Thursday, December 31, 2009
Here are Trixie's resolutions:
1. Be furrier.
2. Wag tail more.
3. Recommend all Dad's books at next Mensa meeting.
4. Say nice things about cats even if every time say nice things will vomit.
5. Avoid say nice things about cats immediately after eat frankfurters.
6. Get own newspaper subscription so don't have to read Dad's and get drool on food pages before he reads 'em.
7. Find out if other book writers besides Dad live in neighborhood, then pee on their lawns.
8. Register and vote like good citizen.
9. Pick up after myself with blue bags.
10. Put blue bags in garbage instead of in Dad's shoes, no matter how funny would be in shoes.
How can you be furrier and wag your tail more in the new year? What are your resolutions? Please share!
And have a happy, safe, laughter-filled New Year!
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Janus looks forward and backward at once, anticipating the future while still considering the past. As do all the ancient gods, Janus represents a very real and deep impulse in humans, and what better time of year to reflect on the past and anticipate the future than the depths of winter, when, really, what else are we going to do?
In the media, lists reign this time of year. Top Ten News Stories. Top Ten Movies. Top Ten Scandals. Top Ten Best-Selling Books. Top Ten Athletes. Celebrity Deaths. Celebrity Babies. Celebrity Divorces.
While these lists may be mildly entertaining to read, I’m more interested in a different perspective on the year past. Nance in Reno sent me a link to an NPR commentary by David Stipeck, who asks his listeners to consider the following question: “How did I do in the areas that really matter?”
What really matters? Financial success? Popularity? Celebrity? How many times Tiger cheated on his wife? Those lists in the newspapers and magazines and websites have it all wrong. What really matters is more personal and individual, at least for those of us fortunate enough to live in places of peace and freedom. What really matters is how we treat others, how we help those who need it, how we make the world in our small spheres of influence a better place.
Back in the Dark Ages when I was a teenager, I came across a list of things a person should do every single day to be happy:
1) do something good for your body,
2) do something good for your mind,
3) do something good for your soul,
4) do something good for someone else,
5) do something good for the world.
At first glance, the list seems pretty self-centered, but without a healthy body, mind, and soul, how can you do something for someone else or for the world? This list pretty much covers what really matters: our physical, mental, and spiritual health; our kindness and compassion to others; and our duty to make the world a better place.
Let’s get back to Stipeck’s question: “How did I do in the areas that really matter?” I’m going to share my answers to this question but invite you to think of your own answers and, if you are comfortable doing so, to share them in the comments.
My body got short shrift this year. Going for my annual ride in the stirrups a few weeks ago made me realize how little I’ve exercised and how much junk I’ve eaten. Looking back in this case shows up my failure to attend to something that really matters. Looking forward, I must do better.
My mind flourished, largely because it has always been hyperactive and demanded large chunks of my attention. Sometimes, I wish it would just shut up. Maybe then I would exercise more.
My soul, however, got quite the refreshing workout this year. I took a Disciple II class at church and learned more about my faith than ever before. It made me hungry for more, and I’m eagerly awaiting the next year-long class that will start in January.
Looking outside ourselves to others’ needs is reflexive for parents, but now that my children are older and don’t require the intensive daily care required to keep infants and toddlers and preschoolers from killing themselves, I have tried to look a bit farther out. My focus is, of course, still close to family and home, but my church and community provide plenty of opportunity to help others and the world in ways that matter.
Mother Teresa said, “We cannot all do great things, but we can all do small things with great love.” Smart lady, don’t you think? There are ALWAYS small things to do with great love…so many, in fact, that this can seem an impossible task. What possible difference could a couple of hours volunteering each week at the school library make in the grand scheme of life, the universe, and everything?
Well, if we were alone in the universe, this point of view might be valid. But we’re not alone. There are billions of us.
The Cake Wrecks blog demonstrated the power of many people doing little things in its charity push this Christmas by asking its readers to donate $1 a day for twelve days to twelve different charities. At last count a few days ago, the effort has raised over $75,000 for charities large and small.
That’s a lot of cake.
The message here is powerful. If we each do our little bit of work to help others and the world, we’ll make a big difference in the way the world works.
A bunch of simple, small things add up: recycling, turning off lights, driving less; voting and staying informed on issues affecting national, state, and local government; sending money to worthy charities doing work abroad and at home; buying a meal for the man with a sign outside McDonalds or giving diapers to the man whose grandchild needs them; serving meals in a soup kitchen; paying the toll for the driver behind you; smiling at a stranger; acknowledging others’ efforts. The list is easy and endless, so dive right in wherever it feels right to you.
Stipeck says that our good deeds have “probably made a greater impact than we ever realize.” Sometimes, our good deeds are acknowledged and we feel a glow of satisfaction. Sometimes, people discourage us from good deeds, citing charity rip-offs and lazy malingerers and thieves who take advantage of our charitable impulses. Sometimes, our good deeds are not acknowledged, and we may feel angry about that and stop doing them out of spite.
As we look back at the past year, let’s do what Stipeck says. Let’s celebrate our successes and acknowledge our failures as learning experiences prodding us in the right direction. Let’s have faith that our good deeds--large or small, rewarded or unacknowledged--did make a difference.
On January 1st, let’s channel our inner Janus. Look back on what really mattered in 2009 and forward to what really matters in 2010.
As for the rest, let it be.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Mostly, I am grateful for love. It takes infinite forms, and it inspires everything from small, simple acts of kindness to great sacrifices. Thinking of love makes me grateful for so much:
*The online community at Splitcoast for being awesome and supportive and wonderful.
*My friends and neighbors close to home who have done so much, and for my friend who moved away this year but is still close in my heart.
*Friends far away whom I haven't seen in years but who still show love to me and receive love from me in ways that really matter.
*My extended family, which has been through a lot this year, including grief, struggles with substance abuse and depression, premature birth, retirement, moves, houses that aren't selling, job changes and job stress, and a heart attack.
*Everyone who reads my blogs: family, friends, and strangers, and especially those who comment or send me emails. You have no idea how wonderful it is to put words out here on three blogs and realize someone is reading and enjoying and being inspired by them.
*Visits from family and visits to family.
Welcome, new year! You are now perfect, full of potential, and a wonderful expectation. May we be able to see your beauty and the good you bring, and may we have the strength and courage to face whatever challenges you place in our path.
A request to those who pray: My uncle Herb had a heart attack yesterday. He's in the hospital, but according to the cardiologist, it was a very close call. Please offer up prayers for him and my aunt Sylvia as they deal with this terrible thing.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Saturday, December 26, 2009
sermon on things going wrong;
pastor is prophet.
The Wii does not work,
scene rated R for language
late night Christmas Eve.
Daddy is a grump;
mommy needs a vicodin.
Ho ho ho. Bite me.
of disappointment and loud
winds make sleep a dream.
then Jack’s face inches from mine
“Mom, it’s Christmas Eve!”
“No, hon, it’s Christmas
morning and time to open
your gifts, minus Wii.”
The jolly elf leaves
laser tag and spark scooter.
Santa saves the day.
Snowfall of tissue
and wrapping paper litters
the floor—White Christmas.
Children bicker, play,
Bicker, laugh, bicker, bicker,
Play, bicker, “I’m bored.”
Up the chimney as roast beef
Goes straight to my hips.
Doesn't matter now.
Soft glow of the Christ candle
brings peace, joy, and love.
Angels say fear not,
Good tidings, great joy, a sign.
Hark, herald angels.
Note: I'm not a poet, but I can count syllables. Haiku is highly formal with lots of rules I chose, respectfully, to ignore. I hope I don't offend any haiku purists with my silliness.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city. And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David;) To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.
And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered. And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.
And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them. Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.
And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the baby wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.
And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of heavenly host praising God, and saying,
Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.
Merry Christmas, one and all.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Isn’t it odd how, in dreams, things like strangers tying lost kids to poles are perfectly normal? I once dreamed that a potato was growing out of my knee. This evoked only mild curiosity in my dream self, but upon waking, I wondered if I needed to see a shrink. What would Freud do with that? No wonder I have insomnia.
Today, George and I took the boys to the Cincinnati Museum Center, which houses several different museums, including a really fun Children’s Museum. A few weeks ago, we saw an advertisement for a new Egyptian mummy exhibit. George and I both love history. Nick is interested in ancient Egypt. How could we resist?
We arrived early, saw most of the mummy exhibit, watched the Omnimax film Mummies: Secrets of the Pharaohs, and went to the atrium café to eat. After lunch, we planned to finish the mummy exhibit, and then go to the Children’s Museum. Jack just wanted to go to the Children’s Museum. When we all finished eating, George and Nick carried the trash to the bins across the dining area, and Jack and I followed them. When I reached George, he asked, “Where’s Jack?”
“Right here,” I replied, gesturing to my left where he was a second before.
Only he wasn’t there. Jack was gone.
Those of you with children can imagine (and may, in fact, have experienced for yourselves) the panic we felt: the pit in the stomach, the rush of adrenaline that makes you feel like you’ve just jumped off a bridge and suddenly realize you forgot to attach a bungee to your ankle. Yeah. That same horrible feeling George had in his dream, only this was real.
George sprinted for the door to see if someone had taken Jack outside while I continued searching the huge, crowded atrium. George came back inside just as I started looking for a security guard. Figuring that Jack may have gone to the Children’s Museum downstairs, George sprinted down the escalator while I briefed the security guard.
“We’ve lost our son. He’s seven and has autism.” In that moment, it dawned on me that Jack does have autism and might not be able to tell someone he was lost. He’s never been lost before, and I had no idea how he would react.
I gave a description of Jack’s clothes and hair, which the man relayed on his radio, announcing a Code Three. He was so calm, and it didn’t dawn on me until later that he probably deals with Code Threes regularly, seeing as he works security in a Children’s Museum. For me, I just appreciated his level-headedness as he moved across the atrium straight to the photo kiosk near the trash bins. I hadn’t even noticed the kiosk, but we'd all walked right past it on the way to the trash bins.
Jack loves photo kiosks. The guard found Jack’s coat inside. But where was Jack?
The guard, Nick, and I crossed the atrium to check the other photo kiosk, and as we passed the hallway to the Omnimax theater (where I’d searched fruitlessly earlier), I saw Jack walking beside a woman pushing a stroller.
“Jack!” He saw me and ran into my arms. As we hugged each other, the woman pushing the stroller said, “He told me he needed help. He said he was lost.”
“Thank you,” I said, unspeakable relief in my voice. I turned to Jack and said, “I was so scared, honey! Why did you leave me?”
“I’m sorry, Mommy. I got lost.” He was surprisingly matter-of-fact about it.
“Don’t EVER do that to me again. Stay right by me.”
“Are you angry, Mommy?”
What do you say in these situations? What I wanted to say was, “Yes, I’m furious you scared me so badly, and when I’m done hugging you, I’m going to KILL you!” I figured that might be a tad hysterical and got a grip on myself. “No, I’m not angry. I was scared, and now I’m happy you’re back. And I’m proud of you for telling a grown-up you needed help. That was the right thing to do.”
I thanked the security guard and realized that George was downstairs still in full panic mode. I held tight to Jack’s hand while he, Nick, and I headed downstairs. We met George halfway down and his relief matched mine. We continued downstairs, where I found a bench, sat down, and tried really hard not to sob hysterically. I was shaking and queasy.
Jack said, “Mommy, I’m sorry. Am I in trouble?”
“No, you’re not in trouble.” I pulled him onto my lap and just held him until I could stand again. We spent a few more hours in the museum, bought souvenirs, and headed home.
This evening, George said, “Every time I looked somewhere and didn’t see him, I sank deeper into a pit of despair.” He posted about the horror on an internet forum, and a woman shared how a similar episode with her first born triggered premature labor of her second. I believe it.
Jack says he wasn’t scared while he was lost; he says he just needed to ask a grown-up for help. George and I, on the other hand, are having a tough time shaking the panic. I have to suppress sudden urges to burst into tears. He keeps mentioning how horrible it was. We both feel that we lost ten years of our lives in that ten minutes Jack was missing.
Fortune’s Wheel, a powerful image in medieval literature, turns constantly, making happy people sad, and sad people happy. One doesn’t expect a full revolution in such a short period of time, however; it’s extraordinarily disorienting. But we’ll calm down eventually.
After all, what was lost has been found. Sometimes, dreams do come true.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
George: Sure, pal.
Jack: OK. I will hide under the bed and you will find me!!
After several iterations of hide and seek, with Jack hiding under the bed every time and shouting with incredulity, “You found me!!” ...
George: Jack, you really should hide someplace else; I know where you are hiding every time.
Jack: I know what you’re saying Dad, but I just love hiding under the bed.
Monday, December 21, 2009
*Professor Lee Patterson, who kindly commented on my essay "What Should I Read" (It was very childish of me to squeal when I saw his comment, wasn't it?)
*Christmas break and happy children
*Christmas cards and letters from friends and family, and emails from readers I've never met
*All the gorgeous cards being posted at SplitcoastStampers
*Christmas lights and candles, and the amazing glow created when I take off my glasses...being nearsighted has advantages!
*Cookies and Susan Food (A.K.A. chex party mix) from my MIL
*Talking with neighbors and making plans to welcome new ones to the neighborhood
What are you grateful for today?
Sunday, December 20, 2009
In church this morning, singing the old hymns with a smile on my face and hardly ever looking at the hymnal, I realized how important repetition is to the celebration of Christmas. We repeat the same hymns, make the same cookies and Christmas dinner, read the same Bible verses in the same translation, hang the same ornaments, buy a tree from the same place or put up the same artificial tree, go to the same services, and pray the same prayers. We receive comfort and peace from the annual repetition, but we run the risk of becoming complacent and taking the things we repeat for granted, too.
At my previous church, we sang O Come, O Come, Emmanuel (all verses) every Sunday of Advent—and one Sunday we actually sang it twice. After a few years of this, I came to despise that song and still wince each time I hear it. It killed my Christmas joy and made my heart shrink just like the Grinch’s. Too much of a good thing, and you lose the point of it.
On the other hand, how many times have you heard a Christmas carol performed with a slightly different beat from the traditional version, such as a Muzak version of Joy to the World? What is your reaction? Probably annoyance, if you’re anything like me. Your expectations aren’t met, and disappointment results.
When the shepherds heard the heavenly hosts at the first Christmas, the experience of the Greatest Gift was fresh and new and wholly unexpected. Honestly, who would have thought the old prophesies would be fulfilled by travelers in a stable in an overcrowded town during tax season? I don’t think anybody expected that. Mary and Joseph sure were amazed, and the shepherds marveled at angels speaking to them—lowly and poor and socially scorned—of good news of great joy for all people.
Every year, Christians are called to perform a balancing act at Christmas: to have the comfort and peace of the same old and blessed story, and at the same time to hear that story with fresh ears and hearts as did the shepherds. But we can’t stop there; the shepherds didn’t. To keep Christmas, we also need to share that story with others.
I invite you to share in the comments how you keep Christmas fresh and new in your heart each year. How do traditions actually help you do that? If you’ve become complacent, how can you sing a new song this Christmas and share once again in the good news of great joy?
I’ll go first. Reading Luke 2 in the King James Bible has always felt fresh to me, mainly because I simply don’t read it any other time of year. Since I started using a different translation for Bible study a few years ago, it’s particularly fresh each year. Also, putting out the nativity set my mother made keeps the story fresh for me, especially because Baby Jesus is missing a hand as a result of a little too much love, probably from my cousin Kathy, decades ago. Finally, rather than give to the same charity each year, we mix up our giving.
Now it’s your turn to share!
Friday, December 18, 2009
Yeah, that’s safe.
Anyway. My comment that he couldn’t cook light threw down the gauntlet for Iron Chef George, who took on Battle Cooking Light with determination but also with a certain level of waffling which didn’t surprise me in the least. At first, he decided to try a mole sauce with chicken. For those who don’t know, a mole (pronounced mo-lay) includes a bit of dark, unsweetened chocolate to add richness and flavor to a savory, spicy, nutty sauce served over rice.
In general, one doesn’t think of a mole as light, but George could have made it light by using fewer nuts (he used toasted almonds), very little oil, and lean chicken. It would still be rich, certainly, but at least relatively low fat. Then we had this conversation:
George: Oh, you didn’t get boneless, skinless chicken thighs.
Me: No, these were cheaper. Do you want me to run to the store?
George: No, I bought two packages of boneless, skinless anyway. I guess I’ll use one of the boneless, skinless packs and the one with skin and bones. It will give the dish a nice flavor.
Me: But you can easily peel the skin off the thighs.
George: No, it’ll give the dish more flavor if I leave the skin on.
Me: But then it won’t be light.
George: No, maybe I’ll cook light tomorrow.
Me: I knew it!
George: If you blog about this, I’ll boil chicken breasts and serve them over plain white rice tomorrow night.
Me: I don’t have time to blog about this until late in the week.
George: You are evil.
So on Saturday, the mole definitely didn’t get a light make-over. It had EXTRA chocolate and almonds, chicken skin, and George knows what else.
Excellent flavor, not so light. No victory for Chef George in Kitchen Stadium.
Sunday, George decided to make a light stir-fry with lean beef and asparagus over noodles. The flavors were strong and spicy, the beef and noodles were satisfyingly filling, and the dish was definitely not fatty. George thought he’d need to use more than two tablespoons of oil (carefully measured) to cook the beef but found the lighter version worked fine. He even decided that his other stir-fry specialties could use less oil without sacrificing flavor, which can only be a good thing for our waistlines.
Chef George wins in Kitchen Stadium, defeating the doubting Susan who is forced to admit she was WRONG! He CAN cook light!
What isn’t good for our waistlines is the sad fact that cooking a light meal seems to have a rebound binge effect on George. He proved he could do it, but this weekend he’s talking about roasting a whole chicken wrapped in bacon and then wrapped in pizza crust. At least he’s not talking about wrapping it in puff pastry and deep frying it.
Now THAT would be high fat.
See you at the gym, folks. It’s my only hope.
To read George's version of this story, please see his blog, Eat, Drink, and Be Merry!
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
For the third week of Advent, I spent a lot of time contemplating joy. Traditionally, joy is the theme for this week, but much of the story of the nativity doesn’t really invite joy, does it? Herod was scared, scary, and dangerous. Mary was pregnant and could have been ordered stoned to death by Joseph; no doubt she endured a lot of scorn and derision from the community and perhaps even her parents. Poor Joseph must have been treated as a cuckold.
And it was tax season. Where is the joy in that?
Well, a few people in the middle of the story knew the truth, and in that truth, there was great joy. Mary tells the angel of the Annunciation, “Here I am, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.” Can you imagine the faith and trust behind that statement? It always makes me shiver when I read it. Then there’s Elizabeth, Mary's aunt, whose unborn son jumped in her womb with joy in the presence of the pregnant Mary. Their welcome of her prompts Mary to say, “[M]y spirit rejoices in my Savior.” The angels shared “good news of great joy” with the shepherds, and the shepherds passed it on. The three wise men “were filled with joy.”
But every time joy is celebrated, it’s balanced with fear and danger and ominous foreboding. Simeon praises the child Jesus but then tells Mary, “…a sword will pierce your own soul, too.” The wise men visit and give great gifts (one of which was associated with death and embalming), and then Joseph has a dream warning him to flee to Egypt.
And it was tax season. Did I mention that?
Right now, we live in a world where fear and panic and crisis threaten to overwhelm us. We worry about job security, retirement funds, war, mortgages, politics, taxes, and even celebrity infidelity. All of these (well, except the celebrity infidelity) are very real worries for many of us. The story of the nativity, however, is at least in part a story of the joy that comes through faith even when the world is unpleasant or even downright dangerous.
My wish for us all this season and in the coming year is a wish for joy. What gives you joy? How do you find joy when life gets tough? How can you share it with others?
At the dinner table Sunday night, we were discussing the Advent wreath after lighting three of the candles. This week's candle symbolizes Joy, so I asked each person what gave them joy.
George: My family gives me joy.
Nick: My family and friends.
Jack: God! No. Thomas. I love Thomas.
At least he thought of God first.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Friday, December 11, 2009
"These flowers are gifts from a previous century, a previous dweller here--a tale, told in flowers, of one farm wife's fondness for beauty and this place. ...[T]he show begins modestly in April with her tiny Lenten roses, white-petaled snowdrops, and the wildish little daffodils called jonquils that have naturalized all over the grassy slopes. As Lily and I walked single file up the path to the greenhouse, I noticed these were up, poking their snub, yellow-tipped noses through a fringe of leaves.
"'Oh, Mama,' Lily cried, 'look what's about to bloom--the tranquils.'
"There went the last of the needles of ice around my heart, and I understood I'd be doomed to calling the jonquils tranquils for the rest of my days. Lily is my youngest. Maybe you know how these things go. In our family, those pink birds with the long necks are called flingmos because of how their real name was cutely jumbled by my brother's youngest child--and that was, yikes, twenty years ago."
In our house, we call backpacks packpacks, yellow lellow, pine needles pine noodles, and pianos pinanos. There are others that don't pop immediately to mind. If "you know how these things go," I invite you to share your family's child-induced linguistic fun in the comments.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
“Like many culture debates, discussions over Positive Thinking have been hijacked by extremists, opportunists and professional depressives. People argue that you can get what you want by wanting it. Others that the world is a dark and evil place, and that should never be forgotten.”
Polarization by extremists is ubiquitous; we see it in politics and in breast feeding, in religion and in parenting, in education and in science. Extreme positions make me nervous. I’m happiest in the middle, sitting happily on the fence, enjoying a view of the big picture, yet vulnerable to attack from both sides. I’m the one trying to negotiate a compromise, find common ground, and shift perspective to a happier place where we can all get along. Naïve, yes, but that’s my interpretation of Positive Thinking.
Like Katz, I don’t think you can get what you want by wanting it, and people who deny there’s anything wrong in the world are lazy and saving themselves the bother of making the world a better place. But those who focus only on the bad, on how everything is going down the tubes, on how the End is near, drive me batty, too. They are whiners who are also lazy and saving themselves the bother of making the world a better place. What’s the point, after all?
Opportunists take advantage of these polar impulses of humanity. Self-help authors and talking heads strike the mother lode when they get Oprah-fied, and mass media freaks people out in an effort to win audience share. Technology means we are bombarded with these polarized messages constantly.
A few years ago, I came across a quotation from Elizabeth Bowen that struck me as profoundly true:
“If you look at life one way, there is always cause for alarm.”
I encountered a lot of “professional depressives” in academia, where hyper-specialization dangerously narrows people’s perspectives on the world. An English professor at Duke, Dr. J, once told me I could NOT double major in chemistry and English because the two subjects had nothing in common. I made sure never, ever to take a class with him. Professor J’s perspective was sadly limited, like the palette of a man who will only eat sour food. More than two decades later, my fascination with science remains strong, even if I didn’t make a career of it. I find a lot of philosophical common ground between science and English these days, and both have made it easier for me to cope with being the mother of an autistic child.
One of my graduate school professors, Dr. H, felt that any literary theory other than the one he preached was not only misguided but terribly wrong, and he graded students accordingly. His class was not a place for intellectual growth and open exchange of ideas.
But another of my graduate professors did promote intellectual growth and open exchange of ideas. Dr. Nancy West, a Victorian literature scholar with a strong interest in media studies, once shared a simile with me. A piece of literature, she said, is like a gemstone; each different literary theory cuts just one facet, but what really makes a gemstone sparkle is lots of facets. A piece of literature means more, sparkles more, when it's looked at from multiple perspectives.
Isn’t that a wonderful image for life? When we consciously look at life from lots of points of view, we see it better, it sparkles more, and it is much more vibrant and interesting.
Consider this thought experiment. First, imagine the feeling of standing in a mountain meadow with land rising up above you and falling down below you. Are you there? Can you feel the sun, hear the insects and pikas and birds? Can you smell the wildflowers and grass and the spongy moss under your hiking boots? Can you feel the cool mountain breeze ruffle your hair?
Next, erase the mountain scene from your mental eye and imagine standing on a beach with a sand dune behind you and the whole wide ocean in front of you. Can you feel the sand between your toes and the warm breeze whipping your hair and salt spray sticking to your skin? Can you hear the seagulls and the waves, and see the skittering of crabs and fountains of water shot up from the sand by mollusks? Can you smell the salt and sea wrack?
Now, can you tell me which view is right?
You may have a preference, of course, and be drawn to one more than the other, but both of these views are part of the gemstone of the world. Is one right? No.
I only know Jon Katz through his blog, which means my acquaintance with him is seriously limited, but I think he’s sitting near me on that fence in the middle. When I wrote him an email to express my appreciation for his blog and to share Dr. West’s gemstone simile, I did not expect a response. Katz is a published author with a huge blog readership. On his blog's contact page, he clearly states he cannot read, much less respond, to all the messages he receives. To my delighted surprise, however, he graciously replied to my email.
Our brief email exchange isn’t the sort of scintillating philosophical discourse others would pay money to read, but it was very satisfying nevertheless. If the Internet is good for nothing else, it allows people to connect briefly, find common ground, and move on in the certain knowledge that they are not entirely alone. Katz’s life has been very different from mine, and he’s in a completely different stage of life. But we’re both thinking along the same lines.
I’ve also gathered a new tidbit in my growing collection of evidence to support my belief that fence-sitting is a healthy place to be because the view is divine. In his reply, Katz wrote:
“I think academics have the same problem journalists and many writers do. They only talk to each other. One thing I love about where I live is I can't get away with that. I have to talk to farmers and sheriffs and pastors and unemployed highway workers and that keeps me a bit in perspective, I think. I think of the world as a collection of tents, and I am not welcome in most of them, which turns out to be precisely where I belong.”
Too often, we get mired in our own narrow point of view, stuck in our own tent. Our perspective gets distorted by that narrowness, and we have to work hard to open it up, look around, and realize that everyone isn’t seeing the world the exact same way.
In the process, ironically, we realize that we’re not all so different either.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
In fairness, George insists that the proper term here is sautéed, not fried. Looked like frying to me. George said, “That’s because you don’t cook. You just reheat. You don’t know the difference.” He has a point, but sautéed is just fancy French for fried, as he confessed later. Here is an actual conversation after that buttery catfish meal to give you a taste of culinary life in the Raihala household.
Me: George, you are incapable of cooking light.
George: Yes, I can!
Me: No, you can NOT.
George: Nonsense. You’re only saying that because I never have. Name that movie I’m paraphrasing.
Me: Princess Bride, of course. And that’s my point. You’ve never done it because you’re not capable.
George: I’ve just never tried to cook light. I’ve tried to cook delicious. Besides, beans and rice was my idea.
Me: That’s not cooking. That’s making rice, heating up canned beans, and mixing them together. The recipes you invent are never light. Besides, I’m always the one fixing beans and rice, not you.
George: I made light oatmeal cookies when we lived in Boise.
Me: Yes, I suppose you did. [Note: We left Boise in 2000.] But you are not capable of cooking a light meal.
George: You are trying to use reverse psychology on me. You’re challenging me.
Me: No. I truly believe you are simply incapable of cooking light.
George: I made you a delicious salad a few months back.
Me: It was wilted with bacon fat, had a pound of crumbled bacon on it, and an egg fried in bacon fat. NOT light.
George: You are evil. I’m going to make you eat turkey. Next weekend, you’re eating light. I don’t know how, but I’m going to do it.
Me: No, you won’t.
George: Yes, I will. How many meals have to be light? Just one? Surely just one. One would prove you wrong.
Me: True. But you can’t do it.
George: Yes, I will. But just once, to prove you wrong.
Ever since this conversation, George has asked questions like a lawyer looking for a loophole. Who decides what’s light? Do you mean light in calories or just taste and texture? Is bacon light? How about goat cheese?
We shall see.
Monday, December 7, 2009
*Santas who make the HO HO HO sound like genuine laughter and who embrace the Spirit of Christmas.
*Tree farms, because they take some of the guilt out of murdering trees.
We've gone to the same farm every year we've been in Ohio because it has free hot chocolate just for Nick and a model train set up just for Jack. And real reindeer. Oh my.
*Monday morning snow (the first snow of the year), because my younger son is outside, in the early-morning dark, wearing boots and a coat over his pajamas, and singing in joy.
What are you grateful for today?
Sunday, December 6, 2009
James Taylor sings a song called Home by Another Way, loosely based on Matthew 2:1-12. Let me quote the first stanza of the song if you’re not familiar with it:
Those magic men the Magi
Some people call them wise
Or oriental, even kings,
Well any way, those guys
They visited with Jesus
They sure enjoyed their stay
Then warned in a dream of King Herod’s scheme
They went home by another way.
It’s not explicitly a Christmas song because Taylor uses the Magi’s journey “home by another way” as a metaphor for trying to get safely home from whatever journey we are on. He sings, “Maybe me and you can be wise guys too / And go home by another way.”
Every year during Advent, I listen to this song because it reminds me that Christmas has a new Herod these days. The commercialization of Christmas has turned our attention away from the celebration of Jesus’ birth to the celebration of stuff and stress. The song goes on to warn:
Steer clear of royal welcomes
Avoid a big to-do
A king who would slaughter the innocents
Will not cut a deal for you
He really, really wants those presents
He’ll comb your camel’s fur
Until his boys announce they’ve found trace amounts
Of your frankincense, gold, and myrrh.
Instead of enjoying our stay with Jesus, we start worrying about gifts, money, shipping deadlines, and big to-dos. We stress and fret and worry and snap at sales clerks and tell people how busy we are and whine about how many dozens of cookies we have to bake. We compete with our neighbors to see who has the biggest inflatable snow globe and who spends the most on their kids’ presents.
I used to think it mattered how much time I spent on Christmas preparations. That was my pride at work. Other people didn’t do as much, didn’t log as many hours, which meant they didn’t do Christmas as well as I did. One year, when most of my husband’s Air Force squadron was deployed overseas for the holidays, we decided to have a big open house Christmas Day for those left behind and their families. I baked and bought and prepared and decorated for 50 guests because 37 had RSVP’d and some said they might bring friends.
Only seven people showed up, one just two months old. As you might imagine, he didn’t eat much.
Two families went home with enough leftovers for a month, and I was left with a new perspective on Christmas, one that’s taken me safely home (at least metaphorically) every Christmas since. I focus not on doing what Herod says, but on going home another way. Last year, I didn’t bake a single cookie because it felt like a chore rather than a joy. You know what? It was still a great Christmas.
I need that yearly reminder, though. The enticements of commercialized Christmas are pervasive. The last verse of Taylor’s song hits a bit close to home for me:
… Herod’s always out there
He’s got our cards on file
It’s a lead-pipe cinch if you give an inch
Old Herod likes to take a mile
How is Herod calling you this Christmas? How can you opt out of his scheme and make Christmas a wonderful celebration by taking another way?
I couldn't find a video of James Taylor singing this song, but HERE's a performance by Fr. Erich Fechner.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Jack [in plaintive tones]: Mommy, I want you to make it snow today.
We're going to chop down a Christmas tree. Last year, snow made our annual chopping expedition particularly beautiful, and Jack, with his amazing memory, wants to have the same experience this year.
Wouldn't it be GREAT if mommies could do anything--even change the weather?
Friday, December 4, 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
*George is an awesome cook.
*A small boy can create a tsunami in a bathroom and still completely deny responsibility even when there’s a witness. BTW, water stains on downstairs ceilings CAN dry to invisibility, if you’re lucky like we are.
*A random sales associate at Best Buy knew everything I didn’t about the Wii and was hugely helpful. (Dang, Best Buy should pay me for this!) Yes, we ARE the last family in our entire freakin’ neighborhood to buy a Wii. I can’t believe we’re caving on this one. Please don’t judge me.
*Our kitchen table can hold approximately 248 cook books and cooking magazines without collapsing. I kept moving the stacks to the book shelves, and my mother-in-law and George kept moving them back to the table. Like mother, like son, I suppose. Given the quality of cooking the two of them produced, I am obviously not complaining. It’s just an observation.
*The Bon Appetit Special Collector’s Edition: Provence has disappeared in our house. A reward will be offered to anyone who finds it before George expires from despair.
*Four adults in one week produce enough empty beer and wine bottles to fill up the recycling bin and make it mildly embarrassing to put the bin out on trash day. What will the neighbors think?!?
*The movie Fantastic Mr. Fox is deeply, deeply weird. Christopherson is a stupid name for a fox. I practically fell asleep, but George remembers that Whack Bat ends when someone calls “hot box.” Dudes have the oddest ability to remember stupid sports facts, even when the games are made up in deeply weird movies.
*Hiking in the woods on a sunny fall day is a combination of sheer joy (sighting a deer bounding through the underbrush) and sheer parental frustration as boys bicker (Mommy, Jack kicked me! Mommy, Nick pushed me! Don’t touch me! Mo-ohmmmm! I’m tired. I can’t take another step! It’s too steep! I want to go home!). You’d think we were force-marching them up Mt. Everest. (Give me oxygen!!!!) Papa saved the day by taking everyone to McD’s afterwards for french fries. Papa rocks!
*The microscope Nick got for Christmas last year is super cool. It has a light aimed down at the slide so you can look at opaque objects. Nick and Grandma share an interest in rocks, so they looked at Nick’s mineral collection under the microscope. There’s no humor in this, but it was highly cool, in a geeky, geological sort of way.
*When people say they don’t want biscuits, they lie.
*Bacon laid on the turkey curls up at the ends so it looks like Pippi Longstocking. Combine it with the gravy-making genius of Grandma, however, and you get the best gravy EVER IN THE HISTORY OF GRAVY. Burp.
*George tried growing a goatee over the holiday. I do not like facial hair on a spouse as it reminds me of kissing my mustachioed grandfather…can you say, “Ewwwww”? Yeah. He doesn’t care what I think on this issue, but he finally got annoyed with it catching on his pillow as he tried to fall asleep and shaved it off. Thank you, George. Now he’s either lazily not shaving his cranium or letting his hair grow out (can’t make up his mind on that one), and I pointed out that his peninsula of hair (you know, the one in the middle of the forehead that has receding coastline on either side?) has disappeared. He pointed out that it had, in fact, not completely disappeared and can be felt, though not seen, at this point. If he keeps growing his hair out, he’ll have a sad little island of hair surrounded by bare skin right on the top of his head. My increasingly gray hair seems less a problem in light of his hair woes, don’t you think?
*If you turn off the heat to open windows to air out your old-food-scented house and decide two minutes after opening the windows that it is too cold outside and a Yankee candle will have to suffice, you really ought to turn the heat back on. Otherwise, you will awaken the next morning to a 60 degree house. Just sayin'.
*Thanksgiving is a great holiday. It deserves not to be lost between Halloween and Christmas.
*As we tucked the boys in tonight, I realized there are now only 23 days until Christmas. HOW DID THIS HAPPEN!!!???!!!???
*I need a hug.
--Advent, with its glow of anticipation and joy
--Lovely visits from family
--Being able to pay my bills (what a blessed pain in the backside that it!)
--My favorite secular holiday song by Jimmy Buffett
What are you grateful for today?
Saturday, November 28, 2009
What a beginning it is! My heart yearns all year for that celebration. Like John in Elizabeth’s womb, I jump for joy when I see it coming. No matter what difficulties or sorrows or challenges come at me during the year, I have Advent waiting for me at the end.
After my parents divorced when I was little, Advent still came, and I laughed and clapped my hands and sang in joy. The year my grandfather passed, Advent was especially hard, but it still came and comforted me. The year my husband went to war, Advent still came and brought me peace.
This year, I'm mourning my grandmother, and I know that Advent will bring me peace now just as it has before.
Isn’t it amazing what a little baby in a manger can do for us, if we let Him? Advent invites us to focus on our joy in Jesus. It invites us to prepare the way of the Lord, to bubble over with joy and share the good news with all we meet.
In Psalm 30, David sings to the Lord of a joy that prefigures Christmas joy: “You have turned my mourning into dancing; you have taken off my sackcloth and clothed me with joy, so that my soul may praise you and not be silent.”
Let’s accept the invitation of Advent. Let’s turn our mourning and sackcloth to dancing and decorations. Let’s be like the angels and the shepherds and share the good news.
Joy to the World! The Lord has come!
Friday, November 27, 2009
If you know anything about autism, you know how unusual this invitation is. Many people with autism have difficulty coping with breaks in routine. Surprise visits to the classroom by strangers can throw off their routine and result in everything from simple loss of focus to screaming tantrums. Jack doesn't really have tantrums, but I don't know his classmates, several of whom are more severely affected than Jack and at least one of whom has violent meltdowns.
As I stood outside the TEACCH classroom door, I wondered if I should go in. I knew how disruptive my quick visit might be, but at the same time, how will children learn to cope with interruptions in routine if they never have any? As I stood, paralyzed with indecision, I watched the teacher, who was sitting at her table doing paperwork. A child I couldn't see hadn't washed his hands well, and she told him to do it again. He screamed something at her, and she calmly said, "I am turning your card for yelling." As she walked toward the door to turn his card, she saw me and smiled.
Jack had been working on the floor doing a puzzle (something he won't do at home), and as soon as he saw me, he yelled, "Mommy! You're here!" and ran into my arms. "I love you so much, Mommy!"
It was worth any disruption to hear that.
An older boy, perhaps ten or eleven, also ran up to me and stood just a little too close. "Is that your real hair color?" he blurted out.
His aide walked up to us and told him, "When you meet someone for the first time, put out our hand and say, 'I am Joe*. What is your name?'"
Joe put out his hand, and said, "I am Joe. What is your name?"
"My name is Mrs. Raihala. It's nice to meet you, Joe."
"Is that your real hair color?"
"Yes, Joe, it is. I don't think anyone would color her hair to look like this."
Joe walked away, having gotten the information he wanted. The aide, teacher, and I got a good laugh.
The teacher told me what a great day Jack had, how he had already finished all his work for the day, and how much fun he'd had that morning swimming at the YMCA special education program. Mommies love to hear stuff like this.
I gave Jack another hug and told him I would see him when he got off the bus. He said, "Okay, Mommy! I love you!" and went back to his puzzle without any fuss at all. His teacher and I made eye contact and smiled. What a great transition for him!
As I walked to my car, though, I thought about Joe's socially inappropriate (and refreshingly honest) question about my hair. Mine is grayer now than it was when my sister took my profile picture. I even wrote about my gray hair (Aging Gracefully) in February. My feelings haven't changed, but Joe's question reminded me what a rebel I am to leave my gray hair alone.
Our society tells women that aging is bad and that we must mask the effects of aging at all costs. We go under the knife or paralyze our faces to erase wrinkles, nip and tuck sagging flesh, and generally pretend that time isn't passing.
I've earned every gray hair on my head and every line of crow's feet around my eyes. I could pitch a violent tantrum at the inevitable effects of time, especially given my recent 43rd birthday. I could spend lots of money and time fighting the inevitable.
Instead, I'm opting out of society's expectations because it's cheaper and easier to have gray hair. Opting out is a theme in my life right now, something I plan on writing about in the next few months. How do we decide what to opt out of and what to embrace? How do our priorities get warped or shaped by society's expectations? When should we opt into society's expectations? After all, society tells us not to lie, cheat, steal, or kill, so it's not always wrong.
As with most good questions, I think there are lots of right answers. It all depends on your perspective, and everyone has a different perspective. I'd love to hear your comments about opting out. What societal expectations turn you into a rebel? When is it easier, more comfortable, and even more appropriate to accept what society tells you?
*Name changed for privacy
Thursday, November 26, 2009
“Feeling gratitude and not expressing it is like wrapping a present and not giving it.” William Arthur Ward
I want to express my gratitude and thank you for reading Questioning. I am incredibly grateful that you take time to stop by and share the journey with me.
Make it a wonderful day full of expressions of gratitude for family, friends, food, and fun!
Monday, November 23, 2009
--another birthday come and gone
--George's cheesecake, which makes Cheesecake Factory look like Sara Lee
--all my family and friends (both real life and online!)
--the special music at out church yesterday that felt like an unexpected birthday present
What are you grateful for today?
Sunday, November 22, 2009
1. "No wise man ever wished to be younger." Jonathan Swift [Nor wise woman either.]
2. "Inside every older person is a younger person wondering what the hell happened." Cora Harvey Armstrong [You said it, Cora.]
Friday, November 20, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Here is a recent picture of little Grady, my new nephew who was born 7.5 weeks too early. He now weighs 5lbs, 12oz, and he's gaining about a half-pound a week. Obviously, he's doing very well. So is my sister.
Thank you all for your prayers and good wishes!
Photo by Lisa Dumont
I'm with you, Hubert. For more funny LOLDogs, go here. So many giggles this week!
Okay, I don' t know that the bloodhound above is named Hubert. I got the name from the HIGH-larious mockumentary Best in Show. See a clip of Hubert with his owner/handler Harlan Pepper (AKA Christopher Guest) here. It's almost as funny as Harlan talking about nuts. If you like that sort of thing. Sadly, I can't find the nut clip.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
How did this happen? My baby is ten.
Then, he fit on my forearms comfortably, a happily swaddled burrito.
Now, he barely fits on my lap and can’t stand clothes that are too tight. Or long-sleeved shirts. Or blue jeans. What boy doesn’t like blue jeans?
Then, he got chubby on breast milk.
Now, he eats salmon and shrimp and ratatouille and steak and salad and hot dogs. But not spaghetti in tomato sauce, hamburgers, or macaroni and cheese.
Then, he cooed and squeaked and babbled.
Now, he argues like a lawyer or a classically trained Greek orator: he’s a precocious Odysseus for the twenty-first century. He also makes endless pew-pew-pew sounds while pretending to be a Jedi knight or fighting evil transformers.
Then, he lay in my arms and was what he was…a baby, all soft and helpless and sweet.
Now, he stomps his feet because we won’t let him watch The Dark Knight yet and we edit violent parts out of The Lord of the Rings and we keep tight parental controls on his computer.
Then, he lay around wanting the Booby Lady, a fresh diaper, and sleep, and he got all three whenever he wanted them.
Now, he wants to be a grown-up, married to a woman who works hard and makes a lot of money so he can sit around playing computer games and watching television all day long. “I want my allowance, but I don’t want to have to DO anything for it!” he said to George last weekend when forced to clean up the dog food he had spilt on the garage floor.
Oh, my baby. You’re going to learn that lesson the hard way, aren’t you?
Growing up hurts. I remember. We start out as little babies having our every need met the second we start fussing. Gradually, our demands stop eliciting instant response. We have to wait, learn patience, learn disappointment, and start doing for ourselves. We have to do things we don’t want to do and (hopefully) figure out how to make them less annoying. We wail, “It’s not fair!”
From where I sit now, what’s not fair is that mommies who carry babies in their wombs have to make the world “not fair” so our babies can grow up. We have to make them do chores, go to bed, slow down growing up. We have to make them eat breakfast, dress reasonably, get hair cuts, and do their homework.
But sometimes, I want to put him on a carousel and let him go round and round with joy on his face, riding a giant fiberglass eagle and feeling like he’s soaring above the rest of the world.
Happy birthday, Nick. I love you.
Photo Acknowledgements: Nick on bike and on eagle by George Raihala. Newborn photo by hospital.
Monday, November 16, 2009
--Early birthday celebrations at the zoo for my little boy who is about to turn ten and who has a weird obsession with reptiles:
How did we get to double digits so fast?
--Hearing a cheetah meow just like a house cat
--Seeing a gorilla pick its nose and eat the boogers (totally disgusting, yes, but funny, too!)
--FINALLY seeing a red panda climbing a tree (instead of snoozing on a branch)
--Watching the delight on two little faces because this man created fire RIGHT IN FRONT OF THEM!
What are you grateful for today?
Friday, November 13, 2009
Have I mentioned how much I love our school district? Well, I do.
Jack loves to swim, so I knew the swim therapy would be a big hit. At Jack’s parent-teacher conference this week, his aide Julie told me a great story about his first day in the program. When the students returned to class after swimming, they ate lunch in the classroom. That’s when the following conversation occurred:
Jack [to Julie]: Do you love peanut butter?
Julie: Well, yes, Jack. I do.
Jack: I love peanut butter. I love swimming. [leans back in his chair, puts hands on belly] This is the LIFE!
Yes, Jack, it is.
A common symptom of autism is repeating movie lines or scripts. I’m sure Jack heard “this is the life” in a movie or television show, but its meaning struck a chord in him that resonates every day. Other lines he repeats frequently are “Today is a new day” and “It’s a beautiful day” and “Mommy, I love you sooooo much!” (That last one isn’t a movie line, but it sure makes me happy.)
Most of the lines Jack repeats regularly are happy. He’s definitely the glass is MORE than half full person. He still thanks me for taking him to ride Thomas the Tank Engine in September, and every little joy of his day is greeted with enthusiastic delight. When he walked into the school’s book fair and saw me, he yelled, “Mommy, you’re HERE!!!!” Everyone in the library laughed as he threw his arms around me.
Jack’s attitude of gratitude infuses our lives, and he sets an example that can be hard to follow in today’s jaded world. He doesn’t know about the tragic shootings at Ft. Hood or the nasty anti-Muslim reaction it has provoked. He doesn’t know about crooked politicians and greedy mortgage companies and high unemployment. He doesn’t understand why George has to go to work instead of staying home with him when he’s sick.
This is the innocence of childhood, and I want to protect it and guard it against corruption and sadness and the ugliness of the world. I will fail in this, and really, I should fail. Ignoring all the tragedy and badness of the world doesn’t make for a good adult. If you ignore bad things, they continue and often get worse. Think of how many people ignored the smoke from the concentration camps in Nazi Germany. Think of how many people living in democracies don’t bother to vote when people living in dictatorships would die for the chance. Think of the homeless person who takes refuge in a church and is shunned for his shabby, smelly clothes.
Yet every one of these examples has another side. The camps were liberated. Women in Iraq now cast their votes. At least one cold, smelly, homeless person was taken to lunch after church by Jim and Tam Thompson.
So many adults spend too much time focusing only on the bad, especially now when the media takes such delight in saturating us with news of economic disaster, war, corruption, horror, and celebrity train wrecks. It's so easy to get sucked into believing that the bad is all there is in the world. Then, we start repeating the bad movie lines until we see that our glass is not only half-empty but drained dry of all water.
I prefer Jack's view of things. Borrowing a page from his book, I actively seek out things that make me happy, whether it’s delighting in a ladybug that lands on my sleeve, or taking a bite of glorious wilted salad made by my husband, or casting a vote for health services in our county, or making a meal for a family who needs it, or reading a delightful book, or receiving a story via email about the lost being found.
November is a brown, drab month (at least in the northern hemisphere). It’s the month of my birthday, and it has always annoyed me that November usually has the ugliest picture in calendars. This November, I challenge you to find an attitude of gratitude in all the drab and depressing. Find your own ladybugs, help lift up someone who needs it, participate in changing something ugly in the world.
If you have children, one way to begin teaching them a positive approach to the wide world of good and bad is to get them involved in a Christmas charity project. You can fill a shoebox for Operation Christmas Child, drop toys in the Toys for Tots boxes, or serve Thanksgiving dinner at a local shelter. Whatever you do, do it with your children, let them pick the gifts out, explain why it's not a good idea to send toys with batteries to children living in remote villages far from Target. Help them learn not to take their blessings for granted and to share them with others who are less fortunate.
This IS the life...the only one we get. Let us grown-ups embrace it, like Jack does, and spread our own attitude of gratitude.
George lives in an apartment and
His mother will not let
Him keep a dog or polliwog
Or rabbit for a pet.
So he has Radiator Lions.
(The parlor is a zoo.)
They love to fight but will not bite
Unless he tells them to.
And days when it is very cold
And he can't go outdoors
They glower and they lower and they
Crouch upon all fours.
And roar most awful roarings and
Gurgle loud and mad.
Up their noses water goeses--
That's what makes them bad.
But he loves Radiator Lions!
He's glad, although they're wild,
He hasn't dogs and polliwogs
Like any other child!
Some unfortunate adults are too grown-up and smart to understand the genius expressed in this poem, but for those of us who embrace imagination and perspective, this poem speaks volumes. I hope you have your own version of radiator lions to smooth the rough edges of life.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Many, many thanks for all the prayers and good wishes. It's still 18 days until his C-section was scheduled, and it's such a miracle that he's doing so amazingly well.
Since they moved, Lisa hasn't had internet service, so she's not sent me any new pictures. (All the early pictures were courtesy of her friend Denise.) As soon as I have pictures, I'll post them!
I'm home with a sick child. Hopefully I'll get this week's essay up later today. If not, it'll go up tomorrow, along with some more Words, Words, Words I've already picked out especially for the child in us all.
My sick younger son, in sharp contrast to his drama-llama big brother, is amazingly stoic--except when asked to drink his medicine (OMG, you don't even want to know the trauma of MEDICINE!!!! NOOOOOOO!!!). All the sick going around reminded me about this funny video from YouTube:
Poor little bunny. Indeed.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
May God richly bless all who have served, are serving, and will serve with honor as patriots for freedom here in the United States and around the world. Freedom isn't free, and those of us who spend our lives enjoying the fruits of patriots' labor are reminded today that we owe them an immeasurable debt of gratitude.
Thanks, George, for serving so honorably for twenty years.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
"I'm convinced that the only way out of this is by cancelling the show. Not cancelling the holiday, but giving up the show." Brene Brown, Ordinary Courage
Every Christmas for the last three years, I've experimented with giving up the show. Last year, shocking as it sounds, I didn't even bake cookies. Believe it or not, we had a great Christmas anyway. As we gear up for the holiday season this year, I'm making sure that we have time to do fun things, as a family, and focus on only those holiday traditions that help enhance the season and opting out of whatever makes it more stressful. For every holiday "thing" I do, I'm stopping and asking myself, "Is this necessary? Do we HAVE to do this? Who says so?"
Some things I'm simplifying:
1. Simplifying gift wrapping with plain white paper and fun ribbon and simply stamped avery address labels instead of gift tags (only Santa will use printed paper!).
2. Making/buying gifts to ship that fit in small priority mail boxes, which are already at home and ready to fill.
3. Putting money in a pocket of my purse for adding to every Salvation Army bucket I pass.
4. Limiting my outdoor decorating to a wreath on the front door.
5. Limiting my indoor decorating to a few special things (like the ceramic nativity set my mother made) and a tree.
Some things won't change:
1. Cards made by me and a Christmas letter written by George. (I spent way too much time this year making Christmas cards not to mail them, LOL!).
2. Going with the family to chop down a Christmas tree at a local Tree farm.
3. Making sugar plums with the kids to give as gifts to friends and neighbors.
4. Putting out all the Christmas books and reading them with the boys.
5. Welcoming Chris, our Elf on the Shelf, each morning as he returns from reporting to Santa at the North Pole.
6. Contributing to the Giving Tree and Shoebox ministry at our church.
Do you feel the urge to opt out of the show? What can you let go of or change to make Christmas (or whatever winter holiday you celebrate) more meaningful and peaceful, more centered and less commercial? I'd love to hear your ideas!
Thursday, November 5, 2009
"During his visit, the Colonel also posed for [a] picture beneath the UN logo inside the assembly chamber, the spot from which world leaders address representatives of member nations. Sadly, he did not take the opportunity to deliver any remarks himself. He can't possibly have made less sense than Muammar Qadhafi (also officially a colonel), who recently addressed the Assembly for 95 minutes in a speech so rambling and loony that the translator - his own personal interpreter - actually gave up. "I just can't take it any more," he said, and reportedly collapsed. If Colonel Qadhafi gets to address the UN, why can't Colonel Sanders?"
Why not, indeed! Please click on this link to read the full article, which has other giggles relating to grilled meat, amusing political denial, and ridiculous law suits. You'll also learn what Colonel Sanders, Ronald Reagan, Pope John Paul II, and Billy Ray Cyrus all have in common.
The world is an ironically amusing place, isn't it?
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Scientific American is a good magazine, and as an added bonus, not once have I received an annoying phone call from a telemarketer named Bob trying to bully me into extending my subscription by a decade. I know just enough about the brain, genetics, biology, and the environment to muddle through Scientific American’s erudite articles on those topics and only feel a little stupid. At least I understand the gist of those articles, even if I can’t follow every detail. Physics, however, has never seemed so…unapproachable, opaque, and downright alien.
I enjoy reading about physics, and the physics articles in Discover were among my favorites. I’m proud to say that I read Stephen Hawkings’ book A Brief History of Time in 1990 and understood at least some of it. I felt competent to take on quantum mechanics and Einstein’s theories of relativity because there was no test at the end of the book. A few years later, I enjoyed Leon Lederman’s The God Particle, a surprisingly funny and accessible book written for non-physicists about the history of particle physics.
Scientific American, however, has shipwrecked my delusions of nerdy intelligence on the great barrier reef of complete confusion.
Please bear with me and consider this short, two-paragraph article titled ”Laser Beams That Curve,” written by Larry Greenmeier in the June 2009 Scientific American,:
“Two years ago physicists demonstrated that a laser beam traveling through the air can bend slightly if certain components are asymmetrical, forming what is called an Airy beam. Now researchers have shown that pulsed, high-intensity versions can leave curved trails of plasma. Shot out like a stack of pennies, each pulse, one centimeter wide and lasting 35 femtoseconds, passes through a glass plate that turns it into a triangular shape, in which an intense peak falls on one side of several weaker peaks. The brightest part heads in one direction, while the dimmer ones go the opposite way. (The momentum of the entire pulse remains straight, however.)
“Being extremely intense, the bright spots ionize the air behind them and leave a curved plasma stream in their wake. The self-bending beam, described in the April 10 Science, does not curve by more than the beam’s diameter, but that amount is enough to help physicists probe the structure of laser pulses.”
Greenmeier lost me at “Airy beam.” As a physics light-weight with an eye for word play, am I the only person to read this and think Fairy beam? Fairy beam makes just as much sense, plus it sounds more whimsical and fun.
Perhaps “whimsical” and “physics” simply don’t go together.
But let’s back up and ask a critical question for a physics light-weight: why is it important that “physicists probe the structure of laser pulses” in the first place? I’m willing to accept that it is important, but precisely why is not intuitively obvious. If you know the answer, please explain it in the comments in terms a reader of Discover magazine could understand.
Microsoft Word doesn’t recognize femtosecond as a word, nor does Bill Gates suggest alternate spellings. Far be it from word-loving me to rely on Bill’s wholly inadequate dictionary anyway. I checked my venerable Oxford English Dictionary, updated in 1971. (Yes, I have a copy of the OED in my home. I may only be a pretend science nerd, but I really am a word nerd.) Femtosecond is not included in that reliable tome, which leads me to suspect that a femtosecond is so short a span of time that English didn’t need a word for it until very recently, like maybe two years ago when curving laser beams suddenly became important.
For whatever reason.
With this in mind, I did a quick Google search and checked several different websites, all of which defined a femtosecond the same way, so by consensus, we may reasonably assume they are right. Remember, never, ever trust a single website for earth-shatteringly important information like this. Anyone can put anything on the World Wide Web. I should know.
According to Wikipedia (by far the most interesting definition I found),
“A femtosecond is the SI unit of time equal to 10-15 of a second. That is one quadrillionth, or one billionth of one millionth of a second. For context, a femtosecond is to a second, what a second is to about 420 million years. To give another example, one femtosecond compared to one second is like the diameter of a human hair relative to the distance between the earth and moon.”
Wow, that’s pretty fast! Notice how the analogies used in Wikipedia’s definition clarify the brevity of a femtosecond in terms even a pretend physics nerd can understand. I’m still, however, trying to figure out why Mr. Greenmeier used the metaphor of the laser pulses “shot out like a stack of pennies” to, at least theoretically, clarify his point. Who shoots pennies out in stacks? Why would they do that? What am I missing here?
The meat of the article—and I am just guessing—may be the following: “The brightest part [of the pulse] heads in one direction, while the dimmer ones go the opposite way. (The momentum of the entire pulse remains straight, however.)” What are we make of that parenthetical comment? Is it some sort of weird yin and yang of physics: different parts go in different directions, but the whole goes one way? My brain might be able to take that on faith simply because suspension of disbelief is highly developed in literature geeks, but then Greenmeier goes on to say that the plasma left in the wake of this beam is curved only by the diameter of the beam, which is still, according to Greenmeier, going straight.
Please tell me I am not the only human whose brain is hurting right now.
If you’re still reading, I thank you. Perhaps you understand why I’m on the fence about renewing Scientific American. Why would I pay for something that makes my brain hurt? Should I—perish the thought!—subscribe to Discover again, so I can get the science news I crave in an appropriately dumbed-down format? How can I return to Discover after sending them such a scathing email condemning them to the Eighth Circle of Telemarketing Hell for all eternity?
As I typed that last paragraph, a sudden inspiration struck me. I will subscribe to Discover again but will use George’s name. That’s it! If Bob the Telemarketer calls, I can simply say, “George isn’t here right now. Call back later.” Perhaps, just perhaps, if George tells Bob to take him off the call list, Bob will listen. But no matter what, Bob will be George’s problem, not mine.
I’m a genius!