a month--just when it is really bad weather." Of course, we have used it within the month--not only for the bad weather days this January, but also to visit friends that are beyond the possibility of biking distance in a Toronto January. That's probably not important here, though... I gloss over Mike's generalization--caught up in the anxiety of someone recording our words.

"So, what do you think about it so far?"

Truth be told, I wasn't thrilled to be waiting in a dismal crowded tunnel for the better part of an hour, but it was warmer than biking, even if we weren't going anywhere at the moment. Besides, this happens all the time, as our interviewer was well aware.
"I am going to be late for work, and since this happens so often, I was thinking about writing a story about how the TTC isn't really a better option." (By the way, this is the Toronto Transit Commission's current advertising slogan)

I admired her dedication to her job--which was seemingly off the clock, and her desire to make Toronto transit better. We told a bit of our story, the hours we normally take transit (rush hour, generally), and how we felt about the current delay (miffed, as any other honest person down there). We chatted a bit more, mostly making generalizations into the hear-all microphone and tape recorder that didn't really do justice to the specific situations that they were meant to make sense of.

When we finally crowded onto a slowly moving sardine can of a subway car, I watched her as she continued interviewing. Sometimes she recorded, sometimes she just got to know the people she was talking to, off the record.

If I was more prepared for this, I would have said something totally different! Why did I want to generalize my experience--'we usually...' when it was usually so specifically situational?! Aren't the specific stories more human--more helpful for provoking change? Besides, by telling our story, what she was really after, we could have given a particular perspective--showing that our situation was different, as unique as anyone else in that underground tube." Mike and I had both wanted to sound like everybody else, to fit in, that we had said, well, nothing.

Well, anonymous woman from AM 680 talk radio--this is my short and less interesting but more real story.

"No, we don't take transit often. We are students who are deeply thankful for our bikes that transport us all the limited places we need to be for significantly less than the couple hundred a month it would cost us to rely exclusively on public transit. Even so, I am grateful for Toronto's commitment to public transportation and am nearly always more impressed with its punctuality and coverage of area and overall cleanliness in comparison to Chicago's system--where we used to live. We are also appreciative that we have lived here for a year and a half without a car and have rarely missed it--especially since this public transportation is so much better for the environment."

Yes, that is what I could have/would have said, if I was thinking, if I was ready to. It's not very interesting, it wouldn't have fed her anger at the TTC, but it's true and it's my story. Why is it that when I am faced with the very real possibility of having my words go public--when someone is recording what I say with intention to release it to the world--I attempt to give some self-perceived right answer instead of my answer? I don't know the answer to Toronto Transit hiccups (I know there are many)--but I know why it is good for me, even when it's bad. I don't know what sexy thing I could have given up for lent until I broke down in weakness--but I do know why we do it, and what that means for me.

I hope that most people aren't like me--that most people can say what they mean and give their unique story when faced with mass-media exposure. Mostly because I would prefer not to think that the stories 'from the street' that I hear on TV and radio are just people trying to fit in to what they think someone wants to hear. I guess even more so--I hope that I can stop being one of those people.

Mike's book tag

Now its my (M) turn:

1) Grab the book closest to you.
2) Open to page 123; go down to the fourth sentence.
3) Post the text of the following three sentences.
4) Name the author and book title.
5) Tag three people to do the same.

"When she met him, she said to him 'Abba, where does Abba Longinus, the servant of God, live?' Not knowing it was he. He said, 'Why are you looking for that old impostor? Do not go to see him, for he is a deceiver. What is the matter with you?'"

From The Sayings of the Desert Fathers translated by Benedicta Ward.

That is a bit out of context, so I guess you'll just have to read it, eh? Kind of Luke meets Yoda--very interesting...

Ok, I'll tag Erin M., Aron R., and Stu B.

Institutionalization

Over the last few months (more broadly, the last 30 years) a lot of energy has gone into conversations discussing our identity here at the Institute for Christian Studies. What have we been all about? What are we doing now? Where will we be in twenty, five, or even one year? A crisis of identity is no surprise for anyone or any institution; the interesting thing is that ICS has never had a point where this wasn't the pressing institutional question.

One small aspect of life here presented itself recently when I was waiting for my class to begin at Regis College, a wonderful Jesuit school in the Toronto School of Theology. As I sat on a small bench in the hallway, people began coming and going. They stopped for pleasantries, but the drive of leaving or arriving for a seminar was unmistakable, for they all had a destination firmly in mind. As I watched my colleagues arrive for class, my amazement grew, because the whole thing seemed like magic. Everyone in the class came from different areas; some commuting in over an hour by train or car, others walking from the subway, a few cycling. But within minutes, seven people from all over the region assembled in one particular room.

For a moment, I imagined individual molecules of gas floating around in some ephemeral space. In the GTA there were millions of people bouncing off each other, all flying in random chaotic directions, often beyond their control. But somehow, the same little molecules congealed on a regular basis at the same time and in the same place with the help of schedules, calenders, and PDA's.

Traditionally, the Institute has a unique spin on this concept. Sure, people rotate around the few classes we offer this semester, but this intentionality is more diffuse. Most show up a significant amount of time before or after class begins, and stay for a while after it ends. They loiter in order to have conversations with each other, about projects and life in general. They have tea. They play checkers. They sit in the lounge and make fun of an article in Christianity Today.

Much to the chagrin of the administrators who value professionalism, the front desk is a popular gathering place. People hang around, make comments about senior members, the fax machine, the weather, the book you're holding, your hat; pretty much anything. Jeff told me once that he thinks this is a natural place to gather at ICS since it doesn't force you to make a choice or a firm commitment to what you're going to do. If you sit in the lounge, you have staked a position to socialize, and there is no backing out prematurely. Not that this is a bad thing. It simply rules out so many other potential decisions. But if you stand in the hallway, there is room for the unknown, the surprising. Maybe you'll stay. Maybe you'll walk away. Maybe you want to chat. Maybe you want to look at the art hanging on the wall. Maybe you're waiting for someone or something. Maybe you loiter without expressed intent. Whatever it is, you don't have to define yourself and cut off all other possibilities, since the hallway and reception areas could be a transitional place, but they could also be a place where you make your home for a little while.

From what I understand, ICS started with a bunch of people hanging out in Toronto listening to what each other had to say about life. Now, we might own a building (or 30 percent of one), pay people and issue degrees, but I don't think the heart of the Institute is in the classroom or even the lounge. It's in the hallways—the wild spaces where we molecules arrive from hundreds of different places to come together for a short time, then scatter to hundreds of unknown destinations. These spontaneous encounters, the true hallmark of ICS, are the ones that change us. And they can only happen without the magical restrictions of schedules, calenders, and PDA's.

--M

An Interesting Exercise...

In response to Chris' latest blog ("I'm Important and People Like Me" [How very humble of you, Chris]) , I/we have been tagged to

1) Grab the book closest to you.
2) Open to page 123; go down to the fourth sentence.
3) Post the text of the following three sentences.
4) Name the author and book title.
5) Tag three people to do the same.

Because I (Y) am sitting by the computer with the internet, which happens to be Mike's computer, which happens to be on the desk Mike works at, which happens to be the place where all Mike's books are, I am going to walk 4 feet to the bookshelf where I keep my books and grab the first one at random. He can quote you something from one of his books, but it just won't be the same to do this exercise with a book I haven't read (or plan to read in the near future). So here goes...

"Herein is a capital truth. It is not the natural capacity, the congenital gift, nor is it the effort, the will, the work, which in the intelligence has way over the energy capable of making it fully efficacious. It is uniquely the desire, that is, the desire for the beauty. This desire, given a certain degree of intensity and of purity, is the same thing as genius."

Intimations of Christianity Among the Ancient Greeks by Simone Weil. Trans. Elisabeth Chase Geissbuhler. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1957.

Ooh, goody goody, now I tag people.
Kidgit, Allison, Benjamin A. (you can post in a comment on this blog since you don't have your own..., or you could get your own blog, they are the coolest!)

--Y

Course Papers, Community Dinners, Consuming Beverages

For all of our good friends and devoted readers who spent part of their life reading that last, long post--a break! In typical Yvana fashion, I'll be right to the point with very little flowery language, and focus on the update. With pictures! (To the left is a picture of the last part of our walk to church on Sunday mornings--the week after the snow one we posted about. Of course, straight ahead is our church--in the Byzantine style. On the left side of the picture is Saint Anne's Place, a retirement community, and on the right is an enormous building with a theatre, a fellowship hall, and other rooms that we rent out to drama groups etc.)

As many of you know, our grad school (ICS) gives students 6 weeks after the completion of courses to complete their course papers. 6 weeks after courses was two days ago. This means, the last few weeks have been pretty intense. Not only are we reading for current courses (and, for Mike, still working on Latin) we are also trying to finish thinking about classes that ended over a month ago. In addition, since one of our courses this last fall was a guided reading which results in our thesis proposal, we also had to be thinking a whole lot about what we were writing for our theses. Anyway, with how orderly Mike is, he works well at a desk, to have all of his books/papers/coffee laid out nicely. I think it is a picture of how his mind works. If this is true, though, what does this picture of my workspace on our bed (right) say about how my mind works? This was taken after 30 hours of nearly un-interuppted time writing and thinking about my thesis. (yes, I did sleep, but I moved the books for that!)

[Because points are fun, and Sara started this trend, I'll give a point for every unique book you can name from the chaotic mass--I know there's a couple obvious ones--those are just freebies for the first viewers... Maybe I should give more points for anyone who can see the connections between these books... Of course then points would just turn into thesis help for me--not a bad idea!]

Of course, coarse course papers aren't the only things we have been up to since we have been back in Canada. We are continuing many traditions, one of which is continuing to attend St. Anne's Anglican Church. It is a short walk from our apartment, and we have been attending there regularly since last October. It is on the list of historical sites in Toronto, which--though you can't see inside, in these shots, is plain enough to see why. If we had a picture of inside, you could see some of the paintings of the group of seven--before they were famous.


We also help out with their community dinner. The people from the church offer a free, hot meal to needy people in the community once a month. So, last Sunday we were chopping potatoes and cauliflower, making coffee, serving desserts (see Mike at left) and fellowshiping with our fellow parishoners and the people that came in from the cold. We had quite a group this past Sunday!


We have also been savouring tea (Thanks again, Paul!) in our favorite mugs--a short and stubby one for Mike (we bought this at a thrift store around the corner for 75 cents, and then we saw it at the University of Toronto for $13CDN!), and a tall and skinny one for me :) (unfortunately this belongs to the apartment, so it won't be ours for too much longer...)

So, that's what we have been up to, in brief... On the docket for this week: Gilbert and Sullivan's *The Grand Duke*--I doubt we'll get pictures, but it should make the next post a little more interesting!

Cleaner

Most people give a sporting chance to the idea that you shouldn't pre-judge people based on the small amount of information you know. Even if they don't, they pay lip service to it for the sake of our current cultural climate. Overall, I think this is good, and many people I have met have a certain sense of consistency one way or another-either they give everyone as fair a chance as they are able or they give everyone a once over and come to a conclusion about them that could take years, even decades to seriously challenge. In reality, there is nobody in the first camp, since there is always some process of sizing up another person when you meet them. This occurs before you have any sort of extensive information about the actual individual, since this is often based on past experiences or habits passed on from a previous generation that may or may not be applicable to the current situation.

This unavoidable process of sizing someone up may be the nearest thing humans have to what you might call an animal instinct. It acts a bit like scent does for a dog, although thankfully we don't have to circle up and nuzzle each other's behinds. Certainly this instinctual judgment is helpful in many situations since there are times where you have to act without all the facts, but often this flares in surprising ways. For instance, when walking to the grocery store, I assume that when I pass a hunched old woman wearing a babushka she won't suddenly turn and attack me with a flaming trident: a legitimate fear based on a freaky dream I had after watching Best of the Best 4 one night, although it seemed to have nothing to do with that movie. Justified or not, I give the old ladies a chance, for one reason simply because if I carried a daikatana around to defend myself I might get arrested, or more likely cut some appendage from my body. Aside from over the top neuroses I still make quick and often unfair judgment calls about people that may or may not be true that invariably prevent a good relationship from developing from the get go.

I think about this in connection to something that happened before Christmas. I was looking for a relatively inexpensive dry cleaner to care for my suit and sport coat, both of which badly needed refreshment. After three years this would be the first time my suit would receive such treatment. I decided that after a wedding last summer, when I spend most of the evening dirty dancing while slightly intoxicated with my friend Bob, it needed some loving care to restore the fabric to a respectable level for a Christmas party. My sport coat was in a similar situation, since I wore it far too frequently and often used it as a second layer while riding my bike to school. It acted like a veritable sponge for bodily secretion and would have made bloodhounds turn up their noses if anyone ever needed my scent to track me through the wilderness. So I looked through the phone book to find a place close to school where I could have my ripe outerwear get a good cleaning.

After an extensive search of approximately two minutes I found a shop close to the Institute. When I gave them a call, what quite possibly was a man answered the phone with a guttural sound. Momentarily phased, I asked how much it would cost to dry clean a sport coat, completely forgetting about the suit since only the coat was within olfactory range. A response that I took to mean eight dollars followed, to which I asked how long it would take. Some muttering, then nothing. I asked again, and almost immediately I heard a shout that was probably “one day,” but I couldn't be sure. After I hung up I felt a bit uneasy about the whole thing, but I felt obligated to patronize this shop since I had extended the digital handshake of a phone call.

As I biked down College St., searching for the address, I felt myself dreadfully propelled past a bevy of slick, professional looking laundry and dry cleaning shops. I maintained the hope that the address was for some kind of professionally managed garment service I had never noticed before. This was unlikely since I have driven the length of this road innumerable times for over a year. But still, I pictured bright, polished linoleum, stainless steel, and the buzz of automation hovering in the air. To me, these things guaranteed rejuvenated clothing that would actually look better than when they were originally purchased. Perhaps even the wear on the elbows, missing button, and frayed cuffs of my sport coat would be miraculously healed by the expert clothing professional, looking not unlike my vision of a domestically oriented Jesus.

When I pulled up to the correct address, I knew this would not be the case. It was a dilapidated building housing an even more dilapidated shop, with a yellowed, partly illuminated sign cleverly announcing to the citizens of Toronto that in here there resided simply a “Cleaner,” unlike the other places I passed that offered, “Expert Cleaning Services,” “Suds and More,” or “Dry-Cleaning with Care.” I couldn't even see through the stained and dirty windows as I locked up, and I wondered how I could trust my precious coat and only suit to a place that couldn't even keep itself fresh and squeaky. As crestfallen as I was at that moment, I looked down the block to just catch a glimpse of the last place I passed that looked so much nicer that his one. I came close to turning back and declaring to this place, “launderer, clean thyself.” But I didn't.

Immediately inside the door was a short flight of stairs leading to the main floor of the shop, which was about three feet above street level. At first, I wondered if my glasses were fogged or had a smudge, since things seemed a bit hazy at eye level from where I was standing. But after I removed my glasses the haze remained, and I wondered if there was some malfunction with a machine that was causing a bit of smoke in the shop. This did not bode well. But when I took another few steps into the shop this fear was dismissed in favor of a new one, for I was overcome by the distinct smell of cigarettes. There was a man at the front counter of the crowded room with one in his mouth and another in an ashtray, both burning away. Since it was a one room business, I saw a small old woman just behind him operating what looked to be a large ironing machine. Beside her was several racks of clothes, all engulfed in a cloud of tobacco. As I was walking up the stairs into the haze, the old woman started shouting in a language I wasn't familiar with. She was pointing to the slacks she was working on, and the old man replied with a guttural noise similar to what I had heard on the phone. He went over and picked up the pants and after he held it inches from his face, since he seemed to have failing eyesight, he started yelling and threw it into a rumpled pile on the floor. The woman shrugged and reached for another pair. As the man came back to the counter I noticed a large sign on the wall, which stated in no uncertain terms that the business would not be responsible for any damage to clothes while in their possession. This did not make me feel good in light of what I had just seen. Where was the shiny metal? Where were the cleaning robots? Where was Jesus? There were just crazy people here; why should I trust them?

But I silently handed my suit and coat to the short, half-blind old man who I assumed was the manager and resident dry cleaning expert. After I stroked them fondly one last time, the man gave me a small sheet of paper scribbled with indecipherable symbols, followed by a verbal injunction that probably meant that these would be done by this time tomorrow. I left with a meager wave.

If I ever saw them again, I was sure both would be irreparably damaged, or at best smell like smoke until they underwent some expensive form of nicotine detox for the addiction my fabric would have developed from its time in the shop. Maybe this guy had it in him to be a good cleaner, but all signs indicated otherwise. I felt like I had placed my trust in someone entirely unsuited to the task, even if they were a nice person. I felt like I had inadvertently placed my faith an armless mountain climber. Now I simply had to wait for the assured failure, tangibly resulting in my ruined clothes. My anticipated loss of possessions caused a number of reactions based on what I knew. I knew that cigarette smoke stinks up clothes, so I pre-blamed these smokers for what I knew would happen. I didn't know what goes into the dry cleaning process, but if they were apparently incompetent in something as simple as properly ironing pants, something I could do, how could they carefully clean my suit, which I couldn't? This amounted to funding gross incompetence. I anticipated a lot of things, none of them good.

A day later I walked to the shop from school, dreading what I would find in return for my fifteen dollars. When I entered, the cloud still encircled the counter, and the man still said nothing when I handed him my ticket. The old woman in the back was gone. He shuffled over to a rack and pulled out two bags, immediately handing them to me. I paid, then scooted out to the street where I could inspect the damage without actually having to confront the keeper about it. To complain about and ridicule him behind his back seemed like a much more civilized approach that actually trying to talk to him. I pulled both articles out under a bright streetlight on the corner and looked for the damage.

Nothing. Nothing but crisp seams and the familiar tight weave of the fabric. All the buttons in place. I smelled them everywhere, searching for the clinging smoke I knew would be there, but could sense nothing. Nothing but clean clothes. No smoke, no body odor, no overpowering chemicals, no ashes. It was a perfect job.

Oddly, there was no immediate relief from all the anxiety I had stored since the beginning of the whole affair. My climber had somehow managed to gnaw his way to the rocky peak, yet I was not relieved. I realized that in my mind I had snowballed this whole event into an uncalled for insult to this man and his business. I had no knowledge of anything involving dry cleaning or this man's business, but accused him of incompetence based on my own expectations, funded by my limits and fears. I expected linoleum, robots, and my own personal Jesus, and was angry when I got a man. This was shameful.

But I was also hopeful. Maybe this whole episode would put some sense in me and show me that people can be surprising no matter how many expectations we place on them. Maybe I was cleansed from a few of the prejudices by this small, half-blind, chain smoking old man. It was a very small even when put into perspective, and really, I only got what I should have expected had I been reasonable. But just maybe this would in a small way change the way I looked at some people.

Then I saw an old lady in a babushka pass by. I tensed up for just a moment and, after nothing happened, scurried back to school.

M

Three portraits of Winter’s First Snow

1.

Sunday we woke up to the gently falling snow, covering the earth with a beautiful, clean blanket. After getting ready, as we walked to church and then especially as I walked home alone with my reflections, I remember thinking: “I have never before been so happy to see the snow.” Well, maybe I was this excited after moving from California to Chicago for my first real snow ever, but this was right up there with it. Don’t get me wrong—as a California girl, I was delighted to be able to wear a windbreaker on US Thanksgiving, and to have no need for bundling up, even through December. But I think it hit me on Christmas break, when we were in Iowa with the gray and gloomy mud-causing rain—I wanted the clean covering that a fresh snow gives. What a beautiful sight!

On Monday, the beauty and the bliss were a distant memory. The radio woke us up to: “the roads are clogged, everything’s closed, public transit’s slow, its –10 (Celsius, that is) with freezing rain right now turning into freezing with some other kind of precipitation later in the day. We can laugh at you now because we are here in our warm studio, since we had to be here by 4 a.m., so stop your whining and get out of bed.” Good Morning! Realizing that throwing the alarm clock on the floor and rolling over in bed was not an option for either of us this Monday, we grudgingly got up out of bed to face the horrors. Not only was the precipitation very different (I am hard-pressed to think of a poet who could, in good faith, praise freezing rain or the descriptive ‘ice pellets’), but Monday brought no Sunday walk to church. We were going to have to choose our bikes, risking life, limb, and equipment, or to pay for (and also risk) the sardine can that is public transit. After wedging ourselves out of the subway car and walking through the “rain,” I noticed some bike tracks, that’s for sure. But there weren’t many of them, and, Thank God, they weren’t mine.

2.

When there is a snowfall I begin to notice the particularities of a Toronto approach to life. In the U.S. we have a well-established ritual surrounding severe weather, or really any type of weather at all. Before the skies are even so much as cloudy great fleets of monstrous vehicles appear, pre-spreading salt and sand should the snow be sneaky and come from the ground without the warning of cumulonimbus formations. Media coverage is essential, because it isn’t truly a crisis without a good dose of sound effects, flashy graphics, fearful statement from local officials taken way out of context, and suffix statements such as, “of the century,” “of the decade,” or at least, “of the last 5 minutes.” These things are all done in order to get the suburbanite out of their couches in sufficient time to swamp their local super store in order to buy silly things like snowblowers, Bud Light, and canned rutabaga should people become stuck in their homes or cars due to the massive amounts of traffic entering and leaving local Home Depots or Walmarts. This is quite honestly the only way stores can move their stockpiles of snowblowers, Bud Light, and canned rutabaga. They are thankful for the opportunity since stores are required to carry these unpopular items due to a FEMA mandate. When the snow actually does come, politicians make appearances and say things. Years ago, Chicago had some snow and Daley appeared without a suit coat and his sleeves rolled up on WGN that night (the Tribune and Sun-Times the next day), apparently to prove that he was hard at work bribing the snow with lucrative alley paving projects in return for the menacing precipitation to “just go away.” He did truly order an unprecedented number of plows and jockeys to curb the crisis, and these crews corralled the snow into massive piles throughout the city in the process burying mini coopers, lower Wacker Drive, the city budget, and other snow crews. These crews remained in suspended animation Han Solo style until late the following October, when they emerged and voted Democratic along with a dozen of their closest dead relatives.

They do things differently here in Toronto. During some inclement weather I was able to observe the response which, to my knowledge, included no plows whatsoever. To include snowplows would be a drain of money away from more important pastimes such as building new corporate arenas for the Maple Leafs, constructing superfluous subway lines, annexing neighboring cities, and elections. As the snow begins to fall here, the City of Toronto promptly deploys masses of kindly volunteers in official looking caps to stand at the corner of major intersections and politely ask the snow to refrain from loitering on the roads and sidewalks. You won’t find a volunteer on a corner with a bank, since everyone knows that if you come within 5 meters of a BMO or CIBC you will be automatically charged 12.50, and quite frankly snow can’t afford that, or the volunteers. But even though they are good sports the volunteers fail, at which time the city utilizes their backup plan. They send out three to five pickup trucks with the mandate to drive along major roads while honking at people and telling them to go home and watch Corner Gas. This usually has no effect, so the snow stays on the roads and freezes into treacherous ruts for the rest of the winter. The government is learning from its past failures and has constructed something called the PATH, which is an underground collection of un-navigatable passages in the financial district lined with perpetually closed stores that apparently sell many different types of chewing gum. The goal of PATH is to get you very lost and frustrated, and to make you more thankful when you do get back out onto the snowy streets.

3.

In the Mols household, our approach to hazardous meteorological situations has proactively developed into staying at home and writing about what they make us think of.

Reflections on resolving not to resolve

Looking back on the new year, more than a week in by now, I find comfort in my shift of practice. Though not conscious of it at the time, I can see now a definitive move to resolve not to resolve this new year. It may not have been fully intentional, but I find it significant all the same. Often the new year brings untold anxiety for me—mostly centering around my desire to “be a much better person this year!” How ironic that this compulsive anxiety was what was truly keeping me from being the “new and improved” person I wanted to be.

So, what was different this year? What was it about this year’s turning that gives me more peace about the coming year? Probably a lot of things but in keeping with my focus on simplicity this year, let’s just say it has to do with resolving not to resolve. Actually, since it was unconscious I should say it was just not resolving period, but the other way sounds so much better… So, my experience with the new year 2007. I can’t really describe it so much a give a sense of the feeling of it. Mostly, I was tired. And not just sleepy-tired (though I was that, too). I felt body and mind and soul and talking tired (see below...). I was tired of being anxious about PhD applications, tired of working out how we were going to see all the people we wanted to see over Christmas break, tired of thinking about papers and the looming thesis; tired.

This year I didn’t want to add to that tiredness by focusing on all the things about myself that I wanted to change(I think especially of a dark new year’s, in my late High School years—and the panic that I felt when I realized that just a day into the new year I missed the marks that I had set for myself…). I just wanted to stop being tired—including all the being-anxiousness that made me tired in the first place. Instead of constantly thinking about my need to cease undue anxiety, I just stopped. I started living more intentionally, something I had begun doing before the new year, and therefore something that didn’t have all the hang ups as a “resolution” would have had. Anyway, I have been more at peace—and as I fall short, feeling anxious again or wanting to be more in control, I just hope for a better response in the future.

Enough (way too much) about me. There are a couple ways that I have come to think about this shift of perspective. One I heard on the radio a couple weeks ago and stuck with me, and the other one I heard in class on Monday. I think both contribute to a fuller understanding of this phenomenon.

First, the story on the radio. Flipping through stations we ran across a book review from this woman who wrote a book about her experience of quitting smoking. Her first “last cigarette” was a dramatic one—surrounded by pomp and ceremony. Her real last cigarette is hardly remembered—there was no ceremony around it, making the quitting more a growing in a different direction than a focus on what you are leaving. See, she shifted her fixation from what she wasn’t going to do anymore (smoke) to just going about her life—putting off her cravings by waiting, and waiting and waiting, till she didn’t really even crave it anymore.

It is indeed difficult to change the categories in which we think. The example from class yesterday about the body in the history of thought may be a paradigm example. To oversimplify (and try to stay in understandable terms!), Descartes reacted against the body-SOUL split that he perceived in ancient and medieval philosophy/history by introducing a new (well, in one sense) term—the MIND. Of course, however, through his new articulation, as well as its application in later philosophers, the MIND didn’t get past the duality that it was intended to, but rather only replaced the SOUL as the privileged term to the body—once again suppressing it. When post-structuralists determined to leave the body-MIND duality, they centered on language as the third and ultimate term—doing away with the split. Predictably, however, this new term also fell into a dualistic trap, replacing MIND, but also being the greater term in relation to the abstracted/unreal body.

In other words, it is not so easy to transcend a dominant paradigm by adding a new term or a new resolution to the equation. By focusing on what needs changing, we fixate on it, and end up—usually against our will—moving in that direction anyway. We cannot move forward in the direction of our hopes while our attention remains fixed on the pitfalls to either side.

So, what does all of this high language really mean? I think it is indebted to Simone Weil’s (of course it is!) notion of attention. Indeed, the direction of our attention is the direction of our movement. Think not to what you have resolved against, what one is leaving behind but rather the hope for what is to come—thereby making the steps clearer and straighter as you grow forward.

ICS (Chris)tmas Party

They say that a picture is worth a thousand words, so in our blog we will be posting the equivalent of all of our course papers for the semester (if only it was that easy...). We also figured that you might not want to hear what we might post this week, since we have been working on said course papers all week and might inadvertently blurt out a sentence containing more than 40 words that are the size of your right leg. Actually, that last sentence may be a great example of that... On to the pictures.

What will we be seeing pictures of? Well, funny you should ask. ICS just had its annual Christmas party last Friday, and one of our friends brought a digital camera--hip hip hooray! So, you can have the insider scoop of what Christmas is like at ICS. The first big one is Mike and I before the party--excuse my funny talking face, I guess that spontaneity is just what you risk for catching a tender moment...


First of all, there is mood lighting and decorations. Our good friends set up all the little christmas lights, and filled the centerpieces, and lit the candles, prompting it to look so VERY trendy and chic on the fourth floor of 229 College Street. Wow--I think the blurryness makes it look even more exciting, don't you think?





Then, of course, there is alcohol. But, my friends, this is no ordinary wine. Jeff, Chris and Mike are drinking nothing but the finest homemade Borolo that you can find in Ontario. I know, because I made it. Ok, they picked it out (and then told me that it was Borolo instead of what it really is--Barolo), but I got to bottle them right before the party and affix the fancy label you can see in the picture ( I love rubber cement!). The "V" you can see stands for our wine-making crew, "The Five philosophers" as well as the first letters in our title "Vino Veritas" Oh, it is so chic!


And then, of course, there is the entertainment. Chris is a fantastic guitar player, but I can't tell you about his ivory-tinkling abilities because this picture was taken later. But it is a fine picture of our MC, doing something not-really-MC like. The real entertainment was legendary, so I guess you'll just have to wait to hear about it as the legends go! But seriously, it would be impossible for me to tell you about it--it was the entertainment that can not be named...




And who would stay at a party without any friends? Here is a picture of Me and Sara, and then of Mike, Jeff and Chris, once again. Though the mood lighting is gone (they turned on the lights to clean up afterward), here is a less-ambient picture of Sara and Lorraine--the one behind the camera for most of the shots. So often we just see each other in "school clothes" that it was great to be able to have an occasion to dress up. I think we all rose quite well to the occasion! Don't we all look great!?


Finally, the afterparty--Back downstairs in the ICS kitchen. Clean up is over and none of us wants to say goodbye for Christmas break. We had a good time, as you can tell... Need I even say--Our very own Critty-Boy...(Chris, that is...)

Journeys

I was asked last week to give the reflection at our school's "Wednesday Worship," and since it was an autobiographical reflection about my academic journey, I thought I would share it with you as well.

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When I was asked last week to reflect autobiographically about my academic and faith journeys, I thought it would be pretty straightforward. Afterall, I have been thinking a lot about this recently in preparing applications, and journey, as a metaphor, is fairly rich. Or is it? Before beginning, I want to be careful to qualify my growing understanding of "journey" as a metaphor, both because I believe it is on the verge of becoming too trite and overused, and because I am coming to a deeper understanding of it.

"Journey" has always connoted to me an active movement from A to B, but with the added benefit of also appreciating the in between, the "getting there". I feel like this is a far too simplistic understanding, however, that needs further unpacking and qualification, since I have been growing, recently to a more richer understanding of journey that is not nearly so active (in its traditional sense). This more difficult understanding of "journey" which is maturing in me, puts emphasis on the meaning-laden pauses, the patient waiting, the sinuous detours, and the attentiveness to the surroundings that you can only get by stopping. I want to be careful to say that this understanding of journey is active, though it may not be physically so. The reflective work that is necessary in these pauses is significant and should not be minimized. I say this is a more difficult understanding of journey for me because, for those of you who know me-I am very concerned with the "getting there," and have been of the mind that any hesitation or sidetrack should be seen as a result of my fallenness or my inability, and therefore minimized or suppressed.

I suppose this understanding of pauses as sinful comes in part from a simplistic reading of the exodus-that the wandering in the desert was purely a result of Israel's sinfulness. If they had only been less whiny, better listeners, more obedient-they would have been enjoying the milk and honey so much sooner! I think now, however, that the exodus-spanning several books of the Older Testament-can be better appreciated as a meaning-filled pause, an encouragement to not be so worried about "getting there" that one misses the significance of "being here."

One such passage from the Exodus story is particularly striking in this regard-it comes just after the Israelites fled Egypt, crossed the Red Sea, saw their captors drown, and had a party on the banks. I can imagine that they have an unbelievable amount of momentum for their journey-a kind of "what are we waiting for, let's get to the Promised Land" attitude. But no. Right after "the horse and its rider God has hurled into the sea" comes this story:

Exodus 15: 22-27

"Then Moses led Israel from the Red Sea and they went into the Desert of Shur. For three days they traveled in the desert without finding water. When they came to Marah, they could not drink its water because it was bitter. (That is why the place was called Marah.) So the people grumbled against Moses, saying, "What are we to drink?" Then Moses cried out to the Lord and the Lord showed him a piece of wood. He threw it into the water, and the water became sweet. There the Lord made a decree and a law for them, and there he tested them. He said, "If you listen carefully to the voice of the Lord you God and do right in his eyes, if you pay attention to his commands and keep all his decrees, I will not bring on you any of the diseases I brought on the Egyptians, for I am the Lord who heals you." Then they came to Elim, where there were 70 palm trees and they camped there near the water." (NIV translation)

Instead of moving right into the promised land, the Israelites had to wait. God was to test them, it says, though it wasn't specified whether this was just for this moment, or whether it could encompass the entire desert wandering (or even more!). But God would also heal and provide for them. This was to be a meaningful pause, a patient waiting-taking time to appreciate the "being here." This passage comes to me as such a gem-right in the middle of the desert at the beginning of their journey to the promised land, God provides the Israelites with Elim-the place of large trees. The desert isn't just something that is to be hurried through to get to the other side-the Israelites had a lot of growing to do as God's people before they got there. While not always pleasant (could these large trees be on a white sandy beach instead of in the middle of the desert?!), God still promised to provide for them in the waiting.

What I find especially striking and a bit ironic about this biblical waiting, is how it coincides with one of my own meaningful pauses. After college graduation, full of momentum (escaping Trinity Christian College; crossing the graduation stage; having a big party... doesn't this sound familiar?), I found myself in a humbling period of extended unemployment, with no promising possibilities in my field of teaching. I wanted to go to graduate school, but it wasn't the right time. I found myself needing to wait, though I wasn't patient about it, and at the time, it didn't seem very meaningful. Interestingly, I found myself, like the Israelites, at Elim. Though not quite the picture of palm trees and waterfront property that the Bible makes out, this was Chicago, afterall-it was a job. My time at Elim was very much still a time in the desert, though there was a providence in that desert that I could hardly see as anything but graciousness. It is striking to me looking back, how I interpreted ironically the water and the palm trees that was on Elim Christian Schools' sign. This was no picnic year for me. But maybe it was the year of reflection that I needed in order to get ready for the next step. I have consistently resisted calling this year of working with boys with autism a "year off," as is typical language for people in graduate school who don't go "straight through." However, I am still in the process of truly appreciating my year in Elim, in finding the meaning in the pause, in being grateful for the "being there."

I feel so painfully slow in learning my lessons. Before fully comprehending the meaningful pause that was my literal Elim, another, figurative one is upon me. While I am still in school, and there has been no pausing to speak of in recent history-the uncertainties of the coming year are looming large. Elim Christian School is miles behind me, but I am once again in a place where I must wait patiently upon decisions and live faithfully in the "being here." I am not yet ready to go on to the next step in my educational journey-that is for a time that is yet beyond me, maybe next fall and maybe later than that. Right now I must do all that I can to take advantage of these moments of reflection that PhD applications have been granting me, and continue till completion the journey already before me.

Forced or chosen-there are numerous opportunities in our daily lives to benefit from meaningful pauses. I am still learning to rest in God's providing and the assurance of God's testing. Will it be in my current "Elim" that I rest in the shade of the palm trees near the water? Or will I miss this meaning-filled pause on my journey? Will you?

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Since I do much better extemporaneously than I do with a manuscript in public speaking, this is a rough summary of what I said last Wednesday. I did like that after my reflections we opened the floor for everyone to share about their meaningful pauses. I would love to hear how you all reflect on difficult times in your journeys...

Christmas Flood

When you live in a basement apartment, you must accept certain risks. One of these is that in times of heavy precipitation you may find that some areas of your dwelling will develop a certain level of saturation.

It rained a lot one day, but this particular risk did not come to our minds. After a busy day, Yvana had nothing on her mind aside from getting home in one piece while attempting to slip through bouts of rain, both of which she accomplished. I was thinking about making dinner, about what I was reading, and about my upcoming meeting with my adviser. This meeting was causing me a fair amount of anxiety, mostly because I secretly get anxious about everything. Usually I conceal this through outright denial. But that day I chose my fallback: procrastination. So I prepared cookie dough instead of completing my report essay.

The rain had just started up again when Yvana was a block away, but this was just the light precursor to the downpour that started after she was inside. I had expected her later, so I began the fried rice-making procedure when I heard her keys at the door. The eggs were scrambled in the oil by the time her helmet was on its shelf.

We exchanged our stories from the day. A stressful experience on the phone. Good seminar, but concluded a half-hour late. Copied readers. Success in returning a bicycle pump. Failure in replacing a watch battery. Dinner was now ready, and shared in the spaces between conversation.

We preheated the oven for the cookies. When the first batch was coming out, there was a knock at the door. Our landlord wanted to see if there was any seepage in some problem spots since it had been raining most of the day. Yvana showed her around as I prepared the second batch. No leaks by the furnace, and I had successfully banished my upcoming meeting from my mind while resisting the urge to sample the batter.

Yvana was leading the way to the bathroom inspection when the sheet was in the oven. I didn't think there was much I could contribute to the situation, so I stood in the kitchen and read the bank statement we had just received.

They were finished with the bathroom and were moving into the utility room while I attempted to understand why, “As of November 30 Citibank will no longer offer World Wallet Drafts for purchase,” was under the Suggestions and Recommendations heading. I heard some commotion in the front of the apartment as I searched for the promised “more information listed on this statement.” Stymied. This didn't seem to offer any recommendation, while the suggestion seemed to be too vague to be of any good. Finance mystifies me. I wondered the context of this bank statement would count as some kind of Wittgensteinian private language game.

Just before the timer called out, I noticed Yvana and the landlord taking things out of the closet and placing them in the hallway, followed by some kind of exclamation. I scraped the cookies off the sheet bitterly—they were flat. I had mixed the dough when I got back from the coffee shop, so it had sat for several hours before baking. That probably did it.

When the last batch was in the oven most of our belongings, formerly in the utility closet, littered the hallway and bedroom. The landlord offered some apologies, then ascended the stairs to get some towels. She scattered them around the closet, then left with the cookie we offered her. The last batch of unleavened baked goods was out, and I finished washing the dishes. I sealed the cookies up after they were cool enough, hoping to preserve what moisture was still in them.

We assessed the damage over cups of tea—peppermint for Yvana, orange pekoe for me. Most of the stuff we stored was in plastic bins, or on makeshift shelves. We had some experiences last year with this same location, so we were prepared. The only thing that sustained worrisome damage was a cardboard box full of Christmas decorations. We steeled ourselves for the worst, and opened the container.

The leak in the closet must have been fairly recent. Although the outside of the cardboard was soaked, it had for the most part not touched the items inside. We aired them out for good measure.

As we removed the ornaments, we realized that we had not seen them for two years, since we have never had a proper Christmas tree on which to hang them. They were mostly Yvana's. Her relatives had a tradition of giving ornaments every year, a tradition that began the year her sister was born and continued to the year we were married. She had memories attached to each one, some more significant than others. One was labeled as a gift from her great aunt just before she passed away. It was three winged humans holding hands around a star. On one side, the hands of one figure had broken, creating a rupture in the circle. Yvana reminisced.

“She was Catholic. I never understood why she only had one kid. But my uncle was protestant. So there you go.”

The only ornaments I recognized were the ones we received in 2004. Thin, crystal things with, “First Christmas Together” etched in calligraphy. I tapped my ring against one. Thin, plastic things with, “First Christmas Together” etched in calligraphy.

“You're going to break them.”

“I did the same thing to your ceramic “Precious Moments” one and it was just fine.”

“Well, you'll break those too.”

I held up an ornament consisting of a snowman's head attached to a string.

“We should start a snowman theme.” She glanced around the collection, noticing the snowman paraphernalia scattered on the floor. “I guess it's already started.”

I turned back to my snowman head.

“Somewhere, there is a decapitated snowman wandering the aisles of a Hallmark store.”

She laughed. As we sat on the living room rug she explained that she would line them up in chronological order before she hung them every year. We ordered them accordingly, and as she explained the significance and story surrounding each one I lost interest around 1993. Glancing at the bookshelf I noticed my copy of The Oxford Illustrated History of English Literature. I pulled it off the shelf and opened it to the entry on Muriel Spark. I began to read. Yvana graciously overlooked my rejection, and started to go about the process of gathering the undamaged ornament boxes.

“Is there a small box for these?”

There was no catalog of our empty boxes in my memory. I wondered why she couldn't get up and look for herself. I was working my way back in my gloss of English literature and had already reached Forester. She looked at me with her hands full of ornaments when I grunted in response to her question. She asked it again.

“No.”

“So what are we going to do with these?”

I was perfectly enjoying the moment I was having with late 19^th century novelists and didn't understand why she had to keep pestering me.

“Don't you have a report to write anyway?

“...”

“Mike, is this really the best use of your time?”

I felt blood rush to my throat, which I should have known was a bad sign. I set the book aside at George Eliot.

“Why can't you get the box?”

“I thought you said there was no box.”

“To my perception there was no box. Do you see any boxes right here? I don't know what we have. You know where we keep them. Why did you have to ask me?”

She stared at me incredulously.

“I figured you would help.”

“Well, I thought this was a poor use of my time.”

“Fine, we'll leave them here.” She got up. I had every intention of continuing the argument. I have found that sometimes doing what it was that was asked of you before the fight began needlessly escalates the situation. So I grabbed a box.

“Mike, I said just leave it if that's how you want to do this.”

“Fine.” I dropped the box in the middle of the room.

I stalked back to the desk, picking a path through the Hallmark and Precious Moments figurines littering the hallway, and attempted to resume my reading of Jean Leclercq on Bernard of Clarivaux. Page 169 of The Love of Learning and the Desire for God contains a quote from Bernard where he is explaining a passage from the Rule of Benedict.

“Then come the spiritual gyrovagues: their inconsistency carries them from reading to prayer, from prayer to work, preventing them from obtaining the benefits of their undertakings: stability in effort and perseverance in devotion. Victims of acedia, they think it better at one moment to do one thing, and, at another, something else; they begin everything and finish nothing.”

I looked back at the ornaments on the floor. I smelled the lingering odor of burnt, flat cookies. I saw the anthology open on its spine to George Eliot. I glanced up at the half-written report. I continued reading—“loving only themselves, pursuing only their own interests, they go about...” I thought of the box in the middle of the floor—“creating cliques and divisions, never ceasing to sown unrest in the flock of the Lord through the obstinacy with which they defend their egos and their individuality.”

I sipped my tea. It had grown cold. I thought, why didn't I chose chamomile?

Mike's Encounters...

I wandered through the labyrinthine nylon straps, tensely interconnected. I would have detached one end from its post to cut through the needless path, but remembered that when I tried this trick before the barrier promptly escaped my hand under the mystical force of a retracting spool. This caused a loud, satisfyingly awkward snap and gained me the irate glare of a clerk at the Bank 1. I was pretty happy with the result at the Bank 1, but I figured this particular situation did not call for such defiance straightaway. This could all be resolved through peaceful, diplomatic skill if the encounter went according to plan. I had a brief vision as I snaked toward the empty service desk: the aftermath of an encounter gone bad. I pictured myself unhooking or charging through each tape, dragging the posts along behind me. Then I bumped into one of the stands and found they are surprisingly sturdy. Instead I imagined how ridiculous I would look lying on the floor tangled in a sinewy mess of black belts.

With an air of graciousness, I approached the final bend and leaned against the faux-granite countertop. I have one recourse in such a situation, an attitude I call my disarmingly helpless charm. I attempted to activate it. The librarian glanced up, unimpressed.

“...”

“Hi. I have a problem... With my account.”

“Card.” I wasn't sure if this was a statement, request, or command. I assumed it to be a combination of all three, and fumbled my student identification to her. She swiped it over a scanner reminiscent of a grocery check-out.

“They say... well, the computer says... my account shows that I haven't returned a book and I have a fine now. But I know I returned it. I put it in the outside slot last week because I was on my bike. I have done that before, and never—“

“This the one?” She swiveled the computer screen to a position where I could half see it. This obliged me to lean over the broad counter in an awkwardly suggestive manner, which made me uncomfortable. Part of me wanted to answer snidely that there was only one entry listed as delinquent on my account. Did she think I was complaining about a lost return that I imagined was going to happen in the future?

“I think so,” I answered humbly, my frustration beginning to well. A few moments of silence as the mouse clicked and various things flashed across the screen.

“Why did you renew it twice?” She glared at me.

“Because I wasn't done reading it.” I was a bit incredulous since the question seemed to have only one reasonable answer. Or was she accusing me of having lost the book, and extending the return date to postpone the inevitable fallout? And if such was the case, did she really expect me to crack under her Matlock-like questioning?

“Hm.” More silence. “It shows here that it wasn't returned.” It was readily apparent to me that this was precisely the reason I was speaking to her at this moment, yet this observation was offered as a prophetic utterance. The visions of my triumphal march through the crowd control maze began to take shape again in my imagination.

“But I did return it, to the outside slot, last week on the day it was due, and I want to check it out again. If the library lost it, is there another copy I could check out?” Contemporary Hermeneutics by Josef Bleicher. An excellent book, and I did need it again. The six weeks total of borrowing time including all renewals was ridiculously short, and I couldn't help but think that if I had been extended the proper borrowing privileges befitting a grad student this whole sordid affair would never have happened. But I realized too late how aggressive this must have sounded, and wondered if she had somehow been privy to the tirade babbling through my brain.

“...” More clicking. “You have to contact the Fines and Overdues Department and file a formal appeal with them. Your account will continue to accrue fines until a decision has bee reached.” I admit, this was a bit stunning. I half expected an argument or something of the like, but instead I was referred to another mound of bureaucracy. How could I respond to non-action and non-recognition?

“Fine. Do you have another copy of this particular text?” I was insistent on this point.

“...Yeah. Copies here, OISIE, and Vic.”

“Thank you.” I stalked away, following the ropes to the exit where I spilled out into the crowd of students sweeping toward the elevators. There, I dutifully flashed my identification again, realizing that the attendant at the elevator never even looked at me. The only thing important was the digital image of a person on this flimsy sheet of plastic.

On the way to the ninth floor I tried to imagine what I looked like to the system, how I fit into their understanding of the ordered universe. “Delinquent.” I was branded. They had no idea what I cared for. What my interests were. Why I wanted to read this book. Why I would renew it twice. But apparently she knew the only answer that mattered: I was a delinquent. A delinquent would obviously take any book out indiscriminately, renew it twice, hide it somewhere, then complain to her that I had a fine. I was completely one dimensional to the Nazibarian.

I marched to the section, then down the dimly lit aisle. After a quick scan of the shelves, I found the familiar cover, but the call number in the computer indicated that copy one was on the shelves. The only one I could see was copy two. Which looked quite familiar.

Hm.

I remembered that there was some fairly unique marginalia in the table of contents. Someone had written brief descriptions next to selected chapters, as if this had been assigned as class reading to be copied and distributed. I flipped open the cover, and stared at these same marks.

Hm.

I straightened my shoulders and marched toward the elevators. Pounding on the call button a few dozen times for measure, I clutched Contemporary Hermeneutics close to my body determined that someone would have to pry it from my rigor mortis corpse if they wanted to snatch it from me. On reaching the ground floor I tried to check it out from the machines, just to see what would happen. Item is already checked out to user. I had the truth now, and damned if I wasn't going to clobber someone with it.

I lined up at the service desk, allowing someone to go ahead of me to another employee so that I might reminisce with my friend the Nazibrarian. Maybe I should clarify: it wasn't the lost book or the process of appeal that irritated me, it was the arrogance and demeaning attitude they forced on me. Now it was time for some arrogance payback.

I self-confidently slid the book across the counter. Again, she looked unimpressed.

“I think there is a problem with this book. You see, it was on the shelf—but oddly!—this is apparently the same book you say I didn't return.” She scanned the book, then my card, which I duly produced. She sighed, and took the book to the back room. She was gone maybe two minutes.

“I'm sorry. It's all cleared up. I'm sorry.” This time she sounded a bit softer, much less arrogant.

As I slid my card back into my wallet, I noticed certain things about her that I hadn't before. Tired, baggy eyes. More wrinkles on the right side of her mouth than left. A small scar on her right ear. I wondered what her interests were, why she worked at Robarts, what life was like when she wasn't behind the service counter.

As I walked through the rotating exit doors, I thought about several of the essays in Contemporary Hermeneutics. The ones I especially liked examined the ubiquitous role of interpretation in our everyday lives, how the expectations and experiences we bring to each situation effect what we find—or what finds us. How the truth we encounter is in many ways dependent on us and what we bring to the present moment.

I thought about that librarian's face several times in the past week, both the first and second time I saw it. I wondered what or who had changed between those two encounters.

Close encounters...

I promised to write about my experience at the ICS Worldview Conference with Richard Middleton--no I haven't forgotten, though it seems that everything takes longer when I am only online when I am at school. As it happens, I am here for another "academic event"--listening to lectures by two faculty from Calvin College. We are between lectures now, and just after dinner, so I thought I would steal a few minutes to write while all my friends (and my husband) are probably cracking into one of ICS's bottles of homemade (by us) wine, and playing cards or some such thing...

The conference last Saturday was enlightening. Middleton's take on biblical interpretation is near Nik Ansell's (they graduated in the same year from the same institution!), and focused on the narrative of the biblical story as our clue to interpretation. A welcome perspective, I think, which opens up a lot of the possibilities of the Bible to speak to us today. I am not going to dwell on this point, however, but rather the workshop I attended by a fellow ICS student, working on her PhD in NY right now, which was entitled "The Role of Encounter in the Story of Creation." I think the work she did in the workshop to get us thinking about the idea of encounter was so good, I want to take it as the theme for this blog. Encounters can be scary, but they can also be a source of possibility and discovery that is very positive. I think that the story of our last week can be told by a series of these vulnerable and possibly frightening encounters that have led to the unfolding of possibilities (well, maybe not all of them, but we will see how I can stretch them!)

Dangerous Encounters: Yvana and the too-close-to-her-bike van--Yes, this is the story of my first biking "accident." (There are a series of ad's here in Toronto up on the subways and on TV (apparently) about workplace safety and avoiding using the term "accidents" since most of them are preventable, and this is no exception, I am afraid). I was biking to school with Mike behind me, and after crossing an intersection (one of my least favorite spots on the way because of poor visibility and bumpy roads) I looked behind me to see a van trying to get around the streetcar, just as I was trying to get around a pothole. Needless to say, I'm sure, I had a very close encounter with this van, getting bumped twice and flying over the right side of my bike to bruise my pride fairly badly and scrape my knee (through two pairs of pants--good thing I had them on!). Thank goodness I had my helmet on--when I knew I was going to be falling I just let myself go, in a sense, knowing that I had lots of padding to protect me, considering it is nearly winter! and it would be better than fighting it at that point. I wasn't badly hurt, as all the good people of Toronto within sight came to discover. We even got to speak to a fellow biker who had been in a similar situation at this very intersection, who did what he could to right me and calm me afterward as well. Not a pleasant encounter, but also one that, if it has to happen, worked out about the best that it could. I believe that the possibility is opened here for a new pair of jeans!

Embodied Encounters: Yvana versus seminar presentations-- I had the daunting task this week of presenting for both of my classes--which are, as some of you know, on adjacent days: Thursday and Friday. I think they both went fairly well, and at least got some related discussion started... I spoke today about the relationship between the mind and the body in knowing--something that is very important to me, and something that I hope to do a lot more work with. Without getting into the specific and dirty details, I hope to get beyond the dualism between mind and body (as many of my professors have advised me) and talk about the embodied mind, or rather the body as the mind, or the mind as the body... I don't know what formulation exactly that I am going to work with, but I am somehow hoping to see these together.

To be continued with:

Confrontative Encounters: Mike versus the (un)penetrable bureaucracy of Robarts Library...

And
Disembodied Encounters: Mike versus the world...

Oklahoma, OK!

I know we have countless fans waiting impatiently for an update (Hey, my mom does too count!), so I don't want to disappoint. Unfortunately, I am at work right now (don't tell...) so I am going to have to make this quick. So, though I would love to share the same "little details of our life" update that Mike wrote last time, you will have to deal with a general broad strokes update, once again.

Trip to OKC, OK. What a great conference last weekend! For those of you who we haven't talked incessantly about it, we went to the "After Ricoeur" Conference at Oklahoma City University, where we each presented course papers from our Ricoeur class last spring. The conference went well--we met students and professors from various colleges and universities, some of which we are applying in just a few short weeks! As far as touristy things, we went to Ground Zero, or rather the Murrah Building, the Oklahoma City National Memorial, the OKC famous spaghetti Warehouse (not to be confused with the chain restaurant--the spaghetti Factory, comon people!), lovely Bricktown, and the beautiful Myriad Botanical Gardens. Of course we also toured around Oklahoma City University campus, finding Paul Hansen Drive, and Paul Hansen Fitness Center (HA! That's for you, dad!).

Reading Week. We have been reading, of course, and also working. Some of the latest: The Cunning Man (finally finished by Y), Lectures on Philosophy (Y), Plenty of journals about pedagogy in higher education (Y), Freakanomics (M), Bernard of Clairvaux's sermons (M).

Well, that's about all for now, expect more later, I promise! We have the internet at home now, so hopefully we will be able to update more frequently! ICS Worldview Conference tomorrow, it is going to be a good one, I'll tell you all about it when I get back...

The stories of Mike's life...

Hello to all,
Yvana has already written a more comprehensive note just a few days ago, so I will write on some fragments of life here in Toronto.
*Went to our neighborhood coffee shop Cafe 2 Day, Bloor Street, on Thursday. I like the place: robust fair-trade coffee, plenty of comfortable seating, and clean but unsexy. It's kind of like Kubata, our other local place, but closer, slicker, and a bit cheaper. I like Kubata as well, and I have a bit more heart for it, because I think the lady is the owner operator (at least she's there every day) and a Starbucks opened right across the street from it last January. How evil. Anyway, I like Kubata's jazz better than the stuff they play at Cafe 2 Day. It's a top 20 mix station that grates on me. Also, the sound system in Kubata is better, with several built in speakers, while Cafe 2 Day is one boombox at the front of the store that irritatingly echoes against the pane class. But I stopped by there on the way back to our apartment last Thursday, and a friendly guy was working there. So I'm hoping to make it a customary Thursday thing to go by for a cup of coffee-maybe become a "regular". There's something about being a regular thats mysterious to me... I heard David Sedaris on This American Life address this issue a few weeks ago. At one point, he had been living in Paris for over a year and a half, and every morning David stopped by this one kiosk to buy a newspaper from the old woman who owned it. For 18 months she said nothing to him; never acknowledged his continued patronage with even so much as a nod of recognition. Then, one day she looked at him quizzically, and asked, "Are you a tourist?" He was at once elated and deflated. She finally acknowledged him as a person, not just someone who gave money in exchange for goods, but refused to acknowledge that he belonged, after a year and a half of seeing him every day. I really liked that story, and I'll pay 1.35 a week until I am recognized as a regular in Cafe 2 Day, or maybe Kubata. ...Sponsors anyone?
*I don't really remember the point of that last story, but here is another. We were riding home along College the other day, and there was a huge traffic backup from Ossington to Dovercourt. As cyclists, we zipped right through to Dovercourt in no time, and saw that the traffic light was out. But the civic mindedness of Canadians knows no bounds, for there, in the middle of the intersection, was a scruffy young man directing traffic: cars, bikes, streetcars, you name it. He was taking his calling serious as a brain surgeon, and people were obeying and expressing their thanks as they passed by him. Pedestrians were hailing him as a hero. I'm sure this scene could have occurred in any city at any time, but to me the image of a unkempt twentysomething neo-Marxist looking guy dutifully directing traffic at rush hour, while people submit to his guidance and thank him in the process, completely embodies the Toronto spirit. I love this place.
*Act Three. Yvana, Ben Austin and I went to a party hosted by some Toronto School of Theology folk last Saturday. Mostly Regis, St. Mike's and U of T people there, but ICS made a good showing when Stu and Chris showed up. Everyone had a wonderful time, and I realized that I was more connected to this community than I thought. Saw a guy I'm taking a class with now- did his MA at Notre Dame on Augustine's malleable conception of the good life. Met someone who's a sessional instructor at St. Mikes, working on some things very similar to my own area of interest and, ironically, his dissertation director is my adviser: crazy things happen here at TST. Met a professional musician who is over at U of T faculty of music and spoke with her at some length about public art, fine art, and John Dewey. When we left, Chris was firmly in control of the liquor table, making White Russians for the whole kitchen crowd. ICS... so much better than the rest...

Miss you and love you all. M