"In what way exactly are we to love our enemies?" Today upon reading my daughter-in-law Kim’s blog about Easter, I asked this question, not for the first time thinking of a few particular enemies. At first I answered myself, "As Jesus loved His enemies, of course!" But after that, it was "Who were His enemies, anyway?" and "How did He show love to them."
I was the first one who came to mind. Let's face it, before I covenanted with Jesus, I was God’s enemy. Well, then how did He love me? He died on the cross for me, paying for my sins. "But I can't do that for someone else, Only Jesus, who is God, is worthy to pay for sin."
True, but He was resurrected to life, so as a living Savior, how does He love me now?" More than anything, I think He has patience with me. He covers my sins with a multitude of His love. He forgives me daily, hourly, minutely - seventy times seven - absolves me of the foolish little straying, and the awful ugly transgression. He intercedes with the Father on my behalf, over and over. He hears and answers my prayers - according to His will, yes; but also sometimes just to be kind. He heals me and raises me from sickness. Any obedience that I have, He provides. He gives me His testimony. He lavishes daily bread on me, both spiritual and material. He opens up the scriptures, feeds me on them, and speaks to me through them.
When I go to the house of worship, He blesses me with His presence, in hymn, in prayer, in preaching. And when I take the bread and wine, He sits down with me - and He sups with me. He joins me to other believers. He never will leave me – no not ever.
Though these, by far, are not all, I take them out and look at each, one by one. A few, I think to myself, I could manage toward a friend, but for an enemy? How can I ever forgive an enemy as Christ forgives me? Or love him or her that fully? I know the scripture. If I want forgiveness, I have to forgive. "For if you forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you: But if you forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses." Laid on the table, that is a shocking statement.
Can I truly say I forgive and love my enemies as Jesus has forgiven and loved me?" I don't think I can pass this one off! Jesus is serious about the issue of forgiveness. Well, there can be only one answer, "With man (me) this is impossible. But with God, all things are possible." And I might add, with God many things are mysterious. It is then a mysterious, but possible process - with God. That forgiveness, that divine forgiveness I lack toward my enemy, can serve to open the door to more of His provision and grace. But I must ask.
And I say unto you, Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and you shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you. For every one that asks receives; and he that seeks finds; and to him that knocks it shall be opened. If a son shall ask bread of any of you that is a father, will he give him a stone? or if he ask a fish, will he for a fish give him a serpent? Or if he shall ask an egg, will he offer him a scorpion? If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children: how much more shall your heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to them that ask him? Luke 11:11-11:13
Monday, April 17, 2006
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Another book
If you happen to peruse my son Nathan's blog site you may recognize the name of the book I have just started reading - advice to writers titled "From Where You Dream" by Robert Olen Butler. With a slight difference in the author's middle name, that is, you may recognize it. Owen and Olen at various web sites seem to be interchangeable with no explanation as to why. This book jacket says Olen.
Residing most of yesterday on my car seat, the book rode with me to the store, my mom's apartment, and the beauty shop to get a permanent. Until after about 9:30 last night, I was able to snatch only a line or two at red lights, then a chapter before bed through sleepy eyes. Even though this book is non-fiction, it is about fiction and I think I am experiencing that suspension of unbelief , so necessary to the reader of fiction. In other words so far he has captured my conviction.
And while I am reading slowly, trying to digest as I go, there are already a few tentative consequences of my trying to write like Professor Butler recommends, without my head getting in the way. That should be easy as my head rarely gets in the way of anything.
Well, I think it did get in the way a little, but hey, this is my first effort:
There’s more to everything than we can see,
Something just under the bark of the tree.
A person in there, looking out from my cat -
The ululation of the shadow.
~~~~~~~
They can’t take Him out of light ripping through water.
~~~~~~~
Some people’s words are sudsy; hundreds and hundreds of frothy tiny bubbles crowding one another, and still more to come
- others, square and solid heavy stones dropping on us one at a time, for hours.
~~~~~~~
On the one side of the brain respect, honor, duty, industry, and virtue triumph over great odds. It is man.
On the other side a woman, Grace, sees something better just beyond the shoulder of the ordinary failure. It is man.
Residing most of yesterday on my car seat, the book rode with me to the store, my mom's apartment, and the beauty shop to get a permanent. Until after about 9:30 last night, I was able to snatch only a line or two at red lights, then a chapter before bed through sleepy eyes. Even though this book is non-fiction, it is about fiction and I think I am experiencing that suspension of unbelief , so necessary to the reader of fiction. In other words so far he has captured my conviction.
And while I am reading slowly, trying to digest as I go, there are already a few tentative consequences of my trying to write like Professor Butler recommends, without my head getting in the way. That should be easy as my head rarely gets in the way of anything.
Well, I think it did get in the way a little, but hey, this is my first effort:
There’s more to everything than we can see,
Something just under the bark of the tree.
A person in there, looking out from my cat -
The ululation of the shadow.
~~~~~~~
They can’t take Him out of light ripping through water.
~~~~~~~
Some people’s words are sudsy; hundreds and hundreds of frothy tiny bubbles crowding one another, and still more to come
- others, square and solid heavy stones dropping on us one at a time, for hours.
~~~~~~~
On the one side of the brain respect, honor, duty, industry, and virtue triumph over great odds. It is man.
On the other side a woman, Grace, sees something better just beyond the shoulder of the ordinary failure. It is man.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Books
As usual I have been reading. And as usual, that makes me want to talk about what I have been reading.
The first of my recent readings called, The Heavenly Man, by Christian Brother Yun, with Paul Hattaway took me on a sobering journey through the physical agonies and spiritual ecstasies of one of the principle founders of the house churches in mainland China.
To the faint of heart, I do not commend Brother Yun. Being one of the fainter hearts myself, I am surprised I got all the way through to the end. But this book sounded intriguing, and once into it I kept reminding myself that if Yun could stand feeling the pain, the least I could do is stand reading about what he felt.
Because of his obedience to God’s call on his life, Christian Brother Yun in communist China confronts overwhelming challenges and endures much suffering. He is tortured with beatings and starvation, imprisonment and poverty and humiliation, much like the Apostle Paul. But the Holy Spirit is faithful to give him strength to endure. He is also faithful to teach Yun who the real hero is.
Miracles that are truly astonishing accompany Yun’s torments. There are wonders of healing, deliverance, and provision in life and death circumstance. But when Yun sees how God can transform the most depraved hearts, he knows this to be the greatest miracle of all.
Before you read this book, you might think some people are beyond even the Almighty’s ability to change. But you will witness that these can become some of Christ’s most devoted followers. And that is really what God’s work in Yun is all about.
The second book on the recent readings list is titled, I Dared to Call Him Father, written by Bilquis Sheik, with Richard H. Schneider. This is a bizarre tale of a wealthy Pakistani Muslim woman whom Christ turns from the Quran to the Bible, from Allah to Himself, from arrogance and bitterness to humility and grace. Like Brother Yun, Bilquis is subject to supernatural dealings such as dreams and visions, but in contrast to him, her heavenly Father shields her from the most potent dangers. Though her family shuns her, no actual physical attack on her person ever succeeds.
What is strangest about this story is that Jesus approaches Bilquis before she knows a single thing about Him. It is not that she is seeking Him, it is that He is seeking her. After her conversion, Jesus lets Bilquis know which way to walk by the giving or the taking away of His joyous presence. She learns this is the one thing she cannot do without.
Especially if you are woman, you will pick this book up and not want put it down until you have devoured every last page. As well as illustrating how uniquely Jesus can work in any life, told as it was in first-person, it provides intimate acquaintance with an Eastern woman’s mindset. Alike in certain ways all us women are, yet also diverse as to culture.
The third and last book is God’s Smuggler by Brother Andrew, with John and Elizabeth Sherrill. Of the three this is my favorite; I hardly know where to begin. So I’ll start with culture. Because Brother Andrew is Dutch, and because I am a big fan of Corrie Ten Boom, who was also Dutch, this book made me feel like I was coming home.
I think one reason for the homey-ness of it is that the Dutch, if Corrie and Andy are true representatives of that race, have a great sense of humor. Brother Andrew does not come across as a too-saintly saint, but more like the guy down the street who just happened to be tapped on the shoulder by God. Washing across some of the most dangerous circumstances anyone could find themselves in, is this wonderful down-to-earth-ness and good humor. Brother Andrew, in derring-do for God, accomplishes something I would like to imitate. He takes God so much more seriously than he does himself.
The book begins with Andy as a young lad with his family on the Polders of Holland. The Polders are dank lands that have been reclaimed from the sea. The smallest house in the village is where Andy lives. But because his parents have a reputation for compassion; many of the even less fortunate find their door.
With himself as the main character, young Andy dreams of exploits. He is the intrepid spy behind enemy lines. The early days of the book include occupation of Holland by the Nazis. Andy prides himself on his ability to run fast, and thinking he can always get away, likes to plague his Nazi occupiers. Sometimes he escapes by a hair's breadth. But when he is seventeen and on the front lines in Indonesia, Andy learns just what a horror war really is. He comes home with a shattered ankle and a broken heart.
Andy never liked going to church, but that doesn’t stop God. He has his hand on this young life and that’s all there is to it. Andy yields up his ego one night, something his scholar friend Kees describes as crisis conversion. From there it is but a small step to Andy realizing his special calling in life is to the mission field. But he wonders how that can be possible on a crippled foot. When he decides to commit all to God’s keeping, God heals his ankle instantly and miraculously.
Ultimately Brother Andrew (the name chosen to provide a small measure of anonymity) learns that his near destiny is to Eastern Europe and Russia. In these countries under communist domination Christians are repressed in various ways, sometimes overtly and brutally, sometimes cunningly. Few Christians, including many a church pastor, of the time and place, own a Bible. And that is precisely where God and Brother Andrew step in.
God takes Brother Andrew thousands of miles, at times to meet people who themselves have traveled thousands of miles, knowing only that God has sent them. Over the years Andy sacrifices much when he smuggles hundreds of Bibles to a people who weep with joy over so precious a gift. You sense he is relishing every minute. Andy really does become the adventurous person he envisioned as a child, only for a far different purpose then a small boy would ever dream.
Somewhere about half, or maybe two-thirds of the way into the book, is a surprise. But to find out, you have to read the book.
The first of my recent readings called, The Heavenly Man, by Christian Brother Yun, with Paul Hattaway took me on a sobering journey through the physical agonies and spiritual ecstasies of one of the principle founders of the house churches in mainland China.
To the faint of heart, I do not commend Brother Yun. Being one of the fainter hearts myself, I am surprised I got all the way through to the end. But this book sounded intriguing, and once into it I kept reminding myself that if Yun could stand feeling the pain, the least I could do is stand reading about what he felt.
Because of his obedience to God’s call on his life, Christian Brother Yun in communist China confronts overwhelming challenges and endures much suffering. He is tortured with beatings and starvation, imprisonment and poverty and humiliation, much like the Apostle Paul. But the Holy Spirit is faithful to give him strength to endure. He is also faithful to teach Yun who the real hero is.
Miracles that are truly astonishing accompany Yun’s torments. There are wonders of healing, deliverance, and provision in life and death circumstance. But when Yun sees how God can transform the most depraved hearts, he knows this to be the greatest miracle of all.
Before you read this book, you might think some people are beyond even the Almighty’s ability to change. But you will witness that these can become some of Christ’s most devoted followers. And that is really what God’s work in Yun is all about.
The second book on the recent readings list is titled, I Dared to Call Him Father, written by Bilquis Sheik, with Richard H. Schneider. This is a bizarre tale of a wealthy Pakistani Muslim woman whom Christ turns from the Quran to the Bible, from Allah to Himself, from arrogance and bitterness to humility and grace. Like Brother Yun, Bilquis is subject to supernatural dealings such as dreams and visions, but in contrast to him, her heavenly Father shields her from the most potent dangers. Though her family shuns her, no actual physical attack on her person ever succeeds.
What is strangest about this story is that Jesus approaches Bilquis before she knows a single thing about Him. It is not that she is seeking Him, it is that He is seeking her. After her conversion, Jesus lets Bilquis know which way to walk by the giving or the taking away of His joyous presence. She learns this is the one thing she cannot do without.
Especially if you are woman, you will pick this book up and not want put it down until you have devoured every last page. As well as illustrating how uniquely Jesus can work in any life, told as it was in first-person, it provides intimate acquaintance with an Eastern woman’s mindset. Alike in certain ways all us women are, yet also diverse as to culture.
The third and last book is God’s Smuggler by Brother Andrew, with John and Elizabeth Sherrill. Of the three this is my favorite; I hardly know where to begin. So I’ll start with culture. Because Brother Andrew is Dutch, and because I am a big fan of Corrie Ten Boom, who was also Dutch, this book made me feel like I was coming home.
I think one reason for the homey-ness of it is that the Dutch, if Corrie and Andy are true representatives of that race, have a great sense of humor. Brother Andrew does not come across as a too-saintly saint, but more like the guy down the street who just happened to be tapped on the shoulder by God. Washing across some of the most dangerous circumstances anyone could find themselves in, is this wonderful down-to-earth-ness and good humor. Brother Andrew, in derring-do for God, accomplishes something I would like to imitate. He takes God so much more seriously than he does himself.
The book begins with Andy as a young lad with his family on the Polders of Holland. The Polders are dank lands that have been reclaimed from the sea. The smallest house in the village is where Andy lives. But because his parents have a reputation for compassion; many of the even less fortunate find their door.
With himself as the main character, young Andy dreams of exploits. He is the intrepid spy behind enemy lines. The early days of the book include occupation of Holland by the Nazis. Andy prides himself on his ability to run fast, and thinking he can always get away, likes to plague his Nazi occupiers. Sometimes he escapes by a hair's breadth. But when he is seventeen and on the front lines in Indonesia, Andy learns just what a horror war really is. He comes home with a shattered ankle and a broken heart.
Andy never liked going to church, but that doesn’t stop God. He has his hand on this young life and that’s all there is to it. Andy yields up his ego one night, something his scholar friend Kees describes as crisis conversion. From there it is but a small step to Andy realizing his special calling in life is to the mission field. But he wonders how that can be possible on a crippled foot. When he decides to commit all to God’s keeping, God heals his ankle instantly and miraculously.
Ultimately Brother Andrew (the name chosen to provide a small measure of anonymity) learns that his near destiny is to Eastern Europe and Russia. In these countries under communist domination Christians are repressed in various ways, sometimes overtly and brutally, sometimes cunningly. Few Christians, including many a church pastor, of the time and place, own a Bible. And that is precisely where God and Brother Andrew step in.
God takes Brother Andrew thousands of miles, at times to meet people who themselves have traveled thousands of miles, knowing only that God has sent them. Over the years Andy sacrifices much when he smuggles hundreds of Bibles to a people who weep with joy over so precious a gift. You sense he is relishing every minute. Andy really does become the adventurous person he envisioned as a child, only for a far different purpose then a small boy would ever dream.
Somewhere about half, or maybe two-thirds of the way into the book, is a surprise. But to find out, you have to read the book.
Biography for “Writer’s R Us”
I started this two weeks ago in response to a request from my writer's group facilitator. Since she did not specify what kind of bio she wanted, I tried to make it general but not too detailed.
I thought maybe posting it here on my blog might give me motivation to get going on parts two and three.
(Part One: Early Years)
My entry into the world had a single distinction; I was a girl. Though I had nothing to do with that fact, my mother tells and retells the story as if I accomplished a great victory for her just by coming out the correct gender. After three stinky puppy-dog tails, my birth gave her opportunity at last to announce sugar and spice. To my parents and the relatives, this was celebratory news. My brothers, on the other hand, had they been disposed to deep thought - or any thought at all - may have taken it differently. But they were too occupied with nails and snails to worry much. The girls could do their thing; they would do theirs.
Though ignoble, seeds of early childhood cravings were thus sown in chromosomal soil. Being a boy was fine for boys but girls needed to be ladies, and if possible, beautiful ones. Paper dolls I cut outfits for were the same glamorous stars I saw at the movies. Visions of Betty Grable, Hedy Lamarr, Lana Turner, and Rita Hayworth evoked a childish longing - and disagreements about whom got to be who. More significant, the complexities of grooming for the gentler sex seeped in by osmosis when I watched my mother. I can see her now.
Starting at the top, she wore her dark hair near shoulder length with full bangs, curled under. Sides were pulled up and back, anchored with hairpins she concealed by allowing upper locks to flow over. A cloche with veil came next, guarding everything but the cherry lips.
Generally, I visualize my mother back then in the well-tailored suits she preferred; though occasionally she put on something more daring like the loose trousers that had just come into vogue. Gloves, silk stockings with seams, and a red fox stole draped over padded shoulders conclude the vision. And Minnie Mouse shoes. This in the forties was the epitome of feminine mystique; and from a tender age, I wanted it.
Other factors had their role to play too though in shaping my personality. Culture was one of these. The city of my birth, San Antonio, evolved a platypus creature in those days and I am sure this diversity had a profound effect. The military influence was strong upon us and as well both Latino and German ethnicity. Until spring of 1953 when my parents moved to Corpus Christi, I was nurtured in the deep bosom of lugares del San Antonio - plätze San Antonio. Breckenridge and Playland parks, Casa Rio and the River Walk, Joske’s, Bluebonnet Hotel, Christie’s Seafood Restaurant, the train depot, and the Alamo, are names any native denizen of San Antonio in the forties can spark to. Reluctantly I admit this will not hold true for folk of other times, other places.
Closer to home animal friends exerted their sway. A bobtail terrier named Lady was with us almost from birth to death. She came as a pup of three weeks and stayed until old age took her away. During her tenure, Lady and her adult master and mistress put up with white rabbits, parakeets of all colors, chickens, rats, fish, lizards and later on the occasional cat I had to smuggle in. Except for the rats, I loved them all. It is my view that affection and caring for pets contributes much to the making of an emotionally generous person. I believe these beasts beloved did that for me.
And then there were the books; intertwined with other elements for propensity was the continuity of literature. From an early age, I loved reading. As a family we were not great world travelers, but books were available to broaden my horizons, ignite my imagination, and give me a love for the cadence of words fitly written. Without my even realizing it, books helped open for me the integrity of life’s mysteries. Who could ever be bored when so much of the interesting world out there exists between pages of books? I had merely to walk to the shelf, pull one down and off, or in, I went.
When I was in the sixth grade we made our move and life became more tropical. Giant hibiscus and purple bougainvillea grew right in the front yard and the ocean was near enough to visit often. In summer, I would have gone salt-water swimming every day if someone were available to take me. Padre Island was free as a bird in those days. Teens lucky enough to have a car could drive up and down the beach, stop and swim, or build a campfire to roast wieners and marshmallows over. One end of a rope we would tie to a car bumper, the other to an inner tube to be inhabited by a hapless volunteer. As we jolted our way over ground too near, across dune hills and sandy vales, we would hang on for love of life and limb. Though much relished, this could be a painful and dangerous ride.
As a teen I think my aspirations were similar to that of my chums – eminently short term. I did have a vague notion of home, hearth, and motherhood, but was mostly interested in having a good time - right now. Then at eighteen very green years, I encountered my future husband of a lifetime. We met in May of my senior year, married in July. Two years later I held my first babe in my arms and the first (adult) inklings as regards the importance of developing real character began to dawn for me. It was to take some years before I began to explore what that might look like.
I thought maybe posting it here on my blog might give me motivation to get going on parts two and three.
(Part One: Early Years)
My entry into the world had a single distinction; I was a girl. Though I had nothing to do with that fact, my mother tells and retells the story as if I accomplished a great victory for her just by coming out the correct gender. After three stinky puppy-dog tails, my birth gave her opportunity at last to announce sugar and spice. To my parents and the relatives, this was celebratory news. My brothers, on the other hand, had they been disposed to deep thought - or any thought at all - may have taken it differently. But they were too occupied with nails and snails to worry much. The girls could do their thing; they would do theirs.
Though ignoble, seeds of early childhood cravings were thus sown in chromosomal soil. Being a boy was fine for boys but girls needed to be ladies, and if possible, beautiful ones. Paper dolls I cut outfits for were the same glamorous stars I saw at the movies. Visions of Betty Grable, Hedy Lamarr, Lana Turner, and Rita Hayworth evoked a childish longing - and disagreements about whom got to be who. More significant, the complexities of grooming for the gentler sex seeped in by osmosis when I watched my mother. I can see her now.
Starting at the top, she wore her dark hair near shoulder length with full bangs, curled under. Sides were pulled up and back, anchored with hairpins she concealed by allowing upper locks to flow over. A cloche with veil came next, guarding everything but the cherry lips.
Generally, I visualize my mother back then in the well-tailored suits she preferred; though occasionally she put on something more daring like the loose trousers that had just come into vogue. Gloves, silk stockings with seams, and a red fox stole draped over padded shoulders conclude the vision. And Minnie Mouse shoes. This in the forties was the epitome of feminine mystique; and from a tender age, I wanted it.
Other factors had their role to play too though in shaping my personality. Culture was one of these. The city of my birth, San Antonio, evolved a platypus creature in those days and I am sure this diversity had a profound effect. The military influence was strong upon us and as well both Latino and German ethnicity. Until spring of 1953 when my parents moved to Corpus Christi, I was nurtured in the deep bosom of lugares del San Antonio - plätze San Antonio. Breckenridge and Playland parks, Casa Rio and the River Walk, Joske’s, Bluebonnet Hotel, Christie’s Seafood Restaurant, the train depot, and the Alamo, are names any native denizen of San Antonio in the forties can spark to. Reluctantly I admit this will not hold true for folk of other times, other places.
Closer to home animal friends exerted their sway. A bobtail terrier named Lady was with us almost from birth to death. She came as a pup of three weeks and stayed until old age took her away. During her tenure, Lady and her adult master and mistress put up with white rabbits, parakeets of all colors, chickens, rats, fish, lizards and later on the occasional cat I had to smuggle in. Except for the rats, I loved them all. It is my view that affection and caring for pets contributes much to the making of an emotionally generous person. I believe these beasts beloved did that for me.
And then there were the books; intertwined with other elements for propensity was the continuity of literature. From an early age, I loved reading. As a family we were not great world travelers, but books were available to broaden my horizons, ignite my imagination, and give me a love for the cadence of words fitly written. Without my even realizing it, books helped open for me the integrity of life’s mysteries. Who could ever be bored when so much of the interesting world out there exists between pages of books? I had merely to walk to the shelf, pull one down and off, or in, I went.
When I was in the sixth grade we made our move and life became more tropical. Giant hibiscus and purple bougainvillea grew right in the front yard and the ocean was near enough to visit often. In summer, I would have gone salt-water swimming every day if someone were available to take me. Padre Island was free as a bird in those days. Teens lucky enough to have a car could drive up and down the beach, stop and swim, or build a campfire to roast wieners and marshmallows over. One end of a rope we would tie to a car bumper, the other to an inner tube to be inhabited by a hapless volunteer. As we jolted our way over ground too near, across dune hills and sandy vales, we would hang on for love of life and limb. Though much relished, this could be a painful and dangerous ride.
As a teen I think my aspirations were similar to that of my chums – eminently short term. I did have a vague notion of home, hearth, and motherhood, but was mostly interested in having a good time - right now. Then at eighteen very green years, I encountered my future husband of a lifetime. We met in May of my senior year, married in July. Two years later I held my first babe in my arms and the first (adult) inklings as regards the importance of developing real character began to dawn for me. It was to take some years before I began to explore what that might look like.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Glass Wing Butterfly
These photos were sent to me by a friend via email. He noted only that they are found in South America, and are very rare. Their beauty and the brevity of information he supplied piqued my curiousity, so I did a bit of research on these breathtakingly beautiful creatures. The following is from Wikipedia online encyclopedia:
Greta oto is a brush-footed butterfly, and is a member of the clearwing clade; its wings are transparent. Its most common English name is glasswing, and its Spanish name is espejitos, which means "little mirrors." Indeed, the tissue between the veins of its wings looks like glass. It is one of the more abundant clearwing species in its home range, which extends throughout Central America into Mexico. The opaque borders of its wings are dark brown sometimes tinted with red or orange, and its body is dark in color. Its wingspan is between 5.5 and 6 cm.
Adults inhabit the rainforest understory and feed on the nectar of a variety of tropical flowers. G. oto prefers to lay its eggs on plants of the tropical nightshade genus Cestrum. The silvery-gray caterpillars feed on these toxic plants and store the alkaloids in their tissues, making them distasteful to predators such as birds. They retain their toxicity in adulthood. The same alkaloids that make them poisonous also are converted into pheromones by the males, which use them to attract females.
G. oto adults also exhibit a number of interesting behaviors, such as long migrations and lekking among males.
What in the world is lekking, I wondered? So I followed the Wikipedia trail to another article, even more fascinating:
A lek (from Swedish lek, a noun which typically denotes pleasurable and less rule-bound games and activities) is a tournament (the males of certain species of animals for the purposes of competitive mating display), held before and during the breeding season, day after day, when the same group of males meet at a traditional place and take up the same individual positions on an arena, each occupying and defending a small territory or court. Intermittently or continuously they spar with their neighbours one at a time, or display magnificent plumage, or vocal powers, or bizarre gymnastics...
A strict hierarchy accords the most desirable top-ranking males the most prestigious central territory, with ungraded and lesser aspirants ranged outside. Females come to these arenas in due course to be fertilized, and normally they make their way through to one or other of the dominants in the centre. Two main types of lek are distinguished, classical leks and exploded leks. In classical leks, individuals are within sight of each other, physical contest is not infrequent, and can even be prevalent in some (mainly shorebird and gamebird) species.
Exploded leks rely on vocal signals, the most famous example is the "booming" behaviour of the Kakapo, where distances between individuals can be up to many kilometers due to the deep far-carrying call. Indeed, female kakapos seemed to often have considerable problems locating mates as the population declined on mainland New Zealand; this was a significant contributing factor to the insufficient reproduction rate which made this species to go extinct outside human care for some years.
The term was originally used most commonly for Black Grouse (orrlek) and for Capercaillie (tjäderlek), and lekking behaviour is quite common in birds of this type, such as Sage Grouse. However it is also shown by birds of other families, such as the Ruff, Great Snipe, Musk Ducks, Hermit hummingbirds, Manakins, birds of paradise and the Kakapo, by some mammals such as the Uganda kob (a waterbuck) and by some species of fish and even insects like the midge and the Ghost Moth. The rut of deer is also very similar. There is some dispute among ethologists as to whether the lekking behaviour shown by animals of widely different groups should really be treated as the same, and in particular whether similar selective pressures have led to their emergence.
Lek paradox: (or in other words, just one more of our Creator's amazing mysteries) persistent female choice for particular male trait values should erode genetic variance in male traits and thereby remove the benefits of choice; and yet choice persists. Most obvious in lekking species where females gain no material benefits or parental care from males.
The Half-Empty Life
While I’ve never thought of our cat as philosophic, that implication is beginning to grow on me. In times past I blamed her behavior on faulty wiring; lately it’s beginning to dawn on me I may have been hasty.
For example, take her food bowl. With the food bowl thing, Minnie had to have thought hard on how to make half-empty a positive. For is it not true optimists see the glass half-full, pessimists, half-empty? Not so Minnie. If life is half-empty that means she can be optimistic she will see it soon completely full.
The first indication of a soon-full bowl is Minnie sitting staring at it. It’s really much better for all concerned to fill the bowl immediately upon noting this posture. But we are often slow learners at our house.
Because we insist, she will take us to the next argument. Stare at bowl; stare at idiot who hasn’t made the connection yet. Alternate the pattern. And the ensuing like unto it; stare at bowl, stare at idiot, squeak like a rusty hinge.
I pause here a moment and reflect. It was the squeaking part that made me first suspect Minnie was turning ruminant. Yowling - anyone could put up with for a while. We expect cats to yowl, that is where the word caterwaul came from. But squeaking. Squeaking is Chinese water torture of the ear.
However, it is amazing what one can become accustomed to. And so, on the heels of point three, four follows swiftly. Note the above heels, for the word will take on new meaning in this step of Minnie’s polemic. As will ankle, lower leg, and bare toes if available.
This point normally is made while the casualty walks to and fro in their kitchen, ignoring the staring and squeaking. And it usually decides the matter. In fact, I’m thinking that much of Minnie’s new bent for philosophy seized a firmer grip while she was preparing this detail. Cows may contemplate while chewing; but I sense cats do it best, when they sharpen.
As I said earlier, take the food bowl. And fill it.
For example, take her food bowl. With the food bowl thing, Minnie had to have thought hard on how to make half-empty a positive. For is it not true optimists see the glass half-full, pessimists, half-empty? Not so Minnie. If life is half-empty that means she can be optimistic she will see it soon completely full.
The first indication of a soon-full bowl is Minnie sitting staring at it. It’s really much better for all concerned to fill the bowl immediately upon noting this posture. But we are often slow learners at our house.
Because we insist, she will take us to the next argument. Stare at bowl; stare at idiot who hasn’t made the connection yet. Alternate the pattern. And the ensuing like unto it; stare at bowl, stare at idiot, squeak like a rusty hinge.
I pause here a moment and reflect. It was the squeaking part that made me first suspect Minnie was turning ruminant. Yowling - anyone could put up with for a while. We expect cats to yowl, that is where the word caterwaul came from. But squeaking. Squeaking is Chinese water torture of the ear.
However, it is amazing what one can become accustomed to. And so, on the heels of point three, four follows swiftly. Note the above heels, for the word will take on new meaning in this step of Minnie’s polemic. As will ankle, lower leg, and bare toes if available.
This point normally is made while the casualty walks to and fro in their kitchen, ignoring the staring and squeaking. And it usually decides the matter. In fact, I’m thinking that much of Minnie’s new bent for philosophy seized a firmer grip while she was preparing this detail. Cows may contemplate while chewing; but I sense cats do it best, when they sharpen.
As I said earlier, take the food bowl. And fill it.
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