Six foot five. But only two feet tall.

I'm a large man. I enjoy being tall. When my semi-notable height is inevitably brought up, I like to joke that I'm "five foot seventeen" or that I'm of "carny folk height." I like it when small, older women needing to reach goods on the top shelves at grocery stores put me in their employ. I never get lost in crowds because I can see precisely what the rest of the crowd cannot. I am at an ideal vantage to spot mommies for little kids. I have surveyed innumerable tops of refrigerators (Don't freak out. I've yet to see a truly awful one.) I'm able to stand in the sun and provide shade for the eyes of someone with whom I am conversing. Skyscrapers and I connect on a deep level. I'm accustomed to being noticed.

I left a comfortable situation in Michigan. I lived a comfortable, predictable existence. I knew how to do my job. I knew people; they knew me. For reasons that are probably suspect, I was afforded a certain amount of respect and influence in my cozy little circles. On occasion I cast a long shadow with my presence — even when there was no sunshine.

Over these past four months, I've made a handful of gaffes at school, and there are new relationships here in the city I wish I could do over. I still sleep in that loft bed that's at least a foot too short for me (I've figured out how to make diagonal work). I run the flights of stairs in my building because I can't afford a New York gym membership on my stipend. After long since living the opposite, I am once again trading time to save money instead of the other way around. Each day is a series of situations in which I know almost nothing about the topic at hand — I'm told this is called “learning.” Some of my professors are younger than I am. In graduate education, there's a certain kind of jockeying for position based on intelligence and pedigree of university (I'm not top of the heap on either count). I'm coming to understand that graduate students are a peculiar kind of nobody.

I got to sit in on a meeting about six weeks ago that involved several high profile academics and some notable people from well respected companies. It was a cool opportunity. I was eager. I sat next to influential people and had pleasant small talk. I treated it like I would treat any business meeting I've sat in for more than a decade now — treating others with respect and expecting the same in return.

Then the meeting began and the world pivoted around me. No longer were we having discussion. I was suddenly tasked with taking notes. I also soon recognized that the other graduate students in the room were not engaged as I had been. They sat docile-like and resigned against the wall, content to be seen and not heard. It was the academic version of Thanksgiving with the adults at one table and the kiddies at another. Those notes I took were requested along with my opinions; ultimately, the receipt of neither was ever acknowledged.

For some reason this all seems to snap most into focus when I'm running those flights of stairs in my building. Maybe it's the adrenaline and endorphins. I can choose to be indignant, disheartened, or even offended at my mistakes, circumstances, and perceived slights as this new world order of New York City and graduate school pushes in on me. Or, I can be grateful for these opportunities and recognize just how thin is the veneer of position and influence. I can pay attention to the expressions of my ego that flare up like a heat rash and apply a little cream of humility. If ever some day I am a big shot, I hope I will remember being little and treat the little people around me not as little but as people.

Postcards

Dear Everyone,

It's Christmastime in Brooklyn. After the warmest November I think I've ever experienced, there's finally a nip in the air.

This week I visited the New Jersey Institute of Technology for a conference. So along with that nippiness, there was a generous amount of geekiness in the air as well. I also got to see the student projects for the class Big Screens at NYU's ITP showcased on one of the world's largest video walls at the IAC headquarters. And I spent some time at Parsons The New School for Design for an event discussing games and non-profits. Actually all three of these things took place on the same day!

I'm almost done with my first semester of classes and projects. Learned today that I'm doing well enough in one of my classes that I get to skip taking the final exam — more time to work on that grant proposal due very soon.

Miss you. Wish you were here.

xoxoxox

Mike

Photos:

• Holiday flourishes around school and on the streets of Brooklyn.
• Autumn in Washington Square Park. I've posted photos of the park before. It's the unofficial heart of NYU's Manhattan campus.
• Our ridiculous Halloween weekend snow storm complete with ankle deep slush.
• Street emporium of wonders in Manhattan.
• World famous coal-fired Grimaldi's Pizzeria in Brooklyn.
• Zoë Keating concert at the Hiro Ballroom just blocks away from the Meatpacking District. Zoë is one of my favorite musicians; she plays cello like you've never heard. I've never been able to see her live until I moved to New York.
• A giant Viewmaster sculpture by Daniel Henderson (made of solid black marble) at New Jersey Institute of Technology. You can see Yellowstone inside.
• Just before the Big Screens student project show began.

Helpings of Thankfulness. Feathers. And nine flights of escalators.

[11/25/2011 More and better photos!]
[12/09/2011 And shots of me rocking the fascinator]

Yesterday was Thanksgiving. To my recollection, I don't believe I've ever spent the holiday apart from my mom and dad. Thankfully (as this is one of my themes for this post), Kristen and Hilary from church took pity on my roommate and myself, inviting us to the huge holiday feast they were hosting at their apartment.

Before I get to the twenty-six characters at dinner, the pumpkin macaroni and cheese, the chocolate bourbon pecan pie, or the feathers I wore in my hair all day, let me make this confession. I struggled the whole day with the sin of envy. Kristen and Hilary have perhaps the largest, coziest, most perfect apartment in Brooklyn I may ever have the good fortune to step foot inside. Let's begin with the wall that is entirely a chalkboard and then allow me to mention the little stylish flourishes of books and antiques so comfortably sprinkled about. And then let's move right on to the furnished basement (but I'll not mention the secret passageways that snake through the lower level of the building). Who has a two level apartment in Brooklyn?! That can so comfortably host an entire Thanksgiving dinner?! I marvel that they have the fortitude to leave this place they've created and walk out into a sometimes harsh world.

Twenty-six people showed up for an all-day affair. There was turkey involved. The potluck, buffet, lazily-fall-into-coma style dinner was utterly ridiculous. I'm not sure if there was more laughter or calories. I hope the former helped burn off the latter. I cannot adequately capture the personalities, humor, warmth, and color that graced this place yesterday. I come alive in these sorts of settings. My schedule doesn't allow me much time to connect with the new people I'm meeting. So to have the better part of day with all these lovely people was nothing short of a gift. They have captured my heart.

Justin and I got there just a bit before dinner began. Hilary, our host and a professional stylist, was effortlessly wearing feathers in her hair of the sort you would have seen in the '30s and '40s. Needless to say I spent the remainder of the day with a chic, gray, understated fascinator adorning my head. I had to. It matched my vest. If anyone ever tells you that a man wearing feathers in his hair can't attract the attention of two young ladies at a pub on Thanksgiving, tell them I beg to differ.

After dinner, ten of us went off to see the new Muppet movie. Might I remind you that the Muppets are a national treasure. This was a must. We had much fun at the movie. I came prepared with Mahna Mahna loaded on my iPhone just in case it was needed. Before yesterday, I had only been to one movie in New York. That theater was a quaint, classically styled place just off Prospect Park, replete with sidewalk ticketing window and marquee. This theater, however, was, well, very vertical. Theater 11 required riding nine flights of escalators. I still have trouble wrapping my mind around nine consecutive escalators. I've never ridden so many escalators in my life. It was like a dream depicted in a tragic art film.

After the movie many of us converged on the pub Union Hall wherein we played indoor bocce ball — just like the Pilgrims on that very first Thanksgiving. Back at Dean Street I helped some with cleaning up the radioactive waste after the Thanksgiving nuclear blast that had decimated the kitchen and got home and to bed around 2:30am.

I am, of course, so very thankful to Kristen and Hilary for their immense hospitality. I am thankful for all the gifted, loving, interesting new people I am coming to know. I am thankful for all my people back home that I love so dearly. I am thankful that so many of you who read these words of mine appreciate them so. I had no idea how significant this blog might become to not only its readers but also to me in having a channel to capture my experiences and express my sentiments. I am thankful for my great roommate. I am thankful for this grand adventure of moving to New York and all the ways it is challenging me (remind me of this in my less-than-noble moments as I whine about a discomfort of some sort).

But most of all I am thankful for home. I've realized just how complex this otherwise simple word has become. For most of my life home was a single place. Now when I say “back home”, I don't mean only Michigan. Little pieces of my home are now in Texas, Georgia, Illinois, Australia, and even out to sea. And now home has opened a franchise in Brooklyn, New York.

The Road to Coney Island is Lined with Synagogues.

Even if you don't know me especially well, you likely won't be all that surprised to learn that I am a complete nut for a kitchsy amusement park and its stylized cousin the theme park. Throw in a miniature golf course, and I may just come apart at the seams.

Some of my happiest memories growing up are at Cedar Point, Disney World, Knoebels, and Universal Studios. For that matter, some of my happiest recent memories are at Great Wolf Lodge just earlier this year. Even if I were to never ride a single attraction, spending time at any  of the many many such places anywhere in the world would be heaven on  earth for me.

I still remember the precise moment when the Peter Pan ride at Disney World magically lifted the car carrying me and my parents off the tracks and into the air. I was simultaneously taken over by wonder and by wonder. If that last sentence seems off, allow me to explain. Wonder is a very big word. In that moment I was both in awe of the experience and intensely curious about just how they did it (I studied the tracks and ceiling in the darkness for a few moments to figure it out).

Frankly, I have a problem. I can stop any time I want to — I just don't want to. I have the sorts of books on these places that you can only buy used and only if you know what you're looking for. One of my first college papers was on the topic of theme park engineering. What? Why wouldn't it be? I have tried unsuccessfully on more than one occasion to arrange a behind-the-scenes tour of Cedar Point.

I now live in Brooklyn, New York. Ever heard of Coney Island? It so happens it is also in Brooklyn, New York. But wait. It gets better. The Q line that has a stop just outside my apartment terminates at Coney Island (“next stop Coney Island”). You can walk off the subway and up and onto the boardwalk that separates the ocean from the Coney Island attractions.

Coney Island is really quite unique in that unlike many other amusement areas, it has little central development. There is no Mr. Coney behind the place. A long row of mostly independent shops and amusement areas along the boardwalk now sidles up to the New York Aquarium and the minor league Brooklyn Cyclones baseball stadium. And I love it. When I visited I was in the middle of my first stretch of midterm exams and projects. I still didn't know many people. I was a bit weary and a bit lonely but also on an adrenaline high from all the work I was doing. I got it in my head that I wanted, no needed, to go to Coney Island. I had visited once a few years back, but it was after the area was  mostly shut down for the season. Though I could have ridden the subway, I  hopped on my bike and rode six miles down the Brooklyn Queens Greenway along Ocean Parkway to the Atlantic waterfront.

When I got there the boardwalk was buzzing. People of all sorts were strolling up and down the broad, wooden promenade. There was a dance party at one point along the boardwalk. Someone was flying a bright green kite on the beach. People were in costumes as it was around Halloween. The rides were twirling. The vendors were offering up their glorious junk food. The sound of the ocean and gulls and the screams from the rides were like an amazing avant garde piece of music. As it was late in the day I had to rush all around so I could take it all in.

Places like Coney Island are almost living myths. The fantastical stories we tell and enjoy are more than fiction; they reveal the unseen that goes hidden elsewhere in this world. We need myths and mythical places. Like nature pushing up through broken sidewalk, I believe that places like Coney Island reveal a precious joy just under the surface of reality. There's something sensual and spiritual about a place devoted entirely to whimsy and frights. We know full well that the paint and plywood and lights are a facade, but we also feel that there's something essential there — maybe in some sense even more real than the real.

I grew up in a notch on the Bible Belt. New York is a far more Jewish place than I've ever been before. On my return from Coney Island I began to notice just how many synagogues there were up and down Ocean Parkway. I don't yet know enough about New York Jewish culture to understand just what all I was seeing, but I can tell you there were a great many people on the streets and sidewalks wearing very traditional Jewish clothing. It seemed that they had all just spent time in the Jewish centers I was seeing up and down the way. In that moment, perhaps there wasn't so much separating us as it might appear — they dressed all in black and me in spandex. We had both just come from an encounter with the divine.

It's a church. No. It's a middle school. Stop. You're both right.

(If you bump into anyone from Pathway Church in Wyoming, Michigan, please don't mention this post to them. Thanks. I try to miss them only as much as I can bear.)

I have a new church. Or, rather, maybe I should say a church now has me. Trinity Grace Brooklyn is part of what they call The City Parish — a network of neighborhood churches throughout New York City all coming together to join God in the renewal of all things.

I learned of this place through a friend of a friend before I moved. When I stepped off the airplane in August I had a short list of churches to visit. Trinity Grace was at the top of that list. I first dropped in a few weeks after I moved. I haven't bothered to visit any of the other churches on that list since. This faith community is alive and growing and moving and working and living. There is a vitality to the place and a sense of connection within it that is nearly palpable. Whether it's supporting the building of schools in Kenya, ministering to the darkest and neediest corners of the city, or simply taking me and my roommate in for Thanksgiving, it's clear to me God is on the move here. I had tears in my eyes not long after I walked in on that first Sunday.

I could tell you all about the passionate teachings and the great people I'm meeting. I could tell you about all the young couples and their adorable children. I could tell you the deeply moving stories of redemption and hope I've heard. I could tell you about how volunteers come in early to set up the auditorium for service and make coffee. I could tell you about believers new and mature alike learning together. But what I really want to do is show you a video of the teaching pastor and worship leader rocking out a cover of Don't Let Me Down by the Beatles.

The Sunday morning service meets at William Alexander Middle School in Park Slope, Brooklyn. Picture a 50's era public school, and you've got the right idea. Red brick exterior with masonry arches around the doorways. Speckled floors. Pale green paint. There's a farmers market that sets up shop on the sidewalk around the school every Sunday; I buy apples there pretty much every weekend.

There's also a playground and soccer fields across from the school. I like to imagine that matchbox cars travel in and out of the doors of William Alexander during the week, stuffed in pockets and rattling around in backpacks. I like that image because I feel like a matchbox car when I walk in the door to Trinity Grace on Sunday mornings. Matchbox cars aren't meant to sit still. They're meant to go. When you have the space you set up a track and run them in endless circuits, through loops, and over sweet jumps. To do that, you have to connect up the charging station. You see the charging station is essential. Motorized wheels pull the cars in at the end of a run and then fling those cars down the track all over again.

The key is laying down as much track as you can get away with so that the car has just enough to reach the charging station at the end of a run. Then those wheels grab hold of it and Sir Isaac Newton's laws have their way. After a week of classes and projects and exams and research grant proposals and meetings and presentations and learning new programming languages and relearning old math I have just enough to make it into Trinity Grace on Sunday morning. Then God's laws have their way, and I shoot out of there for another lap. Just two more days, and I've almost made it around the track one more time. Thank you God for Trinity Grace. Vroom.