Birthday

Today is my birthday. 

In general, I'm not a big birthday guy. I'm more up for celebrating other people's birthdays than my own, but even then...I don't really make a big deal out of them.

But over the last couple of years, I've noticed something on my birthday. I'm especially nice to other people on my birthday. On a day when it should be all about me, I try to make it about other people.

Last year, I was driving to Sacramento for work and saw a car pulled over on the causeway between Davis and Sacramento. I pulled over to the shoulder and picked up a man who was with his wife and two young daughters. They had driven from Sacramento to Oakland (it was election day and Oakland was where he was registered) and were on their way home. After loading them into my car, I drove to the next exit and headed back west along the causeway 4 miles, exited and then along to causeway again to get BACK to their car so we could get the groceries they'd left there.

While loading my car full of food, a highway patrol officer stopped and said he would take care of them. When he asked why I was with them, I explained how I'd pulled over to help. 

The officer looked at me like he'd never heard of such a thing. Then he thanked me a couple of times, as did the family. 

I got in my car, drove off, and went about the rest of my birthday.

And that interaction, more than the 20 people who came over to celebrate me that night, made my day, because your birthday is a day that celebrates you being alive, and I want that life to count for something.

Food: A Family Tradition

My mom was a pretty good cook. She rarely made anything very fancy, except for holidays. She made a great turkey at Thanksgiving, but most of the time, she made simple things. In the midst of that, she managed to make some family traditions that centered around food.

In my family, Wednesday night was taco and bad joke night. If you didn't come to the table with a bad joke, you didn't get any tacos. And the tacos were about as unhealthy as you could imagine. We had the standard ground beef as filler, but the thing that made these tacos so bad for you was the shells. Mom would heat up a quart or so of oil and deep fry tortillas. Once they were a nice brown, she would use tongs to pull them out, literally streaming oil out of the bubbles that formed on the tortilla. After a brief trip to a paper towel, they were ready to eat.

On Sunday nights, we had breakfast for dinner. Fried eggs, bacon, and sourdough toast was the menu. We would take our plates into the family room, a rare treat to be in front of the TV instead of at the table. We would watch whatever Disney movie was on that evening. Looking back, my mom did that Sunday nights because it was the easiest thing for her leading up to the week. But I always looked forward to that dinner and the sense of specialness it carried.

Easter was always a big deal for my family, with lots of relatives coming over. The food I looked forward to the most was a giant pan of cinnamon rolls, which my mom would put in the shape of a lamb. The rolls ended up looking like the wool. They were just cinnamon rolls, but their rarity and shape made them unique to family sitting around the dining table and us young ones at the kids' table.

None of it very fancy or hard to make really, but all of it meaningful. 

I guess sometimes food is more than just what you eat.              

My Best Jacket

I was never really very athletic as a kid. I've always been thin, which as a kid was a polite way of saying "you're made of nothing but elbows." I also started school a little young which meant that I was developmentally behind everyone. That combined with being a late bloomer (a.k.a. puberty free) made it so that I was a typical last picked, unathletic, just put his name on the roster and he'll sit quietly on the bench kind of kid.

When I hit high school, I was barely over five feet and wouldn't crack 100 pounds if I were soaking wet.

Which was why getting my letterman's jacket was one of the biggest moments of my teenage life.

My freshman year, I joined the swim team. I grew up around water, going to the beach and splashing around in the summer, but I wouldn't have called myself a swimmer. I remember my first few practices; I was so tired and out of air that I would roll over doing the freestyle and add in a little backstroke so that I could get just one extra breath in there.

Somehow, over the course of that season, my body figured out that this was the kind of thing it was actually built for. I had long arms and long legs, and not a lot of weight to move. It turns out that being built like a two-by-four made you pretty aquadynamic. 

The coach's solution to my newfound streamlined nature? He was going to make me a distance swimmer. Just a few weeks after I learned that rolling onto my back wasn't an acceptable practice, he had me swimming timed miles in practice. 

All season long, he kept me going with the promise that if I got good enough, he would let me swim for the varsity team at league finals. If you placed at league finals, you earned a varsity letter, which meant you could buy one of the coveted jackets. 

I swam like crazy all season, placed at league finals, and was one of only three freshmen in the school to earn a varsity letter that year. When I got my jacket, it smelled of felt and leather and it was like no other clothing I'd ever owned. It represented accomplishment, hard work, and an identity that I'd never known before: I was someone who was good at something.

Even though it was late May and close to 90 degrees, I wore that jacket to school the next day. And, probably the day after that as well. Being uncomfortable on campus has never been so worth it.

Scared of the Dark

So, my brother and I shared a bedroom for about the first nine years of my life. For most of that time, we had a set of bunk beds. Being older, Chris got the obviously cooler top bunk. We had them set up with mine at a right angle to his, my left shoulder up against the ladder for his bed. 

I’m not ashamed to admit, as a kid I was a big time scaredy cat. I don’t know if I just had an overactive imagination or what it was, but there were lots of nights I was too scared to sleep and would sneak into my parents’ room and either sleep in their bed or ask my mom to come sleep in mine to keep me safe.

Rest assured, this stopped before I hit middle school.

But I was often scared at night, my mind filling in the space that my bedside lamp couldn’t reach. I imagined all sorts of monsters lurking, just waiting for me to drop my guard. I was even scared to sleep facing away from the bathroom door, because they just might come in through there. 

I saw the movie Gremlins in the theater as a three year old; I’m still not sure why my parents thought that was a good idea. I spent most of it in the lobby, using Jujyfruit candies to comfort me. But I caught certain scenes of the movie in between crying and my parents switching off who took me out to the lobby. After that, I was definitely scared of gremlins.

You're telling me this wouldn't scare the crap out of you as a three year old?

For months, I would be absolutely certain that a ravenous pack of gremlins was right at the foot of my bed, waiting to chew on my feet. 

There was one thing that kept me sane and comforted me enough to fall asleep each night. 

I knew that if gremlins WERE to crawl up over the footboard and get under my covers, all I would have to do is scream. My brother would be quick thinking enough to both realize exactly what was happening, and also comprehend that he just needed to roll off his bed and land on my legs, squashing the gremlins.

I’m serious. This was my thought every night. I envisioned my brother waking up and instantly knowing what needed to be done and just roll off his bed onto mine, saving me.

Because he’s almost seven years older than me, my brother and I got in more than our fair share of fights sharing a room. But every night, fighting to fall asleep, I was glad he was there and missed him when he eventually moved out and I was left alone.

Sea Shells, Ice Cream

This feels like an odd memory to write about, because I’m currently sitting in a mountain cabin surrounded by snow. 

I grew up spending lots of time in Newport Beach, because my family had a house there. We often went with another family who stayed with us, the Adams. Matt was a few years older than me and his sister was about my brother’s age. We would spend weeks there every summer, mostly playing in the bay surrounding our little island. 

On the island was an ice cream shop named Dad’s, and they had a special offering: Balboa Bars. A Bal Bar is a brick of vanilla ice cream with a stick through it. They dipped the ice cream in melted chocolate sauce and before it hardened, they put the bar in sprinkles, or nuts, or chopped up Oreos. The chocolate would resolidify and they would hand this delectable summer treat to you on a cheap paper tray.

My parents being smart and recognizing that we would eat as many Balboa Bars as possible, they tried to ration how many we had. I think most days this “rationing” meant that we kept it to one bar per day. So, my siblings and I figured out a way around the fact that my parents had all the money.

We walked the beach, collecting seashells, and would eventually reconvene to lay out our newfound treasures. The beachfront on Balboa Island has a seawall about three feet high, perfect for spreading out a towel and the cream of the crop shells for an impromptu sales booth.

We would charge nickels, dimes, and quarters for the especially unique shells. After a few hours working the beach front, enough people would have played along for us to have a Ziploc bag full of change. I think most people just walked a few hundred feet and tossed the shells back into the sand, but we had a great sales rate when people heard that we were trying to earn enough for Balboa Bars. 

Now, when I go to Balboa, I still see kids selling shells from time to time. It’s a little sad for me now, because I think three decades of people like me collecting all the best shells has left the beaches pretty sparse of shells. Whenever I see a shell sale now, the kids have painted on the shells, making them bright pink and green. They lack the simple charm of the ones we sold, but I always make sure that I don’t pass by without giving them something for their shells.

Balboa was such a huge part of my childhood, and I think what makes me saddest about this memory is that the place simply can’t be what it was when I was younger. Balboa Bars cost too much now to buy with change. The beautiful shells have been long since harvested from the sandy shore. 

But looking out at the snow just outside the window, I know that no other place will ever hold the charm and the magic that Balboa has for me. Even though the island is different now, it’s still the place where I could make a whole day out of seashells and ice cream.

My Neighborhood and an Earthquake

Growing up in Southern California, earthquakes were fairly common and I grew used to them. But the first one I remember experiencing was distinct. It was 1987, and I was lying on my bed next to my older brother reading a Batman comic book. About a quarter to eight, the room started to move.

I'm not sure if I had ever experienced an earthquake while awake before that, but I know that this was a foreign feeling for me. My parents had trained me to go to the long hallway in the house and get in a doorway, the most stable place in our home. That hallway was right outside my bedroom, so my brother, being the quick thinker that he is, picked me up and tossed me towards the hallway.

I guess he was looking out for me, but it only made me more panicked. 

Once it was over, we checked the news and saw that it was a 5.9 shaker, no small deal, even to an area where earthquakes happen regularly.

After some debate, my mom decided that we were all going to school anyway so my brother headed off to middle school while my mom walked my sister and me the few blocks to our elementary school. When we got there, it was a vague sort of controlled chaos. The majority of kids had still shown up, most of them with their parents instead of the standard solo walkers and bikers. 

My mom was allowed to sign out several other kids, and since they decided to cancel school once everyone had checked in, we ended up taking home four or five families worth of kids to our house. I grew up in a neighborhood with lots of families the same age, and we all served as the emergency contact for each other. 

There were about 20 of us crammed into our family room, watching TV all day. It was a funny feeling, being both on edge for aftershocks (which came throughout the day) and excited to be missing school and hanging out with all our friends. We even made a game out of waiting for the aftershocks. There used to be a vase full of fake flowers on top of our TV, and every time they moved even a little, we would all yell and grab cushions and put them over our head. My brother would even put on an old hard hat. Most of the time, the flowers shook because our dog was scratching behind his ear.

I think the strongest memory of that day was how much fun it was, even though it was a scary experience and I was on edge a bit the rest of the day. When I look back, I'm kind of amazed at how well we all knew each other; my mom signed out almost two dozen neighborhood kids, and those parents trusted her to look after them on a day where everyone was a little nervous that "The Big One" would be on its way. I think that says something about my mom and it says something about the kind of neighborhood we had. The only way to get the kind of reputation she had and the kind of neighborhood we had is through time and consistency. Being dependable time after time, they trusted her, and we had all been together long enough that our neighborhood felt like we were all in it together. 

What a place to grow up.

30 Days of Memories

There's an organization called National Novel Writer's Month, or NaNoWriMo for those in the know. Their goal is to get people to write a 50,000 word novel in the 30 days of November each year, and hundreds of thousands of people participate world wide. Last year, I was a "winner" (meaning I completed a 50,000 word novel in the month) and loved the experience. It was a challenge, trying to keep up with the required daily word count.

I enjoyed how it pushed me to be creative and to write every day, and I would love to participate again. But I'm at a spot where it feels like giving 90 minutes a day to writing isn't the best use of my time, so I've decided to tweak it a little. Rather than be driven by a word count and the challenge of writing a novel, I'm going to write about one memory each day. My hope is to recall moments I thought were lost and to flesh out, give life to the familiar recollections. I tend to need deadlines and external motivation to write, so I hope this does the trick!

I'll be posting most of them right here all November long, though I expect to hold back a few particularly personal ones. Make sure you check back all month to see what turns up!

A Yearly Practice

I committed myself to a yearly practice: sending a thank you card to a doctor.

Every year on October 29, there's a surgeon who gets a card and a picture of me doing something I wouldn't have been able to do without his work. I've sent him a picture of me on top of a 14,000 foot mountain and one at the finish line of a half marathon. I'm not sure which one I'm sending next, but I know I'll have some good options by this October.

And really, that's one of the reasons I started doing this. I knew that if I had to have at least ONE adventure every year, even if it was just to have a picture to send, that would push me to do more. I can't live a sedentary, uninteresting, unadventurous life…because I need a picture to mail. This pushes me to try new things and simply…do more enjoyable things.

I also started doing this so that I would always remember gratefulness. It is so easy for us to forget what things used to be like once we live in a different reality. I want to remember how hard it used to be, so that I recognize just how good it is now. I believe that sending him a card keeps me in touch with thankfulness.

But there's actually a bigger reason that I send him a picture and a card. It's to remind HIM of how important he has been. Just another day in the office for him wrought out a massive life change for me. I think most people probably receive from him what I did, which is a massive gift…but then they go about living into that gift. This man changed everything for me, and I want him to know that. And that's why a one time thank you isn't sufficient in my mind. Every year that I'm able to do something is STILL a gift from that surgeon, and I want him to know that another day in the office shifted my potential for joy.

Neighbors, Alarms

Last December, someone kicked in my door and left with a few items…it seems they wanted to do their Christmas shopping at my place.

Because I don't want to repeat the experience, I've had an alarm installed in my house. It's taking some getting used to, and I've definitely already set it off once by accident. 

One of the things I've realized in this whole process is that a couple of decades ago, people didn't really have home alarms. 

They had neighbors. 

When my house was robbed, I couldn't even tell my neighbors to be on the look out, because we've never really spoke. I've lived here more than two years, and I know the name of ONE neighbor. I think it used to be that neighbors looked out for each other, and they would recognize when there was a suspicious car parked across the street. 

Home alarms are taking the role that our neighbors used to have. We would rely on our neighbors to watch over our house when we were gone, but now we rely on an electronic system. We simply couldn't ask a neighbor to gather our mail or pick up the newspaper, because that would be trusting and inconveniencing a stranger…who lives 25 feet away from me. 

I don't know what the lesson in all this is…it makes me realize that I wish I were more present in my neighborhood. If nothing else, that I could knock on their doors and tell them to be extra careful around the holidays. Maybe that's the challenge to me. Christmas is 33 weeks from today…I'm going to make sure that come December, my neighbors feel like they can trust me more than their alarm system.

I Am Not a Hipster

Hands down, this is my favorite movie of the week at Sundance. It seems to me that there is a lot to love about this film.

It's a musical in the sense that "Once" is a music. While the characters don't simply burst into song, as musicians their craft indicates their true feelings and struggles. The main character, Brook, is struggling to come to grips with the loss of his mother, his own purpose and the value of creation.

The film is full of references to his first album, Canines, which indicates that he has great talent for songwriting. However, Brook wonders about the value of such creation; the movie opens with him being heartbroken over the tsunami striking Japan's coastline. It is apparent that he questions the value of something as "silly" as songwriting in a world where such atrocities occur. In many ways, Brook craves something that is real. He shuns meaningless relationships and while he enjoys the praise of his peers, he knows that it is ultimately empty. 

This brings up the question of meaning and purpose to each life; what are the goals of living? An individual bestowed with huge amounts of talent wonders whether it's worth using it. Brook represents many of us who wonder what we are meant for. It's human nature to question our purpose.

Similarly, Brook's life questions the value of beauty. Is it enough that something is enjoyable, or must it have some further, deeper purpose? Is the enjoyment and appreciation of something enough to giving it intrinsic value? Perhaps the beauty of something indicates a built in value as well as the value of its creator.

A pivotal moment occurs between Brook and Clark, his would-be best friend. Brook states, "Too many people are making crap and calling it art." Clark responds, "I do it because it makes me happy." This epitomizes a future shift for Brook, a realization that creation itself has value. 

This movie was so well done in many ways. The dialogue is authentic and true; nothing about the interactions feels forced. The camera work is excellent, especially in the scene where Brook displays his brokenness. He breaks down at night and cries, waking one of his sisters. She comforts him holds him; it's an incredible scene, with the point of focus constantly shifting. It provides the audience with a sense of shifting clarity and mimics the view of one who has tears in their eyes. It is a finely crafted scene that serves as a high point of the directing.

Perhaps the best part of this film is the music. It is insightful into Brook's struggle and matches the philosophy of the film. The soundtrack is certainly worth owning, as is the Canines album, which the filmmakers released.

The Words

A blockbuster cast was one of the things that drew me to this movie. Bradley Cooper, Zoe Saldana, Dennis Quaid, Olivia Wilde and Jeremy Irons seem like a compilation of actors that could get in each others' way, but they actually work very well together. The brilliant aspect of this movie is the layers of narration. The "real world" story is Clay (Dennis Quaid) reading an exempt from his future novel about Rory (Bradley Cooper) and his wife (Zoe Saldana). In the course of this story, Jeremy Irons begins to tell a narrative to Rory, creating a third level. One of the people I saw this movie with commented that it's the Inception of narrative. 

I loved this film because the multiple layers is not artistic for the sake of doing it, but rather the story within a story format truly develops and connects the characters. Ultimately, the story is about Clay (through he gets less screen time than the other two narratives). The other two story lines are designed to inform the audience about Clay's struggles and current life situation. This is developed brilliantly through some key statements about Rory's life, which mirrors some of the struggles in Clay's. 

This movie was really rich with thoughts regarding human limitations, self worth, and the drive for success. Perhaps the biggest issue raised in "The Words" is what do we love more, our work or the people in our lives. Many of the characters are forced to choose which is more valuable for them, people or accomplishments. The film raised that question for me as well. Exactly what are we willing to sacrifice for accomplishment? In the film, Rory is never happier than when he has yet to accomplish anything. He and his wife live a simple life in a small apartment and they enjoy their lives. Once Rory tastes success, he cannot go back to that simple life; he cannot get everything back in the box.

"The Words" is absolutely worth seeing; I plan to watch it a few more times because it was so rich with questions and metaphor, but it lacks the pretentious nature of so many other analysis films. Make sure you catch this one at some point, though it doesn't have to be on the big screen.

Sleepwalk With Me

This is a fictionalized autobiography of a stand up comedian named Mike Burbiglia. In the film, his name is Matt Pandamiglio, indicating that this movie really isn't more than a step away from reality. In short, this is story of Matt's attempt to discover himself and his purpose, set against the backdrop of the relationship with his girlfriend.

At the outset, this relationship is what defines him; at one point, he says "Everyone thinks the best thing about me is my girlfriend." After eight years of dating, he begins to feel pressure to propose though he feels ill-prepared and lost. As his comedy career starts to thrive, he becomes more enamored of that life; he enjoys the long drives, the motels and the people he meets along the way. On the road, he builds a sense of community with the other comedians and starts to find his place there. Meanwhile, he's discovering that he doesn't want to marry Abby, and he must find a way to tell her this, in spite of loving her. He simply realizes that he is not meant to marry her.

This movie has a predictably large number of laughs and Burbiglia's narration throughout the movie has a distinct charm and humor. It would be easy to overlook some of the deeper meaning of this movie. This movie is really about finding meaning, purpose and calling. Matt doesn't know who he is and feels the need to discover this before he inexorably links his life to someone else. 

Maybe my favorite moment of "Sleepwalk With Me" is the narrator's explanation of love. He says that everyone has a secret special skill and that love is when someone else recognizes that and brings it out in you. While a simplistic analysis, I find it very appealing. When someone knows you well and deeply enough to see that uniqueness about you, and they make that stronger, that is love.

It's a great movie, but not one to see in a theater. You'll enjoy it much more if you rent it with a large group of friends.

Finding North

The title "Finding North" refers to our country's moral compass, which has gone awry according to this well produced documentary. This film exposes an often unseen problem in our society: hunger. 

We are prone to thinking that hunger only strikes sub-Saharan Africa (as the film points out) but it is pervasive within our own country. 1 in 6 Americans do not have enough to eat; 50 million deal with "food insecurity," which is defines as not knowing where your next meal may come from.

This is obviously a complex issue. The film does an excellent job of humanizing the various kinds of people, both urban and rural, who deal with this problem. They cover a great deal of ground, including examining how our country's rising rate of obesity is deeply connected to hunger. In essence, unhealthy calories are cheapest. When living on a budget, chips and cookies are cheaper tummy-fillers than fruit.

"Finding North" proposes that this is a governmental issue, as we our government primarily subsidizes the ingredients in processed foods but not fresh fruit. 

This film is challenging and extremely frustrating. It spends a great deal of time examining the lack of quantity and health of food available to children and it's appalling to see that so many of our children are hungry when our nation is so prosperous. 

I suppose I have two reflections on this film. The first is that I think it tries to do too much. It appears to me that with every new thing they learned about this issue (such as obesity being linked to hunger) they discovered several more issues. While there is some great information in this film, it doesn't seem to have any kind of narrative direction. It does a great job presenting lots of information but does not seem to arrive anywhere. My second thought comes out of that: I found myself disturbed but without direction. While I'm angry about such injustice, I don't know where to direct that. It is not the filmmakers' responsibility to provide me with that direction, but they document others' attempts to fix this with no avail. I don't expect them to provide me with a simple process or way to get involved, but the movie left me despairing that nothing can be done. While I leave feeling informed, I also feel helpless and therefore infuriatingly apathetic.

Robot and Frank

I heard that this one got picked up by a studio, so you can expect to see it in theaters sometime this year. 

If I had to summarize this one, I'd say it's a buddy/heist movie. Frank Langella is an aging cat burglar who is given a caregiver robot because his memory is slowly leaking away. There is a heartbreaking opening scene that watches Frank break into a home, looking for valuables. While ransacking the house, he sees a picture of himself there and realizes that he has been breaking into his own home. This endeared me to Frank, as I found myself lamenting his lack of control. 

This sets the stage for Frank's loneliness, which is the most prominent theme in the movie. Frank is a 30 year divorcee who has painful relationships with his children due to his past prison time. Because he is so distant from everyone in his life, it is fitting that a robot slowly becomes his friend. It would seem that two cold individuals would pair well together, but the robot is actually the more human of the two. Frank is harsh and inconsiderate while the robot's primary function is Frank's health. The robot's care for Frank softens him some, in a fashion re-humanizing Frank.

Without spoiling too much, I will tell you that Frank convinces the robot to participate in a heist, giving Frank's life some much needed purpose again. Keep your eyes peeled for hints of belonging (as opposed to loneliness) as well as the metaphor in the robot's garden…I promise that will make sense when you see it.

The downside of this movie is that it has a taste of wrapping up too neatly. I think it would have finished better if its ending were a little less Hollywood. There are a few things that go unexplained and the audience is left with filling in the gaps of how we got there, because it doesn't seem to finish there naturally. I would have preferred a more disheartening ending, as that seems to fit Frank's character.

Father's Chair

Father's Chair tells the story of a workaholic father who has been far too distant for far too long and finds himself about to be divorced and at odds with his teenage son. The son decides to run away, prompted by the mysterious arrival of a chair from his estranged grandfather. Theo (the father) is infuriated that his dad would send a gift when he was so distant from Theo's life. 

This creates a mirror that gradually becomes wiped clean so that Theo can see that he has done the same to his own son; he has not been there enough and has communicated a lack of care.

Because this film is about Theo's self-discovery, it's ripe with the theme of redemption. By far the most poignant scene comes while Theo is on the road searching for his son Pedro and he comes across a pregnant girl who has seen the boy. She goes into labor and being a doctor, Theo delivers the child by a river. This is a profound moment where Theo seemingly forgets the search for his son and shows compassion. With the baby safe, he kneels by the riverside and strips before entering the water. He dunks himself and rises slowly before floating. This imagery of birth and rebirth create the pivotal moment of change within Theo. He shows a change that indicates he wants to avoid the mistakes of his own father.

While the culmination of the film is beautiful and well done, I found it to be a slow and fairly uninteresting film. It comes across as trying too hard and forcing its point. The pivotal scene of rebirth is fitting for the movie, but a bit heavy handed. The movie had zero subtlety and was often overacted. At many points I sat there wondering why almost everyone Theo came across was suspicious of his intentions and unwilling to help him find his son. The movie felt unrealistic and false. All in all, skip this one and watch Return of the Jedi…it has a much better father/son reconciliation.

5 Broken Cameras

5 Broken Cameras is a brilliant film, a documentary begun with no purpose other than to capture the events in a small Palestinian village called Bil'in. The director, Emad, purchased a video camera to film his youngest son's development but quickly begins to record a passive resistance uprising within his home. Israel is moving further into Palestinian land and building complexes for what are termed "settlers," Israelis who are looking for homes in which to live.

The title comes from the events over the course of five years in which his camera is destroyed five times, forcing him to purchase a new one. On two occasions, the camera is destroyed by gunfire, likely saving his life both times. 

I loved this documentary because it seemed the most honest of many films I've seen. Very often, filmmakers set out with a purpose in mind to communicate with their footage. Not so Emad. He filmed hundreds of hours of footage for several years before realizing what he had on his hands. He presents what seems to me to be an incredibly unbiased view of what occurs in his village.

One of my favorite moments comes in a time of despair for Bil'in. They are attempting to regain their land and getting nowhere in their resistance; meanwhile, many of them have been injured and killed by Israeli soldiers. Emad arranges a screening of his footage within his village and his narration indicates that this unites them and draws them closer. I found this a profound statement about the nature of film as a shared experience. Certainly they were particularly drawn to it because it is a narrative of their own home, but I think there is something to be said for how film connects us.

There was a facet of this film that I found intriguing. It appears to me that Emad, while taking on the role of documenter, uses his camera to insulate himself from the harsh reality surrounding him. Of course, he is vitally present in it, coming close to death on multiple occasions. But I wonder whether or not his camera was the thing that gave him the hope to carry on.

While this film has potential to be very political, I think it is worth watching. Regardless of your opinion of the political situation between Israel and Palestine and whose land it is, watching this movie will enrage you when you see the deep injustice of how they are treated. As my friend says, I don't want to be pro-Israel or pro-Palestine, I want to be pro-people. This film should shock you into movement on behalf of the oppressed. Absolutely find a way to see this one.

Middle of Nowhere

This week I'm in Utah at the Sundance Film Festival, and I'll be posting my thoughts on each film I see. Here's the first one!


This was a beautiful film. The lead, Emayatzy Corinealdi, is in almost every shot and she has a powerful, vulnerable presence. This is her first film and she holds your attention like a veteran actress.

The story this film tells is a fascinating one that walks through a brief season of Ruby and her husband Derek's lives. It opens with Derek in prison for a gun charge and Ruby putting her medical career on hold in order to be available to their relationship. Early on, we see Ruby as a willing sacrifice on the altar for the benefit of their marriage. 

However, in the course of the film, it becomes apparent that this is not fully a healthy love between the two. More and more, Ruby's character reveals that she has a problem with codependency. Initially, she appears selfless in her desire to babysit for her single parent sister; as the film progresses, it seems that she needs to be needed. There is some hint at this in her chosen profession as a nurse. She desires to help others but it is fulfilling a need within her to be needed.

In many ways, this film is about Ruby waking up to the truth of herself and her situation. She comments at one point that she knew these things about her situation, but refused to acknowledge it. She says, "I wasn't blind." This scene is a pivotal moment for her into taking responsibility solely for herself. Late in the movie, Ruby says "We are caught between the expectations of what should be and what is." She comes to grips with what she thought life was going to be contrasted with what it truly is in this stage.

One of the ideas in this film is how loving from far away. The geographical and situational distance between Ruby and her husband is deep and has an impact on their ability to be in relationship with one another. It makes me wonder, what's our ability to love one another from far away? I got the opportunity to pose this question to the brilliant director, Ava DuVernay. She responded, "All things are possible with love. Proximity doesn't matter. It's about connection." I thought this was a profound statement of hope, particularly in light of the relational challenge we see in Middle of Nowhere.

Apart from story, this film has two incredibly strong points. The music is one of the highlights. The style is varied and perfectly suited to every scene; I found myself being swept up into the moment because of the score. The second item is the cinematography. The shots were wonderfully long, giving the audience an opportunity to dwell in the emotion of the moment. The camera moves ever so slightly in important moments, giving me the impression that I was there observing the moment and not just watching it on a screen.

An excellent movie and one worth watching; I recommend finding a way to see it.

Break In

A few weeks ago, I came home to see this:

While I was running an errand, someone decided to do their Christmas shopping at my house. All in all, not much was gone. After the hassle of fixing the door and filing for insurance, things are pretty much back to normal. 

Some say the hardest part of a break  in is the sense of invasion, of your private space becoming public. Certainly, that has been frustrating. Particularly when I discovered that they were using my laptop and my Netflix account to watch movies…it's especially hard when you see their terrible taste in film.

Seeing my closet ransacked and my drawers dumped out has made me feel exposed, and even moreso when I realized that my journal from the past year was in my laptop bag and they now have access to my most personal thoughts. 

But that hasn't been the most frustrating part of this for me.

The thing that makes anger rise up in me is the selfishness of it. If any of the people who kicked in my door came home to find someone else in their house, they would go ballistic…and rightfully so. And yet, they have decided to do the same to someone else. They are so self-focused that it does not occur to them that what they're doing will impact someone else so negatively. Or perhaps they do realize it and have simply decided that their financial interests take precedence over my sense of security and comfort in my own home. It's possible that they know exactly what they're doing, but I think it's more likely that they are simply so selfish and inwardly focused that they don't even think of me as a person. 

As Christmas quickly approaches, maybe the lesson I'm learning is this. It's not a new one, but my broken front door has reinforced it. Don't be selfish. Think about others and put yourself in their shoes. The hardest part for me wasn't the finances or the stuff…it was that the ones who tossed my closet decided I wasn't really a person.

My Black Suit

I own a black suit. I don’t wear it frequently, because I have two other suits I like better. I don’t have to dress nice very often and so the other two are in a more regular rotation than my plain black suit.

I donned this one a few weeks ago to attend a memorial service and while there, I stuck my hand in a coat pocket and instantly knew when I last wore this suit.

It was January 29, about six months prior.

How did I know this specific date? When I put my right hand into the pocket I found a half dozen folded Kleenex and remembered that I’d put them there for a wedding I officiated on January 29.

This sudden recollection of being prepared for tears brought up a realization about my black suit: I only wear it at weddings and funerals.

Immediately after I had a deeper recognition, which is that we respond the same way to both our most joyful and painful events: we reply to those emotions with tears.

There were many shed on January 29 and there were plenty on September 14 at this particular memorial.

I must confess, when it comes to crying, I’ve had multiple identities in my life. As a child, I cried often. The smallest things would break my heart and overwhelm me, and my only response was to shed my feelings. As I became an adult, it became a matter of pride that I was immune to that physical response and I actually had a three-year stretch without tears.

Now I think I’ve found a fair middle ground and perhaps I’m a little more prone to crying that I give myself credit for. I trust that others have noticed a wetness to my eyes, particularly when I’m discussing people I care about.

As I’m discovering the connection between the events that make us cry, I think I’m seeing something arise; crying is our inability to contain ourselves. Whatever we’re feeling, whether it’s joy, sadness, hope, encouragement or loss, it is more than we can handle. We cannot enclose these feelings and so they pour out of us.

So maybe now my black suit is my favorite. When I wear it, that means I’m going somewhere that is likely to open my emotions. I will use tears to respond with enthusiasm because the cascades on my cheeks mean I’m more alive in that moment and more present to the world and people around me.

Being Incovenienced

My best friend was recently asked to preside over a ceremony where his grandparents renewed their marriage vows. They’ve been married 60 years. 60 YEARS! That is entirely beyond my comprehension.

As part of his preparation he asked close friends to write a sentence or two describing what we think it takes to make it 60 long years with someone.

I pondered my response. I wanted to say something better than commitment; we all know that you don’t make it to 60 without steadfastly standing by your promise. I wanted to say something more profound than compromise. Of course marriage requires that and 60 years necessitates more than most; but somehow that just didn’t seem to encapsulate what I thought would be hardest. Compromise seems to describe decisions and conflict but not the day to day.

After some thought, I came up with this: it takes a willingness to be inconvenienced.

I realize that seems like a foolish response, almost insignificant. Surely a good marriage is more than being inconvenienced.

But I said that because frankly, I’ve found that being inconvenienced is one of the things that happens most in my close relationships. Being married, choosing to live with someone and share your most intimate space with them…you will invariably run up against them being in the way as if there were a redwood growing in your living room. It’s unavoidable and everything must account for that presence. They’re in the shower when you want to use it, they left something on the floor of the room AGAIN, they aren’t ready to go to dinner while you’re in the car starving…inconveniences.

I chose this one to share with my friend because I believe that is what is at the heart of all my best relationships. I don’t really want to help someone move into a new apartment, but I choose to be inconvenienced. I don’t necessarily want to sit with someone dealing with grief, but I choose to be inconvenienced. I don’t particularly want to help my friend process through that same break up again, but I choose to be inconvenienced.

Why do I choose that?

Because that’s what love looks like in the day to day. Allowing someone into your space enough that you cannot avoid what they want and what’s best for them. And it means they’ve let you in enough that you too are an inconvenience.

Yet, for some reason, they love you more than the inconvenience.