I have a car, a home near Phila, and space.

Do I have an extra pair of hands for driving?

By Jove(1) i looked up to the sky
and looked into Diana's(2) eye
Who with Luna(3) shone apon the budding rye
Where Flora(4), Fauna's(5) dwelling lie.

Ceasing to enjoy the pleasures of Grace (6)
Passed Cerberus(7) into Orcus'(8) place
Now with Lemure(9) face to face
to dwell with Prosperina's(10) race.

When Ceres(11) did not look with favor apon
And with Lares'(12) protective favor gone,
Mars(13) came and with Victoria(14) won
The life that under Janus(15) dawned.

And with Aurora's(16) break of day
illumines the tide of Neptune's(17) sway
Which prospers Pomona's(18) garden gay
under which Bacchus(19) and Liber(20) with Somnus(21) stay.

(1) Jove: the supreme god,ruler of heaven
(2) Diana: goddess of the hunt, the moon, and nature
(3) Luna: goddess of the moon
(4) Flora: goddess of flowers
(5) Fauna: god of fields and shepherds
(6) Grace: three sisters: Aglaia, Euphrosyne, and Thalia--who were
goddesses of banquets, dances, social enjoyments, and the arts
(7) Cerberus: guardian of the gates of hell
(8) Orcus: god of the underworld
(9)Lemure: spirits of the dead, both good and bad
(10)Prosperina: goddess of the underworld
(11)Ceres: goddess of the earth, grain, and harvests (12)Lares:spirits
of ancestors who watch over homes and cities
(13) Mars: god of war
(14) Victoria: goddess of victory
(15)Janus:god of beginnings, responsible for the new year and the
seasons
(16)Aurora: goddess of the dawn
(17)Neptune:god of the oceans
(18)Pomona:goddess of fruit trees and gardens
(19)Bacchus: god of wine
(20)Liber: another name for Bacchus
(21)Somnus:god of sleep

You meet lots of interesting people while walking your dog. Dogs are useful for getting to know one's neighbors, and whose neighbors' dogs will climb the fence just to escape and hang out with yours.

I discovered something about the nature of grief the other week. And that is, for someone whose desires after sincerity, I find that perhaps sometimes grief is so comfortable because I can be sure of it?

"Even in laughter the heart is sorrowful; and the end of that mirth is heaviness."

"Sorrow is better than laughter, because a sad face is good for the heart." Ecclesiastes 7:3.

Is that not true? Does not sorrow make one sober in may things?

"The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning, but the heart of fools is in the house of pleasure. It is better to heed a wise man's rebuke than to listen ot the song of fools." Ecc 7:4-5

However, also, besides the virtue of sorrow (also see Nienna's character in the Silmarillion), I see that there also under "A time for everything" passage, is "I know that there is nothing better for men than to be happy and do good while they live. That everyone may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all his toil-- this is the gift of God. I know that everything God does will endure forever; nothing can be added to it and nothing taken from it. God does it so that men will revere him." Ecc 3:12-14.

It's basically all meaningless, and so take pleasure in the life that is before you. I'm not sure what all the following exactly has to do with grief, but it does have to do with sincerity.

To be more sincere would, for me, be great pleasure. Not all sincerity comes through sorrow, naturally. I think if I were sincerely myself with my coworkers and churchpeople especially, I would sit them all down and ask them everything. I am sincerely made up of questions, I think. I want to know what you read at your dinner table, and what your kids are like, is your wife really quiet, or does she just appear that way? Was her hair long or short when you met her? What scale is your model train set? When did you become interested in trains? Have you ever been to one of those huge several-room model train displays? What school did you go to? How did you decide to become a lawyer? Why do you like RP? What is it like living so close by your parents? What does your husband do at home all day? How was he wounded? What was it like for him being in the Marines? Did you really just call him "sweetums"? What is beautiful to you? How do you cure insomnia?

And so I try not to be an obnoxious child; i.e. "why? why? what's that? what's that? why's that?" as too many questions can lead one to believe. But I just like knowing about people. In fact, it helps me work with you better to know that for Wednesday dinners you have beans and cornbread and call it "Pioneer Night" and read Laura Ingalls Wilder on-the-prairie books.

To take sincere interest in people is great pleasure. What is this that prevents me from doing so? A fear of encroaching on their jealously guarded Time? An over-modesty? Which is in fact, self absorption?

I could never figure out if this was Madeline L'engle's words or a quote from somewhere, but it sounds like thoughts derived from some reflections on Ecclesiastes: "...do not be over-modest in your own cause, for there is a modesty that leads to sin, as well as a modesty that brings honour and favour. Do not be untrue to yourself in deference to another, or so diffident that you fail in your duty.. for wisdom shows itself by speech and a man's education must find expression in words... Do not let yourself be a doormat to a fool or curry favour with the powerful. Fight to the death for truth, and the Lord God will fight on your side."

As we were made to be purveyors of truth, there is, I believe, a selfishness in some kinds of quietness. (in the way that I am quiet.) (which is, to wait for others' input while giving little of myself). I have also found great respect for some quieter people I know, whose few words are meaningful, and whose silence appears to be, well, resting in truth I reckon. I worked with a man at Harvey Cedars who had only to ask me "How was your weekend?" in the way that he did to know he cared beyond all sincerity what my answer was. He was a man of few words, and in fact had a verse inscribed somewhere in his office "In quietness and confidence shall be your strength." And he was sincere. Thus meaning, that *words* aren't neccessary for the purveying of truth. He gave himself in other ways, and in his carefully spoken words.

However, there are words that can improve the silence. "a righteous man avoids all extremes." such as, perhaps, fear. As much as I love knowing things about people and who they are, there is also nothing that rubs me the wrong way worse than my ears being held captive by those who talk too much. I love listening to people even to the point that it can be one sided. HOWEVER. I think the line is crossed when that one sided conversation goes in circles. I also realize that frustration or delight can be the result of interrupting one's important work. And so it is with me and my lawyers: I'm really afraid of interrupting their work with something unimportant to say. I don't want to be "that guy." I'll figure out the balance sometime, I'm sure. For the time being, I'm enjoying arresting them when they're heating up their lunches at the microwave by my cubicle, or getting coffee or taking a break over here.

I was talking to Annalauren on the phone the other day, (she is in Scotland, take note), and was blessed not only by her asking how I was with God and everything, but that she actually used her precious overseas phone card minutes to ask me about the tea I was drinking. She spared some phone card minutes just to ask me what my favorite tea was?

And I realize, as an offshoot of a point made in Sunday school, that just because I would love to be understood in this way, does not mean other people enjoy having inane questions asked of them. Maybe some people do enjoy it, though.

But it made me realize the pride of not wanting to interrupt- which is possibly a pride of not wanting to give myself, or an overmodesty perhaps- which is of the same pride as those who don't want to confess their sins either to God or in hearty conversation with their best friends. This is a selfish withholding of personhood. Which is something I ought to have learned at least 8 years ago. It is, perhaps, better to give than to withhold, with of course good discernment for the situation.

because, people need to be loved, sincerely. and to have known about them just what kind of tea it is that they drink.

or

Rachel's trip to the Rodeo.

So I took a trip to the rodeo last week with my roommate and her fiance, and his little brother. Colin, I said, I know this looks like a double date, but I just have to let you know, it's not, ok?. "I'm 16!!! What are you even talking about!?" High fives from Ruth and Ian.

This, I'll have you know, is not my usual venue of Friday night entertainment. Usually, I'm off to some grand symphony or delighting my ears with another concert or so. At these events I am surrounded by citizens who find the symphony almost as sublime as church, and are scratching things into their programs as if they were sermon notes. I was immediately intrigued-- what kind of people go to a rodeo for fun? An indoor rodeo, at that? I made my way past the picketers with their "Buck the Rodeo" signs, and gave a thought over my shoulder to them: 'yeah, you guys probably all stopped at McDonald's beforehand for a meaty quarter-pounder for dinner...' Not being able to see past the sea of white cowboy hats, I looked down and started counting cowboy boots. I suddenly felt a little too much "Yankee" and not enough "Dixie".

So we go in, it's a baseball stadium type setup, and I feel like I'm looking down on a live Fisher Price barnyard set-- with real live cattle smells and everything! All I can think is about how glad I am I'm not the one going to be cleaning up all that freshly spread dirt in the stadium in time for next week's Stephen Curtis Chapman concert. Although, he could ride around some live horses at his concert... and relive the Great Adventure music video... not that I've seen it....what!.. no...wait-- yes I'm awesome!!

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, welcome to the Longhorn Rodeo... I'll be your announcer from U.S. 101, and I'll be out there riding stick horses at intermission... Here's some history about the rodeo... and you should teach your children how to ride horses so that they may one day be involved with rodeo.. Rodeo will keep your kids off the streets..."

and in the hospital...

"And today our biggest bull weighs in above 2100lbs and is reknowned for his challenging fiestyness. ..heh heh... that's the bull I want my mother-in-law on...heh heh"

{[Dad, I want a mustang--

--not until you get your lassoing perfect, son. Go practice on your little brother for me. Go!

But--

Go!]}

"So, Ian, who's your money on?"

in his best southern accent: "I'm routin' for that horse down thar-- that one-- the brown one with the foot long horns. I think he'll do ok."

"This ain't no bettin' game.." adds Ruth politely, in her best Southern Belle manner. * (slightly fictionalized).

The horses come out one by one, and I feel as if I am watching carousel horses walking around. The white show horses are so smooth and pure and muscular that they remind me of Michaelangelo's statue of David. Or any clay statue really. They are beautiful. Things commence, and I must say that some of these men are just very graceful at riding these storms of a horse. There was music playing in the background to make things more exciting-- bluegrassy type stuff. I wondered only for a split second why they didn't play Aaron Copland's "Rodeo".. and promptly remembered that it is also the theme song for the Council for USDA Beef. "Beef: it's what's for dinner." Not exactly appropriate for a rodeo, I reckon.

I was enjoying the show, when out saunters this fat clown. "Lookit that really short horse, Ruth!" "--Heh, that's a donkey." There's the clown, wearing Tennesee Vol's orange and talking wierd and throwing brooms into trashcans. What is it about Americans that can't be sincere for too long without having to Jar-Jar-Binks-ify everything? I mean, seriously.

Announcer: "Longhorn rodeo is the single most dangerous sport in all of America, and you're about to see why..."

So, what kind of people go to the rodeo, you ask? We had the couples in front of us- the man staring in oblivion not at the rodeo and not at his young wife who was carrying his two chili dogs, and cokes and ice cream. There are the little boys in back of us with their fake lassos that you KNOW they're going to take home and practice on their little brothers. The man two rows down who could kill a cockroach in a corner with the point of his cowboy boot. The girl beside us with the boyfriend. Now, this was my favorite couple to watch. She looked Totally ticked off about having been dragged to the rodeo. She sulked and sat there for a good half of the show without saying a word -- and got on the cell phone the minute her significant malefriend got up to go buy a Coke. "Hey-- yeah, I'm at the friggin rodeo. It smells like @$$ in here..."

Ian pipes up quietly, "That's funny. Cause it smells like "whiner" in here to me..."

The events are drawing to a close-- the riders have ridden the bucking horses, the 9 year old girls have showed up the old experienced riders on the barrell racing, the calfs have been roped [and let go], the bulls have bucked their riders. One last bull left. One rider left.

Rider, meet Bucksnort.

He gets on the bull in the little pen before they pull the cinch. The bull is nearly climbing out of the pen and nearly goring the rodeo clowns. They let him out. The rider rides this storm out for a full 7.5 seconds before being Out--(to borrow Joel's phrase) like a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest. The clowns divert the attention of the bull and usher him into the corral. The rider is still prostrate and does not get up.

The announcer comes on. "Ok folks, he's been stepped on. That bull's hoof came down right on the inside of his left thigh. So... can we get a medic over here? Goodnight, everybody, we hope you enjoyed the Longhorn Rodeo! Come back and see us again!"

and that was the last note hanging in the evening.

BYOBlog.

The time has come to say goodbye, our plates empty except
for our greasy napkins. Comrades, you on my left, balding,
middle-aged guy with a ponytail, and you, Lefty, there on my
right, though we barely spoke I feel our kinship. You were
steadfast in passing the ketchup, the salt and pepper, no man
could ask for better companions. Lunch is over, the cheese-
burger and fries, the Denver sandwich, the counter nearly
empty. Now we must go our separate ways. Not a fond embrace,
but perhaps a hearty handshake. No? Well then, farewell. It is
unlikely I'll pass this way again. Unlikely we will all meet again
on this earth, to sit together beneath the neon and fluorescent
calmly sipping our coffee, like the sages sipping their tea
underneath the willow, sitting quietly, saying nothing.

In shady lanes not too far from home
A man walked by,
Crowbar by his thigh
And strode the path all quiet and low.

In search of a Ford or some ill-gotten treasure
in the moment of heat
he forgot on the street
-a matter of mechanics not taken into measure.

Perchance, the thought crossed through his mind
As the axe bit the lock
and the window, the rock
A much larger sound should follow behind?

Ferocious alarms confirmed in his head
his results of contriving
to escape away driving
Would send him off running instead.

(He slipped away, all quiet and sleek
and then the roosters began to speak.)

"We have seen the sun rise in all of its shiny glory
with heat as it swells:
perhaps today it rises differently--
today it arises with alarums and bells!

"We will announce to the world
its new brand of forthcoming!
Arise all ye roosters--
commence in your humming!"

The man with the axe
now retracing his tracks
all solemn and low
and full of woe
who suffered his bar
that hit the car
that did the harm
that set the alarm
that made the roosters crow.

The commotion was multiplied triple with shouts
of the owner perplexed
and neighbors all vexed
commotion all loud
and roosters all proud
,crowbarman left to his doubts.

All return to normal, at last!
So go to bed,
you sleepy rooster heads
The morn will come as it usually has.
Whence you may herald the morning
as usual then
(but not at 11:50 pm)
in the neighborhood near
where a car sheds a tear
and the people are worn
All stirred and forlorn
at the man with the axe
now retracing his tracks
all solemn and low
and full of woe
Who suffered his bar
that hit the car
that did the harm
that set the alarm
that made the roosters crow.
The end

What's going on?

Help!

You also may see there at said gas station the kind of people who you classify, stereotype as "hicks". With the awefulest names like "Bubba," who look about the stature of someone who has 3 balanced meals a day of coffee and cigarrettes. But scorn them not-- for they may be the very people who try to help you jump your car-- they will even lend you their jumper cables for a while, and offer you to put a new starter in your car for; "I cu'd put a new starter in your car for ...twunny bucks." Riiight. These hicks are of the knowledgable sort- you can tell by the car grease on their hands. And they haven't even touched your car yet. God bless the hicks of the world-- we need someone to fix our cars. --You nearly trust them-- until Bubba and his friend Tom start having a conversation in front of you on how to use jumper cables. "No, Bubba, you dingaling!! --ladies, I'm sorry you had to hear that-- You attach the POSITIVE first to the RED one and THEN you do the same to the OTHER car." "Naw!! I'm SURE you do it THIS way."

uhm. yeah. ....time passes... a real mechanic fixes your car. He tells you how much it might cost. "You're MEAN" I say. "Look, I'm just trying to be honest, ok?!" he says. Then he tells you how much it will REALLY cost. It has a comma in it. you cry.

Then Mom tells you that it's all God's money anyway and if this is how He wants to spend it, that's up to him!!

The Lord gives. The Lord takes away. Blessed be the Name of the Lord.

I am home safe. And well taken care of. hoorah!

Laughter not time destroyed my voice
And put that crack in it,
And when the moon's pot-bellied
I get a laughing fit,
For that old Madge comes down the lane,
A stone upon her breast,
And a cloak wrapped about the stone,
And she can get no rest
With singing hush and hush-a-bye;
She that has been wild
And barren as a breaking wave
Thinks that the stone's a child.

And Peter that had great affairs
And was a pushing man
Shrieks, 'I am King of the Peacocks,'
And perches on a stone;
And then I laugh till tears run down
And the heart thumps at my side,
Remembering that her shriek was love
And that he shrieks from pride.