My new glasses are made by the same guy who created my daughter’s favorite bedtime book, “Only in Dreams” (Molly calls is “Monkey Dreams”). Apparently Paul Frank is kind of a big deal. Now that I’m wearing his glasses, I am too.
Filed under: About OTNR, Posts by John | Tags: Bruce Chatwin, California, Nebraska, Oregon, Origins of the Project, Portland, Songlines, Transportation
Portland, OR :: It bothers me that I haven’t been able to summarize this project for the “About” page of the blog. No kidding, I wake up every morning worrying over what that might mean. I wrote a little in a previous post about what the project is not, but hardly anything about what it is.
When I am asked in person to describe OTNR, I ramble awkwardly for five minutes. I say something about growing up in the evangelical church, and something else about exploring our spiritual heritage; I go on about visiting churches and talking to people along the way, and then, when the person’s eyes glaze over, I say the only thing I know for sure, which is that I don’t know what to expect – that the the project will be shaped by what we find out there on the road.
“Do you know where you’re going to go?” is another common question. But we don’t really. We hope to spend October with my parents in Keizer, Oregon (just north of Salem), November in northern California, and December in southern California. We’ll spend January and February somewhere on the west coast, though we don’t have definite plans. Then in late February or early March we’ll start from Portland and point our camper van, RV, or trailer east. I’d like to head immediately to Lincoln, Nebraska to visit my old church. Who knows after that. “Do you know where you will go?” is a completely reasonable question. (It’s also, come to think of it, a question with two meanings for many of the people I hope to talk to on this journey.) But I can’t give you a good answer.
I feel a bit like the Australian Aborigine who, submitting to the call of the “walkabout,” sets out on a moment’s notice and follows the invisible paths of his ancestors. These invisible paths are known to indigenous Australians as “Footprints of the Ancestors” or “Way of the Law.” To Europeans they are called “Dreaming Tracks” or “Songlines.”
The great traveler Bruce Chatwin wrote in a book called “The Songlines” that “wherever men have trodden they have left a trail of song (of which we may, now and then, catch an echo).” Chatwin imagines that “these trails must reach back, in time and space, to an isolated pocket in the African savannah, where the First Man opening his mouth in defiance of the terrors that surrounded him, shouted the opening stanza of the World Song ‘I AM!’” This is the best description I have for the project. It’s not even mine, but it will suffice for now: we’ll be traveling along the songlines of American evangelicalism.
All this is to say, be patient, dear reader; stick with us. Hope with us that the details of the project will unfold as we submit to its momentum.
Number of Riders: 2*
Total Miles: 21.12
Average Speed: 12.5 mph
Max Speed: 33.0 mph
Total Trip Time: Approx. 3 hours 35 minutes
Total Riding Time: Approx. 1 hour 45 minutes
Time Spent Talking about Writing and Publishing with Long Lost Friend: 1 hour 20 minutes
Cinnamon Rolls from Fleur de Lis Bakery Consumed While Sitting in a Park with Long Lost Friend: 2
Mayor Sightings at Little Ride Bike Café: 1
Time the Two Riders Spent Lounging in John’s Front Yard Postponing the Butt-Kicking Ride to Dave’s House on Mt. Tabor: 30 minutes
Hills Conquered: 3
Hills Left Unconquered: 3
Calories Burned: 1250 (est.)
Fatigue Level: High
Books Bought at Garage Sale: 3**
Days Since Last Shower: 3
Body Odor Level: Extreme
Hours Until Next Ride: 15
* John Pattison and Dave Johnson
** Honey and Salt, by Carl Sandburg; The Cadence of Grass, by Thomas McGuane; The Wilderness World of John Muir, ed. by Edwin Way Teale
Portland, OR :: Kate’s mom bought this plate in California for Molly before we told her (Kate’s mom) about our plans to travel around the country. A lovely coincidence.
P.S. Portland, OR :: I cross-posted yesterday’s post about evangelical myths over at the BWC blog. There are sixteen great comments so far. Check them out.
Tomorrow morning Kate will be running in Hood to Coast, at 197 miles the longest relay race in the world. More than 12,000 runners are expected to participate. Kate and her eleven teammates will start the race at Mt. Hood and end on the beach in Seaside. I don’t understand running, and I especially don’t understand running upwards of 20 miles in 36 hours. Undertaking this race is one of the craziest things Kate has ever done – but I am immensely proud of her.
Kate, I wish I could write an ode to your run, but W.H. Auden beat me to it again:
The camera’s eye
Does not lie
But it cannot show
The life within,
The life of a runner,
Of yours or mine,
That race which is neither
Fast nor slow,
For nothing can ever
Happen twice,
That story which moves
Like music when
Begotten notes
New notes beget
Making the flowing
Of time a growing
Till what it could be
At last it is,
Where Fate is Freedom,
Grace and Surprise.(from “Runner”)
I can’t wait to see you cross that finish line on Saturday.
Filed under: Pilgrimage, Posts by John | Tags: James Dobson, Left Behind Series, Northern Exposure, Pilgrims, Puritans, Rick Warren, Thanksgiving
Portland, OR :: A couple months ago I started watching the television show “Northern Exposure” on DVD. “Northern Exposure,” which ran for six seasons on CBS starting in 1990, is set in the fictional town of Cicely, Alaska. One of the most fascinating themes of this quirky, funny, and sometimes deeply moving series is the way Cicely’s white and Indian residents co-exist in community. One of my favorite episodes in Season Four depicts the Thanksgiving celebration, which in Cicely has taken on elements of El Día de los Muertos. Indians ambush whites on the street, pelting them with tomatoes – and then they hug, friends. The holiday culminates with a parade down main street with the Indians dressed as skeletons and spirits. Then everybody gathers at The Brick tavern for a community feast.
I’m in Season Five now, and an episode I watched yesterday corresponds nicely with something I’ve been struggling with re: this project. A recurring character in the show’s later seasons is a local shaman (he prefers the job description “healer” to “medicine man”) named Leonard. Since he is taking on more white patients, Leonard decides to do some research. He sets up a table in the community center and invites whites to come in and tell him their legends. One white man tells Leonard the story of Paul Bunyan. “How often do you think about that story?” Leonard asks (I’m paraphrasing). The man replies, “Oh, I haven’t thought about that story in years.” Other whites tell him campfire stories like the one about the man with the hook. But these stories aren’t what Leonard had in mind. Toward the end of the episode, Leonard is talking with the white DJ of the local radio station. “I’ve failed, Chris,” Leonard says with a defeated sigh. “I’ve failed to locate the white collective unconscious.”
I laughed out loud.
I read somewhere recently that many pilgrims will prepare for their journey by studying the stories, legends, songs, and myths of the land and people they plan to visit. This is one way I want to prepare for my own pilgrimage through evangelical America. But I feel a little like Leonard in that episode of “Northern Exposure.” I have failed so far to locate American evangelicalism’s collective unconscious.
What are the guiding myths, so to speak, of American evangelicals? Do we look to stories of the Puritans and the Piligrims (speaking of Thanksgiving), or to a particular interpretation of America’s founding? Does the Left Behind series qualify? Those stories do act as a symbolic representation of a meaning system – the beliefs, assumptions, and organizing principles – of a great many people in this country. What about “The Purpose Driven Life” or books by James Dobson? My sociologist friend Matt suggested I may have to approach these questions from a regional perspective – reading Jerry Falwell, for example, to better understand evangelicals in Virginia.
None of these are particularly satisfying, and I am starting to wonder if I am looking for something that doesn’t exist. Is American evangelicalism so individualistic that the only guiding myth that matters to the average evangelical is his or her own testimony (conversion story)? If this is true, what are the consequences for the movement? What does it mean that we don’t have stories to bind us together?
What do you think? Do American evangelicals have guiding myths? Does the shortage of these stories (if in fact there is a shortage) say something about the individualistic nature of evangelicalism? or about its regional and denominational complexity? I’m lost in a morass of questions.
This passage from “Acedia & Me” reminds me of blogs, talk radio, and the faddishness of social justice in certain pockets of American Christianity.
Though we may think ourselves far too liberated to be considered prigs, the writer Marilynne Robinson insists that this is exactly what we have become. She points out that the polarized tenor of our social discourse epitomizes the dictionary definition of priggishness, as “marked by overvaluing oneself or one’s ideas, habits, notions, by precise…adherence to them, and by small disparagement of others.” It may be easy to profess not to believe in sin, but it is hard not to believe in sinners, so we embrace the comfortable notion that at least they are other people. “I’m a good person, but God hates homosexuals.” “I’m a good person, but God condemns homophobes.” “I’m a good person, but the homeless are irresponsible bums.” “I’m a good person, but those who denigrate the homeless are evil.” “Good people like me support our president.” “Good people like me oppose the president.” The loud litany of self-aggrandizement that reverberates through out culture convinces me that, for all of our presumed psychological sophistication, we remain at a primitive stage in our capacity to understand the reality of sin…
In the fourteenth century, Chaucer warned that “a great heart is needed against acedia, lest it swallow up the soul.” But in a priggish culture such as ours, this magnanimity of spirit is precisely what we lack, and if we persist in denying any truth but our own, the danger to society is that our perspective will remain so narrow and self-serving that we lost the ability to effect meaningful change. Robinson wonders, in fact, whether we have made such a fetish of social concern and criticism that we have eroded our belief that genuine reform is possible. Anger over injustice may inflame us, but that’s a double-edged sword. If our indignation feels too good, it will attach to our arrogance and pride and leave us ranting in a void.
Filed under: Pilgrimage, Posts by John | Tags: Beaverton, Grail Quests, Gridlock, Morality Tales, N.T. Wright, Powell's
Portland, OR :: Today was supposed to be a productive day. Molly stayed overnight with my parents in Salem. Kate is visiting her dad in California where together over the next five days they will build a new shed on his property near Grass Valley. Since I will have Molly the first part of next week, today was a work day. But with my family out of town, I needed a change of scenery. Our house is too too empty, too serene without the sounds of Molly squawking and laughing and running across the floor above my basement office. I couldn’t possibly get any work done under those conditions. I decided to drive to the Beaverton Powell’s and check out a book recommended by my friend Ramón. Then I would set up my computer at the World Cup coffee shop connected to the bookstore and do some work.
Beaverton is a suburb of Portland. It’s not very far away – Google Maps puts the distance between my house and the Cedar Hills Shopping Center, where Powell’s is located, at a little over 14 miles – but the two cities are separated by sizable hills (in Nebraska we call them mountains), and only a limited number of feeder roads weave through the hills to connect the suburb to the city. The usual route from Beaverton to Portland is I-405 to Highway 26 West. This is the most straightforward course; it’s also the only one I know.
I didn’t know this when I set out today, but 405 is closed for construction. All northbound traffic is being detoured onto Highway 26, which involves rerouting the heavy flow of Beaverton-bound vehicles through downtown Portland. To make a long drive short, it took me two-and-a-half hours to drive 14 miles.
I am amazed at my ability to doggedly persist to do those things which are least defensible, if not plainly wrong – and my lack of perseverance in doing what I know to be right. The longer I waited in traffic the more important it became for me to get to Powell’s. The book I was going to look for, “The Last Word” by N.T. Wright, a book I didn’t know existed until last night, became more important to me with every pump of the brakes. The drive to Beaverton took on the significance of a grail quest.
Kate and I talked on the phone several times during my drive and she asked me why I didn’t take the traffic jam as a sign, turn around, and go back to Beaverton another day. “No,” I said, “I am too mad at the traffic to give up. I’ve already invested 90 minutes of my day in this pursuit. I will get to Beaverton even if I have to walk. No one in the world wants to be in Beaverton more than me. There is no where else in the world I would rather be than Beaverton.”
You know how the story ends. I get to Powell’s and the book is in the computer system but not on the shelf. The woman at the Info desk looks everywhere, in the warehouse, on the shelving carts, but the book has disappeared. At a party later that night I tell the story to my friend Matt, who lives nine blocks from my house, and he says, “Oh, I have that book” – as in, “You can borrow it, no problem.”
There are at least two possible morals here: The grail (in this case, the N.T. Wright book), which can only be seen by the pure in heart, was not available to me because venturing forth into the world I became sullied by the world. Sprawl, cars, interstates, construction, gridlock, fossil fuels, smog – these were obstacles to be pushed past, even as I was participating in and contributing to them. Or perhaps the moral is that the grail was never “out there” at all; it was closer to home the whole time.
I suppose the lessons aren’t mutually exclusive.
Filed under: Home, Posts by John, Preparation | Tags: Hipsters, Home, Portland, Powell's
Portland, OR ::
So this is unexpected.
Since moving to Portland in 2005 I have scrupulously avoided adopting certain styles and customs that might imply a desire to follow local conventions. The three characteristics that might identify me as a Portlander I have had since Fresno, which is the anti-Portland: beard, iBook, chunky glasses. While I do occasionally drink Pabst, in the last four years I have just said no to faux hawks, messenger bags, skinny jeans (this was best for everybody), The Smiths t-shirts, chains, sleeve tattoos, fedoras, Chuck Taylors, and mud wrestling. I have nothing against these things on principle – some of my best friends have flesh tunnels, ride fixies, go to pirate-themed parties, and are more likely to listen to Arcade Fire than, say, Willie Nelson. It’s just that I have this one particular neurosis: I can’t be perceived (and it is all about the perception) to be conforming. Accept me or don’t accept me, I’ll still wear my flip-flops and cargo shorts and brown t-shirt from the sushi bar in Chico. I’ll listen to Willie Nelson and ride my 21-gear bike.
It’s gross. I know.
But something interesting is happening. Now that Kate and I are leaving the city for a time, I have a strong desire to be recognized as a Portlander when we travel to Lincoln, Nebraska, and Dallas, Texas, and rural Mississippi, and Portland, Maine and everywhere in between. I want to go out and get t-shirts from all my favorite coffee shops, and plaster bumper stickers that say “People’s Republic of Portland” and “Powell’s Books” and “Support Native Oregon Beer (SNOB)” on my laptop. Tomorrow I am going to pick out new glasses and I am seriously (seriously) considering getting some of those oversized black glasses like Elvis Costello wore on the cover of This Year’s Model – Costello and the guy who used to work at the Belmont Stumptown.
Kate and I have spent a lot of the last 20 months planning ways to get out of the city. Now that we’re leaving, I want to bring it with me. Is that called home?
Filed under: Commonplace Book | Tags: Kathleen Norris, Liturgy, Portland, The Bible
This has been a year of weather extremes in Portland. Last winter the city was socked by snow and ice storms it didn’t have the money, equipment, personnel, or material (salt and sand) to deal with. Everything was shut down for days. We couldn’t get our car out of the cul-de-sac for a week – which was fine with me.
Last month, Portland came within a degree of breaking its all-time high temperature. I heard from someone that that day Portland was the third hottest place in the world, hotter even than Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Portland also came close to breaking its record for the most consecutive days over 100 degrees. The weather outside today is a relatively mild 83 degrees but it is humid and I am grumpy.
I’ve expended a lot of energy this year complaining about the weather. I know we don’t have it so bad – I’ve heard stories of heat in Phoenix so intense that it melts the pavement – but perspective is difficult for me on this. Mid-August is usually when I start to physically crave the rain, and this year especially so.
I’ve been reading Kathleen Norris’s latest book, “Acedia & Me.” In addition to being a personal, cultural, historical, spiritual and literary exploration of acedia – an uncommon enough word, meaning “absence of care,” that Microsoft Word doesn’t recognize it – this moving book recalls her marriage to the poet David Dwyer, his struggles with mental illness, and his death from cancer in 2003.
There is a passage in chapter six in which Norris remembers walking to visit her husband in a psychiatric ward on a day when it was so frigid that it hurt to breathe. As she cursed the cold and icy pavement under feet, she recalled the words of a canticle from the Sunday divine office. She was, she wrote, unaccountably consoled. “The words were now a part of me, and when I most needed them, the rhythms of my walking had stirred them up, to erode my anxiety and self-pity, and remind me that blessings may be found in all things.” All things, indeed.
I’m trying to commit the words from that canticle to memory. They are my second entry in my commonplace book.
Bless the Lord, winter cold and summer heat…
Bless the Lord, dews and falling snow…
Bless the Lord, nights and days…
Bless the Lord, light and darkness…
Bless the Lord, ice and cold…
Bless the Lord, frosts and snows;
sing praise to him and highly exalt him forever
(Daniel 3:45-50)
