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. :-)
On September 10, 2013
It has been over 10 years since the planes hit the towers, and other planes were hijacked. I confess to knowing that we were going to be perfectly safe where we live since there are likely zero zealots from half-destroyed countries that have even heard of this state. Even if they live in the U.S. And in the grand scheme of things this state does not rank highly enough in *anything* to be called "grand" or be included in any schemes. While there are still plenty of extremists here, they are too few in number and too poor in resource (now) to be the center of much national activity.
Why, then, did the governor deem it important to set up blockades around the statehouse in a city that even US citizens barely know, and many of them cannot name (let alone having the said zealots from another country know)? Again, there is no strategic value here -- so both the paranoia was not justified. Perhaps historians might be able to figure this out, if there is any reason to bother.
Nationally (or even within this state), why do we have to have yet another flag-waving ceremony for something that set the US on an abysmal international disaster course? Have we not yet waved enough flags to prove that we are vacuous? with incredibly short memories? unable to make up our own minds? and willing to follow along any lie that fits in with our belief systems? Rather than talk about that whole nonsense:
Perhaps we could *sincerely* honor those who died on that day by taking care of those who were injured, and taking care of those whose family member(s) died on that day.
If it was up to me, I would declare September 11 to be National Data Day -- in which we look at the difference between facts and not-facts, in which we look at how our beliefs beg us to reject anything we don't like. It would be a day of tolerance for differences, reflection over our *real* international record, a day of non-aggression and non-intervention. A day in which no one could ever have any reason to attack the US's national symbols of power and wealth.
Why, then, did the governor deem it important to set up blockades around the statehouse in a city that even US citizens barely know, and many of them cannot name (let alone having the said zealots from another country know)? Again, there is no strategic value here -- so both the paranoia was not justified. Perhaps historians might be able to figure this out, if there is any reason to bother.
Nationally (or even within this state), why do we have to have yet another flag-waving ceremony for something that set the US on an abysmal international disaster course? Have we not yet waved enough flags to prove that we are vacuous? with incredibly short memories? unable to make up our own minds? and willing to follow along any lie that fits in with our belief systems? Rather than talk about that whole nonsense:
Perhaps we could *sincerely* honor those who died on that day by taking care of those who were injured, and taking care of those whose family member(s) died on that day.
If it was up to me, I would declare September 11 to be National Data Day -- in which we look at the difference between facts and not-facts, in which we look at how our beliefs beg us to reject anything we don't like. It would be a day of tolerance for differences, reflection over our *real* international record, a day of non-aggression and non-intervention. A day in which no one could ever have any reason to attack the US's national symbols of power and wealth.
Monday, June 18, 2012
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Another foray into the lyrical
Seashells After the Storm
I, Anne, stand on the shore
collecting seashells after the storm.
If the luster and sheen
in the lines and shapes
scattered in the sand
and crafted in the shells
Have a story to tell or
a message for me
It is gone, now, splayed
through the waves,
the sea,
the sky...
That half-shell sky where last he flew.
And me, here, on the other half,
like the shells on the shore.
I collect my life, after the storm.
December 30, 2011
I, Anne, stand on the shore
collecting seashells after the storm.
If the luster and sheen
in the lines and shapes
scattered in the sand
and crafted in the shells
Have a story to tell or
a message for me
It is gone, now, splayed
through the waves,
the sea,
the sky...
That half-shell sky where last he flew.
And me, here, on the other half,
like the shells on the shore.
I collect my life, after the storm.
December 30, 2011
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Maybe it's just about expectations.
I, today, hereby declare myself in union with the ancients: The ancients who desperately waited for, and then celebrated, the arrival of Winter Solstice.
Normally, in my current location, the sun disappears behind a great giant semi-soggy glove of inversion, and then 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 another way to live. Then the foggy soggy hand descends again.
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. Sun, sun, sun, beating down on us without mercy for days on end. It's bright in the deepest of forests... but i digress.
Back to Winter 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 would under a soggy foggy glove. The evening light lasts longer than it normally would as well. 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. There is a slight fog which could be either moisture or dust, the longish shadows, seeing everything south of you as a silhouette instead of three-dimensional corporal being, all reminiscent of the dog days of summer at 5 o'clock PM... 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!
Inversions, like fogs, make you feel cozy with anyone you can see. It's always a treat to be isolated, visually and aurally, from everyone else as you travel along -- and then to see or hear another person emerge out of the mist is like magic! Fellow travelers! Fellow travelers into the bowels of winter and then back out again. Have i begun to relish in my current, very weird, local climate?
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 what is supposed to be 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. :-)
Normally, in my current location, the sun disappears behind a great giant semi-soggy glove of inversion, and then 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 another way to live. Then the foggy soggy hand descends again.
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. Sun, sun, sun, beating down on us without mercy for days on end. It's bright in the deepest of forests... but i digress.
Back to Winter 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 would under a soggy foggy glove. The evening light lasts longer than it normally would as well. 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. There is a slight fog which could be either moisture or dust, the longish shadows, seeing everything south of you as a silhouette instead of three-dimensional corporal being, all reminiscent of the dog days of summer at 5 o'clock PM... 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!
Inversions, like fogs, make you feel cozy with anyone you can see. It's always a treat to be isolated, visually and aurally, from everyone else as you travel along -- and then to see or hear another person emerge out of the mist is like magic! Fellow travelers! Fellow travelers into the bowels of winter and then back out again. Have i begun to relish in my current, very weird, local climate?
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 what is supposed to be 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. :-)
Sunday, November 6, 2011
The Future
Many years ago we talked about The Future. We were The Future, as we were told, because we had been prepared for it. We had been fully nurtured -- physically, intellectually, spiritually.
We say so now. But we lie. Let us either change the language or change the reality.
We say so now. But we lie. Let us either change the language or change the reality.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Borge
In honor and remembrance of a really great guy:
Borge
The misty early morning echoes with silence
And pauses to listen to the creaking of rotten wood
Then follows a muffled footstep, an anchor being stowed away
There is a soft splash of a paddle, and ripples burble along the shore.
Into the lake the fisherman guides his boat
Into the softening waters and damp dewy air.
The trees on the shore hear only a scrape
As he baits his hook, and casts, and waits.
A thousand years might come and go
As fishermen leave the sleeping land
And guide their vessels onto the waters
And bait their hooks, and cast, and wait.
The loons, alone, will accompany them
Silently gliding through the mists of time.
- Diane Mathews, 1989
Borge
The misty early morning echoes with silence
And pauses to listen to the creaking of rotten wood
Then follows a muffled footstep, an anchor being stowed away
There is a soft splash of a paddle, and ripples burble along the shore.
Into the lake the fisherman guides his boat
Into the softening waters and damp dewy air.
The trees on the shore hear only a scrape
As he baits his hook, and casts, and waits.
A thousand years might come and go
As fishermen leave the sleeping land
And guide their vessels onto the waters
And bait their hooks, and cast, and wait.
The loons, alone, will accompany them
Silently gliding through the mists of time.
- Diane Mathews, 1989
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Re-Connection, Digital or Otherwise
Books I've read recently -- the first two are recommends, and the other three are attached to the title of this entry.
The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, by Rebecca Skloot. Recommend! I won't go into the details now, though.
Song of Solomon, by Toni Morrison. No wonder she won a Nobel in literature!
Read these three books, back-to-back: The Geography of Bliss, by Eric Weiner, Hamlet's Blackberry, by William Powers, and The Last Child in the Woods, by Louv.
I found the Powers book somewhat boring, until he talked about dead white philosophers. The Guttenberg bit was really interesting too. It was dull because only the dead white philosopher stuff had new information for me.
This book is about our digital hyper-connectivity and how it harms us (mentally, socially, spiritually). I thought back to the first time i was able to readily turn off an attention-getting device. Nah, it wasn't recently! Nor, was it when i was handed a cell phone, a pager, and a laptop (at the end of the "technology bubble", when I was working for a corporation). Nor was it, really, when i chose to be able to converse w/ people during television commercials (if not during the show) back in the days before there was such a thing as a "mute" button.
My father was on call 24/7. He would get a day off per week. And it was that, literally: He probably had about 24 hours when he wasn't on call. During my growing-up years there were times when the phone rang...
Aside: This was when phones rang, we dialed phones, phones were physically attached to the wall, and there were no answering machines (though there were answering services).
... and we *did not answer it.* What a valuable lesson to have when you are not yet in your teens! You do *not* have to be at someone else's beck and call. You do not have to answer the phone. You do not have to reply instantaneously. It's ok to set limits on your availability.
Powers talks about our hyper-connectivity as though it is a new thing. I don't quite agree. There is a local Branding And Marketing fellow, Justin Foster, who argues that we are going back to a time when we were more connected than we had been for the last ...? I'll guess 100 years. Is the connectivity, the amount you share and with whom, really all that different from living in a small town? Sure, it's happening differently now. At the same time all of the same social rules apply to digital connectivity as applied living in a small town where everyone knows your name (and your parents, and their parents knew each other parents, etc.).
Speaking of small towns: Weiner's book is a chronicle of personal anecdotes of his search to *study* happiness; not to be mistaken as a search for happiness. And having connections to other human beings is a huge part of that. He also comments that most of the happiness involves the outdoors. It is humorous, insightful, and fun when talking about other cultures (i.e. being able to look at U.S. culture through another lens... or look at all!)
Louv's book's chapters are summaries of why we should get outside. There is too much research to list it all in one book -- each chapter could be a volume if one were to do that. Being very pro-environment and pro-planet I was set up to agree with his thesis before I read the summaries.
None of what he says should even be news to most people. (Actually, none of what Weiner or Powers say should be news either.) In Pollan's books he basically says, "eat your fruits and vegetables," -- which should not be news to anyone. Louv says, "get fresh air and exercise [together]." The rest of the book is about the research; and again I choose to stress that THIS IS NOT NEWS. We've known about how important it is to play outside for centuries, if not millenia. And somehow getting outside gets all of us to be both 1) reflective enough to know our selves, 2) connected enough to others and to the planet to be ... happy.
The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, by Rebecca Skloot. Recommend! I won't go into the details now, though.
Song of Solomon, by Toni Morrison. No wonder she won a Nobel in literature!
Read these three books, back-to-back: The Geography of Bliss, by Eric Weiner, Hamlet's Blackberry, by William Powers, and The Last Child in the Woods, by
I found the Powers book somewhat boring, until he talked about dead white philosophers. The Guttenberg bit was really interesting too. It was dull because only the dead white philosopher stuff had new information for me.
This book is about our digital hyper-connectivity and how it harms us (mentally, socially, spiritually). I thought back to the first time i was able to readily turn off an attention-getting device. Nah, it wasn't recently! Nor, was it when i was handed a cell phone, a pager, and a laptop (at the end of the "technology bubble", when I was working for a corporation). Nor was it, really, when i chose to be able to converse w/ people during television commercials (if not during the show) back in the days before there was such a thing as a "mute" button.
My father was on call 24/7. He would get a day off per week. And it was that, literally: He probably had about 24 hours when he wasn't on call. During my growing-up years there were times when the phone rang...
Aside: This was when phones rang, we dialed phones, phones were physically attached to the wall, and there were no answering machines (though there were answering services).
... and we *did not answer it.* What a valuable lesson to have when you are not yet in your teens! You do *not* have to be at someone else's beck and call. You do not have to answer the phone. You do not have to reply instantaneously. It's ok to set limits on your availability.
Powers talks about our hyper-connectivity as though it is a new thing. I don't quite agree. There is a local Branding And Marketing fellow, Justin Foster, who argues that we are going back to a time when we were more connected than we had been for the last ...? I'll guess 100 years. Is the connectivity, the amount you share and with whom, really all that different from living in a small town? Sure, it's happening differently now. At the same time all of the same social rules apply to digital connectivity as applied living in a small town where everyone knows your name (and your parents, and their parents knew each other parents, etc.).
Speaking of small towns: Weiner's book is a chronicle of personal anecdotes of his search to *study* happiness; not to be mistaken as a search for happiness. And having connections to other human beings is a huge part of that. He also comments that most of the happiness involves the outdoors. It is humorous, insightful, and fun when talking about other cultures (i.e. being able to look at U.S. culture through another lens... or look at all!)
Louv's book's chapters are summaries of why we should get outside. There is too much research to list it all in one book -- each chapter could be a volume if one were to do that. Being very pro-environment and pro-planet I was set up to agree with his thesis before I read the summaries.
None of what he says should even be news to most people. (Actually, none of what Weiner or Powers say should be news either.) In Pollan's books he basically says, "eat your fruits and vegetables," -- which should not be news to anyone. Louv says, "get fresh air and exercise [together]." The rest of the book is about the research; and again I choose to stress that THIS IS NOT NEWS. We've known about how important it is to play outside for centuries, if not millenia. And somehow getting outside gets all of us to be both 1) reflective enough to know our selves, 2) connected enough to others and to the planet to be ... happy.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Letters
I started writing this on 4/25/11. Well, I'll just say that the note is a keeper. Just two days ago my daughter came to me with the note and said, "Mom, let's keep this in the memory box, ok?"
--
Garrison Keillor once said something lovely about writing notes. I won't repeat it; I'll say that I like to touch that which others have made by hand.
There lies, on the bookshelf with my daughter's books, a note of Thanks from my parents to my daughter. She sent them a drawing for their refrigerator. The note is not dated, thought I can peg within months when it was written.
It was the last note my father wrote to those of us at this house. After that he just wrote his name... and now he is unable to do that anymore. His handwriting is shaky, and he wasn't sure if he remembered the word for "trees" (he did) so he drew a picture next to the word.
This note is a keeper. Dad wrote it with his own hand, while he still could. And I can touch it.
I have no point. Unless maybe it's to go out and touch, make contact, with someone today.
--
Postnote: Mom sent a birthday card that she had bought several weeks ago. The card-part said something about being "from both of [the parents]." And it was something that both of them would be equally likely to pick out. She wrote something like, "oops, it's just me now -- he would have agreed with me."
Mom and Dad: I love you always.
--
Garrison Keillor once said something lovely about writing notes. I won't repeat it; I'll say that I like to touch that which others have made by hand.
There lies, on the bookshelf with my daughter's books, a note of Thanks from my parents to my daughter. She sent them a drawing for their refrigerator. The note is not dated, thought I can peg within months when it was written.
It was the last note my father wrote to those of us at this house. After that he just wrote his name... and now he is unable to do that anymore. His handwriting is shaky, and he wasn't sure if he remembered the word for "trees" (he did) so he drew a picture next to the word.
This note is a keeper. Dad wrote it with his own hand, while he still could. And I can touch it.
I have no point. Unless maybe it's to go out and touch, make contact, with someone today.
--
Postnote: Mom sent a birthday card that she had bought several weeks ago. The card-part said something about being "from both of [the parents]." And it was something that both of them would be equally likely to pick out. She wrote something like, "oops, it's just me now -- he would have agreed with me."
Mom and Dad: I love you always.
Friday, May 27, 2011
The Other Obituary
M. Jack Mathews
June 24, 1933 - May 8, 2011
Born -- squalling and naked, most likely -- on June 24, 1933 (Notice: That's in the Depression), to Melville C. and Kathryn F. (Prugh) Mathews -- they were just teenagers: Can you believe it? Teenagers, starting a family, with a high school education, when the Great Depression was hitting people the hardest; the Dust Bowl years were upon them (granted, they were in Missouri, but it still had an effect), and they were setting in to start their lives on a farm with a newborn underfoot.
He rode to his first school on a horse -- ok, a pony-sized equine -- something for which his daughters would be forever jealous. It was a one-room schoolhouse... Can you imagine the changes that occurred in his lifetime?
Jack graduated from high school, having played football and been on the track team. By graduating, that means he did a good job studying too. He gave a valedictory speech; THAT is something!
In Evanston, IL, while attending medical school he met his future wife. Spouses don't always get the attention they should. I'll say this: While wandering the halls of the Care Center he carried a picture of the two of them, husband and wife, everywhere. I heard he sometimes slept with the picture. He carried the photo until he could no longer walk. Sometimes he would even ask her if she had seen his wife, and show her their picture. "Beloved wife" doesn't seem to capture it.
He became a doctor. Everywhere he went he embodied the spirit of what medicine is supposed to be: Caring. He lived the difference between someone who can prescribe medications, dispense treatments, offer health advice vs. someone who patients trusted to have their whole being in his care. The country doctor's approach -- "Most people get better on their own," as well as not always getting paid -- was something that his farmer-patients appreciated as well.
He is "survived by..." With all due respect, I'm going to change that to "his family members - wife, children, grandchildren, brothers, sisters-in-law - thrive by virtue of his having been in their lives."
Preceded in death...and living the legacy of love until it was his time to leave.
The Celebration of Life is exactly that In Deed: In the deeds we do each day of living, showing that this world is a better place because he walked upon it.
No, no visitation: he's not here anymore. He might visit you, though, in the sweet smell of fresh-cut hay, the whicker of a horse that recognizes you, the wag of a dog's tail, the sight of flowers in a meadow, a mountain peak as it emerges from the horizon, the rainbow after a storm, a sailboat as it catches the breeze, or a field of wheat waving at you as you drive by... yeah, he might visit you.
Love you always, Dad.
June 24, 1933 - May 8, 2011
Born -- squalling and naked, most likely -- on June 24, 1933 (Notice: That's in the Depression), to Melville C. and Kathryn F. (Prugh) Mathews -- they were just teenagers: Can you believe it? Teenagers, starting a family, with a high school education, when the Great Depression was hitting people the hardest; the Dust Bowl years were upon them (granted, they were in Missouri, but it still had an effect), and they were setting in to start their lives on a farm with a newborn underfoot.
He rode to his first school on a horse -- ok, a pony-sized equine -- something for which his daughters would be forever jealous. It was a one-room schoolhouse... Can you imagine the changes that occurred in his lifetime?
Jack graduated from high school, having played football and been on the track team. By graduating, that means he did a good job studying too. He gave a valedictory speech; THAT is something!
In Evanston, IL, while attending medical school he met his future wife. Spouses don't always get the attention they should. I'll say this: While wandering the halls of the Care Center he carried a picture of the two of them, husband and wife, everywhere. I heard he sometimes slept with the picture. He carried the photo until he could no longer walk. Sometimes he would even ask her if she had seen his wife, and show her their picture. "Beloved wife" doesn't seem to capture it.
He became a doctor. Everywhere he went he embodied the spirit of what medicine is supposed to be: Caring. He lived the difference between someone who can prescribe medications, dispense treatments, offer health advice vs. someone who patients trusted to have their whole being in his care. The country doctor's approach -- "Most people get better on their own," as well as not always getting paid -- was something that his farmer-patients appreciated as well.
He is "survived by..." With all due respect, I'm going to change that to "his family members - wife, children, grandchildren, brothers, sisters-in-law - thrive by virtue of his having been in their lives."
Preceded in death...and living the legacy of love until it was his time to leave.
The Celebration of Life is exactly that In Deed: In the deeds we do each day of living, showing that this world is a better place because he walked upon it.
No, no visitation: he's not here anymore. He might visit you, though, in the sweet smell of fresh-cut hay, the whicker of a horse that recognizes you, the wag of a dog's tail, the sight of flowers in a meadow, a mountain peak as it emerges from the horizon, the rainbow after a storm, a sailboat as it catches the breeze, or a field of wheat waving at you as you drive by... yeah, he might visit you.
Love you always, Dad.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Hand-me-down Treasure
Mom gave me a book that had once belonged to her father. Grandpa's loving labor was as a Methodist minister. The book is full of a lot of grist for that mill! And, so being, is full of treasure.
The copyright is 1937, the title 1,000 Quotable Poems, (it's an anthology of modern verse :-). Clark and Gillespie -- a man and a woman. It is a re-compilation of two volumes of poems. The best thing, the greatest treasure, is that i can hear Grandpa's voice saying them. I can also hear my Dad's. Seeing as how Grandpa walks in our hearts and not on the earth, and Dad doesn't remember any of them anymore, it's a huge gift to hear them in these words.
They memorized poems. I think it was part of their education. Much can be said of the state of education, what it was, what it is, what it can be, what it should be, yada yada (and that there has been a war against public education in the U.S. since the first public school opened). I'm not going down that road any further at the moment. I only memorized one poem (Shakespeare's 18th Sonnet, which i can still do, if i think about it, but to type it would not do justice to the punctuation...). Poems, like song, are stored in a different part of the brain than are "simple" facts. They seem to stick longer as well. Or maybe we don't use that part of our brain enough. Well, anyway, here are just a few of the voices:
A new acquaintance of mine was talking about how often we are our own worst critics, or own biggest barriers, or own problem. We all know that. And knowing that we all face the same "enemy," just as we all learn how to walk, is good.
My Enemy, by Edwin L. Sabin
An enemy I had, whose mien
I stoutly strove in vain to know;
For hard he dogged my steps, unseen,
Wherever I might go.
My plans he balked; my aims he foiled;
He blocked my every onward way.
When for some lofty goal I toiled,
He grimly said me nay.
"Come forth!" I cried, "Lay bare thy guise!
They wretched features I would see."
Ye talways to my straining eyes
He dwelt in mystery.
Until one night I held him fast,
The veil from off his form did draw;
I gazed upon his face at last --
And, lo! myself I saw.
Pretty good, huh? Then, if you are a sibling, you will remember a parent saying, "If you can't say anything nice then don't say anything at all." This one goes a bit further:
Three Gates, From the Arabian
If you are tempted to reveal
A tale to you someone has told
About another, make it pass,
Before you speak, three gates of gold.
These narrow gates: First, "Is it true?"
Then, "Is it needful?" In your mind
Give truthful answer. And the next
Is last and narrowest, "Is it kind?"
And if to reach your lips at last
It passes through these gateways three,
Then you may tell the tale, nor fear
What the result of speech may be.
This last treasure, for now, was very much like opening up a special box in the attic and finding something beautiful there. I had never known the title to this one, but the word's are spoken in my Dad's voice every time i look at it.
Something to remember when you talk to your friends today:
The Arrow and the Song, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where:
For so swiftly it flew, the sight,
Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight, so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterward, in an oak,
I found the arrow still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
The copyright is 1937, the title 1,000 Quotable Poems, (it's an anthology of modern verse :-). Clark and Gillespie -- a man and a woman. It is a re-compilation of two volumes of poems. The best thing, the greatest treasure, is that i can hear Grandpa's voice saying them. I can also hear my Dad's. Seeing as how Grandpa walks in our hearts and not on the earth, and Dad doesn't remember any of them anymore, it's a huge gift to hear them in these words.
They memorized poems. I think it was part of their education. Much can be said of the state of education, what it was, what it is, what it can be, what it should be, yada yada (and that there has been a war against public education in the U.S. since the first public school opened). I'm not going down that road any further at the moment. I only memorized one poem (Shakespeare's 18th Sonnet, which i can still do, if i think about it, but to type it would not do justice to the punctuation...). Poems, like song, are stored in a different part of the brain than are "simple" facts. They seem to stick longer as well. Or maybe we don't use that part of our brain enough. Well, anyway, here are just a few of the voices:
A new acquaintance of mine was talking about how often we are our own worst critics, or own biggest barriers, or own problem. We all know that. And knowing that we all face the same "enemy," just as we all learn how to walk, is good.
My Enemy, by Edwin L. Sabin
An enemy I had, whose mien
I stoutly strove in vain to know;
For hard he dogged my steps, unseen,
Wherever I might go.
My plans he balked; my aims he foiled;
He blocked my every onward way.
When for some lofty goal I toiled,
He grimly said me nay.
"Come forth!" I cried, "Lay bare thy guise!
They wretched features I would see."
Ye talways to my straining eyes
He dwelt in mystery.
Until one night I held him fast,
The veil from off his form did draw;
I gazed upon his face at last --
And, lo! myself I saw.
Pretty good, huh? Then, if you are a sibling, you will remember a parent saying, "If you can't say anything nice then don't say anything at all." This one goes a bit further:
Three Gates, From the Arabian
If you are tempted to reveal
A tale to you someone has told
About another, make it pass,
Before you speak, three gates of gold.
These narrow gates: First, "Is it true?"
Then, "Is it needful?" In your mind
Give truthful answer. And the next
Is last and narrowest, "Is it kind?"
And if to reach your lips at last
It passes through these gateways three,
Then you may tell the tale, nor fear
What the result of speech may be.
This last treasure, for now, was very much like opening up a special box in the attic and finding something beautiful there. I had never known the title to this one, but the word's are spoken in my Dad's voice every time i look at it.
Something to remember when you talk to your friends today:
The Arrow and the Song, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where:
For so swiftly it flew, the sight,
Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight, so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterward, in an oak,
I found the arrow still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
The Core of Discovery
Sadly i write that the space shuttle program is coming to a close. You probably knew that, as did i; and still it comes as a shock that today (February 24, 2011) is to be the last launch of the space shuttle Discovery. The remaining operational shuttles will have their turns at last launch as well. And then, the chilling statement (for me) is that after the last shuttle launch the US will no longer have a [public] rocket, as it has for the last 60 years.
60 years -- and I live in those 60 years! What a great time!
I did not expect to write about the space program again in this blog. Surely you all know how much of an affect the space program has had on the nation's economy, yes? Do you have any idea how many men and women, myself included, went into science and engineering *because* of the whole idea of discovering what is out there, and how to get there? Without all of those men and women in science and engineering you would probably not be reading this on whatever device you are using. The whole reason for Discovery - both the shuttle and the idea - was in knowing that we can make something possible; we can find out more. Curiosity, exploration, the limitlessness that is our potential. That's the coeur of discovery. Is space, or the heart for Discovery, really any different from Lewis and Clark's Corps of Discovery?
There are still a lot of people who don't "get" science. I won't argue about whether or not the universe is, indeed, limitless -- certainly the planet Earth, as we know it, is not. There are legitimate complaints that too much environmental degradation has occurred because of the misdirection, mistakes, mismanagement, lack of forethought that has occurred in the industries that arose. Yet I tremble at the thought that children today grow up without any big dreams, without knowing that we can make something that was previously unheard of into something big, something beautiful, something that works. That their own potential is the thing that is limitless, and to stretch as much as possible to find out whatever is there to find out.
Some good, some not so good, came out of the Corps. I suspect it is something that would happen eventually. The same, perhaps, as that someone would go into space.
Maybe our artists have already begun to lead the way... i hope. After all, Jules Verne took us to the moon over one hundred years before Neil Armstrong set foot on it. The "great leap for mankind," indeed. Evidently it required 100 years of thought (is that the same as having 100 monkeys? parable or not?) before we could physically achieve it.
We are creative, we are creators, it is a human's nature to find stuff out. Sometimes it's good, sometimes not so good, and still it is part of who we are. Sometimes the discoveries are on the inside, sometimes about the world we have lived in for the last three million years, sometimes about who we can become, or how to fix what we have, about our own individual limitless potential -- it is our coeur. May we always have the coeur for Discovery.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
One year ago...
I was in the town where i grew up.
Mom and Dad had moved to a retirement center. They are planners and had been sort of planning this move for maybe 20 years. Like all of us, they can be realistic and pragmatic when the need arises: because a big house isn't necessary when the kids aren't there anymore, nor is it necessary when it becomes tiresome to keep it up.
They moved into their nice apartment in October, and were able to close on the house before the calendar year was up.
By January we knew that their living arrangements weren't working already.
Dad had begun to forget things, and they knew that he has "Alzheimer's." My take on "Alzheimer's" is that it is progressed old-age forgetfulness, a bucket-label, useful for insurance and care purposes. Please understand: There *is* a problem there. But the progression varies, the symptoms vary, and from everything i've read i find that there are a myriad of causes and triggers, and environmental contributions. The medical classification is "Alzheimer's," and it works.
They moved to the retirement community at this time because we were all worried that Dad would over-exert, or get lost, or fall down, or something, and no one would know. In a retirement community there would be more eyes and someone on call at all times.
When they moved he either got worse, or it became more obvious that he had gotten worse at the old house and was able to hide it through habit and familiar patterns and objects (we might never know which it is in any Alzheimer's person). This meant that Mom now had a person with many child-tendencies on her hands, who is also her spouse, and her own health to take care of, and...
February, one year ago, I went to my home town to help Mom and my sister and my Dad get him settled into his own apartment. In this new place for him there would be people to watch him, help him, and he wouldn't get lost because he couldn't get out on his own. And Mom (we hoped) wouldn't have to worry as much. Assisted Living is what it is commonly called.
This February, he is in the "Care Center" because there are too many things he can no longer do for himself. The need for the move was obvious, less traumatic on all of us, especially Dad. He now asks Mom where his wife is (by name ! :-). This kind woman with mostly grey hair can't be his wife, he knows, because he has a picture of himself and his wife on their wedding day.
A year is not so long:
- My daughter was in 2nd grade, and is now in 3rd. She was becoming proficient at adding two 2-digit numbers. Now she is handling 4 digit numbers, subtraction and adding, and occasionally dabbles in multiplication and fractions
- She was able to read 600 minutes in a couple of months, and now regularly reads ~1200 minutes/month
- We added a room to our house, and put up solar-water-heating panels
- I have a sister in a new house, and a sister-in-law in a new house
- Two nieces are in their senior years
- One niece started first grade
- Our 5' trees are now close to 6'
- Mom has mostly adjusted, i think, to living single and visiting Dad
- Dad no longer makes complete sentences, and needs someone else to shave him and brush his teeth.
I don't really have a point. Things change. We grow, we build, we age. I don't even know that it's important to reflect on the last year. I suppose that February, for now, will be my yearly signpost.
Mom and Dad had moved to a retirement center. They are planners and had been sort of planning this move for maybe 20 years. Like all of us, they can be realistic and pragmatic when the need arises: because a big house isn't necessary when the kids aren't there anymore, nor is it necessary when it becomes tiresome to keep it up.
They moved into their nice apartment in October, and were able to close on the house before the calendar year was up.
By January we knew that their living arrangements weren't working already.
Dad had begun to forget things, and they knew that he has "Alzheimer's." My take on "Alzheimer's" is that it is progressed old-age forgetfulness, a bucket-label, useful for insurance and care purposes. Please understand: There *is* a problem there. But the progression varies, the symptoms vary, and from everything i've read i find that there are a myriad of causes and triggers, and environmental contributions. The medical classification is "Alzheimer's," and it works.
They moved to the retirement community at this time because we were all worried that Dad would over-exert, or get lost, or fall down, or something, and no one would know. In a retirement community there would be more eyes and someone on call at all times.
When they moved he either got worse, or it became more obvious that he had gotten worse at the old house and was able to hide it through habit and familiar patterns and objects (we might never know which it is in any Alzheimer's person). This meant that Mom now had a person with many child-tendencies on her hands, who is also her spouse, and her own health to take care of, and...
February, one year ago, I went to my home town to help Mom and my sister and my Dad get him settled into his own apartment. In this new place for him there would be people to watch him, help him, and he wouldn't get lost because he couldn't get out on his own. And Mom (we hoped) wouldn't have to worry as much. Assisted Living is what it is commonly called.
This February, he is in the "Care Center" because there are too many things he can no longer do for himself. The need for the move was obvious, less traumatic on all of us, especially Dad. He now asks Mom where his wife is (by name ! :-). This kind woman with mostly grey hair can't be his wife, he knows, because he has a picture of himself and his wife on their wedding day.
A year is not so long:
- My daughter was in 2nd grade, and is now in 3rd. She was becoming proficient at adding two 2-digit numbers. Now she is handling 4 digit numbers, subtraction and adding, and occasionally dabbles in multiplication and fractions
- She was able to read 600 minutes in a couple of months, and now regularly reads ~1200 minutes/month
- We added a room to our house, and put up solar-water-heating panels
- I have a sister in a new house, and a sister-in-law in a new house
- Two nieces are in their senior years
- One niece started first grade
- Our 5' trees are now close to 6'
- Mom has mostly adjusted, i think, to living single and visiting Dad
- Dad no longer makes complete sentences, and needs someone else to shave him and brush his teeth.
I don't really have a point. Things change. We grow, we build, we age. I don't even know that it's important to reflect on the last year. I suppose that February, for now, will be my yearly signpost.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Heroes!
Today I had the privilege of assisting my daughter's teacher take the class to a concert by the Boise Philharmonic Orchestra. As an educational event it only lasted about one hour and was geared toward ages 8 and 9. Of course I was delighted to attend! I have no idea how much my enthusiasm transferred...
The Maestro came out, and said that they would be talking about planets, starting with some of Handel's "Water Music," which fit in nicely with the speaker. Planets? sure, that means they would be playing selections from Holst. Probably the ones that sound most like Star Wars music (Mercury, Mars, Jupiter - John Williams made the music sound familiar to the audience), since some of the kids would have seen the movie. Speaker? for an orchestral concert?
Mr. Maestro said he didn't know that much about planets. I start thinking about Physicists and Astronauts. Mr. Maestro said perhaps we should ask someone who's actually _been_ in space. My heart leapt, blood coursing, goo started dripping from my eyes for lack of any better way to express the excitement.
Barbara Morgan (just google) stepped onto stage! Yahoo! What a great role model! A woman, teacher, used to teach on a res, chosen to be an astronaut, an Idahoan, giving instruction, and working with someone entirely outside of her field! Yahoo!
And, personally... I was agog. I saw a real, live astronaut walk onto the stage.
It started when I first learned about space. Leapfrogged when we watched Neil Armstrong walk on the moon in the middle of the night. This is why so many of us became scientists and engineers. Apollo 13, another reason to be in science. It was a time when a lot of us grew up believing that we could actually do anything. And we did -- we went to the moon, we built the space shuttle.
I watched the first space shuttle go up with my brother, and the two of us walked with our heads in the stars for a while after that. Is there anything cooler? how could anyone not want to be an astronaut? to go into space?
More recently, John Glenn went for another ride... renewing my hopes that somehow I would be able to hitch a ride on something big, no matter how old I became.
I went to the Johnson Space Center some random number of years ago -- the wall was a shrine to me. The photos and names of every crew that has gone up is there.
Ah. Well. That's what heroes do for us. They are bigger than life, they carry us into the realm of possibility, into the stuff of dreams and make those dreams real.
Yes, back on Earth there was a large team of people making it happen. Did I mention Apollo 13? They are all heroes.
Somewhere along the line we realize that heroes are "only" human. Which, after all, should be the greatest encouragement that we've ever heard: You and I, you see, are "only" human too! We can be heroes. We can bring others into the realm of possibility, into the stuff of dreams, and we can make those dreams real.
Go forth, my dear hero, and make a dream become real.
The Maestro came out, and said that they would be talking about planets, starting with some of Handel's "Water Music," which fit in nicely with the speaker. Planets? sure, that means they would be playing selections from Holst. Probably the ones that sound most like Star Wars music (Mercury, Mars, Jupiter - John Williams made the music sound familiar to the audience), since some of the kids would have seen the movie. Speaker? for an orchestral concert?
Mr. Maestro said he didn't know that much about planets. I start thinking about Physicists and Astronauts. Mr. Maestro said perhaps we should ask someone who's actually _been_ in space. My heart leapt, blood coursing, goo started dripping from my eyes for lack of any better way to express the excitement.
Barbara Morgan (just google) stepped onto stage! Yahoo! What a great role model! A woman, teacher, used to teach on a res, chosen to be an astronaut, an Idahoan, giving instruction, and working with someone entirely outside of her field! Yahoo!
And, personally... I was agog. I saw a real, live astronaut walk onto the stage.
It started when I first learned about space. Leapfrogged when we watched Neil Armstrong walk on the moon in the middle of the night. This is why so many of us became scientists and engineers. Apollo 13, another reason to be in science. It was a time when a lot of us grew up believing that we could actually do anything. And we did -- we went to the moon, we built the space shuttle.
I watched the first space shuttle go up with my brother, and the two of us walked with our heads in the stars for a while after that. Is there anything cooler? how could anyone not want to be an astronaut? to go into space?
More recently, John Glenn went for another ride... renewing my hopes that somehow I would be able to hitch a ride on something big, no matter how old I became.
I went to the Johnson Space Center some random number of years ago -- the wall was a shrine to me. The photos and names of every crew that has gone up is there.
Ah. Well. That's what heroes do for us. They are bigger than life, they carry us into the realm of possibility, into the stuff of dreams and make those dreams real.
Yes, back on Earth there was a large team of people making it happen. Did I mention Apollo 13? They are all heroes.
Somewhere along the line we realize that heroes are "only" human. Which, after all, should be the greatest encouragement that we've ever heard: You and I, you see, are "only" human too! We can be heroes. We can bring others into the realm of possibility, into the stuff of dreams, and we can make those dreams real.
Go forth, my dear hero, and make a dream become real.
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