Moving on up

This weekend, if all goes well, I will be moving to a new apartment in DC. I'm terribly excited to be heading to a different neighborhood. Where I am now has been good, but it comes with its share of annoyances: thirty minute bus rides to the grocery store, a twenty minute walk to the metro, no neighborhood conveniences (stores, etc.) to speak of, no air conditioning, and lots of bike-inhibiting hills in the neighborhood. None of these has made it a bad place to live, per se, but I'm not going to miss these issues. I'll be moving to a basement unit in a townhouse in the historic Kalorama Triangle in the northwest part of the city. The location alone makes the slight increase in rental costs worth it: a four minute walk to the metro, five minutes to the grocery store, and tons of restaurants, bars, and shops close by. Also, my commute to work will be cut in half.

New neighborhood

This has gotten me thinking about urban planning and walkability. My new neighborhood will be extremely walkable. Errands will be able to be done on foot, and leisure (in the form of park space) is only a few blocks away. Kalorama is known as one of the more well-to-do areas of Washington, and neighboring Adams Morgan was named one of the best urban neighborhoods in the United States. Though we have found a really good deal, rent is generally not cheap. This begs the question: why have our most walkable and convenient neighborhoods so priced out the poor, who would benefit most from easy proximity to the necessities of life? We can go back and forth about gentrification, but it somewhat misses the point of the issue. We may not force people out of every neighborhood wanting to be the new Brooklyn, simply because we've already condemned the people there to a poor quality of life by the very design of the city. If it's an annoyance for me, a decently-well-off young person with a professional job, nearly two college degrees, and a decent amount of leisure time, to go grocery shopping, how much more is it a strain on a single mother raising two kids and working two jobs? There's plenty of blame to go around for this state of affairs, and there are frankly very few easy solutions.

Driving in Iceland

In August (and again in December, under much different circumstances) I was in Iceland. I rented a car with my friend Brian who was traveling with me, and with it we were able to see a fair bit of the country. Iceland is a bit in vogue as the darling of the tourist industry at the moment, but I can certainly see why after traveling there: it is unlike any other earthly place I can think of. One of the great pleasures of traveling through the country is the vast expanses of nothingness one encounters for much of the ride.

Toward Fjallsárlón glacier

Wide expanse of volcanic rock covered in lichens in southern Iceland

Driving toward Grundarfjorður on the Snæfellsnes Peninsula

Between Seltún and Reykjavík

North of Akranes

Also north of Akranes

On the Snæfellsnes Peninsula

The north face of Snæfellsjökull, one of Iceland's largest volcanoes

The road across Snæfellsjökull

Negotiating right-of-way

Our Nissan Note on Mars or Snæfellsjökull

We thought it imprudent to go too much further up this road

Heading toward Skaftafell in southeast Iceland

Southern Iceland in the afternoon mists

It is all the more astonishing in my view to think that this land has been inhabited by people continuously since the 900s AD. Our American minds tend to associate pristine scenery with our own myth of the wild west - an uncivilized uninhabited region awaiting our Manifest Destiny. Though Iceland was a cultural backwater for most of its history, it was still inhabited. I just finished reading Iceland's Bell by Icelandic author and Nobel Laureate Halldór Laxness (his Independent People was arguably my favorite book of 2014, perhaps narrowly edging out Les Mis and Kristin Lavransdatter). In events of the novel take place during the 17th Century, when the Danes had a political and economic death grip on Iceland. It was a challenge in reading the book to imagine these descendants of Vikings struggling mightily against the Danish Crown for some scrap of honor against the backdrop of such noble wonders of creation.

The floating red house

The other day, I finished reading The Skin by the Italian author/political chameleon Curzio Malaparte. The book is chilling, bizarre, and basically a-moral, but, more than any other book I've read it captures well the absurdity of war and its aftermath - in this case Naples under American "liberation". I would have never encountered the work of Malaparte had I not visited his home in Capri in September as part of a three-day architecture workshop. Below is an excerpt from my journal:

For the better part of this afternoon, Maria and I sat in the wood-paneled dining room at a heavy wooden table next to a little window that faced the sea. In the corner was a German stove - the kind you might find in a Munich bierhalle. On it were stacks of Malaparte's literary oeuvre in all of the languages of Babel. From where I sat, in the corner, I could see into the small foyer and out onto the front patio that blazed red in the afternoon sun. There was no relief in the typically azure sea beyond - the sun was at its zenith and the crests of the undulating waves were stark white. The sky was pale and dehydrated. The two became one flesh where the horizon should've been. The cat, Luna, had given up her pestering and was guarding the open front door. Outside of the window at my right, shady pine trees of the peculiar Mediterranean variety screened the view out toward the towering cliffs - cathedrals of a type that soar out of the water and continue to the heavens. But, like the mighty Cathedral of Rouen commanding the end of the narrow street, the cliffs stopped my view abruptly with a jumbled jaggedness of dry earth.

I had begun to feel more and more unsettled the longer I sat on that dark wooden bench. I got up several times to have a glass of water from the adjacent sparkling silver kitchen. But, every time I sat down, the twirling of my stomach would return. Looking out the window at the otherwise magnificent scenery was akin to looking at a flat, foreshortened tableau, not unlike a painting from the early Renaissance or a Chinese mountain print. The psychological problem, I later decided, was that I could not see the horizon nor the sky but was able to see very far laterally. It was as if I was constantly looking through binoculars at the cliffs. The only other time I've had this experience was when I was once on a cruise ship - as we sailed past that variety of mountain that plunges itself into the sea. That's what my body and mind were expecting. They thought - I thought - that I should be sailing along the coast of Capri, sitting in a German cabin enclosed in a floating red cloud. When the afternoon of work was done and it was time to go upstairs for espresso and orange cake, I stared at the horizon from the main room. The sky was purple and the sea was gray. I had missed that dear boundary between boundless expanses.

I have not had this experience since. It was visceral, physical, and extremely odd. It is one of the many reasons that extraordinary house will stay burned in my memories.

Here, you can see the house perched on its promontory, with the cliffs beyond. The dining room is on the other side.

Here, you can see the narrowness of the house on its little sliver of rock.

Four months of the Divine Office

 The other day marked the fourth month that I've been praying (some of) the Hours of the Divine Office with (some) regularity. I will be forthcoming with my admission that it is still not as habitual as I would like, but, then again, the spiritual life is not meant to be a cake walk. "Take up your cross and follow Me" doesn't necessarily get visions of sugar plums a-dancin' in my head.

That broad caveat understood, I would like to give an update. I have found the experience of praying in this manner very beneficial, on several levels. Firstly, as I am an absolutely horrific creature of habit, I appreciate the ordered, rhythmic nature of structure of the Divine Office in general. There is enough variety day-by-day and hour-by-hour to keep my wandering mind focused, yet, the constant underlying structure and logic means that it's easy to jump right back in if I've missed a day or two (or, five... like I said, it's a work in progress). At this point, I have enough familiarity with the Psalms and Readings contained within that the subtle moods of each Hour have become more apparent as well.

Speaking of the Psalms - how ignorant I have been of them for too long! Granted, at least one is sung or chanted at every Mass and much of our better hymnody is inspired by them, but the Psalms have largely escaped my consciousness for much of my consciously Catholic life. In grade school, our Biblical studies generally revolved around either the liturgical season or a theological lesson (i.e. Creation, Covenant, Morality of this or that), and while the Psalms embody many of these themes in a more poetic way, they are often not the clearest expositors that grade school teachers have at their disposal. High school was similar in many ways. I had one class on the Old Testament, which, while rewarding in many ways, also overlooked the Psalms and much of the Wisdom literature in favor of the some of the more over-arching themes.

All this is to say that I enjoy getting to know the various Psalms at what amounts to a more personal level. Most Hours contain just three Psalms apiece, so the effort of mentally digesting them is not Herculean by any stretch. The Hours that contain more than three Pslams (Sunday Lauds and Vespers, for instance) tend to have a more obvious thematic correlation, so they are more easily read as a group. In any event, the Psalms are the heart of the Divine Office, and it is both a challenge and a joy to pray them with the mind of the Church, considering how each might give voice to a petition, a sorrow, or a joy much wider than my own existence.

One last note is on the edition I have been using. It is a side-by-side Latin/English edition. Every couple of days, especially on Hours that have become more familiar, I attempt to pray only using the Latin. It has been a marvelous learning experience to commit a Psalm almost to memory in English and then consider the Latin version. Luckily, the English translation, from what I can tell, is quite literal. So, if I get stuck on a word, it is fairly easy for me to find my place. Not only is this helping my rudimentary Latin skills, it is also opening up a somewhat different mode of prayer than what I'm used to. Since I have what the Zen masters would call a "Beginner's Mind" about Latin, I am much more focused on considering the various words and phrases. This slows me down a bit and gets me to consider an inflected meaning that could be gleaned from the Latin version but not from the English.

If you may permit me a brief example (not that I can hear your protesting in vain!). The first antiphon for Monday Compline (Night Prayer):

English: Rescue me, Lord, because of Thy kindness
Latin: Salvum me fac, Domine, propter misericordiam tuam.

While the English conveys quite a beautiful sentiment, a deeper dimension is added when the Latin is considered. Rescue me conveys a sense of urgency - a dire longing to be free of our sins, perhaps. The Latin inflection of Salvum me fac completes the image by importing the language of salvation (salvum) more directly. We are asking for God to rescue us from sin by granting us His salvation. Are they the same meaning theologically? Perhaps, but there is, I maintain, a richness in the slight differences. Misericordiam also offers an interesting study. This particular word is quite common in the ecclesiastical lexicon, and is most commonly translated as mercy. Here, the translator has chosen kindness. Does this not beg a meditation on the relationship between God's mercy and God's kindness? If we break down the word Misericordiam we can see within it miser, which is approximately wretched, and cor, which is heart. So, God has a wretched (perhaps grieved?) heart for our salvation. Is this not His compassion? Is not His mercy moved by His compassion? Was it not His compassion and mercy that prompted Him to send His only Son to accomplish (fac) our salvation (salvum).

This is but one fairly in depth example, but there are (I'm sure) many more to be found. Translation is a delicate art, to be sure, as no one language directly equals another (as any multilingual person will tell you). In that regard, it is both intellectually and spiritually rewarding to occasionally veer down these translator's rabbit holes for the possible gain of an added insight.

The City of Magnificent Distances

 Washington is a walking city. If you've read any of my accounts of my own lookings-around the city (with or without friends in tow), you will have noticed the distances covered on foot are not negligible. For starters, the Mall is about two miles long from end to end, so to traverse it at a leisurely pace takes about forty-five minutes (inclusive of waiting time at crosswalks, which, in this city, can also be a considerable use of one's time). But, as spread out as the city is, it is sometimes downright pleasant to walk around in. Perhaps the human-scaled architecture, prevented by law from reaching much more than one hundred feet, lends the city a more agreeable street scape. The streets themselves - even the busy ones - are generally no more than four lanes wide, which keeps traffic slower (much to their chagrin, I'm sure).

In any event, even in the summertime humidity it has proven a pleasure to stretch the legs after work and walk around the city. Just last Wednesday, I met up with a friend who had an extra ticket to go to the top of the Washington Monument, which has just reopened to the public. To meet him, I walked along the Potomac from Georgetown, enjoying the trail along the waterfront before turning east at the Lincoln Memorial to head down the Mall. This past Friday evening, friends were picnicking at the Sculpture Garden for the ever-popular Jazz in the Garden summer concert series. I again walked from work, but chose the more direct route of Virginia Avenue, as I was in more of a hurry. Both walks were probably about two miles when all was said and done, but they were quite nice.

I had been toying with the idea of walking to or from work at some point, just to see how it went. The route I currently take to work, detailed in a post or two below, is rather convoluted if you map it out with geographic accuracy. As the crow flies, I live about four miles from work. As the Metro runs (or doesn't run) and as the Matt walks, my current commute shakes out to about seven and a half miles. I figured walking would be a happy middle-ground distance-wise. So, today I tried it out and clocked in at just under five miles walking at about an eighteen minute mile average pace. That brings us to an hour and a half walk. Getting home via Metro and walking takes about an hour. So, I saved $2.60 by adding a half hour to my commute today.

The trek

I think it may be worth it to make a habit out of this walk (perhaps in the mornings, when it's cooler, instead). The neighborhoods that I pass through are generally the green, leafy sort, so there is ample shade. There's a lot of fine landmarks to look at. And, lastly, there's many different changes in route that I could make to keep things interesting.

Today, I took the most direct route I could think of. Turning north off M St just before Rock Creek, I cut through a small park whose path led me to the P St Bridge, which I crossed and then immediately turned left onto Florida Avenue. After a brief stint on Florida as it winds past the Cosmos Club and the Embassy of Estonia, I turned north on to the mighty Connecticut Avenue. This was perhaps least pleasant portion, as the street is five lanes and quite busy during the evening rush hour. But, it lasted for only a block or two before I turned northeast on to Columbia Road, which I followed through Kalorama, Adams Morgan, and into Columbia Heights. Columbia Road is interesting in that it provides almost the entire spectrum of the socioeconomic strata of the city in less than a mile - from the Neoclassical severity of the Russian Economic Mission to an Ethiopian laundromat. From Columbia Heights, it was but a quick jaunt over to New Hampshire Avenue, then on to Rock Creek Church Road, which I followed along around to my humble abode just across North Capitol Street.

I have toyed with the idea of biking as well, but there is something downright nice about walking that you don't necessarily experience while biking. You get just as sweaty, but see half as much. Plus, it's a hassle to get my bike out of my apartment, down the stairs, and out the door (and then back in), and at 8am, I am just not one to deal with it. Anyways, we'll see how the walking goes, and whether I stick with it periodically or not.  

Men of Letters

I am almost finished reading The Greater Journey: Americans in Paris by popular historian David McCullough. It has been a fascinating look at the "long Nineteenth Century" in Paris, during which time it was the undisputed world capital of the arts, science, and culture (and maybe still is). The author follows the lives of many notable Americans who made long stays in Paris, including such luminaries as James Fenimore Cooper, Samuel Morse, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Mary Cassatt, John Singer Sargent, and Augustus Saint-Gaudens, among many, many others.

An interesting thing to consider about the book, which deals about day-to-day existence as well as wider historical happenings, is that the primary source material is from personal letters and journals. Though only a few were "writers", everyone was constantly writing. Of course, it was out of necessity in those days, but it gives me pause to consider how my generation will be reconstructed by historians. We are, generally, not writing very much. At least, not in any intimate or personal way to one another. The phone call has generally replaced the letter for such needs. But, though they may serve a similar purpose, they are not perfectly analogous. First, the letter is permanent, while the phone call (apart from some clandestine word-for-word transcription being generated by the NSA) is transient. Second, the letter, as a literary form, can pack in much extemporaneous information that is notably absent from most phone calls. Poetic descriptions of the weather, or musings on the culture that one is immersed in, are predictably absent from most phone calls that I am apart of.

We might then suppose that the internet, in all its myriad social media platforms, may be the other replacement for the letter. But, as a public forum, it is necessarily deficient in the exact opposite ways as a phone call. The internet is public, and largely permanent (though it feels transient), so a degree of intimacy and personality is inherently missing. We hurl our thoughts out into the abyss on the internet (I am doing so now) without much thought about the person-to-person conversations or discoveries that they may engender. And, when they do engender discussion, the case is that it often rapidly devolves into nonsensical shouting (have you read the comments on anything, ever?). No, the letter, with its one intended recipient, has a way of provoking thoughtful response that no blog or Facebook post ever will.

So, that leaves me to my original question, I suppose. How will we be discovered by generations yet nonexistent? Will they google us and find our blogs? Will they be able to read our Facebook messages and updates to get a sense of what we were thinking and doing? Will they raid the digital archives for our Instagram photos? And, will they, when all of this is said and done, come away with only a shallow impression of our existence - as shallow as we are accused of being by other generations for delving so deeply into the fleeting things of the digital age?

Commute

The month of May has recently departed from us as we speed ever so swiftly into the sultry days of summer. I have not written much of late, as I have been preoccupied by a great many things - foremost among which is my summer internship position. I was happy to accept a paid architectural internship earlier this past month at Hickok Cole Architects - a firm of about 90 people located in the Georgetown neighborhood of DC. I have had a good experience thus far, and have been learning much every day. The one drawback (if I must choose one) is the long commute I make to and from work each day. But, even this has settled into a routine.

I leave my door no later than ten to eight every morning. The fresh morning air has typically allowed me to put the extra spring in my step needed to negotiate the hills in my neighborhood. I arrive at the Brookland metro station and immediately slip into my MetroMode™, which typically involves a stoney-faced expression and a startling lack of patience for all of those who must (by some stern, unheard command, perhaps?) walk at a glacial pace within the Metro system. Having settled into MetroMode™, I take the ever-fickle, ever-jerky Red Line in the direction of Glenmont. If I am lucky, I get a seat and am able to enjoy about 15 minutes of good reading time. If I am unlucky (and I am), I am smooshed cheek-by-jowl into the belly of the car so that when the station is reached, I must clamor over people as if I were one of the sans-culottes in Delacroix's Liberty Leading the People, yearning for freedom from the hot, crowded car.

It does indeed take all of the energy of the July Revolution for me to make my way onto the platform at Metro Center, where an even more daring maneuver must be undertaken. At approximately 8:30am each morning I take part in the daily Running of the Stairs. Like the similarly named event in Pamplona, the Running of the Stairs features madmen running headlong through narrow public spaces. Fear of being late to their useless bureaucratic governmental desks, rather than the traditional bull, goads these men on. And what an event it is to see! The perpetually-sweating State Department staffer hurdling the little old woman who just wants to get on the Blue Line to go shopping in Pentagon City! The sheer thrill of plunging through ear-budded, pre-coffee, angry-faced government workers! All to make it into the Blorange Line train before the tell-tale chime signals the merciless closing of the most merciless of all portals - the Metro car doors. As an aside, just yesterday I saw my first dooring. A clueless man was smashed in the doors at Union Station. He ranted with exquisite profanity to an apathetic car-full of people all the way to Gallery Place-Chinatown.

Invariably, we make it on to some Blorange Line train or another, and endure a further three stops before exiting at Foggy Bottom, the most fancifully-named of all Metro stops. With the humidity as it is in this city, it's a wonder that everyone doesn't have a foggy bottom by about 9:15am every day. In any event, Foggy Bottom has the secondary, dubious honor of being the worst-designed Metro station in the system. Everyone exits and must then process (there's no rushing here) to the end of the platform to two upward-bound escalators that are almost always broken. There are no stairs nor any other secondary means of ascension apart from an elevator that is almost always full of the aforementioned little old ladies. Somehow, we manage to spring forth from the earth and into the even more perilous and intriguing world of downtown Washington.

The Metro exit deposits one beside the GWU Medical Center. At the top of the escalator, there is always someone playing a guitar badly, and there is an umbrella salesman who haunts the premises on rainy days. Navigating from the Foggy Bottom exit on 19th Street, circumambulating around Washington Circle, to Pennsylvania Avenue is a feat worthy of Ferdinand Magellan, Captain Cook, and the other great circumnavigators of history. The sidewalks are, like the heart of the Grinch, two sizes too small. And, no matter what Christmas miracles may befall the Whos down in Whoville, it won't make a difference to these sidewalks at all. People walk too slowly. They walk as if a geologic age was but a fleeting moment. I often think that perhaps Our Lord Himself has descended again from His celestial throne to amble about, as to Him "A thousand years are like a day." Nowadays, since one can call oneself Christian on the most flimsy of pretexts, it would be safe to say that in regards to walking in this godly fashion, one could reckon the Christian population of Washington Circle as extremely high.

Somehow, we manage to pass through this human molasses and reach the wider sidewalks around the corner by New Hampshire Avenue. In between, there is a rather literary homeless man who always has an intriguing display of reading material spread for sale on the sidewalk. The other day I saw numerous old copies of Restoration Hardware catalogues and "The Complete Idiots Guide to Judaism." Eclectic, if nothing else.

At long last, we round the corner across from the Spanish Embassy and begin the homestretch down Pennsylvania Avenue, as it runs through the West End and into Georgetown at last. This stretch is home to some admirably wide sidewalks, so I am not given to noticing things to the degree that I have the privilege of doing around Washington Circle. However, I do always enjoy people-watching at the Melrose Hotel, which caters to a rich-tourists-from-Iowa clientele. Flannel and martinis may be seen on the sidewalk terrace (on my evening commute, of course). Next is the surprisingly-not-too-ugly-given-its-age St Stephen Martyr Catholic Church. The carving on the doors is exquisite, but the plaque posted on the wall calls attention to a rather badly done ceramic statue of the saint affixed halfway up the wall, simply because the sculptor also sculpted the Iwo Jima Memorial. Alas, we can't have it all, can we.

The remainder of Pennsylvania Avenue is fairly nondescript apart from the regional Mormon headquarters being located betwixt two bars, and a stereotypical Italian restaurant with white linen tablecloths and Botticelli's The Birth of Venus emblazoned on the doors via stickers. The executive avenue crosses Rock Creek Park and its Parkway and enters the hallowed vicinity of Georgetown. The first landmark is the Four Seasons Hotel, which caters to a slightly more diplomatic set of guests than the Melrose. Earbudded men in black suits in black SUV's are often to be seen in the porte cochere.

Next comes the most tempting part of the whole affair. There is a little bookstore in the midst of several shops right after the Four Seasons. And, like any bookstore worth its salt, it puts out the bargain books on the sidewalk, so as to lure passing bibliophiles in for a look around. It has worked on not a few occasions so far. I have made a purchase of David McCullough's fascinating read The Greater Journey: Americans in Paris and an anthology of all of Jorge Luis Borges' non-poetic works. Both were for far below their marked price. Such a coincidence has made me a happy reader of late (as if I need more to read these days).

After the bookshop there is a little French cafe-and-crepe place called Cafe Tu-O-Tu, which has an assortment of red chairs out front. Every morning I see the same group of French-speaking gentlemen sitting there with their morning cigarettes and coffees. It seems even DC can't break the French of their habits. In the spirit of American multiculturalism, the adjacent establishment, Sterling & Burke, can only be described as an Anglophile's permanent rummage sale. The front window includes a Union Jack, cufflinks, tea apparatuses, and the like. I cannot fathom how such a place makes enough to pay the rent. By now, we have reached 29th and M Street.

The rest of the way to the office is by way of the ridiculously tight sidewalks of M Street - which, unlike those near Washington Circle, are cobblestone. This adds to the difficulty. But, thankfully, the morning commute is usually light by the time I am in that vicinity, and I can make it unperturbed to the office near 31st and the canal. I must have been quite the sight the other day, however. My friend cooked dinner for a few of us and asked me to pick up a loaf of French bread. I went over to Dean and Delucca and got a suitable loaf. This was around 6:15 and a violent storm was on its way in from the west. With a baguette in one hand, and my too-large-for-M-St-sidwalks-umbrella in the other, and the billowing storm clouds just behind me, I am sure I was sending people fleeing as I marched very quickly back toward the Metro.

Such is the routine of the day. The ordinary becomes interesting if you look at it long enough, and that's what I shall endeavor to do for the rest of my time this summer. I've been granted an hour in the morning and an hour in the evening to study the strangeness of humanity in all of its manifestations. What a life!

On death and the soreness of feet

It is simultaneously a delight and a detriment to one's health to reside in a city such as Washington, where constantly exists an ebb and flow of various friends and acquaintances. On the happier side, one's social calendar is manifestly enlivened, and excuses are made in order to spend the entire afternoon masquerading as the most maligned DC denizen - the tourist. On the painful side, one's feet tend to ache after a weekend of such traipsing.

The Friday 7:15pm train brought our good friend Nick down from old Baltimore, wherein he is engaged in the architectural profession on a semester internship with a firm of some repute. With him came our friend Taylor who also works in that venerable city, but resides in the capital with his wife, Heidi, who graduated with me and Nick from Ball State. Having met the pair at Union Station, the sole boast of America's train network, we strolled through Capitol Hill to Taylor and Heidi's home, where dinner awaited. Conversation naturally focused on things architectural, and we had a good laugh about the many war stories we've each collected since we all last conversed. In an intriguing twist of fate, my studio professor this semester is Heidi's current boss and happens to live two doors down from her and Taylor. Sometimes I think DC has just as many overlapping connections as some of the small towns that people come to DC to escape from.

In any event, studio will be an interesting endeavor. The project centers on a new interpretive gallery and visitor's facilities at the Congressional Cemetery - an oft overlooked burial ground on the southeastern edge of Capitol Hill, along the Anacostia River. The cemetery's heyday was during the Antebellum period, when all congressmen who died while in office were buried there. Notable graves from more modern eras include those of John Philip Sousa and J. Edgar Hoover. Elbridge Gerry, Vice President under James Madison, is also interred there - the only signer of the Declaration of Independence to be buried in Washington.

Nick and I, unlike the faithful departed at the Congressional Cemetery, were up bright and early Saturday morning to do a bit of sightseeing. The first stop was the ever-glorious Basilica of the National Shrine. Nick is a rather devoted Protestant, but he was very curious to learn about the Basilica and the various layers of symbolism therein contained. The evangelistic opportunities of architecture are seldom exploited in our bland era of beige, carpeted Catholicism - to our eternal detriment.

The always untrustworthy Metro, which is perpetually being rebuilt, conveyed us in an untimely fashion to Judiciary Square, from which we began the circumambulation of the various sites typical to my tours of the city. After a brief and disappointing foray into the National Building Museum (I should know by now that they're always setting up for events on Saturdays), we made our way to the National Portrait Gallery. In my opinion, it is the best museum in Washington. In addition to portraiture, there is a fantastic collection of American art, both contemporary and not, including a good bit of fine 19th Century landscape painting (the likes of Thomas Cole, Thomas Moran, and Albert Bierstadt are well represented).

The National Gallery of Art, my other place of continual pilgrimage, was the next stop. The rather uninspiring East Building, designed by triangle enthusiast I.M. Pei, is undergoing extensive renovation, so the modern collection is entirely in storage. This is no great loss in my view, apart from the room of Calder mobiles. The John Russell Pope designed West Building was fully functional, however, and could boast an excellent exhibit of Byzantine art and iconography (thronged, as it were, by Notre Dame priests in town early for the March for Life). In addition, the splendor of the rotunda was heightened by the presence of the Dying Gaul, one of the most famous Roman sculptures in existence. On loan from the Capitoline Museum, the Gaul is here until March - the first time it has left its home in at least two centuries. As is typical of most classical art, it was haunting in its realism:

So, there's two photos of death for you. The remainder of the day was fairly nonchalant, and Nick left us around 5:30. I was home and on the couch with my legs up for about five minutes before I received word that a whole company of studiomates were convening just up the road 'round Ft Totten. Alas, my aching feet would have to wait. Eric brought the chariot around and we went over to Ft Totten to have some drinks and poke some fun at the girls who take to long to get ready and never know where they want to go (these, in addition to death & taxes, are among the universe's eternal truths). At length, we ended up on the green line bound for U Street. Mercifully, the original plan to head toward Adams Morgan was abandoned. From what I understand, the place is at least three whole streets composed of the worst sort of bars full of the worst sort of people (at least, that's how it was explained). No, U Street is far better.

Up bright and early for mass at the Basilica. The afternoon, as it was a pleasant one, included a walk around the neighborhood over toward Rock Creek Church and its cemetery. My neighborhood is one of the highest in elevation in DC, which is made all the more apparent in the wintertime, now that the trees are denuded of their leaves and unexpected vistas open up as you walk along. After a bit of a circuitous route, I ended up at the cemetery, and wandered over toward the Clover Adams memorial, which features a fine sculpture by Saint-Gaudens. Though the sculpture was originally titled "The Mystery of the Hereafter and the Peace of God that Passeth Understanding", it has been commonly referred to with the less unwieldy title of "Grief" since its completion. This renaming apparently upset Henry Adams (the deceased's husband, and famed man of letters) deeply. I can't say I blame him. "Grief" certainly does not capture the full panorama of meaning found in the original title, and indeed, does not accurately the sculpture itself, which appears more peaceful than grieving:

Goodness, that makes three photos of death. I swear, I'm not attempting morbidity on purpose, but, my goodness, when your studio project is in a cemetery, I suppose things just go that way. Sunday ended with a good dinner of spaghetti, which, quite frankly, is about as fancy as I get with my cookery these days.

Today, due to the holiday, was a day off of classes. I naively assumed that I'd be able to sleep in and not have to walk to the four corners of the city for the third day in a row. Alas, the best laid plans of mice and man often go awry. I was awakened around 8 by a text informing me that the contingent of March for Lifers from my high school were to be arriving at the Basilica for a tour at 9:45. Having been a three year participant in the March for Life trip, I of course wanted to meet up with the trip leader and others. So, I hiked down to the Shrine and caught up with the group. Then, after having a chat with Mr Nugent and the others, I was shanghaied into accompanying them to Georgetown this afternoon.

It has been the plot of every group of girls that comes on the West Catholic March for Life trip to convince Mr Nugent to let them go to Georgetown Cupcakes. Every year, they giggle and plot and plead and whine, and every year he has held steadfast in his denial of their requests. Apparently he had a weak moment this year - perhaps due in part to the unseasonably warm weather here today - and he announced to me that "they've finally convinced me to go to that infernal cupcakery, or whatever it is!"

And so all fifty of us descended on Georgetown and made our way to the infernal cupcakery for an afternoon bit of sugar. By all accounts, it was a perfect day for a stroll in the most desirable neighborhood in the capital. I wandered over to the C&O Canal to see some of the older parts of the area.

So, in any event, my feet are sore and I'm looking forward to a slower weekend next. Of course, with the National March for Life and the first studio deadline of the semester intervening, I'm sure I'll be busy til then.

Christmas Greetings

If there is anyone out there who still reads this blog, I extend you joyful Christmas greetings and my best wishes for the new year! It's true, I've been rather neglectful of these pages the past weeks, or, as I now look at things, months. I must say, it's been weighing on me a bit lately. Whenever I get a moment or two of down time, I hear a little voice in the back of my mind pestering ever so quietly "write on your blog". I do love writing and sharing bits of my life through this medium, but it's the life, not the medium, that's been the tiring thing of late.

*     *     *

I returned to God's own land of Michigan late on the evening of December 12th, before much of the wicked winter weather had descended upon the Upper Midwest with much ferocity. I must say, though, that I had begun to miss winter in Washington - a feeling which was exacerbated by the pitiable way in which the region dealt with a mere two inches of snowfall the week before I left. In any event, I am home safe with one semester at the Catholic University of America behind me.

I don't wish to really delve into academics too much (at the risk of boring you, kind reader), but, suffice to say it was a successful semester on both important fronts: the lesser being the grades and the greater being the personal intellectual growth sustained. I must say that I am pleased with my choice to move to Washington and to attend CUA. It has afforded me much in the way of new perspectives and experiences, and I feel as though I am making good connections personally and professionally. But, that's all rather detached-sounding, as if I am writing for a CUA prospectus or something. I'll have thaw my writing fingers a bit more before talking more in depth about people and ideas that have made impressions on me this semester.

*     *     *

The weekend before Thanksgiving I made my first visit to New York City. I went with a friend who I know from Ball State who currently lives in Washington. We took the Megabus and stayed with a mutual friend who was in the city for the semester on a co-op internship program. We scurried about like good little tourists, attempting and mostly succeeding in seeing the major sites. I was sad that St. Patrick's was almost entirely coated in scaffolding both inside and out, but I was rewarded somewhat by happening upon a mass for the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre. It was the first time I had ever seen the Knights in any formal occasion, and it left quite an impression. I think such groups are good for the Church and for civilization in general. I may be accused for being motivated by nostalgia or mere conservatism, but I think such groups can truly raise the mind to the chivalric virtues they strive toward. Modern culture is wimpy. The knights of anything are inherently vigorous.

New York is entirely unlivable. Washington is the upper limit of urbanity that I could possibly ever deal with on a day-to-day basis. There are too many people in New York. There's no breathing room. There's the incessant monotonous march of regular blocks. Urbanistically, Washington wins, hands down. However, as far as the arts are concerned, New York beats everyone else, hands down. But, that doesn't make the city more livable in my eyes, it just makes me happy that I live only a short four hours away at this point.

*     *     *

I've missed Grand Rapids. I try not to cloud my mind unnecessarily with future plans, but one that I do fixate upon is that I would like to move back to Grand Rapids when the time comes. A professor whom I admire at Ball State would always admonish us, "Never give up on your hometown and never be ashamed of where you're from." This admonition, I think, stings the Hoosiers a bit more than it stung me, because it's very difficult for me to ever feel ashamed of West Michigan. I'm not going to gush on and on about how it's a "special place", but I will say there's a lot of raw material, so to speak, that makes it an interesting place to live.

People I meet in DC are utterly fascinated and bewildered by the Midwest. A classmate from New Jersey has never been further west than Penn State, and she was baffled when we had a lecture on Chicago, declaring "I never knew Lake Michigan was that big!" It's interesting being a stereotype. For many people I meet, Michigan is indistinguishable from anything else between Ohio and Colorado. This confronts my thinking in a harsh way, because there's a strong current of what you might call Michigander Exceptionalism in the Midwest. Michigan is different from everything around it. You can compare Indiana with Ohio and Illinois and be ok. Minnesota and Wisconsin are similar. But, Michigan is different.

*     *     *

I've made a lot of progress on my genealogical research in the past few weeks. For a long time, I had no information on my paternal grandfather's ancestors. I just new my great-grandparents' names and that they were from eastern Austria. I have since been able to trace back from my great-grandparents back to the beginning of the 19th Century. They were all ethnic Germans who lived in what was then the western edge of the Kingdom of Hungary. Nowadays, the territory they hailed from is a part of Austria. 

An interesting thing I've discovered throughout my research is how heterogenous my family is. There are unexpected little blips of different ethnicities that just pop up sometimes, much to my surprise. For instance, I was researching my grandma's grandfather, whose name was Frank Ryan. I had always been told he was Irish. His father was in fact a half Irish, half English Canadian, but his mother was French Canadian, descended from a family who were among the first settlers of Detroit. I guess the point is that the further you go back, the murkier things become. I started out my research thinking I was Austrian, Slovak, Polish, French Canadian, and Irish. I'm actually Austrian, Hungarian, Slovak, Ruthenian, Polish, French Canadian, Belgian, Swiss, Irish, German, and English.

*     *     *

Christmas was really nice this year. We had a lot of snow (about 14 inches) on the ground, and there were flurries throughout the day. We went to Midnight Mass at the Cathedral, which was beautiful as always. The chanting of Tollite Hostias and O Magnum Mysterium left a deep impression this year. This was the first time I have seen our new bishop of Grand Rapids. Not that it matters, but I like him. 

I got a hiking backpack, a winter coat, a little DVD player, and a nice messenger bag from my parents. It seemed a lot to me, but I won't complain about it. They will all be put to good use. I'm looking forward to doing more serious hiking in the future. Friends have a February camping trip in Virginia planned, so it will probably come in handy then. 

Friday we head up to the cottage for our extended New Years gathering. Many of the cousins will be up this year. Grandpa reported that the ice on the lake is about ten inches thick - unusually thick for this time of year. It will be good for hockey.

This and That

Washington is a great city for strolling

National Gallery of Art - East Building

Basilica in the evening

Rosslyn Jazz Festival with friends new and old

Cruising up to Georgetown with friends

My family at my cousin's wedding - 13 September

Beacon Hill, Boston - 22 September

The Mall nearly empty during day one of the gov't shutdown

Morning at the Southwest Waterfront

Old Airmen Cemetery near my residence

Donald Cardinal Wuerl, Archbishop of Washington visiting the Crough Center at CUA

Lecture and reception at the Italian Embassy with architect Claudio Silvestrin

Fall 2013 Sacred Space/Cultural Studies studio with Walton Critic Claudio Silvestrin

Hiking in Shenandoah

St. Anthony of Padua in DC's Brookland neighborhood

Resonating

This being human is a guest house. Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all! Even if they're a cloud of sorrows, who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture, still, treat each guest honorably. He may be clearing you out for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice, meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.

- Rumi

*      *      *

Sine I first read this poem last week, it has been resonating with me and my current situation. We are reading the poetry of Rumi as part of our introductory regiment for studio. Rumi has been much in vogue among New Age-ers and the like for some of his more universalist views. But, I echo both Thomas Aquinas who advised seeking truth wherever it may be found and a Polish proverb that points out that even broken clocks are right twice per day.

So early in my experience here in DC, I never know what the day will hold. There are many possibilities for both happiness and sorrow. Friendships are slowly developing, perhaps too slowly for my liking. I come from a vast network of friends, for whom I am very grateful. But, none of them are around. This is a new feeling for me. It isn't like freshman year either, where life in the residence halls provided a ready-made social environment.

This is not to say I am unhappy - far from it. We are just in unfamiliar territory at the moment. Every morning is truly a new arrival.

*      *      *

Tomorrow, there is an information meeting for the campus Knights of Columbus council. I look forward to getting to know some of the men on campus involved in that organization. Next week there are call-out meetings for both the American Institute of Architecture Students and USGBC Students, catering to architecture students specifically. I was involved in both organizations at Ball State and look forward to the opportunities they'll bring here.

So, there are things on the horizon. Organizations, meetings, and minutes will surely come in due time. Which again reinforces the awkwardness of the current moment. I know I will be busy soon enough. I know I will be longing for solitude and peace soon enough. Which means I should soak it all in now with gratitude. I am attempting to do so.

*      *      *

Daily mass is offered in Caldwell Chapel on campus at 12:30pm. I can go every day if I please. I have gone twice so far. I like daily mass because of its succinctness and its silence. Today we chanted the sung portions of the mass a cappella. It was hauntingly beautiful in its simplicity. No microphones, no piano, just the human voice rising to God.

Last week, the university's chancellor, Donald Cardinal Wuerl, the Archbishop of Washington, was on hand to offer a special Mass of the Holy Spirit for the opening of the academic year. The faculty were in attendance in full academic regalia, and the Apostolic Nuncio was present alongside a host of priests from area religious houses. It was a grand and solemn occasion that lasted nearly two hours. The grandeur of the celebration matched the grandeur of the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception - a rare feat.

*      *      *

I have been reflecting on how interesting it is to be back at a Catholic school. In a very interesting way, I think it was beneficial for me to have spent four years away. I loved Ball State, but it is so refreshing to be at a place unfettered from the bonds of political correctness and absolute relativism. This openness to discussion of faith - but also philosophy and more general spiritual things - is pervasive on campus. The studio concentration I have chosen, Sacred Space and Cultural Studies, confronts the metaphysical and spiritual dimensions of being directly, so that architecture can be in service to the whole person. 

Thus, having discussions on truth, beauty, faith, becomes integral to the progression of architectural education. Again, it feels as though I am breathing new and wondrously fresh springtime air. My past experiences of architectural education dared not even broach the questions of what makes architecture "good" or "beautiful". The relativistic tiptoeing-on-eggshells responses of professors were designed to be purposely vague so that one theory of what makes good architecture is not valued more than another. Of course, this was coupled with a nearly universal disdain for anything remotely traditional. At least here, everyone is showing their cards. I am enrolled in a studio that will be exploring minimalism. I have my own intellectual baggage about minimalism, but at least I know where I'm headed. I may be being cleared out for a new delight.

*      *      *

Campus is thronged by priests and religious in their habits. Seeing the variety of habits, cassocks, etc. gladdens my heart. It's like seeing a policeman or fireman in their uniform - you know that these men and women have put their lives at the service of others (and God, in this case). I wish the wider culture could see more priests and religious properly dressed out and about. It is such a counter-cultural sign to this self-obsessed era of ours.

*      *      *

I don't have air-conditioning in my apartment. This has taken some getting used to, as it has been routinely in the 90s since I moved in. The humidity is what really kicks my butt. I have never sweated so much in my life as I have the past two weeks. But, I am learning to cope, slowly but surely. Hydration is key, and I find myself drinking water at intervals that would've seemed preposterous in Muncie. Luckily, the evenings have been cool, so sleep has not been an issue. 

*      *      *

This past weekend, my friend Heather arrived for a visit of a few days. It was so very nice to have someone here to spend time with - especially such a good friend. I got to play tour guide around DC - it's amazing how quickly I'm becoming oriented to everything. It was fun to play tourist a little bit. We went to the National Gallery of Art, the monuments, the Air and Space Museum, caught the Army Blues band playing a concert on the steps of the Capitol. It was a nice, full weekend.

Also in the vein of travel and tourism, I'm looking forward to heading home in a week and a half for my cousin's wedding. The following weekend, I'm going to Boston to meet my parents for my birthday. And, at some point this fall, I must get up to New York to visit a good friend from Ball State who's working there for the semester. Being in a well-connected city like DC makes such visiting so much easier.

Recent Goings-on

I have been away from my blog for some time now. Mea maxima culpa, I won't let it happen again. A great array of happenings have transpired in my absence from your virtual presence. Allow me to recount them in bullet-point fashion.

• I turned 21. I was home for the weekend to enjoy my birthday with friends and family. A grand time was had by all, as you can well imagine.
• ArtPrize 2012 began and ended. The fourth incarnation of the world's largest public art competition again gripped the population of West Michigan. Grand Rapids came alive like never before as 400,000 people thronged the streets over a two-and-a-half week period to view and experience art. When all was said and done, more than $500,000 was awarded to winners - some chosen by juries and some - including the $200,000 grand prize - chosen by public vote. I must say ArtPrize 2012 has been the best year yet. Last year's event ended with me feeling a bit uneasy about where the competition was heading, but this year seemed to correct course and felt much more established than in the past.
• I went to Los Angeles. Field trip week is a longstanding tradition in the College of Architecture and Planning. Basically, the entire college takes a week off every fall to travel to various places of architectural significance. My studio section took off to the West Coast to enjoy the charms of sunny Southern California. Our tour included Hollywood, Santa Monica, Venice Beach, downtown Los Angeles, Culver City, and Pasadena and included works of architecture by Frank Gehry, Frank Lloyd Wright, Greene and Greene, Rafael Moneo, and Richard Meier, among others. The entire journey was fantastic and was enjoyed by all. It was probably my favorite field trip - a fitting end to four years of architectural travel with Ball State.
• I was invited to exhibit some of my work. The Cup, Muncie's premier purveyor of coffee and other hot goodies, invited me to show some of my sketches in their interior cafe space for the month of October. This is the first public exposure of my work, so I am very excited to see what happens. I have 26 pieces up for view, of which 11 are for sale. I set up this morning and I've already sold one, so I'm curious to see what will happen over the course of the next three weeks. If any of my readers find themselves in Muncie during October, do stop in to The Cup, purchase a delicious hot beverage and have a look.
• The Cripe competition began. This is the final architecture studio competition for seniors. It involves a site on an island in the harbor of Charleston, South Carolina. We'll see how it goes. I am working with a partner, so that will be a fairly new experience for me. 

I think that's about it.

Graduation Day

"This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad!"

The melodious sound of those immortal words from Psalm 118 reverberated elegantly through the Basilica of St Adalbert earlier this afternoon. The occasion was the Baccalaureate mass of the West Catholic High School class of 2012. We suspect that most in attendance were rejoicing and glad for any number of reasons. Ostensibly, we in attendance rejoiced for the graduates and their accomplishment of four years of secondary education well done. The students, on the other hand, were perhaps quietly rejoicing in not having to don another uniform, serve another detention, or attend another likely meaningless forum.

In any event, it is good for the community to gather and celebrate these students (my sister among them), and pray for their continuing bearing of good fruit in their post-high school lives. The setting for such celebrations and prayers, St Adalbert's, is particularly apt for the grandeur and gravity of the event. Carved angels and colorful saints adorning the cavernous interior, frozen in eternal celestial praise, added their mute support to those gathered below. Perhaps they were joined by a quiet echo of the generations of Polish Catholics who have gathered under those graceful copper domes, and whose spiritual zeal lead to the birth of West Catholic in the first place. There is a fitting symbolic crescendo of the worldwide Church, local spirit, and academic legacy in such a storied place.

His Excellency, the Most Reverend Walter Hurley, Bishop of Grand Rapids, was the chief celebrant of the Holy Mass. Though in the twilight of his time at the helm of this diocese, reaching the mandatory retirement age of seventy-five at the end of this month, the Bishop is still an able man with a quiet sort of wisdom that shone through during his remarks to the graduates during his homily. It is hard not to be inundated with banal cliches on such a momentous occasion, but the Bishop kept his gaze firmly fixed on Christ and extolled the graduates to do the same - wise words in these times of material uncertainty, tragedy, and fear.

At that singular juncture, I couldn't help but allow my thoughts to wander into that dangerous region of the mind that remembers how much I've grown since I heard similar words from the same Bishop three short years ago. At the time, I was decidedly lukewarm about the whole faith business. My, how times change. I have to imagine there were many students in attendance who are at the same point in their lives, and may yet turn toward God in new and unexpected ways. High school students have a peculiar habit of knowing everything, but the real exhilaration comes when you realize you hardly know what you know, and have no idea what you don't know. That's when God goes to work.

From the sacred realm and those cross-adorned pinnacles, the ceremonies transitioned into the more secular business of commencement within the gymnasium. I love the formality of the graduation ceremonies - pomp and circumstance indeed. It all raises the mind to the seriousness of the event and the responsibilities that come with the eventual transition into adulthood. In due course, speeches were spoken, diplomas were conferred, and all of the usual suspects said all of the usual things - with great clarity and grace. It was all very dignified and nice. It is one of the benefits of a small school with a small graduating class that allows a more decorous pace of things than at one of those huge student-factories where one is forced to labor through four hundred or so names, leaving hardly a moment for a more intimate discussion of the day.

Pictures were taken in copious number, rivaled only by the number of congratulations bestowed upon the graduates. Kayla was soon whisked off to the Senior All Night Party - an old West Catholic tradition, a sort of last-hurrah if you will. We were left to our own devices and soon made our way to the Walker Roadhouse, one of the most prominent West Side establishments, for some appetizers. Also in attendance at the restaurant was nearly all of what I shall call West Catholic society. In other words, a lot of people we know were there (including the Bishop and another priest of the diocese). I love having a place like the Roadhouse in town. It's the sort of place that I can see myself becoming a regular at (if I haven't already).

Thus ended Graduation Day. We here send all of our best wishes to the Class of 2012, that as they step out to a world roiled with change, they might take with them their knowledge and their virtues and change the world. A special congratulations to my sister, of whom I am so very proud.

Thanksgiving Diary

Of all of our peculiarities as Americans, the celebration of Thanksgiving is by far my favorite. Though we must forgive its Puritanical origins, the holiday always forms such a nice kickoff to the commercial pre-Christmas mania, and is perhaps the only thing that keeps us from being inundated with Christmas ads immediately after Halloween (though, of course, Hobby Lobby always seems to be about three holidays ahead in what they display on their floor). The irony, I suppose, is that the Puritans wouldn't have celebrated Christmas, and would, I gather, cast a characteristically dour gaze toward our overblown Black Friday hullaballoo - or any hullaballoo, for that matter.

In any event, your humble and obedient scribe was home for the holiday in Grand Rapids. Time was well spent with family, friends, and food, though not necessarily in that order of importance. A grave number of calories was ingested on several different occasions over the Thanksgiving reprieve. And, a similarly obscene number of hours were spent lying in bed - a delightful occupation for those of us who are so often deprived of our sleep due to the demands of architectural instruction. So, what have we got - gluttony and sloth? Our cardinal sinning was decidedly confined to these two vices, which seems permissible, since Dante's punishments for the gluttonous and slothful are not terribly vile.

Also accomplished was the annual Schmalzelian dispersal of Christmas knick-knacks throughout the house. I say dispersal because once the giant rubbermaid tubs are hauled up out of the crawlspace, the various Christmas accouterments seem to automatically find their respective ways to their traditional posts throughout our home - much as we wish that the confounded garland that goes over the mantle would somehow disappear quietly in the night. In due course, the house was Christmasified, which was followed  with a celebratory ingestion of even more turkey, reinvigorated in the form of turkey Manhattans - the most agreeable way to deal with Thanksgiving leftovers.

The chief event of Saturday was the implementation of the new translation of the mass, which I have detailed extensively in the previous post. After our sacred language adjustment, dinner at Salvatore's commenced. Salvatore's is one of those staple West Side eateries that always sounds good, no matter what one's disposition happens to be at the time. Though, we must report regret in not making a pilgrimage to the laudable Red Jet Cafe on the Northeast end of town.

Sunday was chiefly a day of trial, in the form of driving back to Muncie. It rained abominably the whole drive, which apparently aggravated certain drivers from Illinois enough to encourage them into the ditches off the interstate - which caused quite a spectacle (read: traffic jam). We seldom mention persons from Illinois, for our mother taught us that if one does not have anything good to say, one should not say it. This also goes for Ohio, though mention must be made of the University of Michigan finally triumphing over the barbaric oafs of Ohio State. Deo Gratias! All's well that ends well, as they say, and we finally returned to Muncie in good health, well-rested, and prepared to handle the final three weeks of this semester.

The Camp

Over the long holiday weekend my extended family gathered in Michigan's Upper Peninsula at a cabin that has been in the family for 38 years. It is a simple cabin with three rooms and a front and back porch. There is no electricity or indoor plumbing; water is gotten by means of an old red, iron hand pump that channels the water into the sink. The experience is rustic and uncluttered.

The cabin is situated in the midst of a vast forested swath of the central UP. The nearest town of any decent population is more than an hour's drive from our eighty acres. When you're at the Camp (as we call it), you're at home in the wild. Four wooden walls separate you from the raw power of nature. It is one of my favorite places in the world. It is to me what Walden Pond was to Thoreau. I am extremely blessed to have access to such a beautiful and restorative place.

Out in front of the cabin is a small lake of perhaps fifteen acres. It is ringed by marshy lowlands that vary in width from a few yards to several hundred yards. Beyond the marshes, birch-forested hills strewn with boulders arise and give shape to the lake's natural basin. Our cabin is the only cabin on the lake. At night, stars like you've never seen fill the sky over the water. Sometimes the northern lights dance on the horizon. Wolves howl often.

I love the cabin itself. It suits its surroundings perfectly - it looks like it's always been there. The kitchen is clustered around the old wood-burning stove in one of the back corners. A big iron grate in the middle of the floor lets up heat from the furnace in the basement. Propane lamps hang from the ceiling and cast their soft light over the room at night. Wide picture windows face southeast, making for a dramatic sunlit awakening for whoever sleeps on the pull-out couch. The interior decor is an eclectic affair: numerous deer antlers and old forest-y prints mixed with 1950s paint-by-numbers and an imitation Salvador Dali painting I did my senior year of high school. Bumper stickers are affixed to the fridge (which we use as a cabinet, since there is no electricity to have it function as a fridge).

The fire pit out in front of the cabin is the true center of life at the Camp. One rock for every year of our ownership of the Camp encircles the fire. Two boulders that my dad excavated from the driveway sit there - one is usually a convenient place for sitting my grandpa's trusty old radio. I like that the radio is our only media up there. It makes things less complicated. You get news and entertainment without all of the sensory overload of TV or internet.

Up at the Camp I feel much more energized than I do in Muncie or Grand Rapids. I think it's because we spend most of our time outside. For a good two hours on Saturday I chopped down small trees in front of the cabin that had become overgrown. It's nice to do some physical work without the pressure of necessity or time constraint. I even enjoyed mowing the lawn. I went to bed exhausted every night.