Will the Real Lady Liberty Not Dance

It is income tax season, and that means, in my neighborhood, multiple Lady Liberty sightings. There is an income tax service in the neighborhood with “Liberty” in its name. During tax season they deploy men and women, dressed as the Statue of Liberty, to hand out promotional flyers. On cold, yucky days, I really feel for these folks, standing on street corners, trying to stay warm, most pedestrians ignoring and avoiding them. Today, as I walked back and forth from my home to the bank, I saw no less than three Statue of Liberty imposters, one of them dancing wildly. At least Lady Liberty’s boogie made the walk interesting.

A le Pain Quotidien Micro-Retreat

As I have noted before, I have been searching for a retreat center in the midst of New York City and have not yet found one. Awhile back, however, I stopped in the Central Park le Pain Quotidien at the corner of 7th Avenue and 58th Street. I was looking for a light meal before a concert at Carnegie Hall and le Pain Quotidien, one of my favorite restaurant chains, was nearby. It had been awhile, however, since I had last eaten at one.

This particular evening, as I sat alone at the simple wooden table, the tomato soup with a side of organic bread, glass of the Red Cabernet/Syrah RN 13, and Organic Rooibos Chai Tea took on a sacramental quality. No doubt the catalyst for this nearly sacred moment was reading silently, while I waited and ate, A Syllable of Water, a collection of twenty writers of faith reflecting on the art of writing and another step on my journey of exploring the craft of writing. As I read I wondered if I was one—not one of the twenty—but rather a writer of faith.

The unexpected moment became a micro-retreat. Though I was surrounded by conversing patrons, spoons clinking against bowls, kitchen noises filtering into the dining area, and the sound of sirens blaring outside, I was alone with my thoughts as I reflected on the written word.

During this unexpected and unplanned micro-retreat I consumed two chapters, Jeanne Murray Walkers' “Steep and Exhilarating Mountains of Playwriting (On Drama)” and Scott Cairns' “A Troubled and Troubling Mirror (On Poetry)”. I have since finished this wonderful little paperback and recommend it for anyone desiring to imbibe a written word from a spiritual perspective. I also recommend the cuisine at le Pain Quotidien and give thanks for a few unexpected moments of retreat.

Why Wasn’t I Taught To Write?

I managed to get through high school, college and seminary without really learning how to write. Most of my teachers and professors were more concerned with my properly formatting footnotes in research papers than submitting a well written paper. I remember them correcting my misuse of colons or semi-colons and parenthesis when footnoting a citation rather than whether or not I could spell, construct a coherent sentence, and write a flowing paragraph. I even managed to win a Senior English award in high school, graduated third in my college class, and comfortably finished in the top half of my seminary class, without ever having a “writing” course other than a required bone-head “composition” class in college which I tested out of before the end of the first semester of my freshman year.

While working on my Doctor of Ministry Paper I finally started to to think about how I wrote. My two readers emphasized editing not only for theological content but also for style. They noted every misspelling, split-infinitive, and use of the passive. They emphasized brevity and economy of words, teaching me that writing less was more difficult than writing more.

Now I find myself on what appears to be a road leading toward learning more about the craft of writing. Less than a year ago, while on its campus for a colloquy, I walked into the Cokesbury/Campus bookstore at Union Theological Seminary and the Presbyterian School of Christian Education (before the institution changed its name) and saw a text that started me on my trek. While browsing the shelves, I noticed William Zinsser’s On Writing Well. It was a required text for a Doctor of Ministry seminar.

Writing my Doctor of Ministry project paper was the most difficult part of my own Doctor of Ministry Program at Pittsburgh Theological Seminary. By the time I was writing my project paper I had not taken an English Composition Course since that first semester of my freshman year of college, over twenty-five years before. I was not used to the exacting requirements of my two readers and could have used some help. Since my own D.Min. program had not included any required texts on witting, I eventually bought and read a copy of Zinsser’s classic as a way of filling what I considered to be a gap in my education.

Not long after I started reading On Writing Well I began asking myself “Why was I not required to read this book in college, or in seminary?” I found Zinsser’s advice, examples, and suggestions extremely helpful. When I finished On Writing Well I wanted to read more about the craft of writing because I had started to think of myself as a writer, not a good writer, but a writer nevertheless.

I have taken a few more steps on my journey of exploring the craft of writing since that day when I walked into the bookstore, each step represented by a different book or experience. While my trek is only beginning, I hope to reflect on some of those steps here in Summit to Shore.

Paddling on the Proxigean Tide

Climbing out of bed around 5:45 AM was much too early for such a cold Saturday morning in late January. After walking the dog an hour earlier than usual, I grabbed my gear bag and headed for the car. The starter struggled in the cold to turn the engine over, sort of like my current mental state without my usual morning coffee, especially since it was not yet 6:30 AM

Half an hour later I pulled into the parking lot of the Sebago Canoe Club, parking near the club house. A car pulled out as I was parking, leaving but one other car in the lot. Entering the club house, I saw Pete building a fire in the double fifty-five gallon drum wood stove and Phil making coffee. The three of us were the only ones that had yet arrived.

Others started arriving not long after. Eventually there were at least fifteen of us assembled in the club house. The occasion was the proxigean tide, the highest tide of the year, and reason enough for kayakers to gather, eat breakfast, and maybe paddle. (My photo to the right is of our breakfast before the paddle. Phil is standing at the table in his dry suit.)

The plan was to gather at 7 AM to prepare coffee and breakfast with an ongoing serving throughout the morning. With the high tide at 7:53 AM, Stevie was planning to lead a paddle with an estimated launch at 7:30 AM in an attempt to make the elusive marsh crossing of Ruffle Bar, a small island in Jamaica Bay about a four miles paddle south of the club’s dock. The marsh crossing had eluded all previous attempts. With a little luck, seals might also be sighted. The only problem was that Stevie had forgotten his dry suit at home and therefore was not able paddle. He still gave great trip support.

The gathering crowd at the club house brought various breakfast items. Most did not plan to paddle. They came for the fellowship and to see what the highest tide of the year looked like around the clubhouse, which is located on Paerdegat Basin, at the foot of Avenue N in Brooklyn, NY, and just a few yards from the water’s edge. In previous years the proxigean tide had crested high enough to not only reach the club house but to cover it with a few inches of water, but not this year’s. According to folks that had been around awhile, this year’s proxigean tide was mild. It was even a little disappointing for newcomers like me who had not only never seen one before but had never heard of it until recently. I had lived in the mountains until two and a half years ago, and in the mountains we did not pay much attention to tides.

Not forgetting their dry suits and wanting to paddle, even in the 15°f temperature, were Bonnie, Elizabeth, Pete, Phil, me and Minh. (The photo to the right is of the six paddlers, suited up and ready to go. Photo by Stevie) I had paddled with each of them before but cannot remember if I had ever paddled with all of them in a single group. They were all seasoned paddlers. I was probably the one with the least experience.

After coffee, eggs in the hole, assorted danish, and a pancake, I, along with the five others, suited up for the paddle. I was glad to be suiting up in the wood stove heated club house, even though I could still see my breath as I put on my dry suit.

Under my Kokatat dry suit I wore a base layer of Patagonia Capilene on top and bottom. For my upper body I put a SmartWool zip neck on top of the Capilene base layer, and on top of that a heavier weight Patagonia Capilene zip neck. Before zipping up my dry suit I activated an EZ Heat packet and placed it between the outer Capilene and SmartWool to help keep my core warm. Over my dry suit I of course wore my PFD, which added even more upper body insulation. For my feet I wore SmartWool liner socks inside NRS neoprene Paddle Shoes. I wore NRS neoprene mittens on my hands and an Xcel titanium neoprene skull cap on my head with a wool Himalayan beanie over the skull cap. Before heading out of the club house I also put on a neoprene spray skirt.

Down at the dock I easily slipped into the club’s blue Necky Chatham 16. I have paddled this boat several times and it is one of my favorite kayaks. I like it for both its stability and maneuverability, enhanced by its skeg, but today the skeg cable was frozen solid with ice and would not budge. I was glad I was able to put my spray skirt around the cockpit coming without having to take of my mitts; otherwise my hands would have chilled. Once away from the dock I realized that I was the first one on the water. I estimate that the put in time was around 8:00 AM, a little later than the float plan called for, but not by much. (That's me sitting in the kayak in the photo to the right. Photo by Bonnie)

At first my toes and fingers were a little cold but after paddling for awhile my toes warmed up and my fingers were bearable. My nose and face felt warm. My core, thanks to breakfast and the activated EZ Heat, was toasty.

With the wind at our back the six of us paddled a straight course for Ruffle Bar. Crossing Jamaica Bay was an easy paddle but at the north-eastern tip of Ruffle Bar we encountered some small standing waves in the shallows just north of the island, forcing us to paddled back away from shore in order to clear the waves and the shallows. As we passed some small standing waves at the beginning of the shallows, the first real waves we had yet encountered, I found myself thinking “this would not be a good time to flip.” I didn’t.

As we passed the eastern end of Ruffle Bar we eagerly looked for the entrance to the salt marsh. After passing a couple of imposters we finally found the entrance but the channel into the marsh did not look as large as I remembered it. I had paddled into the marsh once before but it was on a summer paddle and everything was green. Today, everything is brown and white.

Even though I was the lead paddler at the time, after looking at the channel I passed it by, convinced that it would not be possible to negotiate through it all the way to the western side of the island and back out into the bay. Nevertheless, my five paddling companions took a brief look. Bonnie and Pete paddled further into it while the rest of us continued along to the southern end of Ruffle Bar, planning to meet up with Pete and Bonnie at the western end of the island just in case they were able to make it through.

Paddling along the southern shore, Ruffle Bar served as a wind break and we enjoyed very calm water and a chance to warm a little, so we paddled a little more slowly. Slush and chunks of ice floated nearby. I could have imagined I was in the Artic.

Turning northward at the eastern end of Ruffle Bar we encountered some wind and waves. Bonnie and Pete were nowhere to be seen. We would later learn that not far into the salt marsh they encountered thick slush and ice blocking the channel and did not want to turn their kayaks into icebreakers, so they paddled back out of the marsh they same way they had entered it. They eventually caught up with us. (The first photo to the right is of Pete as he first encounters ice in the Marsh channel. The second photo to the right illustrates what Bonnie and Pete would have faced if they continued through the channel. Photos by Bonnie)

Further out into the bay the wind and waves intensified. I found paddling back northward across Jamaica Bay, with the wind in our face and standing waves in places a foot high, a daunting paddle. While I was comfortable and warm on the protected southern shore of Ruffle Bar, my fingers were now starting to chill and eventually became numb, especially on my right “grip” hand. The wind was now not only blowing in my face but also occasionally blowing icy cold spray onto my face. Whereas there had previously been a thin layer of ice on the bow deck of my kayak, the constant wash over, combined with the hull occasionally pounding the surf after dropping off a wave, cleared the deck of all ice. But ice was now clinging to my dry suit and the fiberglass shaft of my Warner paddle.

Because my right grip hand held tight, even though my fingers were numb, I was able to maintain a tight controlling grip with it. But my left hand, which released any grip it had when I feathered, was starting to slip and slide up and down the paddle shaft because of ice on the paddle shaft as well as my neoprene mitt. I feared I might hit a standing wave, attempt a brace, and have my paddle slip away or turn out of the brace, leaving me in the icy bay. Somehow I managed to maintain control on the icy shaft and remained upright. But I was paddling hard and steady, wanting to stay perpendicular to the waves and give the wind less time to abuse me. Once again I found myself thinking “this would not be a good time, or place, to flip.” Once again, I didn’t.

Somehow I had managed to be the lead boat through the first half of the wind driven icy chop but eventually Pete overtook me on my port and pulled ahead. I was kind of glad not to be the lead boat anymore and with Pete in sight I knew I was not alone, as I had not looked back since we entered the chop.

Eventually we paddled out of the chop and the wind seemed to die down just a bit, but my right fingers were pretty numb and I needed to warm them. I caught up with Pete when he stopped to take a break and asked him if I could raft up with him for a couple minutes while I warmed my hands. He offered me a spare pare of mitts from his deck but they were encrusted in solid Ice, so I thought they would not help much. Rafted up with Pete, I set my paddle down on the deck, wedged it under a deck line, and put both hands, still in mitts, under the opposite armpit, wiggling my fingers inside my mitts. After just a few minutes I could sense feeling and warmth returning. Not long after, I picked up my paddle, pushed away from Pete, and started paddling again.

Pete paddled ahead. Phil and Minh also eventually overtook me and paddled with Pete. But Bonnie and Elizabeth were still behind me. When I reached the ice encrusted green buoy marking the channel leading into Mill Basin I paused, turned my boat around, and waited a moment or two until I could see Bonnie and Elizabeth in the distance paddling toward me. Then I turned north and started paddling once again, but at a more leisurely pace than I had paddled in the stiffer wind and standing waves.

As I paddled, Pete, Phil and Minh were at least fifty yards ahead of me. Elizabeth and Bonnie were seventy yards or more behind me. In the windy chop I would have felt abandoned, but now, paddling in these less windy and calmer waters so close to shore and home, I appreciated, even valued, being somewhat alone.

I don’t know when I entered it, but eventually I found myself in a Zen-like paddling state where I was paddling without thinking about what I was doing. Earlier, out in the windy chop, I was intensely focused as I concentrated on paddling, occasionally bracing with a small hip flick, thinking about what I would do if I lost it. Now I and the kayak were working as one without me thinking about it, smoothly cutting through the smoother water. It was hard to tell where my hand stopped and the paddle shaft began. The boat became an extension of my body. After awhile my paddling and my surroundings came back into focus and I realized that for awhile all had been well with the world.

Now aware of what was going on around me I noticed flocks of water fowl occasionally passing nearby. In retrospect I realize that I had not seen a jet all day, even though the control tower at Kennedy International Airport was in clear view, a few miles off to the east. Had it not been for the receding Manhattan skyline and the approaching bridge over the Belt Parkway, I would not have known I was paddling in an urban environment. Jamaica Bay is, after all, a National Wildlife Refuge, and for me an occasional refuge and retreat from more urban and concrete life.

Further out in Jamaica Bay, from whence I had paddled, I could clearly see Lower and Upper Manhattan. (The photo to the right is of Pete, paddling through the wind driven chop, heading north toward Manhattan. Photo by Bonnie) But as I paddled northward and closer to Paerdegat Basin and the Belt Parkway bridge over the basin, the New York City skyline kept receding below the horizon ahead. Eventually, as I approached Buoy 13, all I could see was the top of the Empire State Building. Eventually, it too, slipped out of sight, hidden by trees along the parkway.

When I reached Buoy 13, its lower parts covered with ice, I stopped paddling. Turning around, I looked for my two paddling companions behind me. Once I saw them I headed for home.

Whenever I reach buoy 13 I always feel like I am almost home. Buoy 13 is the first buoy you encounter paddling out of the basin heading south. That means it is also the last buoy you encounter as you head back into the basin from the south. At that now familiar green buoy, which I have paddled past countless times, I know that after another 15 to 30 minutes paddling I will back at the Sebago dock. Sometimes 13 is a lucky number.

After paddling under the Belt Parkway and up Paerdegat Basin, I approach the new Sebago dock, not yet a year old. I see that Minh, Phil and Pete are already out of their boats, their kayaks out of the water. Stevie is the only person I see, standing by, ready to lend assistance as I approach. What a helpful trip leader that was not even on the trip!

With the dock just a few yards away I turn around one last time to make shore Bonnie and Elizabeth are behind me. I see them passing under the Belt Parkway and so I turn toward home and paddle the last few yards. Making contact with the carpet covered aluminum, I appreciate Stevie's offer to help me but don't need. I break the ice off my spray skirt’s webbing and pull the nearly frozen spray skirt off the cockpit coaming. With the paddle shaft behind me, pressing down on both boat and dock, I lift myself out of the cockpit and up and onto the platform.

Rolling onto the dock, my left calf, finally liberated from the cold and cramped cockpit after having been wedged most of the day against a foot peg, cramps tight. Stevie can tell I have a leg cramp and volunteers that he often experiences the same after a paddle. Thanks Stevie, now I do not feel so old.

I knead and rub my lower left leg through my dry suit and try to relax the cramp. Once the cramp eases I kneel next to my kayak and lift it up on the dock. Prying off the rear hatch cover with the blade of my paddle, I grab my two dry bags out of the rear hatch. Leaving the kayak on the dock, I carry my paddle and two dry bags up the ramp of the dock and walk into the clubhouse. It feels good to be home.

Standing next to the wood stove for a few minutes, I warm up. So I won’t drip all over the floor I soon head back outside to break and scrape the ice off my spray skirt, PFD and dry suit. (The photo to the right illustrates the ice buildup on Bonnie's dry suit at the end of our trip. Photo by Stevie)

Returning inside I stand close to the fire for a few more minutes and pour a cup of hot Russian tea from my thermos. I can feel the warm liquid going down my throat and entering my stomach, the warmth radiating throughout my body. Eventually I take off my PFD and spray skirt. A few minutes later I unzip my dry suit and slip my head out through the gasket. Then I slip the wrist gaskets over my hands and slide my arms out of the sleeves. Next to the stove with my dry suit half way off, I am really starting to thaw out.

Further warmed by another cup of tea and some munchies I take off my boots and dry suit, exchanging them for cotton pants, a fleece lined wind jacket, and fleece lined Crocks. I am starting to feel semi-normal.

I go back to the wood stove, drink yet another cup of tea, and eat a cup of Mary’s hot soup and eat a sandwich of ham and Swiss between a sliced bagel, the bagel having been warmed on top of the wood stove. I pull my phone out of my pocket and see that it is nearly noon and that the air temperature has risen from 15°f to a warm and balmy 18°f.

Feeling fully warmed and recharged, I collect my scattered gear, stuff it into my nylon mesh gear bag, and head home, making sure I sign out, and saying goodbye to my paddling companions and others around the club house table as I leave. But I’ll be back, someday, for another paddle.

This 8 to 8.5 mile paddle was not my longest paddle, but with a 15°f air temperature at put in and an 18°f air temperature at take out, it was certainly my coldest. Last year I paddled 7.2 miles at Jones Beach on January 10th but the air temperature was 31°f that day. I paddled again at Jones Beach, doing 4.5 miles on February 21st and 3 miles on February 28th, but on both trips either failed to measure or record the air temperature. I doubt it was below 25°f if even that cold. Besides, both were relatively short paddles. Today’s cold air temperature, head wind upon returning, and total distance paddled, combined to make this one of my most demanding, and perhaps best, paddles to date.

Because I knew the cold would quickly drain my camera’s batteries, I did not take any pictures on the trip even though I had my camera in my dry bag. Thanks to Bonnie and Stevie, who both granted me permission to use their photos, I am able to include a few of their shots with my post. I also thank Bonnie, Elizabeth, Minh, Pete and Phil for the pleasure of their paddling company. Thanks to Stevie for planning the trip and his dockside assistance. Thanks to all the members of the Sebago Canoe Club who came out, brought food, made breakfast and lunch, and offered support and encouragement. You are great!

I posted a much shorter trip report on the Sebago Blog, where Bonnie has also posted a trip report along with a link to more of her photos.

About the February 2010 Header Photo

It seems that I have been spending a lot more time around the ocean than I have in the mountains. Thus my “summit” photo stock is slim to nil while I have an overabundance of new and recent “shore” photos waiting to be featured. So for this month I have reched far back into the archives and selected a scanned image from what was probably a Kodak Instamatic color print. That is why it is so grainy.

That’s me on top of the Gendarme, a twenty-five foot pinnacle that used to stand guard in the Gunsight notch of Seneca Rocks, West Virginia. It was a classic Seneca climb until it came crashing to the ground in the late 1980’s.

The Gendarme was only a 5.4 climb, but the protection was a couple of old rusty pitons along the short pitch and two or three bolts on top. The first move involved stepping off solid rock over what seemed like a hundred feet of thin air in order to gain the face. While the route was easy to lead, with good holds, the climber still looked down between their legs and saw nothing but a hundred feet of air between them and the rock ledge below until the small summit was gained.

The photo was taken with my camera by my climbing partner at the time, Paul Estler, on the occasion of my first ascent (I would climb it a few more times over the next few years), March 6, 1977. Those were the days!

A Well Deserved Rebuke

The Supreme Court of the United States has received a rare rebuke from the President of the United States and in my opinion the five Justices voting in the majority in Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission deserve it.

I find it hard to understand, by any stretch of the imagination, by any application of logic, or by any legal argument, how a corporation can be guaranteed the same right to freedom of speech as a living, breathing American citizen. A corporation is a legal entity created out of thin air. A corporation’s very existence, not to mention its rights, is defined by the legislation creating it and the laws governing it. The public creates and recognizes corporations as legal entities. Sometimes corporations are recognized as “persons” but not as a living, breathing human beings. The mistake the Supreme Court made in this case was to confuse legal terminology and concepts with actual things, a “legal” person to a living person. The public by law create corporations but only the union of a sperm and an egg can create a human being. Just as the public created corporations the public can just as easily limit their powers, including their rights.

A human being exists for a finite time, from its birth to its death. A corporation is not born in the biological sense but created in the legal sense. Unless it dissolves, its “life” is potentially everlasting. There are corporations in America that have been in existence much longer than the longest human lifespan, and their potentially everlasting life spans allows corporations to accumulate great wealth and exercise great economic and political power. Corporations are not bound by time or even space as human beings are. While a corporation maintains a physical address it may actually operate, unlike a human being, in several locations, thus extending its political power.

By the Supreme Court’s logic, a corporation also ought to have the right to vote, to bear arms, and every other right enacted in the Constitution. Forget about Exxon or Halliburton contributing to candidates for President and buying a Commander-in-Chief to their liking. According to the logic of the Supreme Court, a corporation can simply run for and be elected President as long as it has been in existence long enough.

Networking

Last Wednesday was a good day for Summit to Shore for at least two reasons. As I have already noted, on Wednesday Google Analytics recorded the first visitor from South Dakota, the only state that had yet been logged as being the home of a visitor to this blog. Thanks to Kathleen Turner, the visitor for South Dakota, Summit to Shore can boast of having been visited by someone from every state in the United States during the first year Google Analytics was logging such information.

For the record, Google Analytics does not record the name of visitors, only their location. Had Kathleen not left a personal comment, all I would have known was that someone from the Sioux Falls area had visited twice on Wednesday, or that two visitors from the Sioux Falls area had each visited once. I would not have known the identity or any other personal information about the visitor(s), so your privacy is well protected unless you choose to leave a comment.

The other good news I received last Wednesday is that after months of waiting, Summit to Shore is finally listed on CC blogs, a network hosted by The Christian Century. I had applied to be listed on the CC blogs network soon after starting Summit to Shore only to be told I needed to have a bit of a blogging history before the application could be considered. After three or four months and several posts worth of blogging I reapplied, but at a time when CC blogs was experiencing growing pains and personnel changes. I think my application material, along with some e-mails, were lost in the process. I eventually had to follow up with additional e-mails to move the process along. CC blogs finally figured things out and as of last Wednesday, Summit to Shore is part of the CC blogs network, one of about 109 blogs so listed. Thus the icon and hot link in the upper right corner of Summit to Shore.

Even though I am a blogger and now part of the CC blogs network, I still think of The Christian Century as a print publication, one that in the past couple of years has become one of my favorite reads. That is when the United States Postal Service manages to deliver it in one piece. A recent issue had half of the front two pages totally ripped off and missing.

I read some issues of The Christian Century more than others and never read every page. What I like about The Christian Century is that it offers a variety of reading, from short one paragraph news summaries in “Century Marks” to full page and multi page think pieces as well as interviews and reviews of books, films and music. It also publishes cartoons, poetry and graphic art. I usually find the “Living by the Word: Reflections on the Lectionary” helpful as I am preparing sermons and occasionally quote from it. Believe it not, I also appreciate the advertisements for recent publications and especially workshops and other continuing education events. I learned about the most recent continuing education event I attended, and one I found most helpful, “Delivering the Gospel”, when I saw it advertised in The Christian Century. Had it not been for The Christian Century I would not have known about the workshop.

The Christian Century brands itself on the cover as “Thinking Critically, Living Faithfully” and I think that pretty well sums it up. I also think of the Christian Century as a progressive, somewhat intellectual, mainline conversation among well read and educated Christians as they seek to understand and be in conversation with and about our wider culture while keeping their eyes on emerging trends in both church and society.

JuMpInG uP aNd DoWn In GlEe Because South Dakota Visited Me

Finally! Just as time was running out, not only has Google Analytics recorded a visitor to Summit to Shore from South Dakota, but the visitor has also left a comment.

I made two appeals the last couple of months, trying to lure a visitor from South Dakota, because Google Analytics had yet to record one. On December 7, 2009, I posted an appeal for visitors from both Montana and South Dakota. Soon afterward Google Analytics registered a couple visitors from Montana but none from South Dakota. On January 4, 2010 I posted another appeal for a visitor from South Dkota, but again, nothing but silence. Yesterday, January 27, 2010, Kathleem Turner, a blogger from South Dakota, left a comment to my January 4 post.

I will not tell you what she wrote because you can read Kathleen’s comment for yourself. Nor will I tell you all about her because you cou can check her profile.

I learned about Kathleen and her blog, Kathleen Turner’s Dakota Dreams, and she learned about me and my blog, Summit to Shore, through a mutual internet friend and her blog, Melanie Reuter, who like Kathleen is a knitter, and who blogs at Hands to Soul.

In a personal e-mail, Kathleen wrote “I'm a writer, but I should warn you that my fiction is decidedly irreverent. Currently, I'm writing knitting books - I'm working on my 5th right now (with a nightmare inducing deadline).”

Help me thank Kathleen for enabling me to truthfully boast that “Summit to Shore received visitors from every state in the country during the first year such information was being recorded” by visiting her blog, Kathleen Turner's Dakota Dreams, and perhaps leaving a comment.

Links

I have not been keeping up with my blog browsing lately and have fallen behind reading some of my favorite blogs. This morning I had the chance to play a little catch up and have been particularly struck by several posts. I do not usually highlight other blogs without adding some comment but this time I will some links with a minimum of comment.

Paul Rack over at Raxweblog has a pertinent post about Presbyterians and Evangelism. I think much of historical and contemporary analysis is right on target and worthy of further reflection. I know that if I and the particular Presbyterian Church I serve does not soon become more intentional about evangelism that there may not be a church for me to serve within a few years. Read Paul’s thoughts about evangelism and let Paul and me know what you think.

Melanie Childers Reuter, who blogs at Hands to Soul, has two thoughtful posts that I think are two of her best and most thoughtful since I have been following her blog. In one, she offers her own “Pledge of Allegiance” that I think captures the spirit of what it means to be not just an American but a human being, a pledge not to a flag or any other symbol, but to a way of being in community. I am not sure if she meant the next post to be a follow up to “pledge” but that is sort of how I read it. Bouncing off one of my favorite authors, Robert Fulghum, she offers some suggestions about how to play nice that, if followed, would help transform communities into more livable environments.

Finally, Carol Howard Merritt, in her Tribalchurch.org, reflects on her interviewing another of my favorite authors, John Shelby Spong, who has a new book coming out. Carol offers a provocative snippet from Spong’s forthcoming endeavor and reflects on it and her interview of Spong in light of her own ministry. I hear her and Spong expressing some of my own feelings and thoughts about ministry and the institutional church.

I have found these though provoking posts, some several days old, to have been a nice way to begin a rainy Monday morning. Along with a cup of coffee they have helped me jump start my brain.

Where In The World Is Tristan de Cunha?

For the past couple of weeks I have been trying to piece the world together one piece at a time, all 540 pieces. During the after Christmas half-price sales I bought a nine inch diameter “The Blue Marble Earth PuzzleSphere”. Piecing it together has tested my knowledge of world geography and manual dexterity, not to mention my patience.

Both poles came pre-assembled. The continents went together fairly easily. North America and South America were eventually joined together as were Europe, Asia and Africa. North America and Asia were easily connected to the Arctic. Antarctica was eventually joined with South America via the southern tip of Chili and Argentina and not long afterward also Australia. The oceans, especially the South pacific and the South Atlantic, are still remaining to be pieced together, which leads me to ask “where in the world is Tristan de Cunha?"

I have a puzzle piece bearing the name Tristan de Cunha and parts of two trade routes, but no latitude or longitude markings. I have had no idea where Tristan de Cunha might be and so no sense of whether the puzzle piece might belong in the South Pacific or the South Atlantic. To help me put the earth together I eventually conducted an internet search and hit, of course, Wikipedia.

According to Wikipedia, Tristan da Cunha is a remote group of islands in the south Atlantic Ocean and the most remote inhabited archipelago in the world. The main island, bearing the same name, is about 7 miles across and has an area of 38 square miles. The Island group has a population of 275.

With those numbers, I am not surprised I was not able to remember, and may never have known, the location of Tristan da Cunha. Now I know and can more easily place the piece in the puzzle. If only real life we so easy.

By the way, all 540 pieces of this puzzle have numbers printed on the back and an arrow indicating where the next highest numbered piece connects, so I could more easily construct the world if I wanted to. If I did that, however, I wouldn’t have wondered where Tristan da Cunha was. Nor would I have been testing my knowledge of world geography, or lack thereof. Yes, I look forward to having a completed globe when I am done, but I did not buy this puzzle just to have a globe. I bought it for the challenge, the fun, and the frustration of least playing United Nation envoy and at most playing God.

Sublime Nature

For the past several months I have wanted to write about sublime nature. The desire grew in part from a comment my fellow kayaker and water blogger Bonnie wrote in response to my post about Searching for a Retreat Center. She wrote “Kayaking sort of IS my retreat. I don't think I ever feel as peaceful & right with myself & the world as I do when I'm out on the water.”

I could not agree more with my friend, but I would add hiking and climbing to kayaking and trails and mountain tops to water. Sometimes I wonder how much of my religious and spiritual sentiment is an outgrowth of my love of the outdoors and how much of my love for the outdoors is an outgrowth of my spiritual and religious sentiments. My ecological ethic has, after all, been as influenced by Thoreau, Muir and Abby as by the two creation accounts of Genesis and the Book of Psalms.

While recently serving jury duty I started reading John Muir’s The Mountains of California and was inspired by Muir’s following description of alpenglow. “To me [alpenglow is] one of the most impressive of all the terrestrial manifestations of God. At the touch of this divine light, the mountains seemed to kindle to a rapt, religious consciousness, and stood hushed and waiting like devout worshipers. Just before the alpenglow began to fade, two crimson clouds came streaming across the summit like wings of flame, rendering the sublime scene yet more impressive, then came the darkness and the stars.”

Whether it be evening alpenglow, early morning mist rising and burning off from calm water, or sunlight illuminating early morning fog in an Appalachian forest accompanied by the gurgling of a mountain stream (photo right), my spirit can be similarly lifted by the experience as if I were in a Gothic Cathedral illuminated by candlelight and the sun shining through stained glass windows, the sound of Gregorian Chant resonating off the stone walls.

Jury Duty

For the past several days I have been privileged in a 2,500 Democratic institution—jury duty! It all started with a letter informing me that I had been selected to serve in the jury pool and to call last Friday evening to see if I needed to actually report to the court house the next business day. The recorded message Friday evening and Monday evening told me that I did not need to report. But the recording Tuesday evening was different. Be at the court house by 8:30 AM.

The original mailing noted that proper court attire was required. I wondered what proper court attire might be. In the middle of January I was not going to show up wearing shorts and a t-shirt. Neither was I going to wear a powdered wig, coif and waistcoat. I opted for khaki’s and a dress shirt, sans tie. I was neither overdressed nor underdressed but certainly toward the more professional looking end of the spectrum.

After a 45 minute bus ride, including one transfer, I arrived outside the Court House (middle photo right) at 8:15 AM with fifteen minutes to spare, only to discover on the other side of the side entrance (bottom photo right) a serpentine line of others jurors winding its way through the doors leading lobby, down a hallway, and into another room where ribbon barriers directed us toward two magnetometers. One of the armed guards, with a smile on his face, was pleasantly greeting everyone he invited to deposit pocket contents into a small tub while placing their bags on the conveyer belt of an extra machine. He was one of the most pleasing security screeners I have ever met. While all the other guards were courteous, they paled in comparison to him.

On the other side of the magnetometer I grabbed my day pack off the other end of the conveyor belt and retrieved the contents of my pockets from the plastic bin. Thirty minutes after arriving at the court house, at 8:45 AM, I entered a large jury pool room full of hundreds of padded leather seats and sat, and sat, and sat. While the room was not full, I estimate that two to three hundred people were gathered.

An officer of the court instructed us not to use cell phones—no calls, no texting—or else our phone would be confiscated. On the other hand, the room was Wi-Fi capable and people were allowed to use their lap tops. Computer work stations lined the back wall. What can you do with a cell phone that you cannot do with a laptop or computer? I just don’t get it.

Around 10:30 a court officer took attendance by reading our names and having us reply “Here!” Ten or fifteen minutes later we watched a short video entitled Your Turn, about the history of jury’s, and starring Ed Bradley and Diane Sawyer. When the video was over the names of those not present earlier were once again read. At 11:15 Am we were allowed a fifteen minute break.

The same video screens that had shown Your Turn started showing The Price is Right! I continued reading. Eventually the video image changed from The Price is Right! to news coverage of the Haiti earthquake. What juxtaposition, I thought, from a game show celebrating American consumerism where contestants try to guess the price of meaningless items to a news report about a devastating earthquake in the Western Hemisphere’s poorest country, whose its inhabitants probably could not afford to purchase most of what was featured on The Price is Right! As if to add insult to injury, after a few minutes the news coverage was turned off and more names were read.

The people whose names were read were instructed to come forward and stand in lines. They were then dismissed for the day but told to return the next day. I was not among them, so I was still sitting and reading.

At 12:25 PM, thirty-five minutes before our scheduled lunch break, more names were read. Mine was among them. We lined up and were told that we had been assigned to a case but would not be needed until after lunch, so we could leave early for lunch and had to be back by 2:00 PM.

I went to Subway across the street and enjoyed my usual sub with chips and a drink. As directed, I was back to the jury pool room, properly attired and refreshed, by 2:00 PM.

Around 3:45 PM my jury group was once again called forward and formed into lines. We were told that the trial we were assigned to was carried over to the following day, that we could now go home, but that we had to report Thursday morning by 9:00 AM.

All night I half expected to show up Thursday morning only to be told that the trail we had been assigned to had been terminated by a plea deal and that we could go home.

When I arrived Thursday morning there was no line of jurors as the day before. I walked right through the lobby, down the hallway, and up to the security checkpoint. When I entered the jury pool room there were only about a third to a quarter of the number of people seated as the there were the day before.

Like the day before, I sat and read, read and sat. Where well over a hundred people sat in front of me the day before, perhaps fifty were now sitting. Who are these strangers, I thought. Randomly selected from Queen’s voters, taxpayers and drivers, they represented the racial and cultural diversity of the county. To the far right was a middle aged white male, short blond hair, glasses, working some sort of puzzle in a newspaper. Two chairs away from him to his right was a young white, blond female, glasses, chewing gum a mile an hour, earrings dangling from her lobes, just sitting. In front of them was a middle aged black woman, glasses, her hair falling into thin dreadlocks, reading a magazine. In front of her was a middle aged to older woman, pin stripped blouse, pin striped slacks, wearing a head scarf as if she might be Moslem or Hindu, or simply modest. Throughout the room similar people, white, black, Asian, Hispanic, and who knows what else were reading paperbacks, newspapers, and magazines they had brought with them. Wednesday I was reading The Virgin of Bennington by Kathleen Norris. Thursday I began reading The Mountains of California by John Muir.

Occasionally a juror would rise, walk to the water dispenser, pull down a cone shaped white paper cup from its dispenser, and have a drink. Or they might walk through double doors into a hallway, hoarded by a security officer, to the restroom and back. While the room both days was generally quiet except for the court announcements and low murmur of the video screens, once in a while the sound of snacks or beverage cans could be heard falling from the dispensing machine as jurors sought to refresh themselves and stave off hunger.

I looked at my watch. It was 11:50 A. We had not been given any information since our arrival nearly three hours earlier. But twenty minutes later, with fifty minutes before our scheduled lunch break, my jury was told that our case had been held over until after lunch and that we could leave for lunch but had to be back by 2:00 PM. For the second day in a row I lunched at Subway.

Back by 2:00 PM, I read and sat, sat and read. Then, at around 3:45, the entire room was informed that our services would not be needed and that we could go home and would not have to serve jury duty for another six years. An audible but subdued sigh of relief reverberated throughout the room. As our names were called we turned in our juror ID card for a certificate witnessing to the fact that we had served. My civic and democratic duty was ended, and I never even got to enter a real courtroom. But Democracy and our American judicial system had been well served. Our founders would have been pleased and proud. Socrates would have been relieved that no one was found guilty and sentenced to drink hemlock.

Epiphany – Busting Myths and Other Thoughts

Just before Christmas I took our dog Myrrhlyn to the Vet for some routine vaccinations. When I explained that Myrrhlyn’s name was a Welsh spelling variation of the magician of Arthurian Legend and that his name was also an allusion to Myrrh, as in gold, frankincense and myrrh, a young Vet Tech responded that she had just recently learned what Frankincense was, and that there were not necessarily three wise men. I responded that they were not necessarily all men.

A footnote to the New Revised Standard Version of the Bible alerts the reader to the fact that the original Greek is “magi” as in magicians, and could just as well be translated “astrologers”. The masculine plural ending of “magi” suggests that at least one of these visitors was male, but one or more could also have been female.

No where does the Gospel According to Matthew enumerate the Magi. The plural ending means there were two or more, but there could have been three, or four, or more. That three gifts—gold, frankincense and myrrh—were presented has suggested that there were three visitors. This number has been immortalized by the popular Carol “We Three Kings”. Unfortunately more people learn their Bible stories from carols and hymns than from Scripture.

I prefer to think of the Epiphany visitors as astrologers/astronomers who did not literally follow a star that moved through the night sky only to stop and hover over Bethlehem but instead carefully observed the night sky, charted the position of the planets and stars, and determined from their relative positions that something significant was happening and went in search of it.

If I had the resources and it were not so cold outside this time of year, I would love to schedule an evening Epiphany service that included sky watching through telescopes. While images from the Hubble Telescope projected onto a screen or the wall might still communicate some awe, there is something to be said about seeing astronomical phenomena with one’s own eye through a telescope. Rather than preaching a sermon I would invite an astronomer to talk about the winter night sky.

One Year and Counting

When I set up Summit to Shore and started blogging a year ago, I had not given the whole blogging thing much thought. I just jumped in and learned by trial and error along the way. If I were to start all over I might do some things differently.

I am wondering if Summit to Shore is too eclectic. Admittedly, its subject matter extends far and wide, perhaps too far and wide. Should I limit its focus? Should I post less often but with longer and more thoughtful posts? What is the right balance between quantity and quality?

If nothing else, blogging has either ignited or rekindled within me an interest in writing, perhaps even an urge to write. I do not know what path this new direction will ultimately take me or this blog. We shall see.

A year’s anniversary is a good time to reflect and take stock. In its first year I published 213 posts, averaging over four a week and seventeen a month. Since I did not start using Google Analytics until January 28, 2009, and did not install a site meter until February 1, 2009, I am still collecting a full year’s worth of data to reflect upon. That also means that any potential visitor from South Dakota still has until February 27th to register a visit.

South Dakota, Where Are You?

Back on December 7, I was hoping to soon log visits from both Montana and South Dakota, the only two states at that time without a recorded visit to Summit to Shore. The next day, December 8, two visits from Montana were recorded, leaving South Dakota as the lone holdout.

The New Year has arrived and still there has been no recorded visit from South Dakota. Since I did not launch Summit to Shore until January 5, 2009, there is still time remaining for South Dakota to step up to the plate. (hint, hint)

If I knew anyone in South Dakota I would call or email them and ask them to visit Summit to Shore. The only name I can associate with South Dakota, however, is that of one of my favorite authors, Kathleen Norris. While I know her through her writing, she doesn’t know me from my reading, so I really can't call or email her. Besides, she might be in Hawaii this time of year.

Several years ago I read Dakota: A Spiritual Geography but could not remember if Kathleen was living in North Dakota or South Dakota. Having already read Amazing Grace: A Vocabulary of Faith, The Cloister Walk, and The Quotidian Mysteries, I am now finally getting around to reading The Virgin of Bennington. Reading the second chapter of Virgin reminded me that Kathleen’s grandparents had lived in Lemmon, South Dakota, where her mother had grown up, where she had spent her childhood summers, and where she now sometimes lives and writes, dividing her time between South Dakota and Hawaii.

Lemmon is the home of the Spencer Memorial Presbyterian Church, with 117 members in 2008, one of those members being Kathleen Norris. Kathleen has regularly preached at her home church. I had the opportunity to hear Kathleen Norris preach at the 209th General Assembly (1997) of The Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) meeting in Syracuse, NY and thought she was an outstanding preacher. I used to have a recording of her sermon but loaned it out and it was never returned. One of these days I will get around to reading the only book by Kathleen that I have not yet read, Acedia and Me.

Kathleen's home state of South Dakota became a state on November 2, 1889. It is also the home of Mount Rushmore National Monument. The Capital is Pierre. To date, it is the only state out of 50 without a logged visit to Summit to Shore. (another hint)

What could residents of South Dakota possibly have against me? Is there no internet there? While South Dakota has no shore, it certainly has some summits. At 7,242 feet, Harney Peak, the state's highest, is higher than any peak east of the Mississippi. Shorely somone from South Dakota has to eventually stumble onto this blog.

About the January 2010 Header Photo

Virginia Beach is where Summit to Shore began, and the first photo to appear on the blog was a sunrise (morning turn around) as seen from Virginia Beach. The photo featured with January 2010 posts was also taken at Virginia Beach, around 7:30 AM, January 1, 2010. The location is on the beach just off the boardwalk at 23rd Street, near the Ocean Sands Resort and Spa. It was an overcast morning after an evening and night of rain and fog.

Happy New Year

Happy New Year!

When is it appropriate to offer a wish of “Happy New Year”? It is still 2009 as I write, so it is not yet the New Year. But it is New Year’s Eve. Must I wait until midnight to post a “Happy New Year?” Or may I post a premature greeting, knowing that in a few hours it will be 2010 and that many may not see and read this post until tomorrow or even later in the New Year, and that for them, it will truly be the new year?

For the record, this photo was taken a year ago.

My Favorite Virginia Beach Outfitters

For the past several years my wife and I have been vacationing the week after Christmas in Virginia Beach. Every annual VB vacation has included a stop at Wild River Outfitters, one of my favorite multi-sport outdoor provisioners. With a wide selection of paddling gear as well as clothing, footwear, camping and climbing gear, as well as a regular clearance rack and table, it is difficult to walk out of WRO without buying something. In past years I have purchased hiking boots, trail shoes and clothing, all on sale. I have also purchased maps and guide books related to the local area. This time I bought a pair of shorts on clearance sale and a new pair of yak grips for my kayak paddle.
WRO opened for business in 1976 and moved to its current location in 1990. Employing about twenty mostly part-time staff, only three were working the day I dropped by, all camera shy and unwilling to comment for this post. Unfortunately owner Lillie Gilbert was not on site and I regret I did not have the opportunity to meet her in person after corresponding with her via e-mail.

Lillie is an avid and experienced paddler, author and active environmentalist in addition to owning WRO. She has authored at least three guide books about local water, co-authored a book of local tales, and was instrumental in establishing a 28 mile Scenic Waterway that enables paddling from Lynnhaven Inlet to the North Carolina-Virginia line, a paddle that takes one through the heart of Virginia Beach.

WRO offers plenty of parking (photo top right) and a great selection of kayaks (just some of which appear in the photo bottom right). Its staff is knowledgeable, but so is its clientele. Last year while looking at some kayak fishing gear I struck up a conversation with another customer about kayak fishing. He taught me more in five minutes, with hands on explanations, than I could have picked up reading several pages in a book.

I place WRO in the same league as a couple other independent outfitters specializing in or focusing on kayaking while also supporting other sports like camping, backpacking and climbing. The next time you are in Virginia Beach, drop in and tell them you learned about them from Summit to Shore.

Myrrhlyn’s Summit to Shore Day

For a few hours Vicki and I liberated Myrrhlyn from Bayside Kennels, where we have been boarding him since Saturday morning. Our first stop was nearby Mount Trashmore, where Myrrhlyn bagged his first summit (photo top left). With an elevation of 60 feet, Mount Trashmore is perhaps one of the highest natural points in Virginia Beach, offering a commanding view of parkland, the Interstate, and nearby office parks and housing developments.

After descending from Mount Trashmore we drove southeast to our second stop, Back Bay National Wildlife Refuge, where Myrrhlyn experienced (I am not sure “enjoyed” would be the right word) his second kayaking trip (photo top right). We paddled only forty minutes and about a mile, and Myrrhlyn eventually found his way out of Vicki’s sit-on-top and into the water. With a little help he eventually climbed back into Vicki’s kayak. We then paddled back to the put in and called it a day.

After his summit to shore day, Myrrhlyn seemed relieved when we dropped him back off at the Kennel, as if he preferred to be in a warm and cozy kennel rather than climbing reclaimed landfills and swimming in cold brackish water.

Christmas Greetings

Merry Christmas