That is why the Christian is in a different position from other people who are trying to be good. They hope, by being good, to please God if there is one; or--if they think there is not--at least they hope to deserve approval from good men. But the Christian thinks any good he does comes from the Christ-life inside him. He does not think God will love us because we are good, but that God will make us good because He loves us; just as the roof of a greenhouse does not attract the sun because it is bright, but becomes bright because the sun shines on it."
-- C. S. Lewis, "The Practical Conclusion" in Mere Christianity
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Yes.
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Spoke for a long time with Nick T. last night about Christianity, Lewis, theatre, journalism, et al. It's the kind of discussion that I stopped having in Hillsdale about halfway through my time there. The all-encompassing kind. The closer graduation came, the more my thoughts were consumed with practicalities, future prospects and the like. Meandering through lay theology fell away.
It's refreshing to invert that, to bring meandering back and let the practicalities recede for some minutes.
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Like running:
I've scoured for running music and, thanks to suggestions from many folks, I've added to my playlist. I tested it yesterday; great stuff, a pounding in my ears to match the pounding on pavement.
Actually pushed through The Wall that runners talk so much about. Wasn't really keeping track, but I think it happened after forty minutes of intervals (four minutes running, one minute walking). In the last mile, forwent intervals as an experiment, and pushed through ten minutes of straight running. My iPod went out, probably from the constant motion, and while I ran I fished for it in my pocket, which was hard because I was still running. I probably looked like I was being twisted by an invisible fiend--or something--and was trying to get away. Anyway, the long and short is that the iPod didn't come back for a few minutes, and that's when I hit The Wall and came through it, and no song was playing. That's probably good.
Zach H., formerly a cross-country runner, told me that "running is more Zen without music." I believe him. At some point I should try going it alone, with no singer in my ear. Hear the passing cars and stuff. Disregard gaining ideas: song length and distance and time; meditate on passing through space instead.
Let the music recede, hear the world. Or something like that.
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More classes and workshops this week. February, being Black History Month, is slow for a non-black workshop leader; March's start also slow, but gaining speed. In like a lamb, in that way. The end of the month is rife with appointments, workshops, classes, shows, rehearsals, and more. I've completely forgotten about my taxes.
On Friday, TCTC's first drama class began, taught by yours truly. A barnacle on the yacht of history, I guess. But it went very well, despite my surprise at just how young a six-year-old really is. When they got their monologue selections (six lines of rhyme) they looked about ready to cry.
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Tomorrow, a talk-back with third-graders about Jack & the Beanstalk. Today, rehearsals start for Tom Sawyer. And I realized last night that this may be my last performance in my last show. Definitely for a while, maybe ever.
And it's not really sobering, or gratifying, or really anything. It's inverted, just the way it ought to be but not how I would expect it. Not at all. I expect it to feel cumulative, like all roads have led here, and instead it feels like I've finally reached a junction to another highway and this last show is an exit ramp. A necessary transition, unfortunately also a barrier to break through. A slowing down before a stop before a speeding up again.
Realness is strangeness.
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