
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
AARP

Wednesday, August 20, 2008
AGING

My father celebrates his 96th next month. I tell him only four more years until he gets a letter from the president. I am assuming, of course that the president will still be doing that. The tradition that began years ago with just a few letters per month is quickly becoming unwieldy. By the time my generation become centurions, the postage will be a budget line item.
Having a birthday has caused me to think a lot about aging. This was the big six-0 for me. I used to think I was old when I turned 40. Now, I don't think I'll be old until I hit 75. Statistically, I hope to have another ten years of relatively good health before I have to physically slow down. Realistically, my health could fail without notice. It feels like a tightrope, with life on one side and death on the other. I don't sense the precariousness, however, because I made peace with God long ago. I'm more interested in the quality of life.
Several years ago my friend Carol recommended a book titled Success to Significance, by Bob Buford. The basic premise of the book is that as we age, our focus should slowly change from providing for our family, to one of ministry to others. It takes on a natural progression, gradually beginning in our early fifties, and continuing into retirement. I like the idea. It appeals to me more than playing shuffleboard for the next twenty years. One must also be realistic, however. I know one couple who is heavily involved in several ministry activities, all in the evening. They save their daytime hours for doctor visits. That doesn't appeal to me. I would rather be hiking during the day.
The increasingly inward focus as one ages is also scary. I know older adults are many times fixated on blood pressure, bowels, and medication. I understand how that happens, and I will fight it tooth and nail. I also know that a person's failing physical health can absorb all their energy. If you come and visit, and I start talking about my ailments, please hit me alongside the head. My dad has never focused on his health. Of course, he doesn't remember anything from one day to the next, so perhaps his failing memory is a blessing. When we go out for coffee in the afternoon, he doesn't remember what he had for lunch. He loves the visits from his sister in Texas, but about three days after she leaves, his memory of the good times dim to almost nothing.
They say we are only as old as we feel. When I'm not exerting myself, I feel 25. The key is to live life without unnecessary exertion. That way, you can live every day thinking you are younger than you really are. You only come up against hard reality when you go help your son and daughter-in-law work in their yard. It's been two weeks, and my back is just now feeling normal again. Next time I'll spend more hours holding the grandchild. There's no downside to that.
Friday, August 15, 2008
THE DRIFTING MOUSE

Saturday, July 12, 2008
THE WEATHER
Finally, the weather has changed. This year in western Oregon we did not have a spring. It went from wet and cool to dry and hot. I prefer dry and hot. In fact, the hotter the better. I know there must be an upper limit, but I haven't found it. Of course, my experience is limited to Oregon, so what do I know? Once, several years ago, I remember it was 106 in August. That was unusual for Portland. We drove to Phoenix that week, and when we arrived it was only in the 80's, but quite humid. That was my first experience with humidity, and right then I knew I didn't like humidity. I prefer dry heat. Most of the time in Portland we consider it hot if the temperature gets above 90. That doesn't happen too often. Our weather here in the summer is almost perfect. We have people who come on vacation from other parts of the country, and after just one visit, they decide that we live in heaven. They go back home, pack up, and move to Oregon. Then, when winter arrives, they realize that they were tricked into moving to hell. We actually have people suffer from lack of sunshine, and we call it SAD (seasonal affective disorder). It doesn't happen in central or eastern Oregon, just here where it rains and rains and rains. How hot does it get where you live?
Monday, June 16, 2008
THE FOUR PILLARS OF INVESTING
Anyone interested in managing their own investments should read this book by William Bernstein. Pillar One is The Theory of Investing. Pillar Two is The History of Investing. Pillar Three is The Psychology of Investing, and Pillar Four is The Business of Investing. He concludes the book by discussing investment strategy using the four pillars.
(Go here to read a recent magazine interview where he discusses investment strategy.)
The chapter on a history of manias goes back in history and highlights some incredible times in the past when whole societies were caught up in investment madness. The end result was always a crash. Our recent housing bubble has a lot of similarities to past manias. We definitely can learn lessons today by studying examples from the past.
Bernstein does not have kind words for financial brokers. The reason is that anyone with the time to educate themselves doesn't need to pay commissions to an adviser. In fact, that is the only reason to ever have a broker. Everyone else can do it on their own. The only reason I have a job as a financial representative is because there are a lot of people who, for one reason or another, are not educated and are not interested in doing their own investing.
Read the book, and use it to jump start your education.
Monday, June 9, 2008
APPEASEMENT
Resident Scholar Michael A. Ledeen
Ever since World War II, we have been driven by a passionate desire to understand how mass genocide, terror states and global war came about--and how we can prevent them in the future.
Above all, we have sought answers to several basic questions: Why did the West fail to see the coming of the catastrophe? Why were there so few efforts to thwart the fascist tide, and why did virtually all Western leaders, and so many Western intellectuals, treat the fascists as if they were normal political leaders, instead of the virulent revolutionaries they really were? Why did the main designated victims--the Jews--similarly fail to recognize the magnitude of their impending doom? Why was resistance so rare?
Why are we failing to see the mounting power of evil enemies? Why do we treat them as if they were normal political phenomena, as Western leaders do when they embrace negotiations as the best course of action?
Most eventually accepted a twofold "explanation": the uniqueness of the evil, and the lack of historical precedent for it. Italy and Germany were two of the most civilized and cultured nations in the world. It was difficult to appreciate that a great evil had become paramount in the countries that had produced Kant, Beethoven, Dante, and Rossini.
How could Western leaders, let alone the victims, be blamed for failing to see something that was almost totally new--systematic mass murder on a vast scale, and a threat to civilization itself? Never before had there been such an organized campaign to destroy an entire "race," and it was therefore almost impossible to see it coming, or even to recognize it as it got under way.
The failure to understand what was happening took a well-known form: a systematic refusal to view our enemies plain. Hitler's rants, whether in "Mein Kampf" or at Nazi Party rallies, were often downplayed as "politics," a way of maintaining popular support. They were rarely taken seriously as solemn promises he fully intended to fulfill. Mussolini's call for the creation of a new Italian Empire, and his later alliance with Hitler, were often downplayed as mere bluster, or even excused on the grounds that, since other European countries had overseas territories, why not Italy?
Some scholars broadened the analysis to include other evil regimes, such as Stalin's Russia, which also systematically murdered millions of people and whose ambitions similarly threatened the West. Just as with fascism, most contemporaries found it nearly impossible to believe that the Gulag Archipelago was what it was. And just as with fascism, we studied it so that the next time we would see evil early enough to prevent it from threatening us again.
By now, there is very little we do not know about such regimes, and such movements. Some of our greatest scholars have described them, analyzed the reasons for their success, and chronicled the wars we fought to defeat them. Our understanding is considerable, as is the honesty and intensity of our desire that such things must be prevented.
Yet they are with us again, and we are acting as we did in the last century. The world is simmering in the familiar rhetoric and actions of movements and regimes--from Hezbollah and al Qaeda to the Iranian Khomeinists and the Saudi Wahhabis--who swear to destroy us and others like us. Like their 20th-century predecessors, they openly proclaim their intentions, and carry them out whenever and wherever they can. Like our own 20th-century predecessors, we rarely take them seriously or act accordingly. More often than not, we downplay the consequences of their words, as if they were some Islamic or Arab version of "politics," intended for internal consumption, and designed to accomplish domestic objectives.
Clearly, the explanations we gave for our failure to act in the last century were wrong. The rise of messianic mass movements is not new, and there is very little we do not know about them. Nor is there any excuse for us to be surprised at the success of evil leaders, even in countries with long histories and great cultural and political accomplishments. We know all about that. So we need to ask the old questions again. Why are we failing to see the mounting power of evil enemies? Why do we treat them as if they were normal political phenomena, as Western leaders do when they embrace negotiations as the best course of action?
No doubt there are many reasons. One is the deep-seated belief that all people are basically the same, and all are basically good. Most human history, above all the history of the last century, points in the opposite direction. But it is unpleasant to accept the fact that many people are evil, and entire cultures, even the finest, can fall prey to evil leaders and march in lockstep to their commands. Much of contemporary Western culture is deeply committed to a belief in the goodness of all mankind; we are reluctant to abandon that reassuring article of faith. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, we prefer to pursue the path of reasonableness, even with enemies whose thoroughly unreasonable fanaticism is manifest.
This is not merely a philosophical issue, for to accept the threat to us means--short of a policy of national suicide--acting against it. As it did in the 20th century, it means war. It means that, temporarily at least, we have to make sacrifices on many fronts: in the comforts of our lives, indeed in lives lost, in the domestic focus of our passions--careers derailed and personal freedoms subjected to unpleasant and even dangerous restrictions--and the diversion of wealth from self-satisfaction to the instruments of power. All of this is painful; even the contemplation of it hurts.
Then there is anti-Semitism. Old Jew-hating texts like "The Protocols of the Elders of Zion," now in Farsi and Arabic, are proliferating throughout the Middle East. Calls for the destruction of the Jews appear regularly on Iranian, Egyptian, Saudi and Syrian television and are heard in European and American mosques. There is little if any condemnation from the West, and virtually no action against it, suggesting, at a minimum, a familiar Western indifference to the fate of the Jews.
Finally, there is the nature of our political system. None of the democracies adequately prepared for war before it was unleashed on them in the 1940s. None was prepared for the terror assault of the 21st century. The nature of Western politics makes it very difficult for national leaders--even those rare men and women who see what is happening and want to act--to take timely, prudent measures before war is upon them. Leaders like Winston Churchill are relegated to the opposition until the battle is unavoidable. Franklin Delano Roosevelt had to fight desperately to win Congressional approval for a national military draft a few months before Pearl Harbor.
Then, as now, the initiative lies with the enemies of the West. Even today, when we are engaged on the battlefields of Iraq and Afghanistan, there is little apparent recognition that we are under attack by a familiar sort of enemy, and great reluctance to act accordingly. This time, ignorance cannot be claimed as an excuse. If we are defeated, it will be because of failure of will, not lack of understanding. As, indeed, was almost the case with our near-defeat in the 1940s.
Michael A. Ledeen is a resident scholar at AEI.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
APOLOGY ACCEPTED

Monday, May 19, 2008
LISTENING

Proverbs 18:24 in the Bible says that if you want to have friends, show yourself friendly. I think we can rephrase that to say if you want to have friends, be a good listener. No one likes a person who is self focused and all they do is talk about their own interests and pains. It becomes a vicious cycle, causing others to avoid them even more.
Are you a good listener? I like to imagine that there is a secret recording of all my conversations, and I get points when I can direct the conversation away from myself. What about blogging? Isn't blogging the essence of being self focused? Maybe that is why it is so popular.
What are the keys to being a good listener?
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
BLOGGING AS THERAPY?

Saturday, April 19, 2008
DEATH AND TAXES

Sunday, April 6, 2008
CROWD BEHAVIOR

Wednesday, March 26, 2008
TAX REBATE

Saturday, March 8, 2008
INVESTMENT OPPORTUNITIES
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
FREEDOM OF SPEECH
Monday, February 11, 2008
ENTITLEMENTS
Sunday, January 27, 2008
FOLLOWING THE LIGHT

Monday, January 21, 2008
RAMANUJAN
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
RELATIONSHIPS
Monday, January 7, 2008
CHILDHOOD MEMORIES
Thursday, December 27, 2007
INVESTMENT CHOICES

Wednesday, December 26, 2007
THE RIVER OF DOUBT

Several months ago I highlighted Endurance. It was an epic battle of man against nature. At the time, Brad suggested I read The River of Doubt, by Candice Millard. It is a riveting story centering around Theodore Roosevelt's journey down an unexplored river through the Amazon jungles of Brazil in 1914. The expedition was led by Candido Mariano da Salva Rondon, one of Brazil's greatest heroes.
You would think that battling the jungle would be stressful enough, but they also had to contend with a murderer in their midst. Roosevelt's description of the piranaha makes me shiver. He writes, "The head with it's short muzzle, staring malignant eyes, and gaping, cruelly armed jaws, is the embodiment of evil ferocity; and the actions of the fish exactly match its looks."
There is another description of a tiny, almost transparent catfish known as the candiru. They are only about an inch long, and survive solely on blood. They feed in the gill chambers of larger fish, and drop off after having eaten their fill. However, they can be lethal to humans in the wrong circumstances. Candice Millard describes the following:
"In this case, however, the victim reported that, just before the attack, he had been standing in a river urinating, but the water had reached only to his upper thighs, and his penis had not even touched the river, much less been submerged in it. The candiru, he claimed, had abruptly leapt out of the water, shimmied up his urine stream, and disappeared into his urethra. He had made a desperate lunge for the fish, but it was too fast and too slippery. The incident occurred in a small town more than a hundred miles from Manaos, and the local doctors had been at a loss to help the man. By the time he was finally moved to Manaos for treatment, he had been unable to urinate for more than a week, and his stomach has become so distended that he looked six months pregnant. The doctor who eventually operated on him was able to successfully remove the candiru--without resorting to amputation."
Roosevelt survived the journey, but just barely. Through the latter part of the journey bacterial infections and malaria made an almost lethal combination. He never completely regained his health, and died just four years later at the age of 60.
This book is primarily a tribute to Roosevelt. He was a man of courage and iron discipline. As a child he was plagued by asthma, but used harsh physical exercise to conquor his weaknesses. He followed this formula for the rest of his life, and after major setbacks or disappointments, would often retreat into great adventures and will himself to prevail.
Like Endurance, this is a study of leadership. Rondon lead this journey, and Roosevelt would defer to his decisions, but sometimes there would be heated exchanges. The two men had great respect for one another, and after returning to the states, Roosevelt called Rondon one of the four most accomplished explorers of his day.
I have purposely not commented on the good parts. Otherwise, why would you want to read it?
Thursday, December 13, 2007
BUYING STUFF

Tuesday, December 4, 2007
SPACE
Growing up in the country, I had the privilege of seeing the stars at night. In the Spring I would sometimes accompany my dad as he made sure all the sprinkers were functioning properly, thereby keeping the cranberries from freezing.
Those clear, cold nights allowed a good view of our milky way galaxy. In addition to individual stars, you can't take your eyes off the white splash all across the center of the sky--like milk.
On summer nights
Our galaxy is about 100,000 light years across, with about 100 billion stars,
and a black hole in the center with a mass of approximately 3 million solar masses. Within range of our radio telescopes we know there are about 100
billion galaxies. Who knows how many are beyond that?
If we traveled to the nearest star at the speed of light, it would take
4 years just to get there. I used to hope that someday I would be able to at
least visit other parts of our galaxy, but unfortunately God put the stars
too far apart for that to happen. Oh well. Not in this life.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
WITH THE OLD BREED

Friday, November 23, 2007
GOOD RADIO

Tuesday, November 20, 2007
THE SUCCESS SYSTEM THAT NEVER FAILS

Saturday, November 17, 2007
CONFLICT

What is the root of conflict? We have conflict between individuals, within families, between clans, states, and nations. I see bumper stickers that say "Why can't we just all get along?" The prevailing viewpoints are that mankind is either basically evil, or basically good. The "evil" outlook is rooted in Judeo-Christian teaching, and the "good" perspective is a more recent addition since the enlightenment. What do you think? Will our future be like Star Trek or The Apocolypse? Perhaps it will follow the storyline of H.G. Wells Time Machine, and we will have one, followed by the other.
Perhaps the root of conflict is that we want to control others. When they don't do what we want, we get angry. We see conflict in preschool when children fight over toys. I think the weapons just get more sophisticated as we grow older.
I often tell Lin that the world would be a better place if everyone would just do what I say. Who are you in conflict with? Is it because they are a jerk, or are you the jerk? Has anyone ever used guilt or manipulation to make you feel like a jerk, when they are the one who is the real jerk? How do you get past that?
Have you ever found yourself in a relationship with conflict? How did you resolve it?
Thursday, October 18, 2007
THE DYING HOBBY
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
RACISM
Since WWII is the subject, I have uploaded some photos off original film my father took in 1945. The second photo is of my parents. They had been married about 4 years when it was taken.
He had his movie camera as they followed the front line and the retreating Germans. This next photo is a barn full of dead bodies.
The Germans locked them in; doused them with gas, and set them on fire. Three days later, when my dad arrived, he could still see smoke trailing off the corpses. It made an impact on the whole world at that time, and these films still make a powerful statement today.
Racism knows no limits. My question is, "Where does racism begin?" I think we can trace it back through culture, clans, families, and finally to the individual. What is in my heart? If I eliminate racism from myself, then it is more difficult to take root in my children and those I influence. If I speak out against it, then I have an influence in society as well. I have a responsibility to defend those who cannot defend themselves. I have a responsiblity to live a life free from hate. I have a responsibility to live by example. Can you think of other ways this should impact our lives?
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
GLAD TO BE ALIVE

Tuesday, September 25, 2007
THE LEPER CHAPEL
The Leper Chapel

“You are not here to verify, instruct yourself
Or inform curiosity or carry report,
You are here to kneel,
Where prayer has been valid.”
-T.S. Eliot
My bus slowed to a halt on Newmarket Road in Cambridge, England. I held my breath in anticipation; this was the moment I had been playing over and over in my mind. Twice a day for the previous week the small church had slid past my window on the route to and from the center of town. Each time I felt stirred to look closer at the stone walls, to touch the tall wooden doors. Brief moments of consideration turned into a determination of will; this was my chance. I stepped onto the cracked sidewalk, waked past the bus stop benches and toward the iron entrance gate.
The historical marker outside the church named it The Chapel of St. Mary Magdalene. It was built in the twelfth century under the reign of King Henry I, and it is commonly called the Leper Chapel. The church originally served as a place of worship for a lepers’ hospital that stood far on the outskirts of medieval Cambridge. Although it has been patched and renovated over time, it holds the title of the oldest complete building in the city. Over the last 900 years it has been used primarily as a place of worship, but also as a market house and a horse stable. Through it all the building structure has been relatively unchanged.
The foundation of the walls is a rough, red brick. The grainy texture of the blocks and mortar gives evidence of the chapel’s age. This layer quickly fades into the larger gray stones that compose most Cambridge buildings and a seam of cobblestones lines the top. The church is not much larger than a small house, but it sits in the middle of an undeveloped green field of grass. The path that leads to the door takes visitors through the gate and downhill to the level of the original city.
As I observed the building it struck me that this chapel was built when the Earth was flat. The heavens still revolved around the lepers that attended here; even their isolated community was kept in the center of the universe. Enlightenment science has since changed humanity’s view of our place in the cosmos, but the significance of the Leper Chapel has increased by its physical transcendence through the progression of time.
This chapel exists for those cast away from society. It is named after Mary Magdalene, a woman rejected by her community but embraced by Christ. The lepers that worshipped here knew the significance of that love. As patients in a hospital, this Chapel was seen as necessary part of their therapy. Jesus healed lepers throughout his ministry, thus a chapel devoted to his worship holds that hope. The unclean are made holy and acceptable by the grace of God both spiritually and physically. I have been the unclean one, and this Chapel invited me to worship also.
A sign informed the curious that the Leper Chapel is still used for services on a biweekly basis, but that weekday visitors could find the key at a nearby house. The doors are kept locked to prevent vandalism, but it is still a house of worship for all to use. After some confusion I found the address, and an elderly lady greeted me on the porch. With a cheerful smile she handed me an ancient iron key and showed me where to return it when I was finished. I thanked her and turned back toward the chapel.
There in my hands was the key to the oldest building in Cambridge. It was heavy and cold, but it allowed me the entry that I had been seeking. It gave me access to a church that had stood for nearly a millennium, and it was handed to me without a background check or even an appointed supervisor. I received the responsibility gladly; such freedom felt right in my spirit. It seemed appropriate that a church built for the lepers- the outcasts of society- would still be available to the public. It was built to embrace the outcasts, and I was invited to share that invitation.
As I neared the church my heart fluttered. Expectation threatened to dull reality. The key fit loosely in the old lock. I turned it with one hand while pressing my weight against the heavy wooden panels. A creak shuddered along the hinges; the lock clicked; and the door did not move an inch in its frame. I chuckled to myself and tried again. This time I turned the key and then applied pressure. Again it resisted. Anticipation morphed into anxiety. Three, four, five attempts followed, each with the key at a slightly different angle or the pressure of my weight in a different spot. The traffic lined up alongside the chapel in rush hour delay. Drivers undoubtedly wondered at the woman prying at the old church doors. I shrugged off lingering pride and continued the performance for my commuter audience. After at least fifteen attempts I gave up in frustration. Reluctantly, I turned back toward the key warden’s house.
The pleasant lady greeted me on the walk; she was surprised to see me so soon. I told her of my troubles and she gave me a patient smile. Apparently a few people suffer from the same problem. She offered to escort be back, and I gratefully accepted her offer. The trick, I learned, was to lift and push at the same time. Such a small difference in technique popped the door open immediately. She handed me the key and left me to the company of silence and history.
At first I was frustrated with my own failure. The moment that I had looked forward to had been colored by my own inadequacy and embarrassment. It was humiliating to ask for help in such a simple task as opening a door. Yet as the reality of my situation settled, I realized that my experience held a greater truth than I could have ever planned. How often do we reach our goals unassisted? Does independence truly equal satisfaction? My journey of faith has proved the point. Often I miss the way, ignore the truth, or crumple under pressure when I try to make my own way. But when the journey is consulted, submitted and shared with others, I experience the strength of the Body of Christ and truth that exceeds my personal understanding. My helper reminded me of the truth I would have otherwise missed: even as I took a private journey to the Leper Chapel, it was not a movement into isolation.
The door shut heavily behind me. Evening sun streamed through the small windows onto stone walls painted white. The effect was a soft, yellow light that clung to the dust in the air. The furnishings were the sparse necessities of an occasional church with two rows of wooden chairs facing a wide altar. On my right was a small pulpit with an open Bible on top. The room was largely undecorated save the puckish faces that stared down from the rafters with twisted, friendly grins. A single wooden cross marked the front wall beneath the high, dark beams of the Norman roof. The only noise came from the birds in nearby trees.
The chapel seemed to somehow escape the bounds of age and era. The floors and walls had spots where the stones were indented from generations of feet and hands. The shuffling feet of lepers, priests and parishioners had made a smooth path to the altar. My own visit was simply one more pair of hands and feet that would add to the wear. I was equally a part of the congregation.
There is confidence in the history of Leper Chapel. It is a physical testimony to a culture of faith that finds relevance and resonance in my own life. The history of the lepers is my own history. We are broken, outcast, and incapable. Some cannot even open doors for themselves. Together we form the Church of generations, the Body that Christ heads. The faith experience of lepers blends with my own through the prayers we share and the very chapel in which we worship. The current of their prayers and the depth of faith’s history drew me toward the front.
I knelt and prayed. My knees and palms pressed against the cool floor. Silence surrounded me, and the air was thick with absorbed petitions from generations passed. Mine joined the chorus. The space and the heritage of the Leper Chapel were available to me for a unique moment in time, and I was able to appreciate it with others before me. The climax was in the calm. It was a gift facilitated by others: the twelfth century builders, the community of faith in Cambridge, and the key warden among many others. I felt my prayers shift toward a close, and I stood to face the door.
At the exit was a guest book for visitors to sign. I debated the ramifications of leaving my name. My experience at the Leper Chapel had been intensely personal, and the anonymity of my solitude was part of that encounter. Yet it was the history of people that worshipped there before that gave my time its significance. Now I was one of the past worshippers, my feet and hands had worn away the stone, and the echoes of my prayers lingered in the rafters. I wrote my name.
The Chapel of St. Mary Magdalene is now part of my life story, and I am a part of its 900-year history. The Holy Spirit entwines my soul with the saints that have gone before—with those that built the stone walls and the lepers that were banished from city limits—and that connection will reach the visitors that are yet to come. More feet will glide toward the altar; many hands will hold the heavy key and open the aged door. As I shut and locked the door behind me, I knew that I would always keep the memory of a space that invites outcasts in the name of Christ.