Outside

My brother Alan claims to have once asked me how I felt about being outside, especially since so much of life here in Safford takes place out of doors, and also in light of the fact I spent 9 months in doors without being able to go outside. Allegedly I never answered his question. So I will do so now. I love being able to go outside and spend most of my time each day outside. It's great to be able to see the night sky as well. Because of the compound lighting, most of the stars are not visible, but many of the brighter ones are.

The weather here during October was beautiful. Now as December approaches, the temperatures have dropped and it is quite cold. It's no longer quite as enjoyable to be outside, but it's still nice to be able to. I hear it will get colder yet. The wind is the biggest weather problem. It makes the cold even worse since I don't have any real cold weather or wind breaking gear. I have a set of thermals and sweats and an institution issued light jacket. As long as the wind doesn't blow, then being outside is bearable. It's still cold, but just some light shivering is all that's necessary to endure it. But when the wind blows it quickly gets to be no fun to be out of doors. especially when the wind is blowing. Luckily there is almost no precipitation, so snow is not something I'll have to deal with here. I can see that I'll be spending most of this winter in doors when possible.

Once warm weather comes around again though, I will once again be spending a lot of my free time outside underneath the beautiful blue Arizona skies.

Visitors From Outer . . . Town

This weekend my parents Craig and Bonnie, my brother Alan, my sisters Amy and Wendy, and my nephew Caden (Wendy's son) embarked on a journey from the freezing weather in northish Utah to the freezing-but-maybe-not-quite-so-much weather of southish Arizona to visit me here in Safford. Two days from morning until evening were entirely spent visiting. It was so great to get to see them and I'm really grateful for the sacrifices they made to come see me. I certainly don't deserve it. But I guess some of those sacrifices depend on your point of view. For instance, they got to skip church whereas since our Sunday services held here in the compound are in the evening, I still had to go. Well I suppose I didn't have to go, but I chose to go. I guess that was a good thing since I was teaching the lesson this week, which was coincidently on sacrifice.

Cops and Robbers

So there I was. Casually seated around a table outside playing cards and wondering whether frostbite was going to become a concern or if I was just allowing the fact I could no longer feel my fingers to needlessly worry me. It was pretty cold to be sitting outside, but that's where all the tables are. When what to my wondering eyes should appear? An inmate running by in a mask, pursued -- none too closely, and losing ground I might add -- by an overweight correctional officer huffing and puffing it. I do admit it was amusing. I guess the C.O. was able to radio ahead because ten minutes later or so we saw several officers escorting someone back in hand cuffs. Of course that meant that the compound was closed early. We all had to go back to our dorms so they could do an emergency head count. At least it is warmer inside.

Racquetball Roughness

Today I got hit in the head playing Racquetball, twice. Anybody who's played Racquetball knows how much that can hurt, especially the direct hits which haven't had any chance to lose their kinetic energy by bouncing off any walls. Add to that freezing cold temperatures from playing outside, and that little rubber ball becomes quite the projectile. Luckily I was facing away from the incoming projectile and was thus only knocked up the side and back of the head.

The File Room

The File Room

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features except for the one wall covered with small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endless in either direction, had very different headings.

As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read "Girls I Have Liked." I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on each one. And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was.

This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn't match. A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching.

A file named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I Have Betrayed." The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. "Books I Have Read", "Lies I Have Told", "Comfort I Have Given", "Jokes I Have Laughed At". Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things I've Yelled At My Brothers." Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have Done In My Anger", "Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath At My Parents"

I never ceased to be surprised by the contents. Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I had the time in my years to each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature.

When I pulled out the file marked "TV Shows I Have Watched", I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not some much by the quality of shows but more by the vast time I knew that file represented.

When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts", I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded. An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: "No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!" In insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't matter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it.

Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh. And then I saw it. The title bore "People I Have Shared The Gospel With". The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards in contained on one hand.

And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that they hurt. They started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key. But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him. No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards.

I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in those moments, couldn't bring myself to look at His face. I saw there a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read every one? Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried with me.

Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and, once by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card. "No!" I shouted, rushing to Him. All I could find to say was "no, no" as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood. He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side. He placed His had on my shoulder and said, "It is finished."

I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written.

Man's Search for Meaning

My brother Alan, while participating in a book club, read "Man's Search for Meaning" by psychiatrist Victor E. Frankl and sent me a copy which I just finished reading. Between 1942 and 1945 Frankl labored in four different Nazi concentration camps, including Aushcwitz. Based on his own experience and the stories of his patients, Frankl argues that we cannot avoid suffering but we can choose how to cope with it, find meaning in it, and move forward with renewed purpose. A 1991 Library of Congress/Book-of-the-Month-Club survey asking readers to name a "book that made a difference in your life" found Man's Search for Meaning among the ten most influential books in America.

I really enjoyed reading this book as I was able to draw many parallels from it to my own experiences. Although the level of my own physical suffering is nowhere near that which was experienced in a concentration camp, I find that I can relate very well to much of the mental and emotional state of those that experienced the camps.

The book is basically divided into two halves. The first half deals with Frankl's experiences in the death camps. This was the more interesting of the two to read and from it I have taken several excellent quotes out to share. The second half is a brief explanation of this angle towards psychiatric therapy known as logo-therapy, from the Greek word "logos" which means "meaning". Although the first section was a more engrossing read, I still felt the second section worth a quick read if not an in depth study. I suppose the second section would hold more interest for those who are interested in psychology.

---

[...] there are moments when indignation can rouse even a seemingly hardened prisoner -- indignation not about cruelty or pain, but about the insult connected with it. [...] I had to listen to a man judge my life who had so little idea of it.

---

I shall never forget how I was roused one night by the groans of a fellow prisoner, who threw himself about in his sleep, obviously having a horrible nightmare. [...] I wanted to wake the poor man. Suddenly I drew back the hand which was ready to shake him, frightened at the thing I was about to do. At that moment I became intensely conscious of the fact that no dream, no matter how horrible, could be as bad as the reality of the camp which surrounded us, and to which I was about to recall him.

---

The religious interest of the prisoners, as far and as soon as it developed, was the most sincere imaginable. The depth and vigor of religious belief often surprised and moved a new arrival. [...] In spite of all the enforced physical and mental primitiveness of the life in a concentration camp, it was possible for spiritual life to deepen.

---

The salvation of man is through love and in love. I understood how a man who has nothing left in this world still may know bliss, be it only for a brief moment, in the contemplation of his beloved. In a position of utter desolation, when man cannot express himself in positive action, when his only achievement may consist in enduring his sufferings in the right way -- an honorable way -- in such a position man can, through loving contemplation of the image he carries of his beloved, achieve fulfillment.

---

It is well known that an enforced community life, in which attention is paid to everything one does at all times, may result in an irresistible urge to get away, at least for a short while. The prisoner craved to be alone with himself and his thoughts. He yearned for privacy and for solitude.

---

The story of Death in Teheran.

A rich and mighty Persian once walked in his garden with one of his servants. The servant cried that he had just encountered Death, who had threatened him. He begged his master to give him his fastest horse so that he could make haste and flee to Teheran, which he could reach that same evening. The master consented and the servant galloped off on the horse. On returning to his house the master himself met Death, and questioned him, "Why did you terrify and threaten my servant?" "I did not threaten him; I only showed surprise in still finding him here when I planned to meet him tonight in Teheran," said Death.

---

The experiences of camp life show that man does have a choice of action. Man can preserve a vestige of spiritual freedom, of independence of mind, even in such terrible conditions of psychic and physical stress. We who lived in concentration camps can remember the men who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread. They may have been few in number, but they offer sufficient proof that everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms -- to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way.

---

Dosteoevski said once, "There is only one thing that I dread: not to be worthy of my sufferings."

If there is a meaning in life at all, then there must be a meaning in suffering. Suffering is an ineradicable part of life, even as fate and death. Without suffering and death human life cannot be complete. The way in which a man accepts his fate and all the suffering it entails, the way in which he takes up his cross, gives him ample opportunity -- even under the most difficult circumstances -- to add a deeper meaning to his life. Here lies the chance for a man either to make use of or to forgo the opportunities of attaining the moral values that a difficult situation may afford him. And this decides whether he is worthy of his sufferings or not.

---

This young woman knew that she would die in the next few days. But when I talked to her she was cheerful in spite of this knowledge. "I am grateful that fate has hit me so hard," she told me. "In my former life I was spoiled and did not take spiritual accomplishments seriously."

---

There was plenty of suffering for us to get through. Therefore, it was necessary to face up to the full amount of suffering, trying to keep moments of weakness and furtive tears to a minimum. But there was no need to be ashamed of tears, for tears bore witness that a man had the greatest of courage, the courage to suffer.

I hope you all can find some meaning in at least a few of these passages. Some of you may have even read this book at some point in your lives. Thank you Alan for sending it to me.

Pseudo Email

For those of you who are not yet aware, you may now correspond with me through the internet using a wanna-be email service. To do so you need to log into a website where you can view messages from me and reply or compose new ones. It's not quite as convenient as using your own email client, and it does require that you be online while you use it, but it will save postage and the cost of printing/envelopes/stationary etc. As an added bonus, messages are more or less instantly received allowing for more timely news updates and same day replies. You get all this, and "these other fabulous prizes" . . . oh wait, I guess that's all you get.

If you're interested, I'll need to have your email address first so I can get you approved to use the system. You can send it to me directly or have my parents send it to me. I'll also need your mailing address, so if you don't think I have that, then send that too. Once I enter you into the system you'll be sent an email with further instructions on how to access the site and a link to it as well. Once you have access to the system, be sure to check out the options, one of which allows you to receive a real email notification whenever you've got a new message in the system. That way you don't have to keep logging in to check.

My immediate family are all signed up, so if you have any questions about or trouble with the system, I'm sure one of them can help you out.

Of course, everyone is still welcome to correspond via regular snail mail if that is your preference.

Thank you to everyone who writes to me. I love to read all your news and stories. I know I don't always respond to everyone, but I figure that's why I'm posting these entries, so that I don't have to. ;-)

The Stapler

My Aunt Leslie was telling me about how while she was using the sewing machine to sew an exterior pocket onto some type of carry bag for her daughter Brooke she accidentally sewed right through her finger. Not wanting to lose the well made stitches already in place, she tried to finish the pocket before removing the needle/thread from her finger. At least that's how I remember it going. This in turn led me to share with her my stapler story.

Four score and a bunch of time ago, we had a jammed stapler at work. If I remember correctly, it was probably the stapler of some pretty girl. So of course I set about attempting to unjam the stapler and thus prove myself the deserving hero. Unfortunately my methods left much to be desired, especially in the common sense department. My solution was to grasp the stapler with both hands and squeeze really hard to force the jammed stapler out. Well it came out all right and -- my thumb being somewhat unfortuitously located right over the exit slot -- straight into my thumb, all the way. At first all I could feel was pride in my work, followed by the realization of the result, followed by a sort of detatched surprise and amusement, follwed by reality and pain. Now the pain was really not all that bad. Just a pinch was all. So I went around the office showing off my handiwork to all my co-workers. After the novelty of it wore off I turned my attention towards removing the staple. Because it was tightly pressed flush against my skin, I actually had to use a staple remover to get a hook on it and pull it out. Although I thought the pain of it going in was minimal, it was considerably worse as it came out. As a result, I have developed a healthy but wary respect for staplers. They are to be used with prudence and wisdom and not lightly trifled with. When your guard is down, and you least suspect it: WHAM!, they'll get you.

Of course Aunt Leslie countered with her story of almost cutting the tip of her finger completely off with a pocket knife as a girl and my Grandpa refusing to take her in for stitches prefering instead to use some type of brown plumber's goop to seal the wound. Well she says it worked, so I guess all's well that ends well. I can't give more details than that because it would threaten to outdo my own story, and after all, this is MY blog.

Italian Opera

Tonight I began a three part educational video series of Italian operas. Tonight we watched La Boheme, a story about 4 destitute guys and their personal relationship issues and an odd need to sing everything they say at the top of their lungs. Oh wait, that's just opera. I actually really enjoyed it though and look forward to the next two operas. I can't remember what they are at the moment. This one had Luciano Pavoratti as the lead tenor. Although I've always basically known who he was, this was my first production I've actually seen him in, or for that matter even listened to beyond 10 seconds. The volume was definitely too loud with the fortisimo parts torturing the TV speakers and my eardrums. I will have to remember to take ear plugs next week.

American Trails

I began an eight or nine week educational video course today on "American Trails". It sounded interesting by the description. Unfortunately, reality wasn't having any of it. Actually the content of the videos was okay, but the production quality was like something produced by some 8th graders with a home video camera for a project. It was hosted by Tom Bodette from the infamous Motel 6 radio ads. For those of you who are old enough to remember his voice, it is rather monotonous. His voice droning on and on and poor audio and video quality contributed to a very difficult class to sit through. I was expecting something of at least History or Discovery Channel quality. I was disappointed. I guess I'll stick it out though. Supposedly I get a certificate at the end. I'm all about certificates.

Work Work

Election day is here once again. How did I spend my election day? Well like most people, I had to work. But unlike most people my hours were somewhat shorter. Today I was assigned to check out and fix the overhead flourescent lights in two of the T.V. cabanas. It turns out most of the lights were okay. Someone had just rotated the tubes enough to turn them off so they didn't glare off the T.V. So I rotated them back while sending out telepathic messages of #smug. It was a wasted effort for the most part. They'll just rotate them back off again. Oh well, what do I know; I just work here. It turns out though that there was actually one tube that was bad that needed replacing and wonder of wonders one of the fixtures actually needed a new ballast. So I took care of those and that was that. 20 minutes of work and I was headed home. Not bad for a second day on the job.

Ungainful Employment

You may have heard the term "Gainful Employment". It is my understanding that it means some type of employment from which you, well, gain something. Hopefully what you gain comes in the form of local currency, or at least unblemished cattle. Today I started working on the electrical crew, for which I'm paid so very little ($0.12/hr) that at first glance it almost appears that instead of them paying me, I'm actually paying them for the privilege to work. I am assigned to the p.m. shift which means I work from 11:30 a.m. until 3:30 p.m. Mondays through Fridays. Today for some reason they did a "late call" which means that they're not ready to call you to work yet so stand by and they'll call you at some point, maybe. We were eventually called to work at 1:00 p.m.

My first job was to ground a live transformer. And by this I of course mean that my first job was to watch someone else ground a transformer. My duties involved standing a safe distance away. Actually, I was right up close so I got to see and learn what was going on. We finished at 2:00 p.m. and there was nothing else to do so I got to go home. And of course by home I mean my NEW home a.k.a. my dorm here at the lovely Safford Retreat for the Convicted.

So on my first day on the job I only had to work -- by staying out of the way -- for an hour. Not bad.