Dear You,
Somewhere in the West there may still be standing an array of curved metal devices, all pointed at the sky, and each programmed to "listen" to whatever electronic signals may come to the Earth. Scientists set them up in a Search for Extra Terrestrial Intelligence, or SETI. The idea is that we are not alone in this universe. Perhaps we are not. We don't yet know.
I thought of those "dishes" today when I noticed that one of my blog posts had attracted a comment. It came in from across the Atlantic Ocean, farther from my home than I have ever travelled, so I guess it qualifies as "extra terrestrial" to me.
Perhaps when I began writing these snippets of prose, these reactions to the daily flow of my life, I wondered if anyone would ever see them. Now someone has, and I perceive them as little satellite dishes, aimed outward and listening for reactions. Over my lifetime I have sometimes wondered how solitary is an individual -- no one's trajectory through time and space is like anyone else's; we begin somewhere and we end somewhere else . . . a bit of matter whizzing through existence. Sometimes we have company during our journey, and sometimes we explore on our own.
When I spotted that return message, I was filled with a sense of companionship. It's good that we aren't alone.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Friday, June 29, 2007
One Seat at the Movies
Dear You,
It's Friday night of my Week of Living Alone. With no company, I decided to go to a matinee, seeing a film I'd heard about recently. "Evening" has Vanessa Redgrave, Clare Danes, Natasha Richardson, Meryl Streep . . . others I can't think of as I write this. I love going to the movies with you, but I don't really mind when I have to go by myself. A good movie is a wonderful experience all by itself . . . but it is always enriched when it can be shared.
Sharing this one would have been a particular treat. It's about relationships -- those that we have and those we perhaps wish we had. And it's a movie that might be wasted on someone young.
I've enjoyed many kinds of movies -- thrillers, animations, historical fiction, biographies, documentaries, foreign language . . . I can't think of a film I wouldn't mind seeing. My favorites now, however, are those that explore relationships. And I think that in the end, it's what we come to understand is the most important aspect of our lives.
What I would have enjoyed, had you been there with me, is a conversation about whether or not anything we do because of our hearts is ever a mistake . . . no matter how it turns out.
It's Friday night of my Week of Living Alone. With no company, I decided to go to a matinee, seeing a film I'd heard about recently. "Evening" has Vanessa Redgrave, Clare Danes, Natasha Richardson, Meryl Streep . . . others I can't think of as I write this. I love going to the movies with you, but I don't really mind when I have to go by myself. A good movie is a wonderful experience all by itself . . . but it is always enriched when it can be shared.
Sharing this one would have been a particular treat. It's about relationships -- those that we have and those we perhaps wish we had. And it's a movie that might be wasted on someone young.
I've enjoyed many kinds of movies -- thrillers, animations, historical fiction, biographies, documentaries, foreign language . . . I can't think of a film I wouldn't mind seeing. My favorites now, however, are those that explore relationships. And I think that in the end, it's what we come to understand is the most important aspect of our lives.
What I would have enjoyed, had you been there with me, is a conversation about whether or not anything we do because of our hearts is ever a mistake . . . no matter how it turns out.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Girls, Interrupted
Dear You,
Perhaps you, too, saw the photographs of the five girls spread across the newspaper this morning, just under the flag and above that dreadful headline. And if so, perhaps you, too, stopped whatever else was going on in your otherwise ordinary day to read about who, what, where, when, how . . . and why.
Five 17- and 18-year-old girls, just graduated from a nearby high school and chums all their lives were driving to a lakeside home for what promised to be a day of fun and friendship -- perhaps one of several they had planned for the summer before they headed in different directions to college and the adult lives that were to follow. They died quickly in that fiery crash.
It is the job of the newspaper to tell us the facts, but it's really our job to find possible meaning in events. I have no idea how many books I have read -- hundreds? I studied philosophy and psychology and literature, and I taught thousands of teenagers during my 34 years in classrooms. I attend church regularly. And I really don't know how best to answer any questions about the Meaning of Life.
So I think about the other four girls in the story -- the friends in the following car who were also headed for that day of enjoyment but who had to witness those awful moments. Doubtless they are occupied with the shock of feelings. You know: the ones that we have felt ourselves or perhaps just read about. But maybe in the coming days they will understand better than ever the miracle of waking up, the importance of being truly present every day, the need to take little for granted.
I wonder if they will understand what I do not . . . just why Life must teach us this harshly.
Perhaps you, too, saw the photographs of the five girls spread across the newspaper this morning, just under the flag and above that dreadful headline. And if so, perhaps you, too, stopped whatever else was going on in your otherwise ordinary day to read about who, what, where, when, how . . . and why.
Five 17- and 18-year-old girls, just graduated from a nearby high school and chums all their lives were driving to a lakeside home for what promised to be a day of fun and friendship -- perhaps one of several they had planned for the summer before they headed in different directions to college and the adult lives that were to follow. They died quickly in that fiery crash.
It is the job of the newspaper to tell us the facts, but it's really our job to find possible meaning in events. I have no idea how many books I have read -- hundreds? I studied philosophy and psychology and literature, and I taught thousands of teenagers during my 34 years in classrooms. I attend church regularly. And I really don't know how best to answer any questions about the Meaning of Life.
So I think about the other four girls in the story -- the friends in the following car who were also headed for that day of enjoyment but who had to witness those awful moments. Doubtless they are occupied with the shock of feelings. You know: the ones that we have felt ourselves or perhaps just read about. But maybe in the coming days they will understand better than ever the miracle of waking up, the importance of being truly present every day, the need to take little for granted.
I wonder if they will understand what I do not . . . just why Life must teach us this harshly.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Once Upon a Time
Dear You,
Emily is 12 today. She is my daughter's daughter, and not much younger than when my mother first met my father, so many years ago. This morning I called to wish her a happy day. In my yard are a little concrete fish statue that my mother, Eulah, made when she was in college in the 1960s (Art for Non-Majors) and a whirlygig of popsicle sticks and colored yarn (her way to pass time while she and Dad were Airstreaming in the early 1970s). I looked at those objects as I watered the roses this morning. Like some of the rose blossoms, they are falling to ruin, and I keep them as some of the few things that remain from her life.
I celebrate Emily's birthday at a distance -- she lives on Long Island, and I'm a seven-hour drive away. At the same time I am aware of the distance from my mother, who died in 1977. She was barely in her Fifties when she died, and it is always a shock of awareness of mortality when I look at my favorite photo of her, taken when she was scarcely 18 and newly married.
Just a few years ago I read that a girl born in America now can confidently expect to live a hundred years -- that means Emily can have two of my mother's lifetimes. I hope she does, and I hope the wish for happiness I gave her this morning lasts.
Emily is 12 today. She is my daughter's daughter, and not much younger than when my mother first met my father, so many years ago. This morning I called to wish her a happy day. In my yard are a little concrete fish statue that my mother, Eulah, made when she was in college in the 1960s (Art for Non-Majors) and a whirlygig of popsicle sticks and colored yarn (her way to pass time while she and Dad were Airstreaming in the early 1970s). I looked at those objects as I watered the roses this morning. Like some of the rose blossoms, they are falling to ruin, and I keep them as some of the few things that remain from her life.
I celebrate Emily's birthday at a distance -- she lives on Long Island, and I'm a seven-hour drive away. At the same time I am aware of the distance from my mother, who died in 1977. She was barely in her Fifties when she died, and it is always a shock of awareness of mortality when I look at my favorite photo of her, taken when she was scarcely 18 and newly married.
Just a few years ago I read that a girl born in America now can confidently expect to live a hundred years -- that means Emily can have two of my mother's lifetimes. I hope she does, and I hope the wish for happiness I gave her this morning lasts.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Cycling the Canal
Dear You,
It's Summer in Upstate New York, and as I live near the Erie Canal ("low bridge, everybody down") -- someday to be among the country's longest parks, with the old towpath now used by joggers and cyclists -- today was a fine time to take my new bicycle for a spin. A park nearby provides easy access to the path, and in previous years I've found several other good places to begin.
Heading out is different from coming back. I connect the earbuds to my little radio and tune to NPR, adjusting the volume and clipping the device to my shirt. After deciding which direction to go and setting the gears to the hardest, I ride at a pretty good clip along the canal. My attention is divided between watching out for the others sharing the graveled lane and paying attention to the stories on "Weekend Edition."
My fellow travelers include other cyclists (often in pairs), joggers (most often young women with headsets, and families (complete with strollers and dogs). It's the last that provide the challenge, since after I ring my little bell I have to hope they cling to the right side so I can pass. I note for the umpteenth time that I'm the oldest one out there. On the rare instances when I spot someone older, he or she is usually on foot. And me without a helmet!
When my watch says I've gone at least a half-hour, I stop, turn around, pocket my radio, and start back . . . slower. This time I'm using my senses more fully. A Canada goose with five goslings glide near the bank. For a moment, a monarch butterfly keeps pace with me inches from my face. Birdsong punctuates the quiet until it's drowned out by the little powerboat cruising by. I detect a sort of hayfield smell to the air. The sun, coupled with the exertion of the outbound round, warms me, and I appreciate the cooling breeze that my ride creates.
Philosophers urge us to "live in the moment." It's at times like these when I come closest to that.
It's Summer in Upstate New York, and as I live near the Erie Canal ("low bridge, everybody down") -- someday to be among the country's longest parks, with the old towpath now used by joggers and cyclists -- today was a fine time to take my new bicycle for a spin. A park nearby provides easy access to the path, and in previous years I've found several other good places to begin.
Heading out is different from coming back. I connect the earbuds to my little radio and tune to NPR, adjusting the volume and clipping the device to my shirt. After deciding which direction to go and setting the gears to the hardest, I ride at a pretty good clip along the canal. My attention is divided between watching out for the others sharing the graveled lane and paying attention to the stories on "Weekend Edition."
My fellow travelers include other cyclists (often in pairs), joggers (most often young women with headsets, and families (complete with strollers and dogs). It's the last that provide the challenge, since after I ring my little bell I have to hope they cling to the right side so I can pass. I note for the umpteenth time that I'm the oldest one out there. On the rare instances when I spot someone older, he or she is usually on foot. And me without a helmet!
When my watch says I've gone at least a half-hour, I stop, turn around, pocket my radio, and start back . . . slower. This time I'm using my senses more fully. A Canada goose with five goslings glide near the bank. For a moment, a monarch butterfly keeps pace with me inches from my face. Birdsong punctuates the quiet until it's drowned out by the little powerboat cruising by. I detect a sort of hayfield smell to the air. The sun, coupled with the exertion of the outbound round, warms me, and I appreciate the cooling breeze that my ride creates.
Philosophers urge us to "live in the moment." It's at times like these when I come closest to that.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Off the Grid
Dear You,
My brother, the middle one of the three of us, has what I call an Unlisted Life. If you were to look for him in northern Michigan, where he most often lives, you'd have to find the little lane that leads into the woods, at the end of which is an old trailer -- once used as a hunting cabin. There is a wire that provides electricity, but no running water. A barrel near the door collects the rain, and stacks of wood from the surrounding forest provides heat in the winter.
Inside are two stuffed chairs, one for the rare guest, and some bookshelves near the wood stove. Beyond that the little kitchen, then what is left of a bathroom, before the back end that holds a bed and little dresser.
My brother has studied the art of wanting almost nothing, so his possessions can probably all fit into the old car which he drives . . . slowly down the interstate to Ohio in order to boost the mpg to nearly 50! If you didn't know him, you'd probably dismiss him as a hermit or worse. In fact, I've always said that he lives where fun lives -- passing time with him is a great pleasure of life.
Before our father died, he often worried aloud about this son. In some measure I've taken up that worry . . . but it is all for nothing. Life takes care of all of us however it will.
My brother, the middle one of the three of us, has what I call an Unlisted Life. If you were to look for him in northern Michigan, where he most often lives, you'd have to find the little lane that leads into the woods, at the end of which is an old trailer -- once used as a hunting cabin. There is a wire that provides electricity, but no running water. A barrel near the door collects the rain, and stacks of wood from the surrounding forest provides heat in the winter.
Inside are two stuffed chairs, one for the rare guest, and some bookshelves near the wood stove. Beyond that the little kitchen, then what is left of a bathroom, before the back end that holds a bed and little dresser.
My brother has studied the art of wanting almost nothing, so his possessions can probably all fit into the old car which he drives . . . slowly down the interstate to Ohio in order to boost the mpg to nearly 50! If you didn't know him, you'd probably dismiss him as a hermit or worse. In fact, I've always said that he lives where fun lives -- passing time with him is a great pleasure of life.
Before our father died, he often worried aloud about this son. In some measure I've taken up that worry . . . but it is all for nothing. Life takes care of all of us however it will.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Travel Indignities
Dear You,
Back in Rochester after the flights from Seattle to Atlanta and home, I'm newly reminded of the indignities of travel in the modern world. All my reading life I've enjoyed stories of travel. Even though I have been very few places (and never across an ocean), I've had the vicarious pleasure of trips to France, to South America, to Egypt . . . oh, lots and lots of places, on ships and trains and planes. And I think those long-ago travelers would be horrified by what we've done since 9/11.
Everyone shuffling through those dismal lines at airports, past a uniform who checks the passports (to get to Seattle???) and peers into their faces before scribbling something on the boarding pass . . . and not a complaint! At least nothing audible. The screening -- shoes off, belt off, oops, the shampoo bottle is bigger than three ounces. Confiscated! Yes, but you can have as many as two books of matches (will three bring down an airplane?).
Each time they spot a police car, a relative jokingly cautions his daughter, "Act Natural!" Then he laughs and tells me, "You know, it's not paranoia if they really ARE looking for you!"
Isn't this the Orwellian problem we face today? "They" really are looking for us. All of us, even if all we really want to do is get to Seattle and back with our favorite brand of shampoo.
Back in Rochester after the flights from Seattle to Atlanta and home, I'm newly reminded of the indignities of travel in the modern world. All my reading life I've enjoyed stories of travel. Even though I have been very few places (and never across an ocean), I've had the vicarious pleasure of trips to France, to South America, to Egypt . . . oh, lots and lots of places, on ships and trains and planes. And I think those long-ago travelers would be horrified by what we've done since 9/11.
Everyone shuffling through those dismal lines at airports, past a uniform who checks the passports (to get to Seattle???) and peers into their faces before scribbling something on the boarding pass . . . and not a complaint! At least nothing audible. The screening -- shoes off, belt off, oops, the shampoo bottle is bigger than three ounces. Confiscated! Yes, but you can have as many as two books of matches (will three bring down an airplane?).
Each time they spot a police car, a relative jokingly cautions his daughter, "Act Natural!" Then he laughs and tells me, "You know, it's not paranoia if they really ARE looking for you!"
Isn't this the Orwellian problem we face today? "They" really are looking for us. All of us, even if all we really want to do is get to Seattle and back with our favorite brand of shampoo.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Left behind
Dear You,
Without a map, I'm easily lost. So I cannot say as I write this exactly where I was when I left the little restaurant where I was having lunch and spotted a rare books store nearby. At any rate, there I was, looking down through the glass at not just one, but three!, first editions of Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms. Since they could not be handled without the shop owner's giving me access, I cannot say for certain, but I think the date they were created was 1925. I'll check that later. What I can say is that one could have been mine . . . for four thousand dollars.
I looked around the shop and saw that it was given almost entirely to first editions -- and prices everywhere made me think that these books were -- if not completely out of reach -- at least unreasonable. That is to say, they didn't fit into my value system. Oh, there was room on my MasterCard (I don't leave home, let alone go across the country without that!). It's just that, for me, books are indispensible, but I tend to purchase them at low costs and then leave them for others.
Literally. I joined BookCrossing (go ahead -- google it). I register my books, read them, and then (most often, anyway) leave them in public places for others to find and enjoy . . . and I hope, pass them along. There's a little slip inside each of my "remainders" that will lead the finder to some knowledge of who I am, if they have computer access anyway.
As to the book I left behind in that shop yesterday, I don't know who bought it originally -- perhaps for 25 cents? -- nor through whose hands it passed before being acquired and placed under glass. I do wonder what it is really worth. And it's not as if I haven't read it before.
Without a map, I'm easily lost. So I cannot say as I write this exactly where I was when I left the little restaurant where I was having lunch and spotted a rare books store nearby. At any rate, there I was, looking down through the glass at not just one, but three!, first editions of Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms. Since they could not be handled without the shop owner's giving me access, I cannot say for certain, but I think the date they were created was 1925. I'll check that later. What I can say is that one could have been mine . . . for four thousand dollars.
I looked around the shop and saw that it was given almost entirely to first editions -- and prices everywhere made me think that these books were -- if not completely out of reach -- at least unreasonable. That is to say, they didn't fit into my value system. Oh, there was room on my MasterCard (I don't leave home, let alone go across the country without that!). It's just that, for me, books are indispensible, but I tend to purchase them at low costs and then leave them for others.
Literally. I joined BookCrossing (go ahead -- google it). I register my books, read them, and then (most often, anyway) leave them in public places for others to find and enjoy . . . and I hope, pass them along. There's a little slip inside each of my "remainders" that will lead the finder to some knowledge of who I am, if they have computer access anyway.
As to the book I left behind in that shop yesterday, I don't know who bought it originally -- perhaps for 25 cents? -- nor through whose hands it passed before being acquired and placed under glass. I do wonder what it is really worth. And it's not as if I haven't read it before.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Living in real time
Dear You,
Behind the cliche lies truth. Just because so many others have observed that the country is really, really big doesn't make this knowledge less dramatic for me this morning. When I awakened in Seattle, my watch said it was 8 o'clock . . . but the clock in the living room was chiming 5. Three hours earlier, back in Rochester, people were getting up to prepare for work, and I'd gone to bed only three or so hours earlier -- 1:30 a.m. on my watch, but just 10:30 on the nearby clock . . .
I suppose that many people who arrived here from the East three days ago reset their watches. Knowing I would be returning on Tuesday, I kept mine the same. In a sense, then, I've been living a couple of lives -- one here, the other there. When I look at the time automatically displayed on my cell phone, and I decide to call someone across the country, I consult my watch and think, "well, they may still be awake at this hour" or "oops, they're already at work by now!".
As fish live in water and birds in air, we live in time. It's such a cliche, but never more true for me at this moment than now . . . and now . . . and now.
Behind the cliche lies truth. Just because so many others have observed that the country is really, really big doesn't make this knowledge less dramatic for me this morning. When I awakened in Seattle, my watch said it was 8 o'clock . . . but the clock in the living room was chiming 5. Three hours earlier, back in Rochester, people were getting up to prepare for work, and I'd gone to bed only three or so hours earlier -- 1:30 a.m. on my watch, but just 10:30 on the nearby clock . . .
I suppose that many people who arrived here from the East three days ago reset their watches. Knowing I would be returning on Tuesday, I kept mine the same. In a sense, then, I've been living a couple of lives -- one here, the other there. When I look at the time automatically displayed on my cell phone, and I decide to call someone across the country, I consult my watch and think, "well, they may still be awake at this hour" or "oops, they're already at work by now!".
As fish live in water and birds in air, we live in time. It's such a cliche, but never more true for me at this moment than now . . . and now . . . and now.
Sipping Seattle
Dear You,
It's easy to see why people are Sleepless in Seattle . . . there seems to be a Starbucks on every street. This evening, we dined at Palomino's, which was on the third floor of some big downtown building. As we walked around afterward, I photographed three Starbucks inside that building. And later, driving through a couple of neighborhoods nearby, I spotted several others.
People here must drink coffee all day long. Not just coffee . . . STARBUCKS coffee. Big stores, little stores, kiosks within buildings, corner spots. They are everywhere!
I enjoyed one a little while ago. That's why I'm up late at the computer, typing this. I just don't feel like sleep yet.
It's easy to see why people are Sleepless in Seattle . . . there seems to be a Starbucks on every street. This evening, we dined at Palomino's, which was on the third floor of some big downtown building. As we walked around afterward, I photographed three Starbucks inside that building. And later, driving through a couple of neighborhoods nearby, I spotted several others.
People here must drink coffee all day long. Not just coffee . . . STARBUCKS coffee. Big stores, little stores, kiosks within buildings, corner spots. They are everywhere!
I enjoyed one a little while ago. That's why I'm up late at the computer, typing this. I just don't feel like sleep yet.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Seeing Seattle
Dear You
If you get to Seattle, I expect you will not only be happy you came, but also will want to return. In any weather, it is a city of pleasing aspect. The cityscape is quite attractive and because of the geography the hillside residences are worth a few frames of film themselves.
In my first visit I was lucky to have a local contact, with whom I stayed and was escorted to places he knew, including up to Whidbey Island. In Seattle, we dined at a magnificent restaurant, which featured a range of crab dishes. Then on to the original Starbucks, where two guys sang and played instruments by the doorway, their dog lolling near the open guitar case eyeing the money dropped there. It's across from the public market where people gather as an audience while others purchase fish . . . well, you really have to see that to understand the attraction. Up and down are flower sellers with gorgeous bouquets for not much money.
And books. Lots of bookshops -- perhaps the big box chains are here, too, but why would you miss those quirky and wonderful independents? I got a book on quilting and another on cooking seafood.
Well, that gets me to oysters. Somewhere along the scenic winding highway up Whidbey Island toward Deception Pass (picture spot #75, I swear!), we stopped at a place where oysters are sold fresh from the sea. That evening, three of us ate the five dozen right off the grill.
Life can be really good, don't you think?
If you get to Seattle, I expect you will not only be happy you came, but also will want to return. In any weather, it is a city of pleasing aspect. The cityscape is quite attractive and because of the geography the hillside residences are worth a few frames of film themselves.
In my first visit I was lucky to have a local contact, with whom I stayed and was escorted to places he knew, including up to Whidbey Island. In Seattle, we dined at a magnificent restaurant, which featured a range of crab dishes. Then on to the original Starbucks, where two guys sang and played instruments by the doorway, their dog lolling near the open guitar case eyeing the money dropped there. It's across from the public market where people gather as an audience while others purchase fish . . . well, you really have to see that to understand the attraction. Up and down are flower sellers with gorgeous bouquets for not much money.
And books. Lots of bookshops -- perhaps the big box chains are here, too, but why would you miss those quirky and wonderful independents? I got a book on quilting and another on cooking seafood.
Well, that gets me to oysters. Somewhere along the scenic winding highway up Whidbey Island toward Deception Pass (picture spot #75, I swear!), we stopped at a place where oysters are sold fresh from the sea. That evening, three of us ate the five dozen right off the grill.
Life can be really good, don't you think?
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