Been a While, Hasn't It?

Guys, I am so glad 2009 is over. I didn't really like it very much.

My issues with 2009 directly influenced my blogging (or rather, lack thereof), and I am not going into a lot of detail about those issues here. Suffice it to say that any blog posts I could've written in the last 5 months would have involved a lot of navel-gazing and complaints. Those goals I talked about at the beginning of the year, like getting rid of stuff and learning how to build things? Yeah, didn't get very far with those. I've come to dread the "how are you doing" question from folks I haven't seen in a while. I can lie (yuck), or I can be honest about how I'm not really very happy right now (no fun either). As an added bonus, I feel guilty about not being happy, because I have it so much better than many do. Woo!

This isn't fun to write about. I like to report on exciting new things! Crazy schemes that just might work! Amazing sights I saw or experiences I had! Not on how I'm just kind of stuck in my own bleah and not even really taking notice, let alone advantage, of the possibilities around me.

But, y'know, that's where I am.

So, new calendar year? I'll take it! Maybe things will be different. Or maybe not. But it feels like a change, and right now that sounds pretty good to me.

Camp Stories.

Last week I went to Camp for two weeks. Two weeks in the middle of nowhere with a hundred high schoolers. Two weeks of uncharacteristically cool weather (highs in the mid-70s) for Wisconsin. Two weeks of saying the Pledge of Allegiance in the morning and singing a capella praise songs around a campfire at night. I love Camp.

Here are some Camp Stories.

***

The day's organized recreation, we were all informed, would involve a 10' red ball, a sandy stretch of the creek about 2' deep, and a no-holds-barred cabin vs. cabin struggle to shove or fling the ball across the opposing side's boundary, ideally while dunking as many of the other team in the water as possible. It was going to be strenuous, ridiculous and probably dangerous. We were sent to change into "crickin' clothes" and then report to the field of battle.

"C'mon, guys," I urged the last two stragglers: shy, awkward girls who reminded me of myself in high school. They lagged behind me with obvious reluctance, much as I would have at their age. I raised my hands dramatically and proclaimed, "Let's get ready to BRING THE MAYHEM."

A polite pause. Then a quiet voice replied, "I don't really like mayhem."

***

There was mist settling on the road as we headed for the farthest campfire site, a mile and change from the cabins. The sky was cloudy, and dusk slid over us as we trudged into the woods, absorbed in after-dinner conversations. Then, nearing our destination, we caught a glimpse of torchlight through the trees -- not firelight from ground level, but firelight from the tops of poles. "What is that," said Gavin or somebody, and I thought of that scene in "Beauty and the Beast" when the townspeople are tromping through the woods with torches. Then we rounded a bend and couldn't see it anymore. It sat flickering in our minds, an unanswered question.

Shane stopped everyone just before the final approach to the campfire site. He said some things I couldn't really hear, from where I stood in the crowd, and then I heard him shout, "And now I give you... the Festival of Lights!" and someone nearby lit a bottle rocket or something that shot up and crackled into flame right over our heads.

Out on the bluff was not the usual tame campfire, but a sizeable bonfire, with cans full of fire on poles surrounding it: some maybe four feet high, some more like twelve. It was a lot of light and a lot of heat, which was not unwelcome on this cool evening. Still, roasting marshmallows was a challenge. I feared for my eyebrows until Whompy hit on the idea of using a piece of cardboard as a shield. Diane ignored our warnings and the smell of petroleum, and toasted her marshmallow over one of the cans-on-poles. Occasionally another bottle rocket went off from a different spot in the bushes. In the distance, thunder rumbled.

The last bit of trail onto the bluff passed through a sort of doorway of trees and shrubbery. The bluff beyond it had become a room delineated by light: inside was the brilliant fire and the s'mores fixin's; outside in the hazy dark was a truck bearing two large containers of water and paper cups. Thirsty after several marshmallows, I went to get a drink and got stuck on the path, looking back into the room of light, transfixed by the scene: silhouettes of clustered figures, laughter and squeals, fireworks; an extravagance of conflagration, framed and tinted by mist.

***

Nobody hangs out on the far edge of the creek. It's the shady side, the muddy side, the side where all the trash washes up. But I was bored. All the other staff present were absorbed in trying to retrieve a lost sandal from the depths of the chilly swimming hole with rakes, and the campers were doing campery sorts of things. I like the campers, but it doesn't seem fair to me to just descend upon their activities uninvited: Hi, I'm an authority figure and I'm hanging out with you now, aren't you glad?

So I walked slowly along the far edge of the creek, just looking. At first my eyes skimmed across the steep overgrown bank, registering only stuff, but I gradually settled into the discipline of seeing: water-weed, empty bottle, rotting branch, sapling; round leaf, pointed leaf, grassy leaf. Water strider, submerged pallet, rock, sand, mud, slime. Watch your step. What's under there? What's behind that? If you were a tiny person in a tiny boat, where would you land it? There? Over there? Mossy log, arching ferns, jewel-colored damselflies...

"Hey!" bellowed Nate, splashing toward me; apparently the sandal-hunt was over. "Hey, you huntin' fairies?"

***

Whisper. Giggle. Thump.

The girls at the far end of the cabin were up to something. Every time someone else moved, they got real quiet. Then, after a minute or two, they'd start again: Giggle. Whisper. Giggle.

What was it, 2 a.m? Should I lie there and wait for them to try to sneak out, or tell them to shut up now? Should I address the situation before or after taking a short walk up the hill to the bathhouse? My head was full of sleepy fog. I wished one of the other counselors would wake up and deal with the situation, but they didn't.

Finally my bladder won out. I sat up, found my slippers, and left the cabin, which was (for the moment) quiet. When I returned, I crawled straight back into my sleeping bag, hoping they had gone back to sleep in the interim.

No such luck. Giggle. Rustle. Whisper. Thump.

I got up and walked halfway across the wide cabin. "There's too much noise going on over here," I hissed. "You need to be quiet and go to slee - "

"Come over here! Come over here!" they whispered frantically.

I took a few steps closer, warily. "What's going on?"

"We heard a scary noise! It was the scariest noise in the world!"

Uh.... "What kind of noise?"

"We can't even imitate it! It was too scary!"

"Now that we're awake," whispered another one, "we think it was just someone sleeping. But it freaked us out, so we all jumped into Christy's bed."

"Okay," I said, reassured by the very lameness of their excuse: surely if they were planning to sneak out, they'd have a more coherent story than that. "Now get in your own beds and go back to sleep."

Much to my relief, they did.

***

A dragonfly spun itself in circles, adhered to the surface of the water. Probably weak and dying, I thought, but why not? I reached for its long tail but dropped it on the first try, startled when it curled around to grasp my fingers. A second try and it stood on my knuckles, gleaming with beads of moisture.

"What is that?" asked Saul, wading over to look. We both inspected it: it certainly didn't look weak. Wide yellow markings splotched its sturdy black body; its translucent wings were wide and unmarred, and its large eyes shimmered like a hologram. "That's a nice one," he said. As we watched, it brushed water from its mandibles, then shivered its wings delicately.

It was in no hurry to go anywhere. We both stood and watched it silently. Though my gaze was fixed on the insect, I became gradually aware of our position in the landscape: golden-brown water cascading over a low ridge, flowing past a tiny island of sand and our unmoving knees; campers sloshing slowly around us or perched on stones; a backdrop of wooded banks. We were standing so still. That's a thing that doesn't happen to me often at camp, to be so still, so focused, so present.

"I wanna see it fly," said Saul, and I directed a light stream of breath at the dragonfly, to dry it up quicker. Soon it tensed its body and, launching itself from my hand, soared off into the trees.

A Tiny Bit More Info.

RowdyKittens gives her own review of the Tiny House workshop here. I heartily second all her enthusiastic comments.

Also, this month's Small Living Journal (online and free) is titled Bureaucracy, Regulations, and Small Living. It features a series of essays addressing a persistent obstacle to small-dwelling life: local laws and codes. Worth reading if you're wondering what you can get away with. With Portland's recent passing of green building code amendments, it's probably now feasible to make a case for small => green => variance-friendly. (Well, easy for a conventional-looking middle-class white person, anyway. *squirm*)

Remember That Whole Tiny House Thing?

Well, look, here we are at the end of Jroon already. (By which I mean the month. The domain is not going to expire anytime soon.) I did my Jroon 3rd comics a long time ago, but I only just scanned them right now. Here they are. Other, more punctual comics by others can be found, as usual, here.

This is also your reminder, if you needed it, that the 3rd is coming around again soon.

So last week, while catching up with the Tiny House blogosphere (which is anything but tiny, let me tell you), I read an announcement about a tiny house building workshop right here in North Portland... taking place in just a couple of days. Ai yi yi, I almost missed it! It was with Dee Williams, who built a teeny trailer-mounted house five years ago and has lived in it ever since. Here's a great video about Dee and her house.

The workshop was Super Great. Dee and KT, a professional carpenter, taught us how to safely use a number of power tools, and over the course of a Saturday led us through framing, sealing, and insulating the floor of a little house on a trailer. It was pretty much exactly at the level of learning I needed (i.e, for those with little to no construction experience). Plus it was great to meet some folks who are fairly serious about constructing their own tiny domiciles. And by "fairly serious" I mean "pretty much for sure going to do this thing." I brought my camera to the workshop, but when I realized how vested some of the others were in documenting the process (with way better cameras than mine), I was like, aw, go for it, guys. And they didn't disappoint, either. Check out the impressive photoset collected by tiny house blogger Rowdykittens (she and her husband drove all the way from Sacramento for the workshop)!

A few words about my own plans. I still think this is a great idea, but I haven't got all the logistics worked out, and I'm not committing to anything yet. So you'll all have to be in suspense with me about whether or not I actually wind up living in an oversized dollhouse on wheels. The workshop shifted my understanding of the building process from nebulous scariness to specific kinds of scary, which, though it may not sound like much, is a significant step toward making it happen.

Dee's house is like a little chapel, airy and cedary-smelling. The narrowness of the walls makes the open ceiling seem really high. It actually has the feel, to me, of a sacred kind of place. But no plumbing, very few possessions. As much as I love it, it's not quite what I want. I really want a sink and shower in my home, and I have no desire at this time to reduce my belongings to quite that few. (It's taken me almost six months to get rid of 1/3 of the 300 books I plan to part with before the year is out.) And my lifestyle is unlikely to look quite like Dee's. I need a little more space, a little more clutter, a little more "cush." But seeing how someone else does this tiny house thing makes it easier to visualize how I might do it.

Which is, um, pretty exciting.

About Freakin' Time.

I finally scanned my comics!

Whew. Just in time. That other short girl is my roommate alissa, by the way.

More comics here.

The Wake.

[This is not the post with the comics.]

This weekend I went back to my alma mater to say goodbye. It was the final commencement before Cascade College closed its doors, fallen victim to Tough Economic Times after only 15 years of existence.

Cascade was my employer for nine years, my first post-grad-school job and the longest I've ever worked anywhere. But before that, Cascade College was the school I graduated from, striding down the aisle between tall House and taller Hill, all of us proud members of the first graduating class of our institution. And before that, it was a dream realized, the reincarnation of the well-loved but financially disastrous Columbia Christian College.

Columbia was where I lived my first year of college life. It was a magical place, and I don't mean that hyperbolically. What I mean is, things happened there that defied my understanding of how the world works. Big things, beautiful things. Oh, it was doomed even then; we were warned before we showed up to campus that the school might lose its accreditation that year. But people still came, such was the reputation of the place. I believe there were around 100 students that year, which is quite a few if you consider that the total student body never got much above 400 at the best of times.

And the people who came... well, they weren't ordinary people. Most of the staff and faculty were pretty much volunteering their time at that point, waiting on deferred paychecks that they knew might never come. The quality of instruction varied, but more than a few of the professors were remarkably gifted, and every last one of them cared deeply about the students. And the students were talented, passionate, funny, warm and radiant people who welcomed all 10 or so freshmen with open arms. It never would have occurred to me that people who were that cool would want to be my friends. But that was never in question. Insightful as these people were, they were apparently blind to the heavy cloud of social stigma that seemed to shadow my secondary school years. They didn't recognize that I was a born outcast. As far as they were concerned, I belonged.

And for me, that changed everything.

The students were why Cascade happened. They were determined that this was not the end, and their enthusiasm, commitment, and hard work fueled the process that led Oklahoma Christian University to take a gamble on a west coast campus. While I went off to a year of school in Nebraska (which had a similarly profound effect on my development, but that's another story), many of my colleagues set aside academic progress, stayed on campus, and worked to rebuild, recruit, and give life to the dream we shared. And the next fall, when I came back, O mirabilis, there were classes on my campus again, and all the employees got paid.

The story of the next fifteen years is more or less the story of any organization that begins with high ideals and pure intentions. People came and went, some of them the better for their time there, some of them not. Decisions were made that had good and bad repercussions. Cascade was many things to many people; it was even many different things to me. It was a cause to which I rallied, an experiment in the unlikely, an ongoing collision of ideals and reality, a place to grow, a place to struggle for and against, a place that meant so much to me that when it was time to leave, it took me years to see it. The one thing it was not was a failure. We all wanted that institution to grow, thrive, and bless the lives of generations. But in a decade and a half, it managed to do an awful lot of good.

I was not at Commencement, but I was there for many of the weekend's events. There were so many amazing people, so many kinds of relationships represented: my professors and my students, my classmates and colleagues, acquaintances and close friends and used-to-be close friends, and an embarrassing number of people whose names I could not for the life of me recall. The buzz of so many greetings, so many hugs and how-are-yous ran counter to the aching awareness that we were there to close a book, to put a body in the ground. Several people told me things like "It doesn't seem real" or "It hasn't hit me yet." I nodded. During the last chapel, in an auditorium packed with people singing old hymns and new in rich four-part vocal harmony, I was conscious of the distance I put between myself and what was happening, of choosing numbness over being really present and open. Sometimes I forget how good I am at this. Curious to see if the emotion was still there or had dried up completely, I eased open the tap just the tiniest bit, and spent the next several minutes feverishly trying to shut it off again. It will hit me when I let it.

There is a thing I believe about God, though it is not a thing I have found anywhere in the Bible. It is that no service done for him, no sacrifice made in his name, is wasted. It may be flawed in a thousand ways; it may be more ridiculous than useful; it may be an utter failure or even cause real harm. (I am not describing Cascade with any of this.) But I believe the gifts we offer to God are received by him in their imperfection, as we also are received by him, with infinite grace, with welcoming compassion, and with a joy beyond our capacity for it.

Nerds and Gentlenerds!

WHUT WHUT WHUUUT

Hey, this weekend is STUMPTOWN COMICS FEST. And now there's a for-reals 3 on the 3rd zine, released just in time for Stumptown! It has comics by twelve 3 on the 3rd participants. They are all really different and cool. If you have ever posted a 3 on the 3rd comic to the wiki, a copy has been set aside for you.

I love this time of year.