Watch Yourself

I’ve been dwelling on how different people interpret the word “empathy.” Empathy is defined as “the intellectual identification with … the feelings, thoughts, or attitudes of another."

By his words and actions, it's obvious my friend Jonas is a sympathetic and compassionate person. Also, he often comments that he believes he is an empathetic person (which seems unnecessary--his actions should negate the need for making the statement).

Jonas most likely does put himself in the figurative shoes of another. He may even “walk” a few paces in those shoes. The thing is, he’s still the same person. He hasn’t totally morphed into the other, therefore, how can he possibly understand?

Even when we profess empathetic feelings, don’t we still have our own emotional baggage and biases impacting and affecting our responses to another’s words or actions? If so, then how can we can believe we are “intellectually identifying” with that person?

I’m no doubt splitting philosophical and grammatical hairs here (not unusual!). 

I’m working on becoming more tolerant and more understanding of others, even when--or especially when--I find it difficult to relate to their feelings or attitudes; I don't know their circumstances, I haven't walked in their shoes.

It seems to me the most important thing I can do is monitor my own words, reactions and impulses and be alert to any negative impact I may have on others. I’ve gotten better at this as the decades have worn on, but I’m still not out of the woods!

Even with the quaint language, this pre-1912 poem by S. W. Gilliland (in Penberthy Engineer) rings as true today as when written almost 100 years ago:

 

Just stand aside and watch yourself go by;
Think of yourself as "he" instead of "I."
Note closely, as in other men you note,
The bag-kneed trousers and the seedy coat.
Pick the flaws; find fault; forget the man is you,
And strive to make your estimate ring true;
Confront yourself and look you in the eye—
Just stand aside and watch yourself go by.

Interpret all your motives just as though
You looked on one whose aims you did not know.
Let undisguised contempt surge through you when
You see you shirk, O commonest of men!
Despise your cowardice; condemn whate'er
You note of falseness in you anywhere.
Defend not one defect that shames your eye—
Just stand aside and watch yourself go by.

And then, with eyes unveiled to what you loathe—
To sins that with sweet charity you'd clothe—
Back to your self-walled tenements you'll go
With tolerance for all who dwell below.
The faults of others then will dwarf and shrink,
Love's chain grow stronger by one mighty link—
When you, with "he" as substitute for "I,"
Have stood aside and watched yourself go by.

My upbringing, the vagaries of my life and the choices I’ve made do not necessarily dictate how I live my life, but they have a bearing on how I act and react. I must remember that and remember to stand aside and watch myself go by. 

Om Delivery

A five-year-old girl, living with her family at a homeless shelter, was approached by a well-meaning adult who leaned down and lovingly commented to her, “I’m so sorry you don’t have a home.” The little girl said, “Oh we have a home, we just don’t have a house to put it in.”  

Somewhere along the line, in her short five years on earth, that little girl learned how to acknowledge the good in her life while also accepting that things weren’t exactly perfect.

PBS recently began a rebroadcast of the 3-part documentary, “This Emotional Life.” The segments are thought-provoking with quite a few insightful comments and observations regarding ways one can search for and discover inner happiness.

Whether reading self-help books, going on retreats or to seminars, or doing some contemplative navel-gazing (to use one of my favorite words: a bit of omphaloskepis), as it seems Elizabeth Gilbert did in her book, Eat, Pray, Love, it’s important to keep searching for our own answers to personal happiness. It surely doesn’t come from “things” and we can’t expect others to supply it for us.  

In previous blog postings I’ve written of epiphanies regarding the ways in which my choices negatively impacted my younger life as well as some of the literally time-tested remedies I’ve been using for the past several decades—remedies which are, for me,  so simple yet so effective.

Okay, that’s the “mental” part, the part that’s not too difficult to employ once we use the tools we’ve learned in the search. Not too difficult until, for example, physical problems come to the fore.

When physical challenges present themselves—when days and weeks seem bloated with doctor appointments; when we tire from a schedule filled with dates for probings and x-rays; when this remedy or that prescription fails to alleviate the problem—it’s really tough to see a sunny side of life.

The meme in this regard seems to be along the lines of “buck up,” “look on the bright side,” “think and talk positive,” etc., etc.

I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s 100% okay to spend some time kvetching, griping and complaining. Not all the time, of course. That would strain the bonds and pollute the wells of love and compassion friends and family feel for us. Just enough so that those who care about us know we're experiencing some tough times.

Fortunately, I’m not dealing with any untoward health issues at the moment. However, in the past few months one or two dear friends have been in the throes of ongoing, undiagnosed physical pain.

The other day one of these friends said she was really very tired of having to put on a happy face and use the “proper” words when others ask her how she’s doing.

For what it’s worth, I gave her my firm approval to engage in a bit of “gripe and wallow” now and then. She’ll continue with her yoga and meditation exercises, she’ll continue the round after round of doctor visits and yes, she’ll continue to acknowledge all the gifts in her life. It’s just that she will give up the struggle it has been to keep that “stiff upper lip.” Let the healing begin!

Even though I firmly believe attitude has a great effect on the quality of an individual's life, I also think it's okay to allow ourselves, now and then, to muck about in a bit of “why me?” 

  

Books Can Do Things

Anyone who says they have only one life to live

must not know how to read a book.

~anon

Author Jonathan Franzen says, “…books can do things, socially useful things, that other media can’t … We are so distracted by and engulfed by the technologies we’ve created, and by the constant barrage of so-called information that comes our way that…more than ever to immerse yourself in an involving book seem socially useful… [there’s a] place of stillness that you have to go to in order to read.” 

Two months ago I decided to reread John Simon’s slender volume, Paradigms Lost: Reflections on Literacy and Lewis Thomas’ Et Cetera, Et Cetera: Notes of a Word-Watcher. Reference books about writing, word usage, grammar and punctuation take up a good deal of space on my bookshelves. Each time I open one of these books I learn a bit more about the craft of writing (a work in progress if there ever was one!).  

Next in line on the bookshelves are volumes about PNW history, biographies, creative non-fiction and books of poetry.

For the past month I’ve been wading through David McCullough’s 1983 tome, The Great Bridge—the story of the planning and building of the Brooklyn Bridge.

I’m fascinated by all kinds and types of bridges, admire McCullough’s writing and in awe of his thorough research.  The book is a true tour de force for him. However, because it is so filled with engineering and architectural data and so dense with social, familial and political back story, after only 10 to 15 pages I need to put the book aside and attempt to digest what I’ve read.  At this rate, I’ll finish the 562-page book in another month.

Much as I am enjoying the story, I know the majority of the details won’t be remembered. This isn’t a recent revelation and I wish it weren’t so true.  

Some of my friends (most of whom are voracious readers) are able to recall all manner of detail from books they have read. I have intense admiration for this type of mind.

I inhale books, absorb words like water through every pore of my body and revel in the mental pictures conjured up. I’m fully involved as I’m reading. However, when I’ve reached “The End,” only wisps of the story stay in my mind—until, that is, I am talking with someone else who has read the book (or knows something of the subject).

Comments on the plot, character or setting will often elicit small recollections and, as my mind releases fragments of book-memory, I feel comfortable adding something to the conversation. I just wish I remembered more!

Books can be a comfort, an escape, a tool, a resource, a delight—books can do things! So, I’ll finish my march across The Great Bridge, pick up another book at the end and I’ll begin to read once more—one book after another—because the bookshelves are vast and deep and I have pages to go before I sleep!*

*apologies to Robert Frost

 

Tarnished or Burnished?

Two months ago I had a fairly unpleasant incident with a friend of 35 years. I’m thankful we care enough about each other to have talked through our misunderstanding and come to a resolution—albeit a tearful one. We vowed to never let that sort of thing happen again.

However, I’ve wondered since then if our friendship has been tarnished.

Do we bob, weave and tiptoe around each other, wary of instigating another misunderstanding and therefore are not as open and honest as before? I hope this isn’t the case. However, I’m conscious of the fact I weigh my words much more than before. I am fearful of causing another kerfuffle yet I don’t want either of us to gloss over things that should be talked about.

Of course, it could be we simply burnished our long-lasting friendship. Possibly the melting of defenses after the exchange of angry words served to polish some rough edges we hadn’t realized were there.

Maybe there’s some new understanding between us now which casts a softer and more mellow light on the lovely friendship we’ve forged through these years. That’s my hope and I plan to talk this over with my friend as soon as possible. It’s important that our friendship not lose its luster.

Beautiful and rich is an old friendship,

Grateful to the touch as ancient ivory,

Smooth as aged wine, or sheen of tapestry

Where light has lingered, intimate and long.

Full of tears and warm is an old friendship

That asks no longer deeds of gallantry,

Or any deed at all—save that the friend shall be

Alive and breathing somewhere, like a song.

~ Eunice Tietjens 1889-1944

Animals: Veritable & Virtual

Horse sense is the thing a horse has 
which keeps it from betting on people.

~ W. C. Fields

I can’t honestly say I like horses very much. Oh, I enjoy looking at them and I appreciate their beauty and sleekness. However, I never want to care for one (or two) again. The two we owned were purchased for the kids. They enjoyed riding the horses but the day to day care was often haphazard. After three years, the boys sold the horses.

When counting, try not to mix chickens with blessings.

~Unknown

When our children were growing up, we had fresh eggs from eight cage-free laying hens. We also raised fryers. My mom and dad, living next door, took care of butchering the fryers. Our freezers were filled with all we could eat of that prime meat.

If I had the space, I would raise free-range chickens for their eggs. On a small piece of urban land there would be no rooster. However, on two or three acres there’d be a strutting head-of-the-hen-house rooster so I could always have farm fresh as well as fertilized eggs (go figure!).

If you’re short of trouble, take a goat.

~Finnish saying

The less-than-acre of land my brother and I grew up on was in a riverine part of the exurbs. Fertile, loamy alluvial soil produced bountiful crops of fruit and vegetables. Our parents raised chickens and owned four goats, April, May, June and Chloë. As soon as mom quit nursing us, my brother and I drank goat’s milk, not cow’s milk.

When my sons were young, we owned two goats. The first one, Rowan, was a just-weaned male given to me as a housewarming gift when we moved to a mini-farm. I guess he was too high class to eat the blackberries and weeds on the three acres— he sure had no problem at all munching on the flowers in my perennial gardens. After a year or so, we gave him to a local woman who said her pregnant goat needed the companionship of a neutered male (don’t we all?).

A year later, we adopted sweet, fully-grown Ms. Sylvia Goat. She loved to run, jump and play with my youngest son. She would even walk along with him on the roadway as he went to visit neighbors. Sylvia did have an issue with being “non-human” however. She really wanted to be with the family all the time.

One icy, bitter cold winter afternoon I heard what sounded like “Maaaa-maaaa, maaaa-maaa” coming from the back yard. I ran outside and just as I turned the corner of the house, I saw Sylvia paddling around in our above ground pool. Somehow she’d freed herself from her pen, climbed up on the wooden deck, slipped and fell through the cover over the 5’ deep pool.

Her cloven hooves were no help as she desperately tried to climb out. In the process of trying, she ripped much of the liner to shreds.

Fortunately my parents lived next door. Dad ran over to help me pull that wet, cold, frightened goat out of the water. Sylvia was none the worse for her escapades; however, we realized she needed more room to roam and more freedom than her daily romps with my son provided. A local family with other goats adopted Sylvia.

I like pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. 
Pigs treat us as equals.

~Winston Churchill

Over the years we raised three sets of pigs, two each time. Sonny and Cher were the first residents of the lean-to pied-à-terre built on the back side (downwind side) of our barn.

We’d heard all the stories about pigs favoring mud and wallowing in filth, about how noisy they could be. None of that dissuaded us. We loved the “end products” and my father offered to take care of their feedings when we were at work.

As much as one could read the mind of pigs, we figured out they really did appreciate clean bedding and good food. At least, we humans preferred to keep the pen clean and the food healthful, and the pigs didn’t seem to mind.

Those two pigs grew fat and healthy and the ham, bacon and pork chops from them proved to be worth our investment in time and money.

The next two were males: Barney and Fred. My dad did all of the feeding of these two and much of the “housekeeping” as both my husband and I were working full time. Dad, ever the frugal one, wasn’t feeding them as much as I felt necessary.

As with the first pair of pigs, when grocery shopping I stopped by the fresh food section to collect any fruit or vegetables heading to the discard bins. However, I went further with this second set:

My husband and I attended formal company banquets five or six times a year. In those days the banquet fare was usually steak, baked potato, a limp, gray-green vegetable and some nondescript dessert. At least half of the attendees left huge amounts of food on their plates. What a waste! My pigs would love this stuff!

One particular evening, dinner having been served and the speeches just beginning, I watched as the waitress moved up behind me, pushing her cart full of dirty dishes and assorted clumps of leftover food. As she leaned down to query me: “Are you finished, Ma’am?” I asked her, sotto voce, if there was any way I could collect all that discarded food for my pigs. “No problem, not at all. Sure, drive around the back when you leave and I’ll have it in garbage bags for you.”

Oh, I felt so very proud of myself! My partner grinned knowingly when I told him about my coup. And, in an hour or so, there we were, he in tux and I in cocktail dress, hoisting four 30-gallon garbage bags full of table scraps into the trunk of our car.

The next day before wheel-barrowing the bags down to the barn, I looked into one of them. To my dismay, almost every half-eaten potato or steak had a cigarette butt mashed into it (oh yes, did I forget to say? Those were the days when smoking was allowed—every place!).

Well, MY pigs were not going to be fed cigarettes! Dishpan in hand, hour upon hour, I took every single bit of those leftovers into the kitchen sink, sorted through the garbage, found and discarded all the butts. Fred and Barney were forever grateful, of course.

By the time my family and I were raising the third and last set of pigs (two males again, Andy and Bax), we felt we knew what we were getting into. The boys and their dad picked up the two little weaners as soon as they could be taken from their momma and all went as planned with the care and feeding.

The time came for Andy and Bax, full-grown, healthy and quite active, to be taken to the abattoir. By this time, my father had sold his slat-sided trailer. However, we now owned an old car with a hatchback and no back seat. This rig had served us well for hauling hay, straw and animal feed. We saw no reason it couldn’t be just as good as the trailer for taking these piggies to market.

Nyx at Nite

Over the years, I've known a number of people who enjoy studying theogony. Although I have a very limited knowledge of gods and goddesses, once in a while there’s a Greek (or Roman) goddess whose name just seems to fit as a poem title or, as in this case, a blog post.

Nyx is the Greek goddess who personifies night; she’s the daughter of Chaos. These two sure try to cause me a lot of grief! To clarify a bit: I’ve never been a sound sleeper or one who can sleep more than three or four hours a night.

For most people, when nighttime comes around, if their body’s circadian rhythm is working well, sleep follows. Not in my case. Nyx or not, Ms. Chaos seems to knock about in my cranium, keeping me awake.  

My mind is a jumble of thoughts and ideas, memories and questions, projects and possibilities. Most of the time, worry or anxiety is not an issue. Pain or physical discomfort of any kind is not an issue. I don’t fret and sigh while tossing and turning.

I’ve tried all the OTC remedies and herbal remedies. I've tried just about every time-honored bit of advice on how to get a good, long, solid night’s sleep.

I would never become a patient at a sleep clinic because there’s no way I could turn my brain away from acknowledgement of the attached wires and machines that are hooked up to monitor the subject.

I don’t fall asleep at my desk, nor do I feel groggy during the day. I do sometimes daydream of how wonderful it might feel to have slept solidly and soundly for more than a few hours at a time.

There was a time I chose to be concerned about my “lack” of long, deep sleep because studies seemed to show humans needed a certain amount in order to repair the body from the day’s mental and physical assaults and travails. Over the years I’ve concluded I do NOT need the sleep-science requisite 7 ½ to 8 hours of sleep a night.  

After reading a recent National Geographic article on sleep, it’s possible I finally have a bit of an answer for what I consider my poor memory for many details of past events, as well as the reason I find such enjoyment in discovering new words and derive so much satisfaction from reading and writing.

The studies posit the idea that people who receive mostly REM sleep do better at "pattern recognition" tasks, such as grammar and those who experience deep sleep are better at memorization.

So, I’ll grab at any sleep research straws that help me accept my sleeplessness as normal ... for me; seems much easier than grabbing a bunch of Zs!

Worth & Value

For What It's Worth #1

Even though we seldom realize it before adulthood, many of our parents’ more benign ways of moving through the world leave an impact on us.

Until this most recent musing, I would have said my mother’s daily routines and beliefs influenced me much more than those of my father.

It’s certain I inherited (or absorbed) my mom’s good housekeeping practices (although not the strict regimen),  her skill at organizing, her tenaciousness when there’s a job to be done and her usually sunny outlook.

While writing the 2009 memoir for my sons, I delved deep into my father’s psyche, outlook and mannerisms. In doing so I came across many more ways than I previously realized in which I mirror my father (in addition to the love of spirited debate and arcane knowledge).

My father was not a businessman … in career or in thought processes. He worked with engines, electricity and cables. He understood machinery, knew how to rewind and rebuild motors, manage recalcitrant and balky drive trains and coax old, worn-out elevators back to life.

Dad was the epitome of “honest to a fault.” For instance, when he was on call for customers’ after-hours machinery breakdowns he chose to charge his hours beginning with the time he arrived at the client’s business and he did not charge mileage. He could have—all the other repairmen did. He felt that practice simply wasn't right or fair to the customer.

The creases in his palms were permanently darkened from the oily grime he encountered every day as he worked to provide for our family of four.

When Dad arrived home in the evening he immediately went through the back door and down to the basement. He took a cleansing shower and changed into clean clothes. Up from the make-shift basement shower, refreshed and ready for the evening, he met Mom at the kitchen doorway, where they always exchanged a welcome home hug and kiss.

In some of his free time, Dad enjoyed checking out thrift stores and garage sales (although “garage sales,” per se, weren’t as common as now). He enjoyed finding small pieces of broken, non-working equipment which he tried to bring back to life or repurpose.

Once in a while he’d cart home some piece of furniture, dish or appliance for Mother’s approval. She seldom thought his finds were all that great. I remember Dad telling her the seller “… only wanted [this or that price], but I said that was way too low," which caused my mother further chagrin.

I recall more than a few times when my dad sold an item he no longer needed or things he owned more than enough of -- maybe a set of tires, or some firewood he’d cut from one of the many trees on our property, or that “too good to pass up” second-hand whatsis he bought for Mom. It never failed, when the prospective buyer came around, my father downplayed the value, and invariably reduced his already low asking price.

---

For What It’s Worth #2

When I see something I would truly enjoy having, something I maybe looked a long time to find, I’m often surprised to see the item isn’t as expensive as I would have thought. No, I don’t request that Target, Cost Plus or the local consignment store mark the price UP for me (with an income lower than “middle,” I usually don’t buy the item anyway). However, I have been known to offer a non-profit thrift store more money than asked for an item.

When selling (a piece of furniture, for instance), I often minimize the value and end up practically giving the item away—while profusely thanking the buyer.

I also tend to dismiss the intrinsic worth of my artistic talents in, for example, poetry, essay, or decorating. Over the years I’ve been hired to give advice on decor and gardening and I’ve been hired to help edit essays for submission and books of poetry for publication. In every instance, I demur when it comes to my fee. I essentially undersell myself.

I began working at 16-1/2 and have continued to work through the years. I’ve been employed by good companies and in friendly environments and always felt grateful for the jobs.

Never once in all this time have I asked any of my managers for a raise in salary. I’ve received bonuses, as well as salary increases, but not because I’ve verbally promoted myself. I simply do not know how to do that. I await the largess of my employer, hoping my performance warrants an increase.

Oh, yes: thanks to both my parents, I know how to clean up pretty darn good. 

There is no such thing as absolute value in this world.

You can only estimate what a thing is worth to you.

Charles Dudley Warner 1829-1900, American writer

Weaving Words

Words and their nuances have always intrigued me. An early interest in words and phrases is obvious in the following examples.

The arrival of my brother 2 ½ years after my birth gave me “big sister” status. My parents told me they named the baby “Warren.” When I heard that word, my mother said I vehemently commented “He not WORN, he NEW!” Mom and Dad helped me pronounce his name correctly and showed me the differing letters.

Several years later, at about eight years old, I discovered the word “warren” in the dictionary. Of course, I teased my little brother mercilessly about being a “rabbit hutch.”

The landscapes in the small rural community of my childhood were not yet scarred with innumerable billboards. For this reason when a billboard—actually an extra large, sturdy sign—was installed, it garnered more than passing attention. One of these signs advertised a local furniture store. It depicted a pelican balancing a cotton ball on its beak and the statement “A Little Down on a Big Bill.” I didn’t yet know the term “double entendre” but I did know I loved the dual meaning.

This passion for the taste of words and flavor of ideas has not abated throughout all the facets of my life; through marriages, births, raising children, work outside the home and all the mental and physical energies expended in those areas.

Love of words, their spelling and usage has been a lifelong passion of mine. This is not to imply that I know the etymologies of words or that I am always accurate in my usage. The simple fact is I am fascinated by words—their sounds, meanings, spelling, and quirks. The four dictionaries I have in various spots throughout my small home are testament to my interest. Of course, now that we have access to the various dictionary sites on the Internet, word-checking is a breeze.

A few years ago a person who definitely knows me well, gifted me with The Professor and the Madman by Simon Winchester. This is a book about the making of the Oxford English Dictionary. However, don’t for a moment discount the book as dry and boring reading.

The Mother Tongue by Bill Bryson is also on my bookshelf and it, too, was a gift from a dear friend and a seeker of knowledge; another person who not only knows my unflagging enthusiasm for words and their etymology but also knows I have a quirky sense of humor. This Bryson book is a fun read.

A Little Squeeze of Blue

The title of this post comes from a comment Claude Monet made when speaking of how visual artists should view their world.

“…whenever you go out…think: here is a little squeeze of blue, here an oblong of pink, here a streak of yellow…”

I believe the statement could apply in multiple areas. It speaks to the value of being aware of our surroundings—conscious of and alert to the natural world’s color and beauty, even when life seems off kilter.

Of course, putting ourselves into this awareness mindset, noticing the bright streaks of golden yellow randomly piercing through clouds on dark days or seeing the tender, rosy pink blush on a soon-to-open rosebud (when the only reason you are among the flowers this morning is because you’re sitting in the hospital’s “Garden of Peace” with a seriously ill friend) or trying to appreciate the achingly, beautiful azure blue sky when you have the worst head cold of your life...well, it’s not easy, not at all.

When we make plans for the coming days, we assume everything will be sunny and bright, full of good health and love; when thinking of the ensuing years we may believe we are taking into consideration the toll aging will have on our bodies, and yet we have absolutely no idea. 

For the most part Homines sapientes wear their rose-colored glasses when looking to the future. Most of us move through our days as though in a haze, going through the motions, counting the hours and minutes until we come to whatever it is we’re planning on to make us happy … or happier.

In my part of the country, we're on the cusp of springtime. Mainly now, mainly because spring is my favorite season, I like to think I’m living in the moment; however, each time I marvel at the newly sprouting tomato seeds, every time I smile at the tender bright green growth on the Jasmine, as much as I’d like to think I’m relishing the “now,” the fact is, I’m looking forward: to red, ripe tomatoes (without blight), to the sweet smell of the Jasmine flower (with no aphids), to the next blooming and the next day when there’s sure to be “a squeeze of blue” sky replacing the gloom of mid-April. 

Color fuses with memories, expectations, 

associations and desires to make a world of 

resonance and meaning for each of us. 
~Oliver Sacks - An Anthropologist on Mars

Contemplating Communication - Part 2

A silence on the line.

Have you ever been talking on the phone with a friend when you realize there is profound quiet on the other end of the line and the person with whom you were speaking is mentally far away, not really listening to you? 

Most likely the person is in the throes of what they may call “multitasking.” True, it could be you are simply boring them. But the kind thing to do in that instance is for them to make some excuse to just end the phone call.

This hasn’t happened to me very often but when it does it’s disconcerting—and rude! When I sense this “vacancy” on the other end of the line I usually ask if the person would like to hang up and “…we can talk later.” The quick, almost panicked comment is “Oh no! Sorry I was just…” checking my instant messages/writing a grocery list/looking at the calendar, etc.

Pam  is all ears and energetic asides when I am talking about or commenting on events in her world, her life. The silence happens when I veer into my world, away from something pertaining specifically to her. 

Pam only thinks she is having a conversation with me; thinks she can combine listening to her friend speak while also doing any number of other visual or mental tasks.

Then again, maybe I'm boring her!

I recently read of a Stanford University study which shows multitasking (media multi-tasking in particular) takes a toll on the brain. The study concluded that "...people who juggle multiple forms of electronic media have trouble controlling their memory, paying attention or switching from one task to another as effectively as those who complete one task at a time."

Adam Gazzaley, a professor of neurology and psychiatry calls multitasking a myth. Task switching is more accurate, he says. “Our brains don’t excel at doing too many things at once.”

Contemplating Communication - Part 1

A friend recently used the term “ambient intimacy” to describe the use of the ubiquitous “social media,” such as FaceBook, MySpace, Flickr and Twitter. The two-word term was new to me. Of course, I knew what “ambient” meant as well “intimacy,” but had never heard the two used together.

I’m way too literal, I suppose. In the case of social media, I’d more likely use the term “ambiguous interaction.”  

This friend and I communicate at least weekly with e-mail and phone calls—keeping in touch, keeping tabs on one another. Four or five times a year, when she comes through my town on business, we carve out time to visit face-to-face.

The term, “ambient intimacy” arose on one of these face-to-face occasions. We were in a local bistro, enjoying, among other topics, a lively conversation about the importance of clear, attentive and sincere communication—whether with family, friends or in business.

Lila was sitting across from me, her eyes bright and expressive. I listened to her words, intent on what she was saying. I watched her face and her body language and added a comment now and then.

When our conversation died down a bit, Lila laughed and said “…now this is truly what I’d call ‘ambient intimacy.' ” My questioning expression gave rise to her explanation that the term had been coined to describe social media; not the type of conversation we were having. However, it surely seemed more apt in our case.

We were experiencing the joy of being good, “intimate” friends. Even though the café seemed noisy when we first arrived, our total concentration on each other and what was being said filled our senses; the noise level became simply an “ambient” hum in the background, not at all disturbing.

Communicating in this manner, with a dear friend, is life-enhancing for me. I’ve been truly “heard” by another and as she spoke to me she had my full attention.  

Butterfly Effect?

Maybe I should have realized April Fool’s day 2010 wasn't the wisest or most propitious of days to attempt crossing off some “nagging necessaries" on my errand list. The main things were an oil change, DEQ test and new license for the car, a much-needed haircut, then grocery shopping for the upcoming family dinner on Sunday. So, April 1st or not, I set out with high expectations that I would accomplish all seven errands, safely and timely.

Thankfully, the lethargy of a few days ago seemed to be gone and my energy level had bounced back.

As I left home that morning, the sun winked on and off through some puffy white clouds and the air smelled fresh and new (not like a wet dog, which is how it smelled after the previous several days of cold wind and pounding rain).

Car servicing and DEQ testing along with new license tags…those things went very well. As I pulled away from the DEQ station some of the blackest and most ominous clouds I’ve ever seen began scudding by and in a few moments, pea-sized hail rained down. 

I’d just gotten onto the freeway heading east when I heard and then saw two police cars, sirens blaring, coming up from behind. They scooted around, in and through traffic, taking an off ramp about a mile down the road. The same ramp I planned to take as I continued my errand-filled day.

I decided to take an alternate route; but that would most likely make me late for the hair appointment. Due to our state’s new law against talking on a cell phone while driving, I had to pull off the road while I called to say I’d be a bit late to the haircut appointment. How late? Oh, 10 minutes, or so. Okay, that’ll be fine.

Alternate route #1: Road crews were holding up traffic while jackhammers tore away at the asphalt. Not knowing how long the wait would be, I decided to follow the lead of the car in front of me and turn off that road, down to the next parallel one. That road had a sign “Road Closed” and a detour arrow. Twisting and turning along narrow side streets, the detour dumped out onto a four-lane highway.

Oops, another siren in the distance. Rear view mirror shows an ambulance fast approaching. All traffic pulls to the side of the road. The ambulance turns left—at the same intersection I’d planned to take. Okay.

Alternate route #2: And that will be? I’m in the outskirts of my town and not totally familiar with every road. Just then, I see a sign pointing to the North-South freeway entrance, two miles down the road.  A different freeway would skew my route about four miles but if the flow was steady, I could still make the appointment.

There’s no turning back once I decide to enter this freeway. I’m committed. Bad decision. From my position at the rise of the on-ramp, it’s obvious this freeway is at a total standstill. Taillights blink on and off, semi-trucks’ Jake brakes chatter and shudder as the behemoths stop and go, stop and go.  I can see several miles down the freeway—the only discernable movement is literally just inches forward and then a halt. My choice has been made; I must enter this veritable slog of traffic.

And then I see it—the flashing highway sign advising motorists there’s been an accident on the top deck of one of our bridges. Two lanes closed. Even though this bridge wasn’t one I would be taking, the result of the accident meant that most arterials had been affected.

On a cellular level...

My writing took a nosedive during the past three days as my body tussled with some cold bugs. Outside, the cloudy, dark skies and almost constant pounding rain gave me added license to stay indoors.

Almost the entirety of each day was spent reading … just one book, beginning to end. A fabulous book! The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, by Rebecca Skloot. 

This is a true story encompassing everything imaginable: racism, medical science and research, family, greed, faith, idealism, small town dynamics, on and on and on.  

The blurb on the front cover reads: “...doctors took her cells without asking. Those cells never died. They launched a medical revolution and a multi-million dollar industry. More than 29 years later, her children found out. Their lives would never be the same." I turned one page to the next, savoring every word and eager to read more, learn more.  The author’s long slog to publication sure seems worth it to this reader.

In these three “out of touch” days, I found great contentment in simply being and healing.

Backing up a bit...

Writing poetry, personal essay and narrative non-fiction has always been a passion. Drawers and cabinets hold pages and pages of handwritten work in journals and on scraps of paper; also, there are notebooks in storage which hold 20 years' worth of letters written to my parents (and Dad saved) when my young family and I were living long, lonely miles away.

In 1997, my son and his wife gave me my first computer and printer. I enjoyed learning to navigate my way through this new technology, although the “curve” was steep. Of course, it didn’t hurt one bit to have a son who had jumped into the burgeoning IT world with both feet and was eager and willing to help me. In a short while, I became quite computer literate.

Ever the wordy one, I enjoyed the ease with which I could tap out letters to friends (at that time few people had e-mail). At first, I used the computer (and printer) mainly for these snail-mail letters.

My fingers flew on the keyboard of the new wonder, moving as rapidly as my thoughts; when I reread and wanted to move sentences or paragraphs, delete, correct or enlarge upon any of this work, it could be done with an ease I marvel at to this day. Understandable when you realize I go back to the era of clunky Underwood typewriters and mimeograph machines! To an era when we really did use cc (carbon paper copies) and bcc (blind carbon paper copies)!

In a few months, I bought and began using Intuit’s Quicken program to keep track of my finances.

I saved all writing and other information on floppy disks, which was state of the art at that time.

Now it’s 2010 and I have my fourth computer, a laptop. I can’t say I’ve kept up with technology; however, I have become more and more adept at knowing how to get the most out of my computer and its programs.

I’ve often said, “... my life is on my computer.” Well, that’s hyperbole of course. The point is losing the files on my computer would be a devastating blow.

I'm far from a fearful or paranoid person, but I did have concerns about the safety of the information I had on the computer. Purchase of an external hard drive (over $150 at the time) didn't seem to make sense as it would usually be left at home with my computer (fire or burglary, while a remote possibility, was still something to think about). I bought a USB Flash Drive, backed up data on that and kept it with me at all times, apart from the computer.

One book, two book...

Upon arriving home one afternoon, I noticed a UPS tag on my front door telling me of a package at the apartment complex office. I hadn’t ordered anything and it wasn’t my birthday so why was I receiving a package?

At the apartment offices, the receptionist rifled through a few dozen boxes and packages of all sizes, looking, looking. She asked me if I knew the size of the item. No, I had no idea. Finally, she discovered a small, book-sized package with my name on it. A book? A book! Someone had sent me a book??! But who? And why?

I consider books to be treasures and books given as gifts hold even more meaning. I tried to look and act nonchalant as I walked out the door with my package. Through my front door five minutes later and I had the brown wrapping torn off.

I read the cover: Naked, Drunk, and Writing: Shed Your Inhibitions and Craft a Compelling Memoir or Personal Essay by Adair Lara. I’d never heard of the book or the author. Who had sent this to me? Who would have thought this book was just what I needed, just at that time? Well, no, not the "Naked, Drunk..." part!

A shipping confirmation fell out of the crumpled brown wrapping. Two lines of extremely small print, a note from my brother: “I’ve enjoyed Adair Lara’s columns in the SF Chronicle. Thought this book of hers is one you’d like. Love, Warren.”

Silly as it may sound, I clasped the book to my chest feeling as delighted as a child on Christmas morning.

Samuel's Sunrise

Last fall I sent a birthday card to a young friend who was celebrating the end of his 13th year. Sam sent me a thank you note along with a picture showing him standing on a knoll overlooking a vineyard. His back is to the camera. The sky is autumn orange and red, shafts of the just-rising sun pierce a few errant clouds. Sam’s young body is straight and stalwart, watching.

He wrote “…I got to see the sun rise on my birthday.” His comment and the photo inspired this poem:

He’s on the hillside of the vineyard
His back to me,
to the rest of the world
aware, calm, a fire within

The sun is rising golden
He’s facing that sun
Watching a miracle rising
Just for him

Just for this day
He’s 13 years old today
he’s facing life
thirteen is rising and risking