Ian M. Anderson

Let me tell you the story of this tree. It's around 7 years old--I know this because I pulled it out of a crack the first spring it popped up. I was walking with some students along the sidewalk, their chatter filling the air, and I spotted it: 3 or 4 sets of leaves waving like a mini flag right next to a car tire. It had rained a day or two before, so when I gently pulled on the trunk--which was more like a twig--it came up easily, roots and all. "What are you doing?" One of my students asked. "Saving this tree," I said. We headed inside to find a cup of water, and I explained just how I intended to save the tree. "It's dying." I assured them it would live. I explained--again--that if I left the roots in water and later planted and soaked it, it had a good chance. "It's dying." It's over seven years later, and every once in a while I remind one of the students with me that day that the tree is still alive. I've replanted it a...

Some time ago, I wrote about silliness  (and more recently here ), but I come back to it because I need it--and because I can't help it. Nothing is quite like the pressure of Self Importance, and I'm so much more likely to snap at you when, clearly, my agenda is The Agenda. So, let's try something. I'll set my agenda down if you will. Deal? I'll even set mine down first--there; it looks so much smaller on the floor, doesn't it? Now it's your turn--for we've made a deal, and we have a song to sing. Please, silly songs don't work all that well when our arms are weighed down. Good--I know you feel better because I do, too. Now for the song. It's called "A Song Best Sung to Little Ones," and it goes like this: Wiggle your toes and scrunch up your nose-- Yes, like that--for you have them! Your toes And your nose, now what do they knows? How to wiggle and how to scrunch! "And what of my stuffy bears? What of Their noses and wiggledy toes...

I spent some time recently writing about silliness. Since then, I've remembered one of my favorite quotes. It's from a book called Orthodoxy , by G.K. Chesterton. A book with that title doesn't immediately inspire silliness, I know, but -- as I've written elsewhere -- I imagine he wrote it with a smile on his face, maybe even while laughing aloud. The passage I have in mind is the final paragraph of the book. It is about Jesus, and joy, and sadness, and anger. I quote it in full because I wanted to type it and share it: "Joy, which was the small publicity of the pagan, is the gigantic secret of the Christian. And as I close this chaotic volume I open again the strange small book from which all Christianity came; and I am again haunted by a kind of confirmation. The tremendous figure which fills the Gospels towers in this respect, as in every other, above all the thinkers who ever thought themselves tall. His pathos was natural, almost casual. The Stoics, ancient an...

On February 8th, I posted an introduction of sorts called "Toward a Manifesto of Silliness." Every week since then I've written about silliness, mostly as a way to meditate on and answer the question: What makes silliness important? My family and I talked it over, and here are our answers: "Silliness is a Sign of Joy." "Silliness is Important Because We are Silly." "Silliness is Just Fun." "Silliness Helps Bring Balance." Thinking on and writing about those answers helped this last silly answer grow -- I had an idea at first, but those initial answers shaped how I thought/think about silliness. It was a suspicion that began the day my youngest son and I played our game of nothing. Remember? All this began with nothing. Try to imagine: First, we sat side by side, the whole room bright from the sun. Soon, he draped his arms around my neck, and because of the faces we'd been making, laughter took over. His brothers were close by, ...

If you've been with us for the last few weeks, you're beginning to see what we feel about silliness. If you haven't been checking in on us, however, here's what you've missed: * We asked some initial questions about why silliness is important . * Firstly, we said, silliness is a sign of joy . * Secondly, we are obviously silly and obviously important. You are, too, if you were wondering . * Thirdly, silliness is just fun . Don't worry, we'll wait while you catch up on all that reading. ... Good, I'm glad you're back! We're just giving another answer: Fourthly, silliness is important because it helps bring balance. I hope you know we're being earnest, if not completely serious. That last sentence made me smile, and I needed it at the moment. You see, even though all this writing and posting amounts to little, there's a feeling that begins at the back of my mind when I think I'm doing something good, especially when I'm glad about m...

A small look back at what I've shared so far reveals the moment all this silliness began: It was after a game of nothing my son and I played . The game stuck in my mind for some reason, and so I asked the whole family, "What makes silliness important?" They gave their answers, going round the table quick-like, and I was stunned by the ease with which they replied. First answer: "It's a sign of joy."  And it is. Second answer: "Because we are silly."  We are. Silly. And important. Then came the third: "It's just fun." So here we are. I still use the Bible my youth group leader gave me in junior high. It's an NIV Study Bible with helpful notes and explanations. Sometimes I see the notes I wrote in the margins and cringe; other times I'm thankful to have a history of my errors, my growth, and God's faithfulness. As I thought about my son's answer -- It's just fun -- I remembered a small note I jotted down next to Psal...

Where have we been so far? In my introductory post,  Toward a Manifesto of Silliness , I wrote that I asked my family: "What makes silliness important?" The first answer: Silliness Is a Sign of Joy . Today, we're meditating on our second answer: Silliness is important because we are silly. As I explained about the first answer, this one also found me at a loss. It was a probing kind of answer, and, as we'll see in later posts, it's where I'm headed with all this nonsense. But hang with me here for now. Isn't the circular nature of this answer fitting? Silliness is important because we are silly; we are silly because it's important. As an argument, this circular kind rests at the peak of hilarity -- it's silly. And yet, the very nature of what we're discussing here requires a deep presupposition that can't be explained anyway. So we're fine with circular if you are. "Look around you," my son seemed to say. "Aren't WE s...

In my introductory post,  Toward a Manifesto of Silliness , I wrote that I asked my family: "What makes silliness important?" A second passed, and one of my sons said, "It's a sign of joy." When I ask questions of my family -- my sons especially -- I anticipate what they might say in the hope of finding some wisdom to impart, of finding a teaching moment. This rapid-fire answer caught me off guard. I don't know why, really, but I wasn't prepared for the speed at which he answered or for the force of the answer itself. JOY! He may as well have shouted it. Upon reflection, I don't know what I was prepared to hear instead. Yet here I was, receiving wisdom unawares; it was the kind that strikes you on the mouth -- and you smile at the truthful ring of it. Of course! I've had time since then to think about what the little sage said, and I keep coming back to this promise God made to his people long, long ago through the prophet Zephaniah: "On tha...

Recently, my thoughts have turned to silliness. It all began when my eight year old son and I sat together on the couch, he on my lap. We spent a while goofing, mostly laughing at nothing. Afterward, a question stuck in my mind: Why was that so good? It's not as though we hadn't been together lately, we had -- plenty. Thus, for several days on end, at odd moments here and there, I've been thinking about nonsense, tomfoolery, laughter -- in a word, silliness. In fact, I'm becoming quite serious about it. Other questions have arisen: How might Jesus view silliness? What Scripture passages come to mind when I'm thinking this way? Is there such a thing as a theology of silliness? I also asked my family about it. "What," I said one night at dinner, "makes silliness important?" I did realize as I asked the question that I assumed the importance of such a thing, but none of them skipped a beat. We came up with the following: 1. Silliness is a sign of jo...

The spring and summer months found me in the garden many evenings. I pulled weeds, picked beans or tomatoes, or looked for new blossoms on the pumpkin vine. Of course, eating the produce of a garden is the goal, the joy of the work, yet I found that feeding the soil throughout the year is a new way for me to enjoy it all. It started when I watched a YouTube video of a gardener burying all sorts of kitchen scraps to enrich the soil; naturally, I had to try it. Now I not only bury orange peels and eggshells, rotten spinach and celery stumps, but also various animal bones and shredded paper. The worms have thanked me. In other words, my attention to the soil began in the spring instead of autumn, and when the growing season was over I was eager to work with the compost; usually, this is a time marked by a note of longing for summer produce -- and that didn't pass completely -- but that first weekend in November gave me a kind of thrill normally reserved for warmer months. My sons and ...

We'll begin with something a bit fantastic, that being a visit from the apostle James: He stood at my school desk the other day -- I'd gone for some water -- and he opened one of my books. It lay flat on my desk next to a description of an exercise we do in class. Conveniently, the book he opened contained his own letter to some of the first people to proclaim Jesus as the Christ, and he flipped right to it. He didn't say anything, but pointed out to me a few passages. Then he directed my eyes to some parallels in what we do in my Creative Writing classes. It's in light of this that I offer this meditation on faith and writing. I'm in my 9th year of creative writing instruction. Spread into two classes, almost evenly, I have 22 students this year -- which is more than usual. The mix of students who want to write with those who need an easy class to blow off is about the same; the mix of their anxieties, if we only consider anxieties that are class-related, is also n...

I can't get John the Baptist's words out of my head. Luke records them this way: You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the coming wrath? Produce fruit in keeping with repentance. And do not begin to say to yourselves, 'We have Abraham as our father.' For I tell you that out of these stones God can raise up children for Abraham. The ax is already at the root of the trees, and every tree that does not produce good fruit will be cut down and thrown into the fire. And then John answers the questions of those who've heard him: the crowd, tax collectors, and soldiers. In their turn each asks the same question -- "What should we do?" ** John replies to the crowd: The man with two tunics should share with him who has none, and the one who has food should do the same. To the tax collectors: Don't collect any more than you are required to. To the soldiers: Don't extort money and don't accuse people falsely -- be content with your pay. Rep...

I've thought about and prayed and worked on this post for a few weeks, off and on. Please accept these words as more of a prayer: unfinished, unrefined -- a stumbling. *** My wife and I used to play one another in ping-pong while at college. There was a table set up in the middle of a common area just outside the cafeteria, so when we played people often saw us. We still laugh at the time a passerby said to me, "Ian, take it easy!" I'd just slammed a point on her side. I said, "No! She'll win!" And that was true. If I went easy, not only would she be frustrated at me for not playing my best, but she'd also win -- and I couldn't have that. No, really. There was a part of me that, for a moment, put our relationship aside so that I could relish the win: the swing of the arm, the twist of the ball, the look on her face -- I win! Many years later, we see that we've sown the seeds of competition in our sons. It wasn't that difficult, because it...

I planned to post something entirely different today, however, that piece isn't finished. So, in its place, I've decided to share a small picture of our pink azalea. The lower temperatures we experienced a few weeks ago delayed its bloom, but, as you can see, it's doing fine now. In this difficult time of quarantine, this plant has been a bright spot for us. I hope it is for you, too. Hopefully, in two weeks I'll have that other post done!

Below is a very short prologue to a book I started years ago -- just a small glimpse into yet another story that's still working on me. *** It was like this: In a suburb of a certain city, a letter fell from the delivery slot in a front door; the metal clang died, and the envelope slid to a stop. Around the corner in a dimly lit living room, a set of ears and eyes went on not hearing, not seeing; the ears didn't notice the pad-pad-pad of feet slapping the sidewalk as they rushed away or the whispers in the air of the house as the words contained in the letter begged to be let out; neither did the eyes see the small shadow as it danced across the lawn or the flapping wings overhead as birds the size of throwing stones tried to keep up. They didn't notice much of anything. Not yet. And now a boy with skin like chocolate stands and stares at a street sign -- he does not stare because of the houses surrounding him, nor because he is lost. No, he stares be...

Fever has sent me spiraling into the past, I smell the ancient dust in Lessingham's parlor, and now the newsprint, upon which I saw his name for the first time, rises out of that same fog I thought I escaped. -- But no! His is the nightmare, and I'm sure of it! He possesses what each man longs to take of his own accord. Yes, his is the nightmare. *** I was young and building a name for myself as an art dealer. No family of my own to restrict my travels, I was eager to find a rarity, something no one looked for or expected to exist, something ancient. The normal studios and art shows wouldn't do. I learned the names of those who sold what they did not own and reaped what they did not sow. A man named Daha led me to Lessingham. Daha had collected a map of sorts, a trail of clippings, stolen manifests, and ill-got receipts that led, he said, to this Lessingham and the astonishing pieces in his possession. He twisted in his seat and pulled at his cigarette when I asked h...

Our little one -- there! the boy crouched within the yellow forsythia blossoms -- he waits beyond his years, is patient as an old man is forced to be patient, for he hunts the butterflies that will soon come to this bright corner of the yard; no, he does not hunt them as most boys would, for a collection. He wants their sound. All else he's captured: the colors, the shapes, delicate both, but isn't the sound impossible? More delicate than their wings, than the multitude of scales we call "dust," is the sound wave created by the flap and dip of the butterfly. Boy is covered in pollen. The skin on his forearms sticks to the skin on his biceps. Behind him, the sun is reluctant to set, and his eyes blink away tears from the glare reflecting off the tall windows a few feet away. A flurry of excited sparrows fill the branches surrounding him, one or two mistaking his head and knee for forsythia. Their argument swirls and expands to the nearby turf, to the maple trees on t...

Fire escape: Mark Sonata stood here, naked but for thin briefs that the rain pasted to his skin. His hands squeezed the metal rail and showed white with the pressure; breaths came, his shoulders heaved, and the dawn heard his anger. Anger born of shame. A scream. *** There was a time in Mark's second life when the pain from this anniversary came easily -- when he would slip into a void, the anguish in his chest; agony was fitting, and it was apt to be crushed. But that was years ago. The mourning never fully ceased, but there came a new ability to cope that arose from the death of the shock, the first blow. Diana's death, Mark carried it with him, but the wound rarely reopened completely. And he hated himself for it. *** All morning long the sound of rain -- through Mark's open apartment windows, on the metal fire escape, on the outstretched beech branches along the street, and now on the folded newspaper he held over his head as he prepared himself for the me...

There the ships go to and fro, and the leviathan, which you formed to frolic there. -- Psalm 104.26 "Call me Ishmael." These are the famous words that open  Moby-Dick . The words that scholars highlight and readers remember. The words that actually open the book are all but ignored. *** I said, "I need to rent a boat," and the air in the store changed, like I'd committed some major social blunder. I could see it in the cashier's eyes. She looked at me over her glasses, one eyebrow raised, her lips pursed, and her head cocked. "I'm from New Castle." I felt the customers behind me. They were no longer shopping. I waited for her to help me, but she didn't reply. I was hostage to her scrutiny until I talked. "Do you have boats to rent?" I knew they did. From where we stood, I could see the colorful sides of blue and red rowboats hanging on a rack that spanned the length of the store outside. The cashier's mou...