How We Got There: Part I

Last week I wrote about where we’d live if we could live anywhere we would like. The answer was England. In that post I wrote, “... and move back across the Atlantic.” We did live in England from December 1996 to September 1999, and I dare say, it was some of the happiest times of our lives. Mind you, life is still grand, but these particular years were special in our lives. I said last week that I would share what got us to England. Here is that story.

It is a spiritual journey.

Gerrie and I grew up in two different faith denominations. Each had those elements that were similar and those that were distinctly different. Yet, both were missionary sending denominations. This meant that there would be at least two times each year that the worship service was given over for a missionary to come and share their experiences and tell what God was doing in the areas that they served. One occasion was usually focused on foreign missions and the other on home missions. 

Gerrie and I also had different ways of reacting to these messages. She has shared with me that she would always go forward when the call went out to those who felt called to serve in missions. I, on the other hand, while certainly feeling moved to serve, would be the person digging their fingers into the church pew to prevent taking that step down the aisle. The desire was there but the commitment was lacking. Plus, there was a very good chance that neither of parents would allow me to leave grade school or high school to join the foreign mission corps.

Life goes on. Gerrie is living her life and I am living mine. We eventually meet, fall in love, get married and then settle in to living our life together. We had our home, good jobs, were active in our church and living the quiet suburban life in our little house. Then, little things began to happen.

First, I was involved in a spiritual retreat weekend in the early 90s. From that experience I had a profound sense that God was leading me to use some of the talents He has blessed me with to tell His story and share His gospel. This was a major revelation to me and led to Gerrie and I taking a big first step: my early retirement. I then spent a few years doing what I could musically and artistically to serve the Lord. It was not always easy and my success was moderate at best, but there has never been a moment of regret for us making this move. We became more active in our church and I like to think our marriage became stronger with the pressure of my corporate life behind us and a new world of possibilities before us.

Then a few years later, Gerrie accompanied our church youth group on a one week mission trip to Kansas to work among the Prairie Band of the Potawatomi Nation. What an incredible week this was for both of us. For Gerrie, she was actually there having the experience, working with the indians, working with our youth, and having a tremendous time. For me, I would rush home from work so that I would not miss her telephone call. I was eager to hear what happened that day, what new joy she felt, what God was doing and so forth. I held to every word she was saying and wishing that I somehow could have been there. As her week started to wind down and she was preparing to come home our conversation started to take a different tone. Could this, could missions, be in our future?

This mission trip also introduced us to an organization called Youth With A Mission, sometimes known simply as YWAM. It was the local mission base that organized and facilitated the trip that Gerrie and the youth participated in. While on the trip she was able to find out about the organization. One thing that she found out is that you could serve with Youth With A Mission in either a short term or long term capacity. It could be for a week or two, as was the case with her mission to Kansas, it could be for three to six months, or it could be become life commitment. They were (and are) a mission training and mission sending organization that is international and interdenominational. They also do not look upon someone having been previously divorced and remarried as a fault that would prevent the person or couple from serving God. This was Gerrie and I. With Youth With A Mission we could begin seriously praying and seeking God for a life in missions that we felt called to in our childhoods. The obstacles of our past mistakes were removed and we saw a way opened to a deeper commitment to our God and to serving Him.

This was in the summer of 1995.

As it is with most journey's, ours is one with several steps. This is but the beginning. Next week we'll continue with the 1995 and the road that led us to arrive in England a few days before Christmas 1996.

Greg

If We Could Live Anywhere...

It wasn’t long ago that I read a travel blog where the writer considered the places they’d travel if money were no object. It is a question I will ask myself from time to time; what would you do if money were no object? However, reality is as it is and money is an object to be considered. Still, I do permit myself to think these thoughts, and on occasion, some of these flights of fancy become my reality.

Similar to this is pondering the question, where would you live if you could live anywhere you would like? Oh, how this question causes my mind and imagine to race. My wife and I started this conversation again this past Friday while waiting for an appointment and it has continued through the weekend. It has not always been an easy question to answer. I have had several places that have intrigued me throughout the years. 

Considering the question now, I find it easy to answer, I would live in England! Now before my family and friends jump to any conclusions, there are no plans underway in which we pull up stakes and move back across the Atlantic. I am not saying it could never happen either. No, right now I am simply indulging a few thoughts of someplace other than here. 

My wife and I lived in Nuneaton.  Nuneaton is a town located in Warwickshire in the area of the United Kingdom collectively known as The Midlands. Most people have never heard of Nuneaton or have no idea where to find Nuneaton. In trying to tell friends we would simply say, “It is in the same county as Stratford-upon-Avon” and hope that people would know that Stratford was Shakespeare’s birthplace. We could also add another historical reference by saying we lived on the Watling Street; an old Roman road. 

Our life in England harkens back to a simpler easier time. We were doing what we were meant to be doing*. Life was slower there than it is here and the things that tend to complicate life was an ocean away. Combining fewer distractions with a singular purpose, residing in a country that captured my imagination years earlier, meant that I found myself in one of the happiest times of my life. It wasn’t a perfect time but it was a very happy time. Missing my family was that one grain of imperfection. It is missing people that makes things toughest. 

When I allow myself to ask “what if”, I think I’d like to be back where we were, in The Midlands. It is quiet and peaceful. We have friends there and in nearby villages and towns. In a sense, it would be like going home and we could be pick up where we left off with several friends.  

Life there would be much as was before. We would walk out our front door and in fifteen minutes be in town for market day. My wife loves market day and it gives me the chance to stop in at the WH Smith on Queen’s Road and purchase a book or two. We would walk out our front door and in five minutes be on a greenway through the countryside. Just like before we would walk as far as a canal side pub for tea. A lack of television means that we’d spend our evenings tucked away in our flat listening to music, reading, writing, or perhaps we’d find our way out and visit with friends. This is something we can do here too, but there we do not have much of a choice.

Every two to three months we’d make our way down to London. It is what we did then, and what we’d do in our present “what if”. We never had much money then so we found the free or inexpensive things to do. Though we may be slightly better off now we would still do many of the same things. We would visit the National Gallery or the British Museum. We’d would find a small cafe table in the lower-level courtyard at Covent Garden and share a cheese plate with a glass of red or white wine. A classical quartet would be playing in the background and sometimes two opera singers will sing the Flower Duet. Sometimes I will find a table in the back room of the Angel and Crown and pull out my journal and write for hours. London had that sort of creative impact on me. What I write is not important but it is important that I write. Whether we make our way back to live, or only to visit, these things we will still find time to do.

England is rich in history and literature. It is also rich in offering a variety of places to visit in country. We loved weekends in Stratford strolling along the River Avon or taking in a performance of the Royal Shakespeare Company. A quick meal at the Dirty Duck is also a treat. We’ve visited the haunts of some of our favorite writers, C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien while at Oxford. We have a favorite bed and breakfast overlooking the cliffs at Port Isaac in Cornwall. We’ve gone across the moors in Devon and climbed the Glastonbury Tor. I’ve looked out over Dozmary Pool on the Bodmin Moor, legendary home of the Lady of the Lake and the sword Excalibur. We’ve walked along Lake Windemere in the Lake District and have stood atop the white chalk cliffs of Dover and waved at France. These things, and more, are a part of the “what if”.

We love to travel. If we lived in England again, and hoping that we would be able to afford it, we’d make time to travel over to the Continent more often. There I would indulge my love for Paris. We’d finally make that trip to Germany so that Gerrie can visit the land her family came from. We’d go back to Switzerland, perhaps catch up with a few old friends, and if I can, I’d finally take the journey to Kleine Scheidegg and spend a few hours looking at the Eiger. Another long weekend may find us in Brussels or perhaps in Vienna for the opera. Then maybe one day we’d find ourselves back in Rome, and this time we’d pay the price of admission and stroll through the Forums and visit the Sistine Chapel.

There is a lot we would do if...

Gerrie and I both have a wonderful sense of wanderlust. While living in the present we will often think about the future. Much of this is but dream, but it is shared dream of two people answering a question from the other. It is two people who often comment on how much they miss living in England. It is two people wondering what to do and where to go should the correct set of circumstances occur that give them the opportunity to move back to Europe. It happened before. There is no reason to believe it could not happen again. 

Tolkien’s prequel to the Lord of the Rings is commonly known as The Hobbit. The expanded title is The Hobbit, or There and Back Again. As for the There and Back Again, I wonder if that could be the title of an upcoming chapter in our book of life.

Greg

* A preview of what is to come next week; I will share what got us to England in the first place. It is part of our spiritual journey!

The Sounds of Music

When I was growing up my parents had a console stereo. The best way I can describe it is that it was made of a blondish colored wood and set on four spindle legs. The front was covered in a beige weaved type of material and in the lower part of the center section was a small amber colored light that indicated that the stereo was on. The lid opened in the center and the turntable and knobs were recessed in the console. The turntable would play 16, 33.3, 45 and 78 rpm records, and was equipped with a changer that allowed several albums to be stacked, providing hours of listening, in the case of long-play vinyl.

To my young eyes, my mom and dad’s console stereo was a thing of mystery and beauty.

I do not recall much of the music that I heard in those early years, but I do remember one piece in particular. It was Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Festival Overture in E Flat Major, or as it is more commonly known, the 1812 Overture. I would sit in front of the stereo for hours listening to the piece. Often times I’d have my copy of The Child’s World:  The World of the Arts laid open on my lap. On page 105 of the book was an illustrated layout of a symphony orchestra. As I listened, I would move my arms, conducting my orchestra on the page. Other times, when I still didn’t know better, I’d lay on the floor and press my eye against that small amber colored light, hoping I could get a look into the console and discover the mystery of what was inside the cabinet. In my mind, the orchestra and the audience were inside; one to the left and the other to right. What I could never quite figure out, as far as the Overture was concerned, was where were the brass cannons and church bells found that were present in the finale.

Music plays a large part in the memories I have. I am sure this is true for many people. When I look back on my two score and fourteen years I recall specific moments in life and the music that provided the soundtrack for those moments. The memories, like the music, may be euphoric or they may recall moments of great sorrow. Whichever they may be, the music provided a landscape on which these memories rest.

I can not listen to the Tchaikovsky piece without remembering those early years in my parent’s home. That memory then leads to remembering a story my parents shared with me; a story that involved having more cough syrup than was prescribed. The sweet taste was so nice that I helped myself to a bit more one night, and though it was not fatal, it was enough to make me drunk. My parents discovered this early one morning when I was hugging my father’s neck very tightly and singing, loudly, into his ear, The Star-Spangled Banner. Now, when I hear our national anthem, not only do I feel a sense of patriotism, I also remember an inebriated toddler singing for his parents. 

Over the years, my soundtrack expanded as my memories grew. It now includes, in addition to Tchaikovsky, other classical compositions by Samuel Barber, Aaron Copland, Leo Delibes, Antonin Dvorak and Camille Saint-Saens to name a few. But also present is music by The Beatles, U2, John Prine’s Hello In There, Paul William’s With One More Look at You/Watch Closely Now, and others. As I continue to explore the good times I’ll visit some of this music and the moments associated with it.

Music, like art, film and literature, are pieces that make up the fabric of our lives. At their best they can become a memory unto themselves. But more often than not, they are the things that help to illustrate our lives, to give it texture and color and help us to recall who we are, where we’ve been and it some instances, where we’re going.

What makes up your soundtrack?

Greg


Note:  A special thank you to my daughter Ali for sharing a photograph of her console stereo.

The Dream Book

First a confession. I am borrowing some content for this entry from something that appeared in my other blog some few years back.

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I have several books in my study. There are biographies, histories, books on art, various editions of the works of Shakespeare, and more than a few years of National Geographic Magazine. I also have a book that I call The Dream Book. 

The Dream Book is a black spiral bound scrapbook that I picked up at an arts and crafts shop. On the front cover I applied stickers spelling out the name of the book. It is unlike a regular scrapbook. It isn’t meant to chronicle a trip that has taken place (though there is some of that there). The intent of The Dream Book is to chronicle and plan for things we hope will happen. Things we wish to do. Some people may call it the “Bucket List”. For us, it is The Dream Book.

We have not made much progress in filling the book or in realizing all the dreams we have. Yet, though life may cause a detour or delay in the realization, it can not stop the dreaming. It can not keep us from still thinking of and planning for new courses in our journey. And, we do continue to think of new things while we enjoy the life we have right here.

In the book is a map of the Inside Passage from our cruise in Alaska. There also are postcards. These are from a dream fulfilled; my wife’s dream actually. She had for many years dreamed of going to Alaska and we worked to make it happen. And Alaska, well, Alaska is spectacular! Breathtaking!

From time to time I will open the book and make a note of something. Maybe it is a post-it note reminding me of the name of my favorite pub in London or a cafe in Paris. Perhaps it is something I have overheard, or has been recommended. Whatever it is, this a way to not forget to stop somewhere or see something during a future trip. 

There are several pages of maps detailing Historic Route 66 along with some photographs of some of the hotels we want to stay in and sites I wish to see along the way. I have pasted the Amtrak route map for the United States on one page and on the following page is information about the Southwest Chief. Elsewhere in the book is the schedule for the California Zephyr and the Empire Builder. We are making notes of National Parks we wish to visit along with a few grand hotels we would like to spend the night in. 

My wife has never been to Nantucket and I feel she would enjoy a picnic lunch there. Perhaps during the Daffodil Festival. 

I have never been to Vermont. I want to. In fact, I have counted 13 states that I have not visited here in America. I hope to visit them all.

We lived in Europe for a while; England to be specific. We want to go back. In the book are a few reminders of places we wish to revisit, places like London and Paris and where we lived in the Midlands. There are also places we never made it to but want to. Places like Venice, or perhaps a journey from Vienna to Berlin, or from Madrid to Barcelona. I want to visit Edinburgh and once again walk along Hadrian’s Wall. I would like to holy island of Iona and then take a tour of Eilean Donan Castle. I have dreamed of spending the night at Mont Saint Michel in the north of France.

I wrote a bit about this in an earlier post. In it I wrote, “I will still look and work towards these things (speaking of dreams). But, in doing so, I will not forego the privilege and the pleasure of this moment. I hope not to miss an occasion to experience the adventure of life now because I am focused on a later occasion that is not guaranteed.” This is still true. The things we dream of may never come to pass, but the dreams will keep coming and our list will keep growing. This, while we still live for today.

Greg

Post Script:  My wife and I will travel aboard the Southwest Chief from Los Angeles to Chicago later this year. In doing so, I'll be able to visit three of the thirteen states on my list.

The Evolution of Art, Part I

"Bit by bit, putting it together

Piece by piece, only way to make a work of art

Every moment makes a contribution

Every little detail plays a part

Having just a vision's no solution

Everything depends on execution

Putting it together (that's what counts)"

~ Stephen Sondheim

from Sunday in the Park with George

Do you have those things in life when you know something started, but you can not quite remember when it started? Art, in my life, is one of those things. I can't recall a time when drawing or doodling did not interest me. For years I would doodle in the margins of notes from meetings, classes or sermons. There would be times when I would take the subject more seriously and I would be inspired to produce a number of things. But, those times would be followed by long droughts of artistic inactivity. Yet, during those times an idea was usually always circulating in my mind.

Sparked by an event that occurred a few months ago, I have experienced a re-awakening in my life as it pertains to art. Little by little my attention is being drawn back to art; to exploring my creative side in earnest. I have yet to fall into a pattern of drawing daily or even weekly, but it is a goal I have set for myself. I have dug my pens and pencils out of the dust and put together a kit that I can carry with me, in hopes that having a bit of time, I can sketch. I did some of this while in rehearsals for my church Christmas play, and I have started to inject doodles into my journal writing. Anything to move the artistic dial; even just a little.

So, why, The Evolution of Art, Part I?

As in most things, I believe that we all wish to become better at what we do. When I played guitar I watched others and worked to learn more cords in an effort to be a better guitarist. As an actor I tried to be better with each performance of each production; working to suspend reality a few hours at a time. As a writer I want to construct a better sentence within a better paragraph and then tie them together into something I hope is worth reading. This is no different with art. I want my next sketch to be more interesting than the last. I want to improve my limited understanding of light and shadow and of perspective and relationship of objects to one another. I have so much to learn and feel that I am at the beginning of an interesting process.

While clearing the dust away from my supplies I happened upon a folder containing some of what I did early on. In the interest of sharing The Evolution in Art, my (hopeful) evolution, I share a few of these with you here. Perhaps we all will see a bit of growth as time goes by.

These are a few items from 1987.  We'll call this my Lines and Felt Tip Marker Phase. I also did a few program cover designs in pencil. During this time I was fascinated with the convergence and relationship of lines.

This is some work from 1988; a few color pencil drawings and a pen and ink. The color pencils are of no particular scene though they are of specific themes. The street scene speaks to my love of England while the scene with trees and water was done while I was rehearsing for a production of On Golden Pond. What I was interested in with these was the blending of colors.

As time goes on there will be other installments, no doubt; some later works and works yet to be started. 

This is a beginning. I have my art bag ready, and along with my camera, it will begin traveling with me daily. Having seen a sketch by someone began while waiting in his car at a railroad crossing, I feel I should be ready when an occasion to draw presents itself. I am taking advantage of a seldom used room upstairs to set up a table for drawing. Having things readily available defeats the tendency to not start because things are not at hand. 

The desire has been re-established and the tools have been assembled. What form it takes is yet to be seen. Pen and inks again? Very possible. Sketching? Yes. Watercolors? Well, I do have them, and pastels as well. Acrylics and oils? Scary.  Doodling? Practically every day!

The Evolution of Art has started here. It will be interesting. At least to me.

Greg

The Power of Literature

Art is powerful!  All forms of art. Music, painting, poetry or prose, photography, theater, film, and so forth. They all possess the ability to attract or repel. Whether we appreciate the work that we have just seen, read, or heard, it has effected us in some manner; either positively or negatively. 

Art is also transformative. It can cause us to change or it can reinforce a change that has been made or is in the process of being made in our lives. It can cause us to transcend a present reality, if only for a moment, and enter a place where all is calm and all is right. Where there is peace.

In the case of literature, it will sometimes put into words something that we are not quite able to articulate for ourselves. It speaks to us and it speaks for us.

I am not sure when it was that I first read W. Somerset Maugham’s The Moon and Sixpence. I wish I did. Along with Of Human Bondage, this was one of the first works of Somerset Maugham’s that I read. Though I enjoyed the entire novel, it was a single paragraph found at the beginning of Chapter 50 that forever marked this work as being one of my favorites.

“I have an idea that some men are born out of their due place. Accident has cast them amid certain surroundings, but they have always a nostalgia for a home they know not. They are strangers in their birthplace, and the leafy lanes they have known from childhood or the populous streets in which they have played, remain but a place of passage. They may spend their whole lives aliens among their kindred and remain aloof among the only scenes they have ever known. Perhaps it is this sense of strangeness that sends men far and wide in the search for something permanent, to which they may attach themselves. Perhaps some deep-rooted atavism urges the wanderer back to lands which his ancestors left in the dim beginnings of history. Sometimes a man hits upon a place to which he mysteriously feels that he belongs. Here is the home he sought, and he will settle amid scenes that he has never seen before, among men he has never known, as though they were familiar to him from his birth. Here at last he finds rest.”

These words illustrate a feeling that I felt following my first trip to England. While time has dimmed my memory of that trip somewhat, I do recall once taking a walk along some side streets of Camden Town. I had turned a corner while returning from a bank. At that moment I felt as though this was were I was meant to be. Not specifically in that area of the city or even on that particular street, but in this country, this part of the world. As the passage reads, I was sensing “a nostalgia for a home” that I knew not. I had hit upon a place where I felt I belonged. 

What caused this I do not know. It might have been that my ancestors came from the British Isles. It might have been a deep appreciation for English Literature and British History. It might have been admiration of a centuries old culture. Whatever it was, I felt that I was in the place where I would live a portion of my life.

I remember telling someone on the flight home that I would be back in six months. But as things happen, life occurs and sometimes our hopes and dreams dim in the harsh light of reality. Dim, but not burn out. It took twenty years, but I did return to England. Once for a holiday with my wife. Then again when we moved to Warwickshire.

Perhaps we all carry a sense of longing within us; that desire to be in that place where we know we belong. It may not be to live in a foreign land, but it is there. It is that something that draws us further down the street and makes us turn the next corner. Around that corner is excitement and adventure. Around that corner is fulfillment, But too, there is peace that may be found. It is a peace that comes from knowing that you at last have found rest.

There is power in literature. It can express for us what we have longed to express and in doing so, it becomes a part of who we are.

Greg

Paris: Shakespeare and Company

My wife recently returned from a mission trip to Ecuador.  While sharing the highlights of her trip with me, she mentioned seeing the film Midnight in Paris on her flight home.  She said, "Greg, you've got to see this movie.  You'll love it."

It wasn't long after that I received a note from a good friend saying that he and his wife had just seen the film Midnight in Paris.  The note basically said, "Greg, you've got to see this movie.  You'll love it."

They know that I love Paris!  And this is true.  I have a certain affinity for the artistic, bohemian lifestyle lived by those collectively known as the "Lost Generation".  Granted, my notions of this life and time are romanticized, but still, it was a time of intense creativity.  It was also a time that yielded some of my favorite writers, both in that circle of friends, and out.  Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Somerset Maugham works are among those on my shelves.

Having two trusted recommendations, I rushed out and bought the film the day it became available. They were right, I loved it!  I love the scenery and music. I love the ways the characters are drawn and the fanciful story of being able to visit a favorite bygone time.  Near the end of the film there is a shot of Shakespeare and Company.  This drew me back in time for a moment.

I always love the opportunity to visit Paris.  I was first there just out of school and my wife and I honeymooned there.  In later years I'd try to visit while living or working in Europe, but those times were few.  But still, during these trips, and if time allowed, I loved visiting Shakespeare and Company.  It provided me with a physical embodiment of my romanticized notions.  Though the literal location of the shop is different from when Sylvia Beach first opened her lending library in 1919, I like to imagine the same ambiance is present.  I like to think that huddled away in a corner of the present shop is the spirit of Hemingway plotting a new story or that upstairs James Joyce is revising Ulysses. 

Sylvia's store was a gathering place for a generation between the wars who sought to push the envelop of creativity in art and literature. When George Whitman opened his shop in 1951, he sought to capture this same energy making it a center of activity for a new generation of writers and thinkers.  In addition to selling books, he held readings downstairs, while upstairs he offered living and working space for young writers.  His stacks, now  managed by his daughter, almost defy description having books crammed into every available nook and cranny.  They are laid out on tables and displayed in any other available space. Shakespeare and Company is not a place for the casual shopper or one who must make their way in and out in a very short time.  It is a place that cries out to be explored.

A point of interest, for me at least, is that the shop at 37 Rue de la Bucherie is inside Kilometer Zero for France; the marker being located in the square of the main entrance to Notre Dame.  When you purchase a book you can have it stamped indicating the book was purchased in the shop and within Kilometer Zero. Not knowing this, my first book doesn't bear the stamp. But on a return trip I made my way to the shop, spent an hour or so selecting just the right title, and then purchased Somerset Maugham's The Narrow Corner for 55 francs* and had it stamped.  A treasure.

In an era when the printed word seems to be retreating and bookstores close for lack of patronage, Shakespeare and Company stands out as an example of what was, what is and what can still be.  It is a place where the written word is explored and celebrated and shared with any who wish to step into its richness.  It is its uniqueness that make it what it is.  Still, I wish there were more shops, such as this, that beg us to come in and spend time.  We would become better for having done it.

So yes, I enjoyed Midnight in Paris and loved being reminded of Shakespeare and Company.  I have been gone far too long from a city I adore, and this brought me back for a moment.  Now, you'll need to excuse me while I find my passport.

Greg

* sadly I have not been able to visit Shakespeare and Company since the introduction of the Euro. An oversight, I know, but one I hope remedy fairly soon.