The Faces of Infinity

There’s a spirit that moves through some homes and families, some places and people. It’s a spirit that wraps others with gratitude, but moves without prentention. Those who have it, act like they don’t. It’s that kind of gift. The kind you don’t know you are giving. The gift that is who you are.

For the past 2 months I’ve traveled. I’ve stayed with a number of different hosts. At times they’ve invited me and at other times I’ve invited myself and they have warmly welcomed my visit to their country or city or town. Every day throughout this trip, I knew where I was going to stay at night or had someone preparing that for me. When I arrived in Amsterdam, I came with a plan to stay in my brother’s old flat, one that was going to be half-empty because his old flat-mate had just married and gone on honeymoon. Brilliant plan, the Breitenberg brothers taking in the city in a brilliant bachelor pad on the Plantaage Muiderlecht. Lekker.

But best laid plans…so they go. By the time I caught up with Andrew at the café post-train from Switzerland, he informed me that we would be off to different accommodations. For the first four days, we were generously welcomed in to a community home. Most everyone from the house itself was traveling in Russia on a missions trip, so we laid low on the Elandsgracht, taking in the beautiful area of town over my first weekend in town.

On Sunday, we needed to move out. Not only that, but we had another 10 nights of accommodation to find. We asked Andrew’s design partner and friend, Harmine, if she could take us. It happened that her house would be very open for about two weeks and she welcomed us in without question.

I don’t pay much lip service to hosts. I usually thank them graciously for their spirit and invitation. I trust that my spirit of gratitude means more than the words that often seem to trivialize it. This relationship, however, felt different. I felt welcomed as a member of the family; brought in close like a nephew or a little brother. She hosted with personal style, attending to my needs while giving great freedom. If living with someone else can feel liberating, that’s what I felt. “Wow,” I thought. “What’s the story here?”

It turns out that not long ago, Harmine came to a realization that she needed to invest in life and things that were alive: relationships, moments, adventures. Instead of staying tuned into work all the time, she wanted to carve out space. The space that is the difference between a coffee-on-the-run with a friend and a two-coffee conversation. To not pass on dinner, but make an appointment and scope out a new restaurant. To take people into her house with whom she had spent little time and knew little about. These small decisions, she might say, have brought a richness to her life.

Over a week, I began to feel this tangibly. Harmine and I would sip bierches on the canal and talk deep. We would light candles and spin Jeff Buckley’s “Grace” and Bob Dylan “Live at Royal Albert Hall 1966”. She helped design a shirt for AfL. We became fast friends from the moment I arrived.

Of course, what I had felt personally moved to a new level when I told Harmine that I had an old friend coming to town (“Ulla, from Lativa”). She needed a place to stay for two nights and again, she was welcomed just as I had been a week earlier.

We all met on Friday night (along with my friend Marielle, both friends from the 1st adventure to India) and had bierches on the Niu Dyk before a rendezvous on Saturday morning. It rained in fits and starts, but we enjoyed a mammoth apple tart and drank coffees, walked through the open air market in the Jordaan and grabbed Indonesian to-go, taking turns to sneak out from the café to fill our chopsticks and mouths in turn.

As we discussed dinner plans, Marielle suggested we cook. Without another word, Harmine invited over 6 guests. We broke from the café. Ulla and I took a long bike ride, got lost and found our way home. The others greeted the Dutch sense of social schedule and arrived at a leisurely pace to the hostess’ flat hours later. Upon arrival we shook off the dust of a chill afternoon and warmed to the inside. Gezellig.

The kitchen absolutely buzzed as the four Dutch put together a massive spread. They worked with the kind of fluency you might expect from a kitchen with a packed dining room, zipping here and there and commanding their respective stations with authority. Within an hour, three kinds of fish and an enormous salad with hors devours along the way. The rest of us played records, spinning the vinyl as Led Zepplin and Simon and Grafunkel soared to my ears as if brand new. It turned into a brilliant dinner party, one we couldn’t have had anywhere else. It blazed.

It’s not hard to welcome others into your midst, but in my mind, it requires sacrifice. For some, it doesn’t require anything other than “yes”. They have a natural predisposition to it. For other it’s learned. Like Harmine, they turn a page and make a decision to engage in the moment, the magic, the eternal potential of engaging in relationship with people, of sharing a meal or a conversation. The infinity present therein.

In school, I marveled at Levinas, the French philosopher-rabbi who wondered on the faces of infinity – the face to face connection. The meeting of the eyes, he believed, was the source of ethics – the foundation of human relation.

Now I marvel at those who can look into the eyes of the Other and say: “Welcome, friend.”

Why Amsterdam?

This is why we come to Amsterdam. The 20:49 sunlight hangs low and steady in the sky, looking forward to two more hours of fade. Streets calming after post-work rush into short errand runs and rendezvous on bicycles. Open doors on to porches adorned with summer greens nursed in the shade of chesnut groves.

There’s work to be done inside. My brother and his design partner are debating layout. My Action for Life matters call me, but I can’t head in. There’s too much in the air. I’ve just retired my guitar, laid out in the evening air and put my hands to type.

My brother travels amidst a journey that has taken him to Africa. He showed in town a night before me for a bro-down we’ve planned on six months. I followed a night later, traversing Swiss and German countryside and three lingual regions to arrive. It rained terribly and the water soaked rails slowed my progress leaving me off in Amsterdam an hour late.

I caught him by surprise. He had stood up to search Centraal for me when I walked up, heavy laden with backpack and guitar at the terrace of the Dwaze Zaken -- an old haunt from our last sibling reunion a year previous. We shared a drink and stories. He made famous friends on the direct flight to Holland, chumming with four other globe-trotting, ambitious young creatives. I told him of the freak train accident I saw en route, when a ceiling latch loosened unexpectedly and doused my neighbor’s laptop in rainwater. We broke out my departing gift from Caux, a tiny, hand-carved wooden Ukrainian man, who puffed on the paper cigarettes we lit in his mouth. We fell back in lockstep.

Rain and clouds stormed the first days here, cooling the city and driving us to lively, watertight bike rides. Hitting the old Coffie Salon and failing in our search to find the new one. Meandering over to the Stadelicht Museum and eyeing up African photography. Combing the cafes and joyfully watching the boats putt up and down the canals. The setting painted the background and inspired the foreground.

This is why we come to Amsterdam. Our refuge. Our retreat. We read it and it reads us. We watch it and we are watched. We drink deep and yet we pull from the well. We are the invited, yet we invite. We are the guests but we host. We are characters, but we write.

This is why we come to Amsterdam. Because. Here we are. And we are, here.

I3: Independence as a Luxury?

Clearly, I've gotten deep into this one on my own. I started the interdependence piece without much of an agenda, but, as I've written, more ideas have surfaced in conversation and email exchanges. This is the 3rd installment. I think I will wrap it at four. But, no promises.

Despite the clear connections of the interdependence web, the problem I see is that the psychology of the divide between “have” and “have-not” is very real and immense. Furthermore, it’s no news that the world is full of very rich people and very poor people and resources aren’t likely to spread out quickly.

So what’s my perspective on joining my ideal (and what I see as the reality of the future in “interdependence”) with the reality of today? This is where it also gets to the sticky part. Where it begs me to ask questions of my own behavior. Ugh…

On my last night in Amsterdam, I ate an unbelievable meal – taking it in with the late setting sun on the outside terrace of a café on a perfect summer evening. Crusty Italian bread, spicy glass of red wine and working through a gorgeous meal starting with a beautiful antipasto and moving on to a magnificent sea bass. I finished with a kiff and cleansing espresso, completely full to the last space of my belly. This isn’t my every night, but when I have a chance, I love eating a big meal out. And this meal wrote the poetry of your best images of top travel in Europe.

Sitting in such clear luxury and privilege lent a certain hue to the dinner conversation which bounced around but spent significant time on the subject of poverty and our own perception of poverty. This tied into my thoughts on interdependence.

So let me be honest. When I think about the “have” and “have-not” lens, I’m clearly in the former. And I’m not talking like top half, or even top 10 percent. I mean like top 1%. I’m talking cosmic lottery. I’ve been blessed from birth with a beautiful family that’s materially successful. I’ve been born as a white American male, which I am reminded every day means that my life is fundamentally more open to opportunity in the world than most everyone else on the planet. I’ve been hungry and cold but I’ve never had a feeling that this would last any longer than a trip to my parents house. I’ve had a top-flight education and I’ve been encouraged to follow my passion and pursue my dreams; and its possible because I was born into a place that nurtured opportunity and supported it with ample resources. A place where people believed in possibility.

I’ve often thought of and been thankful for my material blessings, but what of this more philosophical concept: The culture of possibility? Possibility, in real terms, is the opportunity and permission for us to pursue our interests and dreams without excessive limitation. This can lead to incredible fulfillment at a spiritual, personal and collective level. The problem with possibility is that it can be self-interested to the point of self-absorption. In this scenario, I lose sight of the fact that I’m tied to my neighbor. My existence as I know it is only preserved through relationships. I can not operate alone. Still, I’ve found that many view possibility in a sense of self-interest, where an agenda of individual success is valued over that of the collective.

So we can draw into the frame the ideas of independence and interdependence. Independence and possibility are close cousins – almost bound together. It’s hard to imagine having independence without possibility or possibility without independence. I’ve been taught to hold independence as a value of the highest order. And I believe it is within the context of freedom and liberty. But I don’t think it has much value when it exists in a box. No person lives independently. We are all in relation to something. We all depend on something. Whether that is your family, your local farmer, the airline flight attendant, the director of the Opening Ceremonies in Beijing, we exist in relationship. And it’s far beyond people (though that’s where this article will drive) because we are in relationship to the air we breath, the water we drink, the food we eat, the trees we cut down, the animals we keep as pets – more relationships. More connections.

Independence is a starting point for better interdependence. On a broad scale, I believe that many of the best relationships are formed when people are independent by law but use that possibility to build healthy, productive, loving and mutually beneficial relationships. At its best, personal freedom is a possibility to sustain not only oneself, but to sustain those in the collective. Independence is the rule, but interdependence is the choice.

At least for now, I believe the West is entering an age in which its viewpoint on independence will change. An era when interdependence makes independence look luxurious. I’m not sure what this will bring. I hope that those operating with independence now, will choose to make decisions in a way that support the right of the individual and the collective in the future. Thus serving independence and interdependence.

So what do I do with this? What do I do with my beautiful, but luxurious meal in Amsterdam? I’m in relationships with people all of the time, so what’s my step? I’ll be back with you soon – but I need to sit with it some more.

I2: A Tale of Two Pies

This is the second of three short pieces on interdependence.

To start addressing these issues, I think we need to start altering our view of competition towards one another while still driving the best out of one another. Only then can we truly utilize our inevitable interdependence to a point where it benefits more rather than less.

The first issue is addressing the paradigm of division. In the interdependent world, there will be a chance to increase divisions or break down some walls. One such division is that between “haves” and the “have-nots”. Many of us tend to look at our town, city, country or world as divided in this way, whether we are conscious of it or not. This is a self-perpetuating world view that serves itself and those divides, building walls between us and the Other. From this perspective, we fall into the old trap of power. Those who have it, tend to not want to give it up. Those who don’t have it are systemically oppressed by those who do. This dilemma has burdened humankind for the entirety of recorded history.

But must it continue?

If interdependence is real, than we cannot afford to look at the world in this way. Interdependence, by nature, means that we need each other to continue. In an interconnected world, the cause of one person increasingly becomes an effect for another. And those tails are longer and longer – to include more and more people. For example, the effect of the International Criminal Court prosecutor’s accusations of a Sudanese leader could change the amount of Sudanese oil going to China, which would effect the price on the lorries transporting my Brian Dawkins replica jersey from the garment factory to the port. The price rises. We recognize our web weaving. Larger and tighter.

In the “have v. have-nots” paradigm, we often restrict ourselves to an image of a pie. When we look at the pie, we see the size of our piece and we want that piece to be bigger. Seems natural enough. We need that healthy competition to push us forward in innovative ways. At the same time, if we are increasingly interdependent, doesn’t it make sense to make a bigger pie so more people get dessert?

I1: What Do 30 Million Bangladeshis Have To Do With Me?

This started as a simple idea, but when I began writing it, it took on a new life. I'm somewhat hesitant to post this, but I do it in a spirit of discovery. It's longer, so I've decided to put it up in parts.

By 2050, sea levels in Bangladesh are predicted to rise by one meter, flooding one-third of the country’s land mass and creating up to 30 million environmental refugees.

Where will these people go?

Recently, I spoke to my friend Niketu about this matter. He explained to me that this number could potentially balloon and he expects many of these people to arrive in his backyard (see article). He’s from Nagaland in NE India, a small region of 7 sister states that neighbor Burma on the east and China to the north. Bangladesh sits on the southern border. He’s concerned about this migration. People will move, there is no question about that. It’s just a matter of where and when.

How will this go? One could imagine any number of possibilities. Many outcomes could have disastrous consequences as politics, economies, languages and religions engage in face-to-face encounters. Of course, there also exists an incredible opportunity for cooperation.

I believe the word that will define the 21st century is interdependence. Globalization certainly ushered us into the 21st century, informing us that we are ultimately growing closer and closer together as a common humanity and as individuals. It’s not new information, but we need to take a look at how we deal with these matters, as individuals and at systems-level. Interdependence takes it to the next step. It's not just that we are connected, but more that our future is increasingly bound together. The web grows more intricate and complicated and interdependent everyday.

In a world with great equality, this would be genuine reason to celebrate. Wow, what we could achieve if we looked on each other as equals and true neighbors! Learning and growing from one another with the unique sense of joy that only emerges when you create a new relationship with someone with whom you may have imagined it was never possible. It will always be my hope.

I’ll hold onto that ideal, but the reality is rough. The lack of resources on the planet drives us into intense competition for those resources.

Now I love competition (watch me play Beirut, Wiffle, Acquire or any flash of a short soccer career which carried itself completely on my belief that I wanted to win more than anyone else and my lack of skill wouldn’t prevent that from happening). I love the energy that emerges. And, I think competition is important. Competition often brings out our best effort, our determination and our perseverance. Competition can push us to be more creative, more critical and more focused.

But I think the view of competition can be limited. Generally, competition is viewed in a paradigm that produces an outcome in which some people get what they want and some people do not. I win the game and you lose. You get the client and I lose the contract. I get my need or want met and you do not. In so much as this is true, I believe that competition person-to-person or group-to-group is something that has significant limitations.

Are there times when this mentality of win-lose should prevail? Certainly. There are times when people must stand up for themselves in the face of a competitive force that seeks to destroy them. Personally, I think these are important and defining moments in human history.

At the same time, I think that they are more infrequent than we might be lead to believe. I've encountered far more situations in which divided sides come together in an agreement of cooperation. Cooperation means looking through the lens of interdependence. This happens when we find a greater mutual benefit through our connection and joint effort. It's a lens that recognizes that we are bound to each other in our common humanity and that our movement forward, our very survival, depends on my ability to relate with the Other and forge a new path ahead with him together. Basically, when we view competition in a win-lose paradigm often times we end up with a lose-lose situation over the long term. In a world that's interdependent, its critical that we find win-win strategies that prevails for both sides over the long term.

This is an urgent matter in a world of increasingly scant resources and hyper-interconnectedness. There will always be competition between people, but I'm thinking to focus more on the competition between people and other kinds of opposition. When I look at the state of affairs in the world today, my view demands that I take notice of the real enemy and join together with others and tackle the opposition, which is rarely my neighbor. Nay, our real opposition is corruption, human rights violations, climate change, malaria, starvation, etc. If we are stuck in looking at each other as enemies, how can we expect to meet the challenge of these titans?

The Waitering Days Return: Friendship Served

In 2005 I went to India on Action for Life and met some thoughtful, ambitious and good young people. Many of them became my friends and changed my life. I still recall my experience there as the impetus for revolutionizing my outlook on music, opening up my emotional core and developing a much deeper understanding of faith. The folks I mentioned played critical elements on that journey, walking in front, behind and alongside of me through my path of revelation. Each giving to me in a unique fashion as I hoped to serve them in return.

Given the nature of the program (40 people from 20 countries), my past 18 months in the states (an ocean away, at least) has kept me from seeing all but four of them until this summer. With my passage to Europe, I insured that I would see a few once more and meet an ever-widening network of people I would call change-makers.

I met one in Latvia and traveled with five more in England, Sweden and Germany. But it wasn’t until I arrived in the Swiss Alps and met two young Ukrainian women that something brand new clicked over in my mind because of these rekindled friendships.

The two women were working closely with a small team to deliver the first summer conference at Caux. They titled the week, “Global Servant-Leadership: Contributing to Human Security.” 150 people filled the conference ranks and the centre buzzed with activities: plenary sessions here, breakout groups there, rowdy lunch conversations and afternoon workshops. Talking about leadership? Talking about service? Talking about the world? I’ve arrived.

The content of the conference couldn’t top its style. Caux runs on the people who attend and every participant works in the kitchen and dining hall every two days to prepare and serve meals. I worked breakfasts and quickly recaptured my waitering flair groomed at the College Park Bennigan’s. It’s amazing how my experience there really makes me feel that I could serve anything to anyone, anywhere. After those short three months, I feel like I may have seen it all. So my teas and coffees won over my patrons along with my aforementioned linguistic charms in French, Italian and Russian. Mostly, the time reminded me of what it feels like to be in a constant state of service to someone; a challenging and often pride-swallowing endeavor that can also reward beyond imagination.

Friendship and service (rather than leadership) started to blend together as the spring at the headwaters of my week. Time after time, my Ukrainian friends tapped my shoulder to take new responsibility for the conference: moderating a plenary session, facilitating break out groups, giving a workshop and leading a presentation. Each time, I agreed.

Except for the last time. At the end of the conference, five weeks into my travels and at the end of the line, I got called up for the final time. I sat in the middle of a brilliant dinner conversation about South African politics when I felt the familiar tap. The request echoed in my ear: “Will you emcee the cultural evening tonight?” “Tonight!” I replied with flabbergast. “No way, that’s in 45 minutes. I’m in the middle of a good one here and I’ve got another conversation to have before I head up to watch, let alone emcee. Sorry, I can’t do it.”

She left, but the request sat with me. I wrestled with it. I had done enough for this conference. It was time for me to sit back and enjoy it a bit. Still, I thought, “Why not? Why wouldn’t I do it? Sure, I’m tired, but it’s a job I can do and for which I’m pretty well suited. And my friend asked me. She’s been working tirelessly to pull this whole thing off, typing, meeting and coordinating while I sleep at night. Why not?”

But mostly, isn’t she just a friend who asked me for something? A need that I could fill?

I went back and agreed. I met my partner 15 minutes before the show, we reviewed some notes, laid out a program and we set off.

The favorable audience received the event with open arms. We sang (“Peace like a River with hand motions. My favorite sing-a-long of all time.), we listened (my old friend from Japan rocked the harmonica) and we laughed (along with a team of Ukrainians who sang and enacted an old folk song about lovebirds). The lights flicked off. The hum of the microphones cut. The crowd emptied the main hall leaving me alone as I sat back on the stage. I took in my first deep, relaxed breath in 90 minutes and got to thinking.

Friendship is service. It’s knowing how to give and how to receive. It’s knowing how to ask and how to answer. It’s asking a question – and believing. It’s saying yes – and believing.

I’ve lost sight of this. I think a lot of people I know have lost sight of this. I once heard someone describe a friend as someone who makes you feel light and happy. I’ve heard other say that a friend is someone who can tell you the truth, even when it hurts. Those are pieces to a puzzle, but incomplete.

In Caux, I learned that friendship means being willing to respond when there is a clear need. It means conveying that need when you have it and believing that your friend will respond. It’s not manipulation. It’s not a transaction. It’s something far more dynamic than that. It’s trust.

How much do I trust my friends? How much do you trust yours? I’m willing to share my deep with them. I’m willing to share my light with them. But am I willing to share my burdens? Have I asked my friends to help me take on what seems too heavy? Have I looked them in the eye and asked for help?

Not enough. And it’s those moments that are critical in building strength in relationships. It’s the extension of vulnerability. It’s the ability to swallow some pride. It’s a step into the gap. And believing my friend is there with open arms. And in response, to be that friend with the warm blanket to cover the cold or the strong back to ease the weight.

There’s much more to dig here. Where does “no” play a role in friendships? Or how do we know when to step up even when someone hasn’t verbalized a need? Perhaps those thoughts will get more time later. In the meantime, I’m learning how to respond. Perhaps more importantly, I’m learning how to ask.

Alpine Arrival

Click. Clack. Click. Clack. Gears shift. Crank. Click. Clack. Crank. Click. Clack. My favorite kind of roller coaster. The rickety, old-school, wooden vibe that seems set to fly of the hinges at any moment. In most any other circumstance, I would be completely amped for this moment, but I’m not buckled in, most of my worldly possessions are in an ill-attached cart at the front of this ride and I’m climbing up 1500 feet of mountain.

Funny part is. I’ve been waiting five years for this. I spent five years waiting trying to get to Caux. I’ve finally arrived.

I’m on a stage within five minutes of my arrival, sharing with the freshly assembled conference attendants stories from the past two and half weeks of traveling. Exhausted from the travel, I manage the 15 minute session and head to my room for much needed rest.

This is what I found.


Lots of good stuff coming from Caux, an international discovery hub.

"He Fixes the Cable?"

"The Big Lebowski" served as a default movie of choice for the first two years I studied at Davidson. It came alongside "Half Baked" as the most quoted movie among many of my friends and still litters my vernacular with those peeps. This post is for you Lebowski lovers.

I'm not gifted linguistically. Never have been and I'm unlikely to develop that ability at this point in my life. Given that I travel, my strategy is to use language not necessarily for conversation (because I'm hopeless) but as a way of building relationship. Typically, I try to learn a handful of phrases (preferably good slang or ones that are otherwise surprising to hear a visitor use) and toss them into life at the appropriate times. This strategy has mixed results, but it generally builds some positive lines of communication and a sense of endearment, so I continue to use it.

Of course, when I arrived in Germany, I searched for such words and phrases, but the only word that kept coming up for me was quote from the big Lebowski:

Karl Hungus: "Meine dispatcher says there is something wrong with eine cable."

So I walked into Germany with my one word in place. Eine cable. Completely useless, right? Too true, for a day I walked around Germany and I held closely to my “guten tags” and “auf wiedersehens”.

Surely, I thought to myself, there is no way I’m going to be in a situation where this word even comes remotely close to the conversation. But on the second day, I just happened to be in an internet café. The scene unfolded like this:

C: “Guten tag. Sprechen Sie Englisch?”

Woman: Of course.

C: Great. Can I connect to the internet.

Woman: Yes, but the WiFi is down. You’ll need to connect manually.

C: That’s no problem.

Woman: Yes, but you will need to connect with (she starts looking around the bar for something) with…hmmm…how do you say it? You know, “eine cable”?

C: (Verge of hysterical laughter) Of course, eine cable. I’ll connect with eine cable. I see eine cable just over there and I'll plug in. Danke!

Yes, it’s true. It happened. I used eine cable in Germany. Ahh, sometimes life is just wonderful.

Getting a Little Perspective

“In May 1945. I walked home from the war through the Black Forest. I was crossing the French line near Freudenstadt. Kindly, the French army did not capture me and let me return to my family. When I walked into the town, I found it completely destroyed. Many people were without food or home or hope for the future.”

I’ve never heard about World War II from the German perspective. Mostly, I’ve received the American version, a story of tragedy and triumph. A moment in history that revealed American character in the face of adversity, forged a new identity for a young nation and announced a changing of the guard in global politics. Americans (myself included) tend to have a very keen interest in this subject and I felt privileged to sit down with a couple of old German men a few days back in Freudenstadt. The small town in the Black Forest in the south of Germany, provided a relevant backdrop for the post-surrender tales.

Following the war, the devastated Berlin split into four quandrants. English, American and French Berlin on the West and Soviet Berlin on the East. The Soviets established a blockade around the city and effectively cut off the people inside the city confines from the supplies they needed to survive and rebuild the city. This strategy, a demonstration of power, put the city on the brink of starvation.

Without wanting further conflict with the Soviets, the allies created an “air lift” to supply the city. Using this opportunity re-engage Germans in the rehabilitation of their own country, the Allied commanders under American supervision developed a air transport system that has never been matched for efficiency and tonnage. For over a year, the “air lift” supplied a plane every minute with up to 20 tons of foodstuffs and other materials to the people of in the French, British and American quadrants of the city.

Within this larger activity came the advent of the raisin bombers. Noticing that children were running in the streets without school and without much to do, a pilot recommended that people from home tie tiny parachutes onto boxes of sweets so that they two could be used in the air drops. It’s estimated that over 20 tons of candy were dropped, in small doses, on the city over the same time.

German inclusion became a primary factor in the re-development of the country. The Marshall Plan prevailed, driving the re-industrialization of Germany in the post-war era.
Although this move was shrewd politically (a strong West Germany would be an important front in the Cold War), it demonstrated an important win-win strategy, something my German friends raise as a critical turning point for the economy and psyche of the nation.

In an day when the current of anti-American sentiment is tangible (though not nearly at the strength of my 2005 trip) and American foreign policy is highly criticized (though the Economist recently wrote a cover article observing encouraging trends in Iraq), it was a unique moment for me to be on the receiving end of high praise for American action in the international arena. Interestingly, I think it was the first time in a while that I’ve grasped the enormity of what happened in World War II. Nations that we know today as sturdy beacons of governance were completely over run and destroyed physically and disabled psychologically. These men talked a lot about how those issues were addressed, with great suffering on the German side following the war, but with gratitude for the part the US and other nations played in that process.

After the war, Germany split in 1948. The Berlin Wall didn’t go up for some more years, but a clear border marked the line where democracy and communism collided. My friend, Folker, told me a number of tales of his crosses between East and West. Following the war itself, he found himself on the East side, separated from his Father and two older brothers who never returned from the war. It took years for word to cross back to the family that all three were still alive and anxiously awaiting a reunion. A daring cross-border scramble the only way.

Another story discussed the emotional and psychological scars of war and how one young man worked through it. “I have German, Swiss and French blood in my family. One day, when I crossed the Rhine, the Germans harassed and searched my mother and I resented them for it. At that moment, I decided to settle in France and completely reject the German inside of me and the Germans in my family. It wasn’t hatred, but I no longer trusted them.

Years later from that incident, two couples arrived in Marsielle from the Ruhr area of Germany. I was called to help with translation. All of my colleagues were unavailable and, despite my pleading, I was employed. On short notice, I took a train from Paris and arrived at 8:00 for my 8:30 interpretation appointment.

I don’t remember what I interpreted, but I do remember the compliment I received from one of the German women. Even more, I remember the importance of spending two days with these couples in the south of France. The Germans had been rehumanized in my mind. My resentment was gone and I was free.”

His friend at the table spoke to the ripple effect of this liberation. The two met some years later and he said about his this companion.

“He taught me a big lesson in my life. My mother had never left Germany, but she always told me, ‘never trust the French because we had to fight them twice.’ I carried this with me my whole life until I met this gentleman. Suddenly everything my mother told me was gone and wrong.

He continued with a smile, “And for a few weeks I was wondering if that was the Swiss part in him or the German part in him that I liked. Of course, then I began to wonder if it was possible that I was wrong and that I had met a wonderful man who was also French. So between us, we had our own part of Franco-German reconciliation.”

These tales struck me with a sense of humanity and reality. European history came to life. I became aware of Europe’s size. It’s not a big neighborhood for the amount of people live here. It’s been battled over for thousands of years. It really highlights the miracle of the European Union and relative cooperation throughout the majority of the continent for many years now. It’s not perfect, but I take a lot hope away from the past 60 years.

I left the table with this closing thought: “70 years ago I lived on the other side of the Rhine. At that time, I could not cross the river because there were enemies on the other side. Today I joyfully drove across the river to visit my friends.

Maybe the Pickled Herring Went to My Head: Exploring My Roots in Sweden

In a life full of glorious experiences with food, I’ve never encountered what I just encountered. Throughout my childhood, Mom worked hard to cultivate my culinary palate, dealing with my squeamish rejection of avocado and mushrooms as a child and delighting in our collaborative work on Thai and Indian food. Traveling to Asia gave me a full on sense of embracing food as an adventure. I tried everything: the divine (you can read “Ode to the Rambutan” [bottom of the page] which I wrote in Cambodia for Jeff’s blog), the dangerous (my introduction to street meat in Delhi ended with a disaster that rivaled the joy of the carnivorous gnosh) and the delicacy (fish eyes in Taiwan).

All of these experiences prepared me just enough to take on a table full of pickled herring on Saturday night. At first thought, I eyed the table and took my plate elsewhere, preferring a more tame meal of meat and potatoes. But over my meal with a Norwegian woman, she spoke so highly of pickled herring that I began to think about it. When she told me that pickled herring was part of the culinary history of Sweden (and thus my family) I figured I had better give it a go.

A approached the spread, a gorgeous display of colors and a hint of the sea wafting up. Without further hesitation, I grabbed a new plated and carefully selected a piece from each of the seven samplings: black currant, garlic, ginger, oil and vinegar, dreaded (I’m leaving in this Freudian slip in [I meant to say breaded], draw your own conclusions) and a couple more I couldn’t identify in Swedish. I situated each piece on the flatware so as not to mix the flavors and returned to my seat. My plate, I thought, looked very tidy and Scandinavian.

With the spirit of the Almqvists embodied, I cut bite-size portions for consumption and tasted each selection. The fish itself felt good. A nice thick chunk. Firm. Meaty. The way that a tougher piece of sushi feels. Not chewy, but you gotta use your teeth. As for the flavors? Curious and intense. The herring itself carries a certain strength, so the sauces (or can I say picklings? Yes I like that better -- picklings is a superior, if not invented word) pack an equally powerful counter-punch. The smallest of bites kind of overwhelms a bit, especially for the neophyte. In the end, I polished off each piece. Though I will say that I don’t think I will be pining for the dish when I leave the fajaland.

Of course, pickled herring only begins to paint the picture of the weekend. My trip out to Gotland, the island off the east coast of Sweden in the Baltic Sea, also brought my introduction to Kubb, a Viking lawn game. No, this isn’t some version of Viking croquet (my imagination is already running wild with that thought), its more like Viking Bocce. But it probably more resembles the rubber band shoot outs I used to have with my plastic army men when I was a kid. In fact, after playing this game twice, I became altogether convinced that the game itself was invented by two 7-year old Viking boys who wanted to create a game that legitimized their desire to throw sticks and rocks around the front yard field.

Literally, that’s the game. Each player gets three sticks and five small wooden stumps (about 8” diameter and 6” tall). You set up your stumps in a row and then you essentially have a shoot out. It’s a fairly brilliant game. Basically you are just throwing things around the lawn in a slightly ordered fashion. I love it. It’s close to a perfect game. It might not ever compete with my love affair with wiffle, but I plan on bringing it around the world. It certainly connected with my Swedish heritage a bit more than the herring.

But my heritage visit didn’t stop there. In fact, it continued on into a wander around Visby, Gotland’s central city, still basking in its Medieval design. For years it served as a trading hub of Scandanavia and the walled city packs in tightly along cobblestone streets, heaps of rosebushes and lovely tidy homes. My parents have long attributed the Christian faith in our family to my Swedish great-grandparents on my father’s side, people of quiet but deep and unwavering faith. It came together quite surprisingly in Visby, where cathedrals dominate the architecture.

There are chapels everywhere and each one is in some extraordinary decay. It seems that the guy who designed the walls (still standing perfectly) may not have been the same guy who designed the roofs (which have all collapsed over time. The result? Magnificent open-air cathedrals still used for services, concerts and public meetings today. Personally, I choose to believe that the true genius laid in the roof architect, not the wall man. Is it possible he designed the ceilings intentionally to create this radical effect years into the future?

So I’m peacing out of Sweden feeling well connected. I can’t make any firm conclusions about my connection with the ancients. At times it felt full on. At others? Not so much. In the end, I think its fair to quantify my feeling of connection at 25%, which would account for the amount of Swedish blood I have in my body. And if anyone is up for a game of Kubb while eating some pickled herring in a roofless Medieval cathedral. I’ll lead the charge.

My Life in Norwegian and Lithuanian Magazines

After attending a number of plenary sessions at a conference in Gotland, Sweden, I opted for a late afternoon workshop that promised quiet and creativity. After 10 minutes of meditation, each person received a stack of magazines and set off to craft a vision collage. The exercise intends to allow each person an opportunity to let his conscious and sub-conscious develop a visual representation of his own soul space. In a spirit of transparency, I share mine.

Fajaland in Fotos

I arrive in Sweden.

Nice flag Hansel.

Malmo bikes.

Swedish sun set.

Homecoming

Sea flat earth flat
Silent under gentle sun
Casting tender light across
Basking browns and generous greens

Angel breathed clouds blot the king
Calming every grass blade
Each lavender petal

Subtle winds shift
Beams shine through
Anew
Like a royal announcement
Burning gold on still water

Unassuming hills ebb and flow
Toward an eternal meridian
Touched with farmhouses and redwood barns
Unlatched doors welcome endless sunsets

Wildflowers neighbor birch
Off white bark in soothing contrast

Graceful fields reflect goodness
Inviting divine tears of joy and blessing
Receive and return

Forever
Skies lands waters
Forever

Radical amazement
Bourne in my soul
My ancients welcome me
Home

Water Travel Back to the Continent

I took a ferry from Harwich, England over to Denmark. My first overnight trip on substantial open water. I had hoped for rougher waters and more excitement, but I loved it anyway. Click for full images.

Croquet at Keble College

Beef Stew has its moments. They are few and far between. Far like from your door to the newspaper when there’s a foot of snow outside or like when you decide to jog a couple miles after you haven’t worked out in a year. Few and far, yes, but I just had a beef stew moment.

The dining hall at Keble College shaped the set for Hogwart’s in the Harry Potter movies. (I don’t know these books or movies, but a million people told me this information, so I’m assuming it must mean something). It’s absolutely stunning. Huge cathedral ceilings, wood, stained glass, portraits of famous alumni dating back hundreds of years, gloriously long dining tables and a raised table at the front of the hall where the dons hold court at meal time. It’s a sight and coming from my collegiate dining experiences (Davidson Commons and the SigEp house), I can’t quite fathom eating there.

Thanks to a new friend, James, I received an invitation to dine in the ancient hall on Monday night. After an afternoon of work, I rolled down to the school, traipsed through the gate in excitement and wandered up the stone steps to the double doors.

Typically, the students wear gowns to dinner and I felt a bit disappointed to know that I wouldn’t have the chance to wear one. Of course, that feeling left when I found myself seated at the don’s table. Granted, school just let out, so gowns and dons are no longer needed, but took it as a decent trade up.

So here I am at the don’s table of Keble college, tearing into a healthy portion of beef stew and sitting on top of the world. Could things get better in my short-lived Oxford dream. Yes.

Following the meal, James suggests we make the most out of remaining (and all too rare) sunshine and move out onto the college’s courtyard lawns. The perfectly manicured and vast squares of green sink about 3 feet down from the surrounding footpath, dormitories, classrooms and chapel. We meet up with a few of his pals and within minutes we have a genuine croquet set up on the lawn. With a glass of Pimms (classic English summer/leisure drink combination of some gentle spiced spirit and lemonade) in hand, we set off.

Now, I used to play croquet with some frequency. We had a beaut back lawn in Jersey and as an officially recognized gamemeister, I regularly badgered family members and friends to join me. But aside from the ball and mallets and lawn, the similarities between Oxford croquet and Breitenberg backyard croquet end there.

For one, Oxford croquet is a leisure sport and therefore you are intended to be sportsmanlike (a far cry from my old games in which humiliation of an opponent by blasting their ball into the fern patch or neighbor’s yard was as good as victory). Two, the lawn resembles the glassy greens at Augusta and not so much the somewhat lumpy lawn my brother and I hacked up with the pushmower in the junction for 10 summers (never did get that Simplicity riding mower). Third, there is a proper way to strike the ball (between the legs, which may be proper, but which I still think looks ridiculous as much as it is ineffective and which I immediately abandoned).

Already distancing myself from my Oxford hosts, I almost cemented my ejection from the game when, in my enthusiasm to be playing croquet at Oxford, suggested we play “poison” (a completely Americanized version of the game that results in a particularly bloodlusty knockout stage at the end of the game). I tried to bail myself out by mentioning that I like to play croquet on the beach when I can. Not helping.

Good hosts to a fault, we set off anyway. I think I was somewhat redeemed by suggesting a fair way for setting the order (by country of birth – Australia, England, India, Khazakstan, US [California], US [Massachusetts]) and I found myself in the lead pack heading into the first big turn. I was relieved to see that my friend James (the Aussie) seemed like he would have enjoyed the backyard version a bit more as he sent his ball all over the pitch. About as entertaining a player as I’ve seen on a croquet lawn.

We whiled away the time. The Pimms went down easy and so did the sun, sneaking behind the chapel and casting a perfect sunset onto the clouds above. I threw on my sweater (wishing I had a fly summer suit on instead of jeans and jumper) and chased James and his buddy Phillip around the final turn.

I blew a couple of shots and looked dead in the water. The endearing Englishman cruised steadily towards victory. His unbelievably honest and seemingly pure sportsman-nature made my competitiveness seem completely out of place and altogether American. I tucked away this element and remembered that I was at Oxford and playing croquet. Why even begin to worry a mite?

I’m not sure what happened, perhaps the English civility hit me like a blast of fresh air. I found my stroke and passed James on the turn. Even still, it looked like Phillip had it in hand. My next shot got lucky, stuck right in between a wicket and allowed me one shot to save my game. I hit it right, the ball rolled gently up into position. On my next turn I passed him and touched home for the win.

“Well done, old chap.”
“Yes friend, it seems I’m home.”
“Very well. Should we play the rest of the balls in?”
“T’would be a shame to waste the last of the day.”
“Quite right. Well, then. Let’s finish up.”
“Cheers.”

Gracious to the end. A nice lesson and a good game. The leisure closed with the daylight and with it my lovely Oxford dream.

Oxen Crossing

For some time, Muslim universities in Spain held the educational torch for the continent, leading the way for fresh discovery in science in the humanities. The English sent scholars to these beacons to study and return with new knowledge to help the kingdom to flourish. When they returned, many settled in at Oxford, aptly named as a crossing point for oxen and wagon. The growing town handled significant traffic on two major rivers and along both east-west and north-south trading routes. Many scholars initially boarded at inns attached to pubs in the town center. As scholars collected peers and pupils, the boarding spaces expanded, soon filling larger halls and buildings and transitioning into what we better know as colleges.

Today, Oxford University houses about 30 of these colleges and continues to add schools in developing fields. For over 600 years the town has attracted the brightest thinkers from Britain and can claim to have produced 25 of her prime ministers.

I’m not much for reverence when it comes to educational institutions (no institution knows this better than Davidson). Even as an educator, I’m much more drawn to unorthodox techniques and dynamic learning environments. Oxford, however, reshaped my mind on this perspective. I’m not changing my tune altogether, but tooling around the medieval town and thinking about all the people who have walked, thought, discovered and inspired in this small piece of land reminded me that centers for individual and collective discovery truly delight me. In fact, there are few things that get me more excited than people coming together to be creative, study and develop new ideas for society (at its best, this is what kept me engaged at Davidson).

It’s with some interest I learned about a community that formed here in the 1920’s called the Oxford Group. This crew would go onto to establish two major spin-off groups, the first being AA and the second being Initiatives of Change. The man who started the group, Frank Buchman, believed that every person had an important role to play in turning the world for the better. As a Lutheran preacher, he suggested taking daily time in quiet reflection to find guidance for living life. He also suggested examining one’s life in terms of morality, believing that moral decisions/actions and a better world walked together as partners.

It’s with this simple strategy that he arrived in Oxford in the 1920’s. World War One had just ravaged the continent and the school. Nearly 15,000 Oxford men fought in the trenches and almost a quarter of them died in battle. They returned home to an emotionally illiterate society that could not compensate for their needs. Disillusionment ran rampant among veterans who were promised glorious victory “by Christmas”, but spent years suffering chemical warfare in devastated cites and scorched countryside. Men carried significant guilt for those left behind on the battlefield, many wondering why they had lived while their friends perished.

This proved to be fertile ground for a message that focused on each individual finding his (Oxford had just started to accept female students) purpose in life while seeking to live with integrity. The disillusioned rediscovered hope. The guilty found grace.

It’s hard to know the overall impact of this work, but I’m interested. Much of what I do with the Action for Life program focuses on this task of helping young people to ask the questions that will help them discover meaning and vision for their life. From there, it challenges them to identify their core values.

It’s from a sense of purpose and values that I believe all human action is shaped. Whether we value love, survival, money, food, faith, family, cars, job, security – these values add into an equation that shapes our decisions. Our decisions guide our actions and our actions make up the sum total of our lives. As my old friend says, “action is everything.” We’ve been trying to lead our lives with that principle in mind for some time.

Do you agree? I’m welcoming all thoughts on the values to action to life theory. I’ll fill you in on my latest revelation to this sometime soon. In the meantime, please feed back.