#19: Limits

 

I found myself taking inventory of the obstacles and upsets that people I knew were dealing with. There were children with autism. Parents with Alzheimer's. Financial crises. Career disasters. Addiction. Abuse.

And that was merely the stuff at the tip of my nose, in plain sight. How much else lurked beneath the surface? Show me someone with a seemingly unbroken stride and unfettered path. More often than not, he or she is hampered and haunted in ways that you can't imagine.

....What I am going through is what everyone endures as the years accumulate and the wear and tear starts to show. It's aging writ vivid and large. I'm bumping up against my limits. The trick is figuring out when to focus on them and when to look away. 

Am I Going Blind? by Frank Bruni 

New York Times Sunday, February 25, 2018

On Tuesday, I celebrated my friend's 60th birthday with a group of wonderful women. Inevitably, discussion turned to the milestone of reaching another decade of life and the challenges of aging. For me, 40 was far more notable than reaching 50, because my body sent me the first indications that I was aging: aches and pains, wrinkles and gray hair, and restless nights made their first appearances. Prior to 40, aging was completely off my radar -- never discussed or considered in any way. Even menopause was a mystery to me.

Part of my ignorance rests in the fact that my father has aged incredibly well. He has always looked young for his age, has never battled any chronic illness, and has exuded boundless energy. At 84, my father remains active and engaged in the activities he most values like walking and biking, gardening and woodworking, helping family and neighbors. I have always imagined that I would age just like him, I guess. However, in my 40's, I began to see in the smallest but most unanticipated ways that my body was going to be worse for wear. I could no longer deny that I would have limitations of one sort or another as I got older even if I aged as well as my father.

When I think of aging, I often return to a brief encounter with an older women who seemed to embody a sense of how I would want to age. In my early 30's, I was invited to attend a Harvard Principals Summer Institute, a three week program for new principals. We engaged in intensive learning throughout the day and socialized most evenings. At a dinner one night, Harvard rolled out the dance floor and a DJ encouraged us to dance with Motown hits and disco beats. I remember being mesmerized by an African American woman from Houston. She was tall, big boned, and angular. She wore a colorful dress, orthotic shoes, and a well-coiffed hairdo, a look that reminded me of how many women were portrayed in movies in the 1950's. As she danced, she lived in the music and the moment. It wasn't beautiful or graceful, but it was freeing and all-encompassing. She enjoyed herself with every fiber of her being, and her dancing was magnetic. I wanted to let loose, too, but I was too self-conscious, too intimidated, too uncomfortable in my own skin.

As the years have passed, I realize that rather than simply bumping up to my physical limits aging may be more about coming into my own. Each year, I feel like I am understanding who I am all the better and shedding notions of who I ought to be. I am finding and expressing my own passions and desires rather than the expectations I perceive that others may have for me. I want to be fully myself rather than a carbon copy of someone else. I care less of what others think of me and care more that I am content with myself. I like to think of this as a shedding of all the layers of uncertainty that come with youth only to reveal more of the pure essence of who I am and have always been as a person.

As I reach the core of who I am, the essential elements of my being, I am able to make the most of every moment and live with greater contentment in the present. I know that some people just seem to instinctively be themselves fully and completely from early on and couldn't imagine being anyone else for one moment -- in fact, it would be impossible for them. In contrast, I have been slow to embrace myself, slow to remember that a daffodil has always been a daffodil and couldn't ever be a tulip. In the same way, I have always been myself and couldn't ever be anyone else, yet it took me a long time to see the foolishness of such yearnings and uncover the wisdom even nature understood.

As such, I am no longer a spring chicken, but I will no longer focus on the limitations of aging. Rather, I will watch the daffodils emerge from the soil once again this March with surprise. I always forget where they were planted and am sure to find myself startled by their color against a backdrop of brown, wet leaves. I will pause to see the beauty of being a daffodil and nothing else, of being myself and no one else. May I make it my mantra to dance among the dew drops, in the kitchen with my husband to the laughter of my daughters, and in my soul to the beat of my own drum without hesitation. May I embrace aging for all it might possibly offer rather than only see what it might take away.

Some Glad Morning

Joyce Sutphen

One day, something very old

happened again. The green

came back to the branches,

settling like leafy birds

on the highest twigs;

the ground broke open

as dark as coffee beans.

The clouds took up their

positions in the deep stadium

of the sky, gloving the

bright orb of the sun

before they pitched it

over the horizon.

It was as good as ever:

the air was filled

with the scent of lilacs

and cherry blossoms

sounded their long

whistle down the track.

It was some glad morning.

#18: Vagility

In Chile, where friendship and family are very important, something happened that can be explained only by the effect fear has on the soul of a society. Betrayal and denunciation snuffed out many lives…. People were divided between those who backed the military [Pinochet] government and those who opposed it; hatred, distrust, and fear poisoned relationships…. Chileans learned not to speak out, not to hear, and not to see, because as long as they were not aware of events, they didn’t feel they were accomplices. (p. 160) 

My Invented Country by 

Isabel Allende

I haven't been able to gather my thoughts enough to write a post since the school shooting in Parkland, Florida last week. Not that I didn't have anything to write. Instead, I would say that my mind was a sea of swirling thoughts that either shouldn't be shared, because they were unproductively laced with emotion, or couldn't be shared, because they lacked cohesion. Such an event requires the reflection and restraint of a blog post both weighed and measured (in contrast to a Twitter rant, for example) in order for its message to be both appropriate and responsible.

I was thinking of the reality that our world is shrinking. Our population now tops 7.5 billion, currently increasing by 83 million per year. (To feel the impact of such growth, you can watch the numbers increase in real time here.) In turn, as our population increases, the land per person logically decreases, meaning our neighbor's address is inching ever closer to our own. Add in technology's ability to break down barriers and bring any information, events, and beliefs from anywhere on the planet directly to the Smartphone at your side right now and you might even say that our neighbors never asked permission but have unwittingly moved in with us, nonetheless. 

Animals have seen a decline in their vagility, their ability to roam freely and not have their migratory movement impeded as discussed in an article just published in the journal Science. In our shrinking world, humans are increasingly encroaching on natural habitats and altering them significantly, leading to the growth of a new field of study called "movement ecology." Likewise, humans are seeing their vagility decrease as well as we encroach on one another in innumerable ways beyond the straightforward physical. As a result, our future will depend on thoughtful study of human movement ecology as well as deep discussion and debate in order to reach compromises despite our differences. The survival of "I" will demand we increasingly think about the "we." Somehow, we are going to have to figure out how to not only coexist but rather thrive together on this small planet, where we might not have it all but certainly may have more than enough.

Perhaps, it would simply help, if we all began to pay attention more. To the well being of others. To the lives others live. To the views others hold. To the values that underpin those lives and views. To things as they really are not as we want them to be or are told by others that they are. To the impact far and wide of our decisions big and small that reverberate well beyond our own personal space. Paying attention requires steadfastness and constant effort. Paying attention takes the focus off of ourselves and places it on the other, our co-inhabitants within our mutual context. It tempers our demands for individual rights with a sense of responsibility for the well-being of all. 

Heather Lende wrote in her blog that paying attention is like prayer and prayer is like meditation and meditation is like mindfulness. I would take it one step further: for me, mindfulness expands the imagination. Suddenly, new possibilities emerge within the overwhelming complexity of living. At least, this is why I pay attention. This is how I pray. And, this is how I come to the conclusion that thoughtful, reasoned and straightforward gun laws are essential within the crisis of school shootings. I am not talking about laws that ban guns completely in violation of the Second Amendment. I am also not talking about laws that knickknack about, failing to deal substantially with the issue at hand in an attempt to appease without truly changing anything. 

I unequivocally believe assault weapons in any form must be banned. Background checks must be universal and strictly enforced. Gun ownership of any sort must come with required training and certification with regularly required renewal -- we demand nothing less of driving a car, for goodness sake. Why? Because the lives of our children and all our fellow Americans are more important than anyone's desire for unrestricted gun ownership. Further, I am an educator and the public letter written by a furious teacher from Richmond, Virginia resonates with me to my very core and should be read by everyone, including you.  "Hardened schools" as our president proposed are completely antithetical to the educational ideal we hold for public education as well as the Preamble of the Constitution:

We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.

Let us not forget that the Amendments to the Constitution rest on this foundation of general Welfare, domestic Tranquility, and the Blessings of Liberty. I didn't see our nation advancing these fundamental commitments in Parkland last week and we, the people, must no longer stand by as accomplices but rather demand better. Our vagility and rights must be tempered for the greater good. Such sacrifice is worthy and appropriate as spring approaches. Let us vigilantly pay attention and lead with our imaginations for a better society rather than remain mired in the fears and manipulations advanced by others with selfish intent. In this way, paying attention may finally lead to just actions, in memoriam for those senselessly lost yet full of hope for those still to walk through our school house doors and beyond.

#17: Prose

The 21st century public psyche seems to be fickle. On the one hand, discourse revolves around the future, fueled in part by technological changes and an entrepreneurial spirit. Think driverless cars or a mechanized workforce or virtual reality. The coming revolution rests both on an optimistic outlook in our ability as humans to solve problems as well as push beyond the limits of our imagination.

On the other hand, social media spreads advances as fast as lightning. This alone ignites anxiety in us to get on board (and fast!) or risk obsolescence. Even worse, each advancement ignites fear. The speed of change provides little time for reflection on the inherent complexities or preparation to brace for impact or discussion of associated social ills. Think drones or genetic modification or cell phone addiction.

The other day I came across Welcome to the Post-Text Future in the New York Times. The piece explores a phenomenon: the reading of text on a screen is out of fashion, being replaced by audio and video. The words of our online world in blogs such as this are being replaced by sound and image. Think YouTube or Instagram or Netflix. Clearly, communication is changing with both positive and negative outcomes. I found the following quote particularly thought-provoking and disconcerting:

Then there’s the more basic question of how pictures and sounds alter how we think. An information system dominated by pictures and sounds prizes emotion over rationality. It’s a world where slogans and memes have more sticking power than arguments. (Remind you of anyone?) And will someone please think of the children: Do you know how much power YouTube has over your kids? Are you afraid to find out?

Emotion over rationality equals easy manipulation, no? Further, so much of what underlies the discussion of technological advancement is laced with grief for all that is being lost from handwriting to blogs to newspapers. Will our human communication be enriched with an increasing diversity of means of expression? Or will prose be lost along with the rational discipline it demands, relegated to the graveyard by memes and slogans? I wonder whether we ought to embrace a doomsday scenario.

In many ways, I do worry about the future. Yet, I believe in the insatiable desire of humans to express themselves, fundamentally by speaking and writing. Communication is essential to the survival of living things; by extension, language and creativity are essential to human expression. As such, we may be in for a bumpy ride as we add new forms of pictures and sounds to our daily lives, but my own yearning to write is a testament to the power of language and our desire to interpret experience through prose.

Friday night, I photographed a February sunset. The lantern beckoned from the drive. The sky spoke in streaks of color like the ribbons flowing from my daughter's hair as a child. Fuchsia screamed. Indigo bled. Violet relented. Light stretched through the darkening trees that towered overhead. Nature had me in its grip. I couldn't move despite the tugs on the leash from the dog who had had enough and finds nighttime unsettling. I persisted long enough to snap a photo and pen these very words in my mind. For the photo endures as do the words. Technology will change our lives. Yet, I wrote, I write now, I will write tomorrow. Prose abides.

I will write until the day I die, or until I am robbed of my capacity to reason. Even if my fingers were to clench and wither, even if I were to grow deaf or blind, even if I were unable to move a muscle in my body save for the blink of one eye, I would still write. Writing saved my life. Writing has been my window—flung wide open to this magnificent, chaotic existence—my way of interpreting everything within my grasp. Writing has extended that grasp by pushing me beyond comfort, beyond safety, past my self-perceived limits. It has softened my heart and hardened my intellect. It has been a privilege. It has whipped my ass. It has burned into me a valuable clarity. It has made me think about suffering, randomness, good will, luck, memory, responsibility, and kindness, on a daily basis—whether I feel like it or not. It has insisted that I grow up. That I evolve. It has pushed me to get better, to be better. It is my disease and my cure. It has allowed me not only to withstand the losses in my life but to alter those losses—to chip away at my own bewilderment until I find the pattern in it. Once in a great while, I look up at the sky and think that, if my father were alive, maybe he would be proud of me. That if my mother were alive, I might have come up with the words to make her understand. That I am changing what I can. I am reaching a hand out to the dead and to the living and the not yet born. So yes. Yes. Still writing. (227) 

Still Writing: The Perils and Pleasures of a Creative Life by Dani Shapiro

#15: Public

From our inception, nothing may be more American than division and our struggle to unify the whole. Pilgrims were Puritans a segment of Separatists from the Church of England which had splintered from Catholicism. The Founding Fathers struggled with who would be granted the right to vote and deemed only landed white men to be worthy of the honor. In large part, they also failed to see even a glimmer of their own humanity in Native Americans and slaves. Need I continue? I can only surmise that so much of our division must be attributed to ignorance, arrogance and fear. 

Yet, I take heart that division has continually been challenged throughout our history. The process has been painful, slow, incomplete, and repeatedly challenged, but we do engage in a process of civil engagement and overwhelmingly agree that this is invaluable itself. Further, I remind myself that from the very beginning our nation has deemed public spaces to be forums of great importance. Libraries, parks, schools, playgrounds, museums, and recreation facilities were built to eradicate divisions and create community with the well being of the public in mind. What do these public spaces have in common? They are supported by tax dollars and governed by a board to serve the public interest. They are open to all on a voluntary basis and generally free of charge, particularly to those in greatest need. 

I am a product of public spaces. I went to public schools and a public university. I have been a regular patron of libraries my entire life. I spent numerous hours at our local park, playing on the playground, swimming in the pool, sledding, skating, taking classes, cheering teams, and enjoying fairs of all sorts. I made annual pilgrimages to the museum with my family or on school field trips. And, I have tried to engage my children in these same practices in hopes that they might also one day value public spaces for their contributions beyond the self to the larger whole. 

Public spaces are venues for the common good. Here again, the common good rises to the fore of my thoughts. Last night, I attended my younger daughter's symphony orchestra concert and fine arts showcase at her public high school. I also organized the refreshments for the event, meaning I sent out a sign up sheet, shopped for a few supplies, and worked on logistics before, during, and after. Families and friends donate generously so that everyone can not only find nourishment post-performance but also find time to connect and catch up with others in the school community. Students always express deep gratitude and generally one lanky teenage boy emerges from the shadows at the very end to help clean up and mop up the leftovers. I adore this.

The time I volunteer is quite limited but the reward is always more than good measure. Our high school pulls from a broad socio-economic and cultural base drawn both to the outstanding arts program as well as the diverse community that sometimes struggles with difference but fundamentally values diversity and its common good. I generally leave exhausted, having shed some tears at the beauty of the work presented and lamenting how often we demean, misunderstand, and undercut our public spaces. Segregation and all the -isms are in play as well as our incessant complaining about taxes. Public spaces reflect not only the challenges that face our citizenry but also the flawed institutions that underpin them. As a result, they remain imperfect while also invaluable.

Public spaces work to erase division. They educate. They practice hospitality to all who may enter. They promote safety and personal growth. They bring understanding and foster camaraderie. I write today to laud the work of our public spaces and the benefits I have received in their graces, lest I ever complain about the cost of a museum ticket or the limitations of a recreation facility or the failures of a public school, Beyond my gratitude, public spaces need my commitment and investment as well as yours. How about a humble visit to a public space, particularly one outside of your own neighborhood? There might be no better way to re-engage in the common good and the personal benefits may be inestimable as well.

Public Space

Ken Babstock

Wandering wordless through the heat of High
Park. High summer. Counting the chipmunks
who pause and demand the scrub stand by
till their flitty, piggybacked equal signs can think
through this math of dogwood, oak-whip, mulch.
Children glue mouths to ice cream and chips, punch
and kick at the geese, while rug-thick islands
of milt-like scum sail the duckpond's copper stillness -
Over-fat, hammerhead carp with predator brains . . .
We can wreck a day on the shoals of ourselves.
Cramped, you broke last night and wept at the war,
at the ionized, cobalt glow that fish-tanked the air.
We're here to be emptied under the emptying sky,
eyes cast outward, trolling for the extraordinary. 

#11: Hate

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness. Only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.” Martin Luther King, Jr.

I am astounded that fellow citizens don't seem to be bothered by the words our elected officials use in public discourse these days. Similarly, I am repeatedly shocked by the freedom social media appears to afford users to say things one would never say face to face to another person. Do words matter? Of course they do!

Given the nature of this blog, I am sure you know that I value words and never underestimate their power. I usually contemplate a single word at length, striving to get beyond its definition to uncover its deeper meaning for me personally. Impractical? Yes. Still, I believe that human expression through language is unique and complex, deserving of both restraint and respect.

As children, my siblings and I easily threw about the word hate. "I hate broccoli!" "I hate math!" "I hate going to Sunday school!" Sometimes, other children were recipients of our hateful sentiments, too. In response, I remember clearly how my father, who grew up in WWII Germany, taught us not to use the word hate and throw it around so casually. He reminded us that we didn't really understand hate as he had experienced it, and we should use it sparingly. It was a stinging reprimand.

As a high school teacher, I often discussed the use of profanity with my students. Most teenagers (if they haven't done so at a younger age) go through a phase of pushing boundaries through the use of profanity. Swear words are used to shock, to gain peer acceptance and build status, and to express often overwhelming emotions. Profanity has its place, but teenagers often use profanity superficially as a means of expression that never gets to the heart of the issue at hand. 

I would argue that in a language as rich as English with an estimated one million words, my students could express themselves otherwise in a more productive and thorough manner. Getting beyond swear words to build effective communication skills would serve them far better in the long run. I wanted my students to be heard. So, I taught them to choose words wisely, setting the groundwork to be respected by respecting others through their speech. Often, it was a hard sell.

As a parent, I have tried to teach my daughters to think before they speak. I remind them that their words should be positive: they should build up others or work to improve a situation. This doesn't mean that you don't have to say difficult things sometimes or that others will always be happy to hear what you have to say. Rather, the goal is to speak thoughtfully and not simply lash out impertinently. We all struggle to restrain ourselves at times, but in my experience children are as capable as adults of understanding the difference between words meant to hurt and those meant to help.

Martin Luther King, Jr. was a master of communication. He knew how to choose words exceptionally well such that nonviolent protest became an overwhelmingly powerful tool for social change. As a result, King left a lasting verbal legacy. His words continue to live well beyond the man, to remain applicable to changing times, and to offer inspiration and insight when we become weary with the world. How profoundly this contrasts with Tweets sent impulsively at 3:00 a.m. of "words that make my stomach plummet" like a petulant child who was never been taught better! Let's live up to King's example and begin to demand more in speech (as in action) of others as well, especially those elected to represent us and our nation's ideals.

Words That Make My Stomach Plummet

Mira McEwan

Committee Meeting. Burden of Proof.
The Simple Truth. Trying To Be Nice.
Honestly. I Could Have Died. I Almost Cried.
It’s Only a Cold Sore.
It’s My Night. Trust Me. Dead Serious.
I Have Everything All Under Control.
I’m Famous For My Honesty.
I’m Simply Beside Myself. We’re On The Same Page.
Let’s Not Reinvent The Wheel.
For The Time Being. There Is That.
I’m Not Just Saying That.
I Just Couldn’t Help Myself. I Mean It.

#8: Hard Work

The sun has emerged just as the earth is heaving a huge sigh of relief for the long cold spell is breaking today. The heat pump which struggled to keep us warm as we are accustomed in our large house full of windows has taken leave to rest. The frost has disappeared, the ice has melted, and the soil has softened, allowing the scent of earth to waft as we crunch leaves and walk George. He responds by digging with his nose, smelling and rooting for things we cannot sense. He knows his good fortune.

The squirrels are busy bounding and searching for hidden treasures. The crows are loud and mischievous. The deer, still in herds, are out and about. Yet, no one is fooled for the sun doesn't tell a lie. The days are still short and the light angled on the horizon just below the visor's reach to blind on the late afternoon drive as I pick up my younger daughter from school, reminders that winter has just begun. Although I wanted only to nest and expend energy primarily staying warm, comforted, and nourished over the last two weeks, I feel the urge to get things done, to check a few things off the perennial list of tasks that eluded me as the temperatures fell to the single digits.

Getting to work, I feel better. I come from a family of hard workers, of self-made men and women who made a better life for themselves and their children with a bit of luck and lots of sweat equity. I know that a good work ethic can get one much farther than innate abilities or intelligence -- not that those hurt but one can overcome many deficiencies with focused and determined effort. Back when I hired staff and teachers, I looked for those ready to roll up their sleeves. Nonprofits and educational institutions are not made for those who aren't ready to labor long and strenuously to make a vision become a reality.

I think we tend to forget that it is a privilege to work hard at something we value and enjoy -- not every day or every task, of course, but for the most part. Ask someone out of work and looking to return or those whose physical challenges now block them from fully engaging in their work lives. And, I think of those who may never know the joys of engaging, hard work, living in communities where jobs are far and few between. My father held a full-time job from age 14 until well into his 70's. The deprivations of WWII made him fully aware that it is a privilege to work hard and provide for self and family. Of course, earning a living wage in the process is also part of the equation, but let's leave that topic for another day. 

Now, I can set my complaints about the cold weather aside. I can enjoy the thaw and get to work. I can be useful with purpose and join the masses who simply get things done. Day is dawning, streaming through barren branches, yet the trees are hard at work, too. Buds are slowly emerging and preparations are well underway for spring. All living things join in production as the earth continues to spin and the seasons pass one day at a time.

To Be of Use

Marge Piercy

The people I love the best

jump into work head first

without dallying in the shallows

and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.

They seem to become natives of that element,

the black sleek heads of seals

bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,

who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,

who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,

who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge

in the task, who go into the fields to harvest

and work in a row and pass the bags along,

who are not parlor generals and field deserters

but move in a common rhythm

when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.

Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.

But the thing worth doing well done

has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.

Greek amphoras for wine or oil,

Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums

but you know they were made to be used.

The pitcher cries for water to carry

and a person for work that is real.

#7: Mission

As I am sure is true for you, every business or organization I have worked for has had a mission statement, defining concisely its purpose for being. Mission statements may encompass goals and serve to focus the work to be accomplished, separating out what is important from what is not. As such, every decision to be made from the most significant to the most minute ought to hinge on fulfilling the mission. I can also say resolutely that every business or organization I have worked for has struggled to stay focused on its mission. Humans are easily distracted and struggle with the complexity decisions may embody.

In public discourse, I think we often fail to discuss the mission of our institutions and often proceed without building consensus. One might ask what is the mission of government and certainly ascertain that opinions vary greatly. Yet, if government is to serve all its citizens, then certainly the public must dialogue until some agreeable conclusions are established. Further, one might ask, "What is the mission of health care?" Given the myriad of constituents, I think the answer might differ greatly if you were the CEO of a health insurance company or a health care provider or a patient with a life threatening illness.

I read the latest op-ed column by David Brooks titled "How Would Jesus Drive?" Brooks discussed the Pope's New Year's Eve homily in which he shared:

that the people who have the most influence on society are actually the normal folks, through their normal, everyday gestures being kind in public places, attentive to the elderly. The pope called such people, in a beautiful phrase, “the artisans of the common good.”

I too love the phrase "the artisans of the common good." I think this might be a wonderful personal mission statement: I strive to be an artisan of the common good in all my deeds and decisions. I have been noticing that the common good doesn't receive much attention these days and service seems to be reserved for those with religious inclinations rather than as an important component of a civil society. Imagine how our social milieu might change, if each of us adopted this personal mission statement and became an artisan of the common good?

In this light, I thought I might make a first attempt at a personal mission statement for 2018, a compass to align my actions with my personal beliefs/my purpose/my reason for being. My hope is to center myself and remain focused. My mission may need some tweaking, but I want to share my first cut as it is written from my gut and may be most true to myself.

A Very Personal Mission Statement

Be kind.
Be generous.
Give to your limit; then give a little more.
Embrace change, encourage growth, cultivate hope.
Work hard for the common good with tenacity and ferocity.
See diversity and complexity; seek commonality and solutions.
Keep the stranger in mind in like measure as those most beloved.
Remember you are no more or less deserving of your privilege than anyone else. ~

Kindness

Stephen Dunn

In Manhattan, I learned a public kindness

was a triumph 
over the push of money, the constrictions

of fear. If it occurred it came
from some deep
primal memory, almost entirely lost-

Here, let me help you, then you me, 
otherwise we’ll die.
Which is why I love the weather

in Minnesota, every winter kindness

linked
to obvious self-interest,

thus so many kindnesses
when you need them;

praise blizzards, praise the cold.

#5: Stress

It’s been a long time since I really changed my mind about something, and I’d forgotten how good it feels: like sunshine after a dark winter. (271)

If You Lived Here, I’d Know Your Name ~ Heather Lende

I have been mulling over the notion of stress and thinking it might be terribly maligned. Suddenly, stress is killing all of us and underlies all that ails our species. Perhaps, stress is a term that gets used far too frequently and applied far too broadly. For me, stress lies somewhere between fear and worry. Fear deals with issues of survival -- fear is fueled by a lack of safety, the deprivation of one's basic needs, and the experience of disconnection, isolation, or dehumanization. Worry, on the other hand, encompasses thoughts of the future and what might be, negative events that can't be controlled or even accurately predicated. Stress, physical and mental tension, results from being pulled out of a state of equilibrium and comfort. As a result, many experiences may cause stress in one person and not another, and people differ in the amount of stress they can handle.

I know not only that this is likely an inaccurate scientific differentiation but also that life certainly challenges us and causes stress in both foreseeable and unpredictable ways. Each individual has a unique mind-body connection in relation to stress. As a result, I think that perhaps what is most important is to reflect on one's relationship to it. I recently read a summary of psychological research on Hey Sigmund that found how we think about stress, how we perceive its impact on our health and mortality, may be more important than the stress itself:

Researchers used data from the National Health Interview Survey (NHIS). Here’s what they found:

• The risk of premature death was increased if people who were experiencing stress believed that stress would adversely impact their health.

• Those who reported experiencing high stress and who also believed that stress adversely affected health had a 43% increase in the risk of premature death.

• Those who experienced high stress but didn’t believe it to be harmful were at the lowest risk of dying – even lower than people who didn’t experience a lot of stress.

I think this explains why stress has never been something I worry about or avoid. I believe stress has a place in my life, and I believe that I have enough awareness in midlife to know when I am experiencing too much stress and need to regroup, although I am also not naive: sometimes we can't do anything about the stress in our lives and must muddle through. We certainly can't control as much as we would like to think we can. I would also throw out that perhaps the root of so much of what we call stress can more accurately be labeled unhappiness: decisions and situations may simply make us unhappy which reduce our ability to cope and increase the stress response.

In this New Year, I want to keep my focus on happiness, engaging in the world, striving to have a lasting, positive impact, and building new, invaluable relationships. I will embrace the notion that I can pursue new and challenging experiences and manage the stress which seems essential to being a growing, learning, changing person. My goal is to find a point of equilibrium, living a life full of demands and passions while requiring I make myself mindfully vulnerable. I hope I can grab hold of the opportunities that come my way, living by the mantra that stress is a challenge not a threat.

#1: Intentionality

Creative work needs solitude. It needs concentration, without interruptions. It needs the whole sky to fly in, and no eye watching until it comes to that certainty which it aspires to, but does not necessarily have at once. Privacy, then. A place apart--to pace, to chew pencils, to scribble and erase and scribble again. (23) Upstream by Mary Oliver

I am ashamed to say that I allowed the political upheaval of 2017 to violate my privacy. The shock of the last presidential election, the arrogance and offensive speech of our political leadership, and the announcement of breaking news was designed to invade our personal space on a daily basis. The goal may have been to shake up the establishment, but I believe that the outcome unhinged us as a nation to our very core. Our actions and words may have upended our deepest values and core beliefs such that we were even unaware of the impact.

For me personally, I tuned in to the political drama far too frequently: television news, radio news, news alerts on my cellphone, newsletters sent to my email. I vet my news sources well and trust their factual basis -- no Facebook or Twitter for me. However, I allowed them to infiltrate my personal well being, and I have had to learn to temper my political raging, to control the news I ingest rather than allow it to control me.

As such, my primary resolution for 2018 is to live with intentionality. I hope to:

• cultivate gratitude and relish in relationships;
• care for my body with healthy food and steady activity and exercise;
• make room for rest and nature and vacations; 
• read books with depth and breadth and imagination; and
• garden and cook and create with purpose.

In regards to A Measured Word, I want to write on a daily basis with thoughts and meditations on a single word as well as a poem or quote or photo. I may struggle to meet the goal, but I need the creative outlet and solitude to collect my own thoughts and live with intentionality. In our political climate, it seems that we need to reorient our compasses -- to think for ourselves with common sense, truth, and our principles as guides rather than allow social media to think for us. 

To act based on what we know is right rather than what we heard someone else say takes effort, but I can't wait to get to work. What could be more exciting than to have 365 days of a brand new year ahead? Hand me the blank slate -- I am ready to write!

Some Days

by Philip Terman

Some days you have to turn off the news

and listen to the bird or truck
or the neighbor screaming out her life.
You have to close all the books and open
all the windows so that whatever swirls
inside can leave and whatever flutters
against the glass can enter. Some days
you have to unplug the phone and step
out to the porch and rock all afternoon
and allow the sun to tell you what to do.
The whole day has to lie ahead of you
like railroad tracks that drift off into gravel.
Some days you have to walk down the wooden
staircase through the evening fog to the river,
where the peach roses are closing,
sit on the grassy bank and wait for the two geese.

Nice

"Be nice!" How many times have you heard those two words spoken over a lifetime? What does nice mean anyway? And, if you are being nice not doing nice, isn't that just an assumed state of human interaction under the rubric of a golden rule which then doesn't necessitate reminding?

I remember clearly sitting around with friends in college on one of those evenings when time seemed limitless. Our identities were still forming and often deeply analyzed. We decided to choose one descriptive word that everyone thought embodied that person. I was devastated when my friends chose the adjective nice to describe me. I was incredulous. Really? How boring! Nice is innocuous but nondescript. Nice was like a neutral color that blended into the background -- a wallflower, of all things.

I have returned to the sting of that moment many times since and now maintain that one ought never call another person nice. You might describe a piece of clothing as nice by saying, "Nice pants." Or, a blind date, saying "We had a nice time," implying no one could pay you enough money to go out again with the guy you just ditched as quickly as humanly possible. Or, you might ask a boyfriend to sit down and talk and call it quits by beginning "You are a really nice guy, but...." Nice is subtle or sufficient or agreeable. You can even hear the dull and uninterested tone of voice when someone says nice try or nice day or nice to know.

In my estimation, daisies might be nice but nice is not the description of a person. Kind may be the description of an individual. People can be kind. And, upon reflection, I think my friends really were describing me as kind. And, I am not just saying that to make myself feel better, although kind does make feel better. I simply think that I have a tender heart for the human condition which can be so battered. I feel I exist to make people feel better, be better, live better. Kindness works towards the positive, the glass half full, the optimistic, at times naively so I'll admit. Still, I think I primarily approach the world with kindness.

Now, I will admit that a guy I liked in college the following year described me as charming, and charming almost wiped away the sting of nice and certainly sealed my infatuation at the time. I preferred to think of myself as charming rather than nice until I saw a small, enchanting clip of film from Humans of New York on Instagram yesterday. I have been a fan of Brandon Stanton's work for a long time, and he has released the first two episodes of a new series, including this clip which I have watched nearly a dozen times.

From now on, in my experience or point of view, I will try to live up to the descriptors of both charming and super nice. And, I suggest that you watch the HONY clip , too. Then, the next time I describe you or anyone else as super nice, you'll know exactly what I mean and smile deep down inside. It is all about how you view the world, friends. By my estimation, glass half full ain't half bad. In fact, it is super nice.

Selfless

A little less self, a little more selfless, a little more self to give.

The selfie obsession reached a new low this week when a family placed their child in an 800-year-old coffin at a museum in Britain for a photo op, damaged the artifact, and then left without a word. Of course, closed-circuit television cameras caught them in the act. Somehow, this story seems to encapsulate so much of this era in a nutshell. A little less self, a little more selfless, perhaps?

So much of public discourse of late seems to revolve around the self -- what I deserve, what I have lost or sacrificed, what I know to be true, what I was told, how I perceive the world, how I defend what I said or did, who I see as lesser than myself or greater than myself. So much is said and done and believed to be true without thoughtful reflection of or engagement in the perspective and experience of others. Somehow the foundation of working for the common good has been badly shaken, and we continue to dig in our heels. Maybe, a little less self, a little more selfless?

Our public discourse might be far more civil, if we first thought of how every word and deed might effect the other before we spoke and acted. Isn't this what we have been trying to teach our children all along? I have told my girls dozens of times over the years:

"You are no more or less worthy than anyone else. You don't have to like everybody, but you must treat everybody with basic respect. Period. And, remember that each individual has a personal story that makes them who he or she is. Try to understand and it will be far easier to be gracious."*

The message remains true for me as much as them. A little less self, a little more selfless.

For me, the bottom line is that the health of our society depends on sacrifice of self for the common good. The needs of many are great in communities no matter where you live and nothing is more common among all of us than the desire to have the essential needs met of those we love most. Anything less must certainly be a moral failing in light of our nation's economic and political standing in the world. A little less self, a little more selfless.

So, I am turning this mantra over in my head, a meditation of sorts. I might even call it a personal mission statement. Of course, I mix up my wants and needs on a regular basis. I rant. I rave. I know, if you know what I mean. I dig in my heels, too. I am working on it though, step by step. A little less self, a little more selfless, a lot more self to give.

Want 

Carrie Fountain

The wasps outside
the kitchen window
are making that
thick, unraveling sound
again, floating in
and out of the bald head
of their nest,
seeming not to move
while moving,
and it has just occurred
to me, standing,
washing the coffeepot,
watching them hang
loosely in the air-thin
wings; thick, elongated
abdomens; sad, down-
pointing antennae-
that this
is the heart’s constant
project: this simple
learning; learning
how to hold
hopelessness
and hope together;
to see on the unharmed
surface of one
the great scar
of the other; to recognize
both and to make
something of both;
to desire everything
and nothing
at once and to desire it
all the time;
and to contain that desire
fleshly, in a body;
to wash it and rest it
and feed it; to learn
its name and from whence
it came; and to speak
to it-oh, most of all
to speak to it-
every day, every day,
saying to one part,
“Well, maybe this is all
you get,” while saying
to the other, “Go on,
break it open, let it go.”

*Don't get me wrong as I also clearly communicated that abusive and bullying behavior is never to be tolerated!

Ginkgo

I read The Whispering Leaves of the Hiroshima Ginkgo Trees in the New York Times last week. The piece reminded me that the ginkgo has been found in fossils over 270 million years old. Ginkgo trees are survivors, and the author is right that they might have a message for us.

Now, I look at the ginkgo tree outside the kitchen window with more reflection and ever more appreciation. I have always loved the leaves which turn a beautiful golden yellow in the fall. Moreover, the tree still brings me back to Goethe, the writer of classical German literature and poetry, who wrote so eloquently about the leaves of this woody perennial plant in the poem Ginkgo Biloba.

I had to memorize the poem and share an analysis of its meaning in a class I took during my junior year abroad at Albert Ludwigs Universitaet of Freiburg, Germany. The course was on the classicists, Goethe and Schiller, and was taught by a professor who had escaped East Germany. The class (taught completely in German) of American students was both intimidated and enamored with the professor. He was brilliant, had been a world class athlete, and epitomized the romantic notions of a worldly professor, who modeled silk scarves, recited literature, and wore an air of mystery. I mean, he had lived on the other side of the wall, and he had escaped.  

In our extensive discussion about the course and the man outside of class, we jokingly called him Herr Gorbachev. And, in my nervous state during my presentation, I called him Herr Gorbachev to his face which resulted in peels of laughter from the rest of the class and my face washing in a deep shade of red. Clearly, he laughed it off as well as I remember scoring well on my work and the course.

Like the Hiroshima Ginkgo trees, I realize that Ginkgo Biloba taught me many things. It immersed me deeper into my love of poetry and strengthened my public speaking skills -- in a second language, no less. It helped me see two sides to a person, a piece of writing, an issue and an experience. It reminded me that humans are multifaceted, complicated beings and barriers are best torn down not erected. 

When we read deeply or travel broadly or interact with the once unknown, we see ourselves from where we were before the experience and then again after -- we can be the same person yet different if only we open ourselves to the process and the journey. A small leaf and a short poem remind me that writing and nature can survive to travel over time and distance and cultural/lingual differences and help us see ourselves and our surroundings anew. Every time I see a Ginkgo tree, I say to myself, "Daß ich eins und doppelt bin?" Those are the words that return to me over and over, etched in my mind and retrieved involuntarily. And, I couldn't be more grateful for their insight.

GINKGO BILOBA 

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

German:

Dieses Baums Blatt, der von Osten
Meinem Garten anvertraut,
Gibt geheimen Sinn zu kosten,
Wie's den Wissenden erbaut.

Ist es ein lebendig Wesen,
Das sich in sich selbst getrennt?
Sind es zwei, die sich erlesen,
Daß man sie als eines kennt?

Solche Fragen zu erwidern
Fand ich wohl den rechten Sinn:
Fühlst Du nicht an meinen Liedern,
Daß ich eins und doppelt bin?

English:

In my garden’s care and favour

From the East this tree’s leaf shows

Secret sense for us to savour

And uplifts the one who knows.

Is it but one being single

Which as same itself divides?

Are there two which choose to mingle

So that each as one now hides?

As the answer to such question

I have found a sense that’s true:

Is it not my songs’ suggestion

That I’m one and also two?

~ Translated by John Whaley

History

I double majored in German and history -- not German history, although I did take European history courses. I then went on to earn a masters in education as well as my secondary school teaching certification in social studies and German. Education was a logical extension for a liberal arts education, but I have always struggled to explain how I landed on history as a major. After all, I did apply to college thinking I would major in chemistry and become a physician. And, I certainly am not a history buff like my brother, who I remember plowing through thick tomes on wars and leaders and eras long gone just for fun even as an adolescent.

In some way, I often think that children of immigrants tend to have a penchant for history. Our parents speak of times and places and movements long gone that shape the way they approach their new home and parent us. I heard about WWII and Germany and fascism that cultivated a deep gratitude for what American offered in the second half of the 20th century. Working hard was expected, although questions about the past were often ignored. We waited for bits and pieces of information to fall into our laps while eavesdropping on adult conversations to explain tears and tirades and religious fervor and convoluted decision making.

Lately, I have been immersing myself in history once again. In the current political climate, I have found that looking back has helped me make sense of the present. Please don't think that I always find comfort in some worrisome conclusions that history can uncover, but I find that understanding often is the first step to positive action and nothing could be more useful in these times. Let me share three journeys into history you might find enlightening and enjoyable as well:

1) My husband and I have been watching the National Geographic series Genius about Albert Einstein. The series places Einstein in historical, political, and cultural context such that you not only learn about the man but also how he was shaped by the times which do have some parallels to today.

2) I have been listening to the podcast Revisionist History by Malcolm Gladwell. Each episode looks back at a person or idea or event: "Something overlooked. Something misunderstood." As I am cooking dinner, I turn on the podcast. It gets me thinking, deeply, such that I return to its content in my mind repeatedly in the days that follow, making connections to my own experiences, understanding of current events, and passionate pursuits.

3) I am reading On Tyranny by Timothy Snyder. A straightforward, short book of 20 chapters, it looks at current political times through the lens of our Founding Fathers and European totalitarianism of the last century. Please do not take this to be a book of one political persuasion or another. Rather, this is a book about the basis for democracy and freedom and our responsibility as citizens to protect the foundation and integrity of our nation.

What I love most about immersing myself in history like this is the connections I am making. These mediums are lighting the light bulbs in my brain, helping me through the dis-ease I am feeling since the last election, and directing my thinking and decisions for the future as a voter, community member, and citizen. Of course, historians know that this is the greatest value of their academic pursuits: the past may illuminate the present and direct the future for one individual or an entire nation. Personally, I invite you to join me in the pursuit. As such, we might have greater confidence in where we collectively take our country.

History

Andrew Gent

Every poem has been written before

at least fifteen times.

Every song

sung better.

The Neanderthals discovered caves

already painted with the story of their lives.

They invented fire

over and over again.

And you & I

whisper the same sweet nothings

we were born with.

Feedback

Over the years, I have had to work on giving feedback appropriately, either positive or negative, in a variety of situations. As a quiet person, learning to give voice to an experience has taken me time. However, if the feedback is constructive, I have come to realize how important it can be for both the person giving voice to the feedback as well as the person receiving it.

Nowadays, feedback is everywhere: customer feedback, student feedback, employee feedback, etc. Somehow, so much of it fails to be constructive and may even venture into destructive instead. Rather, than holding someone accountable for performance or offering suggestions for improvement, the feedback can miss the mark completely or be misguided and downright inappropriate.

At the university, the request for student feedback on courses and professors is now standard practice and yet may offer up little of value as this video demonstrates (as well as all the others that follow -- you can keep viewing videos in this vain for some time). In the blogosphere, many bloggers turn off the comment option on their posts so that they can maintain some distance from feedback that provides little insight into their work and its reception. I get it. The effort involved and vulnerability of putting yourself out there is significant. 

The problem is that when we turn off comments, we turn off the negativity but lose the opportunity to hear positive and constructive feedback as well. Nonetheless, the difficulty remains: how do you hear the lauding, learning comments without focusing on and feeling crushed by the words that belittle, make negative assumptions, and dig at personhood? One mean and bullying comment can overshadow everything else said in response to someone's efforts.

Two things come to mind, First, words are powerful. Social media is powerful. Harnessing the power of words and social media for good multiplies its power to benefit both individuals and community. Second, a bit more kindness never hurts nor does a bit more listening. Feedback given kindly and in the midst of earnest, open dialogue can only move communication in a positive direction for both parties.

Perhaps, we can all just stop and think about the sounds we make with words and language and otherwise. Do we enlighten, inspire, invigorate? Or, break apart, destroy, diminish? As you ponder and give yourself feedback on your own communication with the world, you can chew on one of these -- another roll recipe to add to the recipe index.

PS: Thank you, dear reader, for feedback that continues to spur me on here in front of the computer, in the kitchen and garden, and at the table. My gratitude runs deep.

Muffin Pan Rolls

2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour

1 cup whole wheat flour

1 teaspoon salt

1 cup 2% or whole milk

4 tablespoons unsalted butter, diced

4 tablespoons granulated sugar

2 ½ teaspoons active dry yeast

2 eggs, beaten

¾ to 1 cup unbleached all-purpose flour

1.      Heat milk, butter, and sugar to 180ºF. Stir and set aside to cool to 115ºF.

2.      Stir in yeast and let sit until foamy, about 10 minutes. Combine 2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour, 1 cup whole wheat flour, and salt in the bowl of a standing mixer.

3.      Combine 2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour, 1 cup whole wheat flour, and salt in the bowl of a standing mixer.

4.      Add yeast mixture and eggs to flour mixture; stir to combine.

5.      Knead with the mixer, using the dough hook, on medium speed. Add 1 tablespoon of additional unbleached all-purpose flour at a time to the bowl until dough forms a ball and pulls away from the sides of the bowl, 8 to 10 minutes.

6.      Grease a large bowl with olive oil and place dough inside. Cover bowl with a towel and let rise in a warm spot until dough has doubled in size, about 1 ½ to 2 hours.

7.      Grease a muffin pan with butter. Divide dough into 12 equal-size pieces. On a cutting board, cup your hand over 1 dough piece; roll firmly against the board to form a smooth ball. Place in muffin cup. Repeat with remaining pieces.

8.      Let rise until 2 inches above pan, about 1 ½ to 2 hours.

9.      Bake in a 400ºF oven for 8 to 10 minutes, until light brown. Let cool slightly in pan, remove, and butter tops.

Yield: 12 rolls