The Man With a Tricorder in His Ear

I saw a man with a Tricorder in his ear this morning. No, I have not been drinking. . .I saw what I saw. The man had a Tricorder, straight from Star Trek, stuck in his ear. I got a pretty good look because I was standing behind him at Starbucks. Actually, it wasn't exactly stuck in his ear. . .it was sort of laying across his ear, attached with a rubber thingy that wrapped around the sticky-out part of his left ear.

At first I thought it might be a hearing aid. But it was way too colorful and BIG. The color was a muted metallic red, green and blue with some gold trim. Hearing aids, at least the ones I'm familiar with, are much duller in tone, designed to blend in so people won't notice them. Nope. It was no hearing aid. This guy wanted you to notice this thing. He was damn proud of it as near as I could tell. Then I thought it might be a cell phone. I mean, he was the sort of guy that would be talking on a cell-phone in Starbucks. . .very tan, with close-cropped hair and beard with a touch of gray. . .very curt in his manner. . .a man who knows exactly what kind of frapacapawhatever coffee drink he wants. But still. . .I didn’t get the impression he was insecure and needed to scream, "Hey look at me! I'm so important I've got a freakin' cell phone strapped across my ear!" No. It was a tricorder. . .had to be. The only thing I can figure is his personal trainer/guru gave it to him to wear as a kind of hi-tech-new-age-fetish-therapy-device. It's been a long time since I've watched Star Trek. . .but those things have healing properties, right? Maybe he's got a heart condition or asthma or bunions. Strapped to his ear, the tricorder’s healing rays probably constantly bathe his body with positive energy. Hell, I felt good just standing behind the guy.

Well, we both got our coffee and were walking out to our cars when all of a sudden I started hearing voices. . .or at least, one voice. . .somewhere in the vicinity of my head. I’m not kidding. It was so striking that I reached up to see if there was anything strapped across my ear. There wasn’t, but the voice persisted and even though it was quiet, it was very distinct.
“Tricorder huh?”, the voice asked.
With a knee-jerk reaction I shook my head and giggled, “Yeah. . .can you believe it?” Then, with the slow burn of embarrassment sweeping across my face, I realized I was apparently talking to myself in a public parking lot. But before my face completely lit up, the voice stated flatly, “It wasn’t a tricorder. It’s just a cell phone. He uses it while he drives. . .he just left it on while he stopped for a cup of coffee. I’m a little surprised you even noticed it.”
“What? The guy looked liked a walking advertisement for Brookstone”, I countered somewhat defensively.
“Well”, the voice continued. “Maybe. . .but how can you see anything with the Starship Enterprise stuck in your eye.”
“Huh?”, I asked with a certain sickening feeling that accompanies these kinds of moments when old Sunday School lessons start coming back to you.
“Nevermind”, was all I could muster as I got in my car and peeled out of that haunted parking lot, forgetting I had left my coffee on the top of my car.

Flies and Bees

Scene 1: Brush Prairie, WA. Watching Anne of Green Gables with the kids. 1990. Marilla has just told Anne that she can't stay at Green Gables. . .
ANNE: I can't eat. I can never eat when I'm in the depths of despair.
MARILLA: The depths of despair?
ANNE: Can you eat when you're that way?
MARILLA: I've never been that way.
ANNE: Can't you even imagine you're in the depths of despair?
MARILLA: No, I can not. To despair is to turn your back on God. This is your room for the night. Wash up and then come down for supper.

Scene 2: Southbourgh, MA. L'Abri. 1993. Dick Keyes wheels around on me as we make our way down the hallway of the "main house", staring at me somewhat menacingly, and says firmly, "Cynicism is incompatible with Christianity!" I was taken aback, because all I had said was, "The older I've gotten, the more cynical I've become." In reality though, I had thought that by letting Dick know I was somewhat "cynical", and not just another cheesy evangelical, I would gain access to the inner sanctum of intellectual discussions with this man who I respected. Uhhh. . .it didn't work out.

Scene 3: Mount Athos, Greece. (Not sure of the date. . .probably within the last 20 years. Elder Paisios died July 12, 1994.) Elder Paisios is telling a story to some visitors who were complaining of nothing but scandals and mismanagement in their parishes: The elder says, "I know from experience that in this life people are divided in two categories. The first one resembles the fly. When a fly is found in a garden full of flowers with beautiful fragrances, it will ignore them and will go sit on top of some dung found on the ground. If the fly could talk, and you asked it to show you a rose in the garden, it would answer: 'I don’t even know what a rose looks like. I only know where to find garbage'. The other category is like the bee whose main characteristic is to always look for something sweet and nice to sit on. When a bee is found in a room full of dung and there is a small piece of sweet in a corner, it will ignore the dung and will go to sit on top of the sweet. Now, if we ask the bee to show us where the garden is, it will answer: 'I don’t know. I can only tell you where to find flowers, sweets, honey and sugar’. This is the second category of people who have a positive way of thinking, and see only the good side of things. They always try to cover up the evil in order to protect their fellow men; on the contrary, people in the first category try to expose the evil and bring it to the surface."

Cynicism has been fashionable for a long time in some circles. I don't care. . .I wannabe a bee.

The Old Woman

Over the past few years I've begun to feel a certain sadness that older people in our culture are often marginalized. No wonder so many old folks "retire" and act like such idiots spending their time in search of the perfect "leisure activity". Generally, they are not needed by the wider culture, so who can blame them for "goofing off" until they die. It seems to me that the so-called cultural revolution (i.e. "the sixties") really did a number on the notion of having respect for one's elders. Of course, it was cool to think that way when I was younger because it was a convenient justification for my adolescent self-absorption. I could ignore the wisdom offered by my elders as being "out of touch", or "archaic", or "repressive", or whatever and smugly assume I was right because most everyone my age was thinking the same thing. I was a typical, young, arrogant, middle-class white man without a lot of life experience and therefore ignorant of all the things that can go wrong in life and relationships. Who needs nautical advice when the seas are calm? But now that I've been "out here" a few years and have hung over the railings many times with failed relationships and unrealized dreams. . .I find myself more open to a little help from my older, and often wiser, friends.

Where the Good Stuff Happens

I watched A Concert for George on PBS last night. . .had never seen it before. Lots of great musicians, and of course lots of great music. One performance in particular touched me. . .Clapton's solo on My Guitar Gently Weeps. It was so emotional and heartfelt. The electric guitar can be such an expressive instrument in the right hands and heart. The heart. . .that's where all the good stuff happens.