Exercises at the Parade Grounds

Exhaustion is the weariness worst,

The feeling futile that attends on the end

Of a worn-long day.

What a calm of a balm is to sit and befit

All the futile flat-fall to its ether home.

On the solid of a bench and the common of the park

In the lee, sunward-wise, of a tree, put I

As it’s setting and its glory limns their limbs who try.

Three black men in three white shirts

Run the length and the strength of the long green field.

Past the chain-link screen, little nimble-running shapes

Trying not to run clumped like a bunch of grapes

Learn soccer from a hoarse-heard coach.

Soccer and running are words for belonging

And the goal is the means to the fill of the longing.

So the little one stopping to tie his shoe

Keeps an eye on the hopping and stray of the ball

Which the runningmen bounce easy back in the flip

Of their looping continuous strain.

I who am perfect because of my work

Look at these who are perfect because they are God’s

And the futile falls off from my shoulders.

Perspicacity vs. Political Speech

One of the biggest downsides of working in politics is that you have to read what politicians say. If you’re not careful, you wind up talking like them, and I recently realized my writing style was a mess.

Budget season is recently over, so for about a month I sat and watched Jersey Democrats feud with Governor Christie over who’s really cutting taxes and who’s really helping the middle class. It’s amazing how vigorously all of them, including the Governor, sling buzzwords that mean nothing. All the epithets, moral fervor, and slogans only say, “I’m being a cookie-cutter partisan.” Everybody knows the real issue is Christie’s reelection in 2013. So New Jersey has a Democratic budget patchworked with Republican vetoes, and I think the whole thing is insulting.

Budget talk is the worst because even the people I think I agree with prefer slogans to information. But I’ve had a couple of mild shocks lately to hint that I might be more like them than I know.

On one of our wedding trips this summer, a friend put on The Voyage of the Dawn Treader in the car. I’ve always loved the scene between Caspian and Governor Gumpas in the Lone Islands: Caspian shows up, switches effortlessly into king mode, abolishes the slave trade, and brings the Lone Islands back to Narnian allegiance all in about an hour. Gumpas becomes the laughingstock of the town and Caspian appoints Lord Bern as Duke in his place—“We’ve had enough of governors, I think.” But listen how he talks when Caspian questions him about slavery:

“I want to know why you have permitted this abominable and unnatural traffic in slaves to grow up here, contrary to the ancient custom and usage of our dominions.”

·      “Necessary, unavoidable, a necessary part of the economic development of the islands, I assure you. Our present burst of prosperity depends on it.”

·      “Your Majesty's tender years hardly make it possible that you should understand the economic problem involved. I have statistics, I have graphs, I have . . .”

·      “But that would be putting the clock back. Have you no idea of progress, or development?”

I wish I could find the whole exchange; sadly I don’t have the book. But much to my discomfort, Gumpas’s logic started tooling nicely along in a mental groove I didn’t know I had. Too much Trenton in my ears, evidently.

Similarly, when we went to the Hoover Dam, I was amazed to see Congress’s approval resolution, because they didn’t justify the project on the numbers, or on benefits for infrastructure or development or local economies. Congress approved the dam because it would “tame the desert.” What? A speck of vision?

The best writing—literary, poetic, political, and apologetic—comes from people who spend their careers on literature or the study of language. You can’t have truth without humor and beauty, and you don’t get much of either in party politics. So when I realized I’d become didactic, I resolved on two fixes. The short-term one was to staunch the bleeding: use shorter words and fewer prepositions, in a mental hat-tip to Strunk and White. The long-term fix is to get more literature, Scripture, and poetry in my reading diet. Humor and beauty do reside in things that are true to life—as literature, Scripture, and poetry are. As a Christian I have a calling to be true to life. So as a writer, the means I use to discuss truth matter. As a person, I don’t want a desiccated soul. And as a citizen, I ought not to be complicit in the avalanche of drivel that makes our political sphere so mindless. Time to read something that’s just straight-up fun.

Big City, Shrinking Self

Last week Andrew and I flew out west to explore national parks in Utah with my parents and siblings and then join my mom’s extended family in Colorado for a reunion. Late Sunday night we got back. I am always amazed at the change that comes with leaving the city and coming back.

We flew into Las Vegas and stayed just long enough to drive down the Strip and see the character and fundamental unprincipledness of luxury. (I had not thought about this since I read novels about ancient Rome.) From there we drove to the Hoover Dam and tried to stop our knees from shaking while gaping at the size and mass of the dam, and the intestinal fortitude of its builders.

In Utah we spent hours slogging upriver in a beautiful canyon at Zion National Park, leaning on walking sticks and climbing up the sandstone in places where it had been worn away. We ate late at the Mexican and Chinese restaurants in Hurricane, at that phase of exhaustion when everything satisfies. We watched the sun set and then rise at Dead Horse Point State Park, in vast and complete silence broken only by the wind. We drove through Canyonlands and Arches National Park and saw canyons within canyons, layers upon layers, red cliffs of sandstone, green hillsides of uranium oxide, and the most astonishing, fantastic, gigantic pillars and arches of rock you can imagine. I think Arches might be the most mysterious place on this continent. We camped in the desert, talked to rangers, stayed with a Westerner and his horse and dogs. I've never seen stars twinkle like they did over Hurricane.

In Colorado we watched the elevation numbers on the GPS escalate as we approached the Continental Divide. The family were delighted to hear everyone’s news, and large-group games kept us busy between mealtimes--where the cafeteria had the biggest drink selection I’ve yet enjoyed. On Sunday we spent a solid hour singing hymns in four-part harmony, in the proud, understated Mennonite tradition.

Coming back after that experience of awe and love brought my focus again to something I have not figured out about city life. People come to New York to find themselves, be free of small-town expectations and restrictions, and in some sense see the world. But whenever I come [back] to New York, I feel like I'm stepping into a box. For a few hours—a few days if I’m lucky—I approach people without preconceptions, as an individual. But the hackneyed truisms set in quickly: racial identities, neighborhood stereotypes, the New Yorker’s prying curiosity about everyone else’s income, white guilt, Midwestern insecurity. I start thinking like the New York Times, even though I’m both conservative and religious—thinking about people as categories rather than individuals with relationships. It desiccates my imagination, and I start filling up my schedule with weekend things to create islands of oasis or distraction from the isolation that surrounds my mind.

Why is it that in the city of tolerance I see only divisions? Why is it that close proximity to every stripe of humanity pushes me into isolation? Am I the only one who experiences this—my heart minimizing like a computer window when I come back to the city? What have others found to do about it?

This is what I think about when I return.

Farewell to the Rails

All of a sudden the name I picked for this blog is sort of historical, because Andrew and I just bought a car from my dad and I’ll no longer be commuting on NYC subways and NJ passenger trains with 5 hours of thoughts round trip to fill my head. The good news is I’ll have more time to type them. I just got home from work (mid-Jersey to Brooklyn) in an HOUR. Driving rocks.

A friend suggested I write about what train commuting has taught me over the last ten months. Here are a few thoughts.

#1: Timeliness. Trains don’t wait. I like to make the most of my time before I leave it to go do something else. Which means I often found myself sprinting for the subway on Tuesday and Thursday mornings after dawdling over getting dressed and gobbling down my breakfast. Eventually I decided I was tired of being that stressed out at 6:45 a.m., and I regulated my routine a bit better.

#2: Realism. I would love to say I read classics and the news on my morning train, and worked on a novel coming home plus making nice, quick menus to whip together for dinner. That was not to be. I hardly ever got meals planned. I slept in the mornings to make up for all the lazy nights when we didn’t make dinner till 10:00 or stayed up late watching Downton Abbey. My only literary achievements are scattered notes in my Moleskine plus occasional work drafts. I gave up on the news altogether. I did read a fabulous book on cooking, a Christian romance, a slim theology by Tozer, a history of New York City, a journalistic thing on political strategy, and all of Anna Karenina on the trains. Mostly I realized I needed to be realistic with myself. Although I had a routine, it was unbalanced, and I simply could not build much structure into my week when it came to reading, sleeping, cooking, and household chores. Thankfully, Andrew never hesitated to help out, so I also learned some things about teamwork. :)

#3: Community. This is the part I did the worst at. My irregular schedule not only destroyed my discipline at home, but it threw me off from planning get-togethers and one-on-ones with friends from school who live and work in the city. As a result I fell into the habit of being alone, often not realizing it was depressing me until after we got back from a gathering with friends. This is my biggest regret about the last ten months, and I hope that reducing my commute time will enable me to be a bit more sociable in New York and maintain higher quality relationships. I feel like, on the home front, I’ve pretty well absorbed the truth that “It is not good for man to be alone.”

#4: Need. Since the trains don’t stop at my office door, I had to be picked up and driven the last five miles to work. This made me feel like a drag, but my co-workers faithfully pitched in and went out of their way to get me where I needed to go. Joy, who works in constituent services, picked me up for months in spite of terrible back pain and the fact that my train schedule inconveniently shortened her workday. Ruthie, who also helps with constituent services, has raced the train to another town when my normal stop was flooded, and recently took me on a sightseeing tour of Bound Brook and Manville late at night when I miscalculated the arrival time of my train. Len, my boss and the busiest of them all, who is on call 24/7, was always mysteriously available when I was diverted to the Hoboken terminal and delayed an hour in the morning. And Q, who handles community relations and is our resident political strategist, rescued us from our surreptitious (and miserable) stay at the Howard Johnson in Newark when we had bedbugs. This has been extremely humbling for me. I don’t like to be in people’s way and need things. I like to take care of myself. But because of my co-workers’ generosity I have been convicted nearly every day I’m in the office about certain grains of cynicism that I allowed into my heart in college and was allowing to continue doing their nasty, acidic work. It’s hard to let that go, it’s true. But it’s also hard to let it go unchallenged when you have gentle people taking care of you generously, simply, and without stipulations. I’m grateful that God has used this time to soften my spirit, and that the sullenness and exhaustion of fifteen months ago have given place to a little more optimism.

As lovely as the trains have been, I’m glad to be driving now. Not only will it save me up to an hour and a half each way; it will  allow me to be more available for work-related events outside the office. Not to mention the balance it will bring to the Force—I mean, my schedule. It will mean greater freedom on the Brooklyn end to run heavy errands and visit friends, and it will let us go out of town more cheaply. We feel very blessed to have the car. I am not sorry to bid the trains adieu, nor am I reluctant to enter the fray of East Coast traffic. It's a blessing and a relief. But, all things considered, it’s also been worth the wait.