#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

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.

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.

Action

Whatever you think you can do or believe you can do, begin it. Action has magic, grace and power in it. ~ Goethe

Action is my word for 2015. Days are passing, life is evolving, and I am blessed. Isn't it time to stop dreaming and rather put hand to labor? My hope is to align my love of writing, my faith in the creative process, and my personal interests to produce work of highest quality for the coming 12 months.

So, I plan to finally open that Etsy shop and produce more products from the incubator here at A Measured Word to sell. I hope to blog frequently with greater focus and to send a bit more inspiration out to you, dear reader.

If Goethe is right, and I hold to my end of the bargain, 2015 will be a powerful year full of magic and grace. The thought humbles me, but I plan to bow my head in action and get to work. Stick with me and keep me posted on how I am doing, okay?

Landscape

In the last two weeks, I took two short trips, one east and one west of home, to get my big city fixes. Driving through the rural landscape that can be found in large parts of this country, I always feel a combination of melancholy at the widespread, rundown state of affairs and nostalgia for the beauty interspersed and the stories hidden beneath. 

I then found this short documentary video, Howard's Farm, by Ivan Cash on an 86-year old farmer in my home state that speaks directly to my feelings. Howard as well as farms and small towns and open spaces right off the interstate inspired this late autumn poem:

Rural Landscape

Turn the GPS off or
Drop the directions onto the passenger seat
Sip your coffee while it is hot
Crack the window and listen to the classics down low or
Belt it out with a favorite, evoking memories of youth

Allow the endless rows of telephone poles to hypnotize
Marvel at the labor that planted them like breadcrumbs
Count the birds on the wire that watch you pass
Remember how far you once stretched the telephone cord to
Reach the bathroom, shut the door, and plan adolescent escapades

Follow a wood fence or wall of stones that has seen better days
Drive back roads that meander without sign or marker
Curve around the bend and hug the hills, cross the tracks
Embrace the quilted fields and furrowed rows now fallow
Recall how mud and dirt were once your constant companions

Envy the heavy coats of sheep undeterred in the bone chilling cold
Appreciate the rusted Deeres, the forgotten bales of hay, the hens free to roam
Choose a favorite among the many dilapidated barns washed a dingy gray
Ache as if you were the weathered man in the rocker on the porch
Know he could have been your grandfather once, his memories your harvest

***

Finally, I want to share a quick Christmas craft I enjoy each year. I save last year's holiday cards and use them to make gift tags. So easy. I give sets of them as gifts and use them to wrap my own presents as well. I think this handmade, personal touch not only adds to my enjoyment of giving but also reflects who I am as the giver.

Praise

I have been thinking about the nurses and healthcare providers around the globe, who are rolling up their sleeves to care for those with ebola despite the present risks and fear. If you have ever found yourself unexpectedly very sick or in the hospital or in a long term care facility for any reason, I think you know as well as I do how hard these individuals work and the difference they make in the lives of their patients. 

As with most of our working class, these are people, who receive insufficient praise and reward for their tireless efforts. Yes, there is an intrinsic reward and they are human, making mistakes at times just like us, but words of appreciation can go a long way to bolster people at work, working hard and working well, especially those at minimum wage or thereabouts.

In recent months, I have been trying to tell individuals I come across in my daily life that I appreciate a job well done, for example a clerk, who is exceptionally friendly or helps me solve a problem efficiently and effectively. I find that the more I do it, the less reticent I am to vocalize my praise and the easier it becomes. I also walk away feeling really good for sharing my gratitude. (To be fair, I have to add that I am trying to verbalize my dissatisfaction on the flipside as well, although this seems far less frequent.)

Today, I just want to send out a message to the universe or, at a minimum, the blogosphere, to say thank you to those caring for our most vulnerable patients here and abroad. Your work is seen within its difficult context and deeply appreciated. You, good workers, humble me by your example, which I sometimes need, too.

Good Workers

Gary Johnson

Let us praise good workers (you know who you are)
Who come gladly to the job and do what you can
For as long as it takes to repair the car
Or clean the house – the woman or man
Who dives in and works steadily straight through,
Not lagging and letting others carry the freight,
Who joke around but do what you need to do,
Like the home caregiver who comes daily at eight
A.m. to wash and dress the man in the wheelchair
And bring him meals and put him to bed at night
For minimum wage and stroke his pale brown hair.
He needs you. "Are you all right?" "I'm, all right,"
      He says. He needs you to give him these good days,
      You good worker. God's own angels sing your
      praise.

Library

My parents just visited for a week from Wisconsin. As usual, they work miracles outside at NOLD, helping me slowly tame our overgrown property. I am extremely grateful.

In addition, my father made and installed a Little Free Library for my family and neighborhood to enjoy. I am going to cherish this gift. Little Free Library is a nonprofit that promotes literacy and community through free book exchanges set up worldwide.

Now, anyone can take a book and leave a book right at the curb of NOLD. In fact, a neighbor e-mailed to say that her daughter had discovered our Little Free Library and had borrowed two books the very first day. I hadn't even spread the word yet.

I have always had a secret longing to own an independent bookstore, because I love reading, am a huge advocate for education, and have a desire to run a business one day. No matter -- right now, our Little Free Library makes me terribly happy and is satisfying my itch for such a venture.

I am sure this summer will include plenty of trips to our county library as well as our Little Free Library just down the hill. Here's to a summer full of fun and reading!

A few years ago in elementary school, my younger daughter wrote this poem:

READING

Page by page

Words fly by

No pictures so I

Visualize

Luck

In February, I took a quick trip to San Francisco with my family. I was determined to go to Muir Woods this time around and see the Redwoods, a truly religious experience for me. Nature on such an impressive scale did not fail to inspire. With a bit of care and tending, the earth is capable of providing incredible gifts. I hope to ponder this thought as I return to the garden this spring.

 

Muir Woods also had incredible patches of lush clover interspersed among the trees, the greenest and largest clover I have ever seen. St. Patrick's Day and this clover got me thinking about luck. I am not sure how I feel about luck, but I do believe that by sending out "good" into the world, my very best effort in all things, overall good things will in measure return to me. I don't think this is a faith in an outside predetermined will. Rather, I rest on a deep and abiding sense of hope despite the many challenges life brings.

 
I believe Amy Tan, a favorite author of mine, explained it like this in the Joy Luck Club:

My mother believed in God’s will for many years. It was as if she had turned on a celestial faucet and goodness kept pouring out. She said it was faith that kept all these good things coming our way, only I thought she said “fate,” because she couldn’t pronounce that “th” sound in “faith.”

And later, I discovered that maybe it was fate all along, that faith was just an illusion that somehow you’re in control. I found out the most I could have was hope, and with that I was not denying any possibility, good or bad. I was just saying, If there is a choice, dear God or whatever you are, here’s where the odds should be placed.