Uncomfortable

So many expectations, so little time. That's the wonder of America - the only reason that people look up from their own lives is to impose their assumptions and values (as they call them, however valuable they may actually be) on someone else.

I am being imposed upon.

Not by any specific person, but by a society that claims comfort as its highest good, and money as its surefire means. Go to school, get a good job, buy a nice, comfortable house, buy a car with comfy leather seats, and, if you MUST travel, make sure to go somewhere nice, comfortable, minimum three stars.

And the problem is that I start to impose these values on myself. I've heard them preached from that glowing pulpit box too many times. I've listened as the conversational subtext of almost every man I know drowns out his inspiring words, shouting "Don't take risks! They lead to lack of comfort!" And at some point in my childhood I began to believe it. Take it for granted is more accurate. It has become one of the basic assumptions of living: "Life's hard, seek comfort."

But where does comfort leave us? In fact it leaves us wherever it found us. “Why move? I'm comfortable.”

Comfort is the great pacifier.

That is why people shy away from discussions of human rights issues. If any full-blooded human being actually understood, in the true empathetic sense of the word, the impassable hardships that other human beings are suffering at this and every moment, they would be horribly uncomfortable. And this is why we tend to see those suffering the great injustices of the world as slightly less than human. After all, if they were just like us and these atrocities were being perpetrated upon them then we might have to do something. But as it is, it's too bad for them that they’re families are being wiped out, but we have to go to the office.

And to get rid of any twinge of discomfort that may remain, there is always the time-honored method of distraction. Focus on your work, your friends, your car; focus on anything but that which makes you uncomfortable. Out of sight, out of mind. Out of mind, comfort.

BUT! out of sight, out of mind does not mean out of existence. Whether you acknowledge them or not, there are malnourished Romanian orphans being beaten by jaded government employees right now. There are Asian women working 16 hours a day in 100-degree heat for a wage that leaves them just shy of the local poverty level. There are, right now, Nepali villagers being held at gunpoint and forced to choose between a corrupt government and a violent insurgent army, both of which threaten the chooser with death if he chooses the other. While you make up your mind between the $5 mocha and the $6 macchiato, there are millions of children wishing after an elusive dinner that they haven’t seen in days, weeks.

And, RIGHT NOW, I mourn because I am one of you. I am guilty of all of my own charges. I am weak-minded and distracted. But that doesn’t mean that these people don’t exist. And it doesn’t mean that they couldn’t use my help.

Culture Shockless

Culture shock would be one thing. If, returning to the US from Ukraine I was aghast at the culture of America, if it was startling and new and in that way energizing, I would have been alright. But it wasn't.

What I went through when I entered my first American supermarket in two months was culture staleness, culture moldiness. It was the same old smell. And though it may have reeked a bit more for lack of daily ingestion, it was anything but shocking and energizing: it was draining. It was the old stain on the carpet after vacation in paradise. It was the alarm clock screaming you out of a magical dream. Or, better yet, it was the bird flying free over the trees, only to find himself back in the same old cage at the end of the day.

It was far from shocking. It was discouraging.

The purpose that I lived for and shared with so many in Ukraine I found lacking in the eyes of my countrymen. The fervor and passion that lit and animated every day of my mission, and that welled within me upon my return found no outlet in the routine comfort of American life. And worst, the camaraderie that developed between myself and my Ukrainian brothers and sisters, with many of whom I could communicate only through inflections and gestures, set an expectation far above what my brothers in the states could meet, though we've been speaking the same language for years.

So it's not that American culture shocked me, it's that I tasted something far better, and so that mold that I know so well, that despite its quality I once considered my only nourishment, I now swallow with a cringe of disgust and regret.

However, that is slowly fading. Tastes are hard to retain in memory, even when they are of life itself. Slowly the mold begins to smell normal. The remembrance of the refreshing life of the servant fades into a comfortable dream and indistinct longing.

BUT I WON'T LOSE IT! I will not, in five years, find myself gorging on those spoiled loaves that America serves so readily, feeding them to my family by disgusting truckloads, laughing about the foolish dream that I once had of something better. No. I will find purpose and community and passion. I will go to it, or import it, or search out the recipe itself and make it in my own home, and introduce my friends to it, and give them a nourishment and an energy that they won't soon forget either.

I will survive America, one way or another.

Allow me to introduce myself...

What's in a name? Before formal (i.e. nominal) introductions, let me tell you a little about myself. This way you can have an impression of me - albeit a strange mingling of my description and your own experiential interpretation - that is not based largely on your friend of the same name.

First, I'd like to share with you some lines that I wrote a couple of years ago, when asked to describe myself.

I am a practical philosopher, a discerning rock climber and a disgruntled poet...
I am an introverted conversationalist, an unlikely performer and a natural leader...
I'm an outdoorsman that lives in the heart of urbanity, a conservative dreamer that strives for insanity, an idealist that hopes for the good of humanity...
I'm a student of life and a critic of living. What I have is a gift, what I give is thanksgiving...
I am purpose and practice; precision and patience...
I am the terrestrial embodiment of a created soul struggling against creation to express the truth of its creator.

This is not a poem so much as a number of separate verses that seemed appropriate. And that, I would say, describes me quite well. I don't fall into a single poem. No one coherent work can capture me. And that's not to say that I am unique in this way. No amount of words could fully capture any one person, in the true, living, struggling, perceiving, striving sense of the word. However, there are some that will associate themselves with certain well-defined categories. Bill might describe himself as a banker, Julia may wish to be known as a single mother, and Vitali an outdoorsman. Although these categories cannot capture the entirety of any of these people, they still may wish to align themselves with them. In so much as Bill is a banker he is understandable, digestible; after all, we know what bankers are like, and Bill would appreciate it if you thought of him that way.

I, on the other hand, have never felt that I fit into any one category well enough that I could use that category to describe myself. In fact, when people try to file me away - by calling me a college student, or an athlete, or a missionary - I feel the need to correct them, to point out those parts of me that don't fit their chosen mold. After all, this piece of me is far more suited to that group, and this one can only REALLY go in that class. And right now, it's even worse, because I am about to undergo one of life's great transitions.

Presently I am on the verge of finishing my college career, so I am in the unenviable position of taking the almost endless miscellany of my interests, experiences, and skills and finding the pursuit that best incorporates all of them - and hopefully pays the bills as well.

Endless miscellany? you ask. Let me expound. I have studied the philosophical wastelands of business and economics, I've trekked through the lush Himalayas while setting up a long-distance wireless network and reading Dostoevsky, I have been beaten with oak leaves in Ukraine, I've hugged orphans in Romania, I've eaten tacos in Mexico, I used to speak Spanish, I love Indian food, I am an acting father, I'm too young for kids, I drink tea, with a little sugar, I've written code for computers, I'm a born lumberjack, I can sell anything, I have a passion for writing, I've developed a new kind of poetry, I can publish a newspaper, I make people laugh, I enjoy solitude, I love playing sports, I can run for miles, I read complicated scientific books, and Plato, and Dickens, at the same time, I consider drawing others to God the highest good, I'm a horrible surfer, I make people cry, I'm an improvisational comedian, I like to sleep, I have a heightened sense of duty, I like to be busy, I can scale a rock face, serve a tennis ball, interpret scripture, alphabetize anything, write books, star in a play, draw portraits, work for nothing, I love purpose and precision, and my room is a mess.

So anyway, I'm James. It's a pleasure to meet you.

The first of a possible many

And so I write again.

Why the blog? I ask myself. Why, if you want to write, do you not simply retrieve a pen and sheet of white and scribble your thoughts to your heart's content? I suppose that I want to be loved for my thoughts. Hopefully some hapless googler with ample idle time lapping lazily at his brain will find his way to my little nook of the internet funhouse, and, reading my thoughts as they glow on his screen, will think to himself, 'I must tell my uncle, the rich and indiscriminate publisher, about this blog!' And then the rich and indiscriminate publisher will ask me to write a book, with the genre, subject, and length of my own choosing, and will pump it out directly onto the bestsellers' shelf at your local airport. Thusly, as the rich business man, the mourning niece, the bearded backpacker, and the drunk, distracted piolot sit together in their shiny, bewingged, 600-mph cigar case they can scratch their respective chins thoughtfully and in unison, and run out, after waiting impatiently for their luggage, to impress their loved ones by thoroughly mis-explaining my subject.

So here we go. If you're not against me then you are for me.