A BLOG POST ABOUT (DOING) NOTHING

"Here is a book that you should read!" The enthusiastic recommendation came from an always smiling lady who worked at a christian bookstore in the town where we lived. Her zeal came from a place deeper than a motivation to be a good salesperson. She held it out to me lying on her open palms as she might if she had been offering a Gutenberg Bible.

The book was "Search for Significance".

Honestly I said, "Thank you Mary. I'm glad the book has meant so much to you but, for me, I'm searching for a lot things, but I don't think significance is one of those."

Honestly, I still feel like that's true for me. Then and now, I search for peace, contentment, meaningful relationships, purpose, humor, creativity, open-minded conversation, honest faith, deep personal spirituality, solitude, and slow observation.

POPS AND JEREMIAH

Slow observation? We just returned from a trip with our boys, our beautiful daughters-in-law, and the magnificent seven: Karlee, Harper, Haddi, Nora, Everly, Malachi and Jeremiah. We stayed together in a floating cabin on Lake Murray near Ardmore, Oklahoma. My role was sitting on the dock, eating no-bake cookies, drinking coffee and watching the kids fish and beg to swim in the frigid waters. I excelled in my duties.

All I had to do was buy the train tickets, rent the cabin, buy some groceries and be otherwise insignificant. It was sublime.

I have a little book where I write down words that are new to me and intriguing. There are three that seem to fit together. I've heard them all spoken among the younger, hipper crowd. Even though I'm now neither of those, I can still get on board with these: niksen, hygge, and fika.

Let's start with Niksen. It looks like it could be a phonetic guide to pronouncing the name of another former president facing a well-deserved reckoning. But no. According to an article in Time magazine: Niksen “literally means to do nothing, to be idle or doing something without any use.” Practicing niksen could be as simple as just hanging around, looking at your surroundings or listening to music — “as long as it’s without purpose, and not done in order to achieve something or be productive."

Next up: Hygge. I didn't make note of my source on this Danish word, my notes say: hygge isn’t just a word; it’s a concept, and as such, there’s really no direct translation. Hygge is about cosiness and surrounding yourself with the things that make life good, like friendship, laughter and security, as well as more concrete things like warmth, light, seasonal food and drink.

How about Fika? It’s a moment to slow down and appreciate the good things in life. From the book, Fika: The Art of the Swedish Coffee Break, “Functioning as both a verb and a noun, the concept of fika is simple. It is the moment that you take a break, often with a cup of coffee, but alternatively with tea, and find a baked good to pair with it. You can do it alone, you can do it with friends. You can do it at home, in a park or at work. But the essential thing is that you do it, that you make time to take a break: that’s what fika is all about.”

THESE DAYS I SEARCH for niksen, hygge and fika. Significance? I can take it or leave it. Now if you'll excuse me; My Amazing-Missus has made a strawberry ice cream pie. I'm going to brew a cup of dark roast and watch some Women's College World Series action.

SHOOT LIKE A GIRL

I NEED TO WRITE THIS NOW while things are good. The OKC Thunder won the NBA Western Conference regular-season crown, the youngest team to do so, then went on to sweep the New Orleans Pelicans in four games.

The last game was close all the way. At one point one of the Thunder players shot a long, long three-point attempt, and the clock wasn't even running out. I shouted at him through the TV, "Who do you think you are? Caitlin Clark?!"

Maybe it's just me, but I feel like since the women's NCAA tournament, men, both college and pro, have been attempting shots from farther out, almost like there's a subliminal dare to try to do what the girls are doing.

I like boys. I really do. I have two sons and two one-of-a-kind grandsons. I like watching the NBA, the NFL, the NHL, and MLB. But I really like watching women's sports like college softball and basketball. There's just a certain finesse and smartness to their games that make them fascinating and compelling.

My college journey started at Oklahoma Baptist University in Shawnee, Oklahoma, in the Fall of 1969. After my freshman year there, (surely we're past the statute of limitations) I transferred to Tulsa University. I wouldn't have imagined at the time that five decades later I would somehow end up living in Shawnee, but here we are.

Although I was at OBU for only two semesters, the experiences there were varied and significant, stong enough to create memories that percolate up when I'm on the campus these days.

A lot has changed. For example, while walking on campus one morning I noticed something; there were young women on the track, and on the tennis courts. Hanging on the walls outside the sports complex were huge banners with the pictures of the women's volleyball team and basketball team. Back in the day, there was none of that, except maybe in a casual, "Hey want to play some tennis?" kind of way. At the time I thought nothing of it.

One day I ran across my yearbook for my freshman year. Thumbing and strolling through, I noticed there were photos of men's basketball, baseball, golf , tennis and track and field, but NO women's sports at all. Today, according to sports listed on OBUBison.com, women have more offerings than men: basketball, volleyball, cross country, golf, soccer, track & field, softball, and stunt. I'm not sure what stunt is but I think it has something to do with hurling smaller girls into the air. I may have been on the stunt team back in 69-70. I'm pretty sure I remember the Dean asking, "Just what kind of stunts are you trying to pull here Mr. Fuller?!"

BREAKING NEWS (April 29, 2024): THE OBU STUNT TEAM JUST WON THE 2024 NCAA D2 NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP.

I should mention that for those who advocate for cheerleading being a sport [and as the proud Pops of a high school "Pommie" count me in that group], there is a picture of the cheerleaders in that old yearbook.

If this blog was about hard-hitting journalism or something written in pursuit of a Pulitzer I would probably do the research to write about the evolution of women's sports at OBU. But a quick read of any of the nonsense I write and post here will quickly reveal this blog is really about fluff and stuff. A quick note: as we're learning there is apparently money to be made in the area of seedy/sleazy "journalism" and something called catch & kill... Let's just say, I'm open to making a little extra cash.

Maybe the paradigm shifted a bit with the passing of Title IX in the summer of 1972. Not sure. Maybe I should do the research. Nevertheless, I'm celebrating the rise of women's sports both at OBU and beyond.

BREAKING NEWS (April 29, 2024): OBU's 4x800 relay squad: Zoee Weaver, Shayna Hendrix, Kaylen King and Mekenzie Connell ran the fastest time (9:01.56) in NCAA Division II this season to win the Drake Relays title in the event.

While progress is obvious in the field and on the courts of women's sports, regress is still too heavy and real in too many areas of our culture and life for women. There is so much more I would like to say, but I'm trying to be civil and constrained until I can find a way to be useful. At this point, my best attempts would be a long shot. What would I do if someone yelled, "Who do you think you are? Caitlin Clark?"

With a Little Help

“You must love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, all your strength, and all your mind. And, love your neighbor as yourself.”

“And who is my neighbor?”

Jesus tells the story we call "The Good Samaritan", recorded in Luke 10, then asks this:

36 “Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?”
37 The expert in the law replied, “The one who had mercy on him.”

Jesus told him, “Go and do likewise.”

But, from whose perspective? I've always heard this "Good Samaritan" story told as if our neighbor is the guy that got mugged and lies along the road. He's the guy that we're supposed to be neighborly toward--loving him as we would love ourselves.

But wait a minute. Look at Jesus' question: "Which of these was a neighbor to the man?" Imagine for a second that you are the one left banged up and broken in the ditch. Along comes a guy, let's call him Mr. Rogers. You're surprised that he has humbly stopped to help. You say, "Won't you be my neighbor?"

My point is that maybe, just maybe, what Jesus is saying is that our neighbor is the person(s) we allow to help us, the one we become very vulnerable to. Seems to me that can be pretty challenging. I find it easier to be the helper than the helpee.

If you're still with me on this circuitous path of Pops' strange logic, let's take the next step. Let's assume I'm reading Jesus correctly and my neighbor is the person that I allow to offer me aid, then to love myself in that neighborly way means letting my inner Mr. Rogers be kind to myself, to give myself an occasional break, to lay a cold rag on my forehead, to bandage up even the occasional emotional booboo. It takes being a bit vulnerable.

That last sentence was so hard to type. I don't like the idea of vulnerability, of people seeing me in need of aid. I don't like admitting that sometimes I'm not okay, that maybe I need a little help from my friends, trusting the ones who wouldn't stand up and walk out on me even if I sang out of tune.

I just bought an e-bike. It costs more than my used VW Bus did back in 1970. The hardest part of buying an e-bike though wasn't the cost. It was admitting I need help. I've tried riding my single-speed cruiser bike around town, but there are some hills that I just can't make it up. Sometimes (almost all the time) the winds are too stout for me to peddle against.

With e-bikes there are two varieties: peddle-assist or throttle. If you choose the throttle model, you can actually ride with no assist at all, like a moped or scooter. Just get on and twist the throttle and off you go. With peddle-assist, you have to actually pedal, the motor just helps a little, sort of flattens out the hills a bit.

Salesman: "Do you want a throttle model?"

Me: "Who do you think you're talking to? I'm only 70-something. I just need a little help."

Still, I imagine that when people see me riding they may think, "Look at the old man go. He must be in excellent shape. Wait a minute! That thing has a motor!"

This post isn't an endorsement for e-bikes. It's a metaphor.

I read a column in the New York Times written by a young lady who, along with her husband, had suffered a horrible tragedy. They lost their little girl, Lucy, shortly after her birth. In the article she talked about her lifelong love of bicycling and how in the trauma after their loss she never rode. She also talked about their grief and the people who, with all good intentions, sought to offer aid. The article ends with this paragraph:

"Now with spring in like a lion, I’m back out riding. When hills come up on the horizon, I don’t let pride stand in the way. I crank up the electric-powered motor a couple of notches and allow it to give me a boost. Slowly, through every swerve and switchback, grief has given way to gratitude. But only because I have help moving through it."
-- By Jess Mayhugh April 18, 2024. New York Times.

for Old Men

Wendell: That's very linear Sheriff.
Sheriff Ed Tom Bell: Well, age will flatten a man.

― Cormac McCarthy, No Country for Old Men

Old Joe Biden is working to overcome the fact that he's old. The guy that's highlighting the fact that Joe's no spring chicken is none other than old TrumpleOrangeSkin himself, arguably the most un-selfaware person on the planet.

I'm old too. Not as old as either of them, but I'm not running for president. In fact, I'm not running much at all; unless you count running from old age. It's not that I'm in denial (would I know it if I wasn't?), I just enjoy living in the past.

Past. Present. Future. Your most basic timeline of life. I'm not a fan of a linear view of life, however. Maybe it's because the Past part of my timeline takes up the most space by far these days and expands by the minute. Our youngest Grand-Guy, "J", spent the night with us recently along with his older brother. J's Past section is very short, only four years. In his mind it's even shorter. For the most part, any time he is telling you a story from the past, he starts with, "Last night..." As in: "Last night my sister broke my arm." "Last night I caught a little fish and my Daddy wanted me to kiss it."

Using that little time trick to shorten my Past section wouldn't work for me. I tend to remember 1968 better than I remember Last Night. I should begin my reminiscenses with, "Back in the 1900s...

Sometimes I worry that I'm wasting the Present section worrying about the Future section. A sample: What if Trump is elected to a second term? What if he's not? Will he incite a civil war? Have I saved enough to get us through our retirement years with a little something left for the kids? Will there be a church, a church grounded in the love and grace and seeking the example of Christ, instead of one that's tied to politics where people believe that our Hope rests in filling government with people who call themselves Republican, mistakenly assuming that brand is synonymous with integrity, good judgement, good character and Christ-following. A church where my grandkids learn the value of honesty, honor and humility, where they will be able to raise their kids and grow old. Will the transfer portal and sports betting ruin college sports? Will I get hit by a car while riding my bicycle? etc.

A straight timeline is not really how I view life. I have vivid memories and enjoy recounting events of my life, both big and little, but I don't think of them as happening along a line. There are set backs, detours, u-turns. I do remember a few dates along a line: my birthday, the year I graduated from high school, our anniversary and My Amazing-Missus' birthday. I know Christmas Day is 12/25, New Years Day is 1/1, The Fourth of July is the fourth of July and Cinco de Mayo is May 5. Other than that I just don't remember dates. It's not a cognitive deficiency, that's just not the way I recount life. Now, My Amazing-Missus on the other hand remembers the date of every significant event. She can tell you the birthday of our entire extended family and if she knows you at all she knows your birthday too. I don't have that gift, and since June 16,1972, she has questioned just why on God's green and warming earth I've never been able to remember my own mother's birthday.

Here at seventy-something on the timeline, I guess I shouldn't be surprised that I'm feeling non-youth-like. I hate to type this out loud for fear of bringing karma down on myself, but so far: I have my own teeth (cleaned and checked every 6 months), no hearing aids, although some may think I'm not listening sometimes. I can still sort and fill my own pill case. The vision isn't what it once was, but I can still see down the future side of the timeline a bit. Still; I have to go to way too many doctor's appointments--the routine follow-up kinds of stuff. I think the situation is that they have my Medicare number and they're not afraid to use it to send a big bill through for these check ups. I know I'm old because I get hugely annoyed when I have to sit for an hour or so in a waiting room, to go in a little room to be poked around on for three or four minutes and told to see the lady on the way out, "Make sure she has your medicare and supplement card and make a follow-up appointment for next year's poking and prodding session."

I was going to write a particularly pithy sentence, but I've lost my train of thought. More often not, the train goes into a tunnel and comes out on a different track. But, I could still beat a "very stable genius" on a cognitive test any day of the week or at any point along the timeline.