Friday, March 7, 2014

RHYTHM OF DESTRUCTION, RHYTHM OF CREATION

I’ve been watching the destruction of the Metrodome from the window of a writing studio at the Loft in downtown Minneapolis.  Although, given its status in our local theology, it should probably be capitalized as The Destruction Of The Mall of America at the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome, a la The Fall Of Troy or the Defenestration of Prague or any other historical mythical cataclysmic event.  For it was within these “Hallowed Halls” (the news media’s words, not mine), that Kirby Puckett hit his game-winning home run in Game 6 of the 1991 World Series, and Jack Morris pitched his 10-inning shutout to lead the Minnesota Twins to their Second World Championship in The Greatest World Series ever.

Alas, I may run out of capital letters.

Of course, the Metrodome was the scene of many failures and defeats as well.  Gary Anderson missing his only field goal of the season (the season!), and the 16-1 Vikings losing in the NFC Championship Game.  The various heartbreaking playoff losses for high school football teams, the blowout suffered by Michigan when Duke repeated as NCAA basketball champions (don’t worry; I had to look up who Duke played too).  Since there were also Monster Truck Jams here as well, I would guess that Bone Crusher defeated or was defeated by his foes. For in every sporting event, there must be a vanquished as well as a victor.

As I write this, the south side of the Metrodome is gone to my sight.  I can see the seats on the west side and a few on the south, and the steady beat of destruction goes on.  I did not witness the two explosions that have been part of the destruction, but did see the giant wrecking balls used to begin the process.  It was pretty interesting to watch at first.  The stadium is only two blocks from this window I am writing at, but the different speeds of sound and light meant for a gap between my seeing the ball hit the concrete, and hearing the thud.  I would first see debris fall from the “storied walls” and then hear its moan a bit later.

It wasn’t so much a moan as it was a thud, and as it proceeded, it became more rhythmic.  Thud-thud-thud.  I didn’t try to time the swings of the wrecking ball, but I would think that it helps for the operator to have a steady rhythm going.  A ton of ball swinging on a chain from a tall crane needs to be channeled, and a steady, swinging rhythm is one way to do that.  At times, it was like a bass beat, one that became monotonous after awhile.  I could have counted out its beat.  Thud. Thud. Thud. Destruction—whether by wrecking ball, war, poverty or hatred—is known by its flashes of terror.  But most of its work is a steady, slow grinding down of what was once alive.

The other thing I see from my window here—or rather, hear first and then look out to see—are the buses unloading school children on a field trip to the Open Book building where the Loft is located.  They “de-bus” (after careful, ignored instructions by their teachers) in the alley between Valspar Paint and the Loft. There is a rhythm in their leaving the bus and crossing the small parking lot to the building entrance, but anyone who tried to count it out would be foolish.  It is an exuberant, joyful, polyphemous symphony of sound.  The children, freed from the confines of the yellow school bus, and freed, even for a second, from order and obedience, shout, laugh and even sing.  It is the rhythm of creation, and it is a blessed messy bliss to hear it.

I have a little ritual when the buses empty.  I open the little window and stick out my head and watch. I say nothing. I do not greet the children, but just look at them.  Soon one, than many, then a whole bunch look up at me and wave or say hi. Or nudge their friends and say “there’s a man up there”. I wave to the children and smile, but don’t say anything.  The children keep up the rhythm. Some of the shy ones wave slightly and look away.  Some of the loud ones try to get me to talk (that was me at 10).

I haven’t done a thorough study, but it seems to my observation that I never have to wait very long for a child to look up.  Children look up rather naturally.  I’ve never seen one of the adults look up, until a child tells them to.  They look at the debarking of the bus, they watch to see that the children don’t wander off, but they never look up first. Children do.  That, I think, is the beginning of wisdom.

Be beauty. Be justice. Be the rhythm of creation.

Patrick

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