Dave | unobtrusive lucidity

Losing Letters

Maybe I’m missing something, but there seems to be a dearth of dads writing about being dads on the Internet, at least in thoughtful, long form ways. Perhaps this is because there is a dearth of anything long form on the Internet in its current sound-bite, social-media poisoned iteration, but I digress…

This is particularly noticeable to me because I think being a dad is hard. I know that I’m not alone, because every dad I know recognizes that being a dad is hard. Like any experience, there are things that only other dads would understand. There’s also a common ground that’s formed immediately, regardless of age or culture, in being a parent. Other dads just get it. We understand and sympathize.

I very much appreciate dads writing about being dads. In a society in which we’ve actively chosen to eschew the wisdom of our elders, I think that gaining whatever insight I can from others who have already been through whatever parenting challenge that I might be experiencing is of paramount importance. That’s why this post stood out to me in a very real, very poignant way, because it is insight into parenting from the son’s perspective instead of the parent’s. The son has recently lost his father, and speaks of the importance that the father’s letters have in his life now. The encouragement is for fathers to write more letters to their children. I encourage you to take a moment to read that post…it’s well worth your time.

We’ve taught both of our daughters to write letters. In some cases, this was seen as a curious novelty by their friends, and certainly the practice is often replaced by digital channels now in the case of our oldest. Still, letters and hand-written cards frequently enter and leave our mailbox, because we feel that this is an important social activity that should not become extinct. I also notice that both of our daughters, like us, keep journals of ideas and important thoughts. Like us, these aren’t digital journals, but hand-written pages. Like us, these journals are prized possessions, not because of the items themselves, but because of the ideas and memories contained within them. I’m actually quite proud of the way both of them hold onto this much more civilized and polite manner of communicating and keeping record of their musings.

And yet…

When I think of the written communication between my oldest and myself, it’s almost exclusively digital. I’ve thought often about this blog, and about how I hope that my kids will read it at some point when they’re older. I’ve even pondered if they will be able to gain insight into my thoughts and motivations after I’m gone by reading this space (I’ve been writing here long enough for it to be an actual record in many ways). That makes many assumptions, though, not the least of which is that someone will keep this around once I’ve passed for anyone to read it. Perhaps the Pulse will have happened by then and nothing of the digital realm will exist anyway. My point is that, I take the wisdom of the writer I linked to above. I need to write more letters, or at least notes, to my kids. Physical, hard copy letters. Things that they can keep with them and treasure if they so choose, because those are permanent, or at least more permanent than a URL. They also carry more meaning, because there’s something…spiritual…about taking the time to physically write out your thoughts for someone to read. The intentionality of that act is emotionally and mentally heavier than typing on a keyboard, if for no other reason than someone took the time. That, in a frenetic society starved of free time, is a valuable currency, and thus a valuable gift.

A year or so ago, I went hiking on the coast. This is a regular trip for me during the summer months, a day when I get away, be near the ocean, and center myself. As I sat down for lunch on that hike, overlooking the ocean on a beautiful summer day, and opened by backpack, I discovered a note written by our kids. It was simple…a heart drawn with the words “we love you”, and signed with both of their names.

Simple, but profoundly powerful, because they had taken the time to write this together, to slip it into my backpack when I wasn’t looking, to send their love with me for the day in such a real, tangible way. I saved that note. It is immensely valuable to me.

I need to learn from that. We need more notes and letters. We all do.

Go write them.

A Review of “Babel”

A photo of the cover of my copy of Babel by R.F. Kuang. — A photo of my copy of Babel.

Last year, I was looking for a fantasy read. I’m steeped in science fiction most of the time, but I’ve been toying with some fantasy world-building of late, and so I wanted to switch genres for a bit. I first saw Babel in a marketing email from Barnes & Noble and, while I almost always opt out of any and all marketing emails, I’m glad that one specifically escaped my opt-out attention because this novel was a fascinating read.

Part of what made it fascinating is the background of the author. Kuang is a scholar as well as a best-selling novelist, and her writing carries the weight of academic rigor that one might expect with that background. I’ll also admit that I was living vicariously somewhat, because I miss the days of being a student and writing, although none of my published work ever became best-selling.

That’s the sort of the nostalgia that the dark academia subgenre dives into, though…a wish for the simplicity and exercise of the mind that comes with the life of the university student. Books, libraries, close friends and late nights studying or writing papers…these were experiences that I, and many others, ached to reclaim once we graduated and entered this dreadful thing known as the “real world.” Mix in some magic and alternative history, and already one has a compelling world in which to base a novel. That’s only the beginning, though…Kuang gives us so much more in Babel.

Part of what is so engaging in this story is that the academic life that the reader may remember so fondly is critiqued so heavily here. Kuang gives no quarter in her critique of an ivory tower elite refusing to engage in the lives of the rest of the world at a meaningful level. If anything, the real world in which most academics find themselves upon graduation is the more meaningful reality for Kuang, as, in Babel, the academic elites shape that world for their own gain, and at the expense of those who live and work there. Read into this a critique of capitalism if you wish…one easily could…or simply sit with the encapsulating phrase from the book jacket’s summary that “knowledge obeys power,” and you begin to look back and question not only so much of your own education, but also ponder what is happening in the halls of academia today.

What is admirable is that Kuang doesn’t approach this from a condemning viewpoint, or at least not at first (it is fair to say she becomes a bit heavy-handed later). After all, we’re experiencing a higher education through the eyes of students, albeit students who arrived at Oxford through less than conventional means. Our protagonist, Robin Swift, is raised by a mysterious professor after being seemingly rescued from certain death in his homeland of China. As we progress through the first half of the novel, we discover that this rescue does not make him unique, nor did it occur with benevolent intent.

This part of the book moves slowly, perhaps too slowly at times. I’ll confess that I began reading the book in earnest over summer vacation, and ended it just in time for the new year to begin, after putting it down several times in between. This may be seen as a weakness, but its also a symptom of its strength. Kuang delivers not only an engaging fantasy story here, but also an academic treatise on translation as a discipline. This is complete with footnotes throughout the novel, which I’ll admit were a bit jarring to me in a work of fiction, but succeeded as a structural device in returning me to my grad school days of citing sources. The exploration of language here is beyond fascinating, both at a micro-level (I journaled multiple insights as to etymology as I read), but also at a broader, philosophical level. People and cultures are to be experienced through their languages here, and the impossibility of knowing someone deeply without engaging their language is made evident in a way that I had not previously considered.

A through-line of the novel, for good or bad, is violence. Every translation is seen as a betrayal, an act of violence against the original language (and yes, that is a concept that I had to sit with for a while). As the pace picks up dramatically in the last third of the book with Kuang unpacking a thesis of colonialism, our characters ultimately arrive at the conclusion that change to a corrupt power structure can only occur by means of violence. This is not accomplished in a one-dimensional sense. The characters involved in the final struggle wrestle deeply with this idea, and we walk through their thought processes with them in ways that make a reader question themselves, regardless of which side of the debate one might hold. Not every character arrives at the same conclusion, and this is part of what makes Babel a remarkable piece of fiction. Where I fault the novel is in its ending, for it is the final conclusion, and indeed the final act, in which violence is deemed as necessary, and enacted. Initially my reaction is one of deeply held pacifism…this doesn’t solve the problem! my mind screams in protest as the final chapters progress. I think, though, that this reaction is the point. As I’ve unpacked Babel over the subsequent days, I think that the goal is to present a tragic story of people desperate for change who are unable to see any other way. As their gifts of language are discovered to be turned against them, I’m reminded of a quote about the connection between language and conflict:

“War is what happens when language fails.”
– Margaret Atwood

Ultimately, we are meant to grieve at the end of Babel, not celebrate. There is no cause for celebration…a victory for our characters is no victory overall, but rather a loss for everyone. For all of their gifts and knowledge, their languages have failed them, because they were forced to weaponize what was meant to only ever be good.

Dark academia, indeed.

Babel is a heavy read, coming in at around 500 pages. While the pacing is a bit slow in the beginning, this makes way for meticulous world-building that creates a brilliant backdrop for the story. Rarely do I say that a novel is unlike anything I’ve read in the past, but I can truly say this about Babel. While the ending leaves me torn and unsettled (which I believe is the point), I would find it difficult to not recommend this novel. Babel should find a place on your bookshelf.

I’m Looking at You, 2025

Dare I write optimistically?

I’m not one to believe in things like luck, but there’s been an unfortunate pattern for a bit. I’ve written optimistic New Year’s posts for two years now, and have had some fundamental things about my world shaken for both of those years. The resolutions I’ve made? Sparsely successful. The biggest thing that I’ve accomplished? Survival, if I’m to be honest. Interesting, isn’t it, how you can look forward at your life at a given point, only to find yourself looking back on that point years or decades later and wondering how you could have been so positive. Yesterday’s optimism becomes today’s naiveté. And so it goes.

The thing that’s forefront in my meditation this New Year’s is an overwhelming feeling of time wasted, of a desire to redeem that time, somehow. I want life to work, to be stable, but not in the sense of logistics or the employment crises I’ve found myself in for the last two years. I mean that I want life to work in a larger, more wholistic sense…a more metaphysical way, if you will. I feel as though the experiences that I’ve had in the last two years have demonstrated that the road not taken in the Before Times may well have been the best one, and I’m trying to determine what to do with that.

So, my journal holds new year’s resolutions. I’m very hesitant to record them here. I’m hoping that, in a way I would struggle to articulate, things start to click this year. And that word is the beginning of the process: hope.

Such a small word to write, such huge implications.

I know this: yesterday morning, on New Year’s day, I woke up with my daughters and made pancakes for breakfast. Such a small thing, but something that they both love the three of us to do together, and something we hadn’t done in a long time.

Such a small thing to do, but such huge implications.

Here’s to 2025.

Christmas and Monopoly

A photo of a Monopoly game board. Used under Creative Commons.

I remember a handful of very important, impactful Christmas gifts over the course of my life. I’ve written about a few of them here. As the years progress, though (I’m much closer to retirement age than I’d care to admit), my interest in gifts lessens. I like opening some surprises on Christmas morning, but I’m much happier watching the kids’ eyes sparkle as they open theirs. Most importantly, though, as our celebration of Christ’s birth incarnates with people, is being with family. This is especially meaningful after a pandemic, during which we realized what it was to live without human connection over the holidays. We hosted some family from out of town this year, and a theme in the gift-giving was games. There were several board games given and received this year, which sparked some interesting conversation.

We’ve been wanting to play more games together as a family for a while. Somehow, the act of solidifying this into a practice and a routine has proven elusive. I’m not entirely certain why, but at the end of the day, the problem is one of discipline. Not at all insurmountable, especially now that the inspiration has struck.

As we discussed these games, a memory forced its way to the surface. When I was young…about the age that our kids are now, actually…my family played Monopoly. We really played Monopoly. The game would be set up on an afternoon as I arrived home from school. My father would arrive home from work and, after dinner, the game would begin. We never ended the game that night, though. We would play for hours, pause, and resume the next evening. These games could last for a week in some cases. Somehow, my father always won, except for one instance. I don’t remember anything else about that specific game, or that week, or that night, but I remember that I won the game once. Only once. That was a big deal.

I’ve always been close with my parents, and those sorts of family events were a big reason why. Who knew that games of Monopoly would prove such a cohesive event for my small family unit. Now, as my daughters have indicated that they wish we did more things together as a family, I’ve found my inspiration for a solution. While it won’t be Monopoly, it will hopefully be of the same effect. Those were better days…days that I’m sad our children won’t get to experience as the world becomes a progressively worse place in which to live…but I’m hopeful that we can at least pass down this.

My parents never knew what they were doing with those Monopoly games. Or, perhaps saying that is not giving them enough credit. I imagine that they were less than enthused about them at times. I am so glad, though, that they persisted.

Image attribution: mike_fleming under Creative Commons.

Hearing Myself from the Past

I started unobtrusive lucidity a long time ago.

I was in seminary then. I hadn’t yet met my wife. My days were primarily composed of reading and writing. Blogging was new, and I was fascinated by the outlet. I rolled up my sleeves (metaphorically) late one night in the tiny apartment in which I was living at the time, set up an account, and wrote my first post. The words just flowed out of me. And, though I wrote with a very different voice then, I could think so much more clearly. There was time. There was quiet.

I’m not sure if I categorize those days as the before times, really, but they were certainly adjacent. I chronicled a lot of my life and journey then for your, dear reader, in the hopes that it would be useful in some way. My motivation for writing here has never been one of narcissism. My life is still private. I just choose to expose parts of it with the thought that I’m likely not the only person experiencing something. I truly have always hoped that the words here help someone.

I didn’t think that, decades later, I would help myself.

You see, the thing about writing these posts for so many years is that some lodge into my memory, either because of the idea or the experience behind them, and others drift away almost as soon as I write them. I consider them all to be important, but some are less memorable.

I’ve been on an emotional roller coast for the past two years. Most recently, that roller coaster has taken me through a very difficult few months. There was a point where I felt hopeless, desperate, abandoned. Even though I logically knew this wasn’t true, the emotional impact of that mental reaction held a physical force, as though someone had punched me in the face. I was hurting. This was a dark place.

I feel very blessed to say I’m coming through the other side of it now. Toward the end, though, when I was at my lowest, I stumbled upon something I had written long ago. So long ago, in fact, that it was second post I ever wrote here. While I feel the emotional struggle in my words all of these years later, the odd thing is that I can’t remember exactly what I had been writing about. I have a guess, but can’t be certain. Interesting how time really does heal our wounds.

Whatever the problem, and however strange my voice from that time sounds to me now, I needed the advice that I had written. I needed to be reminded of what I had learned. I just needed that encouragement. I suppose that means that this space is fulfilling its purpose, hopefully to others, as well.

Hopefully to you.

May your Advent season be blessed.