“In a Google world, we are all experts for a moment,” she said. Somewhere out there, in the ethers, I heard Marshall McLuhan applauding. I heard Neil Postman guffawing. It was the perfect statement encapsulating our times. The medium of our message. Knowledge need not stick. No need to remember. Teflon brains.
And, because I had no idea what it was. And, because I suddenly needed to make a statement to myself about living, I ordered it. I happily mispronounced it. So I might experience it firsthand with no intermediary. No curator. Unprotected. So I could have the experience first – before my machine made meaning of it for me.
All the way around, the experience was mysterious and delicious. Unforgettable.
“You must understand the whole of life, not just one part of it. That is why you must read, that is why you must look at the skies, why you must sing, dance and write poems, and suffer, and understand, for all that is life.” ~ Krishnamurti, Think On These Things
The amaryllis is making a reach for the sky. The first time I saw it – a bulb encased in pink wax – I wondered what alien life form just entered our house. We had to ask the same questions we’d need to ask if it was an alien creature: How do we take care of it? How do we feed it? The answer was simple. Leave it alone. That answer confirmed my suspicion. It was an alien after all!
There is so much in this life that I do not understand. In fact, if I am honest, I think most of this life is beyond my capacity to comprehend. Last night, not ready yet for sleep, I watched a nine-minute youtube teaching by Thich Nhat Hahn. Stop Running. The title caught my eye because so much of life feels like running. Running to explain, Running to justify. Running to judgment. Running from fear. Running toward gain. I wanted to hear some thoughts about standing still. In that way, I might understand why there is so much running. In the end, his answer was beautifully simple: rather than run, arrive. Be home.
Rob made us laugh. He’s one of several people who lately reminded Kerri and me that we are not normal. “I didn’t mean for that to sound like it did!” he exclaimed. He’s helping us sort out our plan B. It’s true. Our “normal” in comparison to others is alien like the amaryllis. Rob is attempting to help us see what is special about how we are doing life. And, like everyone, we are mostly blind to ourselves. To our unique choices. To our “one wild and precious life.”
Between the alien amaryllis growing in our sunroom, conversations with Rob and a brief teaching by Thich Nhat Hahn, I am fully confident that I need to cease all attempts at understanding anything at all. Maybe it is time to arrive. Maybe it is time to arrive, to stand still and fully breathe-in all the possible awe teeming in this mysterious ungraspable universe.
“Truth, like time itself, is a product of a conversation man has with himself about and through the techniques of communication he has invented.” ~ Neil Postman, Amusing Ourselves To Death
I’ve felt for months the need to apologize to J. We were having a conversation about truth – and notions of god – and in his current place-on-the-path he’s necessarily seeking absolutes. For him, relative truth smacks of falsehood or some loosey-goosey scary philosophy. He’s looking for a hard rock on which to build his house of wisdom. I was flip rather than helpful. How do you begin to discuss truth as a cultural orientation or a fluid marker that changes with time? When I was J’s age, truth could be established with a photograph. Not so anymore.
Breck, our little quaking aspen tree has come to represent a form of truth for me. Breck almost didn’t make it. We brought her home from the high mountains of Colorado and for a few years she lived and struggled in a big pot. She barely survived the first place we planted her. It was not a good location so we moved her to different soil where she’d enjoy more sun. And now she is flourishing. Last year she grew more than three feet taller.
Breck’s truth/health has very little to do with hard answers to abstract questions. For her – and me – truth is found in relationships; her environment. The right spot. Good soil. Rejuvenating sun. She brings an impulse to life: perseverance. Tenacity. Adaptability. We love her and I believe she “knows” that, too. Love is a truth that knows no absolute. I couldn’t explain that to J because I was playing with him, bringing levity to his seriousness.
And, in truth (what other word can I use?), I have become a doubter that any serious conversation about truth or gods can happen through something so limited as language. That’s what I should have expressed to J. I should have taken him outside to see the stars.
Now, when I want to have those conversations with myself, when I am seeking a better question, I walk on the trail next to the river. I turn my face to the sun. I try to detach myself from the clocks and lists and tv debates. I look at Breck quaking in the wind. I await each spring for the buds to appear on her limbs. There’s truth-beyond-words in her life-cycle, the return of her leaves and her captivating shimmer dance with the breezes.
Although they are rare, yesterday we had what Kerri calls “a very negative day”. It was so pronounced that while out on the trail we made fun of ourselves, “What else can we be negative about?” she chirped.
“I don’t know but I’m sure there’s something!”
As usual, following a very negative day, I was awake most of the night having a chat with myself. “What was that about?” I asked. A question, I know, with no answer. Some days simply go off the rails. Still, the question has to be asked.
What I appreciate about my particular orientation to the world is that, instead of an answer, I never arrive at answers, a song floated to the top. Something better than an answer. Something more immense than a solution. A heart-call rather than a mind-pleaser. Like a poem. Last night, the deep response to my discord, was Danny’s Song, by Jim Messina:
Love the girl who holds the world in a paper cup Drink it up Love her and she’ll bring you luck And if you find she helps your mind Better take her home, home, yeah Don’t you live alone Try to earn what lovers own
I lay in bed through the dawn, listening to the birds awake and sing, the chimes call me to presence, feeling the cool morning breeze through the windows, knowing in my bones that I have absolutely nothing to complain about. Not really.
And even though we ain’t got money I’m so in love with you, honey And everything will bring a chain of love, oh, oh, oh In the morning, when I rise You bring a tear of joy to my eyes And tell me everything is gonna be alright
Better than an answer: “love the girl who holds the world in a paper cup.” I do. “Drink it up.” I am. “And in the morning when I rise/ You bring a tear of joy to my eyes/ And tell me everything is gonna be alright.”
I’m proud of her. Twice this week Kerri has fact-checked friends on FB who posted articles riddled with misinformation meant to rile. It took her less than a minute each time. In posting a link to the fact-check, she wrote, “Please check your information before you pass it on. xo”
It seems like such a small thing but it’s lately apparent that it’s becoming everything:
We forget that democracy is not a thing. It is an idea. It is an action rather than a noun. We forget that our democracy is young. Very, very young.
It worries me when I hear politicians making laws placing limits on the discussion of ideas at school. It worries me when I read that parents want teachers to teach “only the facts”. In today’s bubble-discourse it is a valid question to ask, “Whose facts?” Discerning between fact and fiction requires minds and hearts capable of questioning, capable of challenging the “facts” they are being fed. The notion of the purpose of education as a feeder-of-facts is nothing less than a sign of moral and mental decay. This is especially true in our great age of information with its ever-present shadow of rampant misinformation.
Democracies collapse when ideas and ideals are no longer debated, when winning-at-any-cost overshadows compromise, when respect for divergent points of view is overrun by intolerance. Healthy democracies are an ongoing tug-of-war; creative tension generated by a lively and respectful exchange of perspectives. This requires a system of education that nurtures these qualities and capacities.
Democracies collapse when they aim for an end result rather than steward a living process.
The point of education in a democracy is to consciously and carefully unfurl young minds so they might become active questioners, expansive thinkers, participating citizens in an ongoing experiment in a complex system called democracy, capable of stewarding their communities forward through an ever-changing world toward the promises inherent in the IDEA: equality, inclusion, governance by the people, for the people.
I would hope that we become capable of grokking governance-by-the-people which necessitates a people educated in ideas, reinforced in their curiosity and capacity to question, to converse and debate complex issues, capable of discerning ruinous power-over-agendas from the central idea enlivening their budding democracy: power with.
A message of encouragement. A reminder of hope. I appreciate the sentiment yet, perhaps it is too revealing of my personality or my attitude of late, my first thought was, “And what if it isn’t figureoutable?”
What of the paradoxes and mysteries of life? Why do people do what they do? War? Hate? Lie? Can we figure out how not to horde resources? Can we figure out how to live this simple-yet-central word: equality. And what about caring?
I delight in the James Webb telescope looking deep into the galaxy to help us explain… I delight in our deep dive into the genome in our pursuit of healing and body-explanations. I marvel at psychology and brain science and… We sail at the horizon on all fronts. To know what is beyond is beautifully human.
Poets help us touch the universal. Dancers imbue us with grace. More than once, knowing there is no answer, I have asked a performer, “How do you do that?” I have asked myself, “Why did I weep at that moment in the story?” I knew it was coming…
Kerri and I have our share of dilemmas. I spend the majority of my days trying to figure them out. As if my action will create a solution. Sometimes it does. I’ve figured out how to keep our 50 year old stove going. There’s a piece I need to install in the refrigerator so it stops “tinkling” on the kitchen floor. I’m certain I can figure it out.
Sometimes I have no clue. I do not know how to fix her broken wrists. I do not know how to ease her troubled heart.
I do not know what to say when Dan sighs, “I don’t like growing old.” I don’t either but I am learning that the older I grow, the greater I appreciate. It’s a sentiment I heard from the elders who preceded me but I paid little attention. I thought, when young, that there was plenty of time for appreciating.
I know that good times, just like bad times, come and go so it’s best not to hold either too tightly. Last night, on an evening that was unseasonably warm, the house blocking the gusty winds, we sat on the deck, sipped wine and watched the dogga run, the birds enjoy the birdbath, the moths swirl, the chimes play the wind, the peonies reach for the sky, the sun disappear leaving subtle pastel traces…
How can I love so much? Last night, I wanted no part in trying to figure it out.
My first question: when did UFO (unidentified flying object) become UAP (unidentified anomalous phenomenon)? I know I am late to the party on this one. Like you, I’ve been reading the UAP headlines for a few years and, each time, ask myself the same question: Why the moniker change?
I did a little research this morning and came upon this phrase from Bill Nelson at NASA: “We want to shift the conversation about UAP’s from sentimentalism to science.” Apparently, George Lucas and Steven Spielberg have our space-alien-sentimentalism dialed to an all-time high. Human imagination runs amok with unidentified flying objects and not so much with unidentified anomalous phenomenon.
Language matters. Since our reference point is…us…a flying object, like an airplane or a spaceship implies a pilot, a “being” at the controls. An anomalous phenomenon? It’s another way of saying unusual occurrence and what, exactly, is an occurrence? If it’s unusually amorphous, there is nothing to hang your hat on. The only thing to do is call a scientist or artist since the imagination needs a few parameters to light its fire.
There was another sad-ancient-yet-contemporary-cautionary-tale that popped up in my reading: “NASA recently appointed a director for UFO research, but is not divulging the identity to protect them from the kind of threats and harassment faced by the panel members during the study.” Science and art are -and always have been – dangerous business. Galileo spent his last years on earth under house arrest for publishing his science; it contradicted the firmly-held belief of the day. He was forced to recant his findings or face the fate of heretics.
Belief does not appreciate being contradicted, especially when there is evidence involved – or as is true in the current example – no evidence at all. Belief has a wonky relationship with evidence. We are witness to that all-too-human phenomenon in our times, just as was Galileo. Protecting poll workers and UAP scientists from the violence of those who are unshakable in their faith and/or “news” source (their reference point).
We do not need science (or maybe we do) to see our absurdity.
We have the capacity to exercise our imaginations in this vast universe of possibilities. We have the ability to question if we desire to use it. We have the gift of unbridled curiosity and need not go off the rails into rootless belief if we allow that, “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in [our] philosophy”. We can be afraid of ideas, run from progress, or threaten the artists and scientists that force us to open our smallish belief and tiny measure of “normal”. Growth is always preceded by an uncomfortable step into the unknown. A challenge to what we think we “know”.
And then, after the upset, we need to find language to describe the new world that we discover there.
‘For in the end, he [Huxley] was trying to tell us that what afflicted the people in Brave New World was not that they were laughing instead of thinking, but that they did not know what they were laughing about and why they had stopped thinking.” ~ Neil Postman, Amusing Ourselves To Death
The water rises.
Last week, at dinner, disconcerted by the headlines, 20 asked if I could explain the politics of our day. “Entertainment,” I thought, but did not say. We – the community – talk about politics – the news of the day – as if it was serious business – because we want it to be – we need it to be – but we seem mortally blind to the emptiness of the chatter. Song and dance. The purpose, after all, is not to inform us but to keep us hooked.
It’s not an insignificant question to ask, “What is the reason for being?” We seem puzzled by our purpose or at least conflicted, as made apparent by our insatiable division. My theory is that our division is a distraction, it’s an old colonialists trick, baked into our national dna. A magician’s sleight of hand. There’s no better way to control a populace than to divide them. A people united – and not distracted – demand purposeful and responsible governance. Honest discourse. They demand it of themselves, too. They live from and in-service to a cohesive and shared narrative. The deep root of integrity. Purpose, after all, when clear and meaning-full, is always about others; it is always about service to the community. The betterment of all.
“You drown not by falling into a river, but by staying submerged in it.” ~Paulo Coehlo
In a surprise twist, Dogga now answers to the name, “Trouble”. It could that in his old age his alter ego is ascendant.
He’s always had two distinct personalities. During the daylight hours, in constant movement, running endless circles, we call him “Crazy Boy”. At night, he is distinctly different, calm and quiet; we call him “Sweet Boy”.
I can’t recall how we discovered his alter ego. One minute he was Crazy Boy and the next he was responding to Kerri’s call, “Trouble!” We performed a specificity-check and called him other names. He rolled his eyes and refused to respond. “Here Trouble!” brought an immediate running-wag-a-wag response. “I think his name is Trouble!” she said.
“What took us so long?” I asked.
We wondered if originally Farmer Don called him Trouble, and perhaps, after 11 years, we were just discovering his real name. Farmer Don needed to find a home for him and no one wanted him because he was, unusual for an Aussie puppy, mostly black. We imagined Farmer Don saying, “You’re my little Trouble-Dog!”
These days Dogga né Trouble complains when he doesn’t get his way. He groans (like me) when he lifts himself from the floor. He snores at night. He licks the achy joints on his front legs. He is, no matter his name, our Trouble, our Crazy Boy, our Sweet Boy, our Dogga-Dog. We are infinitely richer for the daily sweet trouble that he brings us.
The Direction of Intention 