Einstein Said He Could Never Understand it All

I've awakened on several mornings recently with a song in my head -- the only pop song I'm aware of that references Einstein's Theory of Special Relativity -- an unjustly-neglected James Taylor classic called, "Secret O'Life":

Now the thing about time is that time isn't really real
It's just your point of view
How does it feel for you?
Einstein said he could never understand it all...

Note that the Theory of Relativity does not refer to the idea that time goes slower when your relatives visit. I never said that and I will continue to deny that I did.

Regardless of what you think of Professor Einstein's theory, and Professor Taylor's corollary, there are a lot of examples of time being relative. This is impressed upon me quite forcefully when talking to other parents, especially the ones with adult children.

For some reason all of them are obligated to advise me: "Enjoy this time -- they grow up so fast." You will perhaps pardon me if that seems a little difficult to believe. Since our son was born in 1999, and our daughter will be graduating from high school in 2020, we are still in the warmup stage, kidwise.

I'm going to entirely put aside the question of "enjoying" this time... probably best to take the Fifth Amendment on that one.

It's definitely true that it's difficult to maintain an accurate sense of time when you're in the midst of the whirlwind. For a long, long time we were eternally vigilant over our children. Never can tell when the little one might take a notion to expand the concept of what's considered "edible"... or perhaps her brother might decide to use her to practice for his future calling as an NFL punter.

Suddenly -- and I have absolutely no idea when or how this happened -- we've reached a state of affairs where we look at each other and ask, "Where are the kids? What are they doing?" I'm not talking about tossing my daughter the keys and telling her to drive herself to preschool... but they have showed they can handle a certain amount of autonomy.

We still have the odd occurrence of Wrestlemania down in the playroom, but we're just as likely to hear bumping & giggling and when you call down, "What's going on?" they reply in completely innocent-sounding unison, "Nothing!"

I can take advantage of the extra free time by doing lots more chores. That is, I can... but I don't. It actually gives me a chance to check a few extra websites, or finish a sudoku, or simply grab a snack without having to explain to the kids why I get one and they don't.

It's all part of the master plan: we encourage the kids to be more independent, to amuse themselves, to learn to get along better and resolve their own disputes, fostering more closeness between siblings.

Or maybe I just don't want to have to share the chips.

Affirmative Action

When I was in college, I would sometimes listen to the Dr. Demento radio program. With a name like that, you can imagine it seemed extremely subversive on my conservative Christian campus – which of course was part of its appeal.

If you’re not familiar, it’s not as bad as it probably sounds. Each week the Doc played an assortment of comedy bits, song parodies, and the like; I won’t deny that the guy definitely has one table leg that's shorter than the other three, but it was pretty harmless. Perhaps his greatest crime was that he introduced Weird Al Yankovic to a wide audience, but that’s not indictable.

I vividly remember one routine of a guy going through a drive-thru window. The kid on the speaker is virtually unintelligible and keeps mangling the order; the driver repeats it again & again, a little louder, a little slower, a little more agitated… and then finally goes berserk. You hear the car rev up and drive into something – then, garbled through the speaker: “Can I take your order?”

I thought of that bit recently when I was musing about being a dad: some days it feels like you’re hollering into a microphone but the party on the other end isn’t quite hearing (or maybe listening); other times it’s like listening to that fuzzy speaker. Especially when my four-year-old gets going – she can ramble at length, and it’s all subjects and verbs and subordinate clauses and prepositional phrases and everything; complete sentences, perfect grammatically, but when she’s done I have no idea what she’s talking about.

There’s also one form of parental communication that's almost unique to parenting: the incessant stream of “nice job”, “way to go”, and “I’m proud of you” for tasks as basic as sharing a toy, pushing oneself on the swings, or going potty (hence the expression, “way to go”). I’m not that easily impressed as a rule – some would say I’m probably more blasé, in general, than I need to be – but I recognize the importance of affirming my kids. I also see how much they like to check in with us and receive our approval, and I want to keep that going as much as possible. I know the day is coming when the Parental Seal of Approval will feel more like a condemned sign to them, so I’ll enjoy my position of oracle while I can.

In a neat twist, I find myself on the other end of that sort of ego-boosting, because for several months I have been taking piano lessons. As I’ve mentioned, I’m reasonably adept on guitar; not a pro by any means but able to keep from embarrassing myself. And I know enough about music to know what piano-playing is supposed to sound like. Once in awhile, when the stars are aligned right, and the light hits the paper just so, and my fingers are optimally limber, I play something that sounds like the song in my head (well, one of the songs in my head, at least). Most of the time…not so much.

My piano teacher, of course, is unfailingly encouraging. Often she’ll tell me how much progress I’m making, how well I played the song, and …“I’d like to hear it for one more week” (thus giving me the option to imagine it’s because she’s enjoying hearing it so much). And sometimes, after I’ve struggled to the end of a piece for the umpty-umpth week in a row, sweaty like I just ran a lap, she’ll check it off (and sometimes add a smiley!) and I know in my heart: it’s not because I’ve mastered it, it’s because she knows I’m about to go crazy from the effort and the frustration and the sheer Chinese water-torture sensation of playing the same thing over & over & over again -- especially the mistakes, of course.

I don’t suppose the kids get much objective joy out of sharing toys; the praise is supposed to reinforce the habit. And until I can consistently play a basic piece without sounding like my fingers (or the keys, or the notes – pick any two) have all been removed and reattached in random order, I won’t have that many moments of true musical satisfaction either – so I need all the sunshine pumped in my direction that I can get.

Theology for Dummies: High Concept

Seekers of Truth in Advertising will be thrilled with the current movie, "Snakes on a Plane." Aficionados of classic cinema will no doubt have to look elsewhere, but when it comes to being self-explanatory, it's hard to beat a title like that.

On the other hand, we've all seen "Coming Atttractions" that make it unneccessary to see the actual movie, so there is such a thing as giving away too much. In my case the title itself is actually overkill -- as soon as I see the word "snakes" I know to stay away.

This is an excellent example of what Hollywood calls a "high concept" movie. Anything you can describe in one sentence -- let alone a 4-word title -- is considered high concept. Obviously not high in the sense of lofty, but rather in the sense of taking precedence over story, characters, acting...

Any film where special effects, car chases, and/or the soundtrack should get top billing is a good example of high concept. Movies like Top Gun, Die Hard, and every Stallone picture after the first Rocky fit comfortably in this category.

[A slight oversimplification: I'm not sure Stop, or My Mom Will Shoot fits comfortably into any category.]

I'm really not a cinema buff; I think in TV terms. "Miami Vice" is the quintessential high-concept show; it's said that Brandon Tartikoff (head of NBC) wrote "MTV Cops" on a napkin, and the show sprang from that. "Seinfeld", on the other hand, became known as the show about nothing precisely because it's so hard to put your finger on.

If the same sort of classification were applied to books as well, I believe we'd find that in some ways, the ultimate high concept book is the Bible.

That seems absurd on the face of it, because the Bible is actually made up of 66 books: history, poetry, prophecy, teaching; all different writers; spanning hundreds of years. But I believe that the entire Bible exists to illustrate two basic ideas (hey, it's a big book -- I can use 2 sentences instead of just one).

1. God loves us in a way that, if He were human, you'd probably call irrational. Time and time again He reaches out to His people, only to be pushed away; over and over He believes in them, and they let Him down. He keeps reaching... He keeps believing... and "in the fullness of time" (what a wonderful phrase!) He sends them His Son. By the way, when I say "them", I mean of course us.
2. God uses the most unlikely people to accomplish great things. Abraham & Sarah were old; Moses was a fugitive; David was a shepherd boy; Mary was a young girl; Paul was a professional Christian-hunter. Two lessons from that: first, God doesn't need to use us but it delights Him to work in partnership with us. Second, no matter what you are, you're not ineligible (or exempt, or safe) from being called to His purposes. Or, as someone wiser (and funnier) than I said about the story of Samson (Jdg. 15:13-17), if God can use the jawbone of an ass, He can certainly use you.

There are unquestionably other Big Themes in the Scripture, but these are my favorites and in my eyes the most important. But hey, it's a game anyone can play -- go find your own! Read the Book, don't wait for the movie.

Metablog: The View from the 40s

A new quarter has been heard from in the ongoing debate about what constitutes middle age (and whether present company is excepted), as I discussed previously.

I had been noticing over the last 6 months or so an increasing difficulty seeing close up. I found myself, in fact, peering over the top of my glasses whenever I had to work with something tiny. I was concerned enough to violate my usual protocol and make a doctor’s appointment.

When the ophthalmologist came in to begin his very thorough exam, I described my symptoms to him, and he sort of snorted before retorting, “You’re describing what happens to everyone in middle age.” Later in the exam he explained he would try to avoid over-correcting my vision, since younger eyes can adjust for that… but “you older fellows will definitely feel it.” Evidently ophthalmologists have little experience in developing bedside manner.

So I’m now adjusting to a brand-new pair of “progressive lenses”, the modern-day version of bifocals. Actually I think I’ve done well adapting to the lenses; it may take longer to adjust to the idea of being a guy who needs progressive lenses. Not to worry, however; the optician, who is clearly in league with the doctor, tells me that the shape of my new frames makes me look “younger”. So there’s a bit of a paradigm shift as well – I used to seek to look older, more mature…

Anyway, it wasn’t really my 40s I set out to discuss (although it seems to be preoccupying me more than I have perhaps admitted even to myself!). I noticed on my blog maintenance home page recently that I am now in the 40s for number of posted articles. And while it won’t be until later in the month that I reach my 40th week, I sensed an opportunity for a look back.

I read a statistic recently -- in my favorite airline magazine -- that 55% of all blogs are abandoned before they hit 3 months. If nothing else, it’s wonderful to know that at least in one respect, this blog is above average – well, median, at least.

Like the new lenses, having a blog has changed the way I look at life. It’s arguable whether it’s a better way now, but I find myself in some ways more engaged with what’s going on around me, trying to determine what makes today unique (or sometimes, archetypical) or interesting or funny. Maybe I’m in some ways less engaged too, because I’m sometimes walking around writing in my head. I didn’t start this to make myself a better person, but I don’t want it to make me a lesser person either!

I did do it for my own satisfaction, and for the chance to put down my thoughts in a place that was all my own. Along with 8 zillion other bloggers. And I’ve found even more pleasure in the act of creating and writing than I thought I could. I tend to re-read my stuff pretty frequently, and I’m still proud of what I’ve written and enjoy reading it, with a few notable exceptions. When I get into trouble is usually when I have one thing to say, usually a joke, and I try to create a 500- or 600-word frame to put it in. Some of them are meant to be serious and come out kind of pseudo-serious; others are meant to be funny and come out… well, pseudo-funny is no funny at all.

As I have alluded to previously, it astounds me how often a conversation reminds me of something I just wrote. Unfortunately it’s usually my conversational partners who are astounded in turn as I try in vain to find a subtle way to slip in the fact that I have a blog: “You should read what I just wrote about that.” So far the rate of responses inquiring about my blog and its URL is running at approximately 0.00%, so that’s one conversational gambit I’m trying to abandon.

In addition to my own amusement and satisfaction, I do sometimes get a tiny bit of external validation. I don’t think I get too many “random” visitors, but a few of my friends & family have acknowledged stopping by now and then. Just knowing others are reading is gratifying, but I actually have one pretty regular correspondent who says nice things often enough to keep me on the hook. I wonder if she’s familiar with the concept of variable reinforcement?

I was talking to another friend recently who had just read some of my stuff, and she gave me the one compliment I treasure above all others... although it’s still not 100% clear to me that she meant it as a compliment! She said, “When I read it, all I could think is that it sounds just like you.” And that’s exactly what a blog should be, or at least what my blog should be. So if you read two or three and you don’t like them, don’t waste your time by coming back: it’s not the entry you don’t like, it’s me.

The Hazards of Time Travel

As a preacher's kid (PK), I almost literally grew up inside a church. Now my kids are in the same boat; since the church is right across the road from our home, they see it almost like another room of the house.

This is, of course, something of a mixed blessing (I'm thinking of titling my autobiography "There Is No Such Thing as an Unmixed Blessing"... but I digress. Now that I think of it, it should probably be called "But I Digress"). It's wonderful to have children who feel entirely at home in church; if more kids felt this way, we'd have a lot more kids (and their parents) in church. Of course, when you take it to its logical conclusion -- and add in the fact that their mom & I are often a bit preoccupied on a Sunday morning -- what you get is kids running around creating a mild amount of havoc.

At such times, there are often some of our more senior members nearby. I don't care to speculate about what they might say about it to each other... but to us, they invariably comment as follows: "Wouldn't you love to have that kind of energy?" Raise your hand if you think there's a certain amount of euphemism contained there. In any case, the conversation often turns to the question of "going back" to that age, "knowing what you know now."

It's a tempting idea; I always thought it sounded kinda cool. Seems almost foolproof. And then, very suddenly, I got the chance to do just that when I found a box containing 5 years of my life.

When I was in college and first began to fancy myself a bit of a writer, I started to keep a journal (note: never never never use the word "diary"), and for a period of 4 years or so I wrote frequently -- often daily, but at least "periodically". It is a record of what I did and what I was thinking, at a time when an awful lot was kind of up for grabs. It's also a first effort at developing a personal writing style, and it is almost completely uncensored... in the sense that I made no attempt to sugar-coat what I was doing or thinking.

As a blogger, opening a box containing 5 years of my journals was a bit like finding a thick vein of gold running through your backyard. My first thought was that I couldn't wait to read it; my second was that surely I could pull out some nuggets and get a cute blog entry from it. I enjoyed Bob Greene's bestseller based on his journal from his senior year in high school, and although I knew it wouldn't be a bestseller, or even an entire book, it seemed like a slam dunk for a wry and nostalgic piece.

I failed to reckon with a couple of things. First, the writing is appalling. I have enough self-confidence/delusion to put this stuff out on the web where anyone on the planet can read it if they're so inclined... but it's hard to find a single sentence in the journals I'd want to see the light of day. I've never overcome my weakness of drifting toward too cute or too witty or too quirky... but my current prose reads like whipped cream compared to my 18-year-old self.

Of course, the part about uncensored is an issue too. I wouldn't say there's anything I'm ashamed of, but on the other hand I don't think anyone would come off too well if you were able to read all their innermost thoughts!

I found, in fact, that I didn't much like many of the people I was getting reacquainted with. Especially the young me. There are fairly frequent references to clashes with people who didn't like me, found me abrasive & difficult to get along with, and/or were annoyed by something I said. Frequent enough, in any case, that it's hard to say it's "everyone else's fault".

All of that was hard enough, but I was also blindsided by the emotional impact of going back to that point in my life. As you might guess, much of the content concerned relationships with persons of the opposite gender. Going through the cycle of

1. is there any chance she might be interested?
2. wow, this is exciting...
3. I wonder if this could really last?
4. Houston, we have a problem

in the space of a few pages was for me quite wrenching.

So here's the verdict: you can't go home again, or back in time either. I was living it as if all over again. And the only thing I got out of "knowing what I know now" was that I started to get sad pages and pages in advance, because I knew what was coming. I saw all over again all the mistakes I made, all the things I should've done and shouldn't have said, as if from behind a sheet of Plexiglas or like yelling at the TV: No! Don't do it! You'll be sorry!

I'm not sorry I did the things I did; I'm not sorry I wrote it all down (I'm actually thrilled that I have the record, although I truly wish that kid had been a better writer); I'm not even sorry that I read it all again. I just wish that going in, I had heeded the lesson of Scrooge. Remember? He also got to visit Christmas Past, knowing what he knew "now" -- but unable to do anything about it -- and it caught him off-balance too.

After several days have passed, I have a little more perspective, and I feel like I understand the 18-year-old kid better. I don't want to say I've "forgiven" him, exactly, because that implies an offense. But I think I'm ready to cut him a little more slack.