So, we geocache.Not as much as we used to, but over 15 years ago my family and I began the sport and really got into it for a while.Geocaching involves using a GPS to find a hidden object (“cache”) so that you can log the find.It’s all in good fun.The organization that hosts the website also offers the chance to log “trackables”—these are objects with a unique identifier that you sometimes find in caches and you get credit for logging your find.There are no prizes involved.We started several of these “travel bugs” ourselves, years ago.If you started one you got an email when someone logged it, and you could see how far around the world your little bug had gone.For many years we’ve not heard much about any of ours and assumed them to be MIA.
Recently I started getting several email notices about a resurrected travel bug.It was as if someone had finally found a cache somewhere deep in the Sahara where it’d been hidden for a decade.Then I had an email from a fellow cacher, in German.I figured it must be serious.The message was that a Facebook page was publishing trackable numbers so that anyone could claim to have found them.One of ours was on that list.I went to the page to look.It said, “Let’s face it, it’s all about the numbers.”And they proceeded to list hundreds of numbers so that you could claim to have “found” the pieces with your posterior solidly sunk in your favorite chair.This is annoying not only because we had to pay for the trackable dogtags, but also because it was cheating.I said as much on the page only to have my comment blocked.
How sad is it when people cheat at a game when there’s no gain?All they do is claim to have done something they haven’t, for no prize or recognition.A fun family pastime falls victim to the internet.Ironically, geocaching was really only possible because of the internet.It required a place where players could log their finds in a common database.Facebook, continuing its potential for misuse, allows someone to spoil it.I, along with my unknown German counterpart, reported the page to the powers that be.But since we live in a world where the powers that be don’t recognize any rules beyond inflating their own numbers, I shouldn’t be too optimistic of any results.I guess this is how Republicans play games.
The western philosophical tradition is built on the idea that permanence is reality.From the Greek philosophers on, the idea has been to identify the basic, unchanging building blocks of reality to get at what’s really real.The eastern philosophical system posits that change is reality.Permanence is illusion, and that which we think of as unchanging is a deceptive projection of our own minds.This dichotomy keeps coming back to me when things change and I keep waiting for them to go back to “the old way” or “the usual way.”Most recently, for example, the shift to or from (I can never remember which) Daylight Saving Time.This was followed closely by a mandated trip to San Diego, three time zones away, that lasted five days.While there I met with potential authors later into the evening than I generally stay up on eastern time.Now that I’m back home I keep waiting for things to go back to the way they were.
My response to all of this is to wonder if maybe I have the wrong philosophical disposition.Problem is, the entire western world is built on the proposition that permanence is reality.The things that worry us are, in eastern thinking, part of the constantly changing flux of reality.While away from the usual constant connectivity of life at home, bills still come electronically.Websites ask you for passwords that, like eastern thought, are constantly changing.I play along, even to the point of “buying” property so that it will always be mine.Right now lots of things are up in the air in the western world—the future of democracy itself is uncertain—and I keep waiting for things to get back to normal.
Part of the problem is that I keep too busy.It is easier for me to maintain this illusion if I slow down and have time to think it through.Things change too quickly for that, however.Using time as a pole star to navigate this constantly heaving sea, I’ve become a little confused about my longitude.I’m settling back into eastern time at the new hour they tell me that it is, but I feel as though I’ve left lots of things behind.I’ve had a little time off work over the holiday and there’s a tremendous amount of change awaiting me once I fire the laptop up again.I want to go back to where I was before I boarded that plane, back before I “gained” an hour.Back before I had to learn everything you need to know to “buy” a house.I look to the east and nod.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” Psalm 23 asserts, “I will fear no evil.”Nor should one fear evil when flying over Death Valley, as I did coming out of San Diego, but I did.There are perhaps not too many national monuments that can be appreciated from 30,000 feet, but the only way I’ve seen both the Grand Canyon and Death Valley is by plane.My flight home from AAR/SBL had me sitting over a wing, so a photograph of the famed graben would simply show mostly wing and a bit of Death beyond.This valley holds the record for the hottest ambient temperature recorded on the surface of the earth (134 degrees) and is famed as one of the filming locations for Star Wars.Still, from the air the juxtaposition of mountains and salty, flat dearth was impressive.I had no one with whom to share my excitement; the kid next to me was watching a movie on his phone and I had no idea who he was or if he’d be interested.
Disneyland, they say, is the “happiest place on earth.”While I have my doubts about than endorphin-laced claim, I do know one of the opposite locales.The hotel in which I stayed, the Grand Hyatt, San Diego, hosted the AAR/SBL Employment Center.The hotel is not to be blamed for holding the most unhappy place on the planet, but as I looked at the booth I wondered if this was truth in advertising.Should it not read “Unemployment Center”?That two-letter prefix would make this at least honest, if not cheery.I have spent some of the most miserable hours of my life in the employee hopefuls’ lounges at past conferences.Hours and hours wasted, waiting to see if anyone, anyone at all was willing to grant you an interview.I saw more than a few tears shed in that horrid place. Some of them mine.
Now I’m high over Death Valley.It feels far too sanitary to experience it in this way.The professorate, which seeks to improve the world, is generally a powerless lot.Signs scattered throughout the Convention Center and hotels asked such things as Does your school have over 50% contingency faculty?And statements like Tenure track is not the norm.The psalmist, it seems to me, got it right.If you want to face the valley of the shadow of death and not fear, you have to walk through it.The more people who do, the better the hope that we’ll land this plane with some kind of resolve to do be open to visions and to act upon them.
Perhaps it has happened to you as well.At some undisclosed period life became so busy that you felt as if—in a good southern California metaphor—you were riding on a huge wave and you couldn’t get off.Back in my teaching days I had time to plan my trips to AAR/SBL and fit in some human activities as well as maybe even getting around to see the outside once in a while.It’s great to run into so many people from every stage of my academic life—toddlerhood at Grove City College through my current doddering editorship—but I can’t help having the feeling that I’m popular now because I’m thought to have something others want.The keys to the kingdom.A possibility of getting published.
Those of you who read my daily reflections know that I’m glad to share publishing knowledge.I encourage academic authors to learn a bit about the publishing industry.It’s rapidly changing and when you have an inside track (here is the real added value) you need to look beyond your current book project to see what goes on behind the veil.Widen the focus.There’s a whole world out there!My glimpses out the hotel window inform me that there’s an entire bay to be explored.I watched seals or sea lions (it’s hard to tell from this distance) playing in the water as the sun rose.Then a seagull flew up and landed inches from my face on the windowsill of my room.It stayed for nearly a minute, looking me over as I looked it over.Noticing the tiny white feathers that formed a W on the edges of its beak.Its Silly Putty pink feet with small black nails.The emerging red patch on the underside of its bill.It took a step off the ledge, spread its wings and looked elsewhere for a snack.I soon learned why.A second later a larger gull landed in its place.We too regarded one another curiously.Had the glass not been there, we could’ve easily touched.It also lept off to be replaced by an even larger, more mature gull.None of the three were in any hurry to get away, but when they realized I couldn’t give them what they wanted, they left.
I’m a great fan of metaphor.Academic writing, unfortunately, doesn’t encourage the craft of utilizing it (neither does it often encourage being coherent).Later this morning—it will be early afternoon back home—I have to rush to the airport to catch a hopeful tailwind back east.Someone else will check into my room.If, perchance they sit by the window with the curtain drawn before dawn, the gulls will visit.And maybe a lesson will be taken away.
You ought to feel safe with the U.S. Navy so close by.The naval base at San Diego is the second largest surface base in this particular branch of our sprawling military system.From my hotel room I can watch the ships chugging through the harbor and from the Convention Center you can see quite a spread of naval real estate.Still, all this hardware doesn’t make me feel safe.Perhaps because I’m a child of the sixties, I can imagine a world at peace where military budgets don’t literally take food from the mouths of hungry citizens.The last time I was in San Diego for AAR/SBL I toured the USS Midway aircraft carrier.It’s clearly visible from my room.I was amazed at both the technology and the obvious expenditure for such a craft.It can’t be easy to set a city afloat.
Whenever I experience things like this I can’t help but wonder what we might accomplish if we loved each other as a species and put our heads together to try to solve our problems.Lack of water—perhaps ironically in this naval city—is a serious global issue.Poverty is the ghost of civilization.The grasping of power by the driven but inept is clear worldwide.We build great, complicated war machines.The noise generated by the helicopters charging overhead bespeaks their weight and weaponry.Down here in the southwest there are places civilians just can’t go because our military is busy keeping us too safe to allow us to wonder what they’re up to.Black budgets must be nice.I stand here among religion scholars and dream.
Ironically religion often leads to the fear that leads, in turn, to militarization.We want to protect our “way of life.”We’ll follow the prince of peace into war any day.Just give the signal and release the missiles.It doesn’t make me feel safe at all.One time on a family visit, we drove through Norfolk, Virginia.We stayed at a cheap hotel, because, well, we’re cheap.The metal door was heavily reinforced with a stolid steel lock.Navy men, we were informed, didn’t always behave well while ashore.The locks were to keep us safe from those protecting us.We stayed only one night and left early the next morning.So I while the annual meeting away under the watchful eye of our largest line item on the budget.They’re keeping our bodies safe, but who’s keeping track of our souls?
Stepping out of the airport the first thing I noticed was the palm trees.I’ve traveled to this area enough times that I shouldn’t be surprised, but I always am.And since we are creatures of the culture in which we’re raised, palm trees inevitably make me think of Gilligan’s Island.We grasp for culture to help us make sense of this odd world of negotiating other people and, like many children born in the sixties, I was raised on television.Gilligan’s Island (somehow appropriate training ground for attending AAR/SBL—it actually featured a professor) was as close to seeing a palm tree as I ever got, being raised in a very humble household.To me, palm trees were as much creatures of fantasy as the monsters that populated the movies I watched on Saturday afternoon.
My first experience of a real palm tree was in Israel, 1987.I’d signed on as a volunteer at Tel Dor, an archaeological dig near Haifa.Then, as yesterday, I encountered palm trees—so alien and yet so natural—at the airport.Welcome to Tel Aviv!And so we think of palm trees as being part of paradise, a place where it’s always pleasantly warm and although well-watered it doesn’t rain too much.Trees symbolize our culture.Although back home in the northeast most of the leaves are down from the hardwoods, the region is also defined by its large plants.Trees do that for us.Spreading high over our heads, with dense cellular structure that makes them heavy, trees have always been attractive to our species.And they can help us define, at a glance, where we are.“Paradise” derives from a Persian word for “garden.”Even in arid zones they value their trees.
Looking out my hotel window I see the bay.In the bay stands a marina.Back home most boats are shrink-wrapped by now and I’ve already seen smaller bodies of water start to freeze over.Paradise has no ice.For the castaways, being on the island was always a challenge, but never a terribly serious one.Thurston Howell III used his money (useless where there’s nothing to buy) to try to assert his influence.Everyone treated him with respect, always calling him “Mr. Howell.”In that paradise, however, one of the two characters (who had names) referred to always by title, the professor—the skipper, of course, was the other one—was the person looked to for guidance.If anyone would figure out a way to be rescued, it would be the academic.I’ll be spending the next few days on an island with mostly professors.And when it gets too intense I’ll look at the palm trees and remind myself that this is paradise.
Ritual, no matter what scientists say, is deeply woven into the fabric of human psyches.It may be either the warp or the weft, but it’s downright basic.I was reminded of this on my hurried and slow trip to San Diego yesterday.I always wear the same shirt when I fly to this conference.This isn’t superstition, but rather it’s a case of sticking with something that works.I don’t often wear turtlenecks, and one reason is that they seldom fit well.More years ago than I care to admit (I’m wearing the shirt in the photo below, which was taken at Nashotah House nearly two decades in the past) I found a navy blue turtleneck from Land’s End (this is not a sponsored post, although it probably should be) that works perfectly.Even today it fits snugly around the neck after hours of wear.Maybe ten years back I bought a black turtleneck from the same company and after pulling it over my head, it gaps something awful.I tend only to wear it around the house. The original still does the job.
I was ready to drive myself to the airport yesterday and I grabbed a quick lunch at home.Part of said lunch involved opening a ketchup bottle probably nearly as old as the shirt I was wearing.(I’m sure you can see where this is going.)I ended up looking like a murderer, which is not something you want to try to explain to a TSA agent.I quick threw said ritual shirt into the washer and the drier buzzed at the same time as my phone did for when I had to leave for my two-hour-ahead check-in.This remarkable shirt was dry and ready to serve.Maybe you can see now why I’m so ritualistic about clothes.I also opt-out of those Star Trek scanners at the airport.This means I get lots of governmental pat-downs.It feels more authentic when you have actual hands running down your body—at least it’s honest.
The TSA agent commented that you don’t see many turtlenecks these days.I explained that it’s good for flying because I’m always cold on planes.As this stranger’s hands were rubbing down my chest, I was wondering how many times this shirt has been felt up by the US government.It has no pockets to pick, and besides, at airport screenings everything is stowed in my carry-on, including wallet.At midnight San Diego time, I checked into my hotel.East coast time said I’d been awake 24 hours because who can really sleep on a plane?Once my patted-down body reaches 3 a.m., Eastern Time, it wakes up.In these circumstances it’s good to know I can rely on that shirt in my drawer.That’s what rituals are all about.