Growing Up

Yesterday, I turned 40.  For the past several weeks, in anticipation of this event, I wondered if, perhaps, it is time for me to start feeling and acting like an adult; because even though my beard is starting to turn grey, I still feel like a child.

Twice in the past year, I've been told by teenagers that I "don't act that old."  I don't know why they said that.  Maybe they've seen me riding my bike to church with my daypack on my back.  Maybe they watched me climb the boulders at Joshua Tree while the other adults sat ontheir chairs at the campsite.  Maybe they saw me get excited over something, like a rainbow caused by moonlight, and even though they thought it kind of strange for someone to get excited over something like that, they thought it was kind of cool, too.

I don't know.  What I do know is that I often hear a voice telling me to act more grown-up.  After all, the voice says, 40 year-old pastors don't ride their bikes around town.  It's not dignified.  Yet, strangely, the older I get, the more I want to ride my bike - and do lots of other fun things that adults are not supposed to do.  I recently re-discovered that making friendship bracelets (something I learned to do while counseling youth camps) is an enjoyable hobby.  As an added bonus, it provides a more enjoyable way to pass time in a doctor's waiting room than reading 3 year-old magazines.

To be quite honest, grown-ups have always intimidated me ... until I remember that inside every adults, no matter how old and crusty they are on the outside, there is a child needing attention; a child that wants to play, a child that is far more insecure than the grown-up persona will admit to.  Nearly everyone, I think, is still waiting to feel more grown-up.  Most become impatient with waiting, and so they deny that their inner child even exists, until even they themselves are unaware that it's there.

Strangely enough, I did not get to ride my bike yesterday.  Not acting old doesn't mean not acting responsibly, and I had parental obligations that required use of the car (even if I did pout just a little before accepting this fact).  No matter, though.  The child in me is still there, and I don't expect he'll be going anywhere soon.

Before Sunrise

The moon is still above our campsite last Saturday morning at Will J. Ried scout camp in Long Beach.  It was chilly, but a warm day followed.

January Hike: Pico Canyon

Last weekend, I went for a hike with friends to Pico Canyon, in the hills just southwest of Six Flags Magic Mountain.  It was a beautiful, warm day - the kind of day that makes me glad I live in southern California.

Pico Canyon was the site of the first commercial oil well in California.  There are some historic sites left from the old village of Mentryville. 

The hike began in a shady canyon; this time of year, the sun's rays have a hard time reaching the canyon floor.  After awhile, the trail left the canyon and ascended to a ridge, which provided a sweeping view of the Santa Clarita Valley.

Round-trip was about eight miles, and although it included over 1000 feet elevation gain, the miles went by fast. 

I mentioned last week that I was going to be hiking in the Santa Monica mountains.  Well, the plans changed slightly.  I don't think these can quite be considered part of the Santa Monicas.  In fact, I'm not really sure what mountains these are.  I do know that the following picture is very typical of the scrub vegetation in the low hills throughout Los Angeles County.



Up close, many of these plants are quite beautiful.  Some of them I recognized, but others I didn't know.  I was recently given some book store gift cards, and think I will use them to buy a book to help me identify some of these plants.

Our trip consisted of three adults, two young girls, and one dog.  All completed the hike easily, with energy to spare. 

Snowmelt

Yesterday we drove up into the mountains to pick up Ethan, who spent the weekend at a winter retreat for middle schoolers.  We got there a little early, so Tristan and I walked around.  The big storms of a few weeks ago dumped a lot of snow on the mountain tops, but now it is quickly melting as we experience a midwinter heat spell.  In fact, it's so warm that we stopped for root beer floats on the way home, which tasted extra good in the warm sunshine.

Tragedy in Tucson: My Confession

[Note: after I wrote this today, I didn't want to wait until Thursday (when I usually publish my blog), so it is appearing one day early...]

Following the tragic shooting in Tucson last week, it was so easy to jump on the bandwagon pointing to the causes of such violence in society.  Friends on Facebook immediately began pointing fingers at folks like Sarah Palin, whose website featured gun sights targeting a number of progressive/liberal politicians, including Representative Gabrielle Giffords.  I had not known about Sarah Palin's "targets," and was horrified enough to post my own status update condeming her and her website.

It's so easy for me to condemn and blame those who (like Palin) are so obviously wrong think differently than I do.  Even as I did so, however, I heard a small voice in the back of my head challenging me to think differently.  Over the next several days, that voice got louder and louder until I could ignore it no longer.

I was utterly annoyed.

I was annoyed, because I didn't want to think differently.  I was certain that my thinking around this issue was right.  Yet the voice told me I needed to look at the words and actions of Sarah Palin and others from a more compassionate, Christ-like point of view. 

The problem was, I didn't want to look at Palin from a Christ-like point of view.

As I read more and more of my fellow progressives indirectly blame Palin for the massacre, it seemed to me that they (we) were "targeting" her in a way that wasn't so different from the way she had "targeted" politicians who disagreed with her.  The voice said that, therefore, we really weren't that different from Palin. 

The problem was, I didn't want to think of myself as being not so different from her.

But as I listened to the voice, I realized that it was right.  Despite her offensive rhetoric and actions, Palin - like the rest of us - got caught up in the ongoing war of words.  Palin - like the rest of us - had been fired upon, and fired back in return. 

Who, you may ask, fired the first shot?

Just today, I happened to read that some of the earliest written language, coming from Mesopotamia thousands of years ago, included trash talk.  Back then, there were two kinds of people:  farmers and herders.  The farmers trash-talked the herders, and the herders trash-talked the farmers.  In the book of Genesis, we see the result of all this trash-talk:  Cain (the farmer) killed his brother Abel (the herder).  Apparently, things weren't so different, even then.

63 years ago today, Gandhi began a fast to convince Hindus and Muslims in New Delhi to work for peace.  Instead of getting caught up in the conflict and the trash-talk, he searched for - and found - a better way.

Instead of blaming the other side, perhaps we need to spend some time praying for peace.  Perhaps we can, each of us, confess our own participation in the ongoing wars of rhetoric.  Fasting might even be a good idea, as a way of focusing our thoughts.

It is true that when verbal bullets fly, real bullets are more likely to follow.  I, for one, am going to work harder to ensure that none of those verbal bullets come from me.

Flashback: January Hike

A picture I took in January two years ago, in the Santa Monica mountains.  I plan to go hiking in a different part of the Santa Monica mountains this coming Saturday, and am looking forward to it.

Peaceful Protest? It Depends On How You Define 'Peaceful'

The neighborhood in which I live is, for the most part, a quiet one.  The streets are lined with trees, and kids run up and down the block to and from the homes where friends live.  The only exception to the tranquility is late Friday and Saturday nights in summer, when the sound of patrons of the bar around the corner finding their way to their cars comes in through my open window, waking me.

It was not a Friday or a Saturday night, however.  It was not late, but early evening.  And it wasn't summer, but one of the coldest nights of winter, when the temperature plunged below forty degrees, which is considered downright frigid in this region.  Reading by lamplight in my living room (which seemed bare withouth the Christmas decorations that were taken down the day before), I was startled to hear the sounds of chanting and yelling outside:  one person with a megaphone leading what sounded like a dozen or more in protest.

What were they protesting?  I couldn't tell.  They were a loud and raucous group.  Their shouts sounded full of anger.  I briefly considered calling the police.  It's a bit frightening to hear a group of people shouting angrily, especially at night.  Not being able to make out what words they were yelling, I wondered if the protest had something to do with the several marijuana dispensaries nearby, and whether the protestors were for or against.

I stepped out onto the front porch.  I could not see the protestors, and I still couldn't make out the words they were yelling.  I walked to the end of our block (a short walk, just a few steps, really) and saw a group of maybe two dozen people in front of the bar, yelling and holding large signs, and chating:  "human freedom, animal rights," or something like that.

That bar is not the best of neighbors (note my earlier comment about noise), so it didn't bother me much that it was being protested, but I wondered how the bar had aroused the anger of animal rights protesters.  I later learned that the bar has a game similar to those "claw" games which offer players a chance to win a toy or stuffed animal, excpet that this particular "claw" game offers the chance to win a live lobster.

I didn't know that at the time; I had never been in that particular bar.  All I knew was that there was a group of people chanting and yelling angrily after dark on a cold Monday evening.

I returned to my living room.  The distant yelling was mildly annoying, like the buzz of a fly hovering up near the ceiling.  It continued for ninety minutes, then stopped.

Had those protesters not sounded so angry and threatening, I might have walked up to them and asked them why they were protesting.  Maybe I would have sympathized with their passion for animal rights.  Maybe I would have told them that I was a vegetarian for several years.  Maybe they would have been able to convince me to go back to being a vegetarian.  And maybe - this is a remote possibility, but still - maybe, if they had taken a more postive and peaceful approach (singing instead of yelling, for example), I would have so sympathized with their concern over the treatment of animals that I would have joined them.

Instead, once my curiosity was satisfied, I ignored them, and what's more, I almost felt sorry for the owners of the bar.

Almost.

Keeping Their Feet on the Ground

Tristan and his friend Ryan agree on almost everything.  At Knott's Berry Farm over Christmas break, they agreed that this was one ride they would NOT be riding.