season of pilgrimage.
In recent years I had tended toward a sort of theistic agnosticism. I believed it was impossible to prove the existence of God, or for that matter most of the Bible, but was inclined toward belief in a Divine Being anyway. There wasn't enough evidence to demand a verdict in my opinion, but there was evidence to suggest , and for the time being it was enough. I had patiently investigated atheism, but believed that altruistic acts were more than instinctual impulses designed to further the good of society under the umbrella of evolution. There was a spirit involved I couldn't bring myself to discount.
Time had gone a long way toward healing the initial shock of loss I had experienced in losing a child. I had yet to comprehend the need for suffering, and in this regard, found myself in good company. I had begun to make peace with the idea that there were not many answers to my questions, and that the questions themselves were, at least in some ways, part of the point. Releasing the confidence I placed in many of my previously held beliefs had initially freaked me out. When you spend your whole life with the idea that believing the right things will eternally save you, letting go of some of them is terrifying. It required that I throw myself at the Divine and beg for mercy in a way that I never had when I thought I had all the answers. I had come to believe that faith centered a great deal on the simple message: love God, love your neighbor, and love yourself. I clung to the vestige and figured I could spend a lifetime, let alone a season of pilgrimage, plumbing its depths. Living on a boat, I hoped, would provide a season of simpler living in which I could reconnect with God, myself, and my family.
âI choose door number 3,â I told Monty hesitantly. The crowd went wild, but I knew I was a sucker. I was rolling the dice and the stakes were high. I was messing around with chance and probabilities. Starting up a game of pipe bomb blackjack. Unlike the game show Lets Make a Deal , with its instant gratification or disappointment upon lifting the lid or sliding open the doors, whether or not I had actually won anything of value would likely take years to reveal itself.
12
Mike and I discussed the best way to tell Lauren and Stefan that we had decided to sell everything we had, the house, cars, their bedroom furniture, the television set, and move onto a boat. The problem would not lie with Stefan, who was ten and found walking down to the river to fish an adventure. Our concern was with Lauren, who was twelve and up to her eyeballs in the seventh grade. Over the course of raising her thus far, I had thought numerous times how unlike each other we were in the realm of social aptitude. While I had been self conscious, awkward, and a people-pleaser at her age, she had a devil-may-care attitude, oozed confidence, and questioned authority. She lived for the telephone, IM, and weekend trips to the mall. Just the kind of kid who likes being uprooted from interpersonal connectedness.
âWe have a couple things going for us,â I told Mike privately. âShe loves adventure and dislikes convention. I wonder where she gets that from?â I continued, looking in Mike's direction.
The reason, I believe, that thousands of people flock to boat shows every year is that many of us have the secret desire to become a turtle. Pushing off from shore to swim lackadaisically through the water any time you please captures our imagination. It is travel at its finest: no luggage to pack and you can take all the comforts and familiarity of home to any number of exotic locations.
Mike and I decided the best way to get Lauren to consider living on a boat was to give her a taste of the potential by taking her to the Toronto Boat Show. Even as an amateur boater, I figured boat shows were about as close to an amusement park and as far from reality in the nautical world as you were likely to get. In a cavernous,
In recent years I had tended toward a sort of theistic agnosticism. I believed it was impossible to prove the existence of God, or for that matter most of the Bible, but was inclined toward belief in a Divine Being anyway. There wasn't enough evidence to demand a verdict in my opinion, but there was evidence to suggest , and for the time being it was enough. I had patiently investigated atheism, but believed that altruistic acts were more than instinctual impulses designed to further the good of society under the umbrella of evolution. There was a spirit involved I couldn't bring myself to discount.
Time had gone a long way toward healing the initial shock of loss I had experienced in losing a child. I had yet to comprehend the need for suffering, and in this regard, found myself in good company. I had begun to make peace with the idea that there were not many answers to my questions, and that the questions themselves were, at least in some ways, part of the point. Releasing the confidence I placed in many of my previously held beliefs had initially freaked me out. When you spend your whole life with the idea that believing the right things will eternally save you, letting go of some of them is terrifying. It required that I throw myself at the Divine and beg for mercy in a way that I never had when I thought I had all the answers. I had come to believe that faith centered a great deal on the simple message: love God, love your neighbor, and love yourself. I clung to the vestige and figured I could spend a lifetime, let alone a season of pilgrimage, plumbing its depths. Living on a boat, I hoped, would provide a season of simpler living in which I could reconnect with God, myself, and my family.
âI choose door number 3,â I told Monty hesitantly. The crowd went wild, but I knew I was a sucker. I was rolling the dice and the stakes were high. I was messing around with chance and probabilities. Starting up a game of pipe bomb blackjack. Unlike the game show Lets Make a Deal , with its instant gratification or disappointment upon lifting the lid or sliding open the doors, whether or not I had actually won anything of value would likely take years to reveal itself.
12
Mike and I discussed the best way to tell Lauren and Stefan that we had decided to sell everything we had, the house, cars, their bedroom furniture, the television set, and move onto a boat. The problem would not lie with Stefan, who was ten and found walking down to the river to fish an adventure. Our concern was with Lauren, who was twelve and up to her eyeballs in the seventh grade. Over the course of raising her thus far, I had thought numerous times how unlike each other we were in the realm of social aptitude. While I had been self conscious, awkward, and a people-pleaser at her age, she had a devil-may-care attitude, oozed confidence, and questioned authority. She lived for the telephone, IM, and weekend trips to the mall. Just the kind of kid who likes being uprooted from interpersonal connectedness.
âWe have a couple things going for us,â I told Mike privately. âShe loves adventure and dislikes convention. I wonder where she gets that from?â I continued, looking in Mike's direction.
The reason, I believe, that thousands of people flock to boat shows every year is that many of us have the secret desire to become a turtle. Pushing off from shore to swim lackadaisically through the water any time you please captures our imagination. It is travel at its finest: no luggage to pack and you can take all the comforts and familiarity of home to any number of exotic locations.
Mike and I decided the best way to get Lauren to consider living on a boat was to give her a taste of the potential by taking her to the Toronto Boat Show. Even as an amateur boater, I figured boat shows were about as close to an amusement park and as far from reality in the nautical world as you were likely to get. In a cavernous,
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