Dear Friends,
If you walk out my front door and trip over a tree root, you basically fall on top of the Mexican convenience store. But even though it's right at the end of my street, I walk past it another quarter mile to the one that says "open" in English and doesn't have tortilla shells in the display window. I planned on checking it out at some point, but procrastinated for the same reason that I sometimes wait for weeks before correcting the blinking twelves on new coffee makers.
That's not the only thing I procrastinate about. About three weeks after moving in here, my Landlord, Chris, casually mentioned something about utilities staying in his name, which I thought was strange because utilities are included in rent. The next day I realized that we had obviously crossed wires, and that we would need to reach some agreement on the issue. But I put it off and he never mentioned it again, so I assumed--read: convinced myself--that I had been wrong.
I received an e-mail from Chris a couple days ago detailing the utility bills I owed on. I sent an e-mail back and said utilities were included, but that I would be willing to begin paying them in exchange for a free month of rent. As much as I understood his position, I also didn't want to get knocked around without speaking up. He responded by saying that there was no compromise, which I resented since, having assembled all of our communication, there was no mention of utilities. After a few e-mails, he said he would be stopping by and we could talk.
He stopped by. We talked. He refused to accept my compromise, and I refused to calmly accept an extra hundred bucks per month that I didn't agree to. Unable to find a point of equilibrium, I found a move-out date (which is either the 23rd or the 30th). So it looks like I'll be moving again--this time, hopefully closer to work.
Two days ago I walked into the Mexican store. It had all the normal convenience store-type stuff, plus lots of beans, tortillas, and unidentifiable fruits. I didn't buy anything, but I'd certainly go back. If I had gone back when I first noticed it, weeks ago, it would have been just fine. And you know, if I had approached Chris weeks ago when he first mentioned the issue, that probably would have been just fine, too. Communication can do that.
Normally I'd end on that note, but since this is a newsletter I wanted to throw in another piece of news. My final audition for poker dealing was yesterday. It was difficult, but it was fun and I had a good time. I find out Friday whether I'm going to be a dealer. Until then, I suppose I just sit tight and pray. So you see, not all that much has changed since I left Haiti.
------------------------
See pictures of Leslie, Roxie, and my new house. (Look for the album labeled "Florida.")
View the FUN Archives .
You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
2011 Oakwood Ave
Tampa, FL 33605
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
That's it! Shalom,
Dan
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Sunday, May 20, 2007
FUN Update, May 20, 2007 - My Way
Dear Friends,
This weekend I did some work for a company called Simphonics. My job was to build twelve identical desktop computers for a project, all of which contained their proprietary card, the SMX Whizbang 2000, or whatever. The man who was showing me how they wanted the systems assembled obviously knew far less about computers than I did. He did everything slowly and didn't really understand why he did the things he did. He kept giving me "pointers," some of which were misguided and all of which were superfluous.
On top of which, he had no sense of humor. Imagine trying to ease your stress level by telling a joke, only to be met by a blank face which was colored, if at all, only with vague irritation. In two days of working with him--eighteen and half hours, in total--I never saw him laugh once. There's something very peculiar about that.
About six hours into the first day, after he had nitpicked about a million times, I had a revelation. If I was so good at system building and he was so bad, then why did he keep finding things to criticize? There was obviously something that he wanted from me, and proving my superiority was getting in the way of proving my competence. I switched gears right away.
I started routing wires the way he wanted them. I assembled in the order that he wanted it to be assembled. I made a "V" shape with three cable hooks. I refrained from telling jokes and instead let him talk. About... something. I don't remember. But I did what he asked.
And here's the interesting thing: I learned a lot. Doing things a different way taught me some new tricks. Most curious of all, when I finished a system and he commended me, I felt really good about my work.
I have an artist's snobbery. I want to do things my way, and I generally feel that my way is better than most other ways. And yet, every time that I explore another path, it ends up being far more rewarding than if I had insisted on having my own way. Now, I think I've come one step closer to being a better worker for anyone I ever work for. Which, I think, is worth a few hours of irritation.
------------------------
See pictures of Leslie, Roxie, and my new house. (Look for the album labeled "Florida.")
View the FUN Archives .
You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
2011 Oakwood Ave
Tampa, FL 33605
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
That's it! Shalom,
Dan
This weekend I did some work for a company called Simphonics. My job was to build twelve identical desktop computers for a project, all of which contained their proprietary card, the SMX Whizbang 2000, or whatever. The man who was showing me how they wanted the systems assembled obviously knew far less about computers than I did. He did everything slowly and didn't really understand why he did the things he did. He kept giving me "pointers," some of which were misguided and all of which were superfluous.
On top of which, he had no sense of humor. Imagine trying to ease your stress level by telling a joke, only to be met by a blank face which was colored, if at all, only with vague irritation. In two days of working with him--eighteen and half hours, in total--I never saw him laugh once. There's something very peculiar about that.
About six hours into the first day, after he had nitpicked about a million times, I had a revelation. If I was so good at system building and he was so bad, then why did he keep finding things to criticize? There was obviously something that he wanted from me, and proving my superiority was getting in the way of proving my competence. I switched gears right away.
I started routing wires the way he wanted them. I assembled in the order that he wanted it to be assembled. I made a "V" shape with three cable hooks. I refrained from telling jokes and instead let him talk. About... something. I don't remember. But I did what he asked.
And here's the interesting thing: I learned a lot. Doing things a different way taught me some new tricks. Most curious of all, when I finished a system and he commended me, I felt really good about my work.
I have an artist's snobbery. I want to do things my way, and I generally feel that my way is better than most other ways. And yet, every time that I explore another path, it ends up being far more rewarding than if I had insisted on having my own way. Now, I think I've come one step closer to being a better worker for anyone I ever work for. Which, I think, is worth a few hours of irritation.
------------------------
See pictures of Leslie, Roxie, and my new house. (Look for the album labeled "Florida.")
View the FUN Archives .
You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
2011 Oakwood Ave
Tampa, FL 33605
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
That's it! Shalom,
Dan
Sunday, May 6, 2007
FUN Update, May 7, 2007 - Broken
Dear Friends,
I've come to understand that being broken is how I should anticipate spending most of my life. Sure, there are times that I feel whole and together, but it rarely lasts more than a few weeks. And I've come to appreciate the comfort that comes from being dependent on God and the people He's put in my life.
My roommate broke up with her fiancé about two months ago. Her wedding date was yesterday, May 5th. She's reading a book right now (going on week five, I believe) entitled, "it's called a breakup because it's broken." And it is. She is. She sleeps too much and suffers from a lack of motivation, and I have yet to see her happy.
I got to thinking: what's different about us? I don't know that I can compare my life to somebody who breaks up with their fiancé... but my recent life hasn't been a walk in the park, either. The idea that the only difference is the magnitude of our troubles just doesn't ring true for me. As usual, my course of action was to search for an appropriate metaphor; to seek a visual that I could describe, and then see if that description applied to my life.
There are different types of broken. There are paper cuts and greenstick fractures and little plastic things that break off and render machines completely unusable. Some breaks are big, like losing a best friend or fiancé. Others are small, like facing another day with the dark clouds of worry hovering over your head. Sometimes the crack goes straight through; other times, the crack causes more breaks so that the pieces don't quite fit together anymore.
...And suddenly, I had my image. Crackers. Those two-cracker saltine packets in the little plastic bags that you always get with soup. The crackers you break in the package so you can pour them neatly into that chicken noodle without getting salt and bread crumbs on your hands. That cracker, of course, is me, and Leslie, and everybody else that is human enough to have a breaking point. The wrapper represents the relationships and connections that act as support.
Consider the extremes of wrapper size: if a cracker is in a gallon-sized zip-lock bag and it gets broken, it will crumble beyond repair. But if that same cracker is shrink wrapped, even when broken all the pieces will still fit together. It will fracture, but will not separate. At this point I have to switch metaphors. If you have a broken bone, what does a doctor do? The doctor sets it. Puts all the pieces together--broken, but together. Because if you put all those pieces together, they heal. They heal. They heal. Mantra of the broken heart.
Leslie was in a relationship that was scentral to her life almost to the exclusion of family and friends. So when the cookie crumbled, all the pieces scattered, and she was left with nobody to help her put them together. I, on the other hand, have God. And my family, and my friends. I've been constantly impressed by Leslie's strength in the face of her own unhappiness. She puts on a smile and goes to work and capitalizes on her competence. But humans heal as they rest, and how can there be rest without safety, and how there be safety without support?
More soon. Big things are afoot!
Dan
------------------------
See pictures of Leslie, Roxie, and my new house. (Look for the album labeled "Florida.")
View the FUN Archives .
You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
2011 Oakwood Ave
Tampa, FL 33605
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
That's it! Shalom,
Dan
I've come to understand that being broken is how I should anticipate spending most of my life. Sure, there are times that I feel whole and together, but it rarely lasts more than a few weeks. And I've come to appreciate the comfort that comes from being dependent on God and the people He's put in my life.
My roommate broke up with her fiancé about two months ago. Her wedding date was yesterday, May 5th. She's reading a book right now (going on week five, I believe) entitled, "it's called a breakup because it's broken." And it is. She is. She sleeps too much and suffers from a lack of motivation, and I have yet to see her happy.
I got to thinking: what's different about us? I don't know that I can compare my life to somebody who breaks up with their fiancé... but my recent life hasn't been a walk in the park, either. The idea that the only difference is the magnitude of our troubles just doesn't ring true for me. As usual, my course of action was to search for an appropriate metaphor; to seek a visual that I could describe, and then see if that description applied to my life.
There are different types of broken. There are paper cuts and greenstick fractures and little plastic things that break off and render machines completely unusable. Some breaks are big, like losing a best friend or fiancé. Others are small, like facing another day with the dark clouds of worry hovering over your head. Sometimes the crack goes straight through; other times, the crack causes more breaks so that the pieces don't quite fit together anymore.
...And suddenly, I had my image. Crackers. Those two-cracker saltine packets in the little plastic bags that you always get with soup. The crackers you break in the package so you can pour them neatly into that chicken noodle without getting salt and bread crumbs on your hands. That cracker, of course, is me, and Leslie, and everybody else that is human enough to have a breaking point. The wrapper represents the relationships and connections that act as support.
Consider the extremes of wrapper size: if a cracker is in a gallon-sized zip-lock bag and it gets broken, it will crumble beyond repair. But if that same cracker is shrink wrapped, even when broken all the pieces will still fit together. It will fracture, but will not separate. At this point I have to switch metaphors. If you have a broken bone, what does a doctor do? The doctor sets it. Puts all the pieces together--broken, but together. Because if you put all those pieces together, they heal. They heal. They heal. Mantra of the broken heart.
Leslie was in a relationship that was scentral to her life almost to the exclusion of family and friends. So when the cookie crumbled, all the pieces scattered, and she was left with nobody to help her put them together. I, on the other hand, have God. And my family, and my friends. I've been constantly impressed by Leslie's strength in the face of her own unhappiness. She puts on a smile and goes to work and capitalizes on her competence. But humans heal as they rest, and how can there be rest without safety, and how there be safety without support?
More soon. Big things are afoot!
Dan
------------------------
See pictures of Leslie, Roxie, and my new house. (Look for the album labeled "Florida.")
View the FUN Archives .
You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
2011 Oakwood Ave
Tampa, FL 33605
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
That's it! Shalom,
Dan
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