Growing up can be hard for kids, and heart-...? breaking? I hope not! maybe heartopening for parents. I hope that's what it is.
My daughter had a class discussion in which the KKK was mentioned. She knew it stands for Ku Klux Klan, but she did not really know what it was. Our dinnertime conversation, then, was me giving a brief description of what their beliefs are and what they have done in the past; adding that they are still active in the South.
Her questions: Doesn't anyone stop them [from scaring and hurting people]? Don't the police do anything about them? Wait... you mean *here*? in the South of the U.S.?
Actually, yes, people do try to stop them but it obviously isn't working perfectly. Sadly, *some* law enforcement are also Klan members. Not all! but some. Yes, here in the U.S.
I could have gone on and on, and talked about race relations, about the differences and similarities between here and the South, about the history of various other "minorities..." But I didn't. Then she asked the question that all children who are not-white have asked:
"Am I safe?"
Tuesday, August 23, 2016
Friday, May 20, 2016
Lesson from a Cooper's Hawk
"People spend so much time looking for their life's Porpoise that they forget to enjoy the walk along the beach." - MW
I saw a hawk walking across the dry lot above the horse pasture. That's a little unusual, for a hawk. This hawk paused once in a while, seeming to take a breath, and then continued walking. I was curious, extremely so, and walked sort of near it while not making direct eye contact. When I was close enough the hawk walked a few more steps away and turned a bit, but not before I noticed a couple of feathers sticking straight up off of one wing. That wing was not as tucked into the hawk's body as the other. Above, occasionally, there was another hawk and I wondered if this one was young.
Over the next 30 minutes the hawk continued moving up hill. Once I saw it spread its wings. Another time, from a small mound of dirt, it spread its wings and floated to a spot 20 yards away. It wasn't really soaring, given that it was only about 5 feet off of the ground. And from there proceeded with its march up to the top of the canal bank.
The canal bank is a good spot for a Cooper's Hawk to hide, the weeds and dirt and dead plants from last year are the same color as its feathers. I went over to the canal bank to see what happened next. A friendly horse stopped me, and when I looked back the hawk was gone.
I can make no guarantees. What I know is that when I got to the top of the canal bank it was not there, it was probably not in the water - and it would not have gotten out, there was a much stronger and steadier breeze on top of the bank, and there were now two hawks overhead.
Perhaps this hawk gave us a metaphor for our purpose. We sometimes don't belong where we are, and there isn't a whole lot we can do about it except had toward the place where we can be our purpose. This hawk continuously moved uphill, to catch what lift it could, until it could soar. Soaring is what hawks do. Perhaps we have to keep moving up, keep stretching those things we are supposed to be, until we can take flight again.
I saw a hawk walking across the dry lot above the horse pasture. That's a little unusual, for a hawk. This hawk paused once in a while, seeming to take a breath, and then continued walking. I was curious, extremely so, and walked sort of near it while not making direct eye contact. When I was close enough the hawk walked a few more steps away and turned a bit, but not before I noticed a couple of feathers sticking straight up off of one wing. That wing was not as tucked into the hawk's body as the other. Above, occasionally, there was another hawk and I wondered if this one was young.
Over the next 30 minutes the hawk continued moving up hill. Once I saw it spread its wings. Another time, from a small mound of dirt, it spread its wings and floated to a spot 20 yards away. It wasn't really soaring, given that it was only about 5 feet off of the ground. And from there proceeded with its march up to the top of the canal bank.
The canal bank is a good spot for a Cooper's Hawk to hide, the weeds and dirt and dead plants from last year are the same color as its feathers. I went over to the canal bank to see what happened next. A friendly horse stopped me, and when I looked back the hawk was gone.
I can make no guarantees. What I know is that when I got to the top of the canal bank it was not there, it was probably not in the water - and it would not have gotten out, there was a much stronger and steadier breeze on top of the bank, and there were now two hawks overhead.
Perhaps this hawk gave us a metaphor for our purpose. We sometimes don't belong where we are, and there isn't a whole lot we can do about it except had toward the place where we can be our purpose. This hawk continuously moved uphill, to catch what lift it could, until it could soar. Soaring is what hawks do. Perhaps we have to keep moving up, keep stretching those things we are supposed to be, until we can take flight again.
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
For Jane
... or Book Group
... or Local Wonders
Ted Kooser, 13th US Poet Laureate (2004-2006), wrote a book called Local Wonders. This one isn't, technically, poetry. It's part memoir, part vignette, part a year, part years of our lives. And we chose this book for one of our book group discussions.
Our book group is made up of introverts. We vicariously introduce ourselves through the characters we read. You can hear it in the way we discuss. For instance, "what do you think about...?" is one of the most common question introductions we have. The braver, or more comfortable, among us will pluck up massive bravado, study our own notes, and then ask, "Does anyone else...?" There is usually a collective sigh and smile when another brave soul, in surprised response, says, "yes."
We are extraordinarily normal and mostly invisible. All of us are approximately middle-aged or older. We are the people you rush around as you gather groceries on the way home from work because it's your turn to cook dinner and the rest of the family will be home soon. We are the ones you hold the door for, because we resemble your favorite aunt (or mother, or grandmother). We are the frumpy slow people on the bicycle path getting exercise and watching birds while you rush to fill your cardio requirements. We might even be some of the people whom others resent because we seem to lack nothing. We know we have each been lucky which is why we all volunteer to the extent we are able.
In our collection of pasts we have dear friends with tattoos left over from concentration camps, and have watched a loved one get eaten by cancer, and those who have survived cancer themselves. We have watched children go from impenetrable teenagers to successful college students and some children who have become addicts who hide it well. We have watched loved ones forget everything without having any control over their memories, we have been poor, sometimes homeless, feeling loveless. We have had as many divorces as we have continuing marriages. We've met the scorn of unapproved love for someone of the same sex, and have had some of our own group members die. Not a one of these pasts is unique to our group, which is what makes us so normal.
We are a wonderful bunch of local and quietly competent people who still have more that could burble to the surface once we read the character that burbles us.
When we meet, the usual talk and casual pleasantries show up, we and dredge up memories of what was happening last month. We'll discuss the book, showing a bit more of ourselves. And we'll have some comfort food -- more comfort because of the company than because of the food itself. Then we'll sit down to the serious business of solving (or continuing to solve) the world's problems. If you should happen to stroll past one of these living rooms on a night cool and warm enough for the windows to be open, and if you should hear us laughing, then you know that we have solved one of the world's problems.
And so, Jane, when you read this: Know that there is a small group of extraordinarily normal introverts with gratitude for you having sent Local Wonders.
... or Local Wonders
Ted Kooser, 13th US Poet Laureate (2004-2006), wrote a book called Local Wonders. This one isn't, technically, poetry. It's part memoir, part vignette, part a year, part years of our lives. And we chose this book for one of our book group discussions.
Our book group is made up of introverts. We vicariously introduce ourselves through the characters we read. You can hear it in the way we discuss. For instance, "what do you think about...?" is one of the most common question introductions we have. The braver, or more comfortable, among us will pluck up massive bravado, study our own notes, and then ask, "Does anyone else...?" There is usually a collective sigh and smile when another brave soul, in surprised response, says, "yes."
We are extraordinarily normal and mostly invisible. All of us are approximately middle-aged or older. We are the people you rush around as you gather groceries on the way home from work because it's your turn to cook dinner and the rest of the family will be home soon. We are the ones you hold the door for, because we resemble your favorite aunt (or mother, or grandmother). We are the frumpy slow people on the bicycle path getting exercise and watching birds while you rush to fill your cardio requirements. We might even be some of the people whom others resent because we seem to lack nothing. We know we have each been lucky which is why we all volunteer to the extent we are able.
In our collection of pasts we have dear friends with tattoos left over from concentration camps, and have watched a loved one get eaten by cancer, and those who have survived cancer themselves. We have watched children go from impenetrable teenagers to successful college students and some children who have become addicts who hide it well. We have watched loved ones forget everything without having any control over their memories, we have been poor, sometimes homeless, feeling loveless. We have had as many divorces as we have continuing marriages. We've met the scorn of unapproved love for someone of the same sex, and have had some of our own group members die. Not a one of these pasts is unique to our group, which is what makes us so normal.
We are a wonderful bunch of local and quietly competent people who still have more that could burble to the surface once we read the character that burbles us.
When we meet, the usual talk and casual pleasantries show up, we and dredge up memories of what was happening last month. We'll discuss the book, showing a bit more of ourselves. And we'll have some comfort food -- more comfort because of the company than because of the food itself. Then we'll sit down to the serious business of solving (or continuing to solve) the world's problems. If you should happen to stroll past one of these living rooms on a night cool and warm enough for the windows to be open, and if you should hear us laughing, then you know that we have solved one of the world's problems.
And so, Jane, when you read this: Know that there is a small group of extraordinarily normal introverts with gratitude for you having sent Local Wonders.
Thursday, November 21, 2013
A different kind of leaving.
Telephone.
It is clean, but it is bare.
You left today and the bed is made.
Is is also clean; and it is bare.
You left today and took all of the stuff you brought for your own personal care.
It's gone now, the house is decluttered. And it is bare.
You weren't in the kitchen making your coffee,
You weren't at the sink brushing your teeth.
You weren't at the table eating with us.
You aren't here now, to visit with, and to hug.
Is this how you felt when he went away? Clean? decluttered? and bare?
Is that how your days felt after he passed? unfettered? empty? bare?
Do I dare ask these questions? Since you, while not here, are still there.
So then is this how it felt when I went away? and each time I have gone away since?
Is this an introduction, then, to an empty nest?
To put off this longing, and imitation of grief
I pick up the telephone, and smile again.
Thursday, September 12, 2013
The Games of Life
I do not like the trend that I see erupting in games. And i'm being very grumpy about it in this post, so skip it if you want to stay cheerful.
First, though, remember what is good about games:
Games are used to teach life skills. Any animal youngster, domestic or wild, learns running and pouncing and biting and fighting. We call it cute when they are little. As adults, in the wild, it keeps them alive. They are "domestic" when we can tell them when it is ok to do which thing (biting, for instance, is what we use in dogs to get them to fetch. We even direct their running. Agility is all about telling them when and where we want them to jump, tunnel, hold still, walk, run, etc.)
Games for humans can teach math and communication. A game like Scrabble is never the same -- so that once you reach a level of competency your likelihood of having a higher score is the same as that of anyone else who is competent. It's kind of realistic that way: Become competent, and you kind of take turns winning. It's (usually) quite civil, fun, social and it hones the brain. Same with Bridge. The fun in playing is social, it is intellectual, and it is about self-improvement.
Move now to most electronic games.
(Caveats: 1) I do not play very many of them. 2) Since first starting this post I have been exposed to some much better games -- that do not require a cash outlay in other than the original purchase. 3) I realize that game-makers have to make money, and that hackers can make money too by selling hints.) Yes, there are levels, and you have to pass. Passing requires some level of competence... usually. Hacking the games (a la James Tiberius Kirk) shows, at least, some level of creativity, and skill. Several popular games let you buy your way past some of the challenges -- using actual cash. Not only that, but many games only allow you to get to the highest levels if you do pay cash. And in some games, once you do get to the top, you become a consultant or designer of the game. (NB: Sorry, lost the cite -- at the time of the onset of this post there was some article about game players in China who were paid to take control of the game, then sell their "levels" to the highest bidder. Quite a cash cow for whoever thought up the scheme. I'm not questioning the legality or ethics of these acts, however...)
What are we teaching our kids and ourselves!? That money is the only real way to win? That with enough money you get to control the game? That no matter how talented you are you can never really achieve? That the *only* way to have any direction over "the game of life" you have to 1) be on top, and 2) get there with money.
Your only other option, i suppose, is to stop playing these games and go out to enjoy life... if you can find a place in society that doesn't follow these same new rules.
First, though, remember what is good about games:
Games are used to teach life skills. Any animal youngster, domestic or wild, learns running and pouncing and biting and fighting. We call it cute when they are little. As adults, in the wild, it keeps them alive. They are "domestic" when we can tell them when it is ok to do which thing (biting, for instance, is what we use in dogs to get them to fetch. We even direct their running. Agility is all about telling them when and where we want them to jump, tunnel, hold still, walk, run, etc.)
Games for humans can teach math and communication. A game like Scrabble is never the same -- so that once you reach a level of competency your likelihood of having a higher score is the same as that of anyone else who is competent. It's kind of realistic that way: Become competent, and you kind of take turns winning. It's (usually) quite civil, fun, social and it hones the brain. Same with Bridge. The fun in playing is social, it is intellectual, and it is about self-improvement.
Move now to most electronic games.
(Caveats: 1) I do not play very many of them. 2) Since first starting this post I have been exposed to some much better games -- that do not require a cash outlay in other than the original purchase. 3) I realize that game-makers have to make money, and that hackers can make money too by selling hints.) Yes, there are levels, and you have to pass. Passing requires some level of competence... usually. Hacking the games (a la James Tiberius Kirk) shows, at least, some level of creativity, and skill. Several popular games let you buy your way past some of the challenges -- using actual cash. Not only that, but many games only allow you to get to the highest levels if you do pay cash. And in some games, once you do get to the top, you become a consultant or designer of the game. (NB: Sorry, lost the cite -- at the time of the onset of this post there was some article about game players in China who were paid to take control of the game, then sell their "levels" to the highest bidder. Quite a cash cow for whoever thought up the scheme. I'm not questioning the legality or ethics of these acts, however...)
What are we teaching our kids and ourselves!? That money is the only real way to win? That with enough money you get to control the game? That no matter how talented you are you can never really achieve? That the *only* way to have any direction over "the game of life" you have to 1) be on top, and 2) get there with money.
Your only other option, i suppose, is to stop playing these games and go out to enjoy life... if you can find a place in society that doesn't follow these same new rules.
I Will Remember For You
(Fixed a bit, maybe more is needed.
In the days when my father's memory seemed to be slipping
I wanted to tell him that I would remember it for him,
If only I could, if only I could.
Memories of games, and warm firesides, of laughter and play
I wanted to share them with him forever, and ever,
If only I could, if only I could.
Backwards in time he wandered each day, with his own inner memoir of laughter and play
I wanted to hold him in comfort, and to share
If only I could, if only I could.
Where does the past go in each passing moment? what does it mean that the time has gone?
I wanted to tell him it never would matter,
If only I could, if only I could.
When light, itself, seemed not to register, and sounds seemed to echo in the sterile room
I wanted, for him, to see these memories, to hear them to share them,
If only I could, if only I could.
And now that he's gone they reside in us all, splintered and partial, maybe drifting away
I want to sail on that vast ocean, to dip my toes, to take time to reflect,
I think I could, I really could.
In the days when my father's memory seemed to be slipping
I wanted to tell him that I would remember it for him,
If only I could, if only I could.
Memories of games, and warm firesides, of laughter and play
I wanted to share them with him forever, and ever,
If only I could, if only I could.
Backwards in time he wandered each day, with his own inner memoir of laughter and play
I wanted to hold him in comfort, and to share
If only I could, if only I could.
Where does the past go in each passing moment? what does it mean that the time has gone?
I wanted to tell him it never would matter,
If only I could, if only I could.
When light, itself, seemed not to register, and sounds seemed to echo in the sterile room
I wanted, for him, to see these memories, to hear them to share them,
If only I could, if only I could.
And now that he's gone they reside in us all, splintered and partial, maybe drifting away
I want to sail on that vast ocean, to dip my toes, to take time to reflect,
I think I could, I really could.
Maybe it's just about expectations.
(Pre-note: Oh my! this is such a 2-year-old note. Well, here it comes anyway.)
I, today, hereby declare myself in union with the ancients: The ancients who desperately waited for, and then celebrated, the coming of winter solstice.
Normally, where I live now, the sun disappears and becomes unknown to the inhabitants. This happens some time in October, and usually lasts until about March. Sometimes we'll get a glimmer of some bright thing in the sky in mid-February, along with extra warmth, reminding us that there is sometimes another way to live.
To be fair, clouds become unknown to us around mid-June or early July, and don't show up again until October. There is sometimes one storm in late August or early September -- but that one cannot be taken seriously as it involves a temperature drop and a lot of wind, and that's usually about it.
Back to solstice: This year we have had sun, almost non-stop, since Thanksgiving. You would think that would be an improvement. After all, the morning light comes earlier than it does with clouds. The evening light lasts longer than it does with clouds. And yet... the sun hovers so low in the sky! (And i'm not even halfway to the north pole!!! I have lived further north and it didn't bother me so! listen to me whine!) It seems to be, from sunup to sundown, 5 o'clock on an August afternoon. A slight fog which could be either moisture or dust, the longish shadows, all reminiscent of the dog days of summer... but without the heat.
Those blasted inversions and fogs have acclimated me to a constant level of depressing dim light. Yes, constant -- the moisture is lit from the bottom up by city lights, all night long, especially when people have their Christmas color out. The variation on those days would be how far you could see!
It's all about expectations, i suppose. Having the sun, every day, leads me to believe that we are already headed out of a (not very serious, so far) winter. And yet we are still diving in, and we are nearly to the bottom of the dark.
This, then, is why I celebrate the coming Solstice: I expect more light when the sun is shining and we are not getting it! Oh, and Mom is coming to visit too. :-)
I, today, hereby declare myself in union with the ancients: The ancients who desperately waited for, and then celebrated, the coming of winter solstice.
Normally, where I live now, the sun disappears and becomes unknown to the inhabitants. This happens some time in October, and usually lasts until about March. Sometimes we'll get a glimmer of some bright thing in the sky in mid-February, along with extra warmth, reminding us that there is sometimes another way to live.
To be fair, clouds become unknown to us around mid-June or early July, and don't show up again until October. There is sometimes one storm in late August or early September -- but that one cannot be taken seriously as it involves a temperature drop and a lot of wind, and that's usually about it.
Back to solstice: This year we have had sun, almost non-stop, since Thanksgiving. You would think that would be an improvement. After all, the morning light comes earlier than it does with clouds. The evening light lasts longer than it does with clouds. And yet... the sun hovers so low in the sky! (And i'm not even halfway to the north pole!!! I have lived further north and it didn't bother me so! listen to me whine!) It seems to be, from sunup to sundown, 5 o'clock on an August afternoon. A slight fog which could be either moisture or dust, the longish shadows, all reminiscent of the dog days of summer... but without the heat.
Those blasted inversions and fogs have acclimated me to a constant level of depressing dim light. Yes, constant -- the moisture is lit from the bottom up by city lights, all night long, especially when people have their Christmas color out. The variation on those days would be how far you could see!
It's all about expectations, i suppose. Having the sun, every day, leads me to believe that we are already headed out of a (not very serious, so far) winter. And yet we are still diving in, and we are nearly to the bottom of the dark.
This, then, is why I celebrate the coming Solstice: I expect more light when the sun is shining and we are not getting it! Oh, and Mom is coming to visit too. :-)
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