Chapter 7: Paradox: The Final Problem

I had trouble with fractions. This would enrage my father from time to time who would try to help me with my homework. One night he was particularly frustrated with my lack of native understanding, and was gesticulating with his middle finger in the direction of six-twelfths on my homework page. I had to simplify the fraction, I guess, to one-half. I couldn’t do this, of course, because I was horrified that he was pointing with the “rod” finger. I didn’t know exactly what the “rod” finger did, but I knew that one should never use it for any reason whatsoever.

His finger, I noticed, had four black hairs growing out of the second joint. As he pounded the finger against the fraction, the hairs never moved! I then noticed that I could see the pores of his skin, and the pores looked larger where the four hairs were. Gradually I realized that he had begun not only to raise his voice, but to shout.

“Six-TWELTS. It’s six-TWELTS!” he cried. I wondered why he said “twelts”. The word was obviously twelfths, right? I timidly began to point out the correct pronunciation to him. That’s all I can remember of this event. The crystal has gone dark.

What a mystery all of life is! I have no trouble with fractions today, I frequently think in decimal terms, and I’m an absolute wiz in measurement and conversions. If I only knew then what I know now I could go back and show that mean-spirited fourth grade math teacher a thing or two! On the other hand, if I had been good at fractions back then I probably wouldn’t be a husband to Cindy, a father to my children, and a headmaster. To understand this you must have either studied fractal geometry, chaos theory, or watched “Jurassic Park” several thousand times. When the butterfly flaps its wings in Tokyo, the weather changes in New York.

To go beyond reason or opinion is what defines paradox. We normally see a paradox as two independently true statements that are contradictory when introduced to each other. Paradoxes are higher on the social scale than oxymora. We chuckle at “jumbo shrimp”; we howl when we hear about “army intelligence”; we slap our thighs at “pretty ugly” or “a new classic”. More than a contradiction in terms, paradoxes are explicitly and intrinsically true. They are not funny. They make me nervous.

My world is loaded with these elements in a precise 1:1 ratio. God has revealed to me that my job is to keep these equally balanced in my brain at all times, believing both equally without giving one a wink-and-a-nod at the expense of the other. This is a terrible burden. I would much rather leave this work up to Martin Heidegger or Ludwig Wittgenstein or Aristotle or others who are paid to consider the meaning of life.

On the other hand, I have taught the conjugation of the verb “to speak” in first year Spanish for thirty years. Maybe a bit of higher order thinking is just what I need to keep my teaching fresh. On the other hand I’ve also taught Bible, theology, algebra, graphic design, American lit, world history, earth science, physical science, AP Spanish, geography, journalism, British lit, piano, guitar, music theory, chorus, drama, sailing, canoeing, astronomy, life skills (!), and coached a number of sports.

On the other hand, where’s the profit in any of this? Was Qoholeth right? Fortunately, the University of Northern Colorado answers this question by maintaining that philosophy majors will make a pile of money. I’m not kidding. Check it out.

Here’s my first real memory. I am convinced that anything that I “remember” prior to this event was added by photographs or family stories. This is my first real one:

I was running from Mr. Don’s back yard across his gravel driveway to our yard. I tripped and fell, skinning my knees horribly. I slid to a stop on the grass in our yard, face to face with a wild violet staring up at me. The gradually deepening hues of the petals led my eyes to the pistils, stamen, anthers, and bright golden stigma. It was so beautiful that I stopped crying. My first memory is of something so beautiful that it made me stop hurting. (Many years later I learned that my “birth flower” is the violet. My color is “violet”. My birthstone is amethyst. None of that is significant).

What is significant is that my sister Beka is beautiful. She is way beyond being just another member of our family. She is the symbol of who we are. She made us. And she’s beautiful inside and out.

Beka has a number of neurological disorders that hamper her ability to communicate or function in ways that are “normal”. Her disabilities hamper us, too. Or maybe a better way of saying this that her disabilities have formed, and continue to form, us.

Beka has a stock set of questions that she’ll ask, particularly in a telephone conversation. Her most repeated question is, “Everything good there?” If we don’t answer affirmatively, she’ll ask it again and again until we say that everything is good here.

Theologically speaking, there is a difference between “good” and “perfect”. “Good” means that everything is as it should be at this moment. For example, when God created the universe in seven days we are told that “it was good”. The Hebrew here really doesn’t mean completely perfected, and it is significant that the children of Adam and Eve are far from perfect. Beka’s question forces me into a place of acceptance. Everything is as it should be right now.

My sister is the ultimate paradox. She reminds me that I will never know the answer to the questions that the paradoxes of life propose, but that I must remain on the quest. She is not my guide, my Virgil; rather, she is my Beatrice. I must live in the moment while struggling to climb to the Empyrean.

Today I will replace the fuel filter in my leaf blower. Tomorrow I will shave another $23,000 off the annual budget for my school in order to make the finance committee happy. In a month I’ll be addressing the state teachers’ conference on the subject of attention deficit disorder. Tonight I’m cooking chili. Life is great. Everything good here.

The end.