Dawn

It is early.
The wind woke the leaves
and the tall grass
before the sun could
say good morning.

A petite solitary cloud,
tinted red from the sunrise,
looked on
from the eastern sky.

Gradually, the overcast
took the cloud in her belly,
moving gem into memory.

Soon more light came to the plants
as the rising sun
quieted the fall breeze.

Yesterday and Now

Yesterday the leaves
had their last hurrah.

They were bright and cheery,
warm with color and moisture.
They fell one at a time,
each tree proudly still retaining
its summer green
punctuated with the lone leaves
failing to resist
their ultimate daring death dive.

Now the leaves are homogeneous,
willingly falling three or four at a time.
Shriveled up like antique folks,
tired of holding on,
now ready for a long winter sleep.

The Box

I have a strange little box
inherited from my parents
who inherited it from my grandma
who inherited it from her brother.

It is a small silver box
with an image of a man
under a Bodhi tree.
I don't think he is the Buddha
because his legs are dangling
over a rock, and he's reading a note,
the contents of which is probably lost forever.

Inside the box is a wisp of air,
filled with my great uncle's pipe smoke,
and laden with the secrets of his far eastern travels
where he acquired such a treasure.

Stockmarket Dives

Up and down she goes.
The bears trample the bulls
or visa versa
from interest rates
to war to the dropping dollar.
There always is the
daily raison d'etre.

We sit back and watch
assets soar and plummet
making our hearts skip a
beat and our heads
ache a little (or much).
What once made our day
now only reminds us of the adage
"what goes up must come down."

Ode to a Leaf

The leaf comes and goes,
falling through air in a spiral.
It doesn't hit the ground,
but is gently cushioned
by its shadow.

If left to its own devices,
it will decompose
and then regenerate.

If left to our rakes and leaf blowers,
it will be taken from its cycle
and be forced to another,
perhaps less natural, destiny.

The leaf is an old timer,
knowing full well its impermanence.
Still, it basks in the sun until evening.

A Parakeet, Dog, Leaf, and Rubber Band

My parakeet,
obviously lonely from a lack of adult companionship,
sings two songs intermittently,
in a last ditch attempt to be part of a conversation.

My dog, fast asleep,
after a hard morning of clearing the yard of invaders,
dreams of unsavvy spring rabbits.

An autumn leaf,
tracked in by some careless pet or person,
precariously lies in the middle of the kitchen floor,
awaiting its death from a shoe or broom.

A rubber band, resting on the floor,
carefully defining the intersection of three oak floor boards,
is unmoved by a parakeet's irritating chatter,
a dog's dreams or a leaf's demise.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow is the day after today.

How often do we spend
today on tomorrow?
Anticipating, planning, waiting . . .

We wake up tomorrow
and it is a new day,
but no longer tomorrow, only today.

We spend the new today
as we spent the old yesterday,
anticipating, planning, waiting . . .

Suppose there was no tomorrow,
which there (really) isn't
because it hasn't happened yet.

What would it be like living today . . . for today?
Not anticipating, not planning, not waiting.

It is nothing.

Sometimes our dog barks at nothing.
The hairs on her neck bristle and
a little bump forms between her ears.

She's threatened by her own shadow
that she doesn't understand tho
she's been living with it all her life.

Our bird chirps away, oblivious to
the ghosts in the front yard and
the shadows that follow our dog
around the yard.

Perhaps we could send our dog to bird school
so she'd learn what it means to cry wolf.

Or we could send our bird to
people school to learn to say,
"Shh. It is nothing."

Library

Libraries used to be quiet places
where people read books.
Books are not quiet, though.

They speak directly to our
brains and souls.

Now, people talk in libraries,
huddled around a row of computers.
Or they talk on their cell phones,

oblivious to that very personal
tête-à-tête between a book and its reader.

Someday the books may leave to
be recycled into paper towels
and newspapers. The talking will
also leave as the sound waves
dissipate into the ether.

The Death of a Nut

I'll never understand
why my dog Zoe becomes so upset
when a lone squirrel
visits her territory.

I don't believe that
any squirrel ever did
her any harm.

I can't even believe
that in any previous life
any such creature
trespassed against her,
unless Zoe had miraculously
been reincarnated from a lone nut,
buried by some enterprising squirrel,
for a scrumptious winter snack.

Best Laid Plans

I woke up early, really early.
The dogs didn't even get up.

I thought I'd look out the window and
write a poem about nature.

It was pitch black outside.
The only nature to be seen
was in my mind.
And . . . then the phone rang.

Today's plan was changing.
Nature once again was supplanted by
a little forgetfulness, and
perhaps a little
unconscious deliberation.

And the poem about nature . . .
became one about the nature of life.

Greedy Leaf

He said it was a bad leaf,
shooting out from her brothers and sisters
to catch a ray of sunshine.

She had no business on this tree ——
greedy, not a "team player"
and obviously exploiting the others
who so diligently grew up
so that the greedy
leaf had only inches to go
to reach the warm sunlight.

But lo and behold,
inadvertently the
greedy one gave back
energy to the tree, and ergo,
to her brothers and sisters.

The Early Bird

I look out the window
early in the fall morning
and see only darkness.
I imagine the sun still as bright
as yesterday when I groped
for my sun glasses.
I'm in a shadow, so vast
I can't tell where she ends.

In time, though, my eyes adjust
and I see first the moon,
then the stars,
only to be briefly interrupted
by the headlights of an early bird
driving down the street.

Spotty Shadows

The leaves begin to fall,
as the sun shoots through the trees,

casting spotty shadows
on the wood pile,
where each log waits
for another winter
to find out if they will
be carried inside
to face the burning embers.

At the bottom of the pile
the logs are safe from the fire,
and termites and rot
will chart its destiny,

unless, or course, it is
an unusually cold winter.

Halloween

Trick or treat:
it gets dark early
and the evening is cold.

Gangs of kids move down the street
with a parent often in tow.

It is a fashion show
of sorts, of the latest
monster costumes,

with the oddball kid in each gang,
either too lazy or too poor
for a costume of her own.

Trick or treat, they say,
as the door is opened, and
ah, shucks, we don't want apples,
a moment later.

Autumn Poem Activity

Autumn is such an overused
subject for a poem.

Who wants to hear
once again about
leaves that change colors
and whither and die
or how the weather
alternates between cold and rainy?

Next election, I'm
voting for the candidate
who proposes making
autumn poems a crime.

That will
surely regenerate quite a flurry
of autumn poem activity.

1000 Miles Per Hour

No wonder we need to sleep at night.
Each day we breathe 20000+ breaths
and then we are expected
to remain upright

on this vast planet that spins
on its axis
at 1000 miles per hour.

Each day we see changes from darkness
to light and back again to darkness.

We are but on a rocket
exploding into an expanding space
and then we wonder why

sanity is
something we need to work at
breath after breath.

Dogs

I often wonder what
a dog thinks about
when she sees humans

get into an iron horse
and turn a key and zoom
off into the distance.

Or when she sees
mom and dad kissing
each other.

I wonder what the various
barks and growls say,
but most of all,

what that thought is
when she comes to me
to be petted.

COMMENT: ABOUT WHAT DO DOGS THINK? A PRIZE FOR THE BEST ANSWER! CLICK ON COMMENT BELOW TO LEAVE YOUR ANSWER.

Stop and Look

We rush around,
looking for peace.
The faster we go,

the greater the distance
between us and stillness.
Our MP4 earphones

take a break from our cellphone
and our cellphone
takes a break for an old friend

coming down the platform.
The train comes, but from the other direction.
We sit down to wait.

Our batteries die from overuse.
We notice the clouds
gently nudging one another.

How Much are Kids Worth?

I'm reading a book
that says it is stupid
that plumbers get paid more

than childcare workers
because kids are worth
more than pipes.

My wife thinks
it is good that plumbers
are well-paid

because they have lots of kids.
If childcare workers had
as many kids as plumbers

they'd have to stay at home
and wouldn't be able
to work. This would,

of course, decrease
the supply of the childcare
workers, so the facilities

would have to pay
them more, which probably
means that people wouldn't

use paid childcare,
or wouldn't have children,
or wouldn't buy big screen TVs.

The big question,
as I see it,
is not what is unfair,

but rather what measures
should be taken
to correct

all the world's injustices,
and what the costs are
of these measures?

Next time you pay a
child care worker,
please add a substantial tip,

and next time you pay
a plumber, ask her if
she'll take less.

Just tell the plumber
it is all
in the name of fairness,

and watch the steam
erupt
from her pipe!

The 5 am Alarm Clock

When you visit
loved ones, there
is always the last

day of a visit,
when you make sure
you've said what

you have to say,
and you try to remember
to pack all the little things

you had brought
with the intention
of not leaving behind.

Being there
becomes so habitual
you believe

you'll be wakened
each morning of your life
with the pidder patter

of a toddler's feet above you,
and then
"it's time to leave"

and you hop on
some mode of transportation
and arrive home

and wake up
the next morning
to realize what had become

a 5 am alarm clock
has been turned off
until the next visit.

Play at Work, Work at Play

Sometimes we
mistakenly believe
that kids play and adults work,

but one just needs
to watch a toddler
and see how

dedicated they are
to the task at hand
to realize

they are learning
about their universe
in record time

and will not
be led astray
by any distractions.

Adults, on the other hand,
with their great understanding
of the world,

seem to have lots of time
for play, sports, movies,
and candlelight dinners.

QUESTION: AT WHAT AGE DO HUMANS PLAY? WHY?

Shaving

How did it happen
that we obsessively
want to shave

certain parts
of our body?
We wake up

in the morning and
feel the sandpaper
on our face,

rushing
to the bathroom
to smooth it out.

We go to the barber
frequently to make
ourselves clean cut.

Woman eradicate the
hair under their arms
and on their legs.

Smooth
becomes the norm,
and rough

the sign
that we've been negligent
in our care.

COMMENT: IS OUR OBSESSION WITH BEING CLEAN-SHAVEN AKIN TO OUR OBSESSION WITH THE "NEW?"

The Plane

A cow's hide found
her way to be a
seat on an airplane

comforting the bodies
of humans flying
to and fro

for pleasure, profit
or grief.
From cows' heaven

moo moo watches
the big sky machine
carrying its karma

to exotic places
where grass has
been eaten by

little lawn machines
or turned to concrete
for cars and

even cattle
trucks going to
the slaughter house.

COMMENT: DO YOU BELIEVE IN COW HEAVEN? IS THE GRASS GREENER?

The Hypochondriac Goes to the Doctor

I go
to the doctor today
to inquire

about a obscure condition
that I've probably always had,
but have just noticed.

I suspect he'll tell me
about the 38 million
who have the same problem,

and that one just has
to live with it.
Unless, of course,

I want to try
some medicines
and surgical procedures

and trade one symptom
for another.
So he gets a pretty penny

for a few minutes with me,
and I get the satisfaction
of discovering that I'm mortal

and I can choose to
live with my body
the way it is,

or go to extreme measures
to turn it in for
another body

whose owner
will surely
have equally minute complaints.

PLEASE COMMENT: WHOSE BODY IS YOURS?

Study

The fly swishes
in my hair as I
wait to begin.

He hovers here
and there after
a full week of toil.

The man on
the other side
of the table

tries to understand
"the deepest wisdom
we've ever read."

The fly knows the taste
of the words
but is too busy to learn to read.

PLEASE COMMENT BELOW: WHY DO WE NOT REVERE THE COMMON HOUSE FLY WHO ALWAYS IS AUTHENTIC AND SPONTANEOUS?

Mouse

He called
to tell me
he had caught a mouse

and wondered what he
should do with it.
Where was it?

By the fireplace.
How big was it?
About two inches.

What should he do with it?
Is it a baby?
I don't know.

You could flush it
down the toilet,
but how about

letting it out
a block from your house.
Okay, thanks.

PLEASE COMMENT BELOW: WAS HE SHOWING COMPASSION BY SEPARATING THE MOUSE FROM IT'S MOTHER? WAS IT NICE TO THE FOLKS WHO LIVED A BLOCK AWAY TO LET IT GO BY THEIR HOUSES?

The Colony

As I step
off my porch,
I see a colony

of ants scurrying
around, with no
time to spare.

We wonder
if humanoids
are too busy,

until we
study these ants——
fine creatures,

as serious as could be,
working as if their
lives depended on it.

We take vacations,
sleep, and retire.
The ants only nap
sixteen minutes a day,

and for the rest of the time,
work, work, and work,

preparing their next
meal for themselves,
and their nieces and nephews.

PLEASE COMMENT BELOW: WHEN DO WE CALL THESE CREATURES OUR FRIENDS, AND WHEN DO WE PUT OUT THE ANT TRAPS?

Soup Kitchen

Classical music,
of the finest quality.
But afterwards,

a gluttonous reception.
Food galore,
with lines forming

at each table.
Are we that hungry
or that greedy

for sweets and
high fat treats
that lead us

to the grave like
the sirens on the
the rocks?

Are we products
of the great depression,
or the unholy holocaust,

never knowing
where our next meal
might come from,

or whether
it will be
at all?

PLEASE COMMENT, ANSWERING THIS QUESTION: AM I BEING TOO SENSITIVE ABOUT THE WAY EVERYONE EATS. IS THIS MY OBSESSION?

That Mighty Villian

How oft are
we frustrated?
When we are late and

the light won't turn green,
or we go to the gas pump
and wait for that woman

talking on her cell
to move her car
Or or or.

We expect better,
that life will go
like clockwork,

swiss clockwork,
that is, keeping
time so precisely

a second is not
lost. Yet we get sick
and injured, and we die,

always with a
surprise on
our face saying

"how could this
happen to me."
Perhaps

all these
seemingly catastrophic
events are not

that mighty villain,
but actually
the stuff of life.

The Runaway Book

How many times
in one day
do we lose

a good friend
only to find her
moments later?

We set down a book
and can't remember where.
We search and search all

the obvious places
and she is not
to be found.

We nervously zoom
though the house,
in a somewhat frenzy,

wondering if the runaway book
might have walked off
on her own.

We hold our breathe,
not wanting to waste time
as we run up the stairs

to check the bed stand.
And then back downstairs
to check the living room, the dining room, the basement.

And even the dog bed.
"Where is that book,"
we wonder.

Just before giving up
and calling it a cruddy day,
we catch a glimse

of her frayed cover
under a magazine.

Is that the book?
We say a prayer,
lift the magazine,

adjust our focus,
and once again we take another breath.
She's back!

Dad's Golf Bag

The old canvas golf bag
collected dust bunnies
in our summer cottage

waiting for my father
to return from the
hot Chicago summer.

From time to time
I'd take out the
putter and

dig a hole in the backyard
and try to bear down
on the grip

focusing hard to sink
the one worn ball
that we had.

Each summer I'd ask my dad
if he had ever used
those clubs.

He'd say that he did
and that one summer
he'd go out again

with his archaic canvas bag
and that one single ball.
I never quite

believed him
but thought,
maybe someday,

I'd take the bag out myself
to those neatly trimmed
rolling hills.

The cottage and the clubs
are now only a faint memory.
My dad's ashes wait

for next summer
when it will be
just the right day

for his attempt at
that elusive
hole-in-one.

Is Anything Passive?

I look out
at an old chair
on our patio.

It has not
been moved
for a month, and

even through rain and wind storms,
it is stoic
and immobile.

Yet when I glance at her feet,
I see her holding on
for dear life,

to an earth
revolving around the sun,
a sun moving in a galaxy,

and a galaxy
floating in an expanding
universe.

Hummingbirds dart so quickly
that they perceive humans
as statutes.

I suspect they are moving
just a minuscule faster than my chair
or even a stone Buddha.

Relativity

Sometimes it takes
a lot more time
than we think.

Like getting the oil changed,
or saying goodbye
to a friend.

And sometimes
it takes exactly
the time we think,

like a sixty minute massage,
a fifty minute class.
or even a half-second tooth x ray.

Someone asked me
if the night
seemed longer than the day,

and I said no,
for me
it was the other way around.

Our lives seem long
when we meet an insect
that will only live for a day,

and short compared to how long
there has been
life on earth.

And a mere flash in the pan
compared to
the age of the universe,

or even how long ago
was that special moment
when Adam and Eve

took that delicious bite
from the
apple of life.

The Nonmask

I wear a mask.
My being, hidden from you,
is also hidden from me.

You see a
thin exterior,
and I see

you looking at
the me
that we both

know is not really me
and not you,
but a stranger to both of us.

I smile, or laugh,
or frown,
or so you say,

but is that me or
the multitude of my faces
seducing me into thinking that is me?

I don’t need another mask
to hide this mask
that is so very hard to remove.

Ben's Bday

Ben turning 50,
a legendary event
for a guy who always
gives 100 and raises
the bar for the rest of us.

Selflessly the caretaker
of gardens, trees, and a
wife who wants to
change the world
yesterday.

Life demands diligent
work for exquisite beauty
and everlasting love to occur.
Ben does that work
every long day of
his life.

Dangling Conversation

Well, that’s the second miracle of the day.

What?

I never saw those stairs, and I’ve been to this restaurant many times. Three miracles make me a saint, right?

No, after two miracles you vaporize.

Well, I don’t want to do that. Aren’t you interested in the first miracle?

Is it about the cat that knows when people are going to die?

That cat really is amazing. She was cited in the New England Journal of Medicine. And that’s a reputable study.

Yea, he knew within 4 hours when 12 people were going to die and he’d keep them warm.

It was many more than 12. Maybe 48.

Does anyone want to know about the miracle?

Oh, it wasn’t the cat. Here comes Carolyn. I think Janice is out of town.

I think it is time to go inside. It is awfully muggy today.

Yea, let’s go inside.

But what about my miracle, isn’t anyone interested?

Ok, tell us about your miracle.

Oh, it was the stairs.

No, no, it isn’t the stairs. That was the second miracle. My dog Zooey killed a rabbit.

Why is that a miracle? My dog kills rabbits too.

Wait, you haven’t heard the story. My wife and I were on the phone with our son. It was time to exercise, so I walked around the driveway 1000 times while we talked to him. Then I saw Zooey kill the rabbit. I called the dog and she dropped the little critter. The rabbit was bleeding from the belly, and after a few feeble gestures stopped moving altogether. She was listless.

I told my son and wife what had happened and that I didn’t know if the rabbit was dead.

My wife said what she does is hits it with a shovel and then buries it.

I didn’t say that, and I would never hit a rabbit with a shovel. I dug the hole with the shovel.

Well, I thought you said that. But I decided that I’d first dig the hole and then pick up the rabbit with the shovel. So I did.

So what’s the miracle? That you dug a hole?

No! You’ll just have to listen.

But I never would hit a rabbit with a shovel.

Ok, so I heard you wrong. I dug the hole and then came back to the rabbit.

The dead rabbit?

Yes, the rabbit was as dead as a doornail. It wasn’t moving and was lying down in a lifeless position.

And what did you do? Hit it with the shovel?

No, I just gently scooped it up with the shovel.

And that’s a miracle?

No, but when the shovel touched the rabbit he ran off into the bushes.

Must have been unconscious?

Or maybe in shock?

Now what was the miracle?

That he came alive!

Oh. Here comes Janice.

I thought she was on vacation. You don’t think it’s a miracle when a dead rabbit comes back to life?

No. Must have been in shock.

Saturday and a Question about War and Peace

After today I have sixteen Saturdays left before I retire. Or maybe fifteen, if you don't count the last one, since I'm not working that day.

All week I've been getting up earlier and earlier to make sure I get some writing done before school. And I've been telling people that when I retired I was going to get up even earlier.

And then the crash came. I slept until eight, and then laid in bed and watched a movie about Caesar and Rome and Paul. Paul was an advocate for peace and Caesar was an advocate for war. Caesar fell in love with a woman and, rather than winning her over with kind words and flowers, wanted to "own" her as a slave.

Yesterday a supervisor was lamenting that so many of his employees were at war. Another was lamenting that we have a "them and us" mentality. Even with the Gideons putting a book about peace in every hotel room, and even with some of the worst offenders going to church each Sunday, we still fight to the death to main our territories and our prides.

My college has twice the number of students in Criminal Justice than we do in Teacher Education. Yet most of us know that education is the means to keep people out of the criminal justice system (i.e. jail). As in Caesar's time, more choose to fight than to be an agents of peace like Paul.

Why?

Ideas, Digestion, and Garlic

All day long I think of ideas for the next blog. I try to write them down, but often they fleet out of my mind as quickly as they appear.

And yet, it is against my rules to look back at my list for an idea. The list is just a safety net. Suppose I wake up one morning without an idea. All I would have to do is to check my list and pick one of the ideas.

I could write about my rules, i.e. the fact that I make rules (perhaps some brand of mild autism) so that I don't have to make choices about the little things in life...like what to eat.

Or I could write about being lost. I was talking with a friend yesterday that I'd rather be lost than found. Someone asked (trying to be friendly) if I was lost, and could they help me? I replied that I'd rather be lost. For me, it is the process of finding one's way that makes life exciting. Who wants to be told how the book ends?

But instead I want to write about digestion. Or maybe about garlic. Both of these are not proper subjects for discussion. For me, the more garlic I eat the less I sleep. When I go to a dinner I ask for a vegan or vegetarian selection. Chefs must be trained to think that garlic is a favorite among vegetarians. And unfortunately, most of the recipes in vegetarian cookbooks contain garlic, by the cloves. And most of the vegetarian selections at Whole Foods have garlic. Buddhists do not eat garlic (or onions). Why don't we listen to them?

Remember, though, that I'm not going to write about garlic either. My wife doesn't like it when I eat garlic, and this is her computer, so I have to honor her wishes.

It is digestion that interests me. It is digestion as a metaphor for how we process experience. And it is digestion as one of those very elemental processes (like sex) that we should only mention to our very best of friends.

Except, that is, if your parents were psychoanalyzed by a Freudian. Then it is fine to make reference to the entire eating process, and since eating is really sublimated sex, the only subject we really can talk about (either directly, or by inference) is sex.

Hey wait, this was going to be about digestion. A friend used the word "digestion" in the sentence "art is good for the soul and the digestion" and her friend thought she shouldn't have used the "d" word. I suspect her friend's parents are not psychologists, so she doesn't quite understand how the word was used. These "bodily" processes are for some the elephant in the room. We all know they are there, but we should never mention them.

I took someone to see some drawings I am exhibiting. They immediately were taken aback because the figures were sexual beings. At an attempt to explain, I told him that we were all made that way (with sex).

One of my creative writing teachers in college told me that I needed to get rid of the toilet paper. I never asked him what he meant, because I understood that this was more about him and the fact his parents weren't Freudians.

The challenges remain. How do I tell the host that I eat everything except food with eyes, cheese, wheat, eggs, sugar, onions, and garlic without seeming a little bit overbearing and obnoxious? And, in a world of non-Freudians, how can I mention words (or images) about digestion and sex without making the reader a little (or a lot) uncomfortable?

Continuum

Photographers (my mindset) have a special affinity for grays. That is, photographers raised in the black and white tradition abhor pictures with too much contrast because they lack in detail. We never really meant black and white as the only tones. In fact, when there is excessive contrast we take the appropriate measures to lower the contrast (add a fill light, reduce the development, etc.).

Yes and no are parallel in many ways to black and white. I'm not sure if yes should always be associated with one or the other. In the question, should we be in Iraq? (one of my proposed topics for the day), yes may be black (we fight until one side is dead) and no may be white (we leave, the smoke clears, and the sun shines brightly).

One of the problems with yes or no is that it polarizes two people in a debate. One says yes, and another says no, and neither acknowledges that gray (somewhat, maybe, sometimes, often, etc.) is probably a much better answer. Often I'm asked a "yes/no" question, and I give a maybe answer. I'll say that "I'll look into that" or "we'll see" or even "that's a good idea." Then the requester will go away thinking the answer was yes, and all sorts of confusion and disappointment may ensue.

Will John Edwards be a good candidate for the Republicans? He'd probably be better that the dumber of my two dogs, and he'd probably be worse than an ideal candidate that we might imagine. So why don't we ask "how good will he be" or "how bad"? Photographers speak of high key (predominately white) and low key (predominately black) images. Suppose the debate became more about the tones of gray rather than about black or white?

Even such seemingly absolutes like marriage are continuums. We know of people who are "married" to the extent that they hold a license and occasionally go out to dinner. And there are others you can not imagine life without the other person and desire a simultaneous death should the other decease. When we get down to our knees, perhaps we should be asking, "how much will you marry me?" Marriages all end up as a range of tones (perhaps high or low key), though we often don't discuss "what kind of marriage" from the start.

I believe that compromise and continuums may not be good friends. Compromise comes from black and white and often comes with disappointment. It is not always the win win that it is touted to be. Instead of saying, should I work today? should we say, "how much should I work today?"

Is this now the end of this defense of the gray scale? Maybe, somewhat, close, yes, for now.

The Problem With Awards

"Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne'er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need." (Emily Dickenson)

Though I grew up in a privileged world, we didn't have many awards ceremonies. I was in the Boy Scouts for a short time and remember going to an Order of the Arrow ceremony, but that was it. I believe that the prevailing philosophy was two fold: 1) that our accomplishments were minimal and 2) that the "reason" for learning was the joy of the process and not for the awards.

When my kids were growing up, I noticed a shift. There were awards everywhere. Kids would get awards for going to award ceremonies. And they (and their parents) seem to buy these accomplishments as milestones in their lives.

One of my teachers used to tell the story that when he was young he won a number of blue ribbons in an art exhibit. His teacher came up to him and said, "remember, you're paintings are never be any bigger than you are."

I called up this teacher one day when I was a hotshot senior in college and complained, upon submitting my work to some art competitions, that I had received a number of rejections. He brilliantly answered, "you must not be any good." That was the last time I complained about not getting an award.

There was a study done a few years ago about the self-esteem of students versus their chances of success in school. It was found that Asians had the lowest self-esteem but the greatest chance of success...and Americans the opposite.

A pet peeve of mine is that the award ceremony often focuses on the individual and not on their accomplishments. I like it when the MC tells what this person did to achieve such divine status. And not that their accomplishment is that they survived for 30 years. Awards should be for more than longevity.

My grandson learned to crawl yesterday and was able to investigate a silver ball in the corner of the room that he has eyed for his entire life. His award is that he gets to touch the ball and explore his own image in it. But suppose his parents pick him up and congratulate him for his accomplishment. Then will he start to explore for parental approval? And suppose he is an adolescent and wants parental disapproval. Is he going to then start on negative behavior?

Grades (especially inflated grades) are part of this culture of awards. Not once has a student said that they deserve an "A" because they've learned so much. Instead they argue that the teacher didn't give them the questions in advance, or that the teacher came late to class, or that someone else got an A so they should as well.

We just had the academy awards. Did any movie become better or worse because of the award(s) it did or didn't get? Of course not.

Another problem with awards is the way that it puts one's accomplishments above others. We achieve in so many ways, that sometimes we think less of ourselves because we didn't do as well in what someone else believes deems most important.

I remember how I squirmed when my great niece (who is truly great) told me that she was the second or third smartest kid in her class. How are these kids being rated and what damage is being done? Don't their teachers realize that we are all good (and bad) at different activities. And that the "story is not over until the end."

Well, to all those who received an award yesterday. Please put it away in the back of your deepest closet and today crawl toward that silver ball just because you want to see the funny little kid reflected in its shiny surface.

Boundaries

"Setting boundaries is not a more sophisticated way of manipulation - although some people will say they are setting boundaries, when in fact they are attempting to manipulate. The difference between setting a boundary in a healthy way and manipulating is: when we set a boundary we let go of the outcome." (Robert Burney)

One of my favorite teachers used to describe space as being a variation of densities. There are no real edges to objects because molecules fly in to and out of objects at all times. These molecules do not just fly out a few inches or feet, but actually reach to the edges of the universe.

In order to move through the universe we need room or we will start exchanging molecules with other dense objects. And everywhere there are molecules (parts of our self, so to speak), so we can only bump into parts of ourselves.

Be that as it may, we do feel crowded when others are on top of us, either physically or mentally. Setting boundaries ranges from the octopus hiding in a cloud of ink to someone telling their mate that they'd like to have a few minutes alone in the morning when they wake up.

The expression "don't cross me" doesn't exactly refer to boundaries, but does infer that one desires to go down a specific path without any obstructions.

Some people fall apart when we get too close to them. They get angry and make us the culprit, even though they are the ones who create the discomfort (in their own minds). Others, when crowded, can simply move away a little, or ask another for a little more space.

What are boundaries made of? Are they lead, or are they "ether (believed at one time to be the common matter of space)?" How can we move from having lead boundaries (that no one can cross or see through, to transparent ether boundaries? If we are all congregated masses of the same thing then having bullet proof boundaries make less sense. We are open because we are everything. Everything embraces us because we are everything.

Denying this doesn't accomplish much more than the ostrich does by putting their head in the sand.

Conflict

Making choices are internal conflicts. I'm speaking here about external conflicts. Are they a proof for the validity of post-modernism, i.e. that there are different ways of perceiving a situation?

Often conflicts seem to be power struggles. Someone is in a position of power over another and the other does not like how they are being treated. The "worker" feels that they are being pushed around. They feel that the "boss" (as in dean, teacher, supervisor) is abusing their power, and/or not listening to them. For example, the boss says "sit down" and the worker says "there is a scorpion on my chair." Each comes to the situation with a different perspective, and with different information. The worker wants to explain. The boss wants to get started with the class, the job, etc. Then the worker gets loud., "but there is a scorpion on my chair!" The boss is focused on his/her job, so he gets agitated and tells the worker to be quiet and sit down. He says "it is just a small scorpion, and what am I paying you for anyway?" Or maybe he will chastise the worker, asking if they have read the "rights and responsibilities of the worker" or maybe a union resolution. Neither party has much respect for each other, and neither is listening to the other's viewpoint.

Some say that the internal conflicts in Iraq are not about religion but about land. Everyone wants their fair share. Again, from a post-modern perspective, each is viewing the situation differently. They may spend more in resources (including lives) than they would to agree on a compromise. They illustrate the saying, "you'd rather be right than alive." And religion does play a role here. We tend to stick together with our own kind. When an outside aggressor shows his/her fangs, we identify even further with our own people. We grow up learning the difference between "us and them." And whenever "them" steps out of line, we take up arms. Many die, many are injured, and love is squelched.

I love the story about the blind man and the man without legs who lived in a forest. They argued continually until a fire started to sweep through the forest. Then they joined ranks and fled, taking advantage of the blind man's legs and the other man's eyes. For me, how we move from conflict to interdependence is the key. Perhaps as we align goals (like getting out of the forest, learning, making a profit) we can start to see that cooperation will only benefit both parties.

Literacy, Social Justice, and Privilege

Travis commented in the post about Paula Hoffman that literacy, social justice, and privilege may be mutually inclusive or exclusive.

Wikopedia gives a common definition of literacy, though some say that it is not the tools commonly referred to (reading and writing), but it is using these tools to understand oneself and his/her world (which, in a post-modern sense, is not the same as "the world" (which probably is meaningless)). Tomorrow I will sit in the middle of a dispute of two parties, both of whom believe their perception of the situation is correct. Is one more literate (and correct) than the other because they are the teacher and have multiple higher degrees? Or is one more literate because they have not grown up with "privilege" and they understand what it means to be disenfranchised? I would maintain that there are different literacies and that the most we can do is to try to understand each other's.

Social Justice plays into the mix because some believe "it is not fair" that some have privilege and others don't. Social Justice seems to be an effort to reduce or eliminate the gap between the haves and the have nots. One of my friends thinks that it is sinful that CEOs get paid 6000 times more than their workers. Social Justice, for him, would be to figure out a way to not pay these SOBs (his words, not mine) so much.

The concept of privilege seems to have come from the French Revolution where some wanted to abolish privilege, i.e. laws that were applied to one group and not another. We still have many privileges (and privileged people) in our society even though the many laws that legalize the injustices are gone. Some can take a walk around the block at night in safety and others cannot. Some can pay George Washington University $50000 a year for an education, and others cannot. And some say that it is not fair that we have so much discrepancy. And others, like the Nobel Prize winner Gary Becker, says that without these discrepancies there would be no incentives for the have nots to get educated and improve themselves. Is it social justice that the privileged have more opportunity to improve themselves?

One can make the argument that everyone is literate, but that some literacies don't avail the opportunities of the privileged, and that social justice is the idea that we need to equalize the playing field so that all have an opportunity to succeed. Should we pay the CEO less and/or pay the coal miner more? Should we provide health care for everyone? And great housing? And transportation? And incentives, as well?

I don't know.

Old Friends

Went last night to two art openings at Webster University. To be honest, I went to one, and then discovered that a second was also going on.

Martin Schweig has a retrospective show chronicling his long love affair with photography. Martin ran a photo studio and gallery since the 1950s. It was one of the few galleries in St. Louis at one time, and the only one at some point that focused (a pun) on photography. I showed there, along with many who were at the opening. So it became a kind of reunion, since many of us had a common heritage.

Martin not only loves photography, but loves traveling and animals. All this comes through in his well-seen and beautifully crafted images. He is not a modernist. His work is a tribute to many photographers, and to a medium that has now been changing because of both new technologies, theoretical constructs, and painters who leaped on the bandwagon. And we see in his photographs his tremendous enthusiasm for the world, from the animal kingdom to delightful images from many parts of the globe.

In the good old days Art (I'm capitalizing Art as some capitalize G_d) photography was just an ugly stepchild and no one sold photographs and if they did, it was for nothing. You did photography because you cared about it, and you didn't care what it would give back to you in terms of fame and fortune. Photographers stuck together because they understood each other, and they trusted each other, and they spoke the same language. Martin did make a livelyhood as a portrait photographer, and he was one of the best. But the majority of the exhibition is the other kind of photography. The kind that you'd do for one reason: that you are addicted to a well-crafted photographic image.

Before I leave Martin and the opening/reunion, I wanted to speak about old friends...childhood friends. With some, the connection is as strong as it ever was, and with others, well, life goes on and we change. The hard part is when it changes for one party and not for the other.

I dreamt last night about one old friend from college who was a great inspiration because of his thirst for learning. His Achilles heel was that he was a sociopath and ended up, after getting a PhD in computer science, in prison. I do web searches for him occasionally, and can't find him (especially hard because he has a common name). Maybe he'll contact me some day like he did in my dream.

In the dream he had popped up in my life, and I was very glad to see him. He looked great and appeared to be on the straight and narrow. I wanted to take him to Chicago so he could see a friend there that was also very close to him.

The second exhibit in the art building was the work of four French artists.

I grew up in art believing that almost all good contemporary Art is done in America, and have since learned how stupid is that perception. Still, I continue to be a little surprised when I see well-conceived and executed (and inspiring) work from other countries.

My travels to Italy, and somewhat to England, suggested that there is a lot more honor given to the past (and to religion) than to contemporary art and thought. It is refreshing to see artists, such as in the Webster show, who are willing to snub their noses a little on their traditional icons and artists.

Art Openings

"In the room the women come and go,
Talking of Michelangelo." (T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock)

Imagining that the world exists on a small coffee table in the middle of a room, I was wondering the other day about where I hang out.

Someone accused me of experiencing life vicariously. As a youth, I identified with Colin Wilson's Outsider, who "cannot live in the comfortable insulated world of the bourgeois, accepting what he sees and touches as reality." Perhaps because I felt socially awkward, I slung a camera around my neck and watched people like a fly on the wall. I secretly envied those who were part of life, able to lose themselves in the ambiance of the moment.

Art itself is a vicarious experience (with Jackson Pollack as an exception). In college a therapist told me that I used photography to avoid the intimacy of life (my words). I laughed but realize forty years later that he had a good point.

I suspect that mindfullness (in Buddhism, the practice of being here) really refers to both time and space. Have I ever been anywhere where I've supposed to be? Someone asked me yesterday how I can stand to be in a 4 hours meeting about I subject I have no interest. Maybe I do that by being somewhere else.

I never felt that I had a real job until now. Teaching others how to look on and analyze, rather than be, seemed like play.

I shed the camera a few years ago with the idea that I would go the middle of the room and lose myself in the moment. Yet, I'm still at the edge, even with the idea that I'm watching myself being on the edge. I'm aware of my awareness, and sometimes overwhelmed by it.

I remember a review in the NY Review of Books where the reviewer claimed that the book failed because she (as the reader) got engrossed in the story. What greater pleasure could there be? Is this a failure or success for the author?

I wanted to write this about art openings. I have, in a sense. Last night I was at the edge of an opening, looking on. It wasn't my opening anymore. I am leaving the institution and no longer feel part of the department that hosted the event. And there were lots of young kids. I sometimes feel with young kids that I've been away a long time from Earth and now my spaceship has returned and lots of changes have occurred.

I can't get over how smooth everyone's skin looks when they are young.

What shall we do tomorrow? What shall we ever do?

Flipping a coin is not as rational as playing Stephen Covey's game of creating a personal mission and selecting a choice that will best fulfill that mission. This process seems logical enough, but also might lead to great unhappiness. We could end up living our lives "in quiet desperation" instead of ecstatic happiness and fulfillment. We might marry for money instead of love.

One of my favorite artists, David McManaway, started out making paintings (he believed this is what "artists" should be doing). When he was bored with paintings he would start combining found objects at the side of his studio. Soon he found that all he wanted to do was his "jomos" (as he called them). Now, 50+ years later, he's had a productive and creative life (and I suspect, he rarely has been bored). And he still doesn't do any paintings.

One reason we may pick the wrong choice is because we are attached to the people and places that we know. One of my sisters told me of an article she read about how we need to grieve when we choose the "road not taken." Yes, it is sad to change or leave, and that loss does not magically go away when you turn our backs on where we were (and loved) and what we've done. Sometimes we just need to embrace our past and kiss it goodbye.

End-of-Course Tests in High School

I'm curious to what degree (in practice) the score on these tests (see article below) will be the final grade. Given enough time, the government will completely control every aspect of education.

1) They take the citizens' money.

2) They pass laws for mandatory education.

3) They pass laws on how that education will occur.

4) Then they progressively tax those who do well in their education (assuming those people will have higher lifetime earnings).

5) And they wonder why Johnny can't read.

Would we have any greater illiteracy if education was not mandatory?

Kim

Vol. 41, No. 11
February 20, 2007
State Board of Education Approves
End-of-Course Tests in High School

The State Board of Education has given the green light to replacing the current MAP tests for high school students with a slate of “end-of-course” exams that will be required in all public schools starting in 2008-09.

During its meeting in Jefferson City last week (Feb. 16), the board approved a recommendation by Commissioner of Education D. Kent King to move forward with replacing the current Missouri Assessment Program (MAP) tests which have been mandatory for high school students (grades 10 and 11) for nearly a decade.

While many details remain to be worked out, the board’s action gives the Department of Elementary and Secondary Education the go-ahead to develop statewide “final exams” for algebra I, English II and biology.

State education officials also hope to create end-of-course exams for other classes such as government and American history, geometry, English I, physical science and chemistry. Exams for these subjects will not be available until 2010, at the earliest.

“We have been talking about possible changes in our high school testing program for more than two years, and it is time to move ahead. This plan offers positive changes for students, teachers, parents and schools,” said Stan Johnson, assistant commissioner of the Department of Elementary and Secondary Education.

The State Board of Education previously considered, but ultimately rejected, a proposal to adopt a college-entry exam, such as the ACT, as a requirement for all high school students.

The most frequent criticism of the MAP tests in high school is that they have no consequences for students, Johnson said.

“We believe that end-of-course exams will be more relevant and meaningful for students. Schools will receive the results from these exams quickly, and teachers will be able to use the scores in determining students’ final grades. This will make a difference in how most students approach the tests,” he said.

Good Day, Bad Day

Two days ago (President's day...no work) was a "blessed" day. I finished up a variety of tasks and cleaned my desk. The sun shined brightly and melted the snow. I pulled out of the hardware store, went through a yellow light turning red, saw a cop behind me, noticed it was dark and didn't have my lights on, and then saw the cop pass by me for a bigger fish.

Yesterday (a work day) was one of those three strikes days. People disagreed with my decisions, didn't respond to complaints, and gave wrong directions to others. And I had to listen to way too many complaints.

So what is it that makes two days seem so different? Is someone deciding what is going to happen? Is it me?

Advice: Don't Blog

My best friend told me I shouldn't blog because my thoughts are ridiculous (my word, not hers).

Luckily I learned from a teacher in college, "listen to everyone and believe no one."

I do like to challenge any existing belief, including hers. I'd rather discover that I was wrong after exploring the opposite viewpoint than blindly accept a commonly accepted belief.

An example: she mops the floor in her studio so often that all the tiles are popping up. I wanted to get some liquid nail and glue those suckers down, even if they are brittle and curled at the edges.

Finally I went last night to the hardware store for a second opinion. Steve, who is a manager there and knows everything, said that I need to give up the idea. To remove the liquid nail will entail destroying the sub floor, and the tiles will never straighten out.

So what was to become a very elegant solution will now become another expensive solution: a new floor.

At least this ridiculous idea was squelched in time!