Weaving

<p>Weaving silk using a mitochondrial sequence from Gabriel Harp on Vimeo.</p>

This video is from an article I found called "Weaving Haplotypes" It's pretty cool if you're willing to wade through it. The short version is someone is weaving silk using DNA sequencing to determine the colour pattern.

That got me thinking about this:

As we rest collectively in what it means to be children of God, we understand more fully what we are to do collectively as children of God; as we rest individually in what it means to be a child of God, we understand more fully what we are to do individually as children of God.

Conversely and with equal importance: as we do collectively what it is we have come to understand children of God do, we understand more fully what it means to be collectively children of God; as we do individually what it is we have come to understand a child of God does, we understand more fully what it means to be individually a child of God.

Resting in identity and doing calling are intimately entwined in both communities and individuals. These four strands, when woven by the Spirit, create a tapestry of stories stronger than steel and more beautiful than the best mere human hands could offer.

 

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Sky blue sky is sky blue.

Ben has a job for the summer, so every Tuesday and Thursday I drive him over to North Vancouver. I'm going to miss those drives. Every time we head out Ben plugs in his iPod and starts Sky Blue Sky, so we have a fairly consistent sound track for our drives to North Van. Somewhere close to the Lions Gate Bridge is when we get to "Please Be Patient With Me," one of my all time favorite songs. Can there be anything better than a beautiful morning drive with your son? The sun is up, the windows are down, we're enjoying one of the most beautiful views in the world and we're listening to Wilco. Sacred times.

Our trips are usually pretty quiet. We're guys. Plus we're listening to Wilco. I sometimes wonder how I'm doing; you know, with the whole father thing. Maybe I should talk more, say more stuff, try to be wise and whatnot. I sometimes wonder, of all the conversations, phone calls, iChats, discussions, arguments, sermons, lectures, laughter and tears Ben overhears—what sticks? What does he notice? What does he think of all the blah blah blah going on around him? As I say, we're often pretty quiet, so sometimes I'm not sure, that's why I'm wondering if I should talk more, find out what's going on. Well, yesterday he showed me a poem he wrote. I guess the blah blah blah-ing can't be all bad. Here it is: [he gave me permission to post this]

To The Man At The Door

Am I not welcome?
How can this be?
I think you've got things wrong
because I'm a son
no less than you or the next man
And no greater than the
one on the street

Tell me now
what would Jesus do
If you were him
and I was you?

You know, I get it now
a mosaic doesn't fit in
your square picture frame
if it did, not all of the pieces
would be welcome

In your square slot
there's no room to dance
or move at all

So tell me door man
is the shape of my tile
not suited to your slot?

If not, don't worry
I know a place down the road
they will have a spot for me
in their mosaic
and they won't think twice
before bringing me in

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:)

Sent from my iPhone

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I think I have diorama.

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What is it about these dioramas that's so engaging? We found them in the Royal Saskatchewan Museum and I could have taken pictures of them all day.

Nostalgia? The museum has that mid 60's Canadian institutional building vibe, an attempt to be "modern" in a reserved and dignified way that now seems quaint. A lot like the schools I attended. Was I just nostalgic for school days?

There's also something engaging about miniatures in and of themselves, and these ones are well done. The paintings behind the little figures were wonderful. In the photos the two dimensional paintings and the three dimensional figures merge more convincingly that in real life. Maybe that was it.

Maybe it's the sense of control, a photographers dream, reality frozen for me to shoot at will.

What do dioramas say about us? About our way of understanding and learning? Who gets to say what's in the diorama and what it looks like? Are we more likely to believe this presentation of reality to be true because a compelling plausible representation of the offered reality has been brought into the world? Is it different that the plausible reality has been constructed in three dimensions and in miniature rather than having been constructed of words and in imagination?

I have to say I found the little tableaux of aboriginal people kind of weird. How was the god-like power of the person building this little scene wielded? Naively? Sensitively? Well intentioned but awkwardly? Via guesses or intimate knowledge? Who were they? Aboriginal? Caucasian? Does it matter what colour their skin was? Where they on the payroll? Were they censored? If so by whom? Did they have a backbone? What trust do I unwittingly place in the hands of a "museum" simply because it's a museum? Is that trust warranted? Is every museum different?

Are Sunday morning services like these dioramas? Little stage plays we control with our god-like power, freezing our proffered picture of reality for one day a week so we can photograph it in memory and return to it later with nostalgic feelings? If they are—and maybe they aren't—what trust do I unwittingly place in the hands of "church" simply because it's a church. Should I trust the hands which curate the Sunday morning dioramas? Or is it unfair to call what happens on Sunday morning a diorama?

p.s. I'm particularly fond of the moose.

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Oh, for the grace of my elders.

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My Mom put together a book about her childhood growing up on the prairies. Had to share this little excerpt because it's my Mom and it's awesome. 

"We skated every day. Sonja Henjie was famous then and I would try to soar along with one leg held out behind me, just like she did. We skated singly, in pairs and sometimes in a long line of people for crack-the-whip. Time alone on the ice at night was very special. Often the northern lights were dancing with color and if there was a full moon it seemed perfect…I didn’t have figure skates, just ordinary straight-blade hockey skates like the boys. When my feet stopped growing I got second-hand men’s skates which I used until I couldn’t skate anymore. 

The last time I tried to skate was in 2004. My ankles were weak and I didn’t have a helmet so I didn’t venture far. A chapter in my life was closed and I felt a bit sad, but in my imagination I can still soar around the ice, free as the wind! When we moved to Regina I took a picture of them and let them go."

 

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When I was your age...

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I'm in Regina Saskatchewan (Paris of the Prairies) for a family reunion of sorts. We piled into a school bus my sister Heather rented from the company she drives for and took a trip out to Southey where my Mom grew up.

The second picture is one of those famous prairie grain elevators. Southey is really small, but they have a grain elevator and a hockey rink.

The last picture is the house my Mom grew up in. Nine kids! The attic space served as the second floor and the bedroom space for all the kids, 4 boys on one side and 5 girls on the other. Different times my friends.

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