For those of you who religiously follow my (consistently riveting) tweets, you saw me offer up this harrowing confession yesterday:

Bizarre sudden onset of painful nostalgia as I research an extinct Epcot ride that I never even rode.

The ride I’m referring to was called Horizons, and it was essentially a futuristic extension of the Carousel of Progress ride located in other Disney parks. It was an ‘80s-era picture of the future—as all of Epcot once was—where riders traveled through various stages of the glorified and scientific progress of humanity out into the far reaches of space. It was all set to a catchy (if powerfully dated) song with the refrain, “If we can dream it, then we can do it…yes we can!”

I stumbled across this ride watching YouTube videos of other extinct Disney park rides (the word “inexplicable” applies to much of this post)—and as I traveled through a past look at the future from the past by way of a poor (and undoubtedly illegal) 1994 video recording, I was caught wholly transfixed.

Despite this being 1) a really lame, low-fi way of experiencing a moving “dark ride,” and 2) the fact that it’s a supremely corny, animatronics-riddled, Disney vision of a utopian future—something deep in the cockles of my heart was stirred, and I developed an insatiable thirst for all things Horizons and the Epcot Center of yore.

I suppose one way to explain this inexplicable nostalgia is my overall love for so many things Disney. I visited the parks both here in Florida and in California several times growing up, and I grew up on a steady diet of their classic animated films. Disney occupies a huge cubby of my childhood.

Many of the rides, especially the older (and cornier) ones, at the park have this sappy, magnetic pull on me. I’m especially endeared to rides and movies that were conceived in the ’80s, which can probably be understood, in part, when you consider that it was the decade in which I was born and spent much of my childhood.

As a film music aficionado, I am also attracted to the unapologetically sentimental quality of the orchestral music that accompanies many of these rides. This is one thing that happily lives on in the parks; great examples being Bruce Broughton’s majestic score for the Spaceship Earth ride and Jerry Goldsmith’s rarified music for Soarin’.

And yet there’s something else here, revolving around the fact that the ride no longer exists and was torn down to make room for a new ride. The animatronic ghosts from that old ride haunt me. I want desperately to travel back in time to 1994, my valuable possessions tucked securely in a fanny pack, and climb aboard the floating space gondolas that revealed prophetic panoramas of tomorrow’s farmers harvesting deserts and oceans, and the family of the future eating dinner around their silver space station table.

For whatever reason, Disney + the 1980s + the irretrievable past = a deep seated, almost painful ache in my heart for a place I can no longer visit. Any psychologists (or Disney-certified sociologists) out there care to explain my plight?

Yesterday I interviewed Polish film composer Jan (Yahn) A.P. Kaczmarek for Film Score Monthly Online. I have been writing for FSMO for two years, and it has been one of the most rewarding, exciting ventures I have ever endeavored upon. FSMO is the parson that married my love of writing and my love of film music; a match surely made in heaven.

It took a few attempts to get through to Maestro Kaczmarek. I was calling a Los Angeles number that connected to a number in Poland, so the few hiccups were excused. The first word out of my mouth, when I finally reached him, was a gaff: “Jan?” He genially said it happens all the time, but it must be annoying to be addressed as “Jan” when your name is pronounced “Yahn.” I tried to compensate for my blunder by inquiring how to pronounce his last name, and what the ‘A’ and ‘P’ stand for (the Polish equivalent of Andrew and Paul, it turns out).

I asked if it was customary for Polanders to include the middle initials of their name; Jan explained that, when he first began his career, there existed another famous Jan Kaczmerak, and the burden of differentiation fell on the young newcomer.

He invited me to visit his new institute, which represents his attempt to unify composers and artists—who tend to be a solitary, fragmented lot—in central Europe. I told him of my love for Polish food, and he said the Instytut Rozbitek will incorporate great Polish food into its holistic structure. That practically bought my plane ticket.

We talked about our love of woodwinds, and their unfortunate absence from modern film music. He claimed the great Ennio Morricone as his idol, and cited The Mission as one of the greatest scores ever written.

Jan spoke with a thick accent, but I had little trouble understanding him. For a non-native English speaker, he was incredibly eloquent and articulate with his word choice and the way he structured his sentences. There was even a kind of beauty in the way he strung his words together, especially as he waxed eloquent about the power of “extracting the essence” of films when he composes.

I was equally impressed with the warmth of personality that was able to traverse continents over phone waves. He told me that he looks forward to meeting me in person someday, and I wholeheartedly agreed.

You can hear Jan’s latest creation in the new Robert Duvall film Get Low.

Thanks to my wife for suggesting this post idea. I plan to offer similar reflections on composers I interview in the future.

I’ve been mentally arrested lately by the thought of having lost Christ in the hustle and bustle of Christianity.

In both my introspection and observation, I’ve discovered a startling Jesus deficiency. Oh, sure, His name is slapped on nearly every page, sermon, and lecture—the registered trademark of the Christian brand. But the real substance of my religion, the vine, appears to have been replaced by well-meaning, religious tendrils.

For a guy who professes to “follow Christ,” how much of my faith is all about a system? Do I follow Christ only in as much as I follow a religious system of regulations and traditions that He merely launched and others fine-tuned?

Is my faith centered on achieving a better life? Peace, joy, happiness, feng shui, whatever? Or, is it all about the reward at the end of a long workday? Eternal tropical paradise; fluffy clouds, harp glissandos, and Philadelphia cream cheese? Do I simply put up with religion for the postmortem pension?

For many, Christianity is about a moral code—behavior modification—and a sound, logical network of beliefs. Our focus is on generating the self-discipline and will power to bow under the weight of a highly detailed orthodoxy and a standard of “right living.”

By and large, none of these foci are inherently bad—most of them have their place in the context of being Christ’s disciple. But I fear for many (myself included), these things have become idols, and have replaced the Man Himself as the beating heart of our religion. To “follow Christ” implies trotting along behind Him, His movements and actions being our frontal view. It implies a tight relationship—brother to brother, mentor to manatee, friend to friend—where we study closely the way He talks and smiles, the way He eats…like a child imitating every nuance of his father’s mannerisms.

To draw from the disciple picture, and from the unpaved roads Jesus walked in the ancient near east, I should be eating His dust. Tagging along so closely behind Him that, if He were to stop walking suddenly, I would bump right into His back. Christianity is just another worthless religion—or code, or lifestyle—if I am swallowing anything other than the dust Jesus kicks up as He goes about His father’s business.

With the upcoming move foremost on my mind these days, I’m mulling over a conversation Alison and I had with some good friends earlier this week.

They were asking us, in mentor fashion, why we are moving to Pittsburgh. We had just outlined several of the difficulties inherent in the move, all of the unknowns and the risks we are taking. I suppose we must have painted a fairly bleak picture, because their response was an eyebrow-raised “So…why are you moving?”

And perhaps it was because we were with a very mature, older couple, but for some reason my knee-jerk response was to be completely dishonest. I don’t mean out-and-out lying, exactly. But I started giving all these lofty, noble exaggerations of why we’re moving. Reasons that are absolutely part of our desire to move, but nowhere near the main impetus. “Well, you see, we have this unquenchable passion for herons, and we’re going up there to rescue Pittsburgh’s rapidly diminishing heron population.” “We have our hearts set on adopting at least 15% of Pittsburgh’s orphan population.”*

I didn’t notice the growing discomfort on the faces of our friends as we outlined the (grossly aggrandized) selfless nobility in our moving apologetics. Finally, though, honesty reared its hideous head and I said, “Really, we just want an adventure.”

Our friends breathed a sigh of relief.

These, in my opinion, are very good friends. They were convinced that moving to have an adventure was a much healthier reason than moving to rescue orphans or enlist in the Pittsburgh Peace Corps.

Not that selfless, servant causes are poor excuses to make a big move! The real issue here is honesty. I was homilizing all these exaggerations of why we want to move, only because I felt pressure (internal, no doubt, and perceived external pressure) to have some Mother Theresa motivation for making this big change. But, honestly, what I want most is an adventure. And with that adventure I foresee all sorts of growth, serving opportunities, humbling events, challenges, and life lessons. But it is the newness, the expedition, the “undiscovered country” that most compels me.

And maybe adventure really is a lame reason. But it’s the real reason.

*These are fictional accounts. Any resemblance to an actual reason given is purely coincidental.

As all four of you already know, Alison and I are soon abandoning the seasonally monotonous Florida for the temperament melting pot of Pittsburgh.

There are many reasons for our move, to be sure, but a massive one for me is the aching hunger to once again live in a place with seasons. Sharply delineated, blustery, passionate, gloriously dissimilar seasons. I grew up looking forward to each season in Colorado, savoring each autumn and then slowly experiencing an increasing appetite for the chill of winter. But, as with most things we take for granted, I didn’t appreciate the true glory of seasons until I came to a place without them.

The most obvious benefit of spring, summer, fall, and winter are the different weather types and characteristics of nature unique to each one. Spring is such a welcome, verdant thaw to the bleakness of late winter. Summer really gets things cooking, and there’s nothing better than driving with the windows down and film music cranked up on a pleasantly sunny day. Fall takes the edge off summer and the leaves off the trees, putting a deliciously pumpkin hue on the world and a crisp breeze in the air. Winter brings romantic snowfall, holidays, and an excuse to sip hot drinks and wear warm clothes (and, let’s face it, we all look better in warm clothes). These benefits are huge, and almost feel like they’re out of a storybook to a kid living in a state perpetually stuck on “Stifling.”

But the other thing I love about seasons is their cyclical partitioning of life in general. This was more overtly true when I was in school—when autumn smelled like no. 2 pencils, winter meant Christmas and two delirious weeks without homework, spring came in through the classroom window like a distraction, and summer meant break, break, break. But seasons are a vital part of every healthy life. (I think of Ecclesiastes’ “a time for everything” passage.) The sun, moon, and tides of the ocean give silent affirmation that life functions well on a cycle. There are seasons of hard work and seasons of relaxation. There are seasons of grief and seasons of euphoric joy.

Just like nature runs on a cycle with repeated, identifiable features, we transition through different phases at different times. These phases are healthy and necessary; the variety gives spice to life while the repetition of the seasons lends a comfort and safety. Laughter is born out of sorrow; pain gives joy its searing pleasure.

These human seasons transpire regardless of whether the leaves turn orange or Christmas actually yields a “winter wonderland.” But I have found that my internal/emotional seasons are aided and complemented by similar changes in the outside air.