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.