Stephen Bleile

HA  HA HA

Well, if a BLOG is supposed to be my online journal – here’s one for you.

I am processing a unique problem.  I’ve just spent three days at a conference where every guest speaker was -concept by concept- telling me the thoughts that have been in my mind and heart for the last three years.

So, how did they know what I was thinking?

Doesn’t this mean I’m not quite as clever as I supposed and, in fact, my creative ideas are just run of the mill notions?

Are we all tapping into the same spirit of things?  Riding the same wave, as it were; which doesn’t make it any less impressive?

What do I do now? I’m not alone! How do I connect with them again? Do I need to?

Oh, and “I am sorry.”  That’s the other hardest three words to say.

Why, though?

Why is it nearly impossible to tell someone that you love them?

What makes those words so awkward to utter?

Anyone who has been to a wedding conducted in the Christian tradition will recall the minister expounding on the three different words/types of love from whatever language the Bible was written in.  These three loves are Eros, Philia and Agape.

From what I can tell Eros is like, um, erotic.  Sort of sexy / animal instinct / passionate / hollywoody.

Philia seems more like brotherly / family love.

And Agape is God love.  That is to say how God loves.

I suppose the minister would usually conclude that for a healthy marriage the couple should learn to walk in all three types of love.

Maybe it’s this diversity of meaning that are all boiled down to the word “love” that make it so awkward.  I mean if you came up to me and suggested you erotically loved me and that I made you feel like an animal in heat I suppose I would feel uncomfortable. (Correction: I know FOR SURE I would.)

The other problem is that we love everything.  I love ice cream.  I love Dr. House.  I love the way they used lego to re-enact a particular system of a down song.   I love baby Jesus, etc. Maybe subconsciously we figure we can’t tell other people that we love them because we know we’ve already used up that word on stupid stuff.

I don’t know the answer exactly but I wish it wasn’t so.  I mean after all… I think The Beatles were right:  all we need is love. It’s ironic as the British are about the last people group in the world that you would associate with any sort of emotional expression. (It wouldn’t be proper, don’t you know.)

Fine.  I’ll say it.

I LOVE YOU.

“I’m gonna home school  my kids. Make ‘em wear helmets everywhere.  I’m gonna, you know, um, not gonna let them outside ‘cuz sun has bad rays.” -Francis Chan, Minister. (See video below)

Super Helmet

The theme of helmet wearing comes up from time to time in family discussions.  Not because any of us are particularly uncoordinated – though my brother, did get his face cut up in a hockey game thanks to his lack of face visor.  The real reason is that we are an older family.  To give you an idea my parents just had their 45th wedding anniversary.  Yeah, they’re the same age as many of my friends’ grandparents. My brothers are all a minimum of 10 years older than me and I’m 30.  They, and to some extent I, grew up in a different time.

Extreme sports used to be the things we did in the gully by our house.  Build ramps and ride bikes off of them.  Try to catch gophers.  Um, try snorkeling in the bow river.  (We once found a road sign, but it was very likely visible from above the water.)

We were never particularly safe.  But, probably we weren’t particularly dangerous.  We were just little boys. My parents weren’t particularly negligent – they just grew up on the farm where you, well, didn’t wear helmets.

And so it comes up in family dinner times when we see the kids in our block wearing helmets, elbow pads, knee pads etc. to take their dog for a walk.  It comes up when we drive through a play ground zone and LONG for a reason to slow down. A reason other than the posted limit.  That reason, of course, being the presence of kids.   But from what we can tell, kids don’t play in the park any more.  It’s not safe.

And it’s not just the tires, and swings, and bridges that are dangerous. It’s the people.  Yes, people steal and molest children.  If it’s not the sickest thing you’ve heard of… the greatest perversion of justice… then you surely have a more colorful imagination than I.

And so what can we do? There is no helmet to protect our little people from big people.

And still we shun the idea that we need God’s help.  We persecute those miserable people who talk about Jesus like he could bring peace and hope into our communities.  Then we point, with good reason, to the church’s spotty past: Alas, there are some who profess to be Christians who do the same abominable acts to children.  (I’m sure other religions, too.)

Who will protect our children?  The government? The community? The church?  No one?  And before long we are much more inclined to keep our kids inside.

I am not opposed to helmets.  I am not opposed to safety.  I am opposed to retreating from problems and hoping they go away, or at very least hoping they won’t visit our homes.

May we never pray: “Someone else O’ Lord, but not our home.”

But rather: “God what can I do?  And, God, Please protect all of the children.”

It occurred to me today that the life of a chicken is  not as rosy as one might expect.  What, apart from the cramped living conditions, the same food every day, and that your species is generally associated with cowardice… what could they possibly have to be upset about?

It’s this.

Day in and day out they lay eggs, but they never have any chicks.  No one to carry on the family line – as it were.

Of course, the (presumably) limited intelligence of a chicken may shield them from the cumulative effect of so much work for so little reward.  Perhaps every day they have forgotten that just yesterday they laid some eggs, and just yesterday they got snatched, and just yesterday they were all alone in their nest.  But can their (presumably) tiny brains protect their emotions, too?

Imagine how excited you’d be if the thing you were made to do (in a chicken’s case let’s assume that’s lay eggs and raise chicks) seemed like it would become a reality and then how devastated you’d feel when that same hope got snatched away on a daily basis?  For us, much more sophisticated beings, that may look like studying hard for an exam and failing, or pouring your heart into a painting and having someone ask you who puked on your canvas, or designing a project that never has any commercial success.   I’m no chicken, but this cycle tends to do rather a number on my emotional state.

There is an old proverb that may have originated from someone studying chickens:  hope deferred makes the heart sick. (From the original: eggs removed makes a chicken cluck.)

On one hand I suppose the chickens who did, um, make it to be chickens should be quite pleased that the eggs they came from weren’t picked for omelletes.  Of course, this being rather a mental ascension, and they being (seemingly) rather stupid creatures I think  we safely assume they never climb that mental mountain and leave the valley of despair behind. (I doubt there is ‘the other’ hand -especially given that chickens don’t have hands so the whole reference is a little misguided anyways.)

Since their minds are neither sufficiently complex to remember the ordeal of the missing eggs from yesterday or to mentally ascend to a higher plain concerning their miserable state I think we have to re-evaluate our use of the word chicken in our vocabulary.  You see, chickens aren’t very chicken.

They try, fail, try, fail until the cows come home.

Since we can say that a chicken laying an egg is not a frivolous use of their time or a fool’s errand their efforts are not foolish or laughable so much as admirable.

So, perhaps all of us who have tried and failed and are afraid to try again shouldn’t be called chickens anymore.

Chickens, after all, don’t appear to be chicken.

(Brave) Sir Robin's Crest

The orated tale of Sir Robin who nearly attacked the vicious chicken of Bristol.  (Having decided against the attack, he, in the end, decided to take the chicken as his crest just the same.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c4SJ0xR2_bQ

Proud.

I’m quite proud of my friends.

Not proud as if to say I did something to make them.  More like you’d talk about being proud of your Grandpa who served in the war.

I spent most of  my morning worried about how I was feeling.  Wishing I wasn’t feeling anything – especially hurt, a touch of anger, and wanting to be right.

Then I got an email from a friend.

Paul Hardy just spent a night at Hotel Des Mille Collines (aka Hotel Rwanda.)  Yes, the now infamous Hotel Rwanda -another poppy in a field too full of memories – “lest we forget” a genocide that wiped out roughly the population of Calgary in just four months.

And why was he there?  -to set up a system whereby women can make clothes for his new clothing line that will provide a sustainable income for them and their children.

It doesn’t take my mind long to connect that I have other friends who are doing things in Africa.

Shannon is launching a charitable foundation, Musikiva Canada,  to provide music therapy to at risk youth in Calgary and in Kenya.

Ralph is spearheading the good efforts of Hopetheopia – a project to develop long-term sustainable developments in Ethiopia.

Glenda and Charles are professional counselors conducting free counseling in Rwanda.  Trying to help people deal with war trauma that most of us would never understand.

Harry, an established Calgary Plumber,  is establishing “Plumbers Without Borders” after going to Africa and seeing the need for clean water.

Wow!  It’s too amazing.  What incredible people they all are.  And this doesn’t even touch what some of my other friends are up to in Asia, South America etc.  And these are just people I am in contact with on a, at least, monthly basis.  I wonder how many other super amazing people are out there doing amazing things?

I probably have some issues to deal with. Some Feelings to sort through and purge, but people like this help me to get focused on what’s really important.  They make me think it is possible.  We can make a difference.  And in the process, I think we will all be changed.

Hello Everyone.

I’ve had an idea:  Let’s put Rogers and Blockbusters out of business.  It would be great fun and it would be a sweet way to get to know the neighbors.

Here’s the thing.  On an average street, with average neighbors, and average life styles we can assume that there are a lot of people watching movies that they have either purchased or rented.

On average they are likely watching a lot of the same movies.  THE SAME MOVIES I WOULD SPEND $5 TO RENT.  This is how Blockbusters / Rogers make money.  They sell the same thing over and over again.  Their model works soley because neighbors are not organized enough to share their resources.

IDEA: What if you could set up some sort of system whereby people on your block would know what movies you and everyone else has.  Then, when they want to ‘rent’ a movie they could just cross the street and borrow it from you or  Mr. and Mrs. Smith  instead?

I’m sure some facebook app. could be designed… or maybe just a google doc to share the information? It could be pretty basic:

Mr. and Mrs. Smith have the following titles:  blah, blah, and blah.  Jimmie has the following titles: (blah, zip and zap.)

It’s really like napster… only you would actually be sharing a physical thing.  And THAT is certainly above board.

I think you could meet a lot of your neighbors, save some money, and even have quite a good time in the process.  Some entrepreneurial person might even make a buck off of said system.

If enough people did it we could even put Rogers/ Blockbusters out of business… or at very least force them to stock hard to find movies.

Little kids have the right idea.  Get a friend.  Connect your imaginations.  And go on an adventure.

Luckily for me, I’m not too old to keep up the same tricks.

This week I met with three friends – hoping they would help me to write the book I don’t know how to write.  Trent creates experiences with purpose for his corporate clients.  Justin is a Sr. Communications guy (despite being but 30 years old) at an oil company, and Christine is a retired prof from the U of C who taught Justin and me rhetoric in Uni and who happens to remind me (quite a bit) of my Gran in the UK.

My three friends and I never went anywhere, per se, but we did go on an adventure.  We never left our chairs, but we overcome obstacles, shared fellowship, and experienced the adventure that is reserved for those who have not forgotten how to really live life together.