I haven't posted anything for a few days; furthermore, I realize that many of my recent posts have not been the happiest (unless you consider dead pigeons and personal neuroses to be part of the sunny side of life)... Thus, nothing serves as the antidote to these situations quite like a recent photograph of my beautiful daughter, Olivia.

It's hard to believe that it's been a whole month since Olivia's operation to remove the hemangioma from her forehead, but she's been doing amazingly well (as you can see from the picture). The doctors have told us that we're basically finished with the treatment process, and all we have to do is check back in at the end of the year to see how everything ends up. We're very pleased that everything has turned out so well...

"What did you do for New Year's?" Amsterdammers ask this question with an expectation of wild stories dripping with champagne, basking in the glow of dazzlingly dangerous fireworks, squeezing through the crowds on the city squares... And indeed, most Amsterdammers (and most visitors to Amsterdam) can share such tales involving varying degrees of adventure.


But do you know what I did for New Year's Eve this year? I scarfed down a couple of olliebollen in between busy errands and quick conversations concluding a couple crazy days of conference. Then, around 11:30, I rode my bicycle home at a brisk pace, dodging bottle rockets as best I could, arriving home to a dark and quiet house. My dear, sweet wife was semi-conscious, in bed, suffering from the effects of a rampant flu bug; and my two children were sleeping peacefully, even through the rising din of snaps, crackles, and pops on the streets outside. As the stroke of midnight approached, I roused my son from a deep sleep, wrapped him up in a thick blanket, and carried him out to the sidewalk in front of our apartment where we gazed admiringly at the pyrotechnics on our street. But when the noisy explosions of a neighbors' fireworks shattered the sense of sleepy wonder in Elliot's eyes, we hurried back inside where it was safer, warmer, quieter, and we watched for a little bit longer. I gave Marci a peck on the cheek (no passionate smooching when influenza is involved) and tucked Elliot back into bed. Then I took care of some dirty dishes that had accumulated in the kitchen sink, and I was in bed by 12:30... Not much in the way of a classic New Year's adventure in Amsterdam. But there you have it.


The thing is... my New Year's Eve experience was not an isolated scenario. In fact, I feel that I often find myself in such situations -- seemingly on the outside, looking in at others having fun. And for whatever reason, the feeling has been especially pronounced over the last month or so... I'm doing dishes, while the dinner guests glory in each others' company... I'm folding laundry while the "important people" are having high-level strategic conversations... I'm working fourteen hour days while my best friends enjoy in-depth conversation with famous strangers... I'm "holding down the fort" so others can ride off to intrigue and adventure... And of course, I'm speaking with a sense of hyperbole and overstatement. But the truth is that I sometimes feel that my life simply serves as a frame for other people's masterpieces...


I can strongly identify with the character of George Bailey, from the classic film, "It's a Wonderful Life." Stuck in Bedford Falls, looking silly serving as a watchdog for air raids in middle America, while brother Harry pilots a fighter plane to glory and heroism in the War overseas... packing away the massive traveling case, while Sam Wainwright discovers wealth and notoreity on the East Coast... lending away every last penny saved for a fantastic world-wide honeymoon to keep the ol' Building & Loan running through dark days in Bedford Falls... Of course, George Bailey's life is a wonderful life -- but fact of the matter is that George Bailey's life often feels like stuffing dreams and desires to make way for others' needs. And honestly, that's the way that I feel sometimes.


At other times -- weaker moments -- my thought patterns put me more in alignment with the character of George Costanza, from the 1990s American situation comedy, "Seinfeld." Constantly plagued by a mild sense of paranoia, George was convinced that the world was against him. He was selfish, neurotic, and easily agitated. Short, overweight, balding, and cranky, George played a critical role in the television show -- often drawing huge laughs -- but the laughter were more often at his expense than to his credit. Clearly, Jerry and Elaine and Kramer all enjoyed having George as a friend -- as we all enjoy people like that in our lives -- but nobody would have wanted to be George Costanza. Because nobody wants to selfish, neurotic, easily agitated, or paranoid. But like it or not, I often find myself identifying with the character of George Costanza, just as I often find myself identifying with George Bailey.


It just seems like there is a certain pattern of person that persists throughout various periods of history, throughout various cultures -- a sort of personality archetype -- with which I easily empathize. Even from antiquity, I can identify with people who suffer from an overdeveloped sense of duty, control, and entrapment. The Bible describes Martha of Bethany in many ways that parallel my more modern comparisons. Luke 10:38-42 records how Martha hosted a reception for Jesus, in which she quickly became distracted by all the preparations that had to be made. In a moment of frustration, she tries to get her guest of honor to reprimand Mary (her sister) for leaving her to do all the work by herself. But instead, Jesus reprimands Martha saying, "My dear Martha, you are so upset over all these details! There is really only one thing worth being concerned about. Mary has discovered it -- and I won't take it away from her." As I read such words, I can feel a crimson flush burning my own cheeks, as I share Martha's frustrations and shames...


I've come to realize that George Bailey, George Costanza, Martha of Bethany, and I all share a psychological condition designated as a "Washingtonian Complex."


Truthfully, this diagnosis involves the introduction of a new term to the vernacular of popular psychology (a rather precocious move for someone like me, who has never studied clinical psychology). But perhaps you've heard terminology such as a "Napoleonic Complex," or an "Oedipus Complex," or an "Inferiority Complex"... You know, a subconscious set of behaviors that defines your patterns of thinking, feeling, and interacting with the world around you. Thus in an effort to recognize one of my own neuroses (and believe me, there are many), I think that I should be labeled with a "Washingtonian Complex" -- that is, an overdeveloped sense of identification with the "George"s and "Martha"s of the world. And well, because the first President and First Lady of the United States of America happened to be named George and Martha Washington -- and because my lack of pyschological credentials (and corresponding lack of accountability to the psychological scientific community) allow me to take great liberty with the naming of psychological complices -- I have coined the term "Washingtonian Complex." As a person with this condition, I suffer from an extreme sense of responsibility (to the point of enshaklement), a pronounced tendency toward feelings of inadequacy and jealousy (towards those living a more "privileged" existence), and a heightened sense martyrdom and self-sacrifice (that is actually more typically an attempt at subversive self-glorification)... And I think that every George or Martha in the world knows exactly what I'm talking about.


Although I'm not proud of my Washingtonian Complex, I recognize it in an attempt to neutralize the thought pattern and call myself out to greater caution and accountability. I will likely struggle with recurring lapses into such emotions for the rest of my life. Yet like George Costanza, I will seek to surround myself with other friends who can balance me out. Like Martha of Bethany, I will seek to develop a greater intuition on when to follow Jesus' example to serve by washing others' feet and when to simply sit at Jesus' feet. And like George Bailey, I will seek to remember that, indeed, it's a wonderful life.

We've had a lot of snow lately here in Amsterdam... well, a lot by Amsterdam standards. I would guess that we've had more snowfall in the last two weeks than we had in the previous two years combined. Our most recent snowfall, from yesterday morning, has even stuck around for more than a couple of hours.

So Elliot made a snowman, with some help from his mother. Two balls of snow (with a third to serve as a sort of hat), pebble eyes, and a carrot nose... Our first real Amsterdam snowman.

Call it refining my craft... Call it an attempt at subtlety... Call it nuance and artistic eccentricity... But whatever you call it, if it's not connecting with the audience, then you probably need to provide some clarification or explanation... some kind of answer key to help solve the puzzle(s).

When I used to sit in on literature classes and creative writing workshops as a university student, I was often frustrated by the infinite quest to find deeper meaning to a piece of writing. I couldn't believe that every story was trying to develop a parallel significance; it just seemed like people had to try too hard sometimes to make a connection. Couldn't Orwell's "Animal Farm" just be about a bunch of animals? Couldn't Golding's "Lord of the Flies" simply be written as an interesting account about a bunch of boys developing their own culture on a deserted island? The others in class would talk about Stalinism or Anarchism, but it could be so hard for me to get past the face value of a story...

Until I started trying to write my own.

Indeed there is something beautiful and profound about working to create a piece that offers meaning and fascination on more than one level. As a person matures, both as a person and as a writer, it becomes more significant to say something of significance in one's work. Symbolism, allegory, and metaphor become more meaningful tools to communicate this significance and profundity with a sense of subtlety and nuance.

So it turns out that my story about the chickens in the trees is not just about chickens. When I write about bicycle accidents, I'm not just writing about a literal bicycle hitting literal pavement. Of course, these stories do exist on the concrete level (catch the pun there?)-- I actually did suffer several mishaps on my bicycle during the first month of this year, and there really are chickens living along the railroad tracks in our neighborhood-- but these stories are also meant to have a transcendent quality.

Try reading the chicken story again, but think about the chickens as being wounds from our past and subconscious "buttons" of emotional response in our life that seem to get "pushed" at the most unpredictable moments in our life; similarly, read the trees and the brush from that story as being defense mechanisms and grudges and such... Think about the story on bicycle accidents as being a story on relational mishaps, times of hurting or being hurt by people you love... The "double entendre" (which basically just means "double meaning") of my most recent posting is that the word "lead" can be read or pronounced in two different ways, with completely different meanings-- both of which are meant to be applicable to the piece.

The fact that these deeper meanings are easily overlooked is the fault of the author, not the audience. As I said, I'm trying to refine my craft. This blog has been a great exercise in improving my self-expression on the most subtle and artistic levels. And I'm going to keep trying to be obviously meaningful, without being too obvious about it. So if you check back in on this blog from time to time, you can try to read with those eyes. And hopefully, with time, I'll get better at telling beautiful stories with beautiful meaning.

I can take comfort from the fact that one of the best story tellers of all time also had the same problem that I'm experiencing. Mark 4:33 explains that "With many similar parables Jesus spoke the word to them, as much as they could understand. He did not say anything to them without using a parable. But when he was alone with his disciples, he explained everything."

I'm going to keep working at it. Thanks for checking in on my blog. I love any comments that are posted. Stay tuned for more...

Lead is a heavy substance. A dense element. Dull, bluish-gray... it is not inherrently beautiful. It is often cold to the touch, though solid. In our culture, in this day and age, lead is not highly prized for its material value -- unlike more "precious" metals such as gold or silver. You'll catch no woman standing in the lead section of Tiffany's - New York, gazing at the beautiful lead pieces of jewelry. You'll watch no man fighting to win a lead medal at the Olympic Games. Lead is dull, dark, and dense... a dream of the foolish.

In fact, lead has been scientifically verified to have its dangers. Leaded paint. Leaded gasoline. Too much lead used in the wrong ways can lead to toxicity, a pollution of the environment, a hazard to the most innocent members of society. Our world is full of mothers anxious to keep their children away from houses with old paint jobs and shady sandboxes suspected of being infected with even the most microscopic granules of lead industriously sand-blasted off of some old bridge somewhere. A sensible person can't take chances with a substance as potentially harmful as lead.

Still, there is a certain beauty and value to lead, if employed under the proper circumstances. Lead can be a layer of protection when you're sitting in the dentist's chair, getting your teeth x-rayed. A heavy, reassuring apron of protection, a shield, a safeguard. Lead can serve as a framework for beautiful art. Small polygonic pieces of rippled red, mottled magenta, glittering green, brilliant blue, fitted together by a master artisan with small strips of lead. Leaded glass suppported by a web of lead, spanning an entire wall of a majestic gothic cathedral. And when the sunlight shines through the beautiful stained glass window, it offers a brilliant and warm glow to anyone who turns their face in the direction of the leaded masterpiece.