Small Change

"The more things change, the more they remain the same." How many times have you heard, read or said that? In English or the original French or any other language, the meaning is the same: we think we are progressing or changing but, in reality progress is simply seeing the same thing through a new viewfinder.

Oh, I don’t mean that we have advanced no further than learning to walk upright, but as for standing on our own two legs, well that’s not much to remark on in terms of progress.

Some days we think we have traveled a road to the end only to discover that it is really a circle and we are right back where we started. It becomes even more obvious with the return of the political season. The only real difference I see is that the pre-presidential yammering is starting earlier, with less hope for change clinking with every nickle that is dropped into some candidate’s pocket. It is not a positive time.

One thing that does seem to have changed is the value of the numbers themselves. When I learned about averages and percentages, and means and so on, a significant difference was in the neighborhood of 25%. Now I read poll results that are supposed to be very sophisticated and accurate when the difference is 2%. How can that be? I understand that there are lots more heads to count today, but the idea that one or two percent of them can predict accurately the outcome of an election, or the popularity of an idea or the justice of a law is, in my mind, simply serendipity at work. Just look at the recent parliamentary elections in England. Even the winners were surprised.

What this tells me is that I have to be very skeptical about promises made versus promises kept. If politicians can rely on results showing an advantage of one or two percent, it is no wonder that the one-percent have the advantage. It would be nice once-in-awhile to see politicians respond to the 99%, not the 1%.

Are we just small change?

Meditation on Age

There are two ways to grow old: physically and mentally. There isn’t much one can do about the physical part. Oh, one may try exercise programs, diets, vitamin supplements and the like, but eventually enough parts will wear out and that will be that. The same is true regarding the mental part. Keeping young in spirit for most of us is possible. But it takes work.

We started thinking about this when we were in Chattanooga, down along the Georgia border, for a family wedding weekend. Guests ranged from teens to those of us who were middle-aged when the bride and groom were infants. Participating in their life-changing event as family and guests demonstrated the continuum of life as clearly as anything could. Those whose lives are not yet independent, and those of us who are closer to dependence of another sort, bookended the guest list and helped make the weekend a memorable event for all.

As I hope  you all know by now,we live on a mountain in a community populated by very few others (actually there are a lot of residents, but most are among the "bear-foot and antler" crowd). Our interactions with upright (as opposed to walking on all fours) neighbors are limited and paced to fill our days and nights with natural rhythms and sounds. City life, as we knew it, isn’t part of our daily life. This meditation is about how we interpreted what we saw as we strolled about the city or sat watching others go by. What we saw and what it means.

It was Saturday afternoon, and the city streets (where we were) had runners and walkers and bicyclers and strollers enough to fill our very small village many times over. Healthy people, fit, able to walk and talk and carry on telephone conversations, email and texting communications, made the atmosphere vibrate with energy and enthusiasm, creativity and cleverness. Observing the level of activity reminded us of when we were starting out, making our way in the world, and it seemed to unlock some mental closets where we had stored some of that youth, some of that energy.

We’re not ready to go back to that kind of life. We’ve been away from it too long, but perhaps we’ve gotten too comfortable, too much at ease with solitude and stretches of silence, enjoying the darkness of night where there is no sky-glow other than from stars and moon, hearing the sound of birds and bees and frogs and insects rather than horns and sirens and squealing tires. There is a danger here, perhaps: becoming too comfortable with a very low level of stimulation. Being among those whose lives are really just beginning brings awakenings we had nearly forgotten.

Coming back to our quiet zone, our dark nights and unpolluted daytime skies offers a sharp contrast to the life a city generates. As much as we think the young should listen to us, we need to keep that energy flowing back, as well.

Energy comes from energy, not from observation.

Friend of the Quick Brown Fox

Buddy follows me wherever I go. Mostly. Not always. Sometimes he thinks he knows where I’m going, and when I’ll return. Especially when I’m writing. Once I settle down for the morning Buddy walks in, goes under the desk and lies on my feet. Great in the winter, not so terrific when the weather turns hot. But Buddy doesn’t mind.

When I put a mat down on the floor for my daily exercise regimen, my pal follows me in, lowering himself to the floor so that his body is pressing up against my head. Unless he decides to lie on my feet. Hard to do lifts and push-ups and things when he participates. I hope my example will lead him to more stringent exercises of his own, but so far I’m just another convenient pillow for him. That’s fine, unless it’s summer and I really don’t need a fur cap.

When we go for our morning hike, usually first thing after I wake up, when the sun is still clearing the mountain to the east, we often cross terrain that demands careful foot placement. We don’t run. Actually, we don’t run anytime. We walk. Sometimes slowly, once-in-a-while a bit more quickly, but that only happens when we’re in the fields, not going up or down the ridge behind the house. Slipping and falling, where rocks and hidden roots and leaf-covered tree stumps abound is not good for contact with bones, so I tend to tread carefully especially on the downslope. When I take too long to make a move, Buddy stops, sits and looks longingly at the road below or the flat field that marks the end of the day’s rough walking. When I move forward, he waits to be sure I’m really going on, and then he picks himself up and walks past me, showing by his easy 4-foot-drive, that he has no trouble negotiating this part of the trail. He wasn’t tired, you see, just lazy. Why move if you aren’t going somewhere?

Having a companion who likes to know you are nearby is a really nice thing about a dog. You’re never alone, but you don’t, beyond giving an occasional pat on the head or scratch around the root of his tail, have to acknowledge his presence. It’s enough to just be there, I guess. It is for me, anyway.

Buddy isn’t an old dog yet. About three or four would be our guess. As with all of the pack (Teddy and Louie book-end Buddy), our pals are survivors rescued from shelters: strays, un-planned pups, the abandoned and forlorn. They are grateful, loving, rewarding members of our clan, able to adjust to changing times and places and situations. Buddy is a disappointment in only one area: he doesn’t like to ride. Not in my car or the old pickup or the not-quite-as-old SUV we use for really bad weather or as a transport to the kennel when we must be away for a period of time. He will ride, if I lift him and get him in before he knows what’s happening, but it isn’t his choice. Much as I’d hate to have to clean up the side of the car after a ride, I envy those drivers whose dogs ride along, head out the window, happy to be in the breeze, or sitting quietly beside the driver.

One of Buddy’s predecessors was Bear, a mix of Sheltie and Chow. An engaging boy who weighed about 45 pounds when he grew up, Bear would leap into my car or truck anytime I opened the door. Once underway he would stand, his hind legs on the back seat, his front paws on the armrest between the front seats, and then somehow engage my right shoulder with the elbow of his left front leg. It could induce discomfort on a long trip, but it was always comforting to know he wanted to be beside me. Louie is too small to get up into even the lowest of our vehicles, and Teddy, though he loves to ride, is at an age when getting up off the floor is an effort, but he will try to get in the car if he has the opportunity. But not Buddy.

Buddy is my pal. He stays nearby all the time, finding a comfortable (to him) place on the floor where there is support for his head (the wall, my foot, a chair leg) whenever I sit down.

Buddy is the ideal companion for the quick, brown fox.

Sans Everything

Shakespeare, of course, had it right. The ages of man progress forward, then backward, ending pretty much where we started, sans everything. The question, then, is what do we need and why do we need it.

The question arose this week because I was looking for something in one of the sheds that stand in for an attic and basement in our house. “Stand in,” because long ago, when we were designing and building the house, we decided that attics and basements were places for things that we should dispose of in the first place. In this case I was searching for a part of a piece of equipment that I had disassembled several years ago so it would take up less space among the things we should be rid of.

I distinctly remember the plastic bag I put the small parts in for safe storage. I remember exactly where I put the bag. The problem is, I can’t find it now. That means taking everything out of the building until I come across the bag, plus all the other things I don’t need but have kept.

Our brains are pretty much like those storage sheds: lots of stuff we thought we’d never need again, put somewhere on a neurological shelf, that tend to fall off and interrupt another search for something else we know we have had once, and stored away somewhere against a time when we’ll need it. Like a name. Telephone numbers for phones we no longer call. Street names, favorite books, author’s names, even special food and drink.

When I’m looking for something in one of the real sheds I usually end up uncovering things I’m not looking for, then diverging from my original mission to do something the discovery suggests, and then run out of time and have to put everything away that I’ve spread out on the grass in front of the shed. The same thing happens when I try to remember something I want to use or say.

This isn’t about aging, though age certainly has something to do with it. The longer one lives, the more things one accumulates and stores in folds of the brain. I can often see a picture of what I’m looking for, but the focus is less than sharp. A story, for instance: did I write it? What was the working title? What was the file called? I begin looking at the index under an umbrella title. These essays, for instance, are filed under “Meditations.” Most of my essays originate as a simple one-line thought. Sometimes the whole thought is in the title. For others, there is a period of cultivation followed by a time of illumination during which the rest of the thought writes itself. That doesn’t solve the problem of course. The thing I’m looking for is still unfound, the thing I need to do is still undone. And then, if I’m not right on top of it, it gets lost behind some other thing on a shelf I’ve forgotten I have. And then it’s over.

Shakespeare had it right.

*****

An apology: In an essay-or-so ago, I wrote about being the subject of a video memoir. I offered to put you in touch with the producer, but my email address was not quite right. Here it is:

pkwrites@gmail.com

Sorry for the inconvenience. 

Frogs and the Future

One Sunday last month the frogs in the pond by the front door were doing what frogs do at this time of year. Buddy and Teddy and Louie were fascinated by the activity and the songs the frogs were singing. A week later the pond was quiet, the surface frozen and the eggs probably not doing well. It happens that way from time to time.

The amazing thing, I think, is that as soon as the weather returned to what it should be at the end of March (the lamb period), we again heard the frog songs and saw egg masses and in a short time, were able to watch the tadpoles in motion. Which brings me to the subject of this essay: the ability to carry on despite the odds.

We share with other living things the ability to overcome difficulties that arise and, in ways we don’t always notice, change our lives. For most life forms that ability is instinctual; a built-in mechanism for survival. For humans, there is also invention and innovation to keep us moving forward. We see it on a grand scale when people survive accidents, disasters and wars, and we work to prevent such things happening again. We see it and experience it more personally when we make decisions, take actions that lead to harm and failure for ourselves and those around us. Yet we keep on doing, keep on moving forward. We have not yet succeeded in removing ourselves completely from the world. But we may be coming close.

The obvious signs are in front of us. Sea level rise, temperature rise, extinction of species, shifting patterns of climate are there to read and understand. And there are many who insist that it isn’t something we can moderate or modify. Worse than that, there are those who will not accept responsibility for what is happening. Not even a little bit of sharing of the causes. But that’s okay. Life will, as long as the planet is habitable, continue to support life. Maybe just not human life.

It has long been my personal view that the basic elements of life, the chemical basis, the combination of sun and water and vegetation and animals, microbes and molecules can change or adapt to whatever is surrounding us. Nature, to give it a broad-based identity, will survive and perhaps even adjust to living without a breathable atmosphere (as the human body currently requires), creating instead life forms that can survive with a different breathable gas mixture. I have no idea what forms those might be, what shapes they might take, what capabilities and capacities they might have. I simply feel that unless we do something to preserve ourselves (and the world in which we thrive), not just frog eggs and human eggs will become history. In the long run, over the span of earth’s history, this planet will probably cease to exist, much as some others in our solar system. Humans may or may not escape in sufficient numbers to begin again life as we know it. But I am confidant that life, some form of it anyway, will continue if not here, then elsewhere.

Nature is still the strongest force on earth.

About Me

It’s all about me. At least for three or so hours one day last week it was. I sat down in front of a camera and talked about my life. The idea wasn’t mine, and at first I wasn’t sure it was something I wanted (or needed) to do, but like a lot of things one does when someone in the family asks, I agreed to the interview.

My interrogator was a well prepared, thoroughly professional interviewer, not long retired from a major news network. She has a company devoted to documenting the lives of ordinary people as a way of preserving family histories. What was recorded, what will be edited, is for my family, our daughter, granddaughters, great-grandsons and those who will come after: stories of work, play, love, sorrow, achievement, disappointment . . . in truth, the story of a life; in this instance, my life, and the life of those closest to me.

The interviewer was well prepared, as a true professional is. Much of my working life has been spent either interviewing others or facilitating media interviews with people I represented in the course of my own work. I know what a professional interviewer does and what good ones do. My interlocutor certainly met the criteria for “excellent.” There was a short pre-interview on our first meeting a week earlier, but there were questions asked during the recording session based on books I have written and answers I had given to previous questions.

During the interview itself there were questions that I could not answer with glib responses; questions I had to consider, to take the time to recall the why or what of something that had appeared in print, or that I might have referred to in an earlier answer. Questions about where I came from, who my influences were, what events in my lifetime (so far) had helped form me and guide me on my life’s journey.

Usually, it seems to me, this is the kind of inner trip one takes as life is slipping away. Not true. It is the kind of exploratory event one needs to make at several pauses along the way. By looking back, by culling your memory, you learn how far the journey has taken you, how distant or close you are to where you started, how far you have traveled. Life is a learning experience. Reviewing what one has learned often can point to the way ahead. Of greater significance, it helps you prepare for the journey yet to come.

When I was much younger, still in my teens, perhaps even before that, I often marked a milestone in my life with a self-assessment: how much I had learned, what insights I had gained, what new directions I could see and embrace. Discovering that I knew something one day that I had not known the day before has always given me a bit of a thrill. Years ago I realized that the ideal life for me was to learn something new (a word, a fact, a skill, an idea) that could be translated, repackaged perhaps, and delivered to others.

An eminent scientist I once read said, “Facts from which no conclusions can be drawn are hardly worth knowing.” A clever quote, but I  disagree with the conclusion. Facts, about something or someone can help build a picture, complete a story, explain a history. One fact leads to another, together they form a story, and the story leads to truth.

In the camera’s eye I tried to tell the truth about me.

***********

If you or your family are interested in creating such a memoir, I highly recommend the company, the interviewer and the experience. Contact me at pkwrites@gamil.com, and I will provide the information.

Bookmarks

There was a , somewhere between high school and life, when I thought just owning books made me smart. Then I began to read them.

I’ve always been a reader, even before I “learned” to read. Words on pages attracted me probably as much as illustrations because I understood the illustrations. Letters were enigmas, words were a mystery. As soon as I learned to know the first, the second quickly became clear. So my vocation began.

My reading has always been wide and undisciplined. When I discover a writer, I want to read everything published. If it is fiction I will search out an author’s entire output, trying to read in the order in which the books were published. That way I tend to grow with the writer and at the very least, understand references that may appear several books or stories later. Sometimes a work of fiction will lead me to explore the subject in a wider window of historical writing about a period or character. And always, reading takes me closer to knowledge, to being “smart.” To knowing something others may not. Sometimes, too, I can even contribute an original thought to the universal knowledge stream.

We both still indulge in adding books to our own library, but not as often. For one thing, our home library has run out of space. When we built this house a quarter of a century ago, we set aside one room for books. They are shelved floor to ceiling on nearly every wall. There is a piano against one wall, and four windows and two doors, but there are shelves over those and under the windows, too. And there are stacks of books on the floor, waiting for room. Books in baskets in other rooms. Books on shelves in my office, in my wife’s studio/office, in my workshop and garage, and even a few in outbuildings. Part of this year’s work plan is to add more shelves.

About once or twice a year we decide to cull books we no longer want. We even have one shelf that is for books we are going to donate or sell or just dispose of. That shelf is getting crowded because while we add books, we seldom remove any. We also promise each other that “this year we’ll reorganize the shelves.” By that we mean we plan to put all the fiction books, by author, in one place, history in another, technical books, travel books, poetry, art, photography, filmmaking, gardening and so on in discrete areas. We did that when we first unpacked our books here, but somehow that hasn’t been followed. Books lie flat on top of others, shelves under tables hold all of a particular author or genre, and we rely on memory more than organization to find a book we know we have.

Aside from our work spaces, the library is where we spend most of our “together time.” the chairs on either side of the small fireplace, our reading lamps, our current reading stacks enclose us in a zone where the world intrudes only on our terms. It’s one of the few places in the house without a telephone. It is a place where rather than working, we continue our pursuit of knowing. And when one knows, knowledge follows.

Books make us smart, but it is reading, not owning, that makes that happen.