Think About It

When the Guides Don't Guide

2011-11-30T21:57:00.000-08:00

Every morning I read the Daily Guides in Science of Mind Magazine, not because I am in complete agreement with what Science of Mind teaches, but because I find ideas that make me think, especialy when I disagree with them. Then I have to ask myself, "if that isn't true, what is?" And I have the fun of thinking about it and writing down what I think.

One recent morning, the subject was "spiritual liberation." The affirmation at the end was, "In this moment, I know I am free. I set the course of my life. I choose my thoughts and concentrate on what I wish to experience."

My reaction was, that if I choose my thoughts from what I already know, I will be imposing limitations on myself.

I would prefer to be open to possibilities I haven't yet thought of. I know there is always more in the "big picture" than I can even imagine, so I want to find new ideas that might be able to change my way of processing the habitual substance of my life.

I have been functioning in, living in, and experiencing the same situation for several years, and am constantly learning new ways of understanding and interchanging with the two sons that are sharing this experience with me. I and they have learned to cooperate with and be kind to each other as we interact every day in all our different moods and states of health.

Earlier in my life, when things were difficult, I used to try to change the outer things--people, jobs, my location, or whatever. Now, instead, I try to look at myself with more honesty, and see what I can change there.

I know that my thoughts create the kind of life I get to live, but I have to do more than keep picking my thoughts out of the same old familiar barrel. Just choosing the best out of the worst is not enough. That's why I don't focus on "getting what I wish to experience."

I've discovered over time, after many decisions that made things worse instead of better, that there are principles involved in choosing thoughts--principles that can keep me from allowing self-will be the sole arbiter of what I do.

The one that has changed me the most is the principle of treating other people the way I would like to be treated. That doesn't mean, "I'll be nice to you if you'll be nice to me;" it means "no matter what you do, I will still treat you the way I would like to be treated in the same circumstance."

Actually, this concept is the reason we believe in the right to a fair trial. It's why civilized people have learned to be polite to each other. It's why we believe stealing is wrong. It's why I greet people with a smile even when I feel down.

It is vitally important to me to give what I'm hoping to get. Otherwise, I don't feel right with the world.

The Homeless Are Human

2011-11-29T21:52:00.000-08:00

Downtown today I saw a young homeless man that I have seen before, sitting on a bench outside a store with his sign. When I came out, I went over and greeted him and geve him a dollar. He smiled and said "Thank you! I haven't seen you for awhile." I answered "That's true. How are you?" A shadow seemed to cross his face. "I'm O.K." He paused. "Last week was kinda hard." He seemed to be making an effort to keep control. "I had to put my cat down...with my own hands." I was horrified. "Oh, that's awful! What happened?" "She was so badly injured, she was dying, and I had no money for a vet."

It was all I could do to keep my composure and not cry. I have lost and wept over many cats, but the thought of having to put one out of its misery myself was too horrible to contemplate. "I'm so sorry that happened and that you had to do that," I said. His face, though as close to stoic as he could manage, showed the pain of that decision, that action, and that loss. I spoke to him for a few minutes, told him how sorry I was, wished him well, and then I had to go on my way.

As I walked to my car I deeply wished that more people could see the humanity of the homeless, the suffering they go through, and the hardships they face just to eat, to stay alive, to keep warm, to find a place to wash, or even a place to sleep that is safe.

I've heard people comment that since they are homeless, why are they so foolish as to have pets? But what else could give them the unquestioning, unconditional love that they must sorely need in such a dire situation?

If only I were rich, I would help every one that I could.

The Flow of Wisdom

2011-11-28T21:30:00.000-08:00

Recently, as I was doing some small task, it came to me that information and wisdom are constantly flowing, always available to anyone who listens within. If I am not aware of it, or receiving it, I am not being quiet enough or attentive enough to hear. The source never goes away; I go away.

All that day, I kept sensing the dynamic energy and intelligence of the Universe, always in action, and yet always resting in some way--resting, but not at rest. It is balanced, alive, functioning, and ready. It can't be commanded, but can be brought forth by individual attention and awareness. Every individual has to find it for themselves by temporarily letting go of their own thoughts and listening. No one else can do it for you.

Many things--experiences, books, people--help to widen your scope, give you new ideas, and so on, but in the end, everyone has to come to his own awareness of what is beyond the finite, physical self and the finite, physical mind.

Human thought is apt to be limited to what we think of as realistic, to what we already know. We cut ourselves off from the not-yet-known, the infinite possibilities that lie beyond our ordinary thinking, no matter how educated or intellectual our thoughts may be.

I have found that there is an unlimited source of wisdom available to anyone who decides to listen for it from within.

Laguna Lake Park

2011-11-27T21:46:00.000-08:00

My friend and I walked again at Laguna Lake a few days after the time of the preceding blog. We took the same abbreviated route as before, but found another path that looped back to the lake in a more interesting way through the fields.

There was absolutely no breeze, and the lake was completely still, smooth as glass, and reflecting everything--trees, houses, boats, docks, reeds, and tall grasses along the edge of the lake. So beautiful! I have never before seen the lake that still and smooth.

As we were going back to our car along the road by the lake, a big white goose was making a racket at the left side of the road, and another big white goose was marching across the road leading a combination of ducks, geese, and coots toward the lake.

As soon as they passed, we started to continue on, but the big goose on the left reprimanded us with loud squawks as a second, and larger, contingent of geese, ducks, and coots started acrose the road. It was exactly as if he were a crossing-guard saying, "Stop! You can't go yet!"

We waited respectfully while the second group of assorted birds made their way to the lake. The crossing guard followed, his job having been successfuly accomplished.

Neither of us had ever seen such a procession before, nor a pair of geese cooperating to make sure a whole bevy of different kinds of water birds got safely across a road and to their destination--the lake. I still laugh at the thought of the crossing-guard's peremptory honks. He did a perfect job. It was so clear what he meant when he stopped us, and the goose that led the procession also knew exactly what her job was.

What fascinated me was the cooperation happening between not only the two geese, but between them and the other types of birds that were being led. I was not aware that this ever happened.

I am even further amazed and admiring that the goose "crossing-guard" could communicate so clearly, not just to different birds, but to a completely different species--humans.

Now if only humans could do as good a job of cooperating, in spite of their differences, as these birds did!

Walking At Laguna Lake

2011-11-27T15:44:00.000-08:00

One day in the spring when the grass was still lush and green, I walked with a friend at Laguna Lake Park. It was my first walk in some time because of a problem with my back, so we opted for a short walk along the lake.

We parked close to the spot where people often come to feed the birds, and sure enough, there were birds, birds, birds! Geese, gulls, ducks, coots, and others were gathered there together, some squawking loudly, some just standing in the sun, and some running hither and thither looking for seeds or insects to eat.

As we got out of the car, a small gull stood nearby watching us, waiting for a hand-out. He wasn't afraid of us at all, just hopeful. But having nothing to offer, we had to hard-heartedly go on our way, leaving him to ponder our selfishness.

The lake looked like a blue gem sparkling in the sun. There was a fresh breeze coming from the direction of the ocean, and I was glad I had brought my jacket and scarf, which had almost seemed unnecessary when we started out.

As we walked at the lake's edge, we could hear all sorts of bird sounds--songs, twitters and chirps, coming from the trees we passed, and yet we couldn't see one bird. I am amazed at how hundreds of birds can hide themselves so completely in the leaves, and then, if disturbed by something, all rise like a cloud out of one small tree.

We turned away from the shore and walked between two rows of eucalyptus trees along the edge of an open field. It was uneven underfoot, but pretty and shady. Then we turned onto a path going back in the direction from which we had come. It took us past the refurbished restrooms and the off-the-leash playing area for dogs. We wondered how the owners can be sure the dogs will get along and play with each other instead of growling and snarling and getting into fights. I don't know the answer, but dogs of all sizes, shapes, and colors were all playing happily together with no signs of tension.

How lucky we are in San Luis Obispo to have this large and beautiful park! It's set apart so completely from the hustle and bustle of the city; you feel as if you are out in the country even though across the lake you can see houses, docks, and boats. The sounds of civilization, even the traffic along Madonna Road, are muted and far away.

In every direction you see hills, either close by or far away. And in addition to the rather tame assortment of birds that wait for food, sometimes wild birds also come looking for morsels along the edge of the lake--Egrets or Great Blue Herons.

The herons don't appear to be blue when standing still in the reeds looking for prey. Not until they fly can you see their true color. I don't know of anything more beautiful than the sight of a Great Blue Heron opening his enormous wings and taking flight. The first one I ever saw, I saw at Laguna Lake.

No matter how contentious and crazy the world may seem to be, there are still lovely things in it to enjoy. And to think that some of them are here, right at our own doorstep!

Thoughts Beyond What I Know

2011-04-17T22:02:00.000-07:00

Sometimes my thoughts are just made up of the "stuff" of my life rattling through my head, ranging from "wnat do I need from the grocery store?" to "why do the Republicans negate their good ideas about small government by favoring the rich and ignoring the small guys?" --(something that has flummoxed me for years!).

At other times, often in the midst of some small repetitive task, new ideas will come into my mind suddenly and clearly--a new way of looking at something, a solution to a nagging problem, or a better understanding of someone else's point of view.

These insights fascinate me because they come so clearly, as if I hadn't initiated them myself. The newness and the clarity are what set them apart from my own ordinary thoughts.

It makes me believe there is an intelligent energy in the universe that can enter when our own thoughts are quiet. It seems to enter into the space between thoughts somehow, when we are relaxed and open to it. I can't really explain it, but I love being the recipient of it when it happens.

It is like the thing that happens when I am painting and I "know" how to mix a color, or when I'm writing and the perfect word or phrase pops into my mind. I can imagine that some composers must experience the same thing in writing music when the right notes come from "somewhere" beyond day-to-day reality.

I believe we must all have access to this flow from beyond our everyday selves, and that it is a constant thing, always available, like electricity, if one can find the key to making use of it. It seems never to insist, or to play favorites, but just to wait for us to open up some hidden inner door.

Perhaps it is the wish to go beyond the known that opens up this door and brings new ideas, true colors, the right words, and beautiful melodies. It seems to be pure potentiality.

What A Park!

2011-01-25T23:12:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I went walking with a friend at Laguna Lake Park. We hadn't walked there for some time as we had become enamoured of Bob Jones Trail south of town. We loved walking on a smooth path (it's a bicycle path)through the oaks and sycamores.

We parked near the lake, not too far from the area where people aften come to feed the birds. Sure enough, there were many of them waiting--birds, birds, birds! Geese, gulls, ducks, coots, and others I couldn't name, were gathered there, some squawking loudly, as if in protest, some just standing in the sun, and some running hither and thither looking for morsels of food.

As we got out of the car, a small gull stood nearby. He watched us, waiting to see what we might have to offer. He wasn’t afraid of us at all. I’m sure he was hoping for a hand-out, but we had nothing to give him, and went on our way, leaving him to ponder our selfishness.

The Lake looked like a big blue gem sparkling in the noonday sun. There was a fresh cool breeze coming from the direction of the ocean, and I was glad I had brought my jacket and scarf, which had almost seemed unnecessary when we started out.

We took the road along the shore, and walked toward the small dock form which people can launch their boats. We could hear all sorts of bird sounds—songs, twitters, and chirps, coming from the trees we passed, and yet we couldn’t see one bird.

It has never failed to amaze me how hundreds of birds can hide themselves completely in a tree, even a small one. And then, if something disturbs them, they rise up out of that one small tree like a sudden cloud of birds.

Because of the recent rains, the grass was smooth and green, not the dusty brown you see in the dry months of the year. I thought I saw a ground squirrel in the meadow a few yards away, and it reminded me of one we saw once on a hot summer day, standing on his haunches trying to eat something from the top of a dry weed.

Just as we stopped to watch him he lost his balance and fell over backwards. He looked so surprised! But he got right up and tried again. After nibbling for a moment, he went over backwards again. This time, he looked a little sheepish, but still, he got up and took another whack at it. We were admiring his persistence in the face of confusion, but, alas, he fell back again. I swear he looked embarrassed, if a squirrel can be embarrassed!

When we continued on our way, he was still looking up at the weed, as if wondering what he should do next. I have a feeling he figured it out in the end and got what he was striving for.

After walking for some moments along the shore, we turned and followed a shady path that ran between two rows of eucalyptus trees. It led us to another path going back in the direction from which we had come, past the refurbished restrooms, looking very spiffy, and then past the off-the-leash playing area for dogs.

We wondered how the owners know the dogs will get along and play with each other instead of growling and snarling and getting into fights. I don’t know the answer, but dogs of various sizes, shapes, and colors were cavorting about happily with no signs of tension at all.

How lucky we are in San Luis Obispo to have this large and beautiful park! It’s set apart so completely from the hustle and bustle of the city; you feel as if you are out in the country, even though across the lake you can see houses, docks, and boats. You can’t hear any sounds of civilization, not even the traffic along Madonna Road.

In every direction you can see hills, either close by or far away, and, in addition to the rather tame assortment of birds that wait for food, wild birds come looking for food, either in the park itself, or along the edge of the lake. We have seen egrets there, and sometimes even Great Blue Herons standing still, waiting, in the reeds.

I don’t know of anything more beautiful than the sight of a Great Blue Heron opening its enormous wings and taking flight. What a privilege to see such lovely wild things up close!

No matter how contentious and crazy the world may seem to be, there are still beautiful things in it to enjoy.

A New Year

2011-01-01T22:16:00.000-08:00

I've been listening today to comments about the New Year: Should we or should we not make New Year's resolutions? If we do, will we keep them? Why do so many of us male resolutions and then not make a serious attempt to succeed? And so on.

I think that if you make a resolution because you think you ought to, you will probably fail. If you make a realistic resolution about something you seriously want to change about yourself, you up your chances of success. Especially if your resolution is specific, measurable, and has a time limit.

On the other hand, the idea of making a change at the beginning of a year implies that this is going to be a different kind of year than the one just past.

The only trouble with that is that no one can live a year at a time. You can visualize a wonderful year in which all your bad habits are gone, but you can only live it as you go, one day at a time, or sometimes, one moment at a time.

Now that I am old, I have given up worrying about what I ought to do, and instead am having a lot of fun figuring out who I am, what is important to me in my life, and then living with as much enthusiasm and integrity as I can muster.

I like the Dalai Lama's comment: "My religion is kindness."

If I have a resolution, it is one that is within me this year, last year, and next year: to be kind, kind to myself and to others. I don't mean a sentimental, slushy kindness that condones everything. I mean an attitude of kindness and grown-up understanding in the face of both wrong doing and right doing.

That's what's fun about being old. You can make up your own mind about yourself. Looking back you can see all the lousy advice you got, and followed, from other people during your lifetime, and all the trouble it got you into. So now, I'm just who I am, and am willing to take all the reponsibility for any train wrecks that occur.

I guess that means I resolve to laugh, be creative, help others, and enjoy life even when things go wrong.

Homeless Man on Marsh Street

2010-12-29T23:22:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, as my son, Bill, and I left the pharmacy on Marsh Street, in down town San Luis Obispo, we passed a man with reddish hair and a sad face. As we walked by, I was strongly aware of his feelings of despair, but he didn't ask for anything, so I continued on.

"Do you give people money even when they don't ask for it?" I asked Bill. He said,

"Yeah, I do, when I can tell they need it."

"I wanted to give something to that man in front of CVS. He looked so miserable."

"I noticed him, too. Maybe he'll still be there when we go back to pick up my prescription."

Later, when we came out of the pharmacy, we saw him again. This time he approached us, and asked for help.

"Could you spare a little money, so I can get something to eat?" Bill and I both dug in our wallets for something to give him.

"It was so cold last night, I couldn't get warm...and I was hungry. I'm still hungry." We both gave him some money, saying we wished it could be more. His face brightened into a smile, he thanked us, and started off down Marsh Street.

This poor guy kept returning to my mind. We could tell he was new at asking for money, reluctant to do it, but driven by need.

I thought about how easy it is, now, for people to fall out of the system and become homeless. It hasn't ever happened to me, but it could have. I have often been on the edge, financially, wondering how I would pay the rent. Somehow, I always did.

I live on a tiny income in a mobile home park. I own my home, free and clear, because I bought it years ago when mobile homes were cheap. I don't feel poverty stricken, and yet technically, I am below the poverty level. Even so, what a chasm there is between me and the redhaired man who is hungry and homeless!

My house is warm and dry, I have a bed to sleep in and food to eat. I have a studio in which to paint and a computer to write on. I have musical instruments to play and books to read. There are geraniums, succulents, trees, and a beautiful bougainvillea growing in my back yard. My son, Bobby Jameson, owns the house with me, lives here, and is the reason it is warm and dry even though the roof is 40 years old. He worked on it for months to be sure it could withstand the winter rains, and it has.

So I feel rich. I have everything I need. But the homeless man with red hair has nothing he needs, except the clothes he wears. And you can multiply this man by the hundreds, just in this one town. Worse than that, many of the homeless are women and children.

This breaks my heart. If only I could help! That is, with more than just a couple of dollars.

I grew up in the depression. There were many homeless then too. We called them "hoboes," and we would feed them when they came to our house hungry. They wandered about, "rode the rails," and lived however they could. We were far from rich, but seemed to have everything in comparison to the hoboes. I wished I could help them, and so did my mother, but all we could do was give them food when they happened to come, and now and then a hat, or a sweater, or a pair of shoes.

This disparity of fortune is heart-wrenching. The only positive side to it is that it makes me appreciate all that I have. Because of the homeless man with red hair, I know I am truly rich.

How Are We Doing?

2010-12-27T22:08:00.000-08:00

It occurred to me, as I was watching the news on TV this morning, that human beings haven't made much progress since we first arrived on earth. We are still doing the same things, just on a larger scale, and in more complicated ways.

We used to fight man to man. Then clan to clan, village to village, area to area, and country to country.

At first we killed only one at a time. We have made so much "progress" that now we kill hundreds at once, and have the ability to kill thousands.

In addition to continuing to fight each other, the way we treat each other, even those with whom we are "at peace," hasn't improved much either. At least, in primitive societies people worked together, cooperated for the welfare of the whole group. Now we cooperate less and less, and it's every man (or woman) for himself.

In the process of vying with each other for money, property, or power, we lose sight of simple human connection. We don't know how to work together for the good of the planet we live on, but are blinded by desire for personal gain, or for the success of personal agendas.

Couldn't we take a step back and look at what we are doing to each other and to our earth? Can't we pay attention to what it is we are losing?

And if the world dies, where will we live then?

Stories From My Life Now on New Blog

2010-12-19T22:25:00.000-08:00

I posted a few stories from my life on this blog, and then realized they are not really relevant here. Today, I started a new blog, Troy Parker Farr--Stories from My Life. I will keep Think About It for other things. There is a link to Stories from My Life in the upper right corner of this blog.

WAR

2010-11-12T21:53:00.000-08:00

I love war
It’s what we’re all living for
It gives us a chance to see foreign lands
And show them their fate is in our hands
I love war

I love war
It’s what we’re all rooting for
It lets us know that we’re the strongest
In every war we stick around the longest
I love war

I love war
It’s what we spend money for
We can’t waste our wealth on education
We have to use it to defend our nation
I love war

I love war
It brings us power galore
It gives us the chance to rely on force
Without any foolish thoughts of remorse
I love war

I love war
It thrills me down to my core
We have bombs that are very smart
We have killing people down to an art
I love war

I love war
It’s what we’re all fighting for
We can’t expect to have a life of ease
We have to support our wars overseas
I love war

I love war
It’s a situation I adore
Never mind health care for those in need
It’s much more important for war to succeed
I love war

I love war
It’s what every patriot’s for
Forget about people whose money is gone
War’s what we’d rather spend money on
I love war

I love war
It’s what we’re all rooting for
We’re the greatest country in all the world
Our guns always ready and our flags unfurled
I love war.

I love war
Peacemakers I deplore
They interfere with all our fun
They don’t know what makes Sammy run
I love war

I love war
It’s so much fun keeping score
Never mind if the rich get obscenely wealthy
It will trickle down and we’ll all be healthy
I love war

BEING LITTLE IN EVANSTON

2010-07-12T22:41:00.000-07:00

In Evanston when I was a little girl, and we still lived at 1428 Maple Street, I can remember wandering about a small part of the neighborhood to houses of people we knew. Most of them were Websters—there were at least three nearby houses occupied by Webster families, and most of the other houses seemed to be occupied by relatives of the Websters.

There was a house on the next corner and across the street that had a white wooden double swing in its yard, with seats facing each other. I don’t know who lived in that house. I don’t think I ever knew, but I used to go and swing on their swing with one of the Webster children, or with one of my brothers. It took two of us to make it go. I don’t remember ever seeing the people who lived there, but they never came out to stop us from swinging on their swing.

The parents of the Webster kids we used to play with lived only a couple of houses away from the house with the swing. Betty was a little older and Ronnie a little younger than I. Their father, Ronald, Sr., was one of the first people to become sober in AA, just as it was beginning, but that was years later. The grown-up Websters, Ronald and Betty were friends of my parents for many years.

One Webster family lived almost directly across from us on Maple Street. They had a huge white house and a white picket fence enclosing their large yard. One day as I was walking by, their big dog came up to the fence. I reached out to pet him, but Instead of letting me do it, as I expected, he growled and then barked at me so loudly I was terrified. I was also surprised. It was the first time it ever occurred to me to be afraid of a dog, or any other animal. I loved them and expected them to love me back, which they usually did.

Next to this house was another Webster house, with stairs going up to a big veranda. One winter day, I was on my way home, all bundled up in a winter coat, scarf, hat, leggings, and boots. As I passed this house, I suddenly realized I had to go to the bathroom. I started up their stairs intending to ask if I could use the bathroom, but it was too late. I felt embarrassment, failure, and fear as I became aware of the telltale liquid warmth in my pants. I was afraid of what would happen to me when I got home. I was right. My mother was angry, told me I was a bad girl, and sent me to bed without any supper. That part I didn’t mind since I didn’t like to eat then.

At Ronnie and Betty Webster’s house, their father used to create a skating rink in their back yard in winter, and that was where we all learned to skate. At first we had little double runner skates that attached to our shoes just as roller skates did. They were supposed to make it easier for us to balance, but they didn’t glide very well, and we fell down a lot anyway.

Eventually, we all graduated to single runner skates with high lace-up shoes attached. It took a long time to be able to keep our ankles straight, and at first it felt as if we were skating on our ankles instead of on the blades. Still, it made winter great fun whether we skated well or not, and we all learned in the end.

Once, when I was quite small, I ventured down to the corner of our block and got the idea of continuing on around the block. I turned left at the corner and after a house or two, came to some large brick buildings. I had no idea what they were. I continued to the next corner and turned left again.

Along the side of this building there were insets below the level of the sidewalk that admitted light to the basement windows (I found out later). I didn’t know what they were for, and got down into one of them to explore. There wasn’t anything to see, except the dried leaves at the bottom. Then, for some reason, I began to take off my clothes.

A man in a black suit and hat, and a white collar, came and gently lifted me out. He put his suit coat over me and asked me where I lived. I told him and he took my hand and walked me home. He was very nice to me, not threatening at all.

I wish I could say the same for my mother. She was exceedingly angry and had a lot to say. She made me feel like a fallen woman, if you can feel like a fallen woman at three or four years old.

Even though I remember this incident clearly, I have no recollection at all as to what motivated me to take off my dress. I found our later that the man in black who took me home was a Catholic priest.

My father didn't think much of Catholics in general, but he was very grateful to this particular priest for bringing me home. In fact, he made a point of going to find him so he could thank him for his kindness to me.

THE TRIP TO CAMBRIDGE

2010-07-02T21:51:00.000-07:00

As I was growing up, my mother would alternate between being effusively loving and understanding, and being harshly critical and emotionally cruel. She would be one way one day and different the next. It kept me confused and constantly off balance.

She was a charming woman, witty and intelligent, and also very musical. Our lives were full of music. She played the violin, and we all began learning an instrument as soon as we were able.

I loved music, and loved my mother’s spontaneity and enthusiasm, but I hated and feared her anger and criticism. She enchanted people, and I was just as enchanted by her as anyone else. That’s what made it so painful when she turned on me, just when I trusted her the most. It would make me feel like the most horrible person in the world.

Now, from the perspective of many years of living, my emotions about my mother, and about myself, are no longer caught on the horns of a dilemma. Now I see that she was misguided by her own need to compete and to excel, to make people love her, and to be in the lime light.

She must have had a tremendous need to convince herself, and others, that she was not just acceptable, but way above the norm. Her magnetic personality so overwhelmed me as a little girl, that I, in turn, found it hard to believe I even had a right to breathe, let alone excel.

When I was six, my mother took me on a trip to Massachusetts, leaving my brothers at home with Dad in Evanston. We went on the train to visit Mother’s twin sister, my cousins, and my grandmother in Cambridge. I loved the train. It was fun to sleep in the berth at night, after watching the porter make it up. It was exciting going to the dining car, where there were white tablecloths, gleaming silver, and fresh flowers on the tables.

I did my best to be good and everything went smoothly.

When we finally arrived in Boston, and took a cab to Cambridge, the house where they lived, an old two-story frame house, looked austere in comparison to houses in the Midwest, but when we went inside, it was full of life. My three cousins, Nancy, Persis, and Jimmy kept things humming.

The morning after we arrived, Gramma, who was very interested in appearances, took charge of me and fixed my hair with her curling iron. I was happy, because my cousins all had curly hair and mine was straight. She picked out a pretty light-green dress for me to wear, and ironed all the packing wrinkles out of it with a little iron she had right there in her room. I looked at myself in her long mirror. She had transformed me! I hugged her. “Oh, thank you, Gramma! I look so different!” She smiled. “You’re welcome, dear. Now you look so pretty.”

I was ecstatic. Norm had curly hair, Bob had wavy hair. Only Fran and I had straight hair, but he was a boy. Now, for once, with my newly created curls, I actually felt pretty as I went down the long narrow staircase to breakfast.

We children sat at a little table in the center of the kitchen. I was so proud of my hair and my green dress, happy and serene inside, comfortable in the pit of my stomach, where often there was a tight knot of fear.

My cousins, Nancy and Persis, were at the little table with me, and Jimmy was next to us in his high chair. We all had bowls of cereal. Jimmy kept putting his little bare foot under the edge of my cereal dish, lifting it to make it spill a little. “Don’t do that, Jimmy!” I pleaded, “You’ll make a big mess!” but he kept teasing me with his toes, and pretending he was going to do it again.

I was about to tell my Aunt what was happening, when Jimmy misjudged, and spilled my cereal all over the table and onto my clean dress. I was horrified.

Before I could say anything, Mother came in the room, saw the cereal on the table and on my dress, and assumed that I had done it. Her face darkened with anger. “Marjie, why on earth did you do that? A big girl like you! You ought to be ashamed!” “But I didn’t do it,” I protested, “Jimmy did it with his foot.” Jimmy shook his golden curls and smiled sweetly, “Not me!” Nancy and Persis were too afraid of my mother’s anger to speak up. My aunt hadn’t seen what happened. No one said anything.

Mother was furious. “You’re a bad, bad girl!” She pulled me out of the chair, slapped my hands, and dragged me up the long dark stairs to the bathroom. She took a comb, wet it under the faucet, and began to comb out my beautiful new curls. “No, no!” I wailed, “You’re ruining my hair!” But she kept on. “Bad little girls don’t deserve to have pretty hair.”Then she mopped off my dress, and wouldn’t let me change into a fresh one because I had been “bad.”

I felt a terrible pain deep inside. I felt ugly, and somehow tainted, even though I knew I had done nothing wrong. And now I had to suffer the shame and embarrassment of going back down stairs with my wet, straightened hair and my damp, mopped-off dress. I hated my mother for believing I was bad, and I hated her for humiliating me in front of everyone else.

Anger, pain, and humiliation, swirled within me, tearing at my insides, shredding my self esteem. The beautiful sunny day could just as well have been dark with rain. It no longer held any exciting possibilities. I was just an ugly little girl with straight, hair. Somehow, even though I was innocent, it seemed to be what I deserved.

I didn’t feel like playing with Nancy and Persis in the back yard. They were running around and laughing. I didn’t feel like laughing. I sat on the stairs that went up to the kitchen door, my chin in my hands.

An old friend of the family, “Uncle Kay,” came out the back door to greet me. I had always loved him and he had always loved me too. “Hello, Marjie!” he said cheerfully. It was hard to answer, or even look at him, even though he was one of my favorite people. I managed a subdued, “Hello.” He bent down toward me smiling and patting my shoulder. “How was the trip on the train?” he asked, “was it fun?” I looked up at him, and saw his familiar unruly red hair, kind blue eyes, and friendly smile. I wanted to smile back, but just couldn’t. “It was O.K.” I said, without enthusiasm. I could tell he was surprised—he was used to happy responses from me--but on that day, I just couldn’t be my real self.

When Uncle Kay went back in the house, I could hear him ask my mother and aunt “What’s the matter with Marjie?” Then I heard them telling him all about that morning. I put my head down on my knees and wished I could die.

Mother sent me to bed early, because I couldn’t eat. It was still light. For some time, I could hear the voices of the other children far away downstairs. I lay there in bed and watched the tops of the trees as the sky grew darker and darker, until I couldn’t see them anymore. In the dark I felt very alone. With all my heart I wanted to be good and kind and beautiful. Why couldn’t I do it? I loved people, and I wanted them to love me. Why couldn’t I make that happen?

In the morning, I was not hungry, but I tried to eat breakfast, so Mother wouldn’t scold me. It was hard. The cereal tasted like cardboard.

The doorbell rang, and when someone opened it, I heard Uncle Kay’s cheerful voice in the front hall. Soon Mother called me into the hall and told me Uncle Kay had come to take me for a ride in his car to see the lighthouse out by the ocean.

Suddenly, the day looked brighter. “Get your sweater,” she said, “it’s cold near the shore.” It only took a minute to get it from upstairs and I was ready to go. “You didn’t comb your hair,” said my mother, “for heaven’s sake!” “I think she looks fine,” said Uncle Kay, smiling at me, and I felt a little lifting of the heavy pain inside. He gently took my hand and led me out the door and down the walk to his car. He opened the door and held it open for me while I got in. I felt like a princess.

It was fun riding in his car. It was a convertible sedan, like our Franklin—a “touring car.” Since there were no windows, my hair blew every which way and I didn’t care. As we got near the ocean, I could smell the salty sea air. It was delicious.

After Uncle Kay parked the car on a bluff near the ocean, we walked over sand and rocks to where the lighthouse stood. It was gleaming white, tall and round, with windows at the top. Uncle Kay pointed up to where the windows were. “There’s a great big light up there and it sweeps around and around to warn ships at night or in bad weather.” “Why does it have to warn them?” I asked. “So they won’t run aground when they can’t see where the land is.” In my mind I could see a ship on a stormy sea at night, with men on board straining through the darkness to see the light that would save them from sinking.

On the way back to the car, we stopped and sat on a flat rock to rest a minute and look at the ocean. Uncle Kay handed me a little package he had been carrying. “Here,” he said, “this is for you.” I took it in my hand. It was wrapped in brown paper. “Open it,” he said. When I pulled the paper away and opened the box, there was a curling iron. My own curling iron! A tear splashed on it and glistened in the sun. I was overwhelmed.

Uncle Kay hugged me gently. “Oh, thank you!” I said, hardly able to talk, “Thank you so much!” Uncle Kay smiled. “I don’t think you need it,” he said, touching my hair, “I like the way you look. I like you just the way you are.”

I looked up at him, surprised. His red hair was bright in the sun, and his blue eyes warm and friendly. “If you want curls, now you can have ‘em, but remember, that’s just being pretty on the outside. I love you because you’re already beautiful on the inside, and that’s where it really matters!”

* * * * *

The gift that Uncle Kay gave me that day was far more than just a curling iron. It was the assurance from someone I really cared about that I was an acceptable person, worthy of being loved. During my growing up years, which were often painful and difficult, he continued to be my staunch ally. His unswerving, uncritical love and loyalty through the years often kept me going when I wanted to give up. He made me know that life is worth living, even when it hurts. That was his real gift.

LIFE AT HINMAN AVENUE

2010-06-29T23:01:00.000-07:00

When I was five, we moved to a new house in Evanston on Hinman Avenue. It was larger than our house on Maple, but not large on the scale of houses in Evanston. It was in the same block as Miller School, a grade school, where older brother, Norm, started his educational endeavors, and I followed the following fall.

I had already taught myself how to read, so was started in the second grade. Reading was one of my passions. I had discovered that in a book I could go anywhere in the world and learn about other people, how they lived, and what they did. It was a way to escape from the painful aspects of my growing up years. Norm dubbed me, “Bookie,” only one among many other unflattering names he constantly dreamed up.

Some unique things happened on Hinman Avenue that happened at no other place we ever lived. There was a balloon man who came by every so often carrying a fistful of gas balloons in many colors. As he came down the street, he blew a shrill whistle to attract attention. Bobby, who was four when we moved there, would almost go berserk when he heard that whistle. He would race around the house, upstairs and down, calling out to anyone who would listen, “B’loon man! B’loon man! B’loon man!” He would keep it up until finally he got the attention of my mother, or some other adult, and got his “b’loon.” Sometimes the rest of us would get one too, but nobody cared about “b’loons” the way Bobby did.

One year the balloon man came by on Memorial Day. We were just starting out to go to the Memorial Day Parade, so my mother bought us all balloons. We must have looked quite festive as we walked along toward downtown Evanston, holding all our balloons. But soon, Bobby, in his excitement, lost hold of his balloon and began to cry as it floated slowly and inexorably upward. Frannie, who was the generous one of the family, said “Here, Bobby, you can have my balloon.” Bobby accepted it with a big smile, and his tears stopped.

But after another block or two, he lost that balloon too. Norm, who was not generous, but was bored with hanging on to his balloon, grumbled “Here, take mine, I don’t want it anyway.” Once again, Bobby was enthralled, but as we were nearing downtown, that balloon got away from him too. I wasn’t generous either, but I felt sorry for Bobby and gave him my balloon. “Hold on tight,” I cautioned, but before we had gone another block, that balloon followed all the others.

Bobby stopped still, and, for a moment, looked as if he might cry again as he watched his last balloon float away into the sky. Apparently he was pondering the loss of all his balloons and trying to make sense of it. My mother was impatient and said “Come on, Bobby, we’ll miss the parade.” Bobby, with his eyes on his balloon, still visible far above, gave a huge sigh, and stated firmly, “God wants all my b’loons.”

Another wonder of our life on Hinman Avenue was a hurdy-gurdy man who would come by once in a while with his music box, and a little monkey that sat on top of it. He wore a red felt vest with gold trim, and a cute little pillbox hat that he would doff whenever anyone gave him a coin. I loved that monkey, and used to save every penny that came my way in preparation for the day that the hurdy-gurdy man would come by.

A soon as the hurdy-gurdy man established his position on the corner near our house, I would grab my pennies, and rush out to where he was. When I held out my hand, palm up, with a penny in it, the monkey would reach out his little hand and take it. As he picked it up, I could feel his little fingers brush against my skin and felt a shiver of delight. His little hands were so human, with perfect little nails.

I always wished I could have spent more time with him, but as soon as my pennies were all gone, the hurdy-gurdy man would pack everything up, pull on the leash so the monkey would jump up on the box, and away they went.

Years later, at Fisherman’s Wharf in Monterey, I saw another hurdy-gurdy man with another monkey, in the same kind of little suit and hat. When I gave him pennies, and felt him take them out of my hand, I was transported back to Hinman Avenue, and once again flooded with joy at the touch of those little fingers on my hand.

Another thing unique to Hinman Avenue, didn’t interest me, but it fascinated Norm. Until they finally put in a stop sign, there were frequent collisions at the corner near Miller School. We could hear them from our house, as the metal on metal sound of the crash was loud and distinctive on our quiet street. Norm would rush out to see what had happened, to find out if anyone was hurt, and to watch all the activity of the police and the ambulances, if any. He became quite a connoisseur of auto accidents.

While at Hinman Avenue, it was decided that I had to have my tonsils out. When my mother told me about it, she referred to the operation as “tonsils and adenoids.” I had a vague idea of what and where tonsils were, because Norm had had his tonsils out a year or so before, but was vague on just where or what adenoids might be.

When Norm had had his tonsillectomy, my parents decided to have him circumcised at the same time, since it hadn’t been done at birth. When he heard I was going to have my “tonsils and adenoids” out, he said darkly, “Boy, will you be surprised when you find out where your adenoids are!”

The most exciting thing that happened when we lived at Hinman Avenue was that we acquired a car. It was a 4-door Franklin, and was convertible. They were called “touring cars. It had no permanent windows. The ones it had were made of ising glass, and snapped in when they were needed—not a quick process.

My father often took us for rides in the Franklin, usually out in the country somewhere, often for a picnic. We loved it. I remember one particularly exciting day when my father thrilled us all by reaching the terrifying speed of 37 miles per hour—the fastest we had ever gone!

The part of the house that I loved the best was the library. It had a fireplace at one end, windows at the other, and a beautiful Persian rug on the floor. The walls were lined with books. It was my haven. I spent many hours there lying on the rug, looking at, or reading books. I was sad when in the summer I was seven, we moved out to Geneva, Illinois, in the Fox River Valley.

MY BROTHER FRAN (part 2)

2010-06-24T22:07:00.000-07:00

The day following Sunday, December 7, 1941, Fran, along with several of his friends in Geneva, Illinois, where we lived then, went down to the draft board and enlisted in the Army Air Corps. He became a night-fighter pilot, and in 1943 was sent to the South Pacific. Fortunately, he later came back safely from that seemingly endless war.

In the years after the war, he and his wife, Barb, had several children—six, and he was just as wonderful a father to them as he was a brother to us. He had a light touch, and knew how to get across principles of behavior to his kids without anger or cruel words. He loved each of his children for their own individuality, and encouraged them to be who they wanted to be. I admired him for being able to do, so wisely, what I didn’t naturally know how to do. I learned from him, as I always had, by watching how he handled situations and people.

In time, he became an engineering test pilot, and was stationed at Alamogordo, New Mexico. One day, he was flying an F-106 jet plane, testing a device intended to hold a sophisticated new missile—the Cruise Missile, I believe. Unfortunately, the device holding the missile was not sufficiently strong, and broke apart from the plane. Part of it cut through the fuselage, severing the hydraulic systems that enabled the pilot to control the plane.

Now, there was no way to change the plane’s speed or direction. He tried to use the ejection seat, but it jammed. (Later, there was an investigation which found that all the F-106s at Alamagordo at that time had their ejection seats improperly installed. Any pilot who tried to eject would have had the same experience Fran had.)

Somehow Fran got the canopy open and used his chute to lift himself out of the cockpit, but the F-106 had an unusually high tail. His head struck it, and he was killed instantly.

It was an especially terrible experience for Barb and the six children, and changed their lives irrevocably from then on.

It was also a devastating blow to all the rest of the family. How could I even begin to describe such a loss! All of us knew he was, in some unusual way, different from the rest of us—better, bigger, kinder, fairer than any of us were able to be. There was never any indication that he knew this. I don’t believe he ever thought of such a thing. He didn’t know it. We knew it.

Many years later, I fell into conversation with a business acquaintance in Tucson, Arizona, and found that he was part of the ground crew at Alamogordo the day Fran was killed. As he recalled that day, his face was sad. “He was the greatest guy—just the greatest guy—the best of all the pilots there.” He paused for a moment, his eyes moist. “Everybody loved Fran Parker,” he said, “everybody.” He told me how that day everyone on the ground was shocked when the accident happened, and how bad they all felt because it happened to Fran.

I felt fortunate to have the opportunity to hear about that fateful day from a person who was actually there, and who knew my brother. I was not surprised to hear of the love and respect the people on the ground at Alamogordo had for him--my kind, funny, loving brother, Fran.

MY BROTHER FRAN (part 1)

2010-06-24T21:59:00.000-07:00

When I was born, I had a brother, Norm, who was about a year and a half older than I. My brother, Bob, was born about a year and a half after me, but I have no memory of it.

I was four when my brother, Fran, was born, and I remember it very clearly. My mother came home from the hospital after what seemed like a long absence. She was brought in and carried upstairs on a stretcher, and it seemed strange to see my energetic mother carried in that way, covered in sheets, except for her head, and looking so lifeless.

“Where’s the little baby?” I asked, as they were puffing carefully upward, “Didn’t it come home too?” Before they could answer, a nurse in a white uniform and a stiff little cap came in the front door carrying the baby. I couldn’t really see him. He seemed to be just a bunch of blankets all wrapped around each other. I bounced over to get a better look, but the nurse said, “Shh! He’s asleep. You can see him later.”

When we were finally taken into the bedroom to see Fran for the first time, my older brother, Norm, just looked at him for a minute, and then said, “Hmph!” My younger brother, Bob, looked at him for a few moments, making his assessment. “He’s too little to play with!” he said in disgust. “Well, he’s going to grow bigger,” I assured him.

I didn’t see anything wrong with that new and exciting person, and looked at him in fascination, especially at those little miniature hands. I reached out a finger tentatively to touch one, and Fran’s tiny fingers closed around one of mine so sweetly and deliberately, I felt a surge of love and joy. There began a connection that was never broken as long as he lived.

Fran was the happy one and the generous one of the family. His heart was big, uncritical, kind, and giving from the start. I was selfish, Norm was selfish, Bob was selfish, but Fran was always willing to share whatever he had. Our mother was always telling us to share our playthings, to be fair, and to be kind to other children, but no one had to tell Fran anything. He seemed to have been born knowing these things.

When we lived in Geneva, Illinois, where we moved when I was seven, we used to go on picnics to the Camden Woods, a lovely hilly area west of town. We used to have to lug everything quite a distance over the fields from the car, with everyone carrying something, and Norm always grumbling as he carried the large thermos of lemonade. My mother would spread out a tablecloth on the ground, and we would picnic under a huge oak tree. After that, we would all scramble up our favorite hill, which had a wonderful flat top and wasn’t hard to climb.

One day, as the grown-ups talked and we played on that hill, Fran found some loose change in the grass--an exciting event! Bob looked jealous, disappointed that he hadn’t found it first. Bob would have kept it, Norm would have kept it, I would have kept it, but not Fran. He counted the change, and without a moment’s hesitation handed some of the coins to Bob, saying, “Here, Bob, here’s your share.” Bob was ecstatic. I was amazed. I wouldn’t have even thought of doing such a thing, but couldn’t help but admire him for doing it, and loved him for being the way he was.

Not only was Fran generous and kind, but he was funny. He could always make us laugh, even when we were mad at each other, and many of our childish battles and rivalries would just melt away because his humor would make it seem so silly.

Later, we moved back to the “North Shore,” the suburbs north of Chicago along Lake Michigan. His imagination and humor were fun for us all. When we lived in Glencoe, and he was in high school, he had all sorts of inventive schemes in his room to make things easy to do. He rigged up a string to a light chain so he could put out the light after he was already in bed. At night he arranged his clothes on a chair by his bed so that in the morning he could get dressed in less than a minute.

He was creative about everything—always looking for a better way to do anything he had to do—and also was imaginative about getting a laugh. He put up a sign on the wall by his door, saying, “Only good-looking people may pull this string.” A little red string hung enticingly from the lower part of the sign. Of course, no one could resist pulling it. When they did, it opened downward, revealing a message that said, “My, but you’re conceited!” Everyone had to laugh.

MY FIRST MEMORY

2010-06-22T21:31:00.000-07:00

My very first memory is of being in my crib in the dark, crying because I was wet and cold. I was standing up, holding on to the railing, wondering where my mother was. Whenever I cried, she always came to see what was wrong, and then would take care of me and provide whatever was needed. This time nothing happened. Nobody came.

After a while, I stopped crying. I remember the wrought iron railing--how cold it felt to my hands--and the little decorative bulges where the bars met the top rail. I stood there realizing that this was something new and not at all right. I had to do something. I remember feeling that I must get out and find my mother, and put all my energy into trying to get out of my crib to go find my mother.

I could see light from the hall through the partially open door. I had never gotten out of my crib before, but was determined to do it now. I remember struggling over and over to get over the side, and just falling back into the crib, but I kept trying. In the end I made it, and found myself triumphantly on the cold wooden floor.

I tottered toward the light from the hall, and just as I pushed the door open and went through, I saw my father coming toward me. He looked so surprised to see me there, out of my bed and in the hall.

He gathered me up in his arms, carried me back into my bedroom, and took care of everything just as my mother would have done. He changed my diapers and the crib sheets, and soon I was back in a dry, warm bed and fell asleep.

To have my father fulfill my mother’s role made a great change in how I viewed my small world. Since my mother had always been the one to come when I cried, she seemed like an extension of myself. Now, for the first time, I was aware that she was separate from me, and that I was separate from her. I knew I could decide to do something on my own, and then do it.

Much later, when I was older, I found out that on that night, my mother was very sick with the flu, and my father had to get up and take her place. When he did that, I became aware of him in a new way. Now he was more than a pleasant, smiling entity in the background. He was someone who could take care of me as my mother did, and who wanted me to be comfortable and safe.

It was the beginning of a close bond with my father that lasted until he died a few months before his 100th birthday. The night that this all took place, and that the bond began, was shortly before my first birthday, in January 1920.

EMOTION vs. THOUGHT

2010-06-21T22:40:00.000-07:00

Earlier in my life, I made many mistakes because of the fear of rejection or the expectation of emotional pain. Unfortunately, this was what I learned as I was growing up.

My mother was emotional and spontaneous, sometimes extravagantly loving, and sometimes harshly critical. The alternation between love and criticism kept me forever off balance. I never knew what was coming next, and had no confidence that I was O.K., or ever could be. In fact, being O.K. actually meant, in the end, pleasing my mother, or at least managing to escape her wrath.

My father was not spontaneously affectionate. I can’t remember ever hearing him say he loved me, but I knew he did, and was always comfortable being around him. He made me feel loved by spending time with me, teaching me things, encouraging me in art, taking me to the Art Institute in nearby Chicago, getting me into classes there as a teenager.

His lack of spontaneity in the realm of affection was made up for by a wonderful sense of humor. He was always funny and often had me and my brothers in stitches at the dining room table, while my mother, who needed to be the center of attention, would say, “Oh, Norman!”

My father was brilliant and intellectual, a walking encyclopedia. I remember once when I was traveling with him on a long train trip—probably going out to the Black Hills in South Dakota--he got into a long discussion about deep sea fishing with a man sitting nearby. I had never heard him mention the subject ever, and yet he seemed to know all about it.

He had a photographic mind and remembered everything, so I was often surprised at how much he knew about almost anything anyone ever brought up. Although he had a Ph.D. in history, he had found that he hated teaching unresponsive undergraduate students, and in desperation decided to become a patent attorney, like his father and brothers, and join the family firm. He taught himself the law by studying for a year or so, and passed the bar exam the first time.

It is fun to have a funny parent, and one that enjoys teaching you things. He made learning a pleasant adventure, and thinking and figuring things out a lifelong pastime.

My mother was musical and played the violin very well. She was spontaneous and witty, and charmed everyone with whom she came in contact. People either loved her extravagantly or hated her guts.

Looking back on my formative years, I can see how I was shaped by the pain and the inconsistency of my spontaneous parent as opposed to the steadiness and comfort that came from the more diffident one. To me, spontaneity was not to be trusted; intellect and humor were. Emotions were apt to bring pain; thinking was safe.

Emotional pain cut deeper than ideas. Emotions could leave lasting wounds. No matter how much my father tried to help me to believe in myself, it could all be destroyed in an instant by my mother.

As an adult, I had no idea who I was. I felt like an anchorless, rudderless boat adrift in a huge sea. Where did I belong? Who did I want to be? What direction would I take if I could find my rudder? I never knew.

I got married, had children, and got divorced. I did the best I could, but not having any clear concept of how to find emotional stability, I had no idea how to teach my children to be stable and self confident people. You can’t teach something you don’t know.

Now, with the perspective of 91 years of life, I can look back on my first few years and realize that I was the victim of a parent who was herself a victim. My children were in turn the victims of my lack of belief in myself. I feel sorry that I was unable to give them any sense of direction or feeling of security, sorry that I got to know myself and believe in myself long after they were grown. I don’t feel guilty because I was doing the best I could with what I knew and had to work with at the time, but I am regretful because I think they missed a lot.

Get Off the Phone!

2009-10-13T21:43:00.000-07:00

Why do we want to talk to each other? To add something to the grocery list? To complain about our neighbor? The government? The weather? Or just to gossip? We all seem to be talking, talking, talking wherever we are, wherever we go. But it seems that the conversations have steadily become less and less meaningful, and more and more disconnected and banal.

Perhaps this is the inevitable result of too many modes of communication available every hour of the day or night. No one message can be very important when we know we can send another one in the very next minute. I can’t help but wonder what we would be doing if we weren’t talking, talking, talking. Unfortunately, we might be watching TV, which could be worse. Or we might do something creative we don’t have time for with all that talking going on.

We could be singing, or gardening, or inventing, or painting, or writing, or building something. Such endless possibilities! I listen to music that reaches my heart and wonder if it ever would have been written if the composer had gone mad over communicating at all hours of the day and night. Or would that book I just read have been written if the author were too busy texting his pals, but not seeing people in person, not seeing their expressions or their body language or how they look when they laugh.

Oh well, I know I’m not going to stem the tide of endless fractured conversation, but still, I plead to those who could be doing something creative to opt for doing instead of blabbing. You can’t connect to that marvelous flow that comes from within if you are endlessly talking

Who Am I Looking At?

2009-09-07T11:40:00.000-07:00

When I walked with a friend recently, I found it rather depressing instead of fun, because he was criticizing what's going on in the world, and all the people in the world, whether local, national, or even international. It made the walk rather dreary.

After I got home, and was complaining to myself about how critical he was about everything, I suddenly had a moment of clarity in which I realized I had been critical even before he was. I had doubted his identification of a bird we spotted because, to me, the color appeared wrong for that particular bird. I hadn't even noticed that I was being critical.

How easy it is to blame other people for the same things we do! How much easier to pass judgment on something when somebody else does it than when I do it. It made me wonder how often I do that without knowing it. In the days since this realization hit me, whenever I've caught myself criticizing something, I've had to ask myself, "Am I saying something about me?" Sometimes I'm not, and sometimes I am. Yikes! It has made me painfully aware of how automatically I can turn the spotlight on someone else to keep it off myself.

Seeing my own shortcomings isn't necessarily a signal for self-flagellation, but rather, for being honest with myself about what I do. If I don't see it, I can't change it, and if it's something I dislike in others, I definitely want to change it. Again, it's the same old thing: I want to treat others the way I'd like to be treated. Will I ever learn? I hope so.

Dick Cheney Doesn't Get It

2009-08-31T22:33:00.000-07:00

Dick Cheney misses the most important point. If, in order to gain something, we compromise our most important principles, then we have actually lost. There is nothing important enough to justify committing a wrong to gain the end we want, no matter how vital the need may be. It's no use trying to convince ourselves that the end justifies the means. It doesn't. Every action has a flow that returns to us in like kind. We will reap what we sow. We cannot come out right by doing wrong. This isn't politics--it's principle. Shame on you, Dick Cheney.

There is always a way to do what we need to do, either for ourselves or for our country, without doing wrong to others. The test of our integrity is to be able to use our imagination, ingenuity, and our courage to find that way. If we believe we can only keep our country safe is by torturing other human beings, we have to be ready to reap the results of that torture. The advantages will only be temporary. In the end, we will be even less safe than we are now.

I am against torture for any reason. There is a greater law than any law we might concoct to make torture "legal." That law is "do unto others what you would have them do unto you." Shame on you, Dick Cheney!

Life's "Do Overs"

2009-08-29T22:37:00.000-07:00

A couple of mornings ago, I woke up with the refrain, "Life is a series of 'do overs' " running through my head, and wondered sleepily what on earth that meant. When I was finally awake, I realized that, although I hadn't thought of it quite like that, I've noticed that things I've flubbed in some way often seem to come up again and again--not necessarily with the same person, or in exactly the same situation, but with the same principle involved. Whenever I catch myself asking, "Why does this keep happening?" I know it's time to pay attention in a different way--a way that can give me a new slant on what I am doing, or not doing, that brings this experience back again and again.

It's hard to do, but I try to look at myself as if I were somebody else, observing me and getting the benefit of what I am doing or saying. When I do this, sometimes I am embarrassed to find that I have been doing exactly what I criticized someone else for doing. It's such a shock when I finally realize it, it's a lesson not easy to forget. It's embarrassing because I believe in treating others the way I like to be treated.

What happens when I seriously miss the point? I get "do overs" until I get it right. It may sound negative, but in reality, I'm glad to have so many "chances." It's good to know we don't get condemned for our mistakes--just constantly reminded by life to "shape up."

Car Monsters

2009-08-24T22:15:00.000-07:00

I can't help but wonder what happens to some otherwise nice people when they get behind the wheel of a car. In the last two weeks I have seen several instances of lunacy, anger, and rudeness on the part of other drivers on my usual rounds to the pharmacy, the grocery store, and the dentist. Three times in a row, at the pharmacy, which has a rather small parking lot, I have seen huge vehicles parked in the only disabled parking space. Not only were their vehicles too large for the space, making it hard for others to pass by, but they had neither disabled licenses nor a disabled sign inside their windshields. What goes through a person's mind to make them think that this kind of inconsideration for the handicapped and for other drivers is OK?

In the same parking lot one day, I saw a young woman, driving a spiffy late-model car, pull in and stop to wait for the space someone was about to leave. The only problem was, she stopped too close to the space she was waiting for, and the woman who was trying to leave couldn't get out. The young woman just sat there, waiting, and didn't budge an inch. I signaled to her to back up a little, but she shook her head. An elderly gentleman on the other side of her, also signaled to her to back up, but still she shook her head. The poor woman who was trying to leave started backing carefully, then moving forward, then backing again, doing her best to maneuver herself out of that space. I admired her pluck, her tenacity, and, in the end, her driving skills, because somehow she managed to get out, after backing and filling several times. The man and I both spoke to the young woman, pointing out how much trouble the other driver was having because she was in her way. She refused to move, saying "She has a small car. She can get out."

The elderly gentleman and I couldn't believe what we were seeing, and agreed it topped the list for rudeness and inconsideration. I'm ashamed to say I was so angry at this display of hard-heartedness, I didn't forget it for several hours.

On my way to the dentist, a man was so mad at getting caught at a red light, he sped through the intersection anyway, and only jamming on my brakes fast saved me from being hit. Several drivers honked, and one shook his fist yelling something at the disappearing car that it's probably lucky I didn't hear. Later, at the grocery store, someone backed out without looking, and again, I had to hit my brakes to avoid a collision.

Well, those are all the stories of strange driving experiences I can think of at the moment, but there were others, including instances of people causing near accidents because they were either texting or talking on their cell phones. Just because its against the law doesn't mean you get caught when you do it. I'm hoping these car monsters will begin to think about what they are doing, and will find a way to be kind while driving.

There's Always A Way

2009-08-23T20:44:00.000-07:00

I have lived long enough now--90 years--that I know there is always a way. I have found this to be true through many daunting circumstances for which I had no answer. Now, even though I can't see a solution the minute a problem arises, I know within myself that an answer exists and that it will come to me one way or another. I turn within, and ask that part of me that is witnessing my life, what I should do, where I should look for information, whom I could ask for help. Sometimes answers just pop into my head when I'm in the middle of doing something else. More often, answers and ideas come in dreams--answers that my merely human self couldn't think of, solutions that differ completely from the direction I was taking on my own. Or, sometimes I get a confirmation of the direction I had already started taking.

This isn't something that is unique to me. I have known many others who have found answers in the same way. Anyone can do it. All that it requires is turning within, and asking your inner self (we all have one) what to do, and then shutting up and listening for the answer. It may come almost immediately, or not for several days. "Listening" means going into a sort of mental neutral while you wait for an answer. It doesn't mean you completely stop thinking--life goes on--but it means not wrangling with the problem any further, and instead, reminding yourself that a solution is already in the works.

It was in doing this that I found out that the Universe is friendly. It may not seem so when everything has gone wrong, and you are faced with seemingly insurmountable problems and impossible choices. The more times you find your way out of difficulty by trusting your inner self, the more sure you become that there is always a way even when you're sure there's not. The hardest part is taking your mind off the problem. The second hardest part is reminding yourself (when the problem comes back into your head for the umpteenth time) that your higher self is taking care of things. The best part, is seeing problems resolve in ways you never thought of.

You're Never Too Old

2009-06-28T21:48:00.000-07:00

I'm having fun painting a tangle of oak trees. It doesn't look anything like what I'm aiming at yet, but I am a persistent painter. I don't stop until it looks the way I want it to. When I have succeeded, I will post it on my art blog, http://unblockedartist-troyfarr.blogspot.com/, or click on the link down below on the right. I am happy to be unblocked after so many years.

I wish I could tell every person, who has given up on something they used to do, how rewarding it is to do it again, no matter how long it's been. People often tell me they can't take old talents up again because now they're too old. But if they would just do it, they'd find they're not too old, after all, and that creativity makes life worthwhile. It keeps people young and interested in each new day. It causes one to live in the now, rather than in the past or future. I know this because I'm 90, and painting and writing better than I ever did when I was younger.

I hope someone out there will throw caution to the winds and start in on something they used to enjoy. Give it a try!

Kindness

2009-06-27T22:37:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking about kindness, and how many times during my life an unexpected word or act of kindness gave me a whole new perspective. The thought that someone would put themselves out for me just to help, and not because they hoped to get something out of it, was such a gift. Even though sometimes it was a very small thing, it was always meaningful because it was a form of caring, and in depressing times, caring was what I had little of. Kindness is giving, not asking. Kindness made me kind.

Thanks to All

2009-06-07T22:27:00.000-07:00

Thanks to all of you who wrote about and prayed for my sons, Bob and Bill. Both are much better now, and gradually getting back to normal strength. Unfortunately, Bob still has the excruciating headache that has dogged him relentlessly for the past ten or eleven years. I'm hoping that will be the next problem that gets solved.

Now that the crisis is over, I am back to my painting, and hope to have something to post on my blog, Unblocked Artist, before long. (See the link below.) I am so lucky to be an artist as well as a writer. I love writing, but it is not soothing. When I am painting, no thoughts or answers are required of me--just immersion in the wonders of color and shape. Magically, I can always find my way to the colors I need. I sometimes read things by other artists giving pointers about tones and values, etc., and I realize how little training I have actually had. If I had to think about how to do it, I would be lost. I just look. And look. And look again. Painting makes me happy.

My Son, Bobby Jameson, in ICU

2009-05-03T14:52:00.000-07:00

Bobby is in intensive care after emergency surgery for an aortic aneurysm. His condition is stable (but uncomfortable). As far as I know, he will make a full recovery. His brother, Bill, has been moved from the hospital to a convalescent facility. I am also recovering, but in a different way. I am recovering from having coped with two emergencies in two weeks, and from having lost a ton of sleep. I am beginning to feel more normal, now that everyone is out of danger, but am still very tired. Thanks for everyone's good wishes and prayers for both my sons.

Please Pray for my Son Bill

2009-04-26T15:59:00.000-07:00

I haven't written here for a while, and now want to get up to date. First of all, my oldest son, Bill, is in the hospital, very sick with pneumonia. Yesterday he didn't know me, or even what his name was. Today, he knew me, thank God, and even said a couple of sentences. I hope this is the beginning of an upward trend. His brother, my middle son, Bob (Bobby Jameson), and I have been, and are, very worried about him. We want nothing so much as to see him well again, and able to leave the hospital.

If anyone happens to read this who prays, please pray for Bill Jameson to recover from pneumonia. I will be forever grateful. Thank you.

On another subject, after not painting for several years, finally I am painting again and have three paintings posted on my new art blog, "Unblocked Artist." There is a link to it on this page. Would love to hear comments.

2009-04-18T21:29:00.000-07:00

Abstract No. 7

2009-04-17T15:22:00.001-07:00

I painted this several years ago.

Cover of my book. I used pastels.

2009-04-17T15:03:00.000-07:00

Here Is the Painting of Poppies I Promised

2009-04-17T13:28:00.000-07:00

Months ago I promised to put up the first painting I did after overcoming my "painter's block" of many years. I finished this first painting in the early fall of '08, but, as I said yesterday, couldn't figure out how to post it. Last night my son (Bobby Jameson) helped me figure out how to do it, so now I can finally show what I've been doing since challenging myself last August on this blog in a specific way. The painting below represents a wonderful breakthrough for me. I hadn't been able to paint for a long time. I think the problem that had me so tied up was lack of specificity of intention. Now I am a happy artist, painting almost every day and loving the process.

I am now working on a painting of oaks, wonderful California oaks. I admire them because they are so enduring and adaptable. Out on Bob Jones Trail, south of San Luis Obispo (where I live), a huge oak was ripped out of the side of a hill by its roots in a big storm. It fell right across the trail. County people came out, removed it to the side, and cut it up into pieces small enough for people to carry away. Gradually most of them disappeared, taken, I suppose, by people who had fireplaces, and were happy to get free firewood, oak at that.

There was one rather long bough, not the right shape or size for a fireplace, that was left behind. Not too long after the dismemberment of the tree, this bough began to sprout. Now, many months later, there are branches reaching upward from where it is lying on the ground, and a new tree has begun!

Depending on circumstances, I have seen that an oak trunk can become root, or the root become trunk, whatever is required for life to continue. With such adaptability, no wonder so many of our California hills are covered with oaks. I love them.

2009-04-17T13:23:00.000-07:00

Poppies by Laguna Lake, San Luis Obispo

My New Painting - Posted At Last

2009-04-16T22:38:00.000-07:00

The painting below, Dawn in the Country, is my most recent one. I promised to post it here weeks, or perhaps months, ago. It took me until now, because I couldn't figure out how to do it. Finally, this evening, my son (Bobby Jameson) helped me. It was an agonizing procedure for him, because he has an Apple, I have Windows, and we discovered how very different they are. Even though he wasn't feeling well, he stuck with it until he figured it out, while making numerous colorful comments about what he thought of Windows.

I have two more paintings to post, but that will have to happen on another day as this one is almost over. I am happy, though to have this painting on my blog at last.

2009-04-16T22:14:00.000-07:00

2009-04-16T21:54:00.000-07:00

The Inconstant Constancy of the Wind

2009-04-16T20:39:00.000-07:00

The wind has stopped. For three days it has been raging, moaning, and blowing everything around that’s not secured in place. Now, there is a wonderful silence, a resting from endeavors before the beginning of normal activity.

Man is indeed silly. He thinks he runs the world, but he can’t stop the wind, and he doesn’t even have the sense to use its power for the things he needs to do. When I was growing up, there were windmills on every farm. Then gradually, they fell into disuse as electricity became a rural as well as a city commodity.

Now, finding ways to use the power of the wind, as a substitute for fuels that send carbon dioxide into the atmosphere, is one of the latest ideas for saving the planet. And yet, it isn’t a new idea. It’s been around. We just didn’t realize what a great idea it was. We thought using coal, gas, or oil was more modern, technical, and sophisticated. Windmills were old-fashioned.

It was fun while it lasted, but now we have to find sources of energy that are renewable. The wind is like that. It comes and it goes, but never leaves forever. It always returns sooner or later. And even though we sometimes have much more of it than we want, it’s still the closest thing we have to the long-sought-for perpetual motion. I hope we’re smart enough to use it so we can give our groaning planet a break and a chance to renew itself

In the meantime, I'm happy it's not blowing today.

Today, I'm Ninety

2009-01-06T22:05:00.000-08:00

It is fun to have lasted this long, and to still be healthy and enjoying life. In fact, I enjoy everything much more than I used to. Now that I am painting again, it's exciting to wake up in the morning and get back to what I am working on. Even if I live another twenty years, I will never run out of things I want to do, or find out about, or see. I love my life.

Israelis in Gaza--Who Can Win?

2009-01-04T13:09:00.000-08:00

No one can win with just a military victory. Oppression and restriction, on one side, lead to anger and retaliation on the other, in the form of rockets. Those rockets lead to anger and retaliation on the Israeli side, in the form of bombs, and now troops on the ground.

In a sense, both sides are right, but both are also wrong. The Israelis want their citizens to be safe, and to be free to live normal lives. But guess what? The Palestinians want their people to be safe, and to be free to live normal lives. Neither side can win unless they are willing to give to the other side what they want for themselves.

The best, and probably the only, way to make Hamas irrelevant, is for each country to recognize the other's right to exist, to treat each other with respect, and for each to be as fair as they want the other side to be. If life is to improve for the Israelis, it must also improve for the people of Gaza, and for all Palestinians.

The Homeless Man

2009-01-02T12:20:00.000-08:00

We both see the same man
He's homeless and pulls a cart
Holding his meager possessions.
His gray hair is long and tangled
His face is seamed and dark
From outdoor living
There are holes in his dirty jacket
His shoes are worn and scuffed
One of them has no laces.

When he is gone:
You say, "What a mess he is!"
I say, "I wonder where he can go
To get clean."
You say, "He looks like a drinker or druggie to me."
I say, "I wonder where he goes to the bathroom."
You say, "I wouldn't blame anyone
For wanting to keep him out. Didn't you see?
One of his shoes didn't even have laces."
I say, "I wish I could help him."
You say, "Well, you really are a do-gooder!"
I say, "No, but I would be if I could."
You say, "You can't help people like that.
If you gave him money, he'd just drink it up.
Or buy drugs."
I say, "You don't have to be a drinker or a druggie
To fall out of the system.
You just have to lose your job
Have a serious illness in the family
Or lose your house--anything."
You say, "Plenty of people have troubles,
But they don't end up bums--
You're crazy, too sentimental."
I say ,"But somehow, we should be able to help.
In the end, people are responsible for each other."
You say, "Responsible! People make their own choices.
He got himself into the mess he's in."
I say, "Maybe, but still, he needs help."

You go on your way
Irritated by my "foolishness."

We saw the same man, and yet we didn't.
You saw his faults, I saw his need.
You may be intelligent and practical
I may be foolish or crazy, as you say.
But something in me feels a connection
Between him and me.
We live different lives
Have different thoughts
I know nothing about him
Or how he got where he is

But beneath all that
Beyond our human personalities
There is something within us
That is the same
Something that is the core of life

Thoughts at Christmas

2008-12-25T12:16:00.000-08:00

For much of my life, Christmas has been a time of family gatherings, friends, gifts, parties, decorations, snow, and the scent of pine. It was also a time of nostalgia for previous Christmases, on which time had already conferred a rosy glow.

Christmas, now, is a time of reflection--thoughts about the present as well as the past. It's about appreciation for all that went well in my life, expectation that today is a good day, and gratitude for all that surrounds me. The things in my life may not look like much to other eyes. My possessions lean toward the scanty rather than the opulent, but I have a computer to write with, a studio in which I paint, instruments to play on when the mood strikes me, and I am sheltered from the Christmas rain that is falling as I write.

I can't help but think of the homeless right here in this town that have no shelter, and to whom Christmas must be just another day in which to struggle to keep warm and dry, to stay safe, to find food, and to try to find anything at all that is good in the circumstances they are in.

Here I am, warm, dry, and well-fed, not in need; and there they are, cold, uncomfortable, abandoned by life. I have done little to help any of them beyond giving a dollar when I pass near someone who is holding a sign, "Hungry, will work for food."

One of my friends, seeing me do this, asked me why. "You don't know what they'll do with it. They'll probably just go drink it up."

"Perhaps," I answered, "but it's not my business what they do with it; it's only my business that they need it."

She thinks I'm crazy.

But giving is giving. If you attach strings to it, then it isn't giving. I would give much more if I could.

If I have a prayer for this Christmas, it's to be able to be of more help than I have been to people who are in need.

Why is it that for most of us it seems to be easier to help people in a far-off foreign land than it is to help those who suffer right under our noses in our own home town?

What Happened to the "News"?

2008-12-21T16:16:00.000-08:00

Listening to "talking heads" on the news channels, hoping to hear reasonable points of view, is just frustrating, because so many of them have become well-known by occupying a certain political niche, and once established, seldom vary from their accustomed themes.

It's no fun listening when you already know what will be said even before they say it. It's maddening to hear so-called pundits--whether from the right or from the left--fudging the facts to bolster their points of view, or even worse, slandering by innuendo and suggestion, the motives and characters of those with opposing views.

Many so-called "news" shows have morphed into gossip fests, and are about as meaningful and accurate as gossip usually is.

When someone pops into view who thinks, who speaks in more than sound bites and jargon, and who has something substantial to say (whether I agree or not), it is a pleasure and a refreshing surprise.

The news channels give far too much attention to the latest accident, car chase, celebrity divorce, or gruesome murder. There is a saying in journalism, "If it bleeds, it leads." I suspect there is another saying, "If it thinks, it stinks."

Everyone has a right to express his or her point of view--but let it be a point of view, not just rhetoric. And let's have some real news. When I look at the "World" section of my local newspaper, I realize, again and again, how much we miss on TV. I used to love CNN when it really was a news channel.

What happened to the journalists who used to dig deep for the really interesting stuff? Wherever you all went, please come back. And whatever happened to just reporting the news without lacing it with comments and opinions.? I'd like just reporting to come back, too, from wherever it went.

The Best-Laid Plans . . .Gang Aft Agly

2008-12-20T21:02:00.000-08:00

In August, I promised, on this blog, to start painting again, and to begin with a scene of California Poppies by Laguna Lake, here in San Luis Obispo. I did that painting as I promised, but failed to keep my promise to post it here.

I've been working on my second painting since August. Foolish me, I embarked on a scene of "Dawn in the Country," which turned out to be more difficult than I expected. A dawn scene requires using gray, and the presence of gray does odd things to the colors, sometimes bringing forth colors you don't expect and don't want. I have learned a lot doing this project, and finally feel happy with the results.

I'm not sure I know, yet, how to photograph my paintings properly in order to post them here, but I will dive in and see what happens. Depending on my success, my first painting, "Poppies by Laguna Lake," and this recent one, "Dawn in the Country," will be posted some day next week. Then, I'll start a new painting.

I thinks it's wonderful that I was able to conquer my long-standing painter's block by challenging myself in public on this blog! (Read earlier posts.) It worked! Now I paint every day, only missing if events beyond my control interfere. I am happier than I could ever say to be painting again!

I'm Painting

2008-08-17T21:47:00.000-07:00

I have not posted a blog for some time--health problems, but now I'm OK. I did paint the poppies by Laguna Lake as I promised I would, and am now working on a second picture. I am so happy to be painting again. I go out to my studio every morning after breakfast, before I do anything else. My second painting won't be done for two or three more days, and when it is I will take a photo and post it on this blog. Tomorrow, if all goes well, I will take a photo of the poppies and post them here, along with my drawing of my son, Bobby Jameson, musician.

Getting Over Painter's Block

2008-07-26T22:17:00.000-07:00

I was right about my lack of specificity about what to paint. I gave myself the goal of posting a painting today of California poppies by Laguna Lake, here in San Luis Obispo. It's almost finished, but it got very hot this afternoon, and my studio was like a weanie roast with me as the weanie. I had to stop, but expect to be able to finish it tomorrow morning.

When my son, Bobby Jameson, heard me say I needed to start drawing, he asked me to draw a picture of him, and I did. He put it on his blog, bobbyjameson.blogspot.com, and got several good comments on it--very encouraging. I'll post it here tomorrow along with my painting, if all goes well. I'm happy about having gone from no art to two successful efforts. Be back tomorrow.

Painter's Block

2008-07-20T20:31:00.000-07:00

I got a good comment on my last blog, saying I should just make up my mind and do it--get to painting that is. I think that's true, but for me the snag seems to be that I make up my mind at night that I will do art the next day, and when the day arrives, I can't seem to think of how to proceed. So odd.

I've decided I need to give myself a specific project to do, and a time frame in which to do it. The blank feeling that assails me when I want to do art must be a lack of specificity of purpose. I'll do something small, something that will feel like a "first step", with the hope that it will take me on a long journey. I have been wanting to do a painting of California Poppies blooming by the water at Laguna Lake here in San Luis Obispo, where I live. It will be a small canvas, something I can do in a short time.

My friend and I used to walk at Laguna Lake Park until we switched to Bob Jones Trail, because it was so much easier underfoot. At Laguna Lake we saw so much beauty: growing things, flowers, mountains in the distance, all sorts of birds and little animals, and of course, the lake itself.
I saw my first Great Blue Heron there. He was standing in the rushes in shallow water hoping to snag a fish. I marveled at his size as he waited, utterly still. Suddenly something spooked him, and I watched in awe as he took off, rising above the water on those enormous blue wings. What a beautiful sight!

There were ducks of several kinds, cormorants, all sorts of geese, including Canada Geese, sometimes even domestic fowl, such as chickens and guinea hens, and of course the ubiquitous gulls. There are always gulls. These birds all coexisted amicably, as far as we could tell, but sat about on the grass, went into the water, or searched for insects in homogeneous groups, which led me to wonder how birds tell themselves apart. I don't know. Sometimes there were doves, and we were enchanted one day when a dove flew down and stopped right at our feet. It didn't seem to be at all afraid, and just waited there for a few minutes in a companionable way before it finally flew off.

On one walk, we saw a ground squirrel by the path up on his haunches eating something off the top of a plant. As we watched, he suddenly fell backwards, and then picked himself up looking very surprised and rather embarrassed. But, not having finished his feast, he got back up on his haunches again and started nibbling. Apparently his enthusiasm got the best of him, and again he lost his balance and fell backwards. This time he looked mystified and even more embarrassed, but after a little shake of his head, got up and tried again. He was a very persistent ground squirrel, and we were impressed by his pluck. The last we saw of him, as we went on our way, he was happily, and this time successfully, munching the top of the plant.

One of the sights I loved each year was the California Poppies blooming at the edge of the grass by the Lake, silhouetted against the blue water. So I will make this my first project, the thing I will do this week, and will commit to posting on my blog by next Saturday, July 26. I hope that anyone who reads this blog will be sure to stop by and check on me to see if I succeed in carrying out my good intentions.

I've Been Missing

2008-07-17T21:15:00.000-07:00

I haven't been able to write for several weeks, and have missed doing it. Now I'm feeling healthy again and ready to write.

The world has not become any more sane since I've been "gone", but the natural world is still as lovely as ever. I walked today with a friend on "Bob Jones Trail," just a few miles south of San Luis Obispo, CA, where I live. The trail is a bike path, so is easy underfoot. At the part where we walk, huge old oaks look down on us as we follow along the gently winding path. There are walnut trees, sycamores, and eucalyptus as tall as the oaks, and down below, we hear quail chattering to each other in the bushes.

After about a mile, there is an opening in the trees on the left, a large grassy area. On the right is a bench where we often sit and look across the meadow to more trees, and beyond them, oak-covered hills. Sometimes acorn woodpeckers gather on the top of a nearby power pole, or on its side, pecking at it diligently as they cling. Often there are blue jays darting in and out of the bushes, or sparrows, or finches. Occasionally, we see turkey vultures above, soaring on the wind currents, not even moving their wings. They are beautiful to watch, and I can't help but think how much fun it must be to soar up there with such freedom.

I have decided to use this blog in a different way. I intend to be less formal, and just write about my life and what I find interesting around me or in the news from day to day. The reason is, that it is easier to be consistent about writing when you don't feel as if what you write has to reach some literary standard, but can just be informal and from the heart.

I am an artist, but haven't done anything related to art for a long time. It's bothering me. I'm asking myself why I don't do some drawings of things that interest me. It might lead me into a painting or paintings. There are so many in my mind I want to do. I don't have this trouble with writing, but as far as art goes, I'm temporarily stuck. There must be others out there who find themselves doing all kinds of miscellaneous things rather than doing what is creative. Perhaps some of you who have been similarly afflicted have ideas about how to slay the dragon of inaction. If so, I'd love to hear about it. Please make comments and let me know.

It's time to stop and go to bed, but I'll be back tomorrow.

Two Different Wars

2008-05-26T21:07:00.000-07:00

Years ago, when World War II ended, in August, 1945, everyone in the little town of Geneva, Illinois, where I lived, went down to the center of town. I think we all felt an instinctive need to gather with other people and share our excitement. It made it real to talk about it. Our town was so small, many of us just walked down town. I remember feeling so happy I could almost float instead of walking..

World War II was not like the present one. In today's war, you can keep living a normal life, and remain pretty much untouched by it all, unless you have someone serving in the military. In World War II, that was impossible.

Gasoline was severely rationed, so we had to think before we drove anywhere. Butter and cooking oil were rationed, and those of us who had always turned up our noses at the very thought of margarine were happy to get it if we could. Meat was rationed, which tested the ingenuity of housewives everywhere. Cigarettes weren't rationed, but were in extremely short supply. Those of us who smoked were constantly looking and asking, trying to find new sources.

We rolled bandages and knit socks and sweaters for the troops. With every pair of olive drab socks I knit, my mind would be full of thoughts about the soldier whose feet those socks would keep warm, and in my heart I would be wishing and hoping that he would stay safe.

We sent boxes and letters overseas to those we knew and to those we didn't know. Everyone was involved in comforting the troops in any way we could. The death toll was high, and by the end, hundreds of thousands of men were killed in battle, in contrast to the 4,000 plus we have lost in this even longer, and still not ended, war.

As I watch how people I see from day to day react, or don't react, to today's war, I am struck by how little most people are affected by it, except when someone they love is overseas. It is not part of the fabric of everyday life as it was in World War II.

I was horrified when, after 9-11, President Bush told us all to "go shopping." What a contrast to President Roosevelt who challenged us by enumerating the many things we could do to help the war effort! We were inspired by being asked to help, and it made us feel better to pitch in and have something useful to do.

Also, that war seemed necessary. We had to stop Hitler from overrunning the world, which was what he intended to do. In newsreels, we watched as panzer units rolled across Europe, easily going around the famed Maginot Line in France, which had long been thought to be a real protection against possible German aggression. We saw V-bombs, or rockets, fall on England, and the English be unable to stop them. They packed into bomb shelters during the endless air raids, emerging time after time, when the all-clear sounded, to view the new damage, which was usually extensive.

We saw books being burned, windows of Jewish-owned businesses being smashed, and Jews being persecuted in every way, until they began to disappear into the loathsome concentration camps and the gas chambers.

Hitler covered Europe, threatened England, marched across North Africa, and went all the way to Stalingrad before he was stopped at all.

In the Pacific, the war went on against the Japanese over a wide area, starting from Hawaii, where the Japanese first attacked us, and moving on from island to island in the South Pacific, to the Phillippines, and finally Japan. The threats in that war were real and world wide. Our way of life and democracy were, for a while, in grave danger. It makes me angry to think we embarked on a preemptive war based on lies and misrepresentation. The reasons given for it were untrue, and those wanting the war knew they were untrue. It is a crime to cause soldiers to lose their lives for concocted reasons. How can it be defended, in the light of what it means to each soldier who falls or dies?

On that August afternoon, we all hugged and laughed and cried and were full of a heady exhilaration. We kept saying to each other, "It's over, it's over!" and hugged each other again. Finally, we all began to wander back to our homes, or gathered at someone else's home, to celebrate.

At my mother's house, several old friends gathered in her large screened veranda and sat together in the fading light to talk. "War is so awful," one said, "I wonder if human beings will ever get beyond it, or if we will go on fighting bigger and bigger wars until we just blow ourselves off the planet?" Everyone nodded. We all seemed to be wondering the same thing. "I feel as if we could avoid it, but only if we all wanted to, and worked together to prevent it," said my mother. Our next door neighbor, who was a colonel in the army, said "That would only work if people wanted to abandon war all over the world. No country could do it alone." I said, "I wish all countries could organize together to stop war," and my stepfather said, "Yes, all nations united together. I wonder if that will ever happen." We all hoped so, and as night fell, we grew quiet, listened to the crickets, and hoped for the future of the human race.

In World War II, we were ready to make sacrifices and put in our efforts, working together to help in any way we could. In today's war, we are not asked to do anything, and I am still insulted by the suggestion that the best thing we can do in time of trouble is "go shopping."

War Should Be Our Last Resort

2008-05-24T21:09:00.000-07:00

I wonder if it has ever struck anyone else as strange that we take such pains to protect the red-legged frog, yet send our young people to war. Granted, young human beings are not in danger of becoming extinct, but why have we sent them to fight a nonsensical unnecessary war? Why didn't we keep the Al Quaeda busy in Afghanistan, as we started to do, so they wouldn't have gone to Iraq to give us trouble there?

I am not in favor of war as a means of settling things, but at least going to Afghanistan made some sense, since the perpetrators of 9-11 were trained there, and were committed to the intentions of Osama bin Laden.

If we care about our own young, we should never rush to war as a way of getting what we want for our country. War should be absolutely the last resort, and should not be used until every other method has been tried. We should use diplomacy first, and be imaginative and persistent in our efforts to reach understanding and agreement. There is no excuse for using lies, propaganda, and fear to take our country to war. Nor is there a good excuse for refusing to talk to countries with whom we disagree, and whose ideas we disapprove of.

We are already at peace with our friends; we can only make peace with our enemies. This requires communication. Refusing to talk to them will not cause them to change their ways--why should they? We should find any areas of agreement and mutual need that may exist, and use them as a starting point to build from.

Unless and until we have exhausted every possible way to stay out of a war, we have no right to start one. And until we have exhausted those possibilities, we should be ashamed to send our sons and daughters into harm's way. It's an awful thing to do. Especially for a lie.

When Jesus said, "Love thine enemies," he probably meant we shouldn't kill them.

Think about it.

THE UNIMAGINATIVE MEDIA

2008-05-07T23:05:00.000-07:00

I got so sick of either hearing Rev. Wright expostulating, or hearing about him, or hearing TV journalists ask talking heads, "Has Barack Obama's campaign been derailed by Rev. Wright?" After the first three or four times, I couldn't bear to listen to their speculations any more. They didn't know. I didn't know. But the constant attention to the effect of Rev. Wright, and the questions about it, were far more likely to affect the campaign adversely than the actual things that happened in the first place. Enough already!

Now that North Carolina and Indiana are behind us, I guess that outworn question will be replaced by something new. Thank God for that, but I hope the next obsession won't be even worse.

Ted Turner had a good idea when he started CNN, and I'm sorry he no longer runs it. Now it has become less of a news channel, and more of a place for gossip and opinion instead of straight news. That's what distresses me about all the so-called news channels--all of them lapse at times into the kind of reporting that used to be relegated to the tabloids. Is it too much to hope for good journalism without innuendo and smarmy questions?

The "Impossible" Is Waiting in the Wings

2008-04-12T22:32:00.000-07:00

I was thinking about how much we limit ourselves by closing our minds to what we don't yet know. I'm old enough to remember Dick Tracy and his two-way wrist radio, which seemed fantastic and impossible at the time. It doesn't seem impossible now, so it wasn't impossible then, but the increments of knowledge needed to create it had not yet fallen into place.

When I was a little girl, the sound of an airplane drew us all outside to watch with excitement and awe, as it was such an unusual event. Little did we know that not too many years later, the skies would be full of planes, ever larger and more sophisticated than the little bi-plane that so impressed us.

Some time later, we climbed up into the cupola above the attic of our big old house in Geneva, Illinois, to see the Hindenburg thirty-five miles away above Chicago. There it was--the enormous dirigible, long and silver, gleaming as it seemed to float there, not moving. We were so impressed. This was the future right before our eager eyes! But, before long, the dirigible suffered its terrible demise in New Jersey while the world watched in horror, and it was part of the future no more.

When I was still a kid, my family acquired a Franklin "touring car," a convertible four-door. It was "used," but to us was a marvelous machine. How excited we were when my father took us out for a spin, and we actually reached the terrifying speed of 37 miles an hour! Surely no one would ever dare to go faster than that!

One of the great things about living through several generations, is the perspective gained by seeing inventions come and go, wars begin and end, ideas go in and out of favor. The latest inventions and the biggest fads always seem so important, but are soon replaced by something new and become humdrum, or fade into obscurity. The newest thing becomes less meaningful the longer you live. Eventually it is seen as part of a long series of things, ranging from what we have already discovered to what we will discover tomorrow.

When I was small, everything that has since been discovered was already possible then, we just hadn't found out about it yet. So it would be ridiculous for me to close my mind to new possibilities in any area of life. I don't know what may be possible in the future, but I do know that the word "impossible" may be as obsolete as the dirigible.

Integrity in a Dog-Eat-Dog World

2008-04-10T12:44:00.000-07:00

The lack of judgment and personal responsibility that has led to the present housing debacle, as well as to the turbulence on Wall Street, have set me thinking about my own rules of integrity. What have I learned that rings true in a cosmic sense, not necessarily in a worldly sense?

I take my cue from the physician's Hippocratic Oath: "First, do no harm." I think this is an important concept for us all, not just physicians. I can't harm others and get away with it. This has nothing to do with whether or not I get caught, it has to do with the eternal balance of the universe, which will return to me what I have given. I might not like this, but I have to admit it 's fair. It will do me no good to be clever enough to hide the way or ways in which I'm doing harm. What I do will eventually come back to me like sheep returning to the fold. It may not happen immediately, but it will happen.

Most of the things I do, or that anyone does, are preceded by thoughts, emotions, and desires that impel us to act in certain ways to get what we want. If what we want harms others, it's easy to rationalize and convince ourselves that the end justifies the means. Well, it doesn't. The eternal balance of things never stops working. I might gain temporarily, or even for a long time, and become rich, or famous, or powerful, or whatever I think it is that I want. There are examples all around me. Those who step on others to get ahead seem to thrive. It's tempting to wonder how I could ever succeed without putting myself before others to get what I want.

But somewhere in my thinking and feeling about what I want and how I will get it, there is a place where the "rubber meets the road," that spot where I know I might do harm in some way, and where I either brush it aside and go on, or where I stop and take a closer look. When I was a kid and had a chance to take something without getting caught, I had to decide whether or not to do it. Not being too clear on the concept then, I took it. This happened in grade school, and it was someone's Girl Scout dues. What happened at the Girl Scout meeting showed me how much my stealing a quarter affected the person from whom I took it.

That was how I learned that even if you don't get caught, you still haven't escaped the consequences of what you do. If it hurts someone, you are responsible for it, and have set in motion an energy that will return to you, all in good time. This must be the way the Universe teaches us to treat other people the way we would like to be treated.

Is The News Really News?

2008-04-09T21:30:00.000-07:00

The news media is driving me crazy, especially the stuff that is dished up on TV. This juggernaut known as news tramples on common sense under the guise of reporting, but most of the time that's not what they're doing--they are rehashing and speculating endlessly about the candidates, the primaries, the war, and other events happening in the world.

First, there is a nugget of news, then it is repeated, sometimes inaccurately, sometimes with parts missing or distorted, then this distortion is repeated again and again, and discussed and picked over like a turkey the week after Thanksgiving. Why doesn't somebody just report the news?

I don't want to be told what to think about the news, I want to hear it and decide for myself. I want to know what is going on in the world and not just hear over and over what TV newscasters have decided is their favorite story. Unfortunately, I often find the most interesting news on page eight or ten of the local newspaper, and it takes several days for it to get picked up and find its way into the forefront of the news presented on TV, if ever.

Sometimes a report of what someone said shows that person talking, but we can't hear what they're saying, because the reporter is telling us instead. All we can do is watch his or her lips moving while the reporter drones on and on. Talk about frustrating! I don't want to be told what someone said, I want to hear it myself.

Those in the media take stories that might have been of interest when first reported, and then they beat them to death for days and days, get talking heads together to speculate ad infinitum about the ins and outs of a subject that has already palled.

I think part of the problem is that newscasting is mostly aimed at an immature, uninformed audience, rather than at an adult, involved audience, thus ensuring that no one will ever get informed, at least not by TV news. Also, apparently it is easy to pick up and use what has already been said without having to give too much thought to its accuracy, or to how many times it has already been repeated. We get little snippets and tidbits instead of real news. Often, interesting items are caught in the rush just before going to a break.

Well, have all the breaks you want, but in between breaks, please, please give us news, and don't paraphrase it, tell us what you think about it, or what we should think about it. Just give us the news and plenty of it, and let us decide for ourselves. Please.