Life From Rocks

Driving back from Baramati in a Tata Sumo packed full with passengers and freight, I stared up the valley walls at the rising tabletops of the Deccan Plateau. Crusty red earth spread to the horizon. The air dry as a desert and the land like tinder. On the valley slopes, smoke puffed up, filling the air with black soot that faded eventually into the brilliant blue sky. I asked about it and the driver responded with a classic Indian head waggle. I pressed and he said that wildfires occurred frequently during the hot season. His tone and comment suggested regularity, so my concern passed. We arrived into Asia Plateau, where I unpacked and quickly forgot the thought.

It was my last week in India and the moments passed easily – learning simple Chinese phrases, taking walks to the plateau and enjoying the final tastes of homemade curries and dals. But surprise struck one afternoon as I lazily sipped tea under the shade of a eucalyptus tree. I smelled smoke. At first, I thought nothing of it. In the Indian countryside, the smell passes through the air from the many fires used to bake chipatis and burn natural waste. I’d grown accustomed to it wandering through the air and wafting under my nose. Yet this time, the scent punched hard – pungent with proximity. Lifting my eyes, I watched with interest as a number of men moved hurriedly down the hill to the gates of the conference center. Curiosity pushed my legs in their direction.

The brush near the gate burned with vigor. The smoke, once faint, gained intensity towards the base of the road. Heat blasted my face and the fire spread, not raging wildly, but somehow everywhere. Flames here, another burst there. I observed the firefighting methods of the men carefully and thrust myself into action.

With water limited for conservation, I took my hands to some dried brush and began to thwack the fire in hopes of suffocating the flames. Furiously, I raised the collection, took aim at the flames and smashed hard at the source. Sometimes it worked, other times it beat back, the oxygen pushing the flame further a field rather than to extinction. Ash circled around. My sweat flowed in response to the heat. We didn’t work together, but not as individuals either. Like a gang in a barroom brawl, we bashed at our individual opponents, occasionally turning around to team up on a particularly difficult foe. Slowly and with great effort, the tide turned.

When we stamped the last of the fire, I felt the rush of jubilation. Challenge raised, response overwhelming. The smoke continued to rush skyward, but the hiss and crackle of burning brush had long since faded. I surveyed the territory. The fire left a sizeable chunk of earth charred and undergrowth incinerated. The men’s faces, wet with sweat and smeared with soot looked spent, but relieved. We had stopped any major structural damage to the buildings. Exhausted, we retired from the heat of the fire to the continuing heat of the midday sun, dodging inside to wash our faces and sip the cool refreshments prepared by the village women.

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Two and a half years have passed since that wildfire. Burned into my mind, the memory came up as I once again climbed through the Deccan on my way to Panchgani form Mumbai. Now on the other side of the year from the hot season, the bus passed through the valley and up the slope on a brilliant and cool day, surrounded by a sea of green countryside. The cracked red earth of April became the bounty of August, lush with the spoils of the monsoon. After crashing for a night in Asia Plateau, I woke up and wrote this in my morning quiet.







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Thankfulness fills my heart. The monsoon rains gifting new life to the tablelands and her valleys below. Mist tumbles over the plateau, sweeping down like a waterfall.

I don’t ever recall being in a place that teemed with so much life. The restless bugs that crawl on my body and across the stone ground. The lone caterpillar loping about – the wavering curl of his back. The constant chatter of song birds, welcoming and waving at the morning light. Above them all, the whistler. Her clear, full tune must be the envy of all. The flying insects buzz and flutter in and out of sun and shade. The single, giant ant and her constant legs, running wildly.

The grass green as if newborn. White blossoms bursting from their cradle. Trees of such variety they dazzle with a million hues. Forest so dense that eyes cannot penetrate their depth. Creepers shooting up and down building walls and across footpaths. Petals, fresh and full, reflect the shining sun. Life popping from the red rocks – where it seems no plant should grow.

The rain and water arrive in abundance to give life and opportunity. A lesson that even in the driest place, the darkest night or the hottest soil, life can rise and transform the landscape from desolation to symphony.

But how can a plant grow from a rock?
How can a seed thrive without soil?

The rain answers these mysteries by outpouring spirit into a desperate land.

I turn again to myself and ask: “How might I be a drop of rain amidst the monsoon – that I may be a part of life-giving when it seems that life has gone?”

On The Road Again

It must be time. The flight attendants are wearing saris, I’m hearing a lot of Hindi and “I Just Called to Say I Love You” is playing elevator-style on this Air India 747.

I stash my Washburn-filled gig bag, sit down and watch as a scene unfolds before me; An older Indian couple fusses with their bags and the overhead compartments. The controversy is that they can’t fit their bags directly in the overhead with their seat number on it, which they believe is solely allotted for them. It happens to be small and full of bags from passengers in the area, including my own. We have drama. In one of my favorite India customs, the entirety of the section begins to gather round the increasingly exasperated couple to add insight and generally to see what will amount from the developing drama. Voices raise. Children watch in anticipation. The flight attendant arrives. Literally, it couldn’t be a smaller issue, but this is custom and I embrace. I do my best to convince them that they can put it in one of the several empty storage units further back. It eventually works. The crowd disperses to their seats and voices quiet as the cabin calms to the newly-audible elevator jams of Air India.

The storage situation is squared, but the heat is here. Grounded planes so often suck on the AC front. With a filling flight, even a slight up and down breaks a sweat. My fidgety neighbors add heat. Preparation for India I presume. I will arrive at the end of the monsoon and, I hope, some cool air. Of course, few places warm like India and at some point between here and Cambodia I’ll sweat just because I’m breathing. Oof! Let’s get airborne and leave that thought behind.

Today has been a strange day. One that has left me with a feeling I can’t quite pin down. I feel excitement but I’m not excited. I feel anxious but no anxiety. I feel on an adventure but not adventurous. Curiosity, but not curious.

It’s not a malaise or ambivalence. It’s almost like normal. And perhaps it is. I’ve been living on the go for a steady three years and packing today happened so smooth and fast that it took (and still takes) me some convincing to believe that I’ll be gone for a while. It’s the life I’ve been crafting and it’s a life that brings me joy. Still, I’m feeling surprised and a little strange when I stop to think of the trip.

My friend Sean says it should feel different, and that it is so even for him. I’ve gone before. I’ve come back. My Mom said its like going back to your sophomore year of college. Strangely, that seems so accurate. Even though I bought a one-way ticket to the subcontinent this time, I feel a sense that I’ll return sooner rather than later upon AfL’s conclusion in May.

I hit my light switch on the armrest console and a spotlight smacks my neighbor in the face. Hmmm…more problems with the neighbors? I ask him to try his light and another spot drenches my face. An electrical mixup probably around since the plane’s virgin flight. Taking in the retro interior, amenities and the current light situation, the woman turns to me an delivers in a brilliant Indian accent: “I this plane needs to be junked!”

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Any flight to India will hold a few classic events:

Inter-Continental Cuisine: Upon receiving my Newark-Paris dinner, I scoped the plated to find a balanced Euro-Indian plate. “Brilliant,” I thought, “They are easing me back into the scene.” Without hesitation I crushed the chicken curry and quickly turned to the garden salad. After picking at some lettuce and tasting a few bell peppers slice, I uncovered a string bean. “What a treat,” I thought. “Nice work Air India! A little random, but this string bean actually looks perfect right now!” I pop in and chew only to immediately taste the unmistakable smoke of a chili pepper. Yes, a little less string bean and a lot more green chili, raw and unseeded. Blazing, I turn to my neighbors in disbelief and mute, only able to exclaim with my eyes that I indeed have gnoshed a screamer. “Oh, you are very brave Chris!” they observed. “You must be very much liking your Indian spices!” With mouth still afire I begin to pour the creamy keer dessert down my throat. By the time I finally cooled, I had to laugh that my first culinary injury of the trip occurred before I even touched land!

Wake Up! Open Your Eyes!: Throughout the flight Sree, my clumsy flight attendant, demonstrated the barest sense of fluency with her position. I couldn’t complain, but those of you who fly know the difference between a savvy FA and the one who just hangs on to that job. Well, dearest Sree earned a place in my forever travel hall of fame at about 9am plane time (3am home time). Finally fast asleep for about 90 minutes, Sree welcomed me to the morning with a smash. Yes, her breakfast service cart blasted my knee from short range, jolting me from sleep and welcoming me to French airspace. Unsurprisingly, dearest Sree continued her work without any mention of this event (to which I could only conclude that either a) she didn’t notice it happened or b) it happens frequently enough that its not worth her mind. I still laugh thinking what my face must have looked like in that moment of awakening.

Singh is King: An hour away from Mumbai Air India mercifully decided not to air another Bollywood movie (a subject that may need a whole entry at some point. I almost rolled out the prayer mat to thank God on the plane, but I thought that might draw some suspicion.). As one is too many for me, you can imagine my joy at three successive flicks. Spared at last, AI decided to offer us “Potpurri”. “Potpurri” was generally good, if only for the fact that it was the first entertainment I could actually watch without feeling that I had eaten three cotton candies in a row on a hot summer day. “Potpurri” hit its high point when they aired a 7-minute fashion. The novelty of course was that the show entirely consisted of Sikh men as the models. The beards and turbans struck an amazing contrast with the runways of Paris and Milan and prepared me for my later viewing of the uber-hot “Singh is King” on the way to Panchgani from Mumbai.

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Touch down in Mumbai. We rattle down the runway and taxi to the gate. On cue, the plane seems to stop and many begin to unpack the overheads. Then the plane starts moving again. This seems to faze no passenger, as everyone continues there unpacking as we continue to taxi for another minute. I’m definitely back now.

Leaving the plane and airport I connect with my old friends Alex and Nigel. They’ve been waiting for me dutifully at the airport since they landed two hours earlier. It’s now 1:30am. I exchange my dollars into rupees and we walk out into the cloudy monsoon air of late-August Mumbai. It’s cooler and cleaner than I remember. It starts to rain as we pack tightly into the bumblebee-colored ambassador, our bags tied onto the trunk by rope. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for almost 18 months. All those feelings of departure fade away and clarity comes to mind. I am here. This is where I am meant to be.

Engine on. Windshield wipers on. We roll off into the Indian night.

Looking Back and Looking Forward

Panchgani
India

It's been some project, but I've backdated a lot of thinking and experiences that I had while visiting the States in August. I arrived in India on Sunday and lots will come from here soon, but I hope you will grab a chance to see where the road has taken me, who has come along and what all of that has meant. I look forward to posting you more from the subcontinent.

Peace,
Chris

“Right By the Beach…Boy-ee!”

In a surprise move, I returned to Virginia Beach earlier than expected. I departed before Memorial Day, expecting to be gone from Old Dominion for at least a year. With plans to meet up with my parents and brother at my friends’ wedding, it seemed that any reunion at the beach would be unlikely. But as plans develop and the world turns, a clear path emerged. Instead of making a short family event after the wedding, I would head down for a full week at home, making it my last domestic stop before my flight back to India.

This news came with a sense of joy. My time in New Jersey continued to be brilliant from start to finish, but I started to feel overwhelmed there, both in positive and negative ways. My friends in Jersey and New York surrounded and supported me with love and care, welcoming me back and sending me off in style. Still, I needed some space to clear my head before the travels and Va Beach provided the perfect tonic for my tri-state restlessness.

Leaving Jersey brought a pang, but with clear skies and the glorious waterfront ahead of me, I landed with exhilaration. The week unfolded perfectly, as if scripted for me and my family. A few stories:

Crab Feast: When my Grandparents presented me with the idea of taking me out for a going away meal, I immediately declined saying, “I will be eating out for the next 10 months of my life, I am very happy to be eating in this week!” Yet my decision came back to haunt me when I found myself in a later conversation about crab. Yes, blue crab. I love crab. Hook me up with a crab feast and I’m on board. Let’s you and me eat crab all day until our lips burn with bay seasoning and our fingers will smell of shellfish for a week. Seriously, right now, let’s go.

I immediately went back to my grandparents, tail between legs. “Um, Papa, I changed my mind about going out to eat. Do you think we can go out and pick crab for a while?” Without hesitation we were on our way. A good family friend with the best connections in the beach came over for dinner and we pried him for the intel we needed. He concocted a plan with his local seafood guy and placed the strategy in our hands.

The next day we made our way out for a few morning errands before arriving at the Virginia Beach Seafood Market on Mediterranean and 21st. A dive epitomized. We got to the market half of the storefront and looked at the under-appetizing and under-stocked display. No service arrived, so we walked to the restaurant. Inside the service improved. A waitress called her crab guy and he walked out with a live #1 Jimmy. He sparkled. I mean the crab -- good-sized and looking tasty.

We ordered a dozen hard shells and a round of suds. The waitress covered our table in paper and we laughed at the décor. A ten-pointer, a corner hammock filled with stuffed animals, a map of the Chesapeake and two massive speakers that could have blown the paint off the otherwise bare walls of the tiny joint. Perfect.

The beautiful dozen came out steaming fresh. We gaped and then took up our tools to work the feast. Hammering and picking, knifing and cracking we handled the spread like old-timers, washing each lump of meat down with vigor. The conversation ebbed and flowed, Papa told stories and Grandma smiled. I ate at that lovely rate that a crab feast affords, slow and steady, never over full and never rushed. It reminded me of my mother’s favorite Italian proverb, “one never ages at the dinner table.” Given the look on my grandparents’ faces, perhaps one can even grow younger.

Making Kubb: If you read my blog in Sweden, you will be familiarized with Kubb, a game I picked up in Gotland. As a self-ascribed game-meister, furious with competition over the must mundane matters (a trait I treasure from my Swedish great-grandfather) I took to the Viking lawn game like a fish to water. Game of my ancestors that involves throwing wood around the backyard? Sold!

When I picked up the kubbs for the first time, I knew that it would become part of my life, I just didn’t know how. Well, the answer came sooner than expected. Thinking of what to do with the fam while the grands were in town, Kubb came to mind. Three generations of men in one house at the same time, definitely a good time to take a trip to the lumberyard, cut some wood and make a game of Kubb. With Dad and Papa on board, I had to sell them on the importance of making our own set. They suggested we buy wood and have it cut on the premises, but I told them that my Swedish ancestors (many of whom were woodsmen) would roll over in their grave if they knew their descendants had asked someone else to cut their wood for them. It simply was not an option, no matter how long or laborious the process. We would cut our own wood and make our own set.

After some initial research on the web (a remarkably helpful invention) I got the specs for the set, we took a trip to pick up the wood and returned with a fencepost, 8 foot of dowel and 8 foot of landscape timber. We marked off the measurements and Dad busted out the old Black&Decker circular saw and lopped off the pieces as I steadied the wood and Papa sanded the edges. Within an hour we had a genuine Kubb set before us. Satisfied with our work and our morning, we ate a hearty lunch and moved out to test out our set on the glorious afternoon.

Success on all fronts. Everyone enjoyed the game and agreed that we built a great set (easy enough to declare considering everyone else had not ever seen a set; but hey, can’t something be great in and of itself without comparison?). The whole event morphed beyond my own vision as the other began talking about buying some paint and decorating the set. The next day we spent “happy time” applying Swedish blues and yellows to some of the pieces. It became a family affair. I smiled with the wonderful feeling of connection with my presents and my ancients.

Eating: Many of you will know, my Mom can cook. If not, invite yourself over and she will gladly cook for you (plus, I’m sure she would like the company). It’s a hobby, it’s a gift, mostly its just flipping great. Dad brings in the dynamic of the grill and the house becomes home-cooked heaven near every night I visit. My mom sent me an email a week before I arrived and asked me to list my top choices for meals during my stay (blatantly the best email of my entire life). I obliged and ate like a king for a week. My choices in order:

1. Spaghetti and Meatballs; Fresh Italian Salad; Garlic Bread; Red Wine
2. Grilled Tuna and Grilled Vegetables over Fresh Greens; Mom’s homemade Oil and Vinegar Dressing
3. Cedar Plank Grilled Salmon; Asparagus; Cous Cous
4. Hamburgers; Fresh Tomato Salad; Grilled Corn
5. Lemon Squares
6. Leftovers from all of the above meals
   

Sitting on the Beach with Dad: About 8 years go my brother and I noticed my Dad chill out. Leaving New Jersey and getting to the beach seemed to vibe with his soul. The hyper activity and land-lockedness of central Jersey gave way to a short bike ride to the Atlantic. He started to get that look in his eyes I used to see when he would blow leaves around the yard in October. Tuned in and tuned out. Growing up near the Pacific, it became more and more clear that he belonged near the big water; His spirit balancing with the tides.

Going to the beach with my Dad now is one of my favorite activities in the world. For two guys who like to talk to each other, we talk little. We face different ways (me to the sun, him to the sea). We read. I talk on the phone. He does a crossword. We picked up a football and recaptured some glory running patterns on the sand. It’s hard to express the kind of joy I felt being a grown man and peacefully reveling in the fact that I was finally aware that having a catch meant something special to each of us.

The sun closes out. I go for a swim and get sandy feet. We laugh at the spectacle of a 6-year old boy chasing around his cousins with a dead crab he found on the shore. We watch the Mom try to corral the 5 children in her stead and commenting on her demonstration of the kind of resolve, attention and love that only mother’s seem to possess.

We pack up and leave the beach together. Dad to an elders’ meeting at Church. Me to coffee with a friend.

The Boardwalk: Bicycling makes me feel like a kid again. The speed, the freedom, the potential danger, the silly tricks, the pace and the wind. We’ve got two beach-cruisers at home, one black and one pink. I’m not afraid to say that when Andrew’s around, I’ve definitely worked out the pink one in the past, rocking the low-rider with the necessary attitude to make that work for me. When I’m solo, I get the black one, my Dad’s trusty steed.

My friend Jeff dropped me a nice playlist as my going away present to India and I’ve loaded it onto the old iPod. I’ve made a habit of taking a cruise from 59th street down to 1st, hugging the boardwalk and taking in the sights of summer. I like the music, the ride, the weather and the vibe, so I continuously wear a shit-eating grin the whole time and I try to make eye-contact with as many people as possible in hopes of spreading whatever feels so good inside of me to as many others as possible. This has proven to be quite a rewarding endeavor, often resulting in reciprocal happiness and only a couple of times being returned with the kind of look that makes me feel awkward and happy to be on a speedy bike.

Some of the best sights on the board walk.

1. 5-seater group bikes whose riders constantly waver on the line of complete euphoria and complete disaster.
2. The late-August looks on the boys and girls who have been working the same hot dog or bike rental stand since May.
3. Parents trying to wash the sand off their children at the outdoor showers
4. The happy hour crew starting up by 3pm
5. The faces of each family member on a classic American family vacation
6. The teenage boys trying to act cool and impress the teenage girls. The teenage girls trying to act aloof and impress the teenage boys
   

Oh boardwalk and your thousand tiny dramas. Virginia Beach and your million little beauties.

The Summer of Emergence

Watching Red Hook disappear underneath clouds and the wings of this prop plane, its with a smile I put on my headphones and cue up Vampire Weekend’s “Oxford Comma”, my jam of the week and my soundtrack out of Jersey.

It’s been a full and instructive trip to New Jersey, the kind of trip that catches me by surprise. Life is full of expectations and I expected a lot from my return to my cultural home. It was a kind of homecoming and sanctuary amidst the summer in Europe and the upcoming trip to Mumbai.

Jersey a sanctuary? Yeah yeah, laugh it up. For all the haters out there, I’m a robust Jersey-phile, always have been and graciously thank the place for being the fertile ground where I have built friendships, played summer baseball, shucked the world’s best corn and lived the majority of my childhood. So Jersey is my sanctuary. It’s my gamehendge.

My expectations for this 3-week romp were significant. I was to be a groomsmen in one of my best friend’s wedding. I was organizing a band. I had a fantasy football team to draft. It would be fun, full of friends, full of nonsense and depth at the same time. But one idea kept coming to mind through it all.

I’ve called this the summer of transition. It’s the summer of emergence. The summer where I could see that my life was moving in flow with so many of my friends. Stretching into new territory. Traversing terrain of marriage, new children, new relationships starting and old ones ending. People leaving jobs to travel, people leaving travel to new jobs. New recordings and writings. Reaffirming what’s good, restoring its luster and reestablishing its value. Trying new ways to make things fresh. Letting go of the stale and outdated models.

Emergence. That which breaks through the old. The arrival. Like the well, tapped for the first time, releasing the pure water so long stored underneath. The land just needed to be worked. The well needed to be dug. The digging is hard work, but the reward great.

I’ve had the pleasure of digging common wells with so many this summer. The kind where you go in with somebody, get dirty, work hard. You yell at each other. You curse the ground from time to time. You take a break and sip tea together. You give pats on the back and give encouragement. You show up when the other can’t go and they pick you up when you fall. You work together.

And when the water arrives, it’s the signal of the new. A signal of possibility. The refreshing flow of emergence.

The Jersey Chronicles: Gatherings, Gifts and Goodbyes

Last night I had a modest going away party in Jersey City. My friend, Sean, reminded me of the week-long departure blast I had three years ago before my last trip to India. Long nights of barbecuing and toasting. I had been in DC for two years and it signaled a major turning point in my young life. Last night differed dramatically in size and in scope (a reflection of many things) and seemed to fit in perfectly with everything I’ve been doing and experiencing the past weeks in Jersey.

We collected early and welcomed a drenching thunderstorm from the West. Lightening twice shattered the air leaving us shuttering on the porch. The torrent beamed laser rain down onto the sidewalks, exposed I-beams and car roofs -- powerful enough to create a dynamic 360-degree spray, dousing pant legs and testing the endurance of my Rainbow leather. I had to make a run out for supplies and got to use the greatest umbrella on record. The oversize Belvedere automatic covered a square yard and opened and shut with the ease of a well-oiled hydraulic pump.

Upon my successful return we relaxed over a spread of Thai curries and ate fully. When we finished and without notice, my friends gathered closely around. One stood up and read a hilarious and touching poem she wrote in honor of my departure. Then they handed me a bag – a gift. I didn’t see this coming. After all, I was leaving of my own volition and while I was happy to celebrate I did not see a gift in the mix. Still, I opened it. Inside I found a weighty box and I realized immediately what it was. 10 days earlier I lost my brand-new digital camera in the madness of the wedding weekend. They bought me a new one.

I felt overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness and the out and out care of the gift. To be honest, I did not think a new camera was in my budget for the trip and I thought about getting a new one but mostly as a luxury item. I wanted one badly, but did not know if it would happen. Now, it lay in my hands as a gift. I felt emotions running through my body, leaving me on the edge of tears and running my hands through my hair in half-disbelief and half-gratitude. And the giving didn’t stop. They went on to completely overwhelm me by donating generously as a group to my work with Sometimes. It’s the first time in my life I remember feeling utterly speechless.

I couldn’t talk for about 2 minutes as it all hit me like a train. All this writing and thinking I’d been doing about friendship and caring for others in their time of need was coming back to me in force. Except instead of the giving to another, I was receiving from an incredible outpouring of friendship in ways that I couldn’t quite wrap my head around. I felt emotional and wondered “why?” But to them, I could see that this just emanated form them as the most natural thing a friend would do for another friend. There example exquisite, I realized that I have much more to learn about friendship.

The rain concluded her part in the scene. The focus moved away from gifts and departures and fell back into the comfortable exchange of stories, dreams and ideas. The playlist from the wedding set chilled in the background. I did too, just needing a place to sit as I considered relationships, both on that back porch and those I will start and renew in a short time in India. Tonight’s friendship lesson of purity, generosity and thoughtfulness will come with me.

The Jersey Chronicles: The Junction Draft

For about 6 years, The Junction fantasy football league has held court, ushering a brand new era of gridiron enthusiasm in my close-knit group of friends at home. We’ve built a tradition over the years to include a live draft on a Saturday in August. It’s turned into a day that some of us now call “Second Christmas”.

Why Second Christmas? For one, it’s a day you receive gifts. You get a whole new fantasy football team, which is nothing more than a fun toy for a young man who loves football. Second, its time for family to get together, eat food and celebrate the goodness of close relationships. We arrive early and go to bed late. We toss in a game of whiffle ball and a lot of hot dogs and hamburgers.

A growing highlight of the day evolved from the league’s general appreciation of American craft brews. As the beer-tasting hobby grew, several league members began to brew their own beer. After a few initial tries, the brewers gained traction on the slippery slope of homemade beer and starting producing some quality beverages. Last year, about half of the league brought coolers full of unmarked bottles and shared them with the party. This year, the unmarked bottles turned into pony kegs with fully pressurized systems. The tastiness grows with each passing year. It may actually be the best part of our late summer ritual.

With each year the legend of The Junction grows. This year will be no different. Last year a rookie took the glory after snatching up Tom Brady in the 2nd round. We watched as he pounded a brass nameplate onto the Junction Stump, our league’s Stanley Cup. I vowed revenge on that team for knocking me out in the semifinals last season en route to his championship.

It’s a twelve-team league and we play points per reception. Given that we drafted on the 9th, I feel pretty good about my work. I picked fourth and we worked a snake draft. Here is the 2008 depth chart of Zie Beserkers

QB
Brett Farve

RBs
Joseph Addai
Willis McGahee
Rudi Johnson
Rashard Mendenhall

WRs
Terrell Owens
Anquan Boldin
Calvin Johnson
Javon Walker
Marty Booker
James Hardy

TE
Jeremy Shockey

DEF
Dallas Cowboys

K
Kris Brown

Summer’s closing and football is starting. We’ll see how well I can manage from the subcontinent.

The Jersey Chronicles: Good Lovin’ and More Wedding Jubilation

Every once in a while, I find myself in a transcendent place. A place where relationships of love and service mix with celebration and spirit. A place when I feel that I’ve glimpsed the great possibility of heaven.

This weekend I experienced that. Not for a moment, but for a weekend.

Two of my good friends married each other in Princeton, my old hometown, in the backyard we used to play in as kids. He’s of European-American roots and his wife is Ethiopian. They met at university and have started a non-profit in Jersey City called Rising Tide Capital, an organization dedicated to the economic empowerment of low-income communities through entrepreneurship. Throughout the years I’ve known them, they offered me a model of love as individuals, as a couple and in the way that they serve the community around them.

When they announced there wedding date last winter, I felt sure I wouldn’t be there. I planned to spend much of this year in Australia in preparation for Action for Life. I told them immediately that it was unlikely that I would attend, but that I promised to work towards making it possible.

On New Year’s Day, we sat down in a diner in Manhattan and concocted a plan. I would work at Rising Tide Capital and my compensation would be a ticket to their wedding. It seemed a cosmic plan. An RTC project quickly arose in correlation with a break from my work. It would be three weeks, a fair amount of time, we both assessed for the agreed upon compensation.

I rolled up to Jersey in March and worked on their new website. I managed content and worked with Joomla for the first time, stretching my technological savvy in directions previously untapped. For the first time, I got to see their work up close, lived with them for the duration and walked out feeling that we had done something important, productive and satisfying. More importantly we completed the foundation on the bridge of friendship we’ve been building for years.

I bought a ticket for Europe with a return for the weekend before the wedding itself.

You see, amidst the crazy preparations in advance of the wedding, there was a serious debate over music at the wedding. Since I love music and being the only groomsman actually staying in the apartment, the three of us tried to sort out the scene. Over hours of conversation and research we finally realized that the only way to appease the taste of all parties was to hire a DJ. His family wanted some more traditional American wedding music, while her’s wanted more traditional Ethiopian. The engaged wanted world music, but found that the only band they liked, well, they didn’t quite have the “right style” to cut it at the family event. So we agreed, without extreme enthusiasm, that we would go with the DJ.

But it got me thinking. They had mentioned that they wanted to hear some music from our crew of friends, many of whom are very talented musicians. I asked if they would be cool if the crew of us organized something. Well, one song quickly swelled into a set of music. I offered to coordinate the effort. I had a vision of what it could be and I wanted to part of making this wedding an event to remember.

We got to work immediately: recruiting the band, picking the set list, orchestrating the music. Prep was going well (even from my overseas post), but I wasn’t sure if it would all come together. We had one weekend to get it to performance level and despite the talent, I didn’t know if we would be cohesive in time, much less with a set list peppered with music ranging from The Roots and Paul Simon to Oliver Mtukudzi and the Buena Vista Social Club.

Though the music, timing and amount of people presented a challenge, the guys in the band rose to the occasion. Even better, that motion was a reflection of something much greater going on. There emerged a spirit around the wedding. This backyard shindig brought in friends and family from around the world to help in the planning and operation. Whether someone ran shuttle service to the PJ train station, tied endless bows on wedding programs, barbecued while others relaxed, picked up a missing case of water or picked up last minute tuxedo changes, it felt like a whole host of supportive spirits surrounded the bride and groom and their families.

The big day arrived after a fantastic rehearsal dinner. The band gathered to sound check and practice in the morning. The session went well but ended within minutes of disaster as a crushing summer thunderstorm burst onto the scene at 12:15. A drastic 15 minutes followed as rampant fear of a rain-soaked event spread about. Fortunately, the clouds quit and the sun broke though for the remainder of the day.

We took from the rehearsal to change and then quickly, the groomsmen assembled outside the hotel to do the Hiloga, an Ethiopian wedding ritual. It meant waiting till the women got organized, so we waited outside the hotel for 75 minutes in the stifling heat, soaking our tuxes through while we learned the words and dance steps to the vibe. We went to it like our lives depended on it (traditionally, the groomsmen are responsible for winning the bride’s family over) and we delivered. The ceremony buzzed and joy emanated.

It carried straight through the wedding ceremony where love again surrounded the newlyweds. I relished hearing the stories later of how the bridesmaids fought against the pain of 75 minutes of heals on cobblestone to be there for the bride. Similar stories came from the groomsmen who worked through the oppressive heat in bowties and three-piece tuxedos. As the kiss signaled the closing, we left to hit the reception.

Of course, that couldn’t occur without a little drama. Turns out that the guests took some time to arrive at the shindig, so the wedding party cruised the Junction for a good 90 minutes before getting to our destination. Instead of wilting in the delay, the team got proactive and took on an impromptu photo shoot at The Pond, our old high school haunt and now a wedding day activity forever burned in the collective memory.

By the time we arrived the party roared. We ate heaps of Ethiopian food and watched as Uncle Solomon handled the master of ceremonies duty with expert attention and soul. Classic speeches poured from the lips of loved ones and timeless dances made the dance floor drip with emotion and love.

The night cruised ahead and all that lay ahead for me was, finally, the big set. Our good friend Nicole introduced the band and the well-lubricated gathering hopped to the dance floor like a swing dance hall. Without much further notice, Jeff started laying down the acoustic guitar line to Sublime’s “What I Got” and the classic sing-a-long took the night away.

Its hard for me to express what exactly I felt during that moment of my life. At one point mid-song, I leaned over to Sean to tell him how amazing life felt. But when I looked over I couldn’t utter a word. I just started laughing. That wild kind of laugh when all you feel is complete joy tingling through your body and the face just starts behaving completely independently of the brain. Beautifully, Sean was my mirror and his expression encouraged me to plunge into the sea of joy and love that seemed to bounce off us, to the walls, to the people, to the wedded couple and back again. Pure joy. Pure pure joy.

The set finished and the party slowly started to scale back. We rallied for one more Hiloga celebration and carried Alex and Alfa off on our shoulders to their limo. The dancing continued until the police came to kindly inform us that they needed the party to end (and had, in fact, ignored a number of complaints to let us have a tremendous party for many hours). With an outpouring of goodness throughout the night, no one even bothered to argue, we had lived every moment of that wedding.

We celebrated love with love and joy with joy. A beautiful and constant cycle.

The Jersey Chronicles: The Brief Renaissance of High School Summer Break in Central Jersey

Following the humid heat of a late-July day, the central Jersey sun begins to fade over the broad leaf tree forests and long fields of green growth. The sunset blasts potent colors over the landscape, a vivid yet calming backdrop to the day’s end. For years I treasured this segue of summer afternoon to summer evening in West Windsor. After many years from the Garden State, this summer brought a reunion of sorts; a chance to connect the present and the past.

Immediately upon my arrival from Amsterdam, I jumped straight onto the NJ transit and rode the NE Corridor line down to Princeton Junction. As is tradition, my good friend Sean picked me up and we kicked it for an hour at the pond, one of our old high school haunts, catching up on stories, lessons learned and sharing our anticipation for the upcoming weeks. They would be exceptional and filled with a hundred little moments of reunion.

The next day brought the first signal of return. In honor of our dear friends, the old neighborhood crew rallied together to perform as the wedding band at our friends’ wedding just a week away. Like old times, we piled a load of instruments into the basement of the last remaining home in the old neighborhood and began to crunch some tunes.

Wow. Years had passed since we truly got down like this. Previously, we just got together free-form jams and played endlessly often aimlessly and always blissfully into the night. This time we actually had responsibilities and the dream team responded, playing like well-aged musicians who finally gained the all-important trait of being able to listen to others. In response, the music pierced the basement walls and shot upstairs bringing listeners down to enjoy it and dance a full week in advance of the main event. With only a day of practice under our belt, the music popped off the strings and drumheads (which was critical given that we only one more day of practice before go time!).

The weekend passed and our confidence with the music grew. When we parted ways for the work week, I felt satisfied with our progress and amped for the main event. Surveying the post-weekend scene, I felt it best to leave wedding headquarters (the reception itself would actually occur in my friend’s family’s backyard and thus the house felt the heat of preparations) and head off to Sean’s place down the road.

Great decision. As remote workers, we both used the days to hustle on the job-front leaving us the evenings to relax and enjoy each other’s company. Each day reminded me of the summer I worked with Sean and our other friend at Cedarville Country Day Camp in East Windsor. In those days we would head out at 7:15, be in full supervision mode by 8, running around with the keen balance of responsibility and insanity you have as a 19-year old in charge of 25 10-year olds. Now we were a little more tied to the internet and the inside, but nonetheless woke up early and got off to work. Mostly, we were so grateful to have the shared companionship again.

Following each workday Sean and I would knock off and cruise the highways and byways of our old stomping grounds. Blazing 571 into Princeton for Olive’s Famous Chicken Salad on baguette or down 130 to team up with BJ for a chill evening on his deck of grilling spare ribs and Jersey corn from the local farm stand.

Each outing brought with it the smells and sights of a thousand previous summer nights. The fresh cut grass in the neighborhoods, a slice of Aljon’s Special Sauce pizza, the algae at Grover’s Mill Pond, fresh-brewed coffee outside Small World and the omnipresent barbecue. The crickets sounding their pulsating chirps, the jam in “Theme from the Bottom” off Billy Breaths, deep and nonsensical conversations and the occasional car flying by on a teenage joyride.

For a moment there I got lost and found. Amiss in the wanderings of days gone past and refreshed in my realization that all of those memories were based in a sublime reality of friendship and setting in the present.