Results of Ruminations

Moments of mortality strike in ways that we rarely anticipate. While terminal diseases or the advancement of age can give a person the opportunity to prepare for the final departure, too often it happens abruptly and shockingly. A coworker of mine came close to losing his life in March when he was struck by a truck whilst riding his motorcycle. As he's said since then, one gains a new perspective on the priorities of life when that happens, and things that supposedly mattered turned out to not matter nearly so much. On Facebook yesterday, the sad new came to my attention that one of my high school friends, Dylan Thornton was killed in an accident on I-15, the interstate that connects the state from its Idaho border down to its southern extremes. I was never particularly close to Dylan, but he was definitely within my broader circle of friends. Back in the late nineties, we spent a number of evenings together. We made jokes in class. We were part of each other's dance groups...

Like Harry Baker  (start at 1:29), I like people. This is easy to say in general, because there are some specific humans that I have little respect or appreciation for beyond the simple truth that we're all connected--the beautiful and the despicable. And considering the unflagging pessimism that louers over my heart and the tumultuous sea of depression that too often capsizes me in its troughs, this is no small thing. Indeed, it's the love of people--more than love of self--that keeps me around. That isn't to say that I am in a perpetual state of desiring suicide--quite the opposite; I don't want this ride on Earth to end, and thinking of "the undiscovered country" propels me through more of Hamlet's "To be or not to be" soliloquy than is probably healthy and a more-than-white-knuckle-grip on however many numbered breaths I will yet claim. But that doesn't mean that I haven't thought about leaving the world on my own terms. I was ...

At the school where I teach, we have an annual tradition, spanning five years now, in which we have the senior class write a "Last Lecture" about their time at the school. Because I teach at a charter school that serves kids from 7th through 12th grade, some of the students who speak have spent a third of their lives in those hallways. They've accumulated a lot of experiences, taken a lot of classes, and heard me a lot, bellowing about uniform violations in those selfsame hallways. The lecture gives them a chance to reflect not only on those times, but the other tendons, fibers, and connective tissues that have built them into the young men and women they are on the cusp of becoming. This time of year is always enjoyable for me. While it can be stressful to finish all of the administrivia of being a teacher (which, I am quick to point out, is not so much as the administration has to do), this is one of my favorite times of the year. Emotionally, I've put my most imp...

Not too long ago, I wrote about my frustration with teaching World War I . I had finished my teaching of the unit, in which I spent two weeks talking about strategies, conditions, battles, causes, and consequences of the First World War. Some of the days--particularly when we talk about shell shock/PTSD and the Armenian genocide--are heavy, dark, and depressing. One of my primary purposes is to shock the students out of complacency that "World War I was bad, I guess, but it was nothing  compared to World War II, which is so much better ." That sense of comparison frustrates me, which means I take it as a personal challenge to help my students understand that it's not a matter of which was worse, but instead a recognition of the tragedy that both were. And since they know comparatively little about the First World War, I take it upon myself to drive home the point. Word Choice As I've said before , I'm not a big swearing guy. I try to be really conscientious of ...

Where I live, there's just enough light pollution to keep most stars at bay. How interesting it is to consider that technology can push away the ancient photograph of celestial bodies that nightly parades, moving so predictably that we long assumed the stars more permanent than kings, more powerful than rulers. Were a civilization 65 million light years away to look through its telescope at our pale blue dot, they would see the light reflected off of dinosaur hides and feathers. Maybe that's why aliens haven't visited our planet: They're afraid of our teeth. The vastness of space is so mind-boggling big that it's sometimes easier to entrench than explore, to recoil instead of redouble our efforts to learn more. That emptiness--the same sky that almost everyone I know sleeps beneath--means something different to each person. How interesting it is to consider that the immensity of the galaxy in which we live, despite its ubiquity, can mean something so separate fr...

We are all dying. It's no profound comment to say that life is merely the process of death. And that's why, despite the depression that has made me consider suicide more often than is normal, I still find so much worth living for. Because of the Great Inevitable, it gives all the more purpose to what time we have here. Famed atheist and astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson once said that, given the chance to live forever, he wouldn't take it. "Death," he said (as I paraphrase), "is what gives me the motivation to learn, to grow. To get up in the morning." But because we are all dying, it can sometimes be hard to know how we can live. One of my coworkers, well into his seventies, will be retiring soon and moving south, where the cold is less biting and the snowdrifts all but impossible. He invited me to his home today--the first time I've been there--to pick up some of his books. He's now at the point in his life where holding onto every tome he...

I've been thinking a lot about death this life, and I still don't understand it. Not the physiology of it (though my understanding of how the human body works is rudimentary and fractured) or the psychology of those who survive it (for a little bit of time, anyway). Those are fairly clear. For many, death invokes what Shakespeare wrote in King John . In Constance's words: Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form; Then, have I reason to be fond of grief? Fare you well: had you such a loss as I, I could give better comfort than you do. I will not keep this form upon my head, When there is such disorder in my wit. O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son! My life, my joy, my food, my all the world! My widow-comfort, and my sorrows' cure!  It isn't mourning that I'm...

Hamlet died today. Every year, I dress all in black on the last day's discussion of Hamlet.  Watch, tie, belt, shirt, pants--I'm dressed not only in mourning for the end of my unit on Shakespeare, but also for the end of the play, the death of Hamlet, and as an homage to the dark-clad prince of Denmark. Students who've passed my classes see me in the halls, offer condolences, yet smile to see doing that which I have done in other years. The final discussion revolves around a quote that for a long time puzzled me, but now that I've looked at it closely so often, it instead gives me great hope and purpose. I feel that this quote, in significant and worthwhile ways, provides the purpose in life: We defy augury: there's a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all: since no man knows aught of what he leaves, what is't to leave ...

I was originally going to write about the irony that, despite the fact that I've figured a way to carve out enough time to update my blog, I haven't worked consistently on any of my book projects lately. Instead, I read an email. One of my former students--who had left for his LDS mission to Tallahassee a couple weeks ago--is returning home because of, if I'm reading the email correctly, serious thoughts about suicide. As I mentioned before , suicide is thematic in a lot of the world's literature.* In my course, we'll be talking about Inferno  (as mentioned), Hamlet  (he contemplates suicide--Ophelia may or may not have killed herself), Les Miserables  (Javert), Things Fall Apart  (Okonkwo), All Quiet on the Western Front  (Paul...maybe), and Maus  (Anja Spiegelman). It haunts us, it worries us, and the way we think about it has changed over the years. It doesn't go away, however, no matter how much we talk about it--or ignore it or stigmatize it or dis...

I am one of those people who, after 32 years of birthdays, still likes getting older. Well, I suppose I should clarify that: I love having a birthday. When I was about to turn 24, my first son was born. In fact, it was the day before my own birthday when he came into this world. In part because I was happy to be a dad, and in part because he almost didn't stay in the world for long, I enveloped Peter's birthday into my own. The one day's difference didn't bother me (even though, as a child, I secretly hated my younger brother for having a birthday in March), and I have always deeply enjoyed celebrating my son's birthday with my own. Part of my love of a birthday is from growing up. In a family of four kids, there were plenty of ways in which I could get attention from my parents, but I was always content to just kind of...be there. I didn't do a lot of sports, extra-curricular activities, or trouble. I was pretty content to cruise, rarely doing much out...

NOTE: This one is best read as a follow up to the one about violence and the one about the next level of gaming. I am, admittedly, rather disappointed in this particular essay, but I want to see what others think before I scrap it entirely. Particularly the end—it smacks of being too preachy. You tell me. Also, there is a footnote. Just FYI. Death of the Avatar Roland Barthes in 'Death of the Author': “Writing is that neutral, composite, oblique space where our subject slips away, the negative where all identity is lost, starting with the very identity of the body writing” (Image, Music, Text, 1977). Replace 'writing' with 'gaming', and we have a new instance of death within video games--indeed, may very well be the only death within video games that matters. “[Gaming] is that neutral, composite, oblique space where our subject slips away, the negative where all identity is lost, starting with the very identity of the body [gaming].” Much has been said about t...

NOTE: This is a long one. It's also a lot more theoretical than conversational. If you have a question, please feel free to post so that I can try to be more clear. There is little debate on what the greatest debate is when it comes to video games: Does the imaginary violence of the game translate into violent behavior in the real world? It seems to be very much a 'depends on your point of view' type of argument. Not only does it depend on one's point of view, but also the particular study itself, what it focuses on, and how well it's managed. It is also important to note the rhetorical tricks of the debate*, since most of the data are coming from second or third sources. But I am no statistician, so numbers do nothing to help me to understand the issue. In fact, numbers about this argument are superfluous, since the entire point of gaming (whether the gamer/designer/critic is aware of it or not) is the individual as the ideal. Let's look at violence, then, shal...

I wanted to shoot this off ere I read one of the chapters in one of the new books I bought (don't laugh...too hard), The Undead and Philosophy: Chicken Soup for the Soulless . Okay, so it's a little bit gruesome, but you know what they say about judging a book by its cover. Also, this little book has a bit of a past with me: I am part of an intelligent and helpful writing group, the members of which spend a good deal of personal time shifting through my drivel and telling me that they like it. One member even takes time to peek in on this blog, which is probably indicative of a type of literary masochism. I don't know. Anyway, one of the authoresses of the group was/is writing a vampire novel (think Twilight for grown-ups...and better), and I noticed the aforementioned philosophy book at Borders. I flipped through it and laughed, thinking that Bekah could really benefit from some of the essays about vampires that the book has to offer. I put it down, told her about it, lau...

I still get a little teary-eyed when I mention how close we came to losing Peter. Twice. I was talking to a coworker in the hall today, after hearing good news that Peter's clubbed foot is doing just fine. I mentioned such that Peter was well and why we're happy for him today, which lead to a reference to the fact that I was glad the trip to Primary Children's Medical Center ended up being so fast easy, since there have been times when it wasn't. My coworker looked a little confused, so I asked if she knew of Peter's condition. She said no, so I briefly explained. She, curious science-type lady that she is, asked additional questions. The brief but colorful history of Peter was then related. During the part when I recalled the unknown future Gayle and I considered around two years ago, when we first realized the gravity of Peter's condition but knew nothing of what it might mean, that I may take my son for granted. We knew him not at that point, but wept to thin...

The entire purpose of this blog is for me to write when I want to write but don't know about what to write. Right? Right. Two things preoccupy me, the resulting clash of ideas being the reason for my blog's name and this particular blog's title: This is what comes of Steven Dowdle meditating. I can't tell if I irritate myself with the audacity of assuming that my thoughts are worthwhile, or if they simply irritate me because I have no audience to validate it. At least, with a blog, I can pretend that someone reads. So far, no one has. But enough wading through the pity pool; on to the preoccupations, both of which are related but come from different spheres. The first is my maternal grandfather, who is burning up with a fever at UVRMC in Provo right now, held in the cusp of life and death by the skilled nurses and doctors and surgeons who are trying to find out what is infecting him, and how to rectify the situation. The second is a line I just read from the incredibly ...