Author: ljandkari

In 1982, I saw the Dark Crystal. It scared the hell out me. Never before had I seen puppets and animatronics move in such a disturbing manner. I dreamed of the scaly Skeksis for weeks. They were truly terrifying. The characters physical persona mimicked their functions in the story – evil looked and acted evil, and innocence looked and acted innocent. It made for a good story – cut and dry. Enter happy boy on a sunny day. All is well in the realm. A dark magic appears and drains the light and the happiness with it. A quest is born. Struggle pursues. A sacrifice is required to restore balance. An unlikely hero steps forward. Darkness is defeated through a purposeful offering. Restoration is found. Evil is exposed and innocence is exalted. Balance.

Richard Beck writes a blog entitled Experimental Theology. In a recent post he speaks of the dark triad – personality traits that align with the darker nature of humanity in the form of narcissism, Machiavellianism, and psychopathy. In his post, Richard writes about his experience with prison ministry. Those locked in a box will do anything to get out. But what of those that are not in a box and act in the “da ku toraifōsu” – the principalities and powers? I do not believe the “principalities and powers” refers only to the spiritual beings, rather both spiritual and physical authorities. These powers require a sacrifice, but balance is rarely restored – if it was ever there to begin with. The dark triad rarely looks dark, and no sacrifice is needed if evil is not present, right? This makes for a better story. A terrifying story where the “good guy” acts both evil and innocent, and the “bad guy” is elevated and justified…all to get out of a box we built ourselves.

F_A = −F_B.

A good friend often recites to his classes his memory of having tea for the first time in a traditional Japanese tea house – a chachitsu (茶室) in Japanese meaning a space for tea or tea room. As I drank my coffee alone this morning, I thought on the art of hospitality in the form of the tea ceremony.

Japanese tea ceremonies are held to celebrate the simple pleasures of life – tea, relationship with another, tranquility, and the art of hospitality. In order to receive the hospitality of the host, a guest of a tea house must enter through a small door called the crawl door. In order to enter and receive the hospitality of a host, a guest must rid himself of all earthly possessions in order to fit through the door – warriors must remove armor and weapons, royalty must remove ornate hats and garments, and all must remove their shoes. In order to receive, the guest must be able to do so with an empty pallet. Bringing preconceived notions of the status of the guest into the tea room would not allow the guest to receive the hospitality of the host – the guest would have no where to place the hospitality if her hands were already full with who she believed she was or was not.  The guest, once inside the tea room by placing himself on all fours to enter, is greeted with a simple message on the wall in the form of a scroll. Outside and inside have great symbolic meaning during the tea ceremony.

As I read the news today, reflected on my situation, and took a look around, I was reminded of this need to receive and serve. Newton’s third law of motion states that for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction – tit for tat. As my post yesterday stated, I am moving away from the stupidity and negativity of the choices I have made concerning my situation of the loss of my job. I am taking off my armor, putting aside my weapons, and taking off who I think I am, so that I may receive. But not to receive to get, but rather, to receive to take part in the art of hospitality which supernaturally supersedes Newton’s laws to usher in grace – a force far more powerful than a reaction.

May we all serve, receive, and offer grace in place of reacting equally in opposition to a force outside of us.

My Buster Browns did not get much wear when I was a child . We did not go to church. We did not go to functions. And I was not particularly excited about dressing up just to dress up. I’ll never understood the point of donning the most uncomfortable clothes to a place where productivity is paramount. But I digress. My Buster Browns were rarely worn. But, for whatever reason, my junior high school self believed ‘Buster Brown’ was a classic dig; a real zinger insult.

“Shut up, Buster Brown. I know I am, but what are you? Stupid kid say what!”

I know…witty as hell; sticks and stones may break bones, but a Buster Brown insult will bring tears and years of therapy. I used this insult for years weeks. It was my go-to BB bomb…until it blew up in my face.

Riding across the Ames parking lot towards the bowling alley to pick up a pack of $1.25 Marlboro Reds (I know, don’t judge!), a car nearly hit my friend and me. I opened my mouth to deliver the holy trinity of an insult…

“Fucking Buster Brown!”

I had released the Kraken of insults. I rained fire from both above and below! I told them…and they knew it! They had been owned by a scintillating school boy! Owned! A solid burn!

As I rode on, the car turned around. The occupant in the passenger seat jumped out to let me know how much pain the Buster Brown smack talk brought him. He produced a cold blade to my cheek as a counter insult. Touché, bitch! My only fear in that moment was I was going to be killed for the worst possible insult in my vernacular of insults. It was in this moment years later I understood tit for tat doesn’t work.

Nothing good will come from repaying stupidity with more stupid. I have been screaming “Fucking Buster Brown” for the last eight months. Not much has happened. Today, I am going to continue my ride through the parking lot to grab my pack of Marlboro Reds. I’ll own and wear my Buster Browns from now on.

On a train headed to work with Bon Jovi next to me to remind me to live life on a prayer…or Prince to remind me of the sign of the times as I question everything…or Meat Loaf to whisper sweet nothings in my ear as he rounds second base by the dashboard lights…or The Fray gifting me with one last song in Japan on how to save a life to remind me how I spent years trying to save mine…songs mean so much to me. Each song has a place, a period, or an event that was a gift in the moment and a legacy years after that evoke visceral feelings.

After I was let go, my spirit was crushed. The wind and purpose had been chased out of me. I had no artist to champion the need of a new song! Hair band cheese metal left me empty in my spandex…80’s music was unable to synthesize any feelings…my grunge days did not have enough flannel to keep me warm once I had been kicked out of home…Meat Loaf warned me there would never be any love, but it was of no comfort…U2 was unable to give me a beautiful day, and Coldplay did not fix anything…Leonard Cohen made things worse by reminding me everyone knew but me…Lily Allen did bring a smile to my face with her dirty ditty, but it did not last…but finally a champion arrived – John Moreland. I have found comfort in the words of John Moreland because I lost my way and my identity and he reconfirmed shit happens. And when it does, sometimes a gentle whisper of who we are is all that is needed.

I am a child of God. I am a husband. I am a father. I am a friend. I am a teacher. I am an advocate. Today, I am, and for this, I am thankful.

I Need You to Tell Me Who I Am

I’m staring at the sky with a lump inside my throat
I’m as green as the grass in every song you wrote
Well babe, I’m afraid I lost it before you knew I had it
Boxes full of dust are falling from the attic
I threw my love into the ocean and I found it in the sand
And I need you to tell me who I am

I got years worth of work and I’m running low on tools
I’ve been worshiping the words of weary worn out fools
We stood out on the sidewalk throwing feathers at the castle
Be careful what you wish for, babe you look a little fragile
And they’ll blow smoke in your direction til you don’t know where you stand
And I need you to tell me who I am

I never cared for anyone so much
I was born with a bomb inside my gut
You spend so long looking that you never really see
I need you to tell me what to be

Well babe, I’m afraid I lost it before you knew I had it
I only wanted one thing and I put my faith in magic
I threw my love into the ocean and I found it in the sand
I need you to tell me who I am

My keyboard has been spared the punishment of the crack of my birchen rod fingers as my writing has fallen asleep in the pew over the last few months. It has been difficult to serve at the shrine of words as I have been filled with so much anger, hurt, and disillusionment. The only words offered on the altar have been negative, vile, and vulgar. It’s not that I believe negative, vile, and vulgar to be all bad – it is therapeutic to process all that waste water into potable water – but nobody wants to read a four-letter rant everyday! I drank some fresh spring water today – and once again, it came in the form of hope amongst grief – it came at a funeral.

Last Saturday, Kannon Isham Manis, Stone’s martial arts coach, lost his battle with depression. Stone and I attended his memorial service on this windy and unseasonably warm afternoon. On the way to the memorial service, I quickly went through the typical order of a funeral service with Stone. He has never been to a funeral that he has been fully cognizant for as well as emotional vested in the person that has passed away. He had few questions, but I could see the anxiety building.

We arrived and took our seats. The church filled quickly to its capacity. So many lives were touched by Kannon – or Coach Monkey as all of his students knew him. Kannon had many students present, young and old. His father spoke of the name Kannon and how it had Japanese roots. I looked up the kanji characters when I came home and found 観音. These two characters mean “watchful listening”. Frequently, the name is translated as one who constantly surveys the world listening for the sounds of suffering. This was the Kannon I knew and the one spoke about today.

However, Kannon’s brother, Koal, spoke of the disease that took his brother’s life. As he did, no eye was dry. Koal spoke of depression as an enigma of highs and lows without logic. He spoke of battles, wars, roller coasters, and victims. It was rough to hear knowing I never knew or paid enough attention to see that Kannon. I only witnessed a skilled martial arts teacher who knew both crafts well. I knew the caring and passionate young man that would call me sir despite countless times of asking him to call me Lj. I saw the beast that came out when he was on the mat. I saw the gentleman and prince of Pride Martial Arts greet, rebuke, correct, and love kids of all ages. I saw the jokester that had fun between classes with fellow instructors. I saw the genuine concern when a student was not performing as usual. I saw one who constantly surveys the world listening for the sounds of suffering! Little did I know that those big ears Coach Epps spoke of today, only pointed out. Inwardly, Kannon had times of intense lows. He was an enigma. He was both beautiful and ugly. He was a beautiful war – the same description given to my good friend John Ross. And the war is over. The banners are laid down, the crown is won, and Kannon is now at peace with a new life. May we love more, pay attention more, and listen more! May we all know Kannon was indeed one who constantly surveys the world listening for the sounds of suffering and he no longer hears his own!