Like everything else in this modern era, language changes as quickly as a drag car blasts from starting line to finish. As soon as words are invented, they assume a grammatical form that is subject to instant change. I realized this around the time google mutated from a noun to a verb, as demonstrated by a financial expert appearing on the Today show with the advice, "Google for coupons."
Some usage purists rail against this linguistic looseness, this sudden twisting of a noun into a verb. Changes in language, though, should not surprise us in a world whose rate of change has sped up so much that everyday life feels like a ride on a demented merry-go-round. Language purists like to keep rhetorical matters static; in a very immediate, comfortable sense, words are tradition. They are our treasured representations of a sometimes arbitrary existence; they help us fit into an unpredictable world. It is natural to resist new idioms and absurd colloquialisms that roll in with new generations of people.
This desire for continuity, though, ignores the elastic and inclusive history of the English language. An objective look at the ability of this language to absorb native vocabulary from all the places it inhabits without creating a sense that something has been destroyed or hopelessly altered renders the cause of language purity quixotic at best and insular at worst.
The latest change seems to be toward minimalism. When I exclaim "OMG" to an absurd student or "ROTFL" to a funny person, they are increasingly likely to know what I'm saying. I suspect these minimalist utterances will go the way of all cliches, so I don't worry too much. English has survived, grown, expanded for more than a millennium, and it does not seem truly endangered by any outside force. If you don't believe me, then google it: "history of the English language."
Copyright 2007 Charlotte Browneyes
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Sunday, May 20, 2007
The Umpire Who Cared
Originally written on May 12, 1999
It's softball season, and once again, a familiar pair of long braids appears on the field. They don't belong to a girl named Kristen or Megan or Shaqwayla or Kayla. They don't poke out of a cap worn by any of the girls in this league of nine-to-twelve year-olds. No. These braids belong to Betty, the time-honored, beloved umpire who has coached and umpired two generations of young adolescent girls through their softball years.
It's 6:15 in the evening. The day's intermittent drizzle irritates but does not seem to threaten plans for this 6:30 game. Maroon-clad EDDF players take the field. The opposing black-shirted Conservation Club batters chatter from the bench in their cement shelter. Betty begins the game, and as the first inning plods along through young and variously skilled batters, the drizzle intensifies. Some parents huddle under the snack stand's skimpy overhang; a few tough it out on the bleachers, hoping the downpour will slacken, while others pop their umbrellas up.
Unfazed by the rain, Betty continues doing what Betty does well. Keeping meticulous and explicit count, she uses her left and right hand to display her called balls and strikes. She crouches higher and lower fluidly in response to the wildly varied heights of these young athletes. No complaint is ever heard about a call. None are heard about playing in the rain either, implying a concentration of trust in Betty's ability to know when enough is enough. Her continuing the game is vindicated; the downpour stops and the clouds break. The game proceeds through sluggers and rusty gates and erratic baserunning. Betty reaches into the bulging blue pouch strapped to her gray trousers as if to check the supply of balls. Suddenly she espies a stray ball in right field and holds up her hands to halt the game; it waits for the fielder to toss the ball in. Then she signals for play to resume.
Like most umpires, Betty performs her duty with quiet, business-like, blue-and-gray authority. She is distinguished, however, by flourishes that are part parent, part teacher, part mentor. Over and over, she uses her authority to add meaning and learning to this softball experience. One batter takes a stance too far from the plate; Betty stands behind the girl, places her grip over the girl's, and nudges the batter forward. She is speaking quietly to the player, probably delivering a verbal message that matches the kinesthetic one. "Save the lessons for nice weather," one soggy parent grumbles. Overwhelmingly, however, public opinion expresses an appreciation for Betty's efforts that legislates against this parent's complaint.
In this league, stealing bases will be allowed this year. A runner takes the initiative and charges toward home plate. Assessing the batter's oblivion toward this development, Betty lifts the batter up and deposits her on the ground beside the baseline just as the runner stampedes across the plate. Partisan cheers greet the runner's score-boosting maneuver while Betty speaks calmly to the batter, points toward third base, and then points down to the area around the plate and base path. The batter steps forward and takes her stance, and the game goes on.
The contest remains tight. Caroline walks her first time up, strikes out on the second at-bat, then finally gets to third on an overthrown ball that she'd hit right to the pitcher's mound. A quick runner, she steals home amid a fanfare of cheering from the Con Club side. This proves to be a pivotal moment in this see-sawing game, a moment that will help the Con Club pull ahead this inning even though it will eventually lose the game by one run. Jenna is catching for the Con Club. Despite her facile motions and quick throws, she exemplifies the need for all players to keep learning. Betty calls a time out. She bends over Jenna's feet and ties her right shoe. During a subsequent inning, she stops a batter on her way to the batter's box, straightening the helmet on the batter's head. A fresh observer may wonder why Betty does these little deeds instead of commanding the players to do them, but the answer can be found in the gently delivered words that tell the players why she is making these adjustments. "For your safety, always make sure your helmet is on right," one could imagine Betty saying.
It is not just batters who glean lessons from the umpire; it is fielders too. Betty will stop the game and leave her position behind the catcher to guide the third base fielder through a lesson in fielding grounders. Hardly anyone protests these time-consuming moments, not even the coaches, who have been exhorting better fielding since practices began six weeks previously. Betty never raises her voice. She appears immune to the heartbreak of parents whose daughters throw a wild pitch or overthrow a base or swing too late or suicidally try to steal a base without the green light from a base coach.
Betty's lessons are clear, quick, and kind. Some families, like the Mackowiaks, have brought four daughters through these lessons. It is taken for granted that there will be lessons. That is only part of the story of how Betty has garnered so much community respect, however. The other piece of the puzzle, the piece that locals take for granted but love to talk about, is Betty's record- setting appearance in the national youth sports arena. She was the first woman to serve as an umpire in the Little League World Series. Perhaps that accomplishment more than anything is the impetus that makes Betty's lessons welcome when they could be irksome, respected rather than time-wasting. It helps, though, that she is viewed as consistent. She is always fair, parents say. Her judgment is impeccable. Nobody argues with this ump. Looking like everyone's sister--about five-eight, athletically thin with just a slight middle-aged paunch and the beginnings of crow's feet--she commands the field as surely as any bellowing, bulky man could. With two daughters--one grown and the other in high school--she is easy for parents to relate to.
After the game, Betty will do what she always does. She will make sure all the equipment, bases included, is put back in the equipment room. She will supervise the clean-up and accounting of the snack stand. She will make sure the snack stand window is rolled down and fastened and that the equipment room is locked up. Once everything is secure, she will be the last to leave the field. Another game down. Another good experience for young people. All secure so this experience can happen again and again. Betty is a lion of a woman in this community. But she comports herself in accord with the unavoidable truth that even for lions, there is a bigger cause, a bigger purpose. For her, that is to make the game fun and accessible and a growth experience for kids. This lion never roars, but she definitely rules.
It's softball season, and once again, a familiar pair of long braids appears on the field. They don't belong to a girl named Kristen or Megan or Shaqwayla or Kayla. They don't poke out of a cap worn by any of the girls in this league of nine-to-twelve year-olds. No. These braids belong to Betty, the time-honored, beloved umpire who has coached and umpired two generations of young adolescent girls through their softball years.
It's 6:15 in the evening. The day's intermittent drizzle irritates but does not seem to threaten plans for this 6:30 game. Maroon-clad EDDF players take the field. The opposing black-shirted Conservation Club batters chatter from the bench in their cement shelter. Betty begins the game, and as the first inning plods along through young and variously skilled batters, the drizzle intensifies. Some parents huddle under the snack stand's skimpy overhang; a few tough it out on the bleachers, hoping the downpour will slacken, while others pop their umbrellas up.
Unfazed by the rain, Betty continues doing what Betty does well. Keeping meticulous and explicit count, she uses her left and right hand to display her called balls and strikes. She crouches higher and lower fluidly in response to the wildly varied heights of these young athletes. No complaint is ever heard about a call. None are heard about playing in the rain either, implying a concentration of trust in Betty's ability to know when enough is enough. Her continuing the game is vindicated; the downpour stops and the clouds break. The game proceeds through sluggers and rusty gates and erratic baserunning. Betty reaches into the bulging blue pouch strapped to her gray trousers as if to check the supply of balls. Suddenly she espies a stray ball in right field and holds up her hands to halt the game; it waits for the fielder to toss the ball in. Then she signals for play to resume.
Like most umpires, Betty performs her duty with quiet, business-like, blue-and-gray authority. She is distinguished, however, by flourishes that are part parent, part teacher, part mentor. Over and over, she uses her authority to add meaning and learning to this softball experience. One batter takes a stance too far from the plate; Betty stands behind the girl, places her grip over the girl's, and nudges the batter forward. She is speaking quietly to the player, probably delivering a verbal message that matches the kinesthetic one. "Save the lessons for nice weather," one soggy parent grumbles. Overwhelmingly, however, public opinion expresses an appreciation for Betty's efforts that legislates against this parent's complaint.
In this league, stealing bases will be allowed this year. A runner takes the initiative and charges toward home plate. Assessing the batter's oblivion toward this development, Betty lifts the batter up and deposits her on the ground beside the baseline just as the runner stampedes across the plate. Partisan cheers greet the runner's score-boosting maneuver while Betty speaks calmly to the batter, points toward third base, and then points down to the area around the plate and base path. The batter steps forward and takes her stance, and the game goes on.
The contest remains tight. Caroline walks her first time up, strikes out on the second at-bat, then finally gets to third on an overthrown ball that she'd hit right to the pitcher's mound. A quick runner, she steals home amid a fanfare of cheering from the Con Club side. This proves to be a pivotal moment in this see-sawing game, a moment that will help the Con Club pull ahead this inning even though it will eventually lose the game by one run. Jenna is catching for the Con Club. Despite her facile motions and quick throws, she exemplifies the need for all players to keep learning. Betty calls a time out. She bends over Jenna's feet and ties her right shoe. During a subsequent inning, she stops a batter on her way to the batter's box, straightening the helmet on the batter's head. A fresh observer may wonder why Betty does these little deeds instead of commanding the players to do them, but the answer can be found in the gently delivered words that tell the players why she is making these adjustments. "For your safety, always make sure your helmet is on right," one could imagine Betty saying.
It is not just batters who glean lessons from the umpire; it is fielders too. Betty will stop the game and leave her position behind the catcher to guide the third base fielder through a lesson in fielding grounders. Hardly anyone protests these time-consuming moments, not even the coaches, who have been exhorting better fielding since practices began six weeks previously. Betty never raises her voice. She appears immune to the heartbreak of parents whose daughters throw a wild pitch or overthrow a base or swing too late or suicidally try to steal a base without the green light from a base coach.
Betty's lessons are clear, quick, and kind. Some families, like the Mackowiaks, have brought four daughters through these lessons. It is taken for granted that there will be lessons. That is only part of the story of how Betty has garnered so much community respect, however. The other piece of the puzzle, the piece that locals take for granted but love to talk about, is Betty's record- setting appearance in the national youth sports arena. She was the first woman to serve as an umpire in the Little League World Series. Perhaps that accomplishment more than anything is the impetus that makes Betty's lessons welcome when they could be irksome, respected rather than time-wasting. It helps, though, that she is viewed as consistent. She is always fair, parents say. Her judgment is impeccable. Nobody argues with this ump. Looking like everyone's sister--about five-eight, athletically thin with just a slight middle-aged paunch and the beginnings of crow's feet--she commands the field as surely as any bellowing, bulky man could. With two daughters--one grown and the other in high school--she is easy for parents to relate to.
After the game, Betty will do what she always does. She will make sure all the equipment, bases included, is put back in the equipment room. She will supervise the clean-up and accounting of the snack stand. She will make sure the snack stand window is rolled down and fastened and that the equipment room is locked up. Once everything is secure, she will be the last to leave the field. Another game down. Another good experience for young people. All secure so this experience can happen again and again. Betty is a lion of a woman in this community. But she comports herself in accord with the unavoidable truth that even for lions, there is a bigger cause, a bigger purpose. For her, that is to make the game fun and accessible and a growth experience for kids. This lion never roars, but she definitely rules.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Nothing to do but pray
Our prayer bursts forth and it is a cry.
Our prayer bursts forth and it is a lament.
Our prayer travels on and on and it gathers itself into the prayers of all mothers of the earth.
Our prayer does not rest.
Our prayer bursts forth and it is a lament.
Our prayer travels on and on and it gathers itself into the prayers of all mothers of the earth.
Our prayer does not rest.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Spring de jure, Spring de facto
Spring is afoot; signs appear in expected places and unexpected ways, simultaneously.
The calendar puts this year's equinox at Wednesday, the 21st. The calendar gives us an official goodbye to winter. It also hearkens the return of baseball, with opening day in many cities as near as two-and-a-half weeks. The anticipation of grill smoke wafting through the air must wait only two months until those lazy May Sundays. The calendar, our favored timekeeper, offers us hope.
So too, without fanfare, does nature itself tease us with signs of spring, despite this weekend's blast of snow and cold that turned puddles into icy pedestrian danger zones. Two subsequent days' sunshine restores the glow of well-being, creating the illusion of warmth and an allusion to the recollected warmth of summer. Images of benignity manifest out of the snowscape created by Friday's blizzard, helping us anticipate the warmth to come. Shadows stretch across snowy lawns--penumbral chimneys and gnarled branches and angular, tilted walls. Songbirds chatter away their plans and preparations. Sunrise overcomes the wintry howl of wind; as the sun rises, groves cast mottled shadows across expanses of sparkling snow. A smile and a sigh of contentment at these sights and sounds help the soul slough off the gloom of winter's iron sky and iron grip.
Our vigil that holds warmth close and protects the light, our solicitous huddling together indoors, is nearly done. The turning of this great earth wheel subdues cold isolation. In our unique and varied ways, we can spend these next precious months celebrating our maypole dance.
The calendar puts this year's equinox at Wednesday, the 21st. The calendar gives us an official goodbye to winter. It also hearkens the return of baseball, with opening day in many cities as near as two-and-a-half weeks. The anticipation of grill smoke wafting through the air must wait only two months until those lazy May Sundays. The calendar, our favored timekeeper, offers us hope.
So too, without fanfare, does nature itself tease us with signs of spring, despite this weekend's blast of snow and cold that turned puddles into icy pedestrian danger zones. Two subsequent days' sunshine restores the glow of well-being, creating the illusion of warmth and an allusion to the recollected warmth of summer. Images of benignity manifest out of the snowscape created by Friday's blizzard, helping us anticipate the warmth to come. Shadows stretch across snowy lawns--penumbral chimneys and gnarled branches and angular, tilted walls. Songbirds chatter away their plans and preparations. Sunrise overcomes the wintry howl of wind; as the sun rises, groves cast mottled shadows across expanses of sparkling snow. A smile and a sigh of contentment at these sights and sounds help the soul slough off the gloom of winter's iron sky and iron grip.
Our vigil that holds warmth close and protects the light, our solicitous huddling together indoors, is nearly done. The turning of this great earth wheel subdues cold isolation. In our unique and varied ways, we can spend these next precious months celebrating our maypole dance.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Sylvia Browne in the Gym
Another snowstorm and frigid air too cold for breathing sent my workout indoors. I avoid the gym whenever I can get my two miles of walking done outdoors, with the sounds of songbirds floating through the air in warm weather and the crisp, mysterious snapping of limbs and branches cutting through the quiet of winter. But on a day like this, with sidewalks obliterated by snowfall and snowy roads packed down slick, I have to pay my $6 and hit the treadmill. Resigned to the neighboring treadmill circulating at a whiney 7 miles an hour and my own belt humming underfoot at a modest three-and-a-half, I was settling in to imagining myself somewhere beyond this room of two dozen angular, legless treadmills, climbers, bikes, and weight machines, most of them sitting like dormant Wellsian mechanical aliens. To my delight, the Montel show came on and it was one of his Sylvia Browne days. She was a breath of fresh air penetrating this overheated stale fitness room. She talked with members of the audience, causing smiles and surprises with every conversation. As I watched, I wondered what it is about mediums, especially rich and famous ones like Sylvia Browne and John Edward, that drives skeptics nuts.
Why are debunkers and skeptics so vehement in opposing a belief in life after death? I think they must start from the same premise most holders of a belief about anything do--I want the rest of the world to see things my way. The problem is that most skeptics I know, including the ones in my family, claim to not care what anyone believes and yet their "nonchalance" boils up whenever they hear the words "psychic" or "spirit." They bespeak tolerance while railing against belief and seem to reserve their greatest hortatory efforts for the outcasts from Christendom--gullible Spiritualists and "New Agers" who "fasten on" to anything trendy, pagan, Aquarian, and in particular, focused on communication with spirits. Skeptics never seem to want to listen; they only want to talk. If you say something they can't argue against or explain, they change the subject or leave the room. My favorite challenge to the challengers in my life is "What is consciousness? What happens to it, whatever 'it' is? And electromagnetic energy: you say the energy we generate simply dies when we do. Then how come electromagnetic energy from non-human sources goes on and on? Why is it only human energy that dies?" None of the amateur scientists in my family can cite me a scientist who has demonstrated, replicated, or explained the nature of consciousness. Nor can they explain the disappearance of energy in their scheme of things. So they respond by walking away or uttering some dismissive statement: "I don't care 'cuz I'll be dead."
Another favorite technique of the skeptic is to reiterate old, reliable, apothegmatic copouts. "What about the work of Dr. Gary Schwartz?" I ask, citing his work with mediums in controlled laboratory conditions that follow every piece of the time-honored scientific process. While he has not deciphered the riddles of consciousness, nor can prove the existence of spirits, he has to anyone's reasonable expectation proven that mediums have a significantly higher hit rate than non-mediums. For instance, non-mediums under controlled conditions may get lucky hits 20% of the time as opposed to the mediums' 75-90% success rate. The skeptics blame any work by mediums on "cold reading." Well, I explain, Dr. Schwartz has set up his experiments so that mediums and non-mediums have no contact whatsoever with the subjects: can't see them or hear them and don't know the subjects' ages, genders, or circumstances. At this point, instead of the "Gee, I don't know, but I'm a curious, thinking person, so I'll check into it" that you would expect, the response I actually get is "Well, I don't know, but I've never heard of him, and many more scientists than just one believe that we are just neural impulses and chemistry." Dust unto dust. Worm food. End of discussion.
Coupled with efforts to ignore or discredit mediums is an outright hostility against them. These rich mediums dupe people, I hear. They feed them pie-in-the-sky hope when there is absolutely no hope for life after death (which, of course, skeptics know because "scientists say so"). On top of that, mediums commit the worst sin of all--taking gullible people's money.
Well, OK, let's presume for a minute that the mediums are just frauds, preying on the hopes of the ignorant to aggrandize their own wealth and power. If that is so, then I want these all-knowing skeptics to really examine the life of such a person, the life of a fraud. What does it take to grow that kind of money? Well, first, you give up the comforts that come with anonymity and obscurity--the ability to eat out unmobbed, the freedom that comes with not carrying a papparazzi entourage, the right to owning a hand unfettered by an autographer's pen, the ability to have an answering machine that is most likely not spewing out death threats. Secondly, you give up time. Just take a look at the schedules of Sylvia Browne and John Edward; I'll bet they don't relax into their weekends like I do. Ah, the life of a celebrity--perhaps it has its rewards when you are adored by millions and suffer envy as the worst attack against you. Mediums, on the other hand, are reviled by a spectrum of people from professional doubters to closed-minded humanists to fundamentalist Christians. Sounds like a good time, doesn't it? How about a quick image to put it all in perspective: The Dalai Lama on the one hand, smiling and laughing in his simple clothes; the "frauds"--to carry the assumtion to its end--on the other, rolling in money and fame. Who is happier? I suspect, as many good-hearted skeptics do, that a Buddhist who expects little is happier than anyone in America who has gotten rich by taking advantage of people's spiritual needs. Wealth, power, and money afflict their own singular punishments. If the famous mediums are truly frauds, then they have exacted their own hidden sufferings upon their lives.
If, on the other hand, mediums are sincere and can truly bridge this world and the afterlife, then all the skeptics should revel in their message, which claims that the other side is powered by and filled with benevolence for all.
Either way, what is there to get so upset about?
Why are debunkers and skeptics so vehement in opposing a belief in life after death? I think they must start from the same premise most holders of a belief about anything do--I want the rest of the world to see things my way. The problem is that most skeptics I know, including the ones in my family, claim to not care what anyone believes and yet their "nonchalance" boils up whenever they hear the words "psychic" or "spirit." They bespeak tolerance while railing against belief and seem to reserve their greatest hortatory efforts for the outcasts from Christendom--gullible Spiritualists and "New Agers" who "fasten on" to anything trendy, pagan, Aquarian, and in particular, focused on communication with spirits. Skeptics never seem to want to listen; they only want to talk. If you say something they can't argue against or explain, they change the subject or leave the room. My favorite challenge to the challengers in my life is "What is consciousness? What happens to it, whatever 'it' is? And electromagnetic energy: you say the energy we generate simply dies when we do. Then how come electromagnetic energy from non-human sources goes on and on? Why is it only human energy that dies?" None of the amateur scientists in my family can cite me a scientist who has demonstrated, replicated, or explained the nature of consciousness. Nor can they explain the disappearance of energy in their scheme of things. So they respond by walking away or uttering some dismissive statement: "I don't care 'cuz I'll be dead."
Another favorite technique of the skeptic is to reiterate old, reliable, apothegmatic copouts. "What about the work of Dr. Gary Schwartz?" I ask, citing his work with mediums in controlled laboratory conditions that follow every piece of the time-honored scientific process. While he has not deciphered the riddles of consciousness, nor can prove the existence of spirits, he has to anyone's reasonable expectation proven that mediums have a significantly higher hit rate than non-mediums. For instance, non-mediums under controlled conditions may get lucky hits 20% of the time as opposed to the mediums' 75-90% success rate. The skeptics blame any work by mediums on "cold reading." Well, I explain, Dr. Schwartz has set up his experiments so that mediums and non-mediums have no contact whatsoever with the subjects: can't see them or hear them and don't know the subjects' ages, genders, or circumstances. At this point, instead of the "Gee, I don't know, but I'm a curious, thinking person, so I'll check into it" that you would expect, the response I actually get is "Well, I don't know, but I've never heard of him, and many more scientists than just one believe that we are just neural impulses and chemistry." Dust unto dust. Worm food. End of discussion.
Coupled with efforts to ignore or discredit mediums is an outright hostility against them. These rich mediums dupe people, I hear. They feed them pie-in-the-sky hope when there is absolutely no hope for life after death (which, of course, skeptics know because "scientists say so"). On top of that, mediums commit the worst sin of all--taking gullible people's money.
Well, OK, let's presume for a minute that the mediums are just frauds, preying on the hopes of the ignorant to aggrandize their own wealth and power. If that is so, then I want these all-knowing skeptics to really examine the life of such a person, the life of a fraud. What does it take to grow that kind of money? Well, first, you give up the comforts that come with anonymity and obscurity--the ability to eat out unmobbed, the freedom that comes with not carrying a papparazzi entourage, the right to owning a hand unfettered by an autographer's pen, the ability to have an answering machine that is most likely not spewing out death threats. Secondly, you give up time. Just take a look at the schedules of Sylvia Browne and John Edward; I'll bet they don't relax into their weekends like I do. Ah, the life of a celebrity--perhaps it has its rewards when you are adored by millions and suffer envy as the worst attack against you. Mediums, on the other hand, are reviled by a spectrum of people from professional doubters to closed-minded humanists to fundamentalist Christians. Sounds like a good time, doesn't it? How about a quick image to put it all in perspective: The Dalai Lama on the one hand, smiling and laughing in his simple clothes; the "frauds"--to carry the assumtion to its end--on the other, rolling in money and fame. Who is happier? I suspect, as many good-hearted skeptics do, that a Buddhist who expects little is happier than anyone in America who has gotten rich by taking advantage of people's spiritual needs. Wealth, power, and money afflict their own singular punishments. If the famous mediums are truly frauds, then they have exacted their own hidden sufferings upon their lives.
If, on the other hand, mediums are sincere and can truly bridge this world and the afterlife, then all the skeptics should revel in their message, which claims that the other side is powered by and filled with benevolence for all.
Either way, what is there to get so upset about?
Sunday, February 11, 2007
"No Time Like the Present" (A Cliche Poem)
Another day is gone.
There are things I have left undone--
deeds I may do tomorrow,
tasks that were old yesterday.
If I knew I would die next week,
how would I spend my time?
Lounge like a captured beast in the zoo?
Watch syndication fly by on the tube?
Quit my job for last decadent days,
lunching at length on company time?
I might choose to live some benevolent dream,
philanthropizing last efforts and cash--
or punch out the heart of a foe/Anger!
Is that what I want to take with me though?
It would be awfully hard to decide
at such a dramatic juncture as this.
But not given that fate, we procrastinate,
the waiting itself a choice.
How do we learn to delay?
Perhaps it comes from within our birth,
collective superstition:
if we leave at least one thing undone,
we will come back tomorrow to carry on.
There are things I have left undone--
deeds I may do tomorrow,
tasks that were old yesterday.
If I knew I would die next week,
how would I spend my time?
Lounge like a captured beast in the zoo?
Watch syndication fly by on the tube?
Quit my job for last decadent days,
lunching at length on company time?
I might choose to live some benevolent dream,
philanthropizing last efforts and cash--
or punch out the heart of a foe/Anger!
Is that what I want to take with me though?
It would be awfully hard to decide
at such a dramatic juncture as this.
But not given that fate, we procrastinate,
the waiting itself a choice.
How do we learn to delay?
Perhaps it comes from within our birth,
collective superstition:
if we leave at least one thing undone,
we will come back tomorrow to carry on.
Monday, February 5, 2007
White On White, Flake On Flake
In the aftermath of the storms, the world looks extraordinary. Crags, tundras, plateaus emerge out of the landscape. Windblown avalanches halt themselves on eaves, then fold and curl under like thatching on an old English cottage. Transparent icicles bundle themselves in snowy jackets. Snow on snow, white on white gives form to the shapeless, chaotic, and random. The spray of weeds that had been denuded roiling stalks in the fall gathers snow over it like a blanket, forming a long, white huddle. Accumulated flakes draw white lines upon the hidden, calling out the arcane into the effulgence of a new and pristine land. Flake on flake, white on white fills the interstices, limning the familiar, the overlooked. The five-by-eight firewood wall becomes a filigreed wall of logs.
Similarly, the snowstorm refigures our human circumstances. A white van delays my left turn toward home and the end of another aggravating workday. It is an impediment--until a platform of snow atop the van cascades over the roof during the right turn, and an avalanche now blocks the driver's view. I watch the van inch to the side of the road, retaining its wall of snow on the windshield and hood. The car stops, the door opens, and a tiny, white-haired lady crawls out of the car. Navigating my left turn, I watch the driver--suddenly a vulnerable old woman--pluck snow off her hood with her bare hands. I pull up in front of her, grab my snowbrush, and clamber out of my car. We work together--the elderly woman with my brush and me with my gloved hands--to clear away the view-wrecking floes. She thanks me and we part ways--two human beings challenged by the same storm, the same impediment to easy traveling.
A certain kabbalistic wisdom asserts that all things come from the Creator. Bad events and circumstances and people, in a certain way of perceiving, are good. As I chew over that mystery, I automatically categorize and rank order the usual phenomena of good and evil. Snow--hazardous and treacherous, yet awe-some and beautiful, so perhaps a mixed blessing, clearly of some value--and therefore, good. Psychopathic serial killers--the embodiment of evil, clearly bad--way over on the baddest end of the bad scale. So how to make sense of kabbalistic wisdom regarding the goodness of things? All things emanate from the Creator, so none of it can be truly bad.
Maybe we need to look at "the big picture." Right off the bat, we can glean much spiritual good from snow. Indeed, even the hazards it generates can inspire good, forcing us to see each other, to check on each other, to remember that we care about each other. As a bonus, snow forces us to scrutinize the natural world, placing ourselves amid the power and beauty of nature as well as the destructive force to which we owe respect and the artistry of the blizzard splashing form and pattern, in which we revel, against the hidden and obscure surfaces, and we choose whether to balance or to topple off into oblivion. As for the psychopath--maybe the evil done by evil people washes out in the timelessness of life beyond this time-ordered existence, this living, breathing, and dying chronometer of a discrete life, a single lifetime. Maybe the forces of good we are empowered to create buffer the evil, and if enough goodwill is generated, if we recognize each other in this seemingly uniform mass of logs, perhaps we can obliterate evil entirely.
It all boils down to perception. White on white, flake on flake, snow on snow. Ironically, the monochromicity of a landscape seized by the fury of a blizzard is the brush that paints beauty into a sordid world.
Similarly, the snowstorm refigures our human circumstances. A white van delays my left turn toward home and the end of another aggravating workday. It is an impediment--until a platform of snow atop the van cascades over the roof during the right turn, and an avalanche now blocks the driver's view. I watch the van inch to the side of the road, retaining its wall of snow on the windshield and hood. The car stops, the door opens, and a tiny, white-haired lady crawls out of the car. Navigating my left turn, I watch the driver--suddenly a vulnerable old woman--pluck snow off her hood with her bare hands. I pull up in front of her, grab my snowbrush, and clamber out of my car. We work together--the elderly woman with my brush and me with my gloved hands--to clear away the view-wrecking floes. She thanks me and we part ways--two human beings challenged by the same storm, the same impediment to easy traveling.
A certain kabbalistic wisdom asserts that all things come from the Creator. Bad events and circumstances and people, in a certain way of perceiving, are good. As I chew over that mystery, I automatically categorize and rank order the usual phenomena of good and evil. Snow--hazardous and treacherous, yet awe-some and beautiful, so perhaps a mixed blessing, clearly of some value--and therefore, good. Psychopathic serial killers--the embodiment of evil, clearly bad--way over on the baddest end of the bad scale. So how to make sense of kabbalistic wisdom regarding the goodness of things? All things emanate from the Creator, so none of it can be truly bad.
Maybe we need to look at "the big picture." Right off the bat, we can glean much spiritual good from snow. Indeed, even the hazards it generates can inspire good, forcing us to see each other, to check on each other, to remember that we care about each other. As a bonus, snow forces us to scrutinize the natural world, placing ourselves amid the power and beauty of nature as well as the destructive force to which we owe respect and the artistry of the blizzard splashing form and pattern, in which we revel, against the hidden and obscure surfaces, and we choose whether to balance or to topple off into oblivion. As for the psychopath--maybe the evil done by evil people washes out in the timelessness of life beyond this time-ordered existence, this living, breathing, and dying chronometer of a discrete life, a single lifetime. Maybe the forces of good we are empowered to create buffer the evil, and if enough goodwill is generated, if we recognize each other in this seemingly uniform mass of logs, perhaps we can obliterate evil entirely.
It all boils down to perception. White on white, flake on flake, snow on snow. Ironically, the monochromicity of a landscape seized by the fury of a blizzard is the brush that paints beauty into a sordid world.
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