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John Wooden, In My Dreams

The “Indiana Rubber Band Man” died, aged 99, no longer bounding up from his relentless defending of Hoosier hardwood floors. But this was back in June. He still bounces furiously into my hoop crazy mind, though all recent images and tributes to him call him venerable, gentle, wise, even saintly. I think he was. But I also think he was a burning man with the wit and the training not to blow himself up, to take that rage for perfection and goodness and actually do good with it.

I have been a basketball coach, and I have meant to write about him for months. Then, last night, Johnny Wooden came into my dreams for the first time I can remember, though his example and his words are in heavy rotation in my mental play-by-playlist. If you get anywhere near sports, you probably heard: Legendary Coach Dies; He Was the Best Coach Ever, and a Better Man; We Shall Not See His Like Again. And so on.

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Robert Frost (on (not)thinking)

“Thinking isn’t agreeing or disagreeing. That’s voting.

Robert Frost, 1874-1963, American poet, in a quote I’ve saved for years.* It makes for a fine back-to-the-future companion to my own, decidedly-less-concise March ’13 ramblings about the nature of thinking and not-thinking, here. I fear that our predominant culture — infotainment, media saturation, the obsession with the unimportant — makes the mature arts of reflection and profound knowing ever more difficult to cultivate. The Baha’is are doing some wonderful grassroots work to counter this tendency. The more I think about it, the more revolutionary, counter-cultural and necessary it appears. I don’t know much about the great Frost’s spiritual inclinations, but I think he’d dig the methodology, the “promises to keep / And miles to go before I sleep / And miles to go before I sleep”.

* Faithful readers of this site may have noticed that I’m gradually re-posting quotes that appeared over the years on the earlier incarnation of JH.com, and we’re up to 2010 already as of March 9, 2013. Hurray!

Are You Thinking Yet?

How do we know when we’re actually thinking? Someone once said that if you don’t know a second language, you can never know whether you are thinking or simply replaying a skull-encased recording of other people’s views, Coke jingles, cultural driftwood and stale tales that pass from gossip to “common sense”. But I speak a second language and shards of other ones, and while I love to find the way another coding system expresses an idea or an action, I don’t think that mental access to another manner of speaking is any guarantee of thought, either.

All this in light of the Robert Frost quote I recently found — “to learn to write is to learn to have ideas” — and use in every class and in my own auto-peptalks. Sometimes — I think — I come closest to genuine thinking when I’m writing. How can I know what I think ’til I see what I’ve said? (Somebody. Another orphan quote.) And maybe the repeated citation of other people’s bons mots is also a sure way to avoid original thought. But I doubt that. (!)

Antonio Gramsci (on life in centuries that start with 2)

“The challenge of modernity is to live without illusions and without becoming disillusioned.

Antonio Gramsci, 1891-1937, Italian philosopher and political theorist. I love this: it is brief and full of meaning. We have lost our childish imaginings, many of them, anyway, in the last 150 years or so. The price, unhappily, is that many of us have also lost faith, hope and amazement. (And Gramsci didn’t see WWII, or Watergate, or 9-11, or reality TV. What do you think?

Tim Jackson (on consumerism, in a nutshell)

“We are encouraged to spend money we don’t have, on things we don’t need, to create impressions that don’t last, on people we don’t care about.”

Tim Jackson, author of Prosperity Without Growth – Economics for a Finite Planet. He was speaking at the United Nations in New York, possibly in 2009. I believe he has absolutely nailed modern consumer culture.

Canadian Lacrosse Meets World Basketball

I had just finished watching the game when I received Karl’s message. The United States, led not by one-name celebrities like Kobe and LeBron but by the gifted young star, Kevin Durant, defeat Turkey to win the quadrennial FIBA championship. Order has been restored (again), and the Americans re-asserted their claim to the summit of the world’s basketball heap. This was not the “Redeem Team”, the collection of NBA royalty that brought the Olympic Gold back to the United States from Beijing after the humiliation of a bronze medal in 2004. (After a long tradition of Olympic gold, the Americans silvered in a controversial final-game loss to the Soviets in 1972, and bronzed in 1988, the last time they sent a group of college kids into the five rings. The famous “Dream Team” of 1992 – Larry, Magic, Michael, et al. – was supposed to signal the return of never-ending American mastery as the United States could thenceforth send its top professionals.)

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A Little TIC

Dorothy Gale’s hushed and wide-eyed sensation — Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas any more — is something we refer to, in my house, as a “TIC moment”. When we are slapped silly by the knowledge that we’re not in Canada anymore, we’ve learned to shrug (or smile, or swear) and say, “This Is China!”

Our latest TIC gem happened on Sunday morning. (They often do. Even though Canada is an increasingly secular society, we still have shreds of attachment to the idea of Sunday as a day of rest. Not here!) Our son was in bed, half awake at about ten minutes to seven, when he heard knocking at his second-storey window. Like a good Canadian boy, he dreamily thought, “Why is there a woodpecker at my window?” And then the guy outside pounded again, so Sam opened his drapes.

Outside was a man suspended on thick, natural-fibre ropes from our apartment roof. We see them every day, scaling the exterior walls of our building with wood ladders and hemp and muscle-power to do the never-ending patchwork of the exterior bricks and concrete. He gestured. Sam opened the window, and asked what the heck he wanted in good local vernacular. He needed water for his cement-mix. (TIC! When two men came last spring to do some interior repair and painting, they not only asked us for a water bottle they cut open to hold their paint, but for wet cloths and elbow grease to clean up after them. Drop-cloths? Silly reader!) So, like good Chinese apartment dwellers at seven a.m. on a Sunday, Sam and his mother ran to get glasses of water. But the window screens here aren’t easily removed. Spiderman tilted his mixing bucket, nodded. My wife emptied the glass toward the window screen, and apparently some of it went into the mix. “Xie xie,” the wall-crawling repairman said.

Sam was later thanked for a second emptying of a water-glass out through the screen, and for a cloth that our new best friend needed to wipe off the concrete splashes on the window. Sam ran down and threw that one up to him. TIC. They’re out there again today, using a hand-drill and a long extension cord to chip away at decaying concrete. (Another TIC indicator: this apartment complex where we live, no doubt built at a feverish pace, as everything else is here, is no more than a dozen years old.*) The next thing you know, we’ll be asked to pay for repairs to the defective kitchen stove! Oh, wait, that’s right. We just were.

* Fact check: it opened in 2003. Wow.

By the Waters of Galilee

Among the delights of a summer spent home in Canada, squeezed between two years in China, was a weekend with the Baha’is in a little town near my capital home. Summer school: reunion, reflection, prayer and conversation, kids and laughter and sun through the trees. We talked and studied and played in a gorgeous riverside retreat, an oasis of Christian calm and service garnished with pine trees and sparkling waters. Sweet.

Bernie took his canoe, for dawn prayers of the paddling kind. Dona brought tennis rackets, and found a hitting partner slightly less disastrous than his bride. Rhonda retreated from just having packed her life to go to Pakistan – two weeks before the deluge. Wee Carmel brought her brown astonished eyes, and we were grateful. Our family circle grew, like a deep breath in, inspiration, maybe for a few days, possibly beyond. Nobody watched TV.

I watched clouds and learned from faces. I listened to spirited seminars and conversations blown through the woods. I try to see and hear them now, in the midst of the city millions, the car horns and the concrete and the day’s discourse that I don’t understand. I am in Dalian. I am in China. But I spent a few divine days in Galilee.

Where Have YOU Been?

No, not “what are you doing right now?”, because who but a twit would want to know that about anybody who isn’t themselves or, at least, someone connected by blood or love or deep belonging? (I know. Millions of people. I laugh, when I don’t curse or sigh.)

I have such a remote and tentative connection with the Powers that make my words available to (random fractions of) the Universe. It has taken me weeks to get my floating head back into the blue heaven. It was a few of my more curious Chinese students pointing out that my site was suspended that informed me, among other things, how rarely I’ve been posting. So thanks, and hello.

And rest in peace, John Robert Wooden. I cannot stop reading about him. Among the things I’m sure of, his hoped-for greeting at the gauzy doors of the next kingdom was surely given, or none of this has sense: Well done, thou good and faithful servant. And apart from those Mighty Messengers Whose missions none of us can possibly be inspired to emulate, Coach Wooden has been my greatest and most abiding hero. And now I can let this go, too, for I’m not getting any closer to that galaxy, non plus…

Slowing and Fasting

I know, I know. Where are the rants on the Olympics from the sports-loving Canadian expatriate? They’re in gestation. It has been a fun sort of oddness to watch Chinese sports television — CCTV 5: All Skating, all the Time! — from a Canuck mindset. For now, you might want to check out a recent non-Olympics post on an athletic passing, not quite so tragic or sudden as that of the Georgian luger, but still one that moved me. It’s in the It’s All About Sports! section.

Okay, so what about those Better Read Than Never reviews? Don’t you do any reading while you’re in China? Well, you bet I do, and I’m even publishing some of my earlier rambles in a glossy but editorially questionable ex-pat magazine here called Focus Dalian. But to answer your question, here are a few recent alphabetical journeys: another re-reading of The War of Art by Steven Pressfield, a spiritual butt-kicking for those “whose reach is beyond their grasp“; The Rebel Angels, a witty and erudite Robertson Davies novel, first of the Cornish trilogy; Who’s Afraid of a Large Black Man?, in which former hoopstar Charles Barkley wonders interestingly about race and power “and why everyone should buy my book” in conversation with a pre-Presidential Obama, a post-Presidential Clinton, Morgan Freeman, Ice Cube and other American notables; Mind, Heart, & Spirit: Educators Speak, a remarkable collection of testimonies and memoirs stitched together by Canadian poet Heather Cardin; Changing Planes, linked short stories by Ursula K. Leguin that acerbically explore alternate nearly-human realities (gosh, she’s good — I’ve also been reading her Earthsea Cycle as bedtime for a few young bonzos, deep and wondrous tales that an adult can also thrill to); Norman Bethune, my old boss Adrienne Clarkson’s biography of the great Canadian hero of revolutionary China; Waiting, a fascinating and distinctive novel of a Cultural Revolution-era family, by the expatriate Chinese novelist Ha Jin; The Advent of Divine Justice, a powerful book which is really one long letter to the then-tiny North American Baha’i community by the Faith’s Guardian, Shoghi Effendi, before the Second World War (a vision and a call just as awesome in 2010); Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen’s classic romance, glorious writing and funnier than I’d expected; and last, so that this listing paragraph might be righted (and written), Dreams of My Father, Obama’s pre-Presidential and pre-Senatorial memoir, and how wonderful is it, if we must have individuals in such positions of power and fame, that the Number One Dude can think and really write? It’s not easy to find English books in Dalian, but we brought plenty and (who knew?) our Thailand sojourn led us to a little Chiang Mai hub of remarkably good used bookstores. We will survive.

Yeah, but we still remember a promise, hmm, last August (!), that “there will be details” of this Chinese experience? Justice is on your side, faithful readers, but the trouble is that I’ve been too busy experiencing. And justice is also on my side, because I didn’t say when, now did I? Luckily, my bride is a more prompt, practical and pictorial reporter than I am, and so your lust for details on our lives in China can be satisfied with a trip to her LiveJournal record. It’s fun and thoughtful stuff.

What about fasting? Yes, we’ve heard about my chronic slowness, but we’ve hit that sacred, spring is coming time of year and I’m fasting, fellow babies, I’m fasting for the 37th consecutive March. I hope to do it well, to go beyond syllables and sounds, beyond brainless fridge-prowling and absurd appetites, and beyond eat-drink to pray. I wish me luck, and I hope for sparks and progress, but I always love it. A cool blogger called Phil is writing his experience of fasting the Baha’i way, and I recommend him. He’s always a good read.

So here’s my question: is there anything else you’d like to know? You could comment. I’m also told that it’s easy — hey, I’m the god-king of this little electronic pasture, so I’ve never actually subscribed to it — to get JH.com hand-delivered to your Inbox by hitting the orane button up top. Let me know how that goes. Thanks, as always, for reading.