A Week in Japan

I'll be honest with you: I've always been skeptical of Americans who are obsessed with Japan. I've run into quite a few people like this, and I've always felt a bit confused about them - I figured that they must feel very out-of-place in America indeed for Japan to seem an attractive alternative. Sure, it made sense that Japan is intriguing in an alien, weird sort of way - but that alien-ness rendered me incapable of identifying with a desire to move there.

Japan seemed so culturally opaque that in my ignorance, I was blind to any of its purported redeeming qualities. Indeed, I reckoned that any such redeeming qualities had a very long way to go if they were to rectify the alien-ness of the place.

That was how I felt until December 13, 2015, when I arrived in Osaka for the first time. Now, I'm happy to report, I get it. I really get it.

After a very long night of travel-induced slumber, I awoke to the most beautiful, functional, modern urban landscape I had ever seen, and it was filled with the loveliest, gentlest people I could have wished for. I had never seen this combination of truly modern city with truly friendly and apparently happy people.

The public spaces were simply incredible! Walking from my hotel to my conference center, I was shocked at the concessions made to pedestrians - the sidewalks were often wider than the streets, and there were trees everywhere! In America (with exceptions, certainly), big built-up urban areas often feel rather dead to me, if not downright scary. In Osaka, on the other hand, I was never alone, and I never felt unsafe. Every place I went felt like it had purpose and that it had been well cared-for.

So, here's to Japan. Different, perhaps alien, certainly. I suspect it would never feel like home to me. But for all that, I loved my time there and I would recommend a visit to anyone - and maybe you'll get a chance to "get it" like I did.

In Defense of Not Testing

Note: I wrote the following several months ago, shortly after my wife and I began to suspect that she was pregnant. I'm happy to report that since then, we've had the joy of hearing the baby's heartbeat, and just recently we felt it kick for the first time.

My wife is late. Two weeks late as of tomorrow. She is never late. Obvious conclusion? We’re pregnant. But here’s the thing: we aren’t actually sure. She and I have had many conversations with our close friends and family about pregnancy tests in the past two weeks, and despite the chorus of people encouraging us to test, we’ve decided almost for certain that we aren’t going to. I’m pretty sure that her reasons aren’t quite the same as mine; hers are probably driven more by her inclination to leave things appropriately unresolved so she can savor the anticipation and soak up every ounce of every possible moment. She’s not one to press forward into future stages of her life; she’d generally prefer to let the transition happen organically and enjoy it as she passes through it. I love this about her, and I married her in hopes of learning how to live that way myself - but it’s not my main reason for avoiding a pregnancy test.

As I’ve thought through my explanations of why I don’t want to test, I imagine my way through various test results. If the test came out negative, I would flatly refuse to believe it. My wife is an extremely “regular” woman; she’s never been more than a day late in her entire life. Any statistician would agree: Two weeks late means we conceived. We’re way too many sigmas out for this to be anything else. If a pregnancy test were negative, I would immediately consider it to be a faulty pregnancy test.

On the other hand, what would a positive result mean? On the surface, it would confirm what we already know: we conceived. We commenced a pregnancy. If we left it simply at that, we’d be fine; albeit no better off than before. But here’s the problem: when people get a positive pregnancy test, they don’t say “we conceived!” Rather, they make the dramatically stronger statement of “we’re going to have a baby!” But that is not what the test tells them; all the test can do is confirm that an egg was fertilized. The test cannot say if the baby will still be alive tomorrow; it can’t even reliably say whether the baby was alive yesterday. “Home Pregnancy Tests” could more honestly be called “Conception Verification Tests,” since that’s the only pregnancy-related information they give you with any certainty.

There seems to be this notion that unless you take the test, you’re totally clueless about whether you’ll have a child or not, that the test brings sharp focus to an otherwise hopelessly blurry landscape. We’re given this razor-sharp dichotomy: Complete uncertainty before testing, complete certainty after testing. But the way I see it, this line we’ve drawn is false and misleading; in reality, before you take the test, you’re not completely uncertain. The very fact that you’re taking a test means that at some level, you already suspect you might be pregnant; your uncertainty is already beginning to look a bit less blurry. Then, once you get the positive test result, the baby still has a very long and dangerous road ahead of it before you get the privilege of holding it in your arms. The certainty given you by the positive test is incremental, not absolute. The dark consequence of home pregnancy tests is that a positive test brings a dangerous illusion of certainty; true certainty can only come with time.

So, I’m taking this next month to cherish this process of incremental certainty. Every day that goes by where my wife doesn’t start a period is one day we’re that much more sure we’re pregnant. We’re letting our sense of certainty grow with the baby’s actual chances of survival. When we actually hear the heartbeat in utero, we’ll cry tears of joy like the new parents we’re that much closer to becoming. When we feel the little one kick us through its mother’s belly, we’ll be overjoyed because of the miracle unfolding in our life. When we hold our newborn child for the first time, we’ll thank God for this unbelievable gift that he’s entrusted to us. We’ll pray for long life, and ask for the courage to savor each moment as it comes.

Mini-disclaimer: I recognize that there are many legitimate medical reasons to take a pregnancy test, and I am in no way arguing that anybody goes against the advice of a medical professional in this. Also, I recognize that the ritual of taking a pregnancy test is a source of great joy for many couples and I hope if you're one of these couples that my words don't unduly detract from your experience.

Keep Your Eyes Open!

Mindfulness isn't a word that many people use these days. It seems to have roots in Eastern religion; and colloquially means something like "focusing your attention on the present moment and the things happening immediately around you." I learned the word in Boston while I was traveling last year; I was telling a woman I'd just met that the reason I run without headphones is that I want to be fully present to my run; not trying to distract myself from it. She replied simply: "so it's about mindfulness for you." Mindfulness, I thought. That's a word I need to remember.

Of course, I'm terrible at practicing mindfulness. Some combination of my personality and my surroundings conspire to keep my attention drifting far away from me. Interest rates, internal rates of return, income-to-cost ratios, lease contracts, and a thousand other distant tiny details swirl around in my head and blind me to the thousand tiny details right here in front of my eyes.

My happiest moments are always when I'm present to the close details - a moonrise over the water on an island beach, a field of wildflowers in the high Rockies. This is why I hike: to surround myself with wide spaces that irresistibly draw my mind from my investment portfolio. This is why I run: I find speed brings an immediacy to my attention; I can't be bothered with interest rates when I'm seconds from tripping over that boulder.

Rhythms of Green

One of my favorite things about living at home this year has been watching how my mom's windowsills turn green in springtime. My mom is an avid vegetable gardener, and she starts her seeds indoors in February, then moves them outside into her raised beds and greenhouse over the next several months. So throughout the spring, even on snowy days, her house is awash in new plant life.

This annual rhythm of brown to green has always enthralled me. I love the concept of rhythm and applying it to common phenomena, whether it be the rhythm of the earth's orbit around the sun (we call this "summer and winter"), the earth's rotation about its axis (we call this "day and night"), the alternating compression and rarefaction of air in our ears (we call this "sound"), or the superfast vibrations of electric and magnetic fields interacting with our retinas (we call this "light").

Is that fair? Can I take a concept I normally associate with drums and dancing and say it's essentially the same thing as the planets orbiting the sun? I've always assumed the answer is "yes" - because I find that sort of analogy to be a compelling way of dealing with the world.

So, mom, thanks for dancing to the green drumbeat of the earth with your tomatoes and peppers - and I can't wait to join the dance with a tasty stir-fry come harvest time.

The Boulders Rush By

The cotton-ball clouds lazily drift over my head; brilliant blue sky peeks out from between the cumulus. The sun, when he shows his face, is blinding and warm - a wonderful complement to the gusty wind. The earth passes by under my feet. Gravel, boulders, shrubs, these are my ground. Cliffs rise around me, indifferent (or perhaps intentionally aloof? I can never tell) to my presence.

The rhythm of my running shoes on the coarse sand mingles with the scrub oaks' breezy rustling. Moments like these make me jealous of the boy in August Rush - not jealous of his hands, but jealous of his ears - could I hear symphony in the wind if I listened hard enough? I am out here on the bluffs for just that - I hope that the subtle sounds of nature may calm the spinning cacophony in my own head.

Hills, roads, paths, and dry creekbeds conspire to take me far from my car, and I don't much complain. Getting lost is one of the risks (some might say one of the thrilling benefits) of exploration, and I embrace my new unexpected location. On the second half of my run, my companions are cars and apartment buildings rather than shrubs and rock; I'll take it. Could be worse.

The ground never seems to tire of rushing under my feet! I, on the other hand, have not yet conquered my limits, so my time in the sun and wind eventually comes to an end. Like so many other times of seeking, I can't say with great clarity that I've found anything in particular. But at least the noisy chaos in my head has slowed; and for that I give thanks.

Something Beautiful

Foreboding wall of mountains

Beckoning me onwards

Towering through the clouds

Peaks alight in the sunrise

Draped with whisps of mist

Bejeweled with flecks of snow

Daring me to enter

To test my mettle against theirs

And find myself utterly lacking

Yet still I lift up my eyes

For the danger diminishes not the beauty

The Effects of Setting One's Head on Fire

Disclaimer: there are a couple semi-graphic descriptions in this post. Stop reading here if that sounds bad to you.

Have you ever wondered what it's like to run around like those stuntmen in the movies with your head in flames? I know I have. Ever since I first saw something like that on the TV screen, I've secretly wondered how it feels. Recently, I was granted the rare and unexpected opportunity to find out.

It was the most terrifying thing I've ever experienced. It was the only time in my life that I thought I might be about to die.

I didn't realize my head was on fire until I drew a deep breath. The gas which entered my lungs contained none of its customary oxygen, and my panic set in. When covering my face with my hands proved futile to extinguish the blaze, my panic turned to desperation and my heart beat faster (they told me in the ambulance that my blood pressure was 180 over 110).

That's when it happened - that terrifying moment of "OH SH--... WHAT HAVE I DONE??" There wasn't any time for my life to flash before my eyes, or for me to have any enlightening philosophical epiphanies. I didn't sense anything supernatural. I didn't see a light at the end of a tunnel. In that eternal half-second of terror, my thoughts only got as far as "this could be it."

Then, rather than getting pensive about the afterlife, my instincts kicked in and I did the sensible thing: I pulled my shirt off.

The next 10 minutes are a bit blurry - the first thing I remember seeing is the terrified face of my co-worker Preston, on the phone with 911. I ran to the bathroom to rinse my face with water (which I recommend if this ever happens to you - apparently it cuts recovery time in half), killed the equipment power, and started spraying water on the fire that was still going.

When the paramedics showed up, I felt the most profound sense of relief. It was so wonderful to lie down on that bed and just let someone take care of me. I knew I was still breathing, and that seemed like a good sign, and I was sure the fluids they were pumping into my veins would feel ok. So I just relaxed, really for the first time in weeks. They told me I was going to Nashville and I said "hell yeah! I love Nashville!"

What followed was a blissful 6 weeks recovering with my family in Colorado. And the conclusion I came to was this: maybe those 5 seconds with head on fire were almost worth it after all.

just kidding. ;)

Time for the weekend

Now it's that magical moment - I've got all the equipment shut down for the weekend, with only one pump still humming in the background, waiting for the kill switch. All the doors are shut and locked except for the one I'll use to leave. Things are peaceful here for the first time all wee

Wait... I'm wasting this moment blogging??? peace, I'm out.

To hold all things together

While I was an undergrad at Georgia Tech, I remember thinking, "I sure would love to live in Tennessee." The little time I'd spent among the green hills of the Volunteer State had called my name. I didn't think it would ever happen. It was my intention to leave the South as soon as I graduated because the world seemed too big to spend so much time in one place (apologies for calling Georgia and Tennessee "one place" - you Georgians and Tennesseans must excuse my gross ignorance). Yet, partly by happenstance and partly by choice, here I am in Tennessee. Tragically, though I love the place deeply, I can't wait to leave.

For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to work for a start-up company that does something really cool. I would read about companies like Changing World Technologies (in Missouri, they use thermal depolymerization to turn turkey offal into fuel) or SpaceX (the founder of PayPal founded a company to build a manned space vehicle to replace the Space Shuttle), and I would think, "If I could just get in touch with one of some of these guys, I'd offer to sweep their floors - anything just to get in the door." Be careful what you wish for - there have been days here at SunsOil (a small company in rural East Tennessee making Biodiesel from various low-cost feedstocks - my NDA prevents me from publishing specifics) when I have yearned to do something as sanitary as sweeping the floor.

This past summer, I recall telling a friend that I was kinda looking forward to winter, specifically the cozy aspects of it. But lately there have been nights when I've been bundled to the gills, putting on putting on layer after layer, as many hats as would fit on my head, undershirts wrapped around my face - anything to keep the cold out; all I could think of was how sweet summer will be.

So the question I pose is this: How do I reconcile these things? How can I take the bitterness of the winter cold and hold it together with the joy of a fireside? Is one the evil dark side of the other, or do the two complement each other, imbuing one another with meaning and context?

Could it be that the warmth of the springtime sun is sweeter in the knowledge that it follows the winter snows? Could I live each moment rejoicing that I am working my dream job, all the while holding that knowledge alongside the hope of whatever adventures I'll find myself in next?

This is my goal: To hold all things together - the winter with the summer; holding in my mind the beauty and ugliness of each - allowing the two to commingle in my mind and bring forth one another's unique magnificence.

What are the stars thinking?

Tonight was a hard night at work. It was very cold out, and as luck (or whatever) would have it, it also happened to be the first night in a long time that I've had to spend a significant amount of time outside. I'm talking like 15 degrees. That's -10 to you non-Americans.

Most of the night was one hassle after another. Easily the most aggravating night in weeks. And with the cold, my hands hurt so bad I could hardly form clear thoughts, much less verbalize them to others.

But there was one moment when I was outside, and I happened to look up and saw that the sky was crystal clear, and there were stars and an almost-full moon shining brightly. My first thought was something that's buoyed be before through stressful stuff: "The stars are up there, and they don't care about my problems. Thus, my problems don't seem important enough for me to worry about them." But tonight, I thought "or, maybe the stars DO care, and they're cheering me on." I like it.

Spiders

Apologies for the delay in getting this posted - life's been pretty hectic of late and it's easy to let details like the blog slip a little.

More apologies to anybody out there who isn't a big fan of spiders. This post is all about them. One, in particular, that I found hunting in my kitchen a while back.

So without further ado:

I read somewhere that spiders don’t have muscles. They move around by alternately filling and emptying their legs with blood; extending and retracting each leg for maximum creepy effect.

Perhaps it’s symbolic that they locomote by pumping blood, because they seem so single-mindedly intent on draining blood. Friends, I witnessed a chilling spectacle the other day: A spider on the prowl.

The entire scene happened between my blinds and my window, and I watched from the outside. It was a beautiful Tennessee fall day, the air as clear as glass; the first of the yellow leaves drifting lazily down in the breeze. I was sitting out on the porch drinking my coffee, enjoying the morning, and I noticed that a fly had gotten trapped between my blinds and the window. It’s fascinating that the fly is so intent on flying through the glass that it never thinks to turn around and escape to relative freedom of the room on the other side of the blinds. I’ve found numerous flies lying dead on my windowsills because they spent their entire lives railing against the closed window.

But this fly faced far more terrifying dangers than starvation. I glanced back a moment later, and a new creature caught my eye: a spider, about the size of a fingernail, was sitting on the outside of the blinds. A wild thought crossed my mind: “she looks hungry.”

I’ve always felt beneficent towards spiders, because I appreciate the fact that they eat bugs I don’t like. So I leaned in closer to get a better look at the spider in my window. She was black, with faint orange pinstripes running down her legs. Elegant. And then she moved. Just a tiny turn, seemingly random – but then again. Again. It was as though she were tracking something with her body… I followed her line of sight, and there it was – plain as day – she was indeed hungry, and the trapped housefly was her intended prey.

My heart thumped a bit faster. Could it be? Could this spider seriously think she could catch an insect, almost her same size, that could fly? Insanity. But the longer I watched, the more I realized that she was deadly serious. Her patience was stunning. She would stay utterly still, silently waiting for the fly to approach, and then track it precisely with her body when it was close. If the fly didn't come close enough for a strike, the spider seemed perfectly content to wait for another chance, as though she knew the fly would not escape.

Every now and then the spider would change her location, trying to find a more advantageous position from which to pounce.

Then, suddenly, opportunity reared its head. The fly, blithely oblivious to its mortal danger, alighted a few inches from the spider, and the spider grasped at its chance. Unfortunately, the climax of the chase ended in failure for the spider… The fly proved too big for the spider to hold on to, and escaped its grasp after only a moment’s struggle.

I was disappointed with the spider’s loss of her prey, but there was little I could do for her. One thing’s certain: I’ll never take the apparent peace of my kitchen for granted again… who knows what horrific battles are being staged right beneath my nose?

Shooting Stars

I love shooting stars.

For the past year, until a week ago, I lived on a farm outside the town of Athens, Tennessee. Apart from the faint glow emanating from Athens, on a moonless night, the sky is completely dark. Black as pitch, except for the extraordinary array of stars.

One night several weeks ago, I arrived at the farm late one Sunday night from a weekend trip to Atlanta, and the stars were even more spectacular than I was used to. I didn't have to go to work until 5 pm the next day, so I figured I'd stay up and watch the sky for a while.

And then there it was. The tiny streak of light, so faint that it could have been my imagination.

I find nothing so difficult as walking away from a meteor shower. So after that first meteor, I was hooked. I lay on the hood of my car and watched for nearly 2 hours. I lost count of the stars after 5 or 6, but I figure by the end of it I must have seen 15 or so.

I hadn't eaten anything in hours, so my stomach was rumbling pretty badly. Nevertheless, I couldn't tear myself away. I tried all the tricks I could think of. I would say to myself "ok, if you don't see one in the next 10 seconds, go inside." I would count 1 - missssssissssssipppppppi -2 ..... and then even after I had drawn 10 seconds out to 100, I would say "ok, next time I see a shooting star, I'll go in."

Seconds later, I'd see one. But it certainly was faint. So faint that it might have been wishful thinking. And when they show up in the corner of my eye like that, how can I be sure? I'll go inside after the NEXT one. So it went for hours.

What is so mesmerizing to me about shooting stars? Why can't I tear myself away? The little streaks of glory entrance me so. Maybe it has to do with how fleeting they are. Perhaps it's the knowledge that a shooting star is an extraordinarily violent occurrence somewhere, far off - yet to me it doesn't even make a sound.

Shooting stars are like fireworks that nobody told you about, and discovering them is like walking into a surprise party. What are they celebrating? They won't say, but they sure seem jubilant about something.

Here We Go

I can tell already that "humble" was the wrong word to use in this blog title... My narcissism is rising as I type. All the compliments and encouragement from people feels pretty good. I found myself checking my own blog all week, scrolling down to see who had posted the new comments.

But that's neither here nor there. The real matter at hand is the details. The unfortunate truth is that I work too much. I clocked nearly 70 hours last week, and potentially that many again this week, so I find that each week becomes one long fight against fatigue.

One of the most tragic things about being extremely busy is that my eye for the details starts to glaze over. All of life is rush, rush, rush: wake up and eat breakfast fast so that you can move a load of stuff to the new apartment but then it's almost time for work so rush on over to the plant and oh no!! I forgot to pick up a loaf of bread for sandwiches!

The moon kept me sane the other night. I can't remember which night it was exactly; most nights blur together. I was waiting for a truck to arrive at the plant, probably around 1 or 2 am, and I decided it was a good time for a lunch break. So I took my ham and turkey sandwich (with pepper jack cheese! mmmm...) outside, and there was the moon. A day or two past full, it had risen a few hours before. I noticed it up there, and I grabbed my opportunity. I love opportunities like this, chances to focus and step out of my circumstances for a moment. I sat there for minutes - slowly eating my sandwich; slowly breathing in and out; slowly gazing up at the moon. As I sat there, for a little bit, the plant behind me faded away, the trucker who was several hours late faded away, and everything seemed to make sense for an instant.

Then real life comes back, and it's time to start rushing again. But after that moment of centering with the moon, I might have rushed less, even though the world was rushing around me. In the cosmic perspective of the moon and the earth whirling their heavenly dance across the solar system, my problems with a late truck driver and a dysfunctional boiler seem to shrink a little bit.

Philip Brown's Resume

Interesting title for a first posting, huh? I wouldn't necessarily have chosen that, but it was the first thing Firefox suggested when I clicked, so I figured I'd run with it.

First things first: what's up with the blog name? What's humble about a blog? Hey Internet! Be interested in me! Listen to what I have to say! The whole wide world likes me and reads my words! So maybe I chose the name partly to be ironic, but more because it says (obliquely, perhaps - my favorite way to say anything) something about why I've started this blog. Albert Einstein said something like "My religion consists of a humble admiration of the illimitable superior spirit who reveals himself in the slight details we are able to perceive with our frail and feeble mind." Perhaps a better name for the blog would be "frail and feeble," because I'm afraid that's the best I can do when it comes to putting words to those slight details I perceive.

Because it's all in the slight details. Slight details like shooting stars, grains of sand between my toes, the music of the wind rustling through the Aspens, dewdrops clinging delicately to blades of grass. When I look out at the world, I find myself deeply convinced that it all means something. All the right words nimbly evade the fingers of my mind when I try to describe it all, but I reckon it can't hurt to stumble along anyway.

So maybe this blog will fizzle out in time, maybe it will be uninteresting, maybe nobody will read it, or maybe somewhere down the line it'll light a spark in someone to join my quest for humble admiration. Because one thing's certain: there are an awful lot of slight details.