Adam Holt's Blog, page 6
April 25, 2016
A Beatitude in a Microcosm: the DC Book Tour 2016
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
I experienced this beatitude in a microcosm last week during a writer's workshop.
His name wasn't Mateo, but he was a student at Redland Middle School in Gaithersburg, Maryland. He was in seventh grade, was tiny (like my main character Tully), and spoke English as a second language. Based on what I saw, Mateo didn't want to be in a writer's workshop that day.
Last year I requested, as I usually do, students "self-select" to join the writer's workshop. That way they've shown a level of commitment to me that they will be positive workshop participants. They've said, "I want to write," and they expect to do so in the workshop. Self-selection is better for them and more manageable for me, I felt, but Mateo may have changed my mind.
It didn't start well. Mateo struggled through our first exercise - developing a list of "writing territories," places that you can go as a writer. I gave examples, students shouted out a few, and then most students dove in to their own lists. Mateo scribbled a few oversized doublespaced words into a blank notebook. Then he began tapping his pen. I walked over and asked him, "What's your favorite sport, Mateo? What do you like to do? That's a whole territory that you can write down!" He shrugged. I hovered over him patiently and expectantly. He tried to catch someone else's eye who might think the situation funny, but not finding anyone else for help, he wrote a few more words to satisfy me. "Soccer. My house." I wandered off.
The next time I saw him he had found something better to occupy his time -- getting his pen stuck in the leaves of a potted plant that hung over his desk. I walked over to him as he tried to extricate the pen.
Top left: the offending plant.
"The pen's stuck in the plant! Check it out!" he exclaimed in an excited whisper. It was a magical moment for him, of course. I could see it in his eyes. What better excuse NOT to write. Even nature itself was trying to keep him from doing anything productive. Meanwhile several students shared their writing territories in hushed tones. They couldn't wait to start their stories while Mateo enjoyed his vegetative hijinx.
These scenarios always make me sad rather than angry. How many times in life do we busy ourselves with pointless distractions and miss an opportunity to achieve our full potentials? How often did I do that in 7th grade? It's not the disobedience that bothers me. It's the missed opportunity. At any rate, Mateo's teachers didn't notice or seem alarmed. After he finally extracted his pen from his plant ally, he wrote down a few more words. Four words, while many of the other students now had half a page full. I walked away and said a brief prayer for him, not knowing what else I could do.
This was most of the rest of the workshop for him, even after they started "exploring one of their territories" (aka starting a story). Mateo's pen did many things, but between getting stuck in the tree and tapping his neighbor, it did little else until I walked over to him again. Sometimes I would let this slide and focus on other more engaged students, but I didn't want to give up on little Mateo. He reminded me too much of me, too much of Tully. He reminded me I was here to do the hard, right things and not the easy things. Thinking of his name, remembering his first language wasn't English, I didn't want to give up on this little wandering sheep. God called us to find little fellas like this. Just like he found me, he found us. So I wandered back to Mateo, and finally found something useful and honest to say.
"Mateo, I know this isn't easy," I said. "It's normal for this to be hard and uncomfortable. It's tempting to just be silly and not try this, but you know what? You can do this. I believe in you. I can see in your eyes that you're a smart boy with lots of energy. So will you try? You might surprise yourself. I know you can do it. I know you can. I know."
Mateo put his head down for a moment and looked at the scribbled words. I walked away and hoped for the best, working with a few other sheep who were running headlong in the direction they were supposed to go. Supposed to go? No, these are their stories. They choose the direction. This is where the sheep analogy breaks down.
Just like the Redland's teachers broke down my perception of what my writer's workshops are supposed to be. As the students continued writing, I figured out why the teachers had hardly noticed the goofy, distracted Mateo. One of them pointed to a boy who had been writing almost the entire period. I'd said very little to him. "You see Alex. He's usually been suspended from school by this point in the day. Look at him!" I had hardly noticed the boy, but Alex poured himself into his work. Little Mateo goofed and struggled on, but Alex amazed them with his effort. That's when they helped me realize: I envisioned a perfect workshop with every participant completely engaged, but this one student's efforts were a more perfect result than I could have foreseen or hoped for. I'll take something done well over something that appears perfect any time. I'm not sure I could have said that before this workshop.
We wrapped up with a Q&A on writing. They had a few questions, and most of them looked like they'd enjoyed the fifty minutes we spent together. The bell rang. My last morning session ended.
Alex shifted out of the room before I met him, but not Mateo, the little goofball. He stopped in front of me.
"Thanks." Goofy Mateo stuck out his hand gave me a firm handshake. Then he pulled out the bookmark I gave him at the beginning of the period. It was now slightly mangled. "Uh, would you sign this?" he asked me.
"Sure," I said. "Did you get some writing done?"
"I did," and he showed me half a page. Then he waved good-bye on the way out of the room.
I'm not the hero in either of these scenarios, traveling to distant schools and doing particularly amazing things. No, this vignette shows what happens when students have the space and the support they need to succeed. Not every student will finish the story they began in the workshop. Not every student will take me on the challenge to write twenty minutes every day and share their work with friends. I'm okay with that because on this day, these two students, who probably mourn the beginning of a school day, found joy, comfort, and fun in the midst of it. It was worth crossing the country with a backpack full of bookmarks to meet these two boys -- Mateo who shook my hand and Alex who didn't get an in-school suspension by noon.
-A
I experienced this beatitude in a microcosm last week during a writer's workshop.
His name wasn't Mateo, but he was a student at Redland Middle School in Gaithersburg, Maryland. He was in seventh grade, was tiny (like my main character Tully), and spoke English as a second language. Based on what I saw, Mateo didn't want to be in a writer's workshop that day.
Last year I requested, as I usually do, students "self-select" to join the writer's workshop. That way they've shown a level of commitment to me that they will be positive workshop participants. They've said, "I want to write," and they expect to do so in the workshop. Self-selection is better for them and more manageable for me, I felt, but Mateo may have changed my mind.
It didn't start well. Mateo struggled through our first exercise - developing a list of "writing territories," places that you can go as a writer. I gave examples, students shouted out a few, and then most students dove in to their own lists. Mateo scribbled a few oversized doublespaced words into a blank notebook. Then he began tapping his pen. I walked over and asked him, "What's your favorite sport, Mateo? What do you like to do? That's a whole territory that you can write down!" He shrugged. I hovered over him patiently and expectantly. He tried to catch someone else's eye who might think the situation funny, but not finding anyone else for help, he wrote a few more words to satisfy me. "Soccer. My house." I wandered off.
The next time I saw him he had found something better to occupy his time -- getting his pen stuck in the leaves of a potted plant that hung over his desk. I walked over to him as he tried to extricate the pen.
Top left: the offending plant."The pen's stuck in the plant! Check it out!" he exclaimed in an excited whisper. It was a magical moment for him, of course. I could see it in his eyes. What better excuse NOT to write. Even nature itself was trying to keep him from doing anything productive. Meanwhile several students shared their writing territories in hushed tones. They couldn't wait to start their stories while Mateo enjoyed his vegetative hijinx.
These scenarios always make me sad rather than angry. How many times in life do we busy ourselves with pointless distractions and miss an opportunity to achieve our full potentials? How often did I do that in 7th grade? It's not the disobedience that bothers me. It's the missed opportunity. At any rate, Mateo's teachers didn't notice or seem alarmed. After he finally extracted his pen from his plant ally, he wrote down a few more words. Four words, while many of the other students now had half a page full. I walked away and said a brief prayer for him, not knowing what else I could do.
This was most of the rest of the workshop for him, even after they started "exploring one of their territories" (aka starting a story). Mateo's pen did many things, but between getting stuck in the tree and tapping his neighbor, it did little else until I walked over to him again. Sometimes I would let this slide and focus on other more engaged students, but I didn't want to give up on little Mateo. He reminded me too much of me, too much of Tully. He reminded me I was here to do the hard, right things and not the easy things. Thinking of his name, remembering his first language wasn't English, I didn't want to give up on this little wandering sheep. God called us to find little fellas like this. Just like he found me, he found us. So I wandered back to Mateo, and finally found something useful and honest to say.
"Mateo, I know this isn't easy," I said. "It's normal for this to be hard and uncomfortable. It's tempting to just be silly and not try this, but you know what? You can do this. I believe in you. I can see in your eyes that you're a smart boy with lots of energy. So will you try? You might surprise yourself. I know you can do it. I know you can. I know."
Mateo put his head down for a moment and looked at the scribbled words. I walked away and hoped for the best, working with a few other sheep who were running headlong in the direction they were supposed to go. Supposed to go? No, these are their stories. They choose the direction. This is where the sheep analogy breaks down.
Just like the Redland's teachers broke down my perception of what my writer's workshops are supposed to be. As the students continued writing, I figured out why the teachers had hardly noticed the goofy, distracted Mateo. One of them pointed to a boy who had been writing almost the entire period. I'd said very little to him. "You see Alex. He's usually been suspended from school by this point in the day. Look at him!" I had hardly noticed the boy, but Alex poured himself into his work. Little Mateo goofed and struggled on, but Alex amazed them with his effort. That's when they helped me realize: I envisioned a perfect workshop with every participant completely engaged, but this one student's efforts were a more perfect result than I could have foreseen or hoped for. I'll take something done well over something that appears perfect any time. I'm not sure I could have said that before this workshop.
We wrapped up with a Q&A on writing. They had a few questions, and most of them looked like they'd enjoyed the fifty minutes we spent together. The bell rang. My last morning session ended.
Alex shifted out of the room before I met him, but not Mateo, the little goofball. He stopped in front of me.
"Thanks." Goofy Mateo stuck out his hand gave me a firm handshake. Then he pulled out the bookmark I gave him at the beginning of the period. It was now slightly mangled. "Uh, would you sign this?" he asked me.
"Sure," I said. "Did you get some writing done?"
"I did," and he showed me half a page. Then he waved good-bye on the way out of the room.
I'm not the hero in either of these scenarios, traveling to distant schools and doing particularly amazing things. No, this vignette shows what happens when students have the space and the support they need to succeed. Not every student will finish the story they began in the workshop. Not every student will take me on the challenge to write twenty minutes every day and share their work with friends. I'm okay with that because on this day, these two students, who probably mourn the beginning of a school day, found joy, comfort, and fun in the midst of it. It was worth crossing the country with a backpack full of bookmarks to meet these two boys -- Mateo who shook my hand and Alex who didn't get an in-school suspension by noon.
-A
April 19, 2016
Day One: the DC Tour 2016
*forgive any and all typoes. Ritten on my phone.
Watching the historic floodwaters roll through white oak bayou, I wasn't sure it was going to work out. My trip to DC, that is, which includes a stayover with family. This trip was months in the planning, and this particular school invited me back for a second year with double the book orders. They wrote notes to their principal asking for me to return. My goodness, how could I miss this? https://instagram.com/p/BEWZqEDL8-H/
Fortunately the rain relented. I made my flight in the nick of time with my tote full of books and landed safely at DCA a few hours later.
Yes, I used a Star Wars tote to carry some of the copies. Tully would be pleased. I also wrote a new chapter on the flight, so he should be doubly pleased. Even rote it on my phone! :)
It was a delight to see my cousin, her hubby, and their son. We toured the spy museum, where I assumed the identity of a 26 year old Nigerian banker who was trying to smuggle a microdot out of Germany.
My cousins made it out, but I was detained at the border. You think I'm kidding, but you have to assume an identity when you enter the museum, and this time I was not as lucky as the last. After the museum we headed to Clyde's for dinner. Hangar steak salad. Perfecto.
Then we returned home, taking in the DC skyline and listening to the sweet songs of 80s hair metal. That got us talking about music. My cousin writes songs and plays guitar beautifully. He shared one of his songs with me (excellent melodies and images), and I shared two of my songs too. I have only done so with a few other folks.
It's great to have family and friends spread out across the states, especially ones that will drop what they're doing and show you their city. More than that, share their lives with me. That's what I hope to do this week with the students I visit: make them feel every bit as welcome in a writer's workshop as I do when visiting friends and family. I didn't see a rainbow after the storms yesterday. I looked for one, but I didn't need to. This was the rainbow I needed.
Watching the historic floodwaters roll through white oak bayou, I wasn't sure it was going to work out. My trip to DC, that is, which includes a stayover with family. This trip was months in the planning, and this particular school invited me back for a second year with double the book orders. They wrote notes to their principal asking for me to return. My goodness, how could I miss this? https://instagram.com/p/BEWZqEDL8-H/
Fortunately the rain relented. I made my flight in the nick of time with my tote full of books and landed safely at DCA a few hours later.
Yes, I used a Star Wars tote to carry some of the copies. Tully would be pleased. I also wrote a new chapter on the flight, so he should be doubly pleased. Even rote it on my phone! :)It was a delight to see my cousin, her hubby, and their son. We toured the spy museum, where I assumed the identity of a 26 year old Nigerian banker who was trying to smuggle a microdot out of Germany.
My cousins made it out, but I was detained at the border. You think I'm kidding, but you have to assume an identity when you enter the museum, and this time I was not as lucky as the last. After the museum we headed to Clyde's for dinner. Hangar steak salad. Perfecto.
Then we returned home, taking in the DC skyline and listening to the sweet songs of 80s hair metal. That got us talking about music. My cousin writes songs and plays guitar beautifully. He shared one of his songs with me (excellent melodies and images), and I shared two of my songs too. I have only done so with a few other folks. It's great to have family and friends spread out across the states, especially ones that will drop what they're doing and show you their city. More than that, share their lives with me. That's what I hope to do this week with the students I visit: make them feel every bit as welcome in a writer's workshop as I do when visiting friends and family. I didn't see a rainbow after the storms yesterday. I looked for one, but I didn't need to. This was the rainbow I needed.
March 24, 2016
Jesus in Space | A Christian's Case for Manned Space Exploration
For Easter I decided, at long last, to publish this piece I wrote several years ago.
"The word “Earth” does not seem to bind us to a certain plot of land. It never has. It is a concept that constantly extends with our reach, and our reach is not near its potential, not by a long shot."
Jesus in Space | A Christian's Case for Manned Space Exploration -by Adam Holt
A few months ago I found myself standing on the side of a Florida causeway outside Cape Canaveral, waiting for a NASA rocket to launch a satellite to Mars. My fellow rocket enthusiasts, the @NASASocial group, stood alongside me. We were a diverse crew of social media mavens that NASA invited to the launch for PR purposes. There were teachers, astronomers, fighter pilots, ex-Navy SEALs, and even three volunteers for the Mars One Project, which will potentially give its crew a ticket to Mars. A one-way ticket to Mars to establish a colony there.
That caught my attention. Does it catch yours? Volunteers for the Mars One Project would forsake their lives here on Earth for a chance to land on truly foreign soil and maybe pioneer a way for us to live there--or die trying.
So as we heard the countdown and watched the rocket leap off the pad with that beautiful crunchy boom, a question came to me, rather unexpectedly, though I have asked it of myself many times:
Should Christians support space exploration, let alone manned space exploration? Just where do we think we're going?
It's one thing to launch satellites to study the failed Martian atmosphere, quite another to imagine sending these charming 20-somethings standing beside me to risk their lives on a foreign planet. Seems ludicrous, confounding, and brave.
And yet, watching the rocket ascend into the clouds, I empathized with the Mars One Project hopefuls. How could I not?
I am a Christian.
Consider my life: I believe Jesus Christ died for our sins and will one day return to establish a kingdom of love and peace upon the Earth. I give up a lot of things for that belief here on Earth. Likewise my space-crazed friends would give up life on Earth for their beliefs.
So why should Christians support space exploration? I believe they should, but not simply to empathize with space enthusiasts. First, consider why they shouldn't.
I can imagine this rationale for skepticism of space exploration: Look, God designed this world and planned for Adam and Eve to tend a garden. "Subdue the Earth," He said. Simple enough. Then our progenitors committed the original sin by eating the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil and utterly ruined God’s garden plan. Thus, separation from God. So Christ came to right that wrong and while he was at it enact a bigger plan for humanity to inhabit the Earth and also dwell eternally with the Creator God. Then Christ ascended into Heaven, and we Christians have been discussing the date, method, and means of His return ever since. Therefore, Christ is coming back to Earth. So why should we travel to the other planets? What's the point? We'll never get far anyway. We should spend our money and efforts here on Earth, taking care of the planet and its inhabitants, rather than running off to explore the rest of His creation.
Point taken, Straw Man, point taken. I agree with a number of your italicized remarks.
God did all of those things, and that was and is roughly His plan for His kingdom, with plenty of theological landmines worth tripping on if you like that sort of thing. I do, but now’s not the time. I want you to consider this counter argument to an Earthbound humanity and, consequently, an Earthbound Christianity.
God did indeed say to Adam and Eve to tend the garden. That was their charge. So what then was Christ's charge to us? To love the Lord, love our neighbor, and spread the gospel to the ends of the Earth.
Earth: my argument depends upon that word. Earth, which has been expanding since the beginning of our first recorded thoughts, which began in a garden, a plot of land big enough for Adam and Eve to tend. Was it 50 acres? 500? 500,000? It was their entire world, all which God revealed to them of His Earth.
But then they left the garden and the world grew in front of their eyes. A gate, and beyond the gate an expansive land, already populated it would seem. The Earth grew so large that Adam and Eve couldn't see from one side to the other. How many miles across was it?
Generations passed. And from there the Israelites journeyed in the desert, then were enslaved in Egypt. How big was the Earth then, getting fuller of people groups and bodies of water at every turn?
And on and on, as Galileo blasphemed and told us the terrestrial ball was not only huge but round, and as Columbus prepared to sail to India and bumped into terra incognita, and beyond it an unforeseen ocean that the West had not yet glimpsed. On and on the Earth expanded until finally Neal Armstrong put down a flag on a dusty rock and looked back at the blue and green spaceship we are all riding through the limitless universe that God designed. My point is this: the word “Earth” does not seem to bind us to a certain plot of land. It never has. It is a concept that constantly extends with humanity's reach, and our reach is not near its potential, not by a long shot. Neither, then, is the kingdom of God, as Christ calls it.
Dali, Ascension [1]
For the Christian, then, the Earth that Adam was given to subdue is humanity's start as well as Christ's returning point. He will indeed return in glory, and when he does, where will all the humans be? At least a handful likely will not be on Earth. They'll be on a space station. Would He hold the rest of us back from exploring the rest of His creation? What if He intended for us to do so? That seems equally plausible and within our abilities.
Humans use their abilities well in space. So many good things have come from our current exploration. Manned space exploration has thus far produced advances that help people on Earth live better lives. It has also lead nations to work toward common goals while exploring. Considering our terrible, Earthbound track record of exploration, and considering that the original US/USSR “space race” was a struggle for world power, it's refreshing to see a myriad of countries working together on the International Space Station—cooperation, not domination or exploitation.
From the ISS we push the boundaries of land--and of human achievement and understanding, even as we struggle in the land below to feed and clothe those in need. Why would we stop that good work on the edge of our atmosphere? Why not extend that work of togetherness to other inhabitable planets and moon in the solar system? In short, space is one of the few things we humans do right, in a way I hope one day our Creator will say, Well done, good and faithful servant.
Space won’t be a utopia, of course. After all, humans are the ones going there, and we tend to make a mess of things before we try to make them right, pure though our motivations seem be to be; however, it seems like we’re taking some very positive steps toward acting more, not less, like the people in Christ’s parables the farther we travel from the Earth.
Christ told us to go to the ends of the Earth, and the Earth just seems to keep expanding. In a matter of decades “Earth,” in those terms, will encompass near space and extend to Mars and possibly the moon. If the apostle Paul could travel to the ends of the Earth in his time, modern Christians should follow his example as they always have, even if it does call them beyond the comfort of the atmosphere that we call home.
May grace and peace be yours this Easter.
Adam
PS - NASA's MAVEN Project.
"The word “Earth” does not seem to bind us to a certain plot of land. It never has. It is a concept that constantly extends with our reach, and our reach is not near its potential, not by a long shot."
Jesus in Space | A Christian's Case for Manned Space Exploration -by Adam Holt
A few months ago I found myself standing on the side of a Florida causeway outside Cape Canaveral, waiting for a NASA rocket to launch a satellite to Mars. My fellow rocket enthusiasts, the @NASASocial group, stood alongside me. We were a diverse crew of social media mavens that NASA invited to the launch for PR purposes. There were teachers, astronomers, fighter pilots, ex-Navy SEALs, and even three volunteers for the Mars One Project, which will potentially give its crew a ticket to Mars. A one-way ticket to Mars to establish a colony there.
That caught my attention. Does it catch yours? Volunteers for the Mars One Project would forsake their lives here on Earth for a chance to land on truly foreign soil and maybe pioneer a way for us to live there--or die trying.
So as we heard the countdown and watched the rocket leap off the pad with that beautiful crunchy boom, a question came to me, rather unexpectedly, though I have asked it of myself many times:
Should Christians support space exploration, let alone manned space exploration? Just where do we think we're going?
It's one thing to launch satellites to study the failed Martian atmosphere, quite another to imagine sending these charming 20-somethings standing beside me to risk their lives on a foreign planet. Seems ludicrous, confounding, and brave.
And yet, watching the rocket ascend into the clouds, I empathized with the Mars One Project hopefuls. How could I not?
I am a Christian.
Consider my life: I believe Jesus Christ died for our sins and will one day return to establish a kingdom of love and peace upon the Earth. I give up a lot of things for that belief here on Earth. Likewise my space-crazed friends would give up life on Earth for their beliefs.
So why should Christians support space exploration? I believe they should, but not simply to empathize with space enthusiasts. First, consider why they shouldn't.
I can imagine this rationale for skepticism of space exploration: Look, God designed this world and planned for Adam and Eve to tend a garden. "Subdue the Earth," He said. Simple enough. Then our progenitors committed the original sin by eating the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil and utterly ruined God’s garden plan. Thus, separation from God. So Christ came to right that wrong and while he was at it enact a bigger plan for humanity to inhabit the Earth and also dwell eternally with the Creator God. Then Christ ascended into Heaven, and we Christians have been discussing the date, method, and means of His return ever since. Therefore, Christ is coming back to Earth. So why should we travel to the other planets? What's the point? We'll never get far anyway. We should spend our money and efforts here on Earth, taking care of the planet and its inhabitants, rather than running off to explore the rest of His creation.
Point taken, Straw Man, point taken. I agree with a number of your italicized remarks.
God did all of those things, and that was and is roughly His plan for His kingdom, with plenty of theological landmines worth tripping on if you like that sort of thing. I do, but now’s not the time. I want you to consider this counter argument to an Earthbound humanity and, consequently, an Earthbound Christianity.
God did indeed say to Adam and Eve to tend the garden. That was their charge. So what then was Christ's charge to us? To love the Lord, love our neighbor, and spread the gospel to the ends of the Earth.
Earth: my argument depends upon that word. Earth, which has been expanding since the beginning of our first recorded thoughts, which began in a garden, a plot of land big enough for Adam and Eve to tend. Was it 50 acres? 500? 500,000? It was their entire world, all which God revealed to them of His Earth.
But then they left the garden and the world grew in front of their eyes. A gate, and beyond the gate an expansive land, already populated it would seem. The Earth grew so large that Adam and Eve couldn't see from one side to the other. How many miles across was it?
Generations passed. And from there the Israelites journeyed in the desert, then were enslaved in Egypt. How big was the Earth then, getting fuller of people groups and bodies of water at every turn?
And on and on, as Galileo blasphemed and told us the terrestrial ball was not only huge but round, and as Columbus prepared to sail to India and bumped into terra incognita, and beyond it an unforeseen ocean that the West had not yet glimpsed. On and on the Earth expanded until finally Neal Armstrong put down a flag on a dusty rock and looked back at the blue and green spaceship we are all riding through the limitless universe that God designed. My point is this: the word “Earth” does not seem to bind us to a certain plot of land. It never has. It is a concept that constantly extends with humanity's reach, and our reach is not near its potential, not by a long shot. Neither, then, is the kingdom of God, as Christ calls it.
Dali, Ascension [1]For the Christian, then, the Earth that Adam was given to subdue is humanity's start as well as Christ's returning point. He will indeed return in glory, and when he does, where will all the humans be? At least a handful likely will not be on Earth. They'll be on a space station. Would He hold the rest of us back from exploring the rest of His creation? What if He intended for us to do so? That seems equally plausible and within our abilities.
Humans use their abilities well in space. So many good things have come from our current exploration. Manned space exploration has thus far produced advances that help people on Earth live better lives. It has also lead nations to work toward common goals while exploring. Considering our terrible, Earthbound track record of exploration, and considering that the original US/USSR “space race” was a struggle for world power, it's refreshing to see a myriad of countries working together on the International Space Station—cooperation, not domination or exploitation.
From the ISS we push the boundaries of land--and of human achievement and understanding, even as we struggle in the land below to feed and clothe those in need. Why would we stop that good work on the edge of our atmosphere? Why not extend that work of togetherness to other inhabitable planets and moon in the solar system? In short, space is one of the few things we humans do right, in a way I hope one day our Creator will say, Well done, good and faithful servant.
Space won’t be a utopia, of course. After all, humans are the ones going there, and we tend to make a mess of things before we try to make them right, pure though our motivations seem be to be; however, it seems like we’re taking some very positive steps toward acting more, not less, like the people in Christ’s parables the farther we travel from the Earth.
Christ told us to go to the ends of the Earth, and the Earth just seems to keep expanding. In a matter of decades “Earth,” in those terms, will encompass near space and extend to Mars and possibly the moon. If the apostle Paul could travel to the ends of the Earth in his time, modern Christians should follow his example as they always have, even if it does call them beyond the comfort of the atmosphere that we call home.
May grace and peace be yours this Easter.
Adam
PS - NASA's MAVEN Project.
March 21, 2016
An Amazon Giveaway - PLEASE SHARE!
Hi, folks,
Amazon has a new giveaway program for authors, and I jumped on the opportunity to use it. You can enter to win a copy of my first novel, The Conspiracy Game, on Kindle right here: https://giveaway.amazon.com/p/824b7e4f0d9a7ec9. Let me know if you have any problems since it's new.
There are three digital copies available. You can enter here and share this link on Twitter, Facebook, or email it to a friend. I'll announce the winners before my next event. When's that? Saturday, April 7 at Dunn Brothers in Friendswood, TX. I'll be selling and signing books there that day.
Yours truly,
Adam
PS - It's World Poetry Day. Here's a pic from my last trip and one of my favorite lines from an E.E. cumming's poem called "maggie and milly and molly and may."
Amazon has a new giveaway program for authors, and I jumped on the opportunity to use it. You can enter to win a copy of my first novel, The Conspiracy Game, on Kindle right here: https://giveaway.amazon.com/p/824b7e4f0d9a7ec9. Let me know if you have any problems since it's new.
There are three digital copies available. You can enter here and share this link on Twitter, Facebook, or email it to a friend. I'll announce the winners before my next event. When's that? Saturday, April 7 at Dunn Brothers in Friendswood, TX. I'll be selling and signing books there that day.
Yours truly,
Adam
PS - It's World Poetry Day. Here's a pic from my last trip and one of my favorite lines from an E.E. cumming's poem called "maggie and milly and molly and may."
March 17, 2016
A St. Patrick's Day Message
You may notice some of my characters say this. It's a theme but it's also a reference to this old Irish blessing. Instead of a road, it's the universe rising up to meet Tully...and us. I like that idea and this blessing. It's mine for you. Happy St. Patrick's Day! May God hold you in the palm of His hand.
February 27, 2016
Pearland author visit!
After a very nice welcome...
I spent some wonderful time at Alexander Middle School this week.
Don't let my face in the fourth picture fool you. There in the cafetorium we talked about Tully, swimming in low gravity, and how to ace the STAAR test, among other things. It was a blast, and visiting a school just a few miles from my grandparent's house made it personally gratifying. Hope I did you proud, grandma. :)
Getting messages like this one on Instagram make author visits worth it. I actually stumbled onto a good project for kids over spring break. When I say "good," I'm means productive, engaging, with an air of slight rebelliousness, the kind of thing that strikes a chord with 5th and 6th graders. See where the idea came from in the video - a reaction to one student's comment about staying up all night.
"Go, and do not delay." - A
I spent some wonderful time at Alexander Middle School this week.
Don't let my face in the fourth picture fool you. There in the cafetorium we talked about Tully, swimming in low gravity, and how to ace the STAAR test, among other things. It was a blast, and visiting a school just a few miles from my grandparent's house made it personally gratifying. Hope I did you proud, grandma. :)
Getting messages like this one on Instagram make author visits worth it. I actually stumbled onto a good project for kids over spring break. When I say "good," I'm means productive, engaging, with an air of slight rebelliousness, the kind of thing that strikes a chord with 5th and 6th graders. See where the idea came from in the video - a reaction to one student's comment about staying up all night."Go, and do not delay." - A
February 22, 2016
Paris, Chapter 4: Tossed, But Not Sunk
II.
*Read Part Three first...
I reached my destination after a long walk.
Bataclan is on the Rue de Voltaire — Voltaire, who said, “I may disagree with what you have to say, but I will defend what you have to say unto the death.” The antithesis of everything about Isis, everything about terrorism.
The Latin graffiti may have cleared my mind, but the sight of such a recent terrorist attack cleared my heart.
Tossed, but not sunk.
Bataclan is an imposing, strange building, a work of Chinese architecture every bit an outlier on this Parisian street. Perfect for a rock venue that began decades ago and continued to provide rockers and fans a unique venue.
Up until last November, 9:40pm, when three heavily armed men exited a black Volkswagen and entered the back of the venue. The full account of that night appears here: http://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-34827497
Signs of the terror attack abound. Bataclan still feels more like a crime scene than a memorial. Tape on the windows covers most - but not all - the bullet holes. Only a few metal rail dividers, a distance of ten feet, stands between me and those bullet holes. And on the pavement, shiny with fragments of broken glass, someone has scrawled an epitaph with colored chalk. It’s faded. I can’t quite make out what it says.
The metal railing isn’t completely bare. Flowers and tributes line the railing, but across the street are many more. Like the bullet holes and the glass, the memorials are fresh: flowers a few days old; candles still lit from mourners who dropped by this morning, some who are there as I observe. It makes me reluctant, like I’m too close to the scene of the crime. I’m just a tourist. No, no I’m not. I’m an American. I’m here to grieve alongside the French just like many of the grieved with us during our dark hours.
Nevertheless, I cross the street to the larger memorial. There I see poems in plastic sleeves. A cross painted like the French flag. And what catches my eye - a cartoon of a woman weeping. Her head takes on the shape of France itself; her teardrop is a French flag. Fluctuat mec mergitur. A country bent but not broken, tossed but not sunk.
There was really nothing I could have laid at the site. Nothing seemed appropriate at the time. Nothing seems appropriate now, except for these words:
France stood by us in our toughest times. And we must stand by her. Our red, white, and blue flags are cut from the same cloth. Us: life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Them: liberty, equality, brotherhood. The clouds of terrorism darkened this club just like they darkened our skies. God forbid but it will happen again. And we’ll have to stand by each other in love and respect. We have a duty to do so. To visit memorials, to offer signs of peace, either in word or deed, not simply in thought.
In all of this, apart from standing at the Bataclan, weeping, and typing up the notes that became this post, I have questions but not answers. I have observations, descriptions, but not judgments. I don’t know the wisest approaches to immigration, the right way to handle religious extremism. What I do know is this: Bataclan is the reminder of my responsibilities as a Christian. I’m supposed to love my neighbor as myself. I’m supposed to take care of widows and orphans.
Later that night James and I run into the director of security at the Generator Hostel. He’s at a bar across the street from the hostel. Muscular guy with a blonde crewcut, Daniel Craig jaw line, the owner of a Harley-Davidson in scooter-driving Paris. We talk all kinds of sports and all sorts of travel. I consider his position at Generator: a thousand people, mostly in their twenties, sleep safely under his watch nightly. He does not take this duty lightly. After talking about sports and travel for a while, I bring up my visit to Bataclan and terrorism in general. He nods, takes a sip of a beer, and responds, “One time I ran my Harley ran out of gas outside of town. Lots of people pass by. Finally one man stopped. He had a gas tank full of gas in his hand. That man was a Muslim, but first he was a man. So I don’t think it’s a problem of religion. It’s a problem with people, with men.”
I understand his point. Terrorism is a problem with the human heart, not religion.
I agree with him to some extent. It looks like a Muslim problem to some, but that’s short-sighted, not the full picture. We are facing a specific brand of Muslim terrorism right now, but it’s not the only brand of terrorism the world has ever seen. For love or fear of God, in the name of dozens of religions, men have done terrible things throughout history. They do them now in many names, not just Islam. That’s the point, isn’t it? Man is a terrorist. Man perpetrates terror. It doesn’t take a certain god to bring forth the evil in his heart. Of course, we’d rather not think our kind of people could do such things, our sort of humans aren’t capable of atrocities like this. And why not? Because we’ve improved. We’ve evolved. We’re not who we used to be.
But I can stick my fingers in the bullet holes in windows of the Bataclan, just like Thomas could stick his hand into Jesus’ side. I can travel to Oklahoma City and visit a memorial to a bombing that sent shockwaves all the way to Waco in 1998. Waco, where I arrived the year after the Branch Davidian massacre.
I think about Jesus’ invitation to Thomas. Put your hand in my side. I was tossed but not sunk, just like you are now. He offered his side as proof of his own resurrection, but it was also an invitation to Thomas to join in his suffering. And so these bullet holes are invitation enough for me. I want to join in the suffering of Paris. #Jesuisparis was more than a hashtag to me. It is. It will be. Christ’s love compels me to visit memorials like this, and the one in Houston a few months ago. In doing so, I’m saved from my own hate, cruelty, and selfishness. I’m saved into faith, hope, and love. If that means anything, it meant this: that our mourning will be turned to comfort; that our darkness will become light; that our tears will one day turn to laughter.
My friends, love those around you, those close and far away, in profound ways.
As my walk down the canal ended, I turned toward the Marais District, where Victor Hugo, my favorite novelist, lived. He walked these streets daily, for hours, planning and plotting out his works — Hunchback of Notre-Dame, Les Miserables, countless poems. He recorded the history he saw here. He retold it in spellbinding ways. He loved the city and its inhabitants in a way only he could.
I think back on the dinosaur and the scooter covered in muck in the canal. What will become of them in the labyrinth of my mind? And what will happen to Bataclan? Will someone repair the bullet holes? Will they remain as a memory of the terrorist attack? Those bullet holes will remain in my mind if nowhere else.
I am not Victor Hugo. I am Adam Holt. And you are you. Now what do we do, we two - me and you - who have walked the canal together and reflected on the blackness and beauty in the human heart? We who have thought of the light of life extinguished and are now reminded that light and love endure?
The canals will fill up in the spring. Parisian will bring their children to play beside the waters. I’ll be back in Houston soon, thinking of it all, trying to love those around me better than I did the day before. And where will this post find you if you revisit it in three month’s time? We shall see.
Thanks for sticking around to the end of the ramble. I hope it was worth it. I cast these words upon the water and watch them trail off beyond sight.
*Read Part Three first...
I reached my destination after a long walk.
Bataclan is on the Rue de Voltaire — Voltaire, who said, “I may disagree with what you have to say, but I will defend what you have to say unto the death.” The antithesis of everything about Isis, everything about terrorism.
The Latin graffiti may have cleared my mind, but the sight of such a recent terrorist attack cleared my heart.
Tossed, but not sunk.
Bataclan is an imposing, strange building, a work of Chinese architecture every bit an outlier on this Parisian street. Perfect for a rock venue that began decades ago and continued to provide rockers and fans a unique venue.
Up until last November, 9:40pm, when three heavily armed men exited a black Volkswagen and entered the back of the venue. The full account of that night appears here: http://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-34827497
Signs of the terror attack abound. Bataclan still feels more like a crime scene than a memorial. Tape on the windows covers most - but not all - the bullet holes. Only a few metal rail dividers, a distance of ten feet, stands between me and those bullet holes. And on the pavement, shiny with fragments of broken glass, someone has scrawled an epitaph with colored chalk. It’s faded. I can’t quite make out what it says.
The metal railing isn’t completely bare. Flowers and tributes line the railing, but across the street are many more. Like the bullet holes and the glass, the memorials are fresh: flowers a few days old; candles still lit from mourners who dropped by this morning, some who are there as I observe. It makes me reluctant, like I’m too close to the scene of the crime. I’m just a tourist. No, no I’m not. I’m an American. I’m here to grieve alongside the French just like many of the grieved with us during our dark hours.
Nevertheless, I cross the street to the larger memorial. There I see poems in plastic sleeves. A cross painted like the French flag. And what catches my eye - a cartoon of a woman weeping. Her head takes on the shape of France itself; her teardrop is a French flag. Fluctuat mec mergitur. A country bent but not broken, tossed but not sunk.
There was really nothing I could have laid at the site. Nothing seemed appropriate at the time. Nothing seems appropriate now, except for these words:
France stood by us in our toughest times. And we must stand by her. Our red, white, and blue flags are cut from the same cloth. Us: life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Them: liberty, equality, brotherhood. The clouds of terrorism darkened this club just like they darkened our skies. God forbid but it will happen again. And we’ll have to stand by each other in love and respect. We have a duty to do so. To visit memorials, to offer signs of peace, either in word or deed, not simply in thought.
In all of this, apart from standing at the Bataclan, weeping, and typing up the notes that became this post, I have questions but not answers. I have observations, descriptions, but not judgments. I don’t know the wisest approaches to immigration, the right way to handle religious extremism. What I do know is this: Bataclan is the reminder of my responsibilities as a Christian. I’m supposed to love my neighbor as myself. I’m supposed to take care of widows and orphans.
Later that night James and I run into the director of security at the Generator Hostel. He’s at a bar across the street from the hostel. Muscular guy with a blonde crewcut, Daniel Craig jaw line, the owner of a Harley-Davidson in scooter-driving Paris. We talk all kinds of sports and all sorts of travel. I consider his position at Generator: a thousand people, mostly in their twenties, sleep safely under his watch nightly. He does not take this duty lightly. After talking about sports and travel for a while, I bring up my visit to Bataclan and terrorism in general. He nods, takes a sip of a beer, and responds, “One time I ran my Harley ran out of gas outside of town. Lots of people pass by. Finally one man stopped. He had a gas tank full of gas in his hand. That man was a Muslim, but first he was a man. So I don’t think it’s a problem of religion. It’s a problem with people, with men.”
I understand his point. Terrorism is a problem with the human heart, not religion.
I agree with him to some extent. It looks like a Muslim problem to some, but that’s short-sighted, not the full picture. We are facing a specific brand of Muslim terrorism right now, but it’s not the only brand of terrorism the world has ever seen. For love or fear of God, in the name of dozens of religions, men have done terrible things throughout history. They do them now in many names, not just Islam. That’s the point, isn’t it? Man is a terrorist. Man perpetrates terror. It doesn’t take a certain god to bring forth the evil in his heart. Of course, we’d rather not think our kind of people could do such things, our sort of humans aren’t capable of atrocities like this. And why not? Because we’ve improved. We’ve evolved. We’re not who we used to be.
But I can stick my fingers in the bullet holes in windows of the Bataclan, just like Thomas could stick his hand into Jesus’ side. I can travel to Oklahoma City and visit a memorial to a bombing that sent shockwaves all the way to Waco in 1998. Waco, where I arrived the year after the Branch Davidian massacre.
I think about Jesus’ invitation to Thomas. Put your hand in my side. I was tossed but not sunk, just like you are now. He offered his side as proof of his own resurrection, but it was also an invitation to Thomas to join in his suffering. And so these bullet holes are invitation enough for me. I want to join in the suffering of Paris. #Jesuisparis was more than a hashtag to me. It is. It will be. Christ’s love compels me to visit memorials like this, and the one in Houston a few months ago. In doing so, I’m saved from my own hate, cruelty, and selfishness. I’m saved into faith, hope, and love. If that means anything, it meant this: that our mourning will be turned to comfort; that our darkness will become light; that our tears will one day turn to laughter.
My friends, love those around you, those close and far away, in profound ways.
As my walk down the canal ended, I turned toward the Marais District, where Victor Hugo, my favorite novelist, lived. He walked these streets daily, for hours, planning and plotting out his works — Hunchback of Notre-Dame, Les Miserables, countless poems. He recorded the history he saw here. He retold it in spellbinding ways. He loved the city and its inhabitants in a way only he could.
I think back on the dinosaur and the scooter covered in muck in the canal. What will become of them in the labyrinth of my mind? And what will happen to Bataclan? Will someone repair the bullet holes? Will they remain as a memory of the terrorist attack? Those bullet holes will remain in my mind if nowhere else.
I am not Victor Hugo. I am Adam Holt. And you are you. Now what do we do, we two - me and you - who have walked the canal together and reflected on the blackness and beauty in the human heart? We who have thought of the light of life extinguished and are now reminded that light and love endure?
The canals will fill up in the spring. Parisian will bring their children to play beside the waters. I’ll be back in Houston soon, thinking of it all, trying to love those around me better than I did the day before. And where will this post find you if you revisit it in three month’s time? We shall see.
Thanks for sticking around to the end of the ramble. I hope it was worth it. I cast these words upon the water and watch them trail off beyond sight.
February 9, 2016
Paris, Chapter 3: What Terrorism Had to Do with My Trip to Paris
Tragedies have this effect. They clear the air. They drain the color, but they also wipe the dust from our eyes. And for a moment we can see each other clearly. We are tossed, but not sunk.
I.We chose the Generator Hostel for a number of reasons (mentioned previously), but one reason I haven't mentioned until now. The hostel is close to the Batacalan Nightclub. Maybe you remember the name Bataclan from the news a few months ago. If you don't, you certainly remember the attacks in Paris that made it infamous. Bataclan was the scene of the worst of those attacks. It was also half a block from where I'd stayed on my last trip to Paris in 2013. Sitting in my apartment this past November, sick with the idea of those senseless death, I knew I had to visit Bataclan on this trip. As an American, as a friend of the Republic of France, I felt compelled to pay my respects. France is one of our oldest allies. They mourned with us on 9/11. Nous sommes tous américains, they said. We are all Americans. We should honor them in kind. I should do this in person myself. Je suis Paris, I wanted to say back to them. When terrorists target one free person, they target us all.
September, 2001. So one morning at sunrise I pulled up Google maps and began the 5km walk to Bataclan, following the path of the St. Martin Canal. It was an overcast, calm morning. My hands instinctively reached for my pockets but didn't stay there very long. They had to keep track of the blue dot meandering along the canal on its route to Bataclan.
They also had to take photos: rows of victorian apartments line the canal; arching iron bridges, their steps overgrown with lichen, criss-cross its expanse. Picturesque any time of year, somber in the winter morning drizzle. In spring and summer this canal is a gorgeous place to hang out, reminiscent of Lake Austin, with runners, picnickers, and sunbather lining the stony banks. Youth on display. However, Paris shuts down the canal every few years for cleaning. You wouldn't believe the gunk-covered treasures deposited at the bottom of a canal: wine bottles (it's France), shopping carts, a bike with child's seat, a scooter, a 7-foot tall inflatable dinosaur (!), and I can say this without exaggerating, a kitchen sink. Talk about photo opps and fodder for a fiction writer. How did a dinosaur and a scooter wind up side-by-side at the bottom of the canal? In my mind this idea spun strange tales of a New Years Eve gone completely off the rails. Maybe over the rails of a bridge. Pun intended and not rescinded. Ah, yes. The folly of youth on display.
Then there was the graffiti. It was everywhere. I don't mean that someone simply "tagged" a few buildings to earn street cred. On the contrary, fanciful, futuristic scenes covered entire sides of ancient apartment complexes. The graffiti artists left the other side of the buildings untouched, a beautiful juxtaposition of the antique and contemporary, a sign of respect for the past. It's victorian meets pop culture. Architecture meets hip-hop. Traditionalists may despise such things, but I find graffiti refreshing when it's intent is to elevate the creative rather than denigrate the foundation. When thought springs from such a simple thing as a can of spray pain and the mind of an artist in search of a bigger canvas than he could otherwise afford. I explored this use of graffiti in The Rathmore Chaos, my second book. If you've read it, you remember the wings of Icarus painted all over the city of Rathmore, a symbol of rebellion and the hope of freedom in a city controlled by a coercive dictator, the Lord Ascendant. Free societies celebrate -- or at least tolerate -- creative anarchy. So do I. These thoughts occupied my mind on my walk beside the colorful, graffiti-strewn buildings along the mud-beautiful canal. These acts filled my moments: I searched for graffiti, wandered into community gardens, and looked for uneven sections of cobblestones worth walking on. Then one particular building caught my eye. The first two stories were a uniform slab of concrete--not a single window or door. It was the perfect canvas for a street Picasso, one that had probably seen dozens of murals. For now, someone had painted this entire canvas matte black, and on the inky surface cast three bold words in Latin.
Fluctuat mec mergitur. Tossed, but not sunk. My mind returned to my destination. Yes, that is it. In the face of terrorism, how do free people feel? Just this way. Tossed, but not sunk. The graffiti artist, the master of anarchy and guerrilla art, in the midst of heartache turned to his city's motto of all places. Who knows what mural is below those three words? Maybe it was his mural or a friend's. It doesn't matter now. What matters is that the people of his city, of his neighborhood, felt unified in a dire moment. Tossed, maybe, but tossed together. And not sunk. Never sunk.
Tragedies have this effect. They clear the air. They drain the color, but they also wipe the dust from our eyes. And for a moment we can see each other clearly -- white letters on a black background. In that clarified moment we see each other's needs. We need peace amidst turmoil. Proximity in a disconnected world. Confession instead of a clever status update. Integrity instead of a winning argument. Love and unity when hatred might seem justified. We both know it and won't ignore it any longer. We can't. The water is gone, exposing what lies at the bottom of the canal. Now we can see what needs to be removed, repaired, improved, if we are brave enough and do not cover it up again. Freedom and grace allow for that process, but only if we are humble enough to accept it.
Fluctuat nec mergitur.That's what these letters mean. I was close to Bataclan. (Part II. next week...)
I.We chose the Generator Hostel for a number of reasons (mentioned previously), but one reason I haven't mentioned until now. The hostel is close to the Batacalan Nightclub. Maybe you remember the name Bataclan from the news a few months ago. If you don't, you certainly remember the attacks in Paris that made it infamous. Bataclan was the scene of the worst of those attacks. It was also half a block from where I'd stayed on my last trip to Paris in 2013. Sitting in my apartment this past November, sick with the idea of those senseless death, I knew I had to visit Bataclan on this trip. As an American, as a friend of the Republic of France, I felt compelled to pay my respects. France is one of our oldest allies. They mourned with us on 9/11. Nous sommes tous américains, they said. We are all Americans. We should honor them in kind. I should do this in person myself. Je suis Paris, I wanted to say back to them. When terrorists target one free person, they target us all.
September, 2001. So one morning at sunrise I pulled up Google maps and began the 5km walk to Bataclan, following the path of the St. Martin Canal. It was an overcast, calm morning. My hands instinctively reached for my pockets but didn't stay there very long. They had to keep track of the blue dot meandering along the canal on its route to Bataclan.
They also had to take photos: rows of victorian apartments line the canal; arching iron bridges, their steps overgrown with lichen, criss-cross its expanse. Picturesque any time of year, somber in the winter morning drizzle. In spring and summer this canal is a gorgeous place to hang out, reminiscent of Lake Austin, with runners, picnickers, and sunbather lining the stony banks. Youth on display. However, Paris shuts down the canal every few years for cleaning. You wouldn't believe the gunk-covered treasures deposited at the bottom of a canal: wine bottles (it's France), shopping carts, a bike with child's seat, a scooter, a 7-foot tall inflatable dinosaur (!), and I can say this without exaggerating, a kitchen sink. Talk about photo opps and fodder for a fiction writer. How did a dinosaur and a scooter wind up side-by-side at the bottom of the canal? In my mind this idea spun strange tales of a New Years Eve gone completely off the rails. Maybe over the rails of a bridge. Pun intended and not rescinded. Ah, yes. The folly of youth on display.
Then there was the graffiti. It was everywhere. I don't mean that someone simply "tagged" a few buildings to earn street cred. On the contrary, fanciful, futuristic scenes covered entire sides of ancient apartment complexes. The graffiti artists left the other side of the buildings untouched, a beautiful juxtaposition of the antique and contemporary, a sign of respect for the past. It's victorian meets pop culture. Architecture meets hip-hop. Traditionalists may despise such things, but I find graffiti refreshing when it's intent is to elevate the creative rather than denigrate the foundation. When thought springs from such a simple thing as a can of spray pain and the mind of an artist in search of a bigger canvas than he could otherwise afford. I explored this use of graffiti in The Rathmore Chaos, my second book. If you've read it, you remember the wings of Icarus painted all over the city of Rathmore, a symbol of rebellion and the hope of freedom in a city controlled by a coercive dictator, the Lord Ascendant. Free societies celebrate -- or at least tolerate -- creative anarchy. So do I. These thoughts occupied my mind on my walk beside the colorful, graffiti-strewn buildings along the mud-beautiful canal. These acts filled my moments: I searched for graffiti, wandered into community gardens, and looked for uneven sections of cobblestones worth walking on. Then one particular building caught my eye. The first two stories were a uniform slab of concrete--not a single window or door. It was the perfect canvas for a street Picasso, one that had probably seen dozens of murals. For now, someone had painted this entire canvas matte black, and on the inky surface cast three bold words in Latin.
Fluctuat mec mergitur. Tossed, but not sunk. My mind returned to my destination. Yes, that is it. In the face of terrorism, how do free people feel? Just this way. Tossed, but not sunk. The graffiti artist, the master of anarchy and guerrilla art, in the midst of heartache turned to his city's motto of all places. Who knows what mural is below those three words? Maybe it was his mural or a friend's. It doesn't matter now. What matters is that the people of his city, of his neighborhood, felt unified in a dire moment. Tossed, maybe, but tossed together. And not sunk. Never sunk.
Tragedies have this effect. They clear the air. They drain the color, but they also wipe the dust from our eyes. And for a moment we can see each other clearly -- white letters on a black background. In that clarified moment we see each other's needs. We need peace amidst turmoil. Proximity in a disconnected world. Confession instead of a clever status update. Integrity instead of a winning argument. Love and unity when hatred might seem justified. We both know it and won't ignore it any longer. We can't. The water is gone, exposing what lies at the bottom of the canal. Now we can see what needs to be removed, repaired, improved, if we are brave enough and do not cover it up again. Freedom and grace allow for that process, but only if we are humble enough to accept it.
Fluctuat nec mergitur.That's what these letters mean. I was close to Bataclan. (Part II. next week...)
February 5, 2016
2 Weeks. 2 Continents.
Two weeks. Two continents. Thank goodness for frequent flyer miles. Finally back in the Lone Star State.
Upcoming posts include one of my most anticipated (and intense) stops in Paris - a visit the Bataclan Night Club, site of the November terrorist attack. On the other end of the spectrum is a trip to a small town Costa Rica rodeo, where we locked our keys in the rental car. It wouldn't be the last time.
So, my heart (and my suntanburn) still say Costa Rica,
my stomach still says chocolate croissant,
and my mind is stuck somewhere in between.
Upcoming posts include one of my most anticipated (and intense) stops in Paris - a visit the Bataclan Night Club, site of the November terrorist attack. On the other end of the spectrum is a trip to a small town Costa Rica rodeo, where we locked our keys in the rental car. It wouldn't be the last time.
So, my heart (and my suntanburn) still say Costa Rica,
my stomach still says chocolate croissant,
and my mind is stuck somewhere in between.
January 26, 2016
Paris, Chapter 2: Braving the Hostel
As a rule, I spend money on meals, museums, monuments rather than lodging. Thus, we didn't stay in a hotel in Paris. We stayed in one of its best hostels.
FIRST, THE RAMBLE...
I've had a few negative experiences in hostels but nothing terrible. Not like in the recent ridiculous horror franchise, where hostel visitors regularly loose body parts. Between Hostel and Liam Neeson's Taken series, you'd think Europe is one giant house of horror ready to rob unsuspecting Americans of all they hold sacred.
Hollywood, of course, misses the mark. The real danger in a hostel is the five snoring Germans. Really, one snoring German is enough to induce insomnia, but five? Well, that will damage handheld electronics and cause irreparable hearing damage.
But we dodged the bullet this time. No one stole my wallet or my spleen. My phone still worked like a charm, and not a single German nosewhistler disturbed the peace.
...NEXT, THE REVIEW...
The Generator is tidy, trendy, organized, and secure, with a French bouncer the size of Suge Knight at the door to check everyone's ID. It's also 8.5/10 on Booking.com, which is "very good" in Booking's rating system. I concur.
Voilá...
...et voici.
The Generator hostels houses almost a thousand people every night in all sort of sleeping configurations. You can grab a bunk bed in a 12-person room for $25/night. A double room with views of Monmartre and the Eiffel Tower will run you $100. We booked beds in a 6-person room. I got a Genius discount, so that was $22/night. Heck, that's the price of a decent meal. Try to book a hotel for that in the States and the bed might vibrate. You won't feel it though because you'll be in so much pain from the spleen you just lost.
Anyway, the rooms are relatively quiet, but downstairs is another story. The place bustles 9am-2am. There's a bar/night club in the basement, a cafe w/foosball table at ground level, and on the 9th floor a restaurant terrace with views of Monmartre and the Canal St.-Martin. The terrace was closed on our off-season trip, but in the spring/summer I would probably stay there all night. Walking tours of the Cité leave daily at 10am. It's on Place du Colonel Fabien, which has a metro stop. Access = parfait.
A hostel is a community. It's where you meet the world. In our room were four Korean students and a Moroccan in town for a few days. We traded accounts of our travels and our cultures.
We hit it off with one of the Korean students. He loved sports. James and I kept him entertained for a good fifteen minutes, debating whether Steph Curry or LeBron James is the better player. Then we talked travel. He showed us his terrific photos of Mt. Saint-Michel and gave me a packet of amazing Korean BBQ sauce. Then he told me he is studying electrical engineering. "I want to work for NASA," he told me.
Well, shoot, son! Say no more.
We talked about space for a good thirty minutes. When I left the next morning, way before sunrise, I left him copies of both my books - I brought a few with me to Europe for just such an event. He replied a few hours later, thanking me for the books and the conversations. Traffic on that street goes both ways, my friend.
So, if you're Lone Star Rambling and not on your honeymoon or anniversary, if you can overcome your cultural prejudices and sleep in a room beside perfect strangers, some of whom wind up being kindred spirits, then Generator Hostel is for you.
FIRST, THE RAMBLE...
I've had a few negative experiences in hostels but nothing terrible. Not like in the recent ridiculous horror franchise, where hostel visitors regularly loose body parts. Between Hostel and Liam Neeson's Taken series, you'd think Europe is one giant house of horror ready to rob unsuspecting Americans of all they hold sacred.
Hollywood, of course, misses the mark. The real danger in a hostel is the five snoring Germans. Really, one snoring German is enough to induce insomnia, but five? Well, that will damage handheld electronics and cause irreparable hearing damage.
But we dodged the bullet this time. No one stole my wallet or my spleen. My phone still worked like a charm, and not a single German nosewhistler disturbed the peace.
...NEXT, THE REVIEW...
The Generator is tidy, trendy, organized, and secure, with a French bouncer the size of Suge Knight at the door to check everyone's ID. It's also 8.5/10 on Booking.com, which is "very good" in Booking's rating system. I concur.
Voilá...
...et voici.The Generator hostels houses almost a thousand people every night in all sort of sleeping configurations. You can grab a bunk bed in a 12-person room for $25/night. A double room with views of Monmartre and the Eiffel Tower will run you $100. We booked beds in a 6-person room. I got a Genius discount, so that was $22/night. Heck, that's the price of a decent meal. Try to book a hotel for that in the States and the bed might vibrate. You won't feel it though because you'll be in so much pain from the spleen you just lost.
Anyway, the rooms are relatively quiet, but downstairs is another story. The place bustles 9am-2am. There's a bar/night club in the basement, a cafe w/foosball table at ground level, and on the 9th floor a restaurant terrace with views of Monmartre and the Canal St.-Martin. The terrace was closed on our off-season trip, but in the spring/summer I would probably stay there all night. Walking tours of the Cité leave daily at 10am. It's on Place du Colonel Fabien, which has a metro stop. Access = parfait.
A hostel is a community. It's where you meet the world. In our room were four Korean students and a Moroccan in town for a few days. We traded accounts of our travels and our cultures.
We hit it off with one of the Korean students. He loved sports. James and I kept him entertained for a good fifteen minutes, debating whether Steph Curry or LeBron James is the better player. Then we talked travel. He showed us his terrific photos of Mt. Saint-Michel and gave me a packet of amazing Korean BBQ sauce. Then he told me he is studying electrical engineering. "I want to work for NASA," he told me.
Well, shoot, son! Say no more.
We talked about space for a good thirty minutes. When I left the next morning, way before sunrise, I left him copies of both my books - I brought a few with me to Europe for just such an event. He replied a few hours later, thanking me for the books and the conversations. Traffic on that street goes both ways, my friend.
So, if you're Lone Star Rambling and not on your honeymoon or anniversary, if you can overcome your cultural prejudices and sleep in a room beside perfect strangers, some of whom wind up being kindred spirits, then Generator Hostel is for you.
