"Questioning the narrative" was going to be the title of this post when I started writing it two weeks ago. A reflection on how a shift in perspective, a new journey, can change everything about how see the world and our place in it.
I'll hopefully find time to reflect on that later, but in less than two hours I'll be leaving for Rwanda. My travel schedule is a bit punishing: a bus trip from Oxford to London, arriving in the city around 4am, a 40 minute walk to the Pancras Eurostar station, a three-hour ride to Brussels, followed by a day on the street before taking the subway to the airport for an 8pm flight. From there I have a lay over in Addis Abba, arriving in Kigali around noon the next day. I am so excited, guys. I'll try and post and update or two from the field. Pray for health for me as I'm on this trip--I've just been coming down with something within the last couple days.
Sorry I haven't been as faithful to update as I would have liked: life crowds in, and most of you have better things to do with your internet time anyhow :)
Much love, and if I don't talk (or write, I guess) to you sooner, Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
All best,
Aaron
Now off to take a quick nap...
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Sunday, November 16, 2008
stroke!
Normally these posts are several weeks apart, so if you're just checking out the blog for the first time in a while you should also take a look at the one below.
We had our first boat race today! As mentioned below, I got put in the "stroke" position, which sets the pace for the entire crew. I'd never done this before today, so I was a little nervous at the outset. Fortunately the stakes were low--today was just a practice run before the Christ Church Regatta next weekend.
The guys on my team are quite a group of characters. Some combination of me being American, one of two graduate students on the squad, and relatively athletic has led them to select me as their de facto squad captain. Today they wouldn't get in the boat until I gave them a motivational speech ("you know, the kind of speech that coaches give their team at half time in American sports films!"). So I naturally I ripped-off Braveheart: "And tonight, lying in your beds reflecting on this day, how much would you give for one chance, just once chance, to return to these icy waters and pour your heart and soul into each stroke, should you now shrink from this challenge?!" They're good guys :)
After a rousing cheer of "1, 2, 3, MB/Worcester" (it kind of came out as a garbled shout), we got into our boat and took off for the starting line. A couple minutes later we drifted in the water, counting the final seconds till starting. No gun went off and the format was time trial, so I won't dramatize the start, but overall I think we did great job. After a couple rough strokes I settled into a rythm, and we powered down 1.2 kilometers of the Isis river to the finish line. "You stroked us to victory, Aaron!" Perhaps, but the stroke is only as good the crew.
I haven't settled into a sport since high school, and next quarter I'll probably give lightweight boxing a try, but today was a great reminder of the joys of comraderie, teamwork, and competition. What a great way to spend a Sunday afternoon!
We had our first boat race today! As mentioned below, I got put in the "stroke" position, which sets the pace for the entire crew. I'd never done this before today, so I was a little nervous at the outset. Fortunately the stakes were low--today was just a practice run before the Christ Church Regatta next weekend.
The guys on my team are quite a group of characters. Some combination of me being American, one of two graduate students on the squad, and relatively athletic has led them to select me as their de facto squad captain. Today they wouldn't get in the boat until I gave them a motivational speech ("you know, the kind of speech that coaches give their team at half time in American sports films!"). So I naturally I ripped-off Braveheart: "And tonight, lying in your beds reflecting on this day, how much would you give for one chance, just once chance, to return to these icy waters and pour your heart and soul into each stroke, should you now shrink from this challenge?!" They're good guys :)
After a rousing cheer of "1, 2, 3, MB/Worcester" (it kind of came out as a garbled shout), we got into our boat and took off for the starting line. A couple minutes later we drifted in the water, counting the final seconds till starting. No gun went off and the format was time trial, so I won't dramatize the start, but overall I think we did great job. After a couple rough strokes I settled into a rythm, and we powered down 1.2 kilometers of the Isis river to the finish line. "You stroked us to victory, Aaron!" Perhaps, but the stroke is only as good the crew.
I haven't settled into a sport since high school, and next quarter I'll probably give lightweight boxing a try, but today was a great reminder of the joys of comraderie, teamwork, and competition. What a great way to spend a Sunday afternoon!
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
the wheels keep on spinning
Today I received a package in the mail from Rhodes House reminding me to hurry up and apply for my second masters degree if I want to stay on next year. It is truly incredible how time passes: just a couple weeks away from finishing my first term at Oxford and I'm already scrambling to sort out a second course of study. I have no idea what I'll study. Management science? Anthropology? History? Do I really feel like taking the GRE, buffing up my CV, and tailoring my writing samples in the next two weeks? Yeah, maybe history would be a good choice....
I've spent a couple minutes staring blankly at the computer monitor trying to figure out what to say. It's difficult because on the one hand I feel like there is so much going on that to even try and describe things here would be futile. On the other hand the student life feels very much the same as it always has.
The nagging question of purpose keeps coming up. I have friends who are publishing lecture series for UNESCO, co-authoring briefings for the national security council, running development NGOs, and working to push legislation through congress that would create a national public service academy. The pressure to do something grand, or at least to appear that way, is great. Yet when you dedicate yourself to one cause you by default exclude yourself from others. There are plenty of things I could take up, yet I still haven't found that core passion that I can grab a hold of as a springboard into action. So I keep broadening my base academically, building relationships, traveling widely, and questioning constantly. I spend quite a few days in a state somewhere between being restlessness and distraction, enjoying myself as I bounce from rowing, to the gym, to classes, to conferences, to fellowship, and to the pub, but wondering if this flurry of activity isn't just forestalling the identification that going to help me put this whole deal into context.
I'm excited for Rwanda. This winter I will spend the majority of my time an hour or so outside of Kigali volunteering with an organization called Umuryango, which means "family" in Kinyarwanda. Umuryango reaches out to orphaned street boys through coursework, job training, and spiritual counseling. I'll be teaching english, guitar, hanging out with the boys, and helping to build a basketball court. Though I'm not tired of Oxford by any means, I miss travel--the freedom of the open road in an unexplored country, the sense of separation from all the distractions you left behind that comes when walking alone through new places, and the daily joy of discovery. This past summer was the first time since the end of my freshman year of college that I haven't crammed a pack full of anti-malarial tablets, some clothes, a water filter, U.S. consular information, a few other things, and headed south. I'm under no illusion that the people I'm going to work for need guys like me around for three-week stints of volunteerism: my goal is simply to learn about Rwanda from the Rwandans, and if possible to reciprocate their enormous generosity in hosting me by making myself as useful as possible.
So there's an update. Rowing is also going well--since my last post I've been bumped up to a better boat, and will likely be rowing stroke, the first position, in the Christ Church Regatta next weekend. Though I'm still debating whether or not I'll continue with this sport, I love the training, team camraderie, and early Thursday mornings on the Issis. In statistics I alternate between feeling triumphant and completely hosed, but lately it's been more of the latter. The good news is this puts in the same position as the majority of my peers! I'll be writing up my first assessed practical this weekend, so prayers that that goes smoothly would always be appreciated.
And as always, updates from abroad make my day. I'd love to hear how you're doing.
God bless,
Aaron
I've spent a couple minutes staring blankly at the computer monitor trying to figure out what to say. It's difficult because on the one hand I feel like there is so much going on that to even try and describe things here would be futile. On the other hand the student life feels very much the same as it always has.
The nagging question of purpose keeps coming up. I have friends who are publishing lecture series for UNESCO, co-authoring briefings for the national security council, running development NGOs, and working to push legislation through congress that would create a national public service academy. The pressure to do something grand, or at least to appear that way, is great. Yet when you dedicate yourself to one cause you by default exclude yourself from others. There are plenty of things I could take up, yet I still haven't found that core passion that I can grab a hold of as a springboard into action. So I keep broadening my base academically, building relationships, traveling widely, and questioning constantly. I spend quite a few days in a state somewhere between being restlessness and distraction, enjoying myself as I bounce from rowing, to the gym, to classes, to conferences, to fellowship, and to the pub, but wondering if this flurry of activity isn't just forestalling the identification that going to help me put this whole deal into context.
I'm excited for Rwanda. This winter I will spend the majority of my time an hour or so outside of Kigali volunteering with an organization called Umuryango, which means "family" in Kinyarwanda. Umuryango reaches out to orphaned street boys through coursework, job training, and spiritual counseling. I'll be teaching english, guitar, hanging out with the boys, and helping to build a basketball court. Though I'm not tired of Oxford by any means, I miss travel--the freedom of the open road in an unexplored country, the sense of separation from all the distractions you left behind that comes when walking alone through new places, and the daily joy of discovery. This past summer was the first time since the end of my freshman year of college that I haven't crammed a pack full of anti-malarial tablets, some clothes, a water filter, U.S. consular information, a few other things, and headed south. I'm under no illusion that the people I'm going to work for need guys like me around for three-week stints of volunteerism: my goal is simply to learn about Rwanda from the Rwandans, and if possible to reciprocate their enormous generosity in hosting me by making myself as useful as possible.
So there's an update. Rowing is also going well--since my last post I've been bumped up to a better boat, and will likely be rowing stroke, the first position, in the Christ Church Regatta next weekend. Though I'm still debating whether or not I'll continue with this sport, I love the training, team camraderie, and early Thursday mornings on the Issis. In statistics I alternate between feeling triumphant and completely hosed, but lately it's been more of the latter. The good news is this puts in the same position as the majority of my peers! I'll be writing up my first assessed practical this weekend, so prayers that that goes smoothly would always be appreciated.
And as always, updates from abroad make my day. I'd love to hear how you're doing.
God bless,
Aaron
Sunday, November 2, 2008
out there
A not-so-random sample of some things going on in the world today. This blog is typically a place where I turn my thoughts inward, but recently I have been convicted by the sense that my time in academia's lofty towers is little more than self-gratification unless it has something to do in the end with all this.
May we stay aware, stay open, and above all, be thankful for daily simple blessings as we seek to live well and purposefully in a shattered and complicated world.
http://www.reuters.com/news/pictures (click on editor's choice)
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/11/02/world/asia/02pstan.html?_r=1&ref=world&oref=slogin
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/africa/7704628.stm
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/gallery/2008/10/30/GA2008103002477.html
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB122539802263585317.html
http://www.reuters.com/article/worldNews/idUSTRE49U0B820081102?feedType=RSS&feedName=worldNews
May we stay aware, stay open, and above all, be thankful for daily simple blessings as we seek to live well and purposefully in a shattered and complicated world.
http://www.reuters.com/news/pictures (click on editor's choice)
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/11/02/world/asia/02pstan.html?_r=1&ref=world&oref=slogin
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/africa/7704628.stm
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/gallery/2008/10/30/GA2008103002477.html
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB122539802263585317.html
http://www.reuters.com/article/worldNews/idUSTRE49U0B820081102?feedType=RSS&feedName=worldNews
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
in case I managed to miss you on the email...
Dear friends and family,
I know I sent out an email several months ago saying that I'd be posting updates to my blog from here on out. Enough people have been asking me about life at Oxford, however, that I figured I'd send out another one of these. Yes, Chris O and Dan S, it is indeed another rambling Aaron epic. Put on your PJs and enjoy!
Life has been a flurry of activity since leaving the West Coast one month ago, and it doesn't seem like things will slow down anytime soon. When I moved to Stanford from the Pacific Northwest a couple years ago I couldn't have imagined an environment more animated by students' intellectual energy and entrepreneurial passion, yet Oxford goes one step beyond. A friend of mine made the point that Oxford is really a sort of mega-University, a great description of Oxford's 40 or so independently funded, loosely associated colleges, each with their own student associations, sports teams, and choirs. Then there are the University societies, which are cross-collegiate and number in the hundreds. There are also the offerings of the Rhodes House, the Statistics Department, and St Aldates Church (more on that to come). These interlinked spheres of activity exert an immediate pull upon Oxford's students, and the task of managing one's datebook can be as daunting as the process of whittling down one's commitments to semi-manageable levels. For now the activities I've settled on are: Rowing, French, Choir, and the Postgrads fellowship at St Aldates. When I add classes, pub dates and dinners, and speakers and seminars to the mix my weeks get pretty full, but the pace of life is manageable nonetheless. Most of you know that I don't row, have never taken french, and sing off-key, but the freedom to explore is where so much of the joy in being here lies: I don't want to miss a moment!
Oxford is absolutely beautiful. While you get a sense of this walking about the streets, past ancient churches or beneath ornamented spires, it's once you step into the courtyard of Christ Church, or climb to the top of Magdalene tower, or walk the grounds at Worcester (my college!), that Oxford really begins to move you. Finely manicured lawns, weathered stonework, immaculately tended gardens, old oaks and willows, archways and fountains, and walking paths are all arrayed with incredible balance and proportion. The other day my buddy Pravin and I concluded a workout by riding or bikes through the Christ Church Meadows, a park that takes you past through the grounds of several of the University's colleges, and we both felt like we were cycling through a chapter of a Jane Austin novel, with cows, green pastures, swans, a winding brook and the whole bit (at least I've been told this kind of pastoral beauty is Austin-like). I could go on for a while, but really the best thing is to see it for yourself. I wanted to upload some shots onto my picassa webs albums, but for whatever reason it's telling me tonight that my camera files aren't formatted correctly. Check back in a day or so if you'd like to see some Oxford shots--some of my Alaska pics are up out there as well.
Oxford is really, really old. Last week I spent some time in the Bodelian Library--another scenic attraction on campus--and found a reading room in which I was surrounded by musty old books predating the founding of the U.S. by a couple hundred years. I hope it's not generalizing too much to say that a long and storied tradition leads to a much stronger sense of tradition, not just here at the University, but throughout this entire ancient country. For exams and matriculation, for example, I wear an outfit known as "sub-fusc," a dark suit with a white bow tie and a ridiculous black robe. The Warden of the Rhodes house told us that there have been many votes in the past among the student body as to whether or not sub-fusc should be abolished. Each time the students have voted overwhelmingly to maintain the tradition, and then gone on grumbling about how silly the whole business is! There's also a rumor that once a student showed up to his exams bearing his family sword, and requested the free beer to which he was entitled per the archaic tome known as the Examinations Regulations Handbook--legend has it they struck the "free beer for family sword" clause following the incident.
I took my preterm statistics exam seriously, and had the satisfaction of doing all right in the end. Today I had my first meeting with my departmental supervisor, a very nice man and former Berkeley professor named Nicolai Steinshausen. After explaining to me how to prove that Y = X1 + X2, where Xi~N(0,1) is distributed N(0,2) (I wasn't sure how to do this either) he handed me back my exam and said "the rest was pretty much good." Yessss! It's nice to be off to a strong start, and to know that my time spent doing maths and Western and Stanford amounted to something. This week's theory problem set is giving me a run for my money, though, and I have no doubt that I have plenty of challenging course work to look forward to. My classmates are awesome as well: I think when we're all in lecture together we more or less represent a cross-section of the U.N. general assembly. Students from literally all over the world have come to study here, and as I get to know them better I benefit not only from their intellectual brilliance but from the diverse perspectives they bring from their varied life experiences.
*I speak a bit about faith-related topics here. I know I write to a crowd of diverse perspectives, and hope that all understand that I am merely attempting to share my life and experiences with honesty. My care and respect for each person to whom this letter is addressed is independent of whether or not they have arrived at the same conclusions spiritually as I have.*
Finally, I have found a vibrant community of faith here at Oxford. At the recommendation of a friend who studied a quarter abroad here I went to St Aldates Church my first Sunday, and have been attending their ever since. I wrote this a couple weeks ago: "In America we often say that the European church is dead, yet at St Aldates the Body of Christ is certainly alive and well. They pray, they worship God in spirit and in truth, and there is a tangible presence of joy throughout the sanctuary." As at Stanford, the Spirit is moving here at Oxford--it is such an exciting to time to be a student! Last night I attended a showing of a debate that took place last year between John Lennox and Richard Dawkins (both Oxford Professors) in the Town Hall with several Rhodes scholars. The showing was in advance of today's live debate between the two men, on the usual subject of whether or not science has buried God. I believe that this generation is in a unique place historically: it doesn't desire a return to a brain-dead religion of unquestioned assumptions, but neither can it easily abide in the hollow, materialistic, meaningless world of Richard Dawkins. I had to chuckle two Sundays past when, while giving a sermon at St Aldates, John Lennox said "Aslan is on the move" :) Pray for us, that we would be sensitive to the God's leading and aware of opportunities we have to engage the campus.
The summary is necessarily incomplete, but these are some of the highlights. A couple folks have asked me for contact info: you see find my UK phone number and address at the bottom of this email. Thanks for reading, and I always hope to hear what's new on your end!
Cheers,
Aaron
I know I sent out an email several months ago saying that I'd be posting updates to my blog from here on out. Enough people have been asking me about life at Oxford, however, that I figured I'd send out another one of these. Yes, Chris O and Dan S, it is indeed another rambling Aaron epic. Put on your PJs and enjoy!
Life has been a flurry of activity since leaving the West Coast one month ago, and it doesn't seem like things will slow down anytime soon. When I moved to Stanford from the Pacific Northwest a couple years ago I couldn't have imagined an environment more animated by students' intellectual energy and entrepreneurial passion, yet Oxford goes one step beyond. A friend of mine made the point that Oxford is really a sort of mega-University, a great description of Oxford's 40 or so independently funded, loosely associated colleges, each with their own student associations, sports teams, and choirs. Then there are the University societies, which are cross-collegiate and number in the hundreds. There are also the offerings of the Rhodes House, the Statistics Department, and St Aldates Church (more on that to come). These interlinked spheres of activity exert an immediate pull upon Oxford's students, and the task of managing one's datebook can be as daunting as the process of whittling down one's commitments to semi-manageable levels. For now the activities I've settled on are: Rowing, French, Choir, and the Postgrads fellowship at St Aldates. When I add classes, pub dates and dinners, and speakers and seminars to the mix my weeks get pretty full, but the pace of life is manageable nonetheless. Most of you know that I don't row, have never taken french, and sing off-key, but the freedom to explore is where so much of the joy in being here lies: I don't want to miss a moment!
Oxford is absolutely beautiful. While you get a sense of this walking about the streets, past ancient churches or beneath ornamented spires, it's once you step into the courtyard of Christ Church, or climb to the top of Magdalene tower, or walk the grounds at Worcester (my college!), that Oxford really begins to move you. Finely manicured lawns, weathered stonework, immaculately tended gardens, old oaks and willows, archways and fountains, and walking paths are all arrayed with incredible balance and proportion. The other day my buddy Pravin and I concluded a workout by riding or bikes through the Christ Church Meadows, a park that takes you past through the grounds of several of the University's colleges, and we both felt like we were cycling through a chapter of a Jane Austin novel, with cows, green pastures, swans, a winding brook and the whole bit (at least I've been told this kind of pastoral beauty is Austin-like). I could go on for a while, but really the best thing is to see it for yourself. I wanted to upload some shots onto my picassa webs albums, but for whatever reason it's telling me tonight that my camera files aren't formatted correctly. Check back in a day or so if you'd like to see some Oxford shots--some of my Alaska pics are up out there as well.
Oxford is really, really old. Last week I spent some time in the Bodelian Library--another scenic attraction on campus--and found a reading room in which I was surrounded by musty old books predating the founding of the U.S. by a couple hundred years. I hope it's not generalizing too much to say that a long and storied tradition leads to a much stronger sense of tradition, not just here at the University, but throughout this entire ancient country. For exams and matriculation, for example, I wear an outfit known as "sub-fusc," a dark suit with a white bow tie and a ridiculous black robe. The Warden of the Rhodes house told us that there have been many votes in the past among the student body as to whether or not sub-fusc should be abolished. Each time the students have voted overwhelmingly to maintain the tradition, and then gone on grumbling about how silly the whole business is! There's also a rumor that once a student showed up to his exams bearing his family sword, and requested the free beer to which he was entitled per the archaic tome known as the Examinations Regulations Handbook--legend has it they struck the "free beer for family sword" clause following the incident.
I took my preterm statistics exam seriously, and had the satisfaction of doing all right in the end. Today I had my first meeting with my departmental supervisor, a very nice man and former Berkeley professor named Nicolai Steinshausen. After explaining to me how to prove that Y = X1 + X2, where Xi~N(0,1) is distributed N(0,2) (I wasn't sure how to do this either) he handed me back my exam and said "the rest was pretty much good." Yessss! It's nice to be off to a strong start, and to know that my time spent doing maths and Western and Stanford amounted to something. This week's theory problem set is giving me a run for my money, though, and I have no doubt that I have plenty of challenging course work to look forward to. My classmates are awesome as well: I think when we're all in lecture together we more or less represent a cross-section of the U.N. general assembly. Students from literally all over the world have come to study here, and as I get to know them better I benefit not only from their intellectual brilliance but from the diverse perspectives they bring from their varied life experiences.
*I speak a bit about faith-related topics here. I know I write to a crowd of diverse perspectives, and hope that all understand that I am merely attempting to share my life and experiences with honesty. My care and respect for each person to whom this letter is addressed is independent of whether or not they have arrived at the same conclusions spiritually as I have.*
Finally, I have found a vibrant community of faith here at Oxford. At the recommendation of a friend who studied a quarter abroad here I went to St Aldates Church my first Sunday, and have been attending their ever since. I wrote this a couple weeks ago: "In America we often say that the European church is dead, yet at St Aldates the Body of Christ is certainly alive and well. They pray, they worship God in spirit and in truth, and there is a tangible presence of joy throughout the sanctuary." As at Stanford, the Spirit is moving here at Oxford--it is such an exciting to time to be a student! Last night I attended a showing of a debate that took place last year between John Lennox and Richard Dawkins (both Oxford Professors) in the Town Hall with several Rhodes scholars. The showing was in advance of today's live debate between the two men, on the usual subject of whether or not science has buried God. I believe that this generation is in a unique place historically: it doesn't desire a return to a brain-dead religion of unquestioned assumptions, but neither can it easily abide in the hollow, materialistic, meaningless world of Richard Dawkins. I had to chuckle two Sundays past when, while giving a sermon at St Aldates, John Lennox said "Aslan is on the move" :) Pray for us, that we would be sensitive to the God's leading and aware of opportunities we have to engage the campus.
The summary is necessarily incomplete, but these are some of the highlights. A couple folks have asked me for contact info: you see find my UK phone number and address at the bottom of this email. Thanks for reading, and I always hope to hear what's new on your end!
Cheers,
Aaron
Monday, October 13, 2008
day one
Today was the first day of the Michaelmas Term (pronounced "mikulmus"). It's also been one of those offbeat days I have now and again that makes me question whether or not I'm fit to function in the modern world. No need to belabor the point, yet an anecdote about this evening's dinner adventure more or less captures the general tone of the day:
To begin with, I missed cocktails at the Stats Department and the subsequent meeting with reps from UBS, an international investment bank, because I was preoccupied scheduling for the week and drafting a personal budget. Bummer. "That's OK," I thought, "at least I have a tasty second hall dinner to look forward to in a couple minutes." Then I flipped through the grad student handbook to double check the price of second hall and read that tickets to second hall must be purchased the morning of. Bummer again. "No worries," I said to myself, "after drafting this budget I'm realizing that eating in the hall every meal is going to break me financially. I'll go grocery shopping." Though pickings at Sainsbury's are pretty slim by 8.30pm, I picked up the ingredients I needed for spaghetti and meat sauce and headed home. After I got back I realized I'd purchased egg noodles, which, it turns out, taste nothing like real spaghetti. Yet I pressed on. After fighting with our erratic stove for 45 minutes to bring a third of a pot of water to boil I finally got the pasta cooked, and in the process of trying strain it dumped the whole batch in the kitchen sink. Sigh. I turned on the cold water, fished out the noodles by hand, and after a successful second attempt sat down to giant plate of soapy, overcooked egg noddles and fairly decent meat sauce. I distractedly offered up a half-hearted prayer of thanks for how well I eat, finished my meal, and came up here to write this post.
That's kind of how transitions go, I've noticed. Wherever you go, there you are. For all the build up, at the end of the day we're simply people trying to get along in the world. Moreover, our idiosyncrasies have a tendency of following us wherever we go. I may be a Rhodes scholar, studying a challenging subject at one of the world's most prestigious universities, yet disaster-fraught days like today make me marvel that I manage to stumble my way into opportunities like these. "You keep coming back, kid," Tim would say to me over the summer, "and in the end that's what matters." I may not be the sharpest stick in the box, but when it comes to getting things done I guess I function pretty well as a blunt instrument :-)
Typos and sour notes are inevitable in the process of crafting novels or composing symphonies, though, and as I prepare to turn in for the evening I'm reminded of how much there is to be thankful for here. After spending quite a bit of time on last weeks preterm exam I'm entering week one confident that my basic grasp of the mathematical theories and techniques necessary to succeed in my course are strong. Class went well today. I landed a spot in the Hertford Chapel Choir and am looking forward to developing my singing. Last weekend I walked down to the Worcester College boathouse along the banks of the Thames under a warm October sun: I'm eager to try rowing, and have heard that the end-of-term Christ Church Regatta is nothing short of an absolute blast. Relationships with my fellow scholars continue to deepen as well: last Friday night our friend Jason hosted a dinner at his place that included fine wine, cheese, homemade foccacia bread, and pasta. Finally, rather than confronting the challenge of a scarcity of fellowship I'm having to be discerning in choosing which of the many awesome Christian groups to associate with at Oxford.
So in the end all's well. Interestingly enough, however, I feel strangely disassociated from all this, even as I'm in the middle of it. After striving intensely through four years of undergrad it's as if I've come full circle, except this time I'm a "fresher," not a "freshman." I suppose some of the novelty has worn off by this point, which I think is a good thing. It leaves me more free to honestly question the purpose of my time hear and structure my life accordingly.
Love you all, thanks for staying tuned!
To begin with, I missed cocktails at the Stats Department and the subsequent meeting with reps from UBS, an international investment bank, because I was preoccupied scheduling for the week and drafting a personal budget. Bummer. "That's OK," I thought, "at least I have a tasty second hall dinner to look forward to in a couple minutes." Then I flipped through the grad student handbook to double check the price of second hall and read that tickets to second hall must be purchased the morning of. Bummer again. "No worries," I said to myself, "after drafting this budget I'm realizing that eating in the hall every meal is going to break me financially. I'll go grocery shopping." Though pickings at Sainsbury's are pretty slim by 8.30pm, I picked up the ingredients I needed for spaghetti and meat sauce and headed home. After I got back I realized I'd purchased egg noodles, which, it turns out, taste nothing like real spaghetti. Yet I pressed on. After fighting with our erratic stove for 45 minutes to bring a third of a pot of water to boil I finally got the pasta cooked, and in the process of trying strain it dumped the whole batch in the kitchen sink. Sigh. I turned on the cold water, fished out the noodles by hand, and after a successful second attempt sat down to giant plate of soapy, overcooked egg noddles and fairly decent meat sauce. I distractedly offered up a half-hearted prayer of thanks for how well I eat, finished my meal, and came up here to write this post.
That's kind of how transitions go, I've noticed. Wherever you go, there you are. For all the build up, at the end of the day we're simply people trying to get along in the world. Moreover, our idiosyncrasies have a tendency of following us wherever we go. I may be a Rhodes scholar, studying a challenging subject at one of the world's most prestigious universities, yet disaster-fraught days like today make me marvel that I manage to stumble my way into opportunities like these. "You keep coming back, kid," Tim would say to me over the summer, "and in the end that's what matters." I may not be the sharpest stick in the box, but when it comes to getting things done I guess I function pretty well as a blunt instrument :-)
Typos and sour notes are inevitable in the process of crafting novels or composing symphonies, though, and as I prepare to turn in for the evening I'm reminded of how much there is to be thankful for here. After spending quite a bit of time on last weeks preterm exam I'm entering week one confident that my basic grasp of the mathematical theories and techniques necessary to succeed in my course are strong. Class went well today. I landed a spot in the Hertford Chapel Choir and am looking forward to developing my singing. Last weekend I walked down to the Worcester College boathouse along the banks of the Thames under a warm October sun: I'm eager to try rowing, and have heard that the end-of-term Christ Church Regatta is nothing short of an absolute blast. Relationships with my fellow scholars continue to deepen as well: last Friday night our friend Jason hosted a dinner at his place that included fine wine, cheese, homemade foccacia bread, and pasta. Finally, rather than confronting the challenge of a scarcity of fellowship I'm having to be discerning in choosing which of the many awesome Christian groups to associate with at Oxford.
So in the end all's well. Interestingly enough, however, I feel strangely disassociated from all this, even as I'm in the middle of it. After striving intensely through four years of undergrad it's as if I've come full circle, except this time I'm a "fresher," not a "freshman." I suppose some of the novelty has worn off by this point, which I think is a good thing. It leaves me more free to honestly question the purpose of my time hear and structure my life accordingly.
Love you all, thanks for staying tuned!
Monday, October 6, 2008
Oxford, at last
Today I had a moment of realization: I'm dressed like a British student, weaving between double-decker buses on my (beautiful) used road bike, in the center of over 800 years of stunning intellectual and architectural achievement. Just like that, I've arrived in Oxford.
Since my last post it's been nothing but go go go, and my post-breakfast nap today was a harsh reminder that I'm still sleeping off the nine hours of jetlag that I've racked up since leaving San Francisco. I definitely have a new respect for international students after this week. Since arriving last Thursday I've had to negotiate paying rent with the housing office (they've been extremely accommodating), move in to my new place, buy winter wear and sub fusc attire (dark suit, gown, white shirt, white bow tie), figure out the most economical way of feeding myself (cooking, it turns out, though it hardly feels like I have the time!), set up a bank account, research a cell phone plan, find out when choir auditions and first rowing practices are, plan a trip to Rwanda this winter, register with my department, pick up my preterm exam, and connect with the other new grads in my MCR (graduate social hub of each college). No surprise it was only today as I pedaled my bicycle through the city center that I finally began to experience a sense of "settledness."
The pace of life is insane this week, and if there is one word of prayer that you throw up for me in the coming days please pray that I have the discretion and discipline to not schedule my time in such a way that things never calm down. There is SO much to be involved in. More, if you can believe it, than at Stanford. Here at Oxford, where graduate students belong to the social as well as academic mainstream, 2/3 of us hail from outside the UK, and the rest of Europe is just across the channel, the possibilities for staying occupied are truly endless. The trick is filling the space with the right things. I know that I want to try rowing, though I confess that my heart grows faint at the prospect of 6am practices! I'm also planning on auditioning for choir, though whether or not I get a spot if far from a sure thing. And then there's languages to learn, societies to join, socializing to do, and perhaps most importantly, community service opportunities to plug into.
How easy it would be at this juncture to turn inward and dedicate 100 percent of my time to self-improvement. Yet what vain way to spend one's time. Coming in as a close second to not over-scheduling myself, please pray that I would be blessed with the sense that this time is building towards something purposeful, even as I revel in the joy of being here.
The Lord has also been faithful to provide fellowship. Following the advice of a friend who studied here during her junior spring quarter, I headed over to St Aldates Church this past Sunday for service. What a vibrant community! In America we often say that the European church is dead, yet at St Aldates the Body of Christ is certainly alive and well. They pray, they worship God in spirit and in truth, and there is a tangible presence of joy throughout the sanctuary. I suppose I could check out some other places, but I think that this is where I'm landing. I sent out an email that day to the Rhodes 2008 list inviting my friends to come along, and three guys responded. One of them came with me and seemed to enjoy the service quite a bit. Another, who is also reading for the MSc in Applied Stats, was unable to come, but hopes to next week. The third was also unable to come, but wants to start reading C.S. Lewis and meeting in the Eagle and Child pub on Sundays for small group fellowship--kind of an "Inklings 2.0." I think it's likely that all of us will end up at St Aldates eventually...
God is good. Whether or not I am blessed or broken he is good, but what a joy to now receive such gifts!
I should turn in soon, but feel free to check out some much-delayed photos of the time I spent at home with the fam. I haven't been snapping too many shots since arriving at Oxford, since I don't yet trust myself to wander about with my camera without losing it. Give me a couple more weeks to "get sorted" and I'll post a virtual tour :)
Oh yeah, and Worcester College is not only one of the most beautiful collegs on campus, but also has some of the best Hall food, which is only marginally more expensive than if I cook on my own time. Yessss!
Abrazos,
Aaron
PS: Mom, "Z--" not withstanding, my housing situation is great. I'm located right next to the college in a six bedroom house with shared bathrooms and a kitchen area. My room is clean and spacious enough, and I have a great view of the garden out back. Best of all, I'm saving at least 150 pounds a month here, which will buy a lot of time abroad if you add it up over three months :)
Since my last post it's been nothing but go go go, and my post-breakfast nap today was a harsh reminder that I'm still sleeping off the nine hours of jetlag that I've racked up since leaving San Francisco. I definitely have a new respect for international students after this week. Since arriving last Thursday I've had to negotiate paying rent with the housing office (they've been extremely accommodating), move in to my new place, buy winter wear and sub fusc attire (dark suit, gown, white shirt, white bow tie), figure out the most economical way of feeding myself (cooking, it turns out, though it hardly feels like I have the time!), set up a bank account, research a cell phone plan, find out when choir auditions and first rowing practices are, plan a trip to Rwanda this winter, register with my department, pick up my preterm exam, and connect with the other new grads in my MCR (graduate social hub of each college). No surprise it was only today as I pedaled my bicycle through the city center that I finally began to experience a sense of "settledness."
The pace of life is insane this week, and if there is one word of prayer that you throw up for me in the coming days please pray that I have the discretion and discipline to not schedule my time in such a way that things never calm down. There is SO much to be involved in. More, if you can believe it, than at Stanford. Here at Oxford, where graduate students belong to the social as well as academic mainstream, 2/3 of us hail from outside the UK, and the rest of Europe is just across the channel, the possibilities for staying occupied are truly endless. The trick is filling the space with the right things. I know that I want to try rowing, though I confess that my heart grows faint at the prospect of 6am practices! I'm also planning on auditioning for choir, though whether or not I get a spot if far from a sure thing. And then there's languages to learn, societies to join, socializing to do, and perhaps most importantly, community service opportunities to plug into.
How easy it would be at this juncture to turn inward and dedicate 100 percent of my time to self-improvement. Yet what vain way to spend one's time. Coming in as a close second to not over-scheduling myself, please pray that I would be blessed with the sense that this time is building towards something purposeful, even as I revel in the joy of being here.
The Lord has also been faithful to provide fellowship. Following the advice of a friend who studied here during her junior spring quarter, I headed over to St Aldates Church this past Sunday for service. What a vibrant community! In America we often say that the European church is dead, yet at St Aldates the Body of Christ is certainly alive and well. They pray, they worship God in spirit and in truth, and there is a tangible presence of joy throughout the sanctuary. I suppose I could check out some other places, but I think that this is where I'm landing. I sent out an email that day to the Rhodes 2008 list inviting my friends to come along, and three guys responded. One of them came with me and seemed to enjoy the service quite a bit. Another, who is also reading for the MSc in Applied Stats, was unable to come, but hopes to next week. The third was also unable to come, but wants to start reading C.S. Lewis and meeting in the Eagle and Child pub on Sundays for small group fellowship--kind of an "Inklings 2.0." I think it's likely that all of us will end up at St Aldates eventually...
God is good. Whether or not I am blessed or broken he is good, but what a joy to now receive such gifts!
I should turn in soon, but feel free to check out some much-delayed photos of the time I spent at home with the fam. I haven't been snapping too many shots since arriving at Oxford, since I don't yet trust myself to wander about with my camera without losing it. Give me a couple more weeks to "get sorted" and I'll post a virtual tour :)
Oh yeah, and Worcester College is not only one of the most beautiful collegs on campus, but also has some of the best Hall food, which is only marginally more expensive than if I cook on my own time. Yessss!
Abrazos,
Aaron
PS: Mom, "Z--" not withstanding, my housing situation is great. I'm located right next to the college in a six bedroom house with shared bathrooms and a kitchen area. My room is clean and spacious enough, and I have a great view of the garden out back. Best of all, I'm saving at least 150 pounds a month here, which will buy a lot of time abroad if you add it up over three months :)
Monday, September 29, 2008
wrestling with ignorance
These past couple days have been a whirlwind of cocktail parties, meet and greets,and panel discussions. Though I'm wound up enough that I haven't been catching too many z's, my body is well-nourished by a steady diet of catered hors d'oeuvres and fine sparkling water, and I am enjoying the company of my fellow scholars immensely. Yesterday I picked up a tux from Men's Wearhouse and today my visa and passport arrived in the mail, completing my check list of last minute priorities. It looks as if I can expect my transition from the States to Oxford to be about as smooth as one could hope for.
My strongest impression so far is how being immersed in the company of so many bright minds, in Washington D.C. during the height of the presidential race, makes me painfully aware of the power of my own biases and preconceptions, as well as the enormous scope of everything I don't know.
This morning we met in the hotel lobby to trek across Dupont Circle to the Aspen Institute, a prestigious think tank that hosts world leaders and insightful thinkers of all backgrounds, as well as functions as a repository of Rhodes scholars. The panel that spoke to us this morning included an insider from the Hillary Clinton campaign who was not only deeply insightful with respect to the inner workings of the Democratic party, but strongly invested in Hillary as a public servant and women's advocate (anonymous due to the off-the-record nature of our conversation). Listening to her speak in a compelling way about sexism in the media and the party, about issues that matter to women beyond "choice," about Obama's failure to unite the party in the wake of the primaries, and about his perceived egocentricity and hostility towards the Clintons I was moved emotionally as my understanding of Obama was deeply challenged. (Since the point of this post isn't to endorse my particular political perspective I'll refrain from going into any detail, though you can certainly email me if you'd like more info about the panel and our conversation afterwards). As I left the air-conditioned halls of the office building and walked into the slightly smoggy, mildly muggy noon D.C. heat my head was buzzing with unformed ideas that struggled to be articulated, yet never moved beyond a vague feeling of unease. Was my response to Hillary influenced by sexism? Is my eagerness to embrace Obama as a black candidate merely a lazy means of assuring myself that I really am a progressive guy "beyond" the issue of race? Just how much of my perception of the candidates and the issues is shaped by media caricatures? What is the role of the media not only in stoking inter-partisan rancor, but in perpetuating class- and gender-based differences between people? Could I really change my mind about my candidate, or am I simply too committed to my own rightness? Perhaps too scared to confront a world of complexity that refuses to conform to my comfortable political and economic narratives...
Somewhere in the middle of all that I hear Tim saying "have you ever had an original idea, kid?" As I sort through the hodgepodge of factors that influence my thinking, my attempt to answer this question honestly becomes more and more revealing. What does it mean to be a truly original thinker, and how do I move myself towards this? I recognize that when you speak with someone they can only ever give you their point of view, which is sure to be contradicted at many points by anothers. The process of bringing together it all together to form a well-grounded view of how the world works is is truly daunting. Right now all the questions and the flurry of new information and experiences has me stumbling through a sort of perpetual haze.
Another lesson from Alaska: "just shut up and listen." Hopefully I'll emerge on the other side of Atlantic sooner or later as a somewhat wiser man.
In addition to healthy intellectual growing pain, there are many other things to celebrate about this new time of life. I'm having fun, and am feeling the dawn of a new sense of freedom as I realize that, even more than Stanford, my time at Oxford has the potential to be whatever it is in me to make it. It's gonna be good.
Tomorrow we're heading to the Congressional Breakfast, chatting with Chief Justice Souter, visiting The Mall, attending a reception at the British Embassy, and heading to a play at the Shakespeare Theatre in the evening. Even as I enjoy all this, I am reminded of when Jesus warns his followers to "Enter through the narrow door, because wide is the door and spacious is the road that leads to destruction, and many are those who enter by it." The lust to pursue wealth, power, and significance even now exerts a faint pull, yet only by shunning those false idols can a man truly live. Pray for me, that in all seasons, both of blessing and of trial, that I would hold with an open hand before God the gifts he has given me along with the desires of my spirit.
The beautiful contradiction is that only when we stop clinging to our self-centered quest for personal fulfillment do we become capable of recieving even greater blessing without having it corrupt us. This is where I want the Lord to move my heart.
Two days and counting till I'm in the UK!
Friday, September 26, 2008
On the eve of something new
I'm writing this post from the Stanford House in D.C., where I arrived this evening after landing at Ronald Reagan International and awkwardly dragging my 120 lbs of baggage through the subway to the Woodley Park metro station. After two weeks of couch surfing in Seattle, Palo Alto, and San Francisco I must say I'm looking forward to moving all this stuff to a more permanent location!
The hassle has been well worth it, though. The past two weeks spent with dear friends have given me both the opportunity to reconnect with people I love and to say my final (for now) goodbyes to the West Coast. Among my favorite memories of these times are kayaking in Eliot Bay with Sean, blasting "Pienso en Ti" at Mike's place, views of the Seattle skyline at night with Jackie and Alana, a baked Ziti party during my first night in Palo Alto, fountain hopping with the Chi Alpha kids, and a Wu Shu lesson in Berkely with Dan.
Beautiful as these times have been, I'm readier now than I've ever been to step into my new role as a Rhodes scholar. At 3pm tomorrow I'll join a talented and diverse crew of students from the U.S., Bermuda, Kenya, Jamaica, and St. Vincent at Jury's hotel for several days of orientation and socializing before heading out across the pond. At the moment my enthusiasm is tempered by a bit of weariness from all the travel and nights of light sleep on couches and floors (thanks for the futon bed, Alan!), but at the same time I am ready to embrace this new season and to run with it for all it's worth.
Not much a of a reflection, I suppose, but for those of you staying tuned I at least wanted to throw out an update. If there's one takeaway that I've drawn from this past month, it is that goodbyes are worth doing well. I'm glad I've taken the time to say mine. (even if I will see many of you on the other side of the Atlantic!)
The hassle has been well worth it, though. The past two weeks spent with dear friends have given me both the opportunity to reconnect with people I love and to say my final (for now) goodbyes to the West Coast. Among my favorite memories of these times are kayaking in Eliot Bay with Sean, blasting "Pienso en Ti" at Mike's place, views of the Seattle skyline at night with Jackie and Alana, a baked Ziti party during my first night in Palo Alto, fountain hopping with the Chi Alpha kids, and a Wu Shu lesson in Berkely with Dan.
Beautiful as these times have been, I'm readier now than I've ever been to step into my new role as a Rhodes scholar. At 3pm tomorrow I'll join a talented and diverse crew of students from the U.S., Bermuda, Kenya, Jamaica, and St. Vincent at Jury's hotel for several days of orientation and socializing before heading out across the pond. At the moment my enthusiasm is tempered by a bit of weariness from all the travel and nights of light sleep on couches and floors (thanks for the futon bed, Alan!), but at the same time I am ready to embrace this new season and to run with it for all it's worth.
Not much a of a reflection, I suppose, but for those of you staying tuned I at least wanted to throw out an update. If there's one takeaway that I've drawn from this past month, it is that goodbyes are worth doing well. I'm glad I've taken the time to say mine. (even if I will see many of you on the other side of the Atlantic!)
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
home
What a joy it was to see my family last week, as the Yankee Boy motored its way into Squalicum Harbor. Our families were standing in a crowd on the edge of the dock, smiling, waving, and occasionally cheering as we pulled into our spot. I stood on the bumper that runs along the side of the hull, the water of the harbor gently parting beneath my feet, and leaped onto the dock to hook up our tie lines. "Hi guys," I said, as I looped the spring line around the cleat. I saw my mom, beaming in that way that only a mom can when she sees her boys for the first time in months. I saw my little brother, lanky as ever, but by now definitely taller than me. Bethany was wrapped up in Ben's tan Carhart jacket, and I was struck by how much a woman she looked with her layered hair and understated yet elegant sense of style. Dad stood behind them all, faintly smiling, eager to open the doors of our home to me once again.
I stayed in the fisherman's reality for a couple moments longer as Jim slowly idled the boat against the dock, the fenders swelling as they absorbed the weight. Then we had the boat tied up, and I walked over to embrace my family.
I've been home for over a week now, trying to process all that happened in Alaska, invest in time with my family, and prepare for the rapid approach of my first fall term at Oxford. My mom told me the other day that I seemed happy, yet shaken in a way that she had not seen in a long time. My family sees in to me in a way that I am sometimes unable to see into myself, and conversations like these help me to make sense of what I am thinking and feeling. Alaska strengthened me, but it also stripped me of a lot of certainty. I loved the men of my crew, and miss them even as I write this, but they broke me down even as they imparted to me the wisdom of 80 collective years on the sea.
We went on a two-night hiking/camping trip this past weekend. As we climbed the highway 20 past the Gorge, Diablo, and Ross dams on our way to Washington pass I remembered that not even the Alaskan wilderness can compare to the majesty of the North Cascades. Some of the most beautiful places on earth have always been in my backyard, but it has taken many years and hundreds of miles for me to begin to understand this.
And for the first time in years we were together as a family again in the outdoors. This sort of outing had long become impossible for my mother, and only recently with her new transplant has she been strong enough and healthy enough to make the trip. We made camp, finished off a couple cans of beef stew (the whole family now competes with me for top eater!), and got up early to prepare breakfast before heading off on our hike. The Heather Pass trail works its way through some truly breathtaking scenery, but rather than waste space trying to describe it to you I'll direct you to the Picassa album I just started working on (sorry if all the photos still aren't up yet--at least Alaska pics are there).
Mountain air. The whisper of the wind in the valley. Limitless sky. The sapphire blue of glacier-fed pools. Freedom. Family. God is here.
As I reflect on that time on the mountain, I believe that it was a time of healing for us, individually and collectively. What a gift.
On the way home took a detour and stopped at the Diablo dam lake for a picnic lunch and some swimming (Ben's idea, not mine--so glad he thought of it!). The lake is a surreal blue-green color, and the water is cold and fresh. In the hot, dry mountain air my father, brother, and sister and I jump in while mom watches from the shore. Surrounded by the mountain peaks, with the sun blazing from the deep blue sky we once again experience the joy of unconcerned freedom, of childlike innocence. Bethany and I discover a line of logs anchored to the lake bottom with long chains, and roll uncontrollably when you try to stand on them. Log rolling competitions immediately ensue, our laughs and shouts reverberating off the canyon walls. The score: Aaron, 1; Bethany, 1; 2 ties.
The restless energy that lets me know it's time to leave has begun to set in, yet I am still at peace with where I am. Yesterday I spoke with a loved one about the gift of health: trials come, and when they do so does the grace to handle them, yet we are only ever given the present moment to enjoy. I'll be in Oxford soon enough, and when I do it's going to be good. But right now I'm here for a few more days--exactly where I need to be.
Aaron
I stayed in the fisherman's reality for a couple moments longer as Jim slowly idled the boat against the dock, the fenders swelling as they absorbed the weight. Then we had the boat tied up, and I walked over to embrace my family.
I've been home for over a week now, trying to process all that happened in Alaska, invest in time with my family, and prepare for the rapid approach of my first fall term at Oxford. My mom told me the other day that I seemed happy, yet shaken in a way that she had not seen in a long time. My family sees in to me in a way that I am sometimes unable to see into myself, and conversations like these help me to make sense of what I am thinking and feeling. Alaska strengthened me, but it also stripped me of a lot of certainty. I loved the men of my crew, and miss them even as I write this, but they broke me down even as they imparted to me the wisdom of 80 collective years on the sea.
We went on a two-night hiking/camping trip this past weekend. As we climbed the highway 20 past the Gorge, Diablo, and Ross dams on our way to Washington pass I remembered that not even the Alaskan wilderness can compare to the majesty of the North Cascades. Some of the most beautiful places on earth have always been in my backyard, but it has taken many years and hundreds of miles for me to begin to understand this.
And for the first time in years we were together as a family again in the outdoors. This sort of outing had long become impossible for my mother, and only recently with her new transplant has she been strong enough and healthy enough to make the trip. We made camp, finished off a couple cans of beef stew (the whole family now competes with me for top eater!), and got up early to prepare breakfast before heading off on our hike. The Heather Pass trail works its way through some truly breathtaking scenery, but rather than waste space trying to describe it to you I'll direct you to the Picassa album I just started working on (sorry if all the photos still aren't up yet--at least Alaska pics are there).
Mountain air. The whisper of the wind in the valley. Limitless sky. The sapphire blue of glacier-fed pools. Freedom. Family. God is here.
As I reflect on that time on the mountain, I believe that it was a time of healing for us, individually and collectively. What a gift.
On the way home took a detour and stopped at the Diablo dam lake for a picnic lunch and some swimming (Ben's idea, not mine--so glad he thought of it!). The lake is a surreal blue-green color, and the water is cold and fresh. In the hot, dry mountain air my father, brother, and sister and I jump in while mom watches from the shore. Surrounded by the mountain peaks, with the sun blazing from the deep blue sky we once again experience the joy of unconcerned freedom, of childlike innocence. Bethany and I discover a line of logs anchored to the lake bottom with long chains, and roll uncontrollably when you try to stand on them. Log rolling competitions immediately ensue, our laughs and shouts reverberating off the canyon walls. The score: Aaron, 1; Bethany, 1; 2 ties.
The restless energy that lets me know it's time to leave has begun to set in, yet I am still at peace with where I am. Yesterday I spoke with a loved one about the gift of health: trials come, and when they do so does the grace to handle them, yet we are only ever given the present moment to enjoy. I'll be in Oxford soon enough, and when I do it's going to be good. But right now I'm here for a few more days--exactly where I need to be.
Aaron
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
mama, mama, I'm coming home
This morning we put the net in the hatch, chained the skiff to the back deck, and stowed our gear. After a hard season of scratch fishing and weather comparable to what you typically encounter further north on the Aleutian chain, we'll cross Dixon Entrance tomorrow on our way south to Bellingham.
It's time. Since my last post I've had the satisfaction of feeling that after two years of this routine I finally have a sense of what it means to be a deckhand on a commercial seiner. The shared camaraderie with captain and crew is something I will miss, along with the thrill of catching fish, the satisfaction of hard physical work, and the beauty of the Alaskan wilderness. But I won't miss the hard drinking, the brawls, the miserable weather, the close quarters, and above all, the sense of remoteness from a larger world of diverse people, places, and ideas.
In retrospect my memory of what I've left behind grows fonder, and my heart tends to yearn for what it is I don't have. I think this is a human tendency that's fairly common, and I will almost surely slip back into romantic visions of everything this time was (and wasn't) as I'm holed up in a pub at Oxford writing my master thesis. But after two times around my hope is that I've seen with a little more clarity the life of a fisherman and that my decision not to choose it for myself is an informed one. Though even greater adventures await, each time away brings me closer to knowing where it is I will ultimately land, like an oscillating pendulum that slowly loses energy as it tends towards a central point.
I now have a couple weeks divided between time with friends, family, and pre-Oxford prep before I fly to DC on the 27 of September, and from there to the UK on the 1 of October. Pray for safe travels back through the Inside Passage: if the weather stays as bad as it's been we may be in for some rough riding.
Aaron
It's time. Since my last post I've had the satisfaction of feeling that after two years of this routine I finally have a sense of what it means to be a deckhand on a commercial seiner. The shared camaraderie with captain and crew is something I will miss, along with the thrill of catching fish, the satisfaction of hard physical work, and the beauty of the Alaskan wilderness. But I won't miss the hard drinking, the brawls, the miserable weather, the close quarters, and above all, the sense of remoteness from a larger world of diverse people, places, and ideas.
In retrospect my memory of what I've left behind grows fonder, and my heart tends to yearn for what it is I don't have. I think this is a human tendency that's fairly common, and I will almost surely slip back into romantic visions of everything this time was (and wasn't) as I'm holed up in a pub at Oxford writing my master thesis. But after two times around my hope is that I've seen with a little more clarity the life of a fisherman and that my decision not to choose it for myself is an informed one. Though even greater adventures await, each time away brings me closer to knowing where it is I will ultimately land, like an oscillating pendulum that slowly loses energy as it tends towards a central point.
I now have a couple weeks divided between time with friends, family, and pre-Oxford prep before I fly to DC on the 27 of September, and from there to the UK on the 1 of October. Pray for safe travels back through the Inside Passage: if the weather stays as bad as it's been we may be in for some rough riding.
Aaron
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
from Annabelle's Chowder House
This will truly be a short one, since one beer and 2 hours of internet later these people will probably expect me to buy something else soon.
Fishing has picked up considerably over the last couple weeks, though each day continues to be fraught with misadventure. In fact, Jim informed me during our last opener that I have the distinction of being "the dumbest cocksucker I've ever met." Humbling, yet I can't help smiling even as I write those words. Over the past two days we caught 70,000 pounds of fish, which works out to be a pretty healthy share for each crew member. Combine that with our other good days to date, and the hope that we'll get a couple more, and the season is slowly winding down in a halfway-decent fashion.
We woke up this morning and spent several hours repairing the net, re-sealing the hatch, working on the winch, and changing oil filters. Ass-chewings received during fishing days notwithstanding, I feel more integrated into this crew than ever, and am proud of the time that I've spent here. The other day Jim looked me in the eye and said, "Aaron, I'm gonna tell ya, you're a good crew member." In a way, that's worth more to me than any accolade I ever received at Stanford.
Only a couple weeks now. I'm looking forward to seeing some familiar faces again.
Love,
Aaron
Fishing has picked up considerably over the last couple weeks, though each day continues to be fraught with misadventure. In fact, Jim informed me during our last opener that I have the distinction of being "the dumbest cocksucker I've ever met." Humbling, yet I can't help smiling even as I write those words. Over the past two days we caught 70,000 pounds of fish, which works out to be a pretty healthy share for each crew member. Combine that with our other good days to date, and the hope that we'll get a couple more, and the season is slowly winding down in a halfway-decent fashion.
We woke up this morning and spent several hours repairing the net, re-sealing the hatch, working on the winch, and changing oil filters. Ass-chewings received during fishing days notwithstanding, I feel more integrated into this crew than ever, and am proud of the time that I've spent here. The other day Jim looked me in the eye and said, "Aaron, I'm gonna tell ya, you're a good crew member." In a way, that's worth more to me than any accolade I ever received at Stanford.
Only a couple weeks now. I'm looking forward to seeing some familiar faces again.
Love,
Aaron
Thursday, August 7, 2008
in port in Ketchikan
Normally I wouldn't post entries so close together, but last Wednesday was a day worth writing about.
Last Monday Fish and Game finally opened Jim's favorite fishing spot of the coast of Gravina Island, a spot of good news in what has otherwise been a fairly dismal run for the past couple weeks. "That's where I make my money, boys, where else can we go?"
So we headed south from Wrangell early Tuesday morning, arriving at Gravina that afternoon around 2pm. For the first time this season we saw jumpers all along the coastline, another reason to hold out hope for the following day, and turned in early after a meal of roast ham and potatoes au gratin. The engine roared to life shortly before 3.30am the next morning and we crawled out of our bunks to face what we hoped would be a decent fishing day. Instead up line up with the majority of other boats on the southern boundary of the fishing area Jim headed to the northern boundary, where he's had some great hauls in the past, and we staked out our spot.
No jumpers. "F*ck! Get out of fishing, kid, it stinks," Jim said. Swallowing the disappointment brought on by the mysteriously vanished salmon we got our gear ready fully anticipating yet another 20 hour day of scratch fishing.
Our first set we only had one jumper go in, so we were surprised to haul in around 3,000 pounds. Our second set we didn't have any jumps, but hauled in around 3,500. Things were beginning to look a little better, though we all hoped that the fish would throw us a bone and start jumping. We continued that way until noon, when all of sudden fish began popping up all over the place. We made a set off the beach, and for the first time since our good day in area 7 had the satisfaction of seeing the water boil as we hauled in a 10,000 pound set of fish. Success!
Then the throttle controls went out, meaning that Jim was unable to control our speed. As Jim screamed himself hoarse I stood in the stairwell between the wheelhouse and engine room, relaying commands to Harold and Tim, who were frantically scrambling to fix the system below. No use: we couldn't get the controls back. "We're f*cked! We are completely f*cked," Jim shouted over and over again. But the fish were jumping, and with Tim working the throttle manually from the engine room we made another set at low speed. After we had the net out my job was to stand in the engine room and switch the controls on and off again and again, waiting for the digital status panel to say something other than "error 62." After I had done this about 50 times Jim ran down into the engine room, and yanked on the cable shaft that connects the control box to the engine. They started working again! A couple minutes later, as I was standing on deck watching jumpers pour into the pen, Jim came out of the top house and started poking fun at himself for being such a hot case. The tension that had built up during the last 1/2 hour suddenly expressed itself in a deep, uncontrollable laughter that rocked my whole body, very nearly becoming a sob. It's bad enough to almost lose a day fishing: it's 10 times worse when you're doing well for the second time in bum season.
As we hauled that set in Jim started complaining about the winch (which brings in the purse line) making a clinking noise. Just as we finished bringing in the purse line the chain in the winch snapped. I was dumbstruck: how could it be that our luck was this bad? Every day I pray that God provides this boat with what we need to thrive financially and relationally, but the constant stream of misadventure was beginning to seem like a cynical, mocking rejoinder. Yet as if to remind us that we still had things to be thankful for, the winch only broke after the purse line was in, allowing us to keep the set. In the end, we succeeded in rolling another 10,000 bag.
By now we were excited: this was easily the best fishing we'd seen all season. Despite having a broken winch, Jim decided that we'd make the set and fix the winch while towing. If we didn't succeed in fixing it we'd have to back-haul the net, cut our losses and head to town. Harold and Tim went to work, and 35 minutes later, after inserting an additional half link into the chain, we had the winch working again. "I wish you boys could have seen it," Jim said after we starting hauling gear, "while you boys were working we must have had a hundred jumpers go in!" That set was the biggest I've ever seen--probably over 20,000 pounds of fish. As we tried to roll the bag over the rail the whole boat keeled over and the rigging groaned in protest. Then the bunt line, which lifts the bag onto the deck, started snapping. Just in time Tim unhitched the single from the ring bar, ran across the deck, and snapped it onto the bag. "This day is unreal," I said to myself, as fish poured over the rail, filling the hatch and stacking up on the deck.
We made one more haul and filled the boat. Beautiful. After offloading half our tank on a tender we went back out, caught a couple thousand more pounds, and called it a day at closing time. In spite of an exhausting day filled with near misses we caught 60,000 pounds of fish, by far our best day of the season. Having paid for fuel several weeks ago in area 7, this day went straight into our pockets.
It turned out that we were the high boat in the fleet on Wednesday, and word has gotten out: we'll probably have to fight harder for our sets this weekend, but the fish are arriving, and we know that we can catch them. Furthermore, after last Wednesday I know that there's almost nothing this crew can't handle. The season will probably run for another two to three weeks, so it looks like I'll be home in late August or early September.
I love fishing,
Aaron
Last Monday Fish and Game finally opened Jim's favorite fishing spot of the coast of Gravina Island, a spot of good news in what has otherwise been a fairly dismal run for the past couple weeks. "That's where I make my money, boys, where else can we go?"
So we headed south from Wrangell early Tuesday morning, arriving at Gravina that afternoon around 2pm. For the first time this season we saw jumpers all along the coastline, another reason to hold out hope for the following day, and turned in early after a meal of roast ham and potatoes au gratin. The engine roared to life shortly before 3.30am the next morning and we crawled out of our bunks to face what we hoped would be a decent fishing day. Instead up line up with the majority of other boats on the southern boundary of the fishing area Jim headed to the northern boundary, where he's had some great hauls in the past, and we staked out our spot.
No jumpers. "F*ck! Get out of fishing, kid, it stinks," Jim said. Swallowing the disappointment brought on by the mysteriously vanished salmon we got our gear ready fully anticipating yet another 20 hour day of scratch fishing.
Our first set we only had one jumper go in, so we were surprised to haul in around 3,000 pounds. Our second set we didn't have any jumps, but hauled in around 3,500. Things were beginning to look a little better, though we all hoped that the fish would throw us a bone and start jumping. We continued that way until noon, when all of sudden fish began popping up all over the place. We made a set off the beach, and for the first time since our good day in area 7 had the satisfaction of seeing the water boil as we hauled in a 10,000 pound set of fish. Success!
Then the throttle controls went out, meaning that Jim was unable to control our speed. As Jim screamed himself hoarse I stood in the stairwell between the wheelhouse and engine room, relaying commands to Harold and Tim, who were frantically scrambling to fix the system below. No use: we couldn't get the controls back. "We're f*cked! We are completely f*cked," Jim shouted over and over again. But the fish were jumping, and with Tim working the throttle manually from the engine room we made another set at low speed. After we had the net out my job was to stand in the engine room and switch the controls on and off again and again, waiting for the digital status panel to say something other than "error 62." After I had done this about 50 times Jim ran down into the engine room, and yanked on the cable shaft that connects the control box to the engine. They started working again! A couple minutes later, as I was standing on deck watching jumpers pour into the pen, Jim came out of the top house and started poking fun at himself for being such a hot case. The tension that had built up during the last 1/2 hour suddenly expressed itself in a deep, uncontrollable laughter that rocked my whole body, very nearly becoming a sob. It's bad enough to almost lose a day fishing: it's 10 times worse when you're doing well for the second time in bum season.
As we hauled that set in Jim started complaining about the winch (which brings in the purse line) making a clinking noise. Just as we finished bringing in the purse line the chain in the winch snapped. I was dumbstruck: how could it be that our luck was this bad? Every day I pray that God provides this boat with what we need to thrive financially and relationally, but the constant stream of misadventure was beginning to seem like a cynical, mocking rejoinder. Yet as if to remind us that we still had things to be thankful for, the winch only broke after the purse line was in, allowing us to keep the set. In the end, we succeeded in rolling another 10,000 bag.
By now we were excited: this was easily the best fishing we'd seen all season. Despite having a broken winch, Jim decided that we'd make the set and fix the winch while towing. If we didn't succeed in fixing it we'd have to back-haul the net, cut our losses and head to town. Harold and Tim went to work, and 35 minutes later, after inserting an additional half link into the chain, we had the winch working again. "I wish you boys could have seen it," Jim said after we starting hauling gear, "while you boys were working we must have had a hundred jumpers go in!" That set was the biggest I've ever seen--probably over 20,000 pounds of fish. As we tried to roll the bag over the rail the whole boat keeled over and the rigging groaned in protest. Then the bunt line, which lifts the bag onto the deck, started snapping. Just in time Tim unhitched the single from the ring bar, ran across the deck, and snapped it onto the bag. "This day is unreal," I said to myself, as fish poured over the rail, filling the hatch and stacking up on the deck.
We made one more haul and filled the boat. Beautiful. After offloading half our tank on a tender we went back out, caught a couple thousand more pounds, and called it a day at closing time. In spite of an exhausting day filled with near misses we caught 60,000 pounds of fish, by far our best day of the season. Having paid for fuel several weeks ago in area 7, this day went straight into our pockets.
It turned out that we were the high boat in the fleet on Wednesday, and word has gotten out: we'll probably have to fight harder for our sets this weekend, but the fish are arriving, and we know that we can catch them. Furthermore, after last Wednesday I know that there's almost nothing this crew can't handle. The season will probably run for another two to three weeks, so it looks like I'll be home in late August or early September.
I love fishing,
Aaron
Monday, August 4, 2008
Sitting on a dock of the bay... (still in Wrangell)
Though we haven't had a good day fishing since I wrote my last post, it's still unclear whether or not we'll be heading home soon: apparently this is the worst that my skipper has seen things in his entire career. There are spots of good news here and there, however, and everyone's holding out hope that a late run of pinks could save the season. The other day Jim told me we'd probably be sticking around till September, but with all the grumbling about how bad things are nothing is for certain.
I'm not worried about the money: though it would have been nice to have made the 20,000 dollars per guy that the crew made last year, I can meet my needs between here and Oxford with a couple hundred. What really gets me down about the prospect of heading home in a week or so is the thought of prematurely concluding my time with Jim, Harold, Tim, and Drew. I love these guys a lot, and each of them, in their own way, teaches me much more than I could set down here on this blog. We're very different men, and the tension natural tension between us, combined with our shared camaraderie, creates extraordinary opportunities for growth each day. I also have no idea what I'd do with a month and a half of free time. I'm not worried, though, the way always becomes clear as I walk along it. I am confident that I will return from Alaska not one day too early or too late. I just hope this means early September rather than mid August. At least we're working around three days per week, which is a lot better than one: guys get restless sitting on anchor or bumming around the dock for too many days on end!
The book of Ecclesiastes concludes with the admonition that to fear God and keep his commandments comprises the full duty of man. After spending 12 chapters reading about the futility of all pursuits "under the sun" I was anxious to study, yet again, how one accomplishes this. Despite the fact that I've been a Christian years now, I'm amazed at how pressing this question always seems to be, at how unsettling it is to ask myself whether I am truly following God or simply inventing even cleverer ways of concealing my pursuit of my own ends. I find that it is never entirely one or the other, and that discerning my wrong motives and strongholds of insecurity is a never-ending process of leaning on God's grace and returning to the example of Jesus to reveal to me what it means to pursue Him with a pure heart.
As I've been reading through Matthew, I've been struck by two insights so far. The first is that during Jesus' baptism, the text says that "he," not necessarily the other bystanders, "saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and lighting on him." It is also not clear that Jesus' audience hears the the voice from heaven saying "this is my son, whom I love, with him I am will pleased." I checked out the accounts of this story in the other gospels, and in none of them is it stated (though not ruled out, either) that anyone other than Jesus sees the vision or hears the voice. I wonder what it would mean if the vision and the voice where indeed unique to Jesus. I've often thought of him as "God in a box," simultaneously aware of his divinity and the experience of being human. I'm not sure that the gospels support this interpretation, however. Here and elsewhere Jesus seems to exhibit a relationship with God the Father that is far more dependent on God's willingness to meet him in prayer and to comfort him with His Spirit. A provocative question: did Jesus, the man, need the affirmation of his identity as God's son before he was led into the wilderness to be tempted? How does this principle translate into the life of the believer? Even more provocative: does Jesus never explicitly claim to be God because, in a sense, he wasn't? The gospels make it clear that his conception was divine, and that the Word which with God in the beginning became flesh and "made its dwelling among us." We know that he lived a sinless life, and that he died and rose again, but I wonder if the unity between Jesus in the flesh and the Word of God was as complete as the church often supposes it was. And if it was, how well did Jesus the man grasp this? When he says that "I and the Father are one," and that "those who have seen me have seen the Father," is he literally saying "I am God," or is he referring to something more subtle, perhaps even more profound? We know that he is seated at the right hand of the Father, and that ultimately all of creation will be made new through him, so please don't misunderstand me as trying to arrive at something along the lines of "accessing the God in all of us." It's only that now, more than ever before, I am struggling with how to understand Jesus. This point is profoundly important in the life of the believer, and there is something troubling me about the way I have typically thought of Him that doesn't quite fit, something I deeply want to understand.
The second insight is much simpler and (hopefully) less controversial. It that the unifying theme of the Sermon on the Mount is that of trusting God to be who he says he is: perfect, loving, and fully in control. Drawn out explicitly in the "don't worry sections of the text," which deal with relying on God to meet the believer's physical needs, this theme is implied throughout the entire sermon. How will the poor in spirit, the meek, and the dispossessed inherit the earth in a world that worships power, where the wicked so often rule the righteous? What reward will the man reap who does his good deeds in secret in a world that glorifies the praise of others? Why give to those who are already inclined to take from you in a world of opportunists, both crass and subtle? It is only possible to put the Sermon on the Mount into practice if we set aside our futile self-reliance and in all things allow the basis of our action be a deep faith in the perfect, unchanging nature of a God who is working to heal a broken world and draw all people to Himself. "Great," I say to myself. "Now that I have this knowledge in my head, how do I make my heart obey?" And I am lead back to my consideration of Jesus, his relationship with the Father God, and what this means for the life of the believer.
Just yesterday we were taking turns setting with four other boats, which gave me enough time to finish Sherman Alexie's "Indian Killer," a disturbing and convicting novel about racism and the history of racial violence that has shaped the Native American experience. I was particularly struck by the final encounter between the protagonist, an adopted Indian without a tribe, and a white mystery writer who poses as a Shilshomish Indian. In this scene John says to Wilson, "Please, let us have our own pain," before turning and leaping off a 40 story building. "The White Man's Burden" really hit home as well. In this book Bill Easterly ties the West's arrogant, messianic self-perception that it is tasked to save "the Rest" to contemporary aid efforts, and explains why a system dominated by planners who lack feedback and accountability can never bring about economic of political freedom. The path to development, he suggests, is through a bottom-up system that empowers "seekers," innovators who develop local solutions that work and are accountable for achieving results. This process is inevitably piecemeal and decentralized. Hard medicine for a kid who won a Rhodes scholarship with original intention of studying Development Economics!
1/2 an hour till Java Junkie closes. Hope you're all well, and that the weather is far better on average down there than it is up here!
Take care,
Aaron
I'm not worried about the money: though it would have been nice to have made the 20,000 dollars per guy that the crew made last year, I can meet my needs between here and Oxford with a couple hundred. What really gets me down about the prospect of heading home in a week or so is the thought of prematurely concluding my time with Jim, Harold, Tim, and Drew. I love these guys a lot, and each of them, in their own way, teaches me much more than I could set down here on this blog. We're very different men, and the tension natural tension between us, combined with our shared camaraderie, creates extraordinary opportunities for growth each day. I also have no idea what I'd do with a month and a half of free time. I'm not worried, though, the way always becomes clear as I walk along it. I am confident that I will return from Alaska not one day too early or too late. I just hope this means early September rather than mid August. At least we're working around three days per week, which is a lot better than one: guys get restless sitting on anchor or bumming around the dock for too many days on end!
The book of Ecclesiastes concludes with the admonition that to fear God and keep his commandments comprises the full duty of man. After spending 12 chapters reading about the futility of all pursuits "under the sun" I was anxious to study, yet again, how one accomplishes this. Despite the fact that I've been a Christian years now, I'm amazed at how pressing this question always seems to be, at how unsettling it is to ask myself whether I am truly following God or simply inventing even cleverer ways of concealing my pursuit of my own ends. I find that it is never entirely one or the other, and that discerning my wrong motives and strongholds of insecurity is a never-ending process of leaning on God's grace and returning to the example of Jesus to reveal to me what it means to pursue Him with a pure heart.
As I've been reading through Matthew, I've been struck by two insights so far. The first is that during Jesus' baptism, the text says that "he," not necessarily the other bystanders, "saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and lighting on him." It is also not clear that Jesus' audience hears the the voice from heaven saying "this is my son, whom I love, with him I am will pleased." I checked out the accounts of this story in the other gospels, and in none of them is it stated (though not ruled out, either) that anyone other than Jesus sees the vision or hears the voice. I wonder what it would mean if the vision and the voice where indeed unique to Jesus. I've often thought of him as "God in a box," simultaneously aware of his divinity and the experience of being human. I'm not sure that the gospels support this interpretation, however. Here and elsewhere Jesus seems to exhibit a relationship with God the Father that is far more dependent on God's willingness to meet him in prayer and to comfort him with His Spirit. A provocative question: did Jesus, the man, need the affirmation of his identity as God's son before he was led into the wilderness to be tempted? How does this principle translate into the life of the believer? Even more provocative: does Jesus never explicitly claim to be God because, in a sense, he wasn't? The gospels make it clear that his conception was divine, and that the Word which with God in the beginning became flesh and "made its dwelling among us." We know that he lived a sinless life, and that he died and rose again, but I wonder if the unity between Jesus in the flesh and the Word of God was as complete as the church often supposes it was. And if it was, how well did Jesus the man grasp this? When he says that "I and the Father are one," and that "those who have seen me have seen the Father," is he literally saying "I am God," or is he referring to something more subtle, perhaps even more profound? We know that he is seated at the right hand of the Father, and that ultimately all of creation will be made new through him, so please don't misunderstand me as trying to arrive at something along the lines of "accessing the God in all of us." It's only that now, more than ever before, I am struggling with how to understand Jesus. This point is profoundly important in the life of the believer, and there is something troubling me about the way I have typically thought of Him that doesn't quite fit, something I deeply want to understand.
The second insight is much simpler and (hopefully) less controversial. It that the unifying theme of the Sermon on the Mount is that of trusting God to be who he says he is: perfect, loving, and fully in control. Drawn out explicitly in the "don't worry sections of the text," which deal with relying on God to meet the believer's physical needs, this theme is implied throughout the entire sermon. How will the poor in spirit, the meek, and the dispossessed inherit the earth in a world that worships power, where the wicked so often rule the righteous? What reward will the man reap who does his good deeds in secret in a world that glorifies the praise of others? Why give to those who are already inclined to take from you in a world of opportunists, both crass and subtle? It is only possible to put the Sermon on the Mount into practice if we set aside our futile self-reliance and in all things allow the basis of our action be a deep faith in the perfect, unchanging nature of a God who is working to heal a broken world and draw all people to Himself. "Great," I say to myself. "Now that I have this knowledge in my head, how do I make my heart obey?" And I am lead back to my consideration of Jesus, his relationship with the Father God, and what this means for the life of the believer.
Just yesterday we were taking turns setting with four other boats, which gave me enough time to finish Sherman Alexie's "Indian Killer," a disturbing and convicting novel about racism and the history of racial violence that has shaped the Native American experience. I was particularly struck by the final encounter between the protagonist, an adopted Indian without a tribe, and a white mystery writer who poses as a Shilshomish Indian. In this scene John says to Wilson, "Please, let us have our own pain," before turning and leaping off a 40 story building. "The White Man's Burden" really hit home as well. In this book Bill Easterly ties the West's arrogant, messianic self-perception that it is tasked to save "the Rest" to contemporary aid efforts, and explains why a system dominated by planners who lack feedback and accountability can never bring about economic of political freedom. The path to development, he suggests, is through a bottom-up system that empowers "seekers," innovators who develop local solutions that work and are accountable for achieving results. This process is inevitably piecemeal and decentralized. Hard medicine for a kid who won a Rhodes scholarship with original intention of studying Development Economics!
1/2 an hour till Java Junkie closes. Hope you're all well, and that the weather is far better on average down there than it is up here!
Take care,
Aaron
Saturday, July 26, 2008
bored in Wrangell
I've had a lot of time to compose these things lately...
--
--
We’ve moved south, though we’re currently in port in Wrangell instead of Ketchikan. This has definitely been the best week we’ve had since coming up here, and though we’re not dancing yet, some of the crummy vibes that we’ve been fighting for the last few weeks look like they might be fading. We’ve had the opportunity to work a bit more, fishing Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday of this week, and are heading back out again tomorrow to fish until Monday.
Before talking about those days, however, I should probably explain the work I’m doing up here so that some of the terminology makes sense. The basic setup is a large boat (The Yankee Boy is 56x16 ft: some are larger, some are smaller, but that’s a pretty typical size), a small boat called a skiff (around 11x6 ft), and a 250 fathom long net (1,500 ft). The net has three parts: the cork line, which floats it, the web, which forms the barrier for the fish, and the lead line, which sinks the web. Rings hang from the lead line along the second half of the net, and the purse line passes through those rings. One end of the net is hooked up to the skiff, which has an enormous engine block that delivers nearly 300 hp, and the other end is hooked up to the big boat. While fishing, the captain and crew scout for “jumpers,” salmon that leap from the water and often indicate a school of fish, and when we think we’ve identified the direction they’re running we release the skiff from the back of the Yankee Boy. The Yankee Boy and the skiff then line out the net until it forms a taught semicircle, open opposite the direction of the salmon run, and tow for about 25 minutes. Once we’ve towed long enough, the skiff and Yankee Boy close up, forming a complete circle and the skiff man hands off his end of the net to the crew on deck. We hook the skiff on to the opposite side of the boat so that it can control our position while the Yankee Boy idles, and the captain comes down on deck to work the hydraulic controls. We use a power block—a large wheel suspended from the boom over the deck—to haul in the net, which the deckhands stack in preparation for the next set. The three jobs for deckhand are cork man, web man, and lead man: it shouldn’t be too hard to guess who stacks which part of the net. My job, web man, entails grabbing the bundle of web as it falls, and piling it in as orderly a fashion as possible while Harold and Tim stack corks and leads. As we haul in the net, Jim brings in the purse line using the winch, a large, metal rotating wheel, which draws the rings on the back half of the net together to form the purse. Once we have the purse formed we hop off the pile and hook the end of the net to the deck. Then Jim throws the power block into high gear and we stack at a much faster pace until we only have a small portion of the net remaining. This is the bag, and if we’re lucky it has a lot of fish it. We use a system of pulleys to haul the bag on deck, hook up the net to the skiff, and repeat for 15 hours a day.
Tuesday and Wednesday weren’t particularly thrilling: we spent two days in Anita Bay working to haul in just over 4,500 pounds of dog, and the red jellyfish were so thick that we felt they stung our necks, eyes, faces, and arms as they got pulverized in the power block and flowed over our rain gear. Though it would have been nice to do better, working is better than sitting on anchor and we didn’t have high expectations going in to the bay. The real day that we were all looking forward to was Thursday’s opening in area seven, south of Wrangell, where the pink salmon usually make a big appearance. Jim fired up the boat at 2:15am (I went back to bed until 4am, after we lifted the anchor) to scout out a spot and we made our first set of the day at 5am, hauling in about 2,000 pounds. Though this was half what we’d caught over the last couple days it wasn’t that much in absolute terms, and pink salmon are worth half as much per pound as dogs. We made a few more sets in the same spot, none of them larger than our first, and by 8am Jim was furious. “You know what you’re going back to school with, kid? A f*king baloney sandwich!” he would shout as we hauled in the net. I said that I liked baloney, but pepperoni was preferable if we could afford it, to which he said "Don't piss me off, kid. Cook! The kid's not eating lunch today" (I still got lunch).
It looked like it was going to be another long, discouraging day fishing for peanuts on the Yankee Boy. Around 9am most of the other boats had moved on, and we moved further down the eight mile stretch of beach to try a new spot. For the first time since we started fishing, it looked as if we were actually going to have a decent one—we could see fish jumping every several seconds in the wide area encircled by our net. Then we noticed that a large section of the cork line was submerged, presumably hooked on a snag, which could be a log, or rock, or anything else that hooks the lead line and drags on the net. This problem is of varying degrees of severity: at the best, your net pops up after a couple minutes and everything is cool. At the worst, the net gets snagged so bad the skiff can’t haul it in. In this case the skiff unhooks and the crew back-hauls the net, possibly mending some giant tears in the web, purse line, or leads. Though we were fortunate enough to be able to close up the corks stayed under, and Jim expressed what we were all feeling when he stormed out of the wheelhouse railing about how jinxed we were. “Why does it always play out this way?” I asked in my head "Why can't we just catch some fish?" Not a minute later, just as we began to stack the net, the corks rose to the surface, lifting our spirits: even though a couple had gotten away we knew that there were still fish in that net. We brought the bag in, and for the first time of the season had the joy of seeing the water boil and the boat keel over under the weight of a several tons of fish. Praise God!
That set was probably around 4,000 pounds. Though not huge, it was the biggest bag we’d seen to that point, and we immediately set in the same area. It had become a beautiful, sunny morning, unusually clear and warm, and we had an open view down the four mile stretch of beach to our north. This makes for both a pretty view and a clear salmon run, and we quickly realized that this set had potential: Fish were jumping two or three at a time throughout the entire 25 minute tow. We started piling, and as we got near the end of the net the water once again began to boil, except earlier, and over a wider area. The sound the fish make as the net pushes them to the surface before rolling the bag is somewhere between being under a tin roof in a heavy rainstorm and standing by a river swollen by spring rain. It is one of the most beautiful sounds a fisherman can hear, trumped only by the sound of those fish pouring over the side, and the sight of the seething, flopping mass spreading out over the deck, around the cabin, and flowing into the hold. At last! That set was probably about 20,000 pounds, and we were able to make several smaller, though still respectable sized hauls before some of the other guys further to the south rushed up and set down the beach to our north, interrupting our clean run. No hard feelings, though: we’d do the same thing in an instant.
It feels great to catch fish, but the experience of being on deck doesn’t get any less stressful. The work is hard, particularly when we have to pull in some of the cork line by hand when it gets behind the leads, or when I take Harold’s lead line and pile it along with the web while he helps Jim roll the bag. There’s lot of shouting, cussing, sweating, slipping, and plenty of opportunities to get hurt. On our largest bag of the day the fish were weighing down the net to the point that a few started to slip over the corks. As Tim and I strained to haul in the slack I looked down into the sea of fish below me and wondered, for just a moment, what it would be like to fall in. On good days fishing is stressful, dangerous, tiring and lucrative. On bad days it is just the first three. Yet, as I stood on the back of the deck in the afternoon sun, feeling its warmth spread over my weary arms and back, and looked out over the islands I felt happy and at peace. “This is what I came for,” I thought, “days like this make all the other stuff worth it.” I mentioned in passing in my last post some the struggle with self love and insecurity that my experiences up here have raised; how I came here, in part, to prove something to myself. Though I continue to wrestle with God in my heart about what it means to truly throw off attachment to outside approval, to quiet my restless spirit and truly seek Him in all I do, Thursday reminded me that I really do love this work, this place, and this brief season of life for what it is.
That’s all for now, folks, thanks for staying tuned. On Thursday we made around 1,700 dollars per guy, which means we’ve just about covered our liability and can start making money. Hopefully we’ve got a few more days of the same ahead. Jim and the experiences crew still aren't optimistic though: the possibility is still very real that we'll be back in August. In either case, being here is proving to be a reward in and of itself.
God willing, I might make it back with a baloney sandwich and a couple bucks,
Aaron
Monday, July 21, 2008
en route to Ketchikan
I'm taking advantage of my final free hours in Petersburg to try and condense the last three weeks into something like a coherent thought.
It's certainly been a different kind of season than the last time I was here. For one thing, the high price of fuel has doubled the cost of the 22 hour round trip from Petersburg to the Hidden Falls fishery in Chatham Straits. In an effort to save money, the gentlemen of the Yankee Boy have been camping out on their boat away from town for the past few weeks, far from the internet and with only limited cell phone service. The isolation and change of environment has been at once refreshing, nerve-racking, and trying.
The major challenge that we've faced is the lack of fish. Living for weeks on an 18x50 foot seining boat isn't so bad when you spend most days hauling gear (fishing), but the runs have been weak enough that the Department of Fish and Game, which is responsible for managing fisheries around the state, has only opened Hidden falls twice a week (at most) since we've been here. We've only fished four days so far, and we haven't done that great on any of those days. The high price of dog salmon in this area--over 60 cents per pound--attracted pretty much the entire southeast Alaskan fishing fleet of 150 boats. This resulted in way too many boats scrapping for far too few fish--if you didn't make a several thousand pound haul at 5am, when the day officially began, then you were looking at 15 hours of doing your best to mop up the leftovers, which has been the story of our life so far. Adding to the stress is the fact that the pink salmon, a lower-grade fish that pays 30 cents per pound and that serves as the bread and butter of most guys' summer earnings, have not made much of a showing anywhere in the state so far. The skippers are getting worried that we are looking at another bust of a season through July and August, and this is concerning for everyone, including cannery employees to deckhands. The simplified formula for my summer earnings is as follows: (gross stock of fish)*(price of fish per pound)/10 - (food and beer bill)/5 - (fixed fuel share) - (taxes). The middle two terms come out to around 5,000 dollars of liability, while taxes are taken as a share of the non-adjusted gross earnings (though some of my expenses are partially deductible). At a 10 percent crew share I've only made 2,500 so far, meaning that I'm 2,500 dollars in the hole with my skipper before taxes. If the pinks don't show up we'll be lucky to even break even on the season, and will likely come home in by early- or mid-August.
The fishing days themselves have also been trying. We showed up late to a Thursday opening at the fishery three weeks back, after having driven the whole night, and immediately started setting up our gear. Hidden Falls is aptly-named. From Catham Strait, between Baranoff and Mitkoff Island, one sees waterfall’s majestically cascading into various coves and inlets, fed by glaciers of the surrounding mountains. On a nice day, particularly at sunrise or sunset, the place can be breathtaking and you realize why so many people come up here on Alaska cruises. That Thursday, however, Hidden Falls was somewhat more forbidding. A thick, clammy layer of marine fog veiled the coastline, and above the fog the mountain peaks were covered with snow, speaking to the unseasonably cool weather coming on the heels of a severe winter. These mountains released a cold, constant blast of wind, which stirred up white caps in the strait, tossed our boat, and prompted us to wear extra layers of clothing under our rain gear. We started fishing around noon, and it wasn't long before I had the privilege of meeting Jim Glenovich the deck boss, who only bears a faint resemblance to Jim Glenovich the cheerful and easy going sea captain. "You f*ing cocksuckers! Haul that gear! f*k! F*K!!! I need four new guys, goddammit!!! Our luck is like sh*t!" Anyone who has been doing this for a while will tell you that the secret to not breaking down or blowing up is letting the skipper's tirade role in one ear and out the other, a lesson that I'd internalized during my time on the Reality, but that first day was a rude awakening nonetheless. I have never in my life seen anyone who gets as hot as Jim. It's as if underneath his normal self there is some incredibly deep well of rage, bitterness, and shattered hope, all of which boil to the surface during the 30 minutes or so per set that he's alloted to do his "ass-chewing." To be fair, we've been having an incredibly tough time. Just about every set we make we have to negotiate a new problem: the net gets snarled up, the ring bar get bent, the hydraulic oil starts leaking, the bunt get snarled up as we're rolling the fish on deck, or worse, the boat drifts over our cork line and releases a couple hundred pounds of salmon. We never had these problems on the Reality, and I get the impression that Jim isn't used to dealing with them either. Though I'm learning quickly, I often confront the same struggle on deck that I confronted while playing rugby: knowing how to put yourself in the right place at the right time, and make a substantive contribution to the team. When the lines are snarled, the wind is blowing, my face is covered with jellyfish tentacles, Jim is screaming himself hoarse, and Harold and Tim are frantically scurrying around trying to set things right I tend to either get paralyzed, or bumble around like a fool and try to look busy. It's getting better, though, praise God, and I've even been the one to catch several errors and set a few things right on deck the last couple openings.
A useful mental trick I found for staying upbeat: Despite all attempts to stay positive, there will inevitably come a time when, in a challenging or uncomfortable situation, your mind says "let's be honest, this stinks," and you really are in no position to argue. The appropriate response at that juncture is "yes, but it's funny." Then you start laughing. A couple weeks back I was up on the top deck helping keep watch for jumpers, fish that leap from the water and often indicate a school, and Jim was still seething: "this is a f*king goat show. Our luck is sh*t!" I couldn't help laughing, to which he snapped "you're f*king broke! do you like that?!" "No, I hate it" I replied, "but all we can do is keep hauling gear." I have no doubt that God has a clear purpose for my time here. Though learning to trust in his provision when circumstances are beyond my control--as they are in every sense of the word right now--I'm also learning to tap an inner strength and resilience that I'm sure will serve me well in times ahead.
When not fishing I've spent a lot of that time reading--so far I've got through The Gates of Fire, The Audacity of Hope, Chaos, and am currently working on Bill Easterly's White Man's Burden--playing guitar, working out, eating, chatting with my crew mates, and getting off the boat to hike around whenever I can. Some highlights so far:
The practical application of my struggle with this question has been around my alcohol consumption and language. If you think to pray for me, that my heart would stay soft and my mind sharp, I would be very grateful.
As always, I would love to hear your thoughts/responses, and to know how you are doing. We're sailing south for leaving for Ketchikan in one hour: Pray for pinks!
With much love and respect,
Aaron
It's certainly been a different kind of season than the last time I was here. For one thing, the high price of fuel has doubled the cost of the 22 hour round trip from Petersburg to the Hidden Falls fishery in Chatham Straits. In an effort to save money, the gentlemen of the Yankee Boy have been camping out on their boat away from town for the past few weeks, far from the internet and with only limited cell phone service. The isolation and change of environment has been at once refreshing, nerve-racking, and trying.
The major challenge that we've faced is the lack of fish. Living for weeks on an 18x50 foot seining boat isn't so bad when you spend most days hauling gear (fishing), but the runs have been weak enough that the Department of Fish and Game, which is responsible for managing fisheries around the state, has only opened Hidden falls twice a week (at most) since we've been here. We've only fished four days so far, and we haven't done that great on any of those days. The high price of dog salmon in this area--over 60 cents per pound--attracted pretty much the entire southeast Alaskan fishing fleet of 150 boats. This resulted in way too many boats scrapping for far too few fish--if you didn't make a several thousand pound haul at 5am, when the day officially began, then you were looking at 15 hours of doing your best to mop up the leftovers, which has been the story of our life so far. Adding to the stress is the fact that the pink salmon, a lower-grade fish that pays 30 cents per pound and that serves as the bread and butter of most guys' summer earnings, have not made much of a showing anywhere in the state so far. The skippers are getting worried that we are looking at another bust of a season through July and August, and this is concerning for everyone, including cannery employees to deckhands. The simplified formula for my summer earnings is as follows: (gross stock of fish)*(price of fish per pound)/10 - (food and beer bill)/5 - (fixed fuel share) - (taxes). The middle two terms come out to around 5,000 dollars of liability, while taxes are taken as a share of the non-adjusted gross earnings (though some of my expenses are partially deductible). At a 10 percent crew share I've only made 2,500 so far, meaning that I'm 2,500 dollars in the hole with my skipper before taxes. If the pinks don't show up we'll be lucky to even break even on the season, and will likely come home in by early- or mid-August.
The fishing days themselves have also been trying. We showed up late to a Thursday opening at the fishery three weeks back, after having driven the whole night, and immediately started setting up our gear. Hidden Falls is aptly-named. From Catham Strait, between Baranoff and Mitkoff Island, one sees waterfall’s majestically cascading into various coves and inlets, fed by glaciers of the surrounding mountains. On a nice day, particularly at sunrise or sunset, the place can be breathtaking and you realize why so many people come up here on Alaska cruises. That Thursday, however, Hidden Falls was somewhat more forbidding. A thick, clammy layer of marine fog veiled the coastline, and above the fog the mountain peaks were covered with snow, speaking to the unseasonably cool weather coming on the heels of a severe winter. These mountains released a cold, constant blast of wind, which stirred up white caps in the strait, tossed our boat, and prompted us to wear extra layers of clothing under our rain gear. We started fishing around noon, and it wasn't long before I had the privilege of meeting Jim Glenovich the deck boss, who only bears a faint resemblance to Jim Glenovich the cheerful and easy going sea captain. "You f*ing cocksuckers! Haul that gear! f*k! F*K!!! I need four new guys, goddammit!!! Our luck is like sh*t!" Anyone who has been doing this for a while will tell you that the secret to not breaking down or blowing up is letting the skipper's tirade role in one ear and out the other, a lesson that I'd internalized during my time on the Reality, but that first day was a rude awakening nonetheless. I have never in my life seen anyone who gets as hot as Jim. It's as if underneath his normal self there is some incredibly deep well of rage, bitterness, and shattered hope, all of which boil to the surface during the 30 minutes or so per set that he's alloted to do his "ass-chewing." To be fair, we've been having an incredibly tough time. Just about every set we make we have to negotiate a new problem: the net gets snarled up, the ring bar get bent, the hydraulic oil starts leaking, the bunt get snarled up as we're rolling the fish on deck, or worse, the boat drifts over our cork line and releases a couple hundred pounds of salmon. We never had these problems on the Reality, and I get the impression that Jim isn't used to dealing with them either. Though I'm learning quickly, I often confront the same struggle on deck that I confronted while playing rugby: knowing how to put yourself in the right place at the right time, and make a substantive contribution to the team. When the lines are snarled, the wind is blowing, my face is covered with jellyfish tentacles, Jim is screaming himself hoarse, and Harold and Tim are frantically scurrying around trying to set things right I tend to either get paralyzed, or bumble around like a fool and try to look busy. It's getting better, though, praise God, and I've even been the one to catch several errors and set a few things right on deck the last couple openings.
A useful mental trick I found for staying upbeat: Despite all attempts to stay positive, there will inevitably come a time when, in a challenging or uncomfortable situation, your mind says "let's be honest, this stinks," and you really are in no position to argue. The appropriate response at that juncture is "yes, but it's funny." Then you start laughing. A couple weeks back I was up on the top deck helping keep watch for jumpers, fish that leap from the water and often indicate a school, and Jim was still seething: "this is a f*king goat show. Our luck is sh*t!" I couldn't help laughing, to which he snapped "you're f*king broke! do you like that?!" "No, I hate it" I replied, "but all we can do is keep hauling gear." I have no doubt that God has a clear purpose for my time here. Though learning to trust in his provision when circumstances are beyond my control--as they are in every sense of the word right now--I'm also learning to tap an inner strength and resilience that I'm sure will serve me well in times ahead.
When not fishing I've spent a lot of that time reading--so far I've got through The Gates of Fire, The Audacity of Hope, Chaos, and am currently working on Bill Easterly's White Man's Burden--playing guitar, working out, eating, chatting with my crew mates, and getting off the boat to hike around whenever I can. Some highlights so far:
- Drew (the 20 year-old Western student who joined our crew the day we left) and I went to check out the salmon hatchery, and in addition to making friends with the employees saw a momma grizzly and her cub at a distance of about 50 feet.
- One morning, as I was sitting in the galley eating breakfast I heard a loud “SNUFFF” followed by a “THWOCK.” I hustled out onto the deck just in time to see a humpback whale—recently arrived from Baja Mexico in search of cooler water—in full breach, fins out and splayed wide as she rolled her belly up towards the sun before hitting the water with a terrific spray of white water and foam.
- We hauled a 7-8 foot long salmon shark onto the deck last Thursday. This was a legitimate, Discovery Channel-style, coal black eyes, sharp, pointy teeth, shark. When it came time for me to hop onto the deck after we'd rolled the bag of fish over the side I'll admit that I hesitated for a second! It was awesome to be in the presence of that animal, and I felt bad that we gaffed it in the gills, hit it three times on the head with a hammer, and then left it to struggle around on deck for half an hour. When it came time to hoist it over board we put a strap around its tail, and then used a winch to lift it over the side. Jim told me to grab a vickie, a thin sharp knife around the size of what you use a the dinner table, and saw its tail fin off. I told him didn't want to--it seemed kind of gratuitous to ruin such a powerful and beautiful animal that way, especially when I knew it was still alive--and he said "oh just cut the strap, then, you f*kin p*sy!" I was pleased to see the shark joyously thrash around in the water to free itself of the strap before diving out of sight. I was also glad we didn't haul it in again on the next set: in between whimpering parodies of me refusing to hurt a living thing, Jim threatened to leave me bleeding on the deck if we caught it again and it bit me. I couldn't help but laugh the whole time.
- Conversations with Jim and the crew have been awesome as well. For all the above, I don't want to leave the wrong impression about my skipper: though he gets mad, he doesn't stay that way, and when the day is done so is the ass-chewing, and he reverts to his normal self. He's opened up a bit about Vietnam, his philosophy about living well, thoughts about God, and has shared many hilarious stories of misadventures on the high seas. One of the things he has tried to impress the most upon me has been the importance of staying humble and genuine while in authority. His philosophy as a skipper is that he isn't good for much if he holds himself over his crew. He lives this out, getting up before any of us, working on different projects the whole day, doing dishes occasionally, and eating and drinking with us, instead of by himself in the wheelhouse. He tells me that I am here in his world only for a time to learn about this, and about the people who live in a reality that I will only ever be a guest in. Thought-provoking stuff.
- Bushwhacking in the Baranoff island mountains and hot tubs in the natural hot springs have been rejuvenating as well. I love being outside, and am awestruck by how beautiful my surroundings are every time I stop to look around. I forgot my camera back at the boat, but I hope to upload some photos soon.
- Reading Chaos and The Audacity of Hope was well worth it. I could write a full blog post about each of these books but I would boil it down to this: if you haven't read Audacity but are even somewhat interested in one of the most important Presidential contests in America history, read it. If you're scientifically or mathematically inclined, or are interested in how systems with fundamentally simple rules can generate complex behavior, read Chaos.
The practical application of my struggle with this question has been around my alcohol consumption and language. If you think to pray for me, that my heart would stay soft and my mind sharp, I would be very grateful.
As always, I would love to hear your thoughts/responses, and to know how you are doing. We're sailing south for leaving for Ketchikan in one hour: Pray for pinks!
With much love and respect,
Aaron
Saturday, June 28, 2008
an unexpected homecoming
Last Monday came around, and things were looking real good: the turbo and exhaust systems on the skiff were in great shape, the galley was stocked, and the crew was restless to get up north and fish. Then the steering mechanisms quit. The Yankee Boy still relies on an old school system that works through an array of points, electric switches that manually control rudder positioning. When you have a problem with your points you can't buy new ones at the store, rather you have to retrieve them from old school equipment that uses the same technology. In the end I'm not sure what the problem was, since my role is pretty much confined to performing the most menial of tasks, but the incident prompted Jim to push our sailing date to this Sunday the 28, at 10am.
My initial reaction was frustration: I'd been anxious to fish for months now, and the prospect of another week in Bellingham grated on me. I had hoped to come home, put in one full week of work at the harbor, maybe see a friend or two, and then leave. Like many of my peers who have gone off to college, I experience tension between who I have become away from home, and the roles that I am cast in when I return. What's more, in a place the size of Bellingham it is impossible to grab coffee downtown, go for a run, buy batteries at RadioShack, or go grocery shopping without meeting several acquaintances from years past. These impromptu encounters are strange, and often not that pleasant--"Hey man, what's up?! I haven't seen you in like, 3 years...nothing much, just graduated from college this June, and am headed up to Alaska before moving to the UK to start grad school...yeah, stats and finance at Oxford...what's going on for you these days?...well that's great, bro, I hope everything works out well for you...take care." The usual questions and same old small talk serve as a deafening reminder that our temporary physical proximity and a couple shared memories are no mask for the fact that time has created a yawning gap between us. We have changed in ways that we can't communicate in such a short meeting, yet we can only really speak to the other person with the past as our reference point. In many ways we're stuck talking to shadows of ourselves, knowing that the whole thing is merely an illusion, yet feeling obligated by prevailing social norms to engage in a show of artificial familiarity.
Even more powerful than the tension between personal growth and encounters with old acquaintances is a deep fear of the ordinary. I went to deposit some checks the other day and my teller was a guy who knew me from CCF, my old Christian fellowship up at Western. I didn't realize that I knew him until it came time for me to present my ID, and he said "it doesn't hurt that I know you, either." I asked how things were going, and he told me that he had married another CCF gal, and that they had settled in Bellingham together, happy to have finished their undergraduate studies. Theirs is a representative example of the path that so many of my friends from WWU have followed: they fall in love with this place, and often with another person, and settle down never to leave again. I often have to remind myself that there is absolutely nothing wrong with this, that not everyone is as happy as I am to aimlessly wander around the world while changing schools every two years in pursuit of a high-intensity career path. Yet I wonder sometimes if the decision to stay in this town is really the best option for many of my peers, or if some of us have just settled without having tested the full array of possibilities open to us. I find this question so pressing because I went to college in Bellingham for two years, and am stunned to see, in hindsight, how small my awareness of the world outside of Bellingham was and how little I knew myself when I left high school. Though it was my deep desire to get to know it better, and pursue a life that would lead me along pathways less-traveled by my friends and family, I can't help but feel as though my life was saved by the Stanford admissions committee that made the decision to offer me a spot against hundreds of other highly-qualified applicants. The opportunity to leave Bellingham for Stanford was one of the most important milestones of my life, yet it depended so heavily on factors beyond my control. For example, the 2007 transfer student acceptance rate at Stanford was 1.9 percent, for a class size of 21, driven downwards by an unusually high enrollment of admitted freshmen. What if that had been my year? Somewhere along the line Bellingham became for me a symbol of forgotten dreams, unused potential, and remoteness from many of the more pressing issues that we confront as a nation and global village. Only as the frontiers of your life experience grow do you begin to understand how vast is the world, and how insignificant is your understanding of it: my time at Stanford set me on a path that has launched me out into that great unknown, yet the awareness that I only just barely left home unnerves me, and makes me wonder if I will ever again come as close as I did to settling for something less than life to the fullest.
As I left the harbor last Monday, however, none of this was clear to me. I just felt a lot of unrest, mingled with a twinge of relief of having an unexpected week of rest and sense that God had reached into my life and slowed the pace down for a reason. One valuable lesson I picked up during my first season in Alaska was that a major component of happiness in all times and circumstances is not sweating things out of one's control, even when things seem particularly crappy. So I decided to put fishing out of my mind until I heard from Jim again, and make full use of the days ahead.
As I thought of who I might spend time with that week, it occurred to me that two of my best friends were volunteering as counselors for the week at Royal Family Kids Camp. RFKC is a nation-wide network of Christian camps that is exclusively dedicated to providing abused and neglected kids with a week where they are loved purely, affirmed passionately, and allowed to experience the childhood that many of them have had stripped away from birth. I'd known about the camp for several years, but had spent every June since beginning college either out of state or out of country. Suddenly I began to see some purpose in my delayed sailing date: though Stanford had given me much, one of the things that I left behind in Bellingham was consistent service to young people, something that had been crucial to me throughout high school and my time at Western. I called a good friend and mentor who I knew was working at the camp, and with whom I'd served in children's ministry with at my old church for over five years. It turned out that a male counselor had gone home sick that same morning, and that their activities director was feeling over-extended and in need of a helping hand.
A couple hours later I had become the resident rocket-building experts, scrambling to keep track of children, small parts, bottles of glue, and the requests for help of bewildered counselors in training as they worked with their kids to assemble a rocket. The rest of the week was a beautiful combination of helping to set up activities, including an outdoor carnival that involved a rock wall, inflatable obstacle course, bungee run, cotton candy, and lots of prizes, and building relationships with the campers. I was especially moved by one young guy I met who had moved with his four brothers and sisters from East Palo Alto to live with his great grandma. On my first day at camp we built a rocket and played one-on-one basketball together during rec time, and I was immediately impressed by his blend of tenacity, vibrant energy, and personal warmth. Though he related well with the counselors and many of the campers, there was a select group of kids that he absolutely hated, and as the days passed it became clear that their rivalry would not just disappear. These kids' wounds create some extremely perplexing behaviors: they would go from being friends one afternoon to being at each other's throats in a matter of minutes. As a non-counselor volunteer, my role in the situation was limited, but I did get to have several conversations with this particular child about why he was acting out so badly. It came down to the fact that he has been taught from birth that violence is the natural response to the experience of anger. Though we had several conversations that seemed meaningful to me at the time, this kid's behavior only got worse throughout the week, and I began to wonder if anything any of these counselors or staff did really made a difference for kids like this one. Old questions about God's love for all people, and why it is that some of his little ones suffer so deeply and often grow to perpetuate the same evil on their own children surfaced as well. Here the Lord reminded my heart of a lesson that I had wrestled with over the course of spring quarter. This is that if we try and carry the weight of the world's brokenness on our shoulders, assuming responsibility for outcomes in others' lives that are ultimately beyond our control, it will break us instead. We are not the change agents: the most we can ever do is press into the God who loves us, offering up to him our talents, our gifts, our resources, and courageously, wholeheartedly pursuing a spirit-filled life. I've drawn great inspiration from John 11 and 2 Corinthians 11. The former is a lesson about physical brokenness as an opportunity for God's love to be revealed, while the latter emphasizes the sufficiency of his grace in the midst of persistent trial. I have to believe that the counselors and staff at RFKC are called to embrace the notion that we are only ever instruments for the transmissions of God's grace and love, and that ultimately we must entrust these little ones that we come to love so much over the course of a week to his care. You never know what stage of life a person is in, and I've become convinced that the majority of what we do on this earth is like breaking ground over a dry field or setting a foundation. Our work may one day result in an abundant harvest or a beautiful tower, but we must reap our reward not from seeing our labor come to fruition, but from the knowledge that we have lived out our calling with faithfulness, obedience, and above all, love.
The highlight of the week at camp, for me, was when I got to go out an fire off the rockets that we had spent much of the week making together. What a joy it was to see the anticipation in the kids faces as they watched their rockets soar hundreds of feet in the air, and to watch them take off racing across the grassy lawn as the rockets slowly parachuted to the ground. My little buddy from EPA and I had made a rocket together, and I'm pleased to report that his rocket performed excellently. As I watched him chase his rocket across the field on that beautiful sunny day I was filled with hope for him and for these kids. Sooner or later we all lose our innocence, but what a great tragedy it is to watch that be taken from children. In the space of a week, though, RFKC creates a place where they can experience that again, and awakens in all of us--not just the children--a longing to return to place of innocence and joy, a journey made possible by our loving heavenly Father.
I'm leaving for Alaska in two hours, and am so ready for this next leg of the journey. Next time I post to this blog I really will be in Petersburg!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
