Pied Beauty

One of my favorite poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins, the Jesuit priest and poet.

Enjoy!

For the kids of Smoke Tree Elementary School, 5th and 6th grade

I just want to thank you all for the wonderful packet of handmaid cards and letters that you all sent me for my birthday. I enjoyed them a great deal. I sat on my bunk and read them all through and said a prayer for each and every one of you, and your teachers.

I have some good internet at the moment, so I thought I would share some pictures and stories about the Philippines for you guys.
First off, if you don't know where the Philippines are, you should start there.

On the map you first find Asia, then you move southeast of Asia into the Pacific ocean, and in the middle of the Pacific ocean you will find a group of islands that look like this:

For security reasons I can't really tell you guys where I am in the Philippines, but I can show you some pictures I took.

I like sunsets. They look different in all the different countries I have been to. Actually, believe it or not, Iraq and Afghanistan had some of the most amazing sunsets I have ever seen, because of the high dust content in the air. I saw similar sunsets sometimes in New Mexico. Why do you think dusty air makes great sunsets?

This is a statue of Lapu-Lapu (yes, that is really his name, one of many names, in fact) who was a tribal king on an island called Mactan who commanded the local warriors in a battle on April 27, 1521. Ferdinand Magellan was killed in that battle. It did not prevent the Spanish from taking over the Philippines, but hundreds of years later Lapu-Lapu is regarded as the first Filipino national hero.

This dish is called "lechon," and it is delicious. The pig is stuffed with coconut leaves and all sorts of veggies and herbs I would not be able to name. It is then roasted slowly in an oven with the skin still on it. It is quite fatty, fully of cholesterol, protein, and other delicious things that growing soldiers require.

This dish is called "a tuna fish." That particular fish is approximately a meter and a half long, and weighs about 50 kilograms. There is an art to carving the fish like that. They slice it deep with a very thin, sharp knife in lengthwise slices, then again, parallel to the spine, and then perpendicular to the body, to create hundreds of little slices, each one about half an ounce in size. Then you eat it, raw, with chopsticks. I probably at about a kilo of it myself.

I took this picture while snorkeling in the ocean.

And this one. The clownfish likes to live inside the anemone, which has tons of stinging fronds that wave in the current. They don't bother the clownfish, but they sting any bigger fish that try to eat it. This is a symbiotic relationship.

What does the shape of this mountain tell you about how the islands were formed?

That's me.

These little motorbike taxis are one of the primary means of transportation in most of the cities.

This field is about 300 acres of rice. Rice is one of the most important foods in the world. It makes up 90% of the grain diet of many countries in Asia. It needs to be completely submerged in water for part of its growing cycle, so it is grown only on flat plots of ground. However, in the volcanic hills of southern Mindanao, and in the Himalayas in Nepal, I have seen rice grown on the sides of steep hills and mountains. They overcome the terrain by carving levels of terraces out of the side of the mountain like giant steps going up the mountain.

This picture is from Nepal, not the Philippines, but it shows how people grow rice and other crops on hillsides. All of those terraces were dug by hand with crude shovels. And you thought cleaning out your room was a tough chore!

The amazing thing about rice is that it is still planted by hand throughout much of the world! The fields (called "rice paddies") are flooded with muddy water, and then workers walk through the fields, painstakingly sticking shoots of rice into the mud, one at a time. It is a labor intensive, time consuming process. A lot of countries use migrant workers, including children your age, to do this work, paying them 50 pesos ($1.10) per day. It takes hundreds and hundreds of workers to plant fields this size.

 Baskets at a market, made out of palm fronds and bamboo leaves.

A market at a "Peace Village" promoting cultural sharing between Muslims and Christians. Most people do not know this, but there is a Muslim insurgency going on in the Philippines, but unlike other places in the world, there are strong peace processes in the works, and some legitimate reconciliation does seem to be happening.

Traditional wooden dishes, palm baskets, and work knives, with a couple of traditional swords.

This is what the mountains look like from the air. They are not very tall, compared to the Rockies or the Himalayas, but they are extremely steep and covered with jungle. They are left over from the volcanic activities that formed the islands. They are also beautiful!

I hope you enjoyed all the pictures. Thank you so much for the cards and the letters. Be good in school.

Yours Truly,

Ryan Kraeger

Masterpieces Upon this Transient Earth

Sometimes things that I see or read just speak to me. I cannot say why at the moment. As my cousin, a photographer and independent filmmaker, would say, they come together “behind my head.” Without fully understanding it on a logical level, somehow something in my heart seizes upon it and says, “This is important. This is good.” I usually ask why, but the part of my mind that recognizes has little interest in explaining. It knows that this is important, or beautiful, or good, and that is that

This blog post about an artist who makes beautiful designs by walking back and forth for hours on freshly fallen snow was one such focal point. When I read the story, and

saw the pictures, all I could think was, “This is a work of love.”

I did not know why I thought that. I could not have explained it, but somehow it only makes sense in my mind to do something like that for love. The man spends hours trudging back and forth, and back and forth to create something that will be gone with the first new snow, vanished without a trace, as if it had never been. The only trace will be in the minds and hearts of those who have seen it. Without my thinking it through, this intuitively seemed to me to exemplify the purest form of art, to create something of beauty and rigor and rightness, and then to let it go so completely that, not only do you not care if it gets destroyed, you have designed it specifically to be wiped out. Perhaps, in a way, these snow designs are like the sand mandala’s of the Dalai Lama. 

One of the books I am currently reading is “The Story of a Soul,” The Autobiography of Saint Therese of Lisieux. A day or two ago I was reading Chapter 6 where she describes the pilgrimage she made to Rome with her father and sister. She speaks wonderingly about the beauty of Switzerland, “With its high mountains, their snowy peaks lost in the clouds, its rushing torrents, and its deep valleys filled with giant ferns and purple heather. Great good was wrought in my soul by these beauties of nature so abundantly scattered abroad. They lifted it to Him Who had been pleased to lavish such masterpieces upon this transient earth.”

It was the last half a sentence that caught my ear, “to lavish such masterpieces upon this transient earth.

One of the most ancient, most noble and most controversial of human undertakings has been the production of art. The question of what truly is and what is not art takes up a good deal of space in the writings of philosophers, along with subordinate questions such as its purpose, its use, its value to society, how or if it should be regulated or controlled, etc. (Another of my current reads is Plato’s “Republic” which is greatly concerned with such questions.) But it seemed to me, with a sudden clarity, and indeed a certainty, that both Simon Beck and the Dalai Lama had, perhaps intuitively or perhaps more cognitively, grasped the real purpose of art; that is, to imitate God in “lavishing masterpieces upon this transient earth.” Precisely by focusing their creativity into mediums of extreme impermanence, they see and escape one of the most dangerous snares of art, which is the illusion of permanence.

Every aspiring artist nobly and rightly wishes to create art that will outlast him. He or she looks to the immortality of Shakespeare, Dante, Michelangelo, Boticelli, and others whose creations of goodness, truth and beauty have kept their names alive long after their bones are dust. Even the painter of the cave paintings in Cro Magnon, France, though his name is lost, his paintings live on. We all aspire to that.

However, in the immortal words of Admiral Akbar, “It’s a trap.” The permanence of Shakespeare and Dante are illusions. The marbles of Michelangelo will crumble to dust. Even the prehistoric caves will one day be a charred lump, along with the rest of this planet, in the cosmic sink that used to be our sun. When that happens, however, the soul of the human who created it will still exist. Perhaps this was why Therese of Lisieux was able to explain the precise place of art in such a brief sentence, in the middle of a book that meditates pretty exclusively upon the impermanence of all created things. She saw that only God is eternal, and she loved Him, and desired Him before all else, and so everything else fell into place, including created beauty. God does lavish masterpieces upon this transient earth, and calls us to do the same. We are called to pour out our attention, our effort, our blood and sweat and tears in imitation of Him, creating beautiful things with full knowledge that they are destined for oblivion.

This idea is especially relevant to the internet generation. On the internet you have millions of people, all trying to create something. Some are trying to create art, some are trying to create noise. Some still believe and are trying to create something meaningful, others have given up and are just hoping for five minutes of fame and a few thousand hits, by any means necessary. Some try to create beauty and meaning, others are content to expose themselves in any tomfoolery imaginable, if it gets them a little attention. My blogging is the same way. Each blog post lives for a few days at most, and even that is only if it is unusually popular, and then it disappears, snowed under the constantly shifting heap of relevance that is the Internet. It reaches a few people, maybe a dozen, and at best one or two will read the whole thing. The rest scan the first sentence of each paragraph, agree or disagree, and then move on to the next link.

In cosmic terms, i.e. in terms of eternity, the complete works of Shakespeare will fair no better, which is not to put myself even remotely in the same class as Shakespeare. It is only to point out that all things pass away, except God.

Once, in a discussion about art with my cousin (the same cousin mentioned above) I tried to describe art as “drawing my best picture with crayons and hoping God will hang it on His refrigerator.” Only in God’s eyes is the art that I create eternal. That is an amazing thing, if you think about it. God and I together create "memories" that exist in God's eyes for all eternity?
Whoah! Mind Blown!

I imitate God for the same reason that a two year old walks around with a plastic hammer hitting the furniture all day. That is what he sees Daddy doing. When I create a work of art, God sees it, He sees me creating it, He loves me. I give that work of art to Him with the same delight and trust with which a three year old gives his scribbles to his Mommy. Then I go on to the next one. The greatest masterpiece I will ever create is nothing more than another memory of my childhood for God to hang on His refrigerator. When I am fully grown, I will look back upon my worldly Magnum Opus and laugh at the squiggly lines and juice stains and dirty fingerprints. Only love makes anything permanent, because only love is of God. 

That is the only worthwhile reason to create art, as a work of love, knowing that while the work may pass away, the love will outlast the universe. 

Why Chivalry Still Matters

To balance out my last post, I have always been an advocate of a modern chivalry, going so far as to write a book and a surfeit of blogs about it. Despite the fact that it is no longer a primary focus of mine, I still think it is both good and necessary. Make no mistake, the need for chivalry, for protection of women by men, is still very real in this world. However, a fake chivalry that thinks its duty fully discharged by having held the door or paid for a meal is not going to cut it. The only solution for a crime against women like that pictured to the left, is a real chivalry, with brains and balls, muscle and a soul of steel, and the willingness to suffer (or perhaps inflict) violence if necessary to protect the innocent. 

That  picture is an extreme, although not at all uncommon, example. Perhaps acid throwing and nose cutting happen only in Afghanistan or India or Timbuktu or some such outlandish place but I can almost guarantee that on your street, right now, there lives at least one battered woman or abused child. If you are a public school student I can promise you, you walk past a half dozen scenes of bullying every week. If you work in an office you probably witness at least one or two incidents of verbal abuse, sexual harassment or oppression a day. This is the field of modern chivalry.

Most of your cardboard armor "knights," whining and complaining that no damsel wants him to be her savior, endlessly going on and on about how chivalry is dead and feminism killed it, they are just not up to that challenge. Unless they stop living in a fantasy world and open their eyes and train themselves long and hard, they never will be.

Chivalry and Charity

Recently my cousin posted a link on facebook to an article about chivalry which sparked a bit of a long comment thread on the subject. There were numerous pro and con arguments, but the only con argument against chivalry that seemed any good to me was the question my cousin had, that if chivalry is simply a matter of courtesy and serving other people, then how is it any different from Christian Charity? It is a just question, and I have been thinking about it quite a bit in the weeks since. Most of this post comes from that thread, but some is the result of those weeks of thought.

First of all, it is important to understand that they are not the same thing. Charity is supernatural, and the culmination of all virtues at their essence. Chivalry is a humanly defined collection of virtues. An analogy would be the difference between “Star” and “the big dipper.” “Star” is a concept which includes all possible aspects of the true essence of star, from the scientific to the poetic, discovered and undiscovered. “Big dipper” on the other hand, is our word for a specific group of stars which bear a certain relationship from our two dimensional view, but which would be meaningless viewed from nearly any other point in three dimensional space. This does not mean that the concept of “big dipper” is useless, especially for someone trying to find polar north without a compass, but if we ever go to another solar system and search the night sky for directions we may find ourselves hopelessly lost.

Chivalry is the same way. It is a human concept with a specific historical origin and evolution. It is also a word for a specific collection of virtues. These virtues differ from one time and place to another, but they historically have always included at least these three: some martial or at least athletic connotation; the idea of scholarly excellence in a general, non-specialized sense; and a certain mannerly and respectful way of treating others, with an emphasis on those in positions of vulnerability.

Chivalry is not about holiness; it is about self-improvement. It will not get you to heaven. (See John Cardinal Newman’s “Idea of a University.”) It may make earth more enjoyable but it will not save your soul. If diligently followed it will make you respectful, athletic, a respectable fighter, interesting, sophisticated, dignified and a great conversationalist (already we are far removed from the idea of chivalry as a portable doorman for highly manicured ladies). These are all good things, and well worth pursuing if you have the time and inclination. However, chivalry will not make you humble or compassionate. It is no guarantee that you will ever learn how to love.

Chivalry is particularly interested in the relation of men and women because of its origin in the middle ages. It originated (according to Brad Miner in “The Compleat Gentleman”) specifically as a means to teach big, rough, tough, skull-crushing, Saracen-gutting, half-barbarian warrior types to regard women as people with rights, rather than merely as property. The element of service to women is an attempt to subdue the aggressive, lawless and particularly masculine to service of order, beauty and peace. Holding doors for women is a somewhat pathetic remnant of that.

Since it is a man-made concept, it must evolve with the times, something that most of the “bringin’ chivalry back!” (BCB) crowd does not realize. A lot of BCB-ers lament the absence of damsels in distress because they feel that distressed damsels are necessary for them to be chivalrous. As long as the damsels get through life steadfastly refusing to be distressed, you can’t blame the boys in cardboard armor for being a little put out. 

 The fact is that somehow or other, women do in fact manage to get through doors, get into and out of cars, and procure food items for themselves, even when men are not around. They seem to do it rather well. Therefore, if holding doors and paying for dates is seen as the measure of what chivalry is, well, thanks but I have better things to do

A more mature chivalry sees women with a critically balance poetry. He sees what is, namely, that women now-a-days are not as exaggeratedly vulnerable and crying out for a rescuer as Sleeping Beauty and his behavior towards them respects that. On the other hand he also recognizes that the vulnerability that the Sleeping Beauty fairy tale symbolizes is not a bad thing. Vulnerability is worth fighting for. It is worthwhile to cherish and value that side of a woman, while recognizing that it is not her only side. She is a fellow shipwrecked passenger, just like I am, and her ability to be vulnerable and beautiful is one of the most powerful strengths she brings to this lonely island. It would be a shame if that were lost because there was no one around to value it.

You see, a truly chivalrous man knows that it is a good thing to treat a lady like a lady, and knows also that a “lady” is not a euphemism for spoiled brat. A true lady is a very dangerous and powerful person indeed. She is not a Disney princess. She is not a tame lioness.

But that is the long way round. At its best, chivalry like all other virtues must first resemble and then finally be drawn into charity if it is not to become obsolete. Charity is better. While chivalry is an exclusive virtue in that some people can develop it and some people cannot, charity requires only that you be willing to know and love the other and be known and loved. It is open to man, woman, child, old person, scholar and day worker, athlete and invalid, fat, skinny, strong, weak, genius or dunce. It is better to be even the littlest of lovers than it is to be the greatest of knights. 

However, in the last year or so I have not thought about practicing chivalry at all. I have gradually been shifting my focus towards striving after charity. This does not mean I think that my previous focus on chivalry is superseded. I think it was valuable and worthwhile, for several reasons. 

Firstly, it was the search for chivalry that brought me to the point where I could recognize that charity is superior. That was the most powerful draw for a man of my personality, and I think it could draw other men just as strongly. That is why I will certainly teach it if I ever have sons, or am in any way in charge of the education of boys.

 Secondly, I do not think that concentrating more on charity will make me less chivalrous. Quite the contrary, I believe it will fulfill and make complete the chivalry that I have been practicing for years, but, alas, have still not mastered.

And thirdly, charity is as individual as people are. Every human's love is different from every other human's love. Chivalry was the most influential part of the raw material, and it imparts a strong flavor or color to the shape that my charity will take, when by God's grace it is full grown.

Tacloban, Part VIII

Sometimes, even in the midst of a disaster area you have to stop and notice the beauty. 

Some people might think it a mockery. How could there be beauty in the midst of so much suffering? How dare we enjoy beauty, how dare we rest? Why are we not working still, pushing ourselves, doing something to relieve the suffering? There is no time for anything as frivolous as beauty. It merely mocks the loss of the people who have lost everything.

But then I have to ask, is it really a mockery after all? 

Or is it perhaps a sort of message? Perhaps even an answer?

For behold, all will be well, and All will be well, and all manner of things will be most well. 

Cuteness in the Morning

One thing you have to love about the Philippines: it is approximately 85% Catholic. 500 yards from the hotel I stayed in last night is a Catholic Parish, with Mass offered daily at 6:00 AM and 5:30 PM. That really is the standard, in my opinion. At least in every town there should be the option of a couple of early morning Masses, and a couple of evening Masses, so that everyone gets the chance to go to Mass, regardless of work schedule. To have both at the same parish is above and beyond, and probably only possible because it is run by the Redemptorists and so there are at least half a dozen priests on campus at any given time.

So this morning, after waking up and chatting with my fiancee for a few minutes, I did my workout (just yoga, since I am still recovering from my last injury), and I headed over for daily Mass. The place was full! Twenty minutes before Mass even started the place was pretty well filled, mostly with older folks, retirees and such, all sitting or kneeling in absolute silence. (So far I have had mixed experiences with kneeling in Philippino churches. The pews and kneelers are: 1) not affixed to the floor by any means whatsoever, and 2) designed for people half my size. This means that unless I kneel upright and absolutely still, they tend to slide, and that is just rude, re-arranging the furniture in Church, like a big gringo bull in a china shop.)

Philippinos love to sing. A Hawaiian friend of mine once remarked, "Why do all Philippinos think they can sing?" in reference to Manny Pacquiao's music debut, an album in which he sings five different remixes of "Sometimes when we Touch"... and nothing else. But I digress.

At any rate, in Philippino parishes, unlike most American parishes, everyone sings. They sing loud and they sing like they mean it. The hymns are, for the most part, no better than the ones I hear in the states, but they actually get into them which makes all the difference.

It is amazing! What love Jesus has for us! He makes Himself available to us every day, every single day, if we only make just the tiniest effort to open ourselves to Him. And there at Mass, surrounded by old, frail, wrinkly, eccentric saints, I felt humbled. Unworthy. It is good to feel unworthy because it allows me to appreciate more deeply the truth of the mercy I have been given.

After Mass I went back to the hotel for free breakfast. There was an old man outside the church as I left it, in dirty clothes. He made eye contact with me, and said, "Hey!" and made a move like he was going to come closer, but then stopped and changed his mind. I looked him in the eye, smiled and waved (smiling at people is pretty much standard around here) and half hesitated. Was he going to beg? Try to sell something? I didn't pause long enough to find out, and I think he didn't approach me because I didn't pause. Ironic. Less than ten minutes after receiving Jesus in the Eucharist, I walked right by Him without giving Him the time to see what He wanted. If that old man is there tomorrow I will stop and say Hi and talk to Him. After all, Jesus is giving me free breakfast. Why can't I pay it forward if that's what the old man wants?

In the hotel lobby the tables were all set immaculately, as if they had been set out by ruler. There was a buffet set up with such breakfast staples as fish, beef stroganoff, garlic rice (and when the sign says "garlic rice" well, you better expect some Garlic! in that rice.) There is a chef on duty who cooks omelets and pancakes to order, and a smaller buffet of more typical American breakfast foods. I grabbed a little of this and a little of that, and some assorted sliced fruit and a mango "banna cata" which was like a yogurt pudding with mango jelly on top. Let me tell you, that was delicious!

The lobby was full of guests getting ready to go about their days. One group in particular caught my eye as I was getting my food. It was an American or European businessman with a beard, older, probably in his late fifties. Sitting next to him was a Philippina woman, probably in her late thirties or early forties, (it is hard to tell with Asians) and they were holding hands and laughing and whispering to each other like middle school sweethearts. Something about their body language said that they don't see each other often, or hadn't seen each other in a long time, or weren't going to see each other for a long time. It is a body language I have become very familiar with.

What I didn't see until I sat down was that they were not alone. They had a little girl sitting across the table from them, but I hadn't been able to see her before because her head wasn't tall enough to poke up over the back of the chair. There she was, a teeny-tiny little girl with big dark eyes, taking in everything around her, surrounded by opulence, immaculate place settings, fancy white china and silverware, just sitting there in her pajamas, her feet dangling miles from the floor. In her lap there was a fancy white china bowl filled with dry cheerios. She would eat them one at a time, picking them up delicately with a tiny thumb and forefinger, while gazing around her and watching everything.

I do not know their story. It might be a very good story or a very bad story. But looking at the little girl I felt like I was glimpsing something, a beginning of something. Right now, as I watch, she is being shaped into the adult that she will become someday. Whether that is a good shape or a bad shape, I cannot tell. I only know that I loved them, all three of them, and I wished them the best blessings God could grant them. May He guide and protect them and draw them to Him. May they know how much He loves them. I can think of no greater gift to offer than that prayer.

I Will Lift Up My Eyes

I sing the God of all things green and good,

Great and grand and gorgeous, things of wood

Of living things grown close in brotherhood

Of strength and beauty, of oil, wine and food.







I sing the God of stern and solid stone
Severe, austere and snow-capped, standing alone

 Amid their lesser fellows. Of beam and bone

Of earth on which green living things have grown.

I sing the God of reading, writing; the reign
Of rhythm, rhyme, and rectitude; the wax and wane
Of times and seasons; of wisdom slowly gained
In solitude, in book, in pipe, in rain.

I sing the God of doe and deer, of dove

Direct, diverse, diffuse, below and above

And in, around and through, like hand in glove,

In sunsets, stars and blazing sun in grove

In city, in time alone, in still and move

And in all things, 

                        I sing

                                 The God of Love!

Beauty Near and Far

In my last blog I explained how home has never been a place to me. Rather, it is the people who make home. For this reason I have a lot of “homes.” When I visit the farm in upstate NY, I am home. When I visit my cousins in VA and make goofy home martial arts videos, I am home. When I get to see my god-children I am home. When I wake up at 7:30 in the morning for two or three hours of leisurely conversation over a pot of freshly brewed tea with my aunt and uncle, I am home. When I sit in Panera bread in the Tacoma Mall, surrounded by other young Catholics, studying the readings of the day, then I am home. I am home when I smoke a pipe or drink a beer with my brother. I am home making pizza for my friends, or going for a hike up Mt. Si with them.

There even more places that are home to me, in a deeper sense than I have ever known, so deep that I cannot blog about them. But home is always the people I am with, never the place I am.

Some people have a hard time understanding this. Most people, I think, have a certain amount of nostalgia for place, whether the place they grew up, or the place they spent much of their time. Some people truly do love, say, the hills of upstate NY with a fondness bordering on passion. For myself, it is not at all that I am indifferent to place. Instead, I love places. I love them all. I love the crispness of upstate NY,


the lazy warmth of the deep south,

 the glory of entire landscapes changing colors in the fall, and the warm smell of sun-baked pinestraw on the floor of forests that will never change their hue.

 I love the ice and snow of a New York winter,

and the sun, sand and warm water of a beach in Thailand.

I love the fertile, windswept high prairie of Eastern Washington and of Colorado and Wyoming,

and also the cozy grey drizzle and precious clear days in the Northwest.

I loved the tangled fertility of the Tigris river valley, and the blinding, unlivable sands stretching away from it as far as the eye could see. I loved the wild, harsh austerity of the Hindu Kush,
and the glory of the Himalayas, when the sun breaks over the barely visible peak of Mt. Everest.

 Beauty large:

And beauty small:


I love them all. When I am there I soak them up and glory in them, but I do not miss them when they are gone.

I miss people. One of the consequences of this attitude towards place is that it radically alters my concept of adventure, and what adventure truly is (that is subject for another blog). No matter where I go I see beauty to be shared and I find stories to be told, but what on earth is the point if there is no one to share them with or tell them to?

That is the point of this blog. To share beauty and tell stories. Not just the strange beauty that it has been my great good fortune to see, but the familiar beauty that we, strangely, do not see. All of it comes fresh and whole from the heart of God.

*All photos in this post were taken by the author.