tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64279435127327734272024-03-21T09:18:26.702-07:00SpiritLineMental Meanderings, Rants, and (a few) Eureka Moments from A Confused Mind Visiting A Confused Planet.nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479513795401048834noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427943512732773427.post-27189127382383909732016-10-01T02:45:00.000-07:002016-10-24T12:13:29.104-07:00ChiWara<div class="p1">
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The savannah grasses blew hot and dry across the plains. ChiWara who had separated from the herd, stood, nose to the wind, graceful antlers piercing the relentless blue sky. He knew that, before long, Kolomatambe would make his presence known. He could feel him, even now, stealthy in the tall grass, moving as a Noh player, in inches across the plains.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Kolomatambe was the best of the warriors, tall and well-muscled with a fine broad nose that tilted to the wind, nearly as sensitive as ChiWara.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Kolomatambe had been watching ChiWara for some time--nearly half an hour now. Why had the great antelope not bolted long before, he wondered. But, no, ChiWara stood resolutely, nearly in the same spot as when the stalk began. In 23 years of hunting--for Kolomatambe had been combing the plains since he was nine years old--the warrior had never seen an antelope, not only alone, but standing still for so long.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Puzzled as he was, the man crept forward, his dark skin dusted for the hunt and blending with the grasses and the dirt, nearly imperceptible.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>In a bit, Kolomatambe would be near enough to stand tall and take careful swift aim. But ChiWara waited just a bit, his flanks shivering in anticipation, his neck high and curved. At just the right moment he would turn and look into Kolomatambe’s eyes and speak his thoughts. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>And so it was. And strange indeed, for Kolomatambe certainly did not expect that moment.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Had his eyes not been so keen, the warrior wouldn’t have seen so clearly into the deep brown resonance of ChiWara’s gaze. It came upon him just as he was drawing the spear back to loose it.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>The antelope and the man met there in the savanna, on quite a different plane, both standing ground, staring intently at one another--into one another actually--and then Kolomatambe let fall his spear and walked forward, toward the beast, larger against the sky than he, yet somehow blending.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Kolomatambe simply moved forward to meet ChiWara, who became at one with the sky and the grasses and the heated breeze. There was nothing to think about, really, because everything was happening at once and all with connectedness. Thus, there was nothing to contemplate or figure out--but, more appropriate, much to experience.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>As Kolomatambe approached, ChiWara lowered his delicate face to the earth and pushed his great hooves into the dry ground. With the strength of his matte black antlers as a tool, ChiWara began to dig up the savanna grasses, tossing them to the wind like feathers. He continued this for some time, while Kolomatambe stood a bit away, not out of fear, but allowing room.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>In time, ChiWara had cleared a small patch in the savanna, upon which he began to dance in all grace, great hooves beating upon the ground, smoothing the burrows of uprooted grass into an unruffled pattern of well-tilled earth. What a graceful dance it was, the sturdy amber legs flying about, scraping, kicking, scuffling. And before long, Kolomatambe began to clap and soon ChiWara and the warrior were in flight on the vast savanna, with only the cosmic wind, the lightening clap-clap rhythm, the thunder of beast upon the earth.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>By and by Kolomatambe awoke, not having known, even, that he had been asleep, or for how long or how. The sun had settled now along the horizon, sending pre-twilight gentleness to the plain and Kolomatambe could see before him the choreography of ChiWara’s dance. A small section of cleared land, now empty of grasses, squared against the sky. It was quite perfectly level. Only by the long, narrow rows, broken by the scraping of matte black antlers against the dirt, broke the pattern. Kolomatambe stared, enchanted by the beauty of this created place and he did not return to his tribe until night fell.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>He spoke to no one of this adventure, but, instead, confined his hunting to birds and smaller game.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>And when spring came and the great rains had spent themselves, Kolomatambe returned to the patch. And he was amazed, for growing there in perfect contentment were rows of small plants, more orderly than any nature Kolomatambe had ever seen.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>And he understood what ChiWara had showed him and he now was ready to show the others.</div>
nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479513795401048834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427943512732773427.post-81056288367664321282016-09-16T12:37:00.000-07:002016-09-17T09:57:46.608-07:00What People Say When You Tell Them Your Troubles<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz25V5yWv5Ly21GQaKN4LD6hPQnWlgGs5SVprijvMS3wC96NmWxkh-szxvqbVgNy8Mg69sGs-vtijJ-Go7e-5eA98Eyi74zVH6FjVriVuz6_iV2rvcUwdYOB0eo5Py2VUJhC1gQ8pVD_TH/s1600/%25C2%25A9CC+Boredom+courtest+of+Rob+Oo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz25V5yWv5Ly21GQaKN4LD6hPQnWlgGs5SVprijvMS3wC96NmWxkh-szxvqbVgNy8Mg69sGs-vtijJ-Go7e-5eA98Eyi74zVH6FjVriVuz6_iV2rvcUwdYOB0eo5Py2VUJhC1gQ8pVD_TH/s320/%25C2%25A9CC+Boredom+courtest+of+Rob+Oo.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">©CC "Boredom" courtesy of Rob Oo</span></td></tr>
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Do you need to tell somebody your troubles? Chances are enormous that -- whomever you choose --he or she will respond like one of the following six people.*<br />
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<b>1. The Shover</b> ... explains that “everything happens for a reason” or, “It’s darkest before dawn.”</div>
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<b>2. The Comparer </b>… Nods while “listening,” as if your pain confirms something she already knows.</div>
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<b>3. The Fixer</b> … Is certain your situation is a question directed to her ... and she knows the answer.</div>
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<b>4. The Reporter</b> … Is <u>so</u> curious about the <i>details</i> of your “shattering;" her eyes glint and flash as she peppers you with questions.</div>
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<b>5. The Victim</b> … Has heard your news second-hand and needs consoling because she is “hurt” you didn't call to tell her personally (or first).</div>
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<b>6. The God Rep</b> … Believes she knows what God wants for you, and “feels led” by God to “share.”<br />
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The seventh person is my favorite. She is stranger... <i><u>a</u></i> stranger, maybe …with nothing to prove and no wisdom to impart, kind of like your psychotherapist, only with genuine feeling.</div>
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<b>7. The Expressionist</b> … Keeps saying, "Holy Moly … Holy S*** … Oh My Gosh … Really?! … Egads! … Ouch! Why? … I'm <i>so</i> sorry." Because, really, what else can she say?<br />
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<i>*Acknowledgement and gratitude:</i> The first six people identified come to us via the wisdom of Glennon Doyle Melton, who describes them in her book, the <i><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/31845516-love-warrior" target="_blank">Love Warrior. </a> </i><br />
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nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479513795401048834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427943512732773427.post-55479184877666914272016-09-03T11:49:00.004-07:002016-09-16T13:38:43.856-07:0015 Realities That Come With Getting Old<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJlD9sWE8m01Cx1550URxuLP3kxsqa2EJv9kiqOhhwgLdyCTZjMy62KszUGfrXmVD9EhWSLt0dw2Da7aDE0RT9dt1bcOdIDIVRb_un3vHhlxwvSvHZVa5vVNLyHb81FY6Qgr8V-4gUIlfd/s1600/Aardewerken+kruiken.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJlD9sWE8m01Cx1550URxuLP3kxsqa2EJv9kiqOhhwgLdyCTZjMy62KszUGfrXmVD9EhWSLt0dw2Da7aDE0RT9dt1bcOdIDIVRb_un3vHhlxwvSvHZVa5vVNLyHb81FY6Qgr8V-4gUIlfd/s320/Aardewerken+kruiken.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
I almost titled this post "15 Realties That Come With Aging," but realized "aging" is a minced word. What we're talking about here is what nobody -- at least nobody in contemporary America -- ever wants to talk about: getting old.<br />
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We have lots of ways to circumvent the topic. We become <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=cougar">cougars, </a>or long-distance runners, or the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Most_Interesting_Man_in_the_World">most interesting man in the world,</a> or <a href="http://www.wise-women.org/">wise women</a> and <a href="http://www.wisewomennetwork.com/#">wise women</a> and (blessedly) <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Wise-Women-Celebration-Insights-Courage/dp/0821228013">wise women.</a><br />
<br />
But what about <i><u>old</u></i> men and women ? Nobody seems to want to be "old." We get oldER, or we "age," "get on in years," and become "not as young as we used to be." And yet, with a lot of luck, we'll get beyond all of those and, quite simply, get old.<br />
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Sayings like: "Age is just a number" or "You're only as old as you feel" are the wisdom of the "New Age majority." But when you "get old" you know this stage of life is different. After all, everybody has been a child, a teenager, a twenty-something, or middle-aged. After that, we use other ways to describe our point in the generational time-line. But somewhere along the way, some of us are lucky enough to get old. Here's what that lucky group might tell you.<br />
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Fifteen realities await those who "get old."<br />
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1. Easily discern, but can't tolerate posturing, bravado, shallowness.<br />
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2. Highly sensitive to energies, both negative and positive.<br />
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3. Realize that contemporary society repudiates wisdom of experience.<br />
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4. Accept that we will be dismissed by society based on age alone.<br />
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5. Acutely aware that, like it or not, we are captive in our physical bodies.<br />
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6. See the futility of the "forever young movement."<br />
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7. Know that, as we age, few people see us and even fewer understand us.<br />
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8. Struggle with a growing sense of physical vulnerability.<br />
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9. Face a growing sense of "losing," including many we have known longest and best.<br />
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10. Understand that, as we move to death, younger adults seek greater distance from us.<br />
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11. Bent to pondering WHY people are mean, destructive, evil, prejudiced, intolerant.<br />
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12. Increasingly value the natural: animals, plants, nature, the unvarnished.<br />
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13. Believe that we have learned a great deal about life on earth, and yet almost nothing about the universe.<br />
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14. Experience a deepening sensitivity to children, including what they notice, see, and feel.<br />
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15. Embrace a growing certainty that organized religion has nothing whatsoever to do with truth and is, in fact, an impediment to man's ability to live a loving life.<br />
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Finally, I share the following quote with you, along with <a href="http://www.notable-quotes.com/o/old_age_quotes.html">many other exquisite poems</a> that say so much about being old. <br />
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Grow old along with me!<br />
The best is yet to be,<br />
The last of life, for which the first was made.<br />
-- ROBERT BROWNING, <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173031">"Rabbi ben Ezra"</a> <br />
<br />nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479513795401048834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427943512732773427.post-40433385403631576182016-08-19T02:57:00.004-07:002016-09-16T13:41:39.302-07:00The Medicine Wheel<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
Summer had a dream that night.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pudge stood
in front of her, a round figure, shorter at eight years, even than her own six.
It was July. The sun had fried the grass to ochre and the glare from the
suburban sidewalk made her squint. But she saw the spider there clearly,
motionless in Pudge’s outstretched hand.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Go on,
Injun. He <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">likes you</i>.” The boy’s teeth
hid behind a narrow smile.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The young
girl looked at the large tarantula, which nearly covered Pudge’s palm. It’s
furry knees were red.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She wanted
to get away, wanted to run in reverse, so as not to turn her back to the
unpredictable Pudge. If she reacted quickly enough, she could pick up speed and
escape, fast and far. Inexplicably, though, her feet stood riveted, though her
heart was beating wildly.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pudge
thrust his hand at her again, this time chin high. The black hairs and
glistening eyes of the spider now were close enough that she had to refocus to
take in the dark countenance, just inches from her face.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Take him!”
Pudge ordered.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The child
of Summer’s dream knew it was too late for retreat. If she tried to run, surely
Pudge would throw the spider onto her bare neck, which was well exposed in the
thin, cotton shirt. In fact, if she moved at all, the spider likely would
startle and leap to her skin.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The girl
felt a wave of panic and the beginning of tears swelling painfully in her
throat. The volcanic summer air burned around her feet and she felt faint.
Trees in the distance, houses, cars parked along the street—all grew light.
Even Pudge’s sweating face misted out of the girl’s vision. Only the spider
remained, as close as a part of her own being.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In the
dream, Summer heard her grandmother’s voice, whispering. “Each person must
travel around the medicine wheel, Summer. Each must learn the way the world
looks from each direction.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was
hopeless, then. A moment with this fearsome animal —a moment with fear itself—
was upon her.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The child
of Summer’s dream made strong fibers from her heart, as grandmother had taught
her. She sent the strong reeds on her voice, beckoning to the wind spirit. “I
welcome you,” she said softly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Her
tormentor’s voice cracked through the spitfire. “Did you say <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">welcome,</i> Injun?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But, though
she heard, the girl no longer cared. Instead, she gazed into the eyes of the
spider, which reflected her face in multitude through its eight orbs. Her image
floated free within the spider’s spirit, like the points of a twirling medicine
wheel. Together, their fears blended into nothingness.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Before
Pudge could stop what was happening, the girl extended her wrist next to the
shocked boy’s palm. She invited the spider to move at once onto the back of her
hand. The animal’s feet were soft and grateful.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Without
turning back, the young girl carried the spider with her, in the summer dampness,
down to the rocks and crevices of the creek. There, among the small lizards and
tree frogs and beetles, she set him free.</div>
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When Summer
stirred from the dream, Precious was perched on the pillow, green eyes looking
intently into Summer’s face. Summer drew back a bit and took stock of the
watchful cat. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
Precious,” she sighed finally. “Something <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is
</i>coming—coming along my medicine wheel.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
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<br /></div>
nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479513795401048834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427943512732773427.post-38359266872328776212016-08-19T02:49:00.000-07:002016-09-16T13:45:21.447-07:00Prologue<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In her dream, Grandmother Harmony was floating on a log
through the tunnel. Grandmother stood firmly on the circling tree trunk,
well-balanced despite the current which carried her along. Smoke (or was it
mist?) settled all around the old woman and the night air was damp. Grandmother
sailed farther into the distance.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wait!” the
child cried. “Wait. I can’t keep up.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s not
time for you to come, Little One. You need to wait awhile yet.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But I
can’t stay here alone, Grandmother.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You never
are alone.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m afraid
without you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Remember
to pay attention, Summer. Remember to walk into and through your fear.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The child
tasted tears on her mouth. “Why are you going away, Grandmother Harmony? Don’t
you love me anymore?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My child,
you only notice the change now. But it always has been so.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Straining
her eyes through the tears and the mist, the child could barely see Grandmother
Harmony’s visage.“I don’t like you changing.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hear me in your song, then, as I
have taught you. And use your vision well.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Summer
tried to reach inside for the passion joy. Only heartache greeted her. “My
song will not come, Grandmother, will not come without you beside me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But her words drifted away aimlessly into the
night sky, along with Grandmother Harmony.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When Summer
woke up, her face was soaked. A dull ache was spreading throughout her center
pathway. In the dark room she couldn’t read the clock, but she knew the date
already was June 21, summer solstice, her seventh birthday.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She threw
the covers aside, pressing her barefeet to the floor. “Grandmother,
grandmother,” she whispered, running down the hallway. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The door to
Harmony’s room was shut and the metal of the large black door handle felt icy
as it twisted open in Summer’s small hand.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Grandmother
wouldn’t mind her coming in like this. Many of their best talks happened when
Summer padded down the hallway at night, fearful from a dream or maybe just
sleepless with a wondering about something. Grandmother was always sitting up
when Summer entered her room. Without saying a word, she’d reach out and
enclose Summer in the lavender fragrance of her spirit. They’d laugh and
whisper secrets until the child fell peacefully back to sleep.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Tonight
though, Grandmother Harmony lay perfectly still. Her hands were folded across
her heart and her black hair streamed along the moonlit pillowcase. It was
true, then. The movement had come in the night, while Summer slept.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Realization
of the change was more than the child could bear. She sobbed and fled her safe
harbor.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In the days
that followed, Summer opened her galaxy and sent the passion joy flowing out in
monstrous waves. In the flood of change, her vision too was swept away. She did
not allow the gift of sight to return for many years, though all the while
Harmony and the Old Ones patiently watched over her and waited.</div>
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nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479513795401048834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427943512732773427.post-66978195410581086932011-03-30T05:26:00.001-07:002011-03-30T05:26:22.271-07:00Mitchell<div class="MsoNormal">Mitchell did not yet know he was Mitchell, but he knew who he was and, also, who he always had been. Now he was simply floating, weightless and formless in the vast.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There was no sense of light or dark, no sense at all. Simply a drift of being, sailing on a sea of eternity, aware of The All.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It wasn’t that Mitchell didn’t know anything, because he knew everything. But he was formless now, though ready to become form at the moment of calling. All things were happening at once, so he didn’t need to wait. It was more like shifting -- or coming into -- where cause and effect intersected. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The fabric was limitless and the intersections multiple beyond infinity. Mitchell simply floated, rested and balanced, embodying every duality in no body at all.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And it came to pass, as they say, that Mitchell floated upon a certain energy and it attracted him. And from the multi-dimensional fabric, a thread of energy manifested and became a pinpoint of light and he rode that light into existence, taking the Whole of Himself and the Whole of The All with him</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And then he was confined.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His being continued to soar and float, but now he felt the familiar boundaries, as the form shaped itself around him. He would wait here a bit, becoming more comfortable in the form and matter, adjusting to the denser energies, growing himself into Mitchell.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In that pinpoint moment -- and for many months yet to come -- he would remember the floating of Before, remember fully who he was Before <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>... and know, too, that in time and for a time he would forget. But only for a time.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And as the earth time passed, Mitchell grew denser in form and also he developed the senses he would need to perceive and function in the denser earth energy.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>By and by he came to hear the voices that had been taken by those he already knew... the softer mother voice and the less frequent, yet deeper, father voice.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He knew already that She would pass as he came. It had been decided. But for now this did not trouble him, for their Spirits would glide by one another, a kiss of light and formless energy exchanged, a fracture of unconditional love, so effortlessly traded in that space with no thing.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Mitchell felt the rocking begin and the pressure on his form intensified until the total of his focus was taken with the squeezing and the movement. In earth time, it went on endlessly and it was violent on his form and not pleasant. Had he recalled anything of the Body on Earth, he would have been afraid. But there were no emotions now, only physical feelings, for in coming, he had decided to experience all physical things anew, and that included emotions.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So Mitchell merely was one with the rocking and the squeezing and the shifting and the narrowing.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And when there was an intense brightness and a strange chill upon his flesh, he gave it no name. Nor when his chest expanded with a fullness, did he call it air. Only different and of the moment.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His body did things, but especially his mouth, which reached out and opened and wept and drank and moved rhythmically, even as he slept.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Another One came and he knew this Spirit in completeness and he was at home with it. And the Spirit came often to be with Mitchell and his body craved the body feelings that the Spirit brought and Mitchell was comforted.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And, in time, Mitchell’s eyes sought out the Other’s eyes and the feel of the Other’s hands and he came to anticipate and know the touch and the sight and the smell and the sound and the taste of the Other One. And Mitchell only knew his own body in this way.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sometimes he would drift and his own Spirit would remember The All. But when he was not drifting, his body was no body without the Other.</div><!--EndFragment-->nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479513795401048834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427943512732773427.post-82552738394546377692011-02-10T11:19:00.000-08:002011-02-10T11:21:34.273-08:00Let me get this straight? You want a writer/designer/interviewer/video editor ETC for HOW MUCH?The world has gone mad -- at least on Craig's List. See this despicable ad, below (my highlights in red plus my comments in purple.. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">the color of the very Royal "Kiss My Patootie." </span>Lord help anybody unlucky enough to already be working here. Super BOOs to the overseers who want more slaves.<br />
<h2>In-house Writer/Designer for B2B Magazine<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">s</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">(That's right, guys, more than one magazine).</span></h2><h2><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"></span>(No Freelancers) <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">(waving garlic and brandishing a cross)</span></h2><h2>$35K <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">(but not really THAT much; see salary-waffle language below)</span></h2><h2>(Metro Center) -- <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">All those $$$$ and downtown traffic, too. </span></h2><h2><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">Whoopie!!</span></h2><div id="userbody"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">So here's what they <b>really</b> want:</span></div><div id="userbody"><br />
</div><div id="userbody">Applicants must be local and available to start immediately. Must be comfortable with <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">tedious assignments. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">(I am not making this up...)</span><br />
<br />
Ideal candidate has <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">expert AP Style and phone voice </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">(and the background for these two skills would be... what? "Project Runway" experience?),</span> in addition to some <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">knowledge of InDesign, webcasting/video editing </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">(just a little Final Cut Pro between snacks, huh?)</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">, website CMS </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">and blog interfaces </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">(say WHAT?)</span></div><div id="userbody">Be prepared to conduct <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">phone interviews</span> with C-level executives of $1M-$50B companies and <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">write corporate profiles and project spotlights.</span> <b style="color: red;">Must complete at least 3-4 stories week (at approx 1000 words each). </b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">(You can squeeze your blog interface and video editing in at lunch time, but you better not give "bad phone" to those C-level execs, EVER!).</span></div><div id="userbody"><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Other tasks</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">(oh, for the love of Pete... there's MORE??????)</span> include: peer editing, copy writing/slugging, design/layout editing, occasional advertisement design, scripting for webcasts, attending trade shows/conferences.<br />
<br />
Knowledge of the following industries is helpful:<br />
(design-build, engineering, interior design, etc.)<br />
(residential, commercial, mechanical contracting, post tensioning, etc.)<br />
(solar, nuclear, wind, geothermal, natural gas/oil, fuel cells, etc.)<br />
(education)<br />
<br />
Location: Metro Center.<br />
Hours: 9-5 (strict)<br />
PAY: $35K w/bonus ($24K base plus qtrly bonus) NON NEGOTIABLE <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">(Okay, this now borders on something for OSHA to investigate. All THIS for the very most definitely, profoundly, NON-living wage of $24K -- and don't you DARE work anywhere else or freelance; just give up food. But, don't fret, if WE think you deserve it, we'll give you a bonus.. how's that workin' for ya, Schmuck!) </span><br />
<br />
TO APPLY: email resume, cover letter, 3 writing samples and any other video/graphic samples, if applicable. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">Don't hold your breath.</span></div>nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479513795401048834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427943512732773427.post-15411225387526129202010-10-01T13:27:00.000-07:002010-10-01T13:29:00.341-07:00Give Me A Break or I'll Crack Up. Now I Know Why.I've been reading <a href="http://www.singularity.com/">"The Singularity Is Near"</a> by Ray <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ray_Kurzweil">Kurzweil </a>(published in 2005) ... ... "singularity" being that point in human history where human and non-human intelligence merge.<br />
<br />
As Kurzweil sees it, we are in the beginning of Epoch 5, within <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jOC0DBvhuaY">six epochs</a> of human history. This is the Epoch where everything accelerates exponentially. For example, as Kurzweil sees it, "We won't experience one hundred years of technological advance in the 21st century; we will witness on the order of twenty thousand years of progress." <br />
<br />
Kurzweil's book talks about the "canonical milestones," clusters of 28 significant events in human history identified by physicist and complexity theorist <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Theodore_Modis">Theodore Modis.</a> He notes that two of these milestones -- order and complexity -- are growing <i>exponentially.</i> <br />
<br />
I'm not sure where the "order" comes in. Everything seems chaotic to me, so I need to keep reading. But I totally understand the reality of what I've been sensing and feeling for the past 8 or 9 months: Namely, human beings are having a difficult time dealing with this <b>acceleration of complexity</b> milestone. In short, the pressure to "keep up" with ever faster and more complicated change is making human beings crazy.<br />
<br />
Oh ... in researching the book, I just learned that <a href="http://www.singularity.com/themovie/future.php">The Singularity Is Near has been made into a movie</a> currently traveling the indy circuits. Put me first in line for that one! This is amazing and life-altering stuff. Mind-bending, yes.. but worth ever twist and turn.<br />
<br />
So, if that's the problem, what's the solution? My first guess is that we need to simplify and downsize (physical clutter can't help with this overwhelmed psyche, despite the assbackwards approach that a lot of people seem to be adopting via hoarding). On the other hand, we need to make technology our partner here (I mean, that's the idea, right).<br />
<br />
I'm thinking, I'm thinking ...nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479513795401048834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427943512732773427.post-26059676548486019432010-09-08T10:06:00.000-07:002010-09-08T10:15:22.087-07:00Holy Hoarders, Batman. Reality TV IS Reality.<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.tvsquad.com/2009/12/02/aandes-hoarders-is-a-record-breaker/">Big numbers</a> on the reality TV show, “Hoarders,” over Labor Day. <a href="http://www.aetv.com/newspage/2010-a%26e-upfront-announcement-564890?month=8/2008">A&E</a> publicized its third season like crazy, with images of possums in the kitchen and counter tops covered in inhuman filth.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">The publicity campaign worked, as millions tuned in for an all-day marathon peek at piles of … well, anything you can imagine (and lots you don’t want to). Yesterday – the day after the show aired -- “Hoarders” was a popular topic on Twitter.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">What’s wrong with this picture? Quite simply, it’s getting awfully real. “Hoarders” and every other examination of mental illness cast as human aberration is <a href="http://kccnfm100.com/blogs/lina_girl_augie/2010/09/aes-hoarders-opens-season-inha.html">vastly more disturbing</a> – and frighteningly more common -- than it is entertaining.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">For example, now that “Hoarders” has come out of the closet onto TV, media reports of the mental illness are growing. In Schaumburg, IL, a 79 year-old woman was found dead amid rubbish. Her 54 year-old daughter – whom social workers didn’t know existed -- lived there, too.<br />
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Why doesn’t somebody “do” something? Schaumburg officials say various laws <a href="http://www.chicagotribune.com/health/ct-met-skokie-hoarder-0907-20100906,0,7852733.story">make intervention nearly impossible</a> unless the person cooperates. Hoarding expert Christiana Bratiotis of Boston University, says “The front door can be a nearly insurmountable obstacle, literally and figuratively … A true hoarder would never ever, ever let you in." </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I started checking around and it turns out that everybody I asked knows two or three people who hoard. If you get into people-who-know-other-people-who-hoard, you’re swelling into double digits. A&E says 3 million Americans are hoarders. If you look at the <a href="http://docs.google.com/viewer?a=v&q=cache:qrDGHO1wIhIJ:www.census.gov/prod/1/pop/p25-1129.pdf+number+of+american+households&hl=en&gl=us&pid=bl&srcid=ADGEEShuxUfz4NNe_anLP_IY85Wg3Rwk4Ib2Og4dCA8d0dO_Kk0GyF0E8Ld1FkD7uIMKwa8TWZ6ZOSwsR9A7GfML43XI0a-3xaeyQqNt9vSTwt0MYxmSEYptPoRXpiZ5hxUXJqA0DjH4&sig=AHIEtbTfbicVjyFMR-iVNj0mPtmCNFaQJg">number of American households, </a>we’re talking 2.5 percent of our neighbors, easy.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">While all hoarders pile up junk, the stuff of the illness apparently varies. Paper, other people’s discards, knickknacks, clothing, and even food are the downfall of many. Meanwhile, <a href="http://www.newser.com/story/99640/bizarre-pet-hoarding-surges-in-us.html">“animal hoarding” </a> is exploding, say experts. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">In his review of the <i><a href="http://press.princeton.edu/titles/9010.html">Codes of the Underworld: How Criminals Communicate,</a></i> journalist Aditya Chakrabortty <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/science/2009/sep/29/mafia-gangster-films-godfather">observes that</a> “The Godfather” and other popular stories about the Mafia have influenced the way Mafioso view themselves. No longer mere “gangsters,” these guys now believe they are “legitimate businessmen” whose practices of violence and intimidation can be practiced and perfected.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">If “<a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=godfather%20syndrome">godfather syndrome”</a> holds true for folks with too much “stuff,” we can expect mirroring to produce new levels of, and tweaks to, hoarding. After a marathon viewing of A&E compulsion, for example, maybe our own 750 bags from Target piled in the bedroom, or those boxes of mail dated back to 1998, won’t seem so bizarre.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Since, a lot of us are already detached from the broken lives and mental problems other people are suffering, maybe it’s not a giant leap to our own personal indifference about the possums, cockroaches, and dead cats, Maybe familiarity will breed more indifference than contempt.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">If that seems laughably impossible, please consider whether, in 2010, it seems “predictable” that four wealthy women from New Jersey will put on fancy cocktail dresses, then go on national TV to yell and spit at their neighbors? Ho-hum, right? But <i>how</i> did we get immune to <i>that?</i><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">And how long before we also get accustomed to seeing three-year olds with lipstick, fake teeth, and tiaras? Driven to desperation, will it become commonplace to try to “treat” a loved one’s mental illness in an hour by staging our own “interventions”?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Possibly, like the hoarders – and without any huge external Wall Street collapse or terrorist intervention -- society will rot from the inside out and we’ll all think it’s “normal.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">More possibly, reality TV – a joke we thought was on <i>other</i> people – mirrors more than we want to see. </div>nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479513795401048834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427943512732773427.post-12636924305472892212010-08-28T06:07:00.000-07:002010-08-28T08:26:54.293-07:00We’ve Earned The Right To Be CivilI went to high school in Alexandria, VA, when the schools ... well, everything, really, was segregated. Not far by miles from where I lived there was a “Negro” neighborhood. <a href="http://www.walkarlington.com/go/nauck.html"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Nauck</span></a> has a proud heritage in the Black community, I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">ve</span> since learned. I never ventured there back in 1958. I remember being very curious as to how these people I never saw might be different. The rule seemed to be that I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">didn</span>’t “belong” there, that my presence would have been an intrusion. I remember feeling some sense of melancholy about that, but I followed the rules.<br />
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I live much closer to that neighborhood now and sometimes walk through it. It’s still mostly Black folks and, at times, I still feel like I’m intruding, though much has changed … nearby hi-rise buildings, new contemporary-styled low-income housing, and a few three-story brick <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">townhomes</span>. Housing as old as I am – and older -- still sits there, too. In 2010, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Nauck</span> looks a lot like a lot of neighborhoods.<br />
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On my walk his morning, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Nauck</span> hammered me with the passage of time. Much of what appears there today looks slightly “old-fashioned.” I suspect it’s because the population is growing older. Today, the residents are apt to be my age, are apt to have grown up simultaneously with, if not near, me in segregated Virginia. Separated as I was back then, aging has made me contemporary with many of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Nauck</span> residents. Television means we have now spent most of our lives together, in the same larger society.<br />
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On my walk, I passed an older gentlemen as he was opening up his T.V. repair shop. I’m quite sure he and I must have been high school students at the same time. I said “Good morning,” and he spoke back, friendly. I said, “It’s cool this morning.” He said, “Oh yes. MUCH cooler than yesterday.”<br />
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There was an old-time civility about this man. I suppose some younger generations would describe his soft, agreeable way negatively, but they’re wrong. The man who runs the T.V. repair is a gentlemen. I wonder if he also shakes his head at the cyclists zooming by, or chuckles at the decked-out joggers running with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">iPods</span>. I wonder if he feels the same sense of loss I do. His neighborhood has changed completely. Not as many people sit on the front porch, mostly nobody says “Good morning” unless you say it first. It’s a different time.<br />
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Collectively, we may have earned civil rights (though I’m not too sure about that, frankly). I think we’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">ve</span> also learned to think we have the right to be UNcivil. I wonder if my cohort feels it too. The next time I see him, I’m going to talk to that man. I’m going to stop and say, “Do you remember when….”<br />
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I hope we’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">ve</span> both earned that.nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479513795401048834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427943512732773427.post-62221384692088166242010-08-19T04:50:00.000-07:002010-08-29T15:37:32.316-07:00Why Ask Gen Y?In the 1980s and early 90s -- on the way to the 21st Century – psychologists routinely urged parents to tell their kids two things: a) you’re special b) you can do anything you want to do. During the same period, economic times were good, and middle-class children had plenty of everything: toys, lessons, entertainment, “experiences,” media time, and opportunities to build “self-esteem.” (Note: Today, a Google search on “building self-esteem” pulls up 1,360,000 links. An Amazon search reveals 344 book entries for the search term “Your Kid’s Self Esteem.”<br />
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This drive to make the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Generation_Y">Gen Y children</a> “feel good about” themselves became a national imperative, more important than American staples like discipline, good grades, and “try-fail-try again” standards. I well remember the principal of my daughter’s grade school standing in the door at opening bell, handing out “stickers” to boys who had their shirts tucked in, or to girls who said “good morning.”<br />
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Meanwhile – despite bestowing many material indulgences -- their double-income parents left many middle-class Gen Yers to their own devices. These children were the first generation plopped into day care and left as <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Latchkey_kid">latch key kids</a>. In their formative years, the only people these children had to listen to were on television, and the only people they had to talk to were each other.<br />
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Meanwhile, the geniuses of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greatest_Generation">Greatest Generation</a> and the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baby_boomer">Baby Boomer</a> crowd were busy inventing the Internet. While clueless themselves, Gen Y parents delightedly discovered their progeny could master computers with ease. More praise was heaped upon Gen Y for its “brilliant” ability and Gen Y parents gloated about their three-year olds' clicking, mousing, and surfing talent.<br />
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Spawned in the glow of television and LED, Gen Y also viewed a lot of advertisements, becoming consumers extraordinaire. Fads of every sort caught their attention (remember Cabbage Patch dolls?). The spongeful brains of Gen Y had no trouble keeping up with rapidly changing images. Parents gazed on in wonder and adoration at their “special kids,” who seemed to know so much they’d never dreamed of or heard about. The accolades of parents, coaches, and teachers did indeed infuse these youngsters with a healthy dose of confidence in their Gen Y view of the world – which, naturally and easily evolved to an irrational belief in the wisdom of their own opinions and experiences. After all, nobody “older” seemed to know a damn thing.<br />
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The workplace today is full of Gen Y Twenty Somethings -- or, as a colleague likes to call them, “The Twenty Nothings.” Many of these young adults are hard working and committed (achievement was, after all, a <span style="font-weight: bold;">big</span> part of the message). They do, however, display a disconcerting reliance on their own Generation as being the “only ones” who truly “get it.”<br />
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What does Gen Y “get”? Pretty much everything they want, hopefully, since they are, after all, “special.” But more significantly, their adoring parents so long delivered the “you’re so clever” message that Gen Y often truly believes Gen X and Baby Boomers have been left far behind the learning curve. Some are more polite than others in talking about “people who are older.” But here’s the challenge: The next time you’re in the Twenty Something crowd, try to count the number of times they allude to their cohort’s “special” ability to perceive societal trends, grasp “the market,” and lock onto “what’s really happening.” To Gen Y, experience counts for nothing and “wisdom” – which absent, over-extended parents and teachers had no time to share -- is a non-issue. No wonder. They learned years ago that “what is” changes faster than a YouTube upload, and fame lasts a lot less than 15 minutes.<br />
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The point is: Why Ask Gen Y? Having paid no attention to any generation save their own, Gen Y has a unique <span style="font-style: italic;">non</span>-ability to put any issue into historical context. On the other hand, Gen Y <span style="font-style: italic;">should</span> have an improved ability to put issues into a <span style="font-style: italic;">global</span> context -- and perhaps they do (they voted overwhelmingly for Barack Obama, after all). Sadly, though, many appear to have led insular lives, mainly talking to one another, and relying for life wisdom on t.v. shows like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Friends"><span style="font-style: italic;">Friends</span></a>. [A brief sidebar: <span style="font-style: italic;">Friends</span> concisely and accurately represents the attitudes of, and speaks for, this generation. Gen Yers were obsessed with, and profoundly affected by, the show’s notion of “friends” as “all there is.” This insipid show is, no doubt, responsible for at least a portion of Gen Y’s social arrogance. In <span style="font-style: italic;">Friends,</span> parents and authority figures are stupid, neurotic, and lots less smart than the gang of relationship-confused, career-indifferent, self-indulgent, exclusive and exclusionary group of six boys and girls playing at life. But I digress …].<br />
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As they've turned out, this “special” generation seems ready to act on their self-aggrandized beliefs. It’s not their fault, of course (we told them they were special and could do anything). But – if you’re an employer or manager -- do beware of the Gen Y notion of their own special insight.<br />
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Every generation eventually graduates from the School of Hard Knocks – and, no doubt – the current economic mess is going to be a fast wake up call for Gen Y. In the meantime, do love this charming and charmed, enthusiastic, capable, “special” generation as much as you want ... but don’t believe everything they tell you.<br />
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p.s. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Generation_X">Generation X</a> kids – the Baby Busters -- had things a lot tougher. They reportedly weren’t happy with their self-centered, fickle, impractical parents who launched social revolutions like a 50% divorce rate, widespread drug use, the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Feminist_movement">Women’s Movement</a> and the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sexual_revolution_in_1960s_America">Sexual Revolution</a>. This disengaged, cynical generation has a reputation for shrugging and walking away. Curiously, in the workplace, a lot of Gen Ys are “managed” by Gen Xers, which could -- by default -- leave Gen Y more or less in charge. Expect chaos.nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479513795401048834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427943512732773427.post-72399532474142317162010-08-15T08:20:00.000-07:002010-08-28T08:23:25.968-07:00Trashing, Bashing, and Slashing: The Horrors of Social Media1. Divorce attorneys haunt Facebook and Twitter for dirty little secrets and spouse trashing.<br />
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2. <a href="http://www.readwriteweb.com/archives/are_trolls_ruining_social_media.php">Bash Tweets</a> and hate blogs make some artists fear success. <br />
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3. Tire slashing in the UK, job slashing at the university of Iowa, and price slashing at Franklin Covey typify some of the less violent slash tweets in a 24-hour period.<br />
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Meanwhile, as our brain’s fear circuitry <a href="http://bit.ly/L4lpO">overpowers its ability to reason,</a> social media expresses a jillion worrisome thoughts and spreads <a href="http://mprcenter.org/blog/2008/12/05/fear-psychosis-personal-enterpreneurship/">fear psychosis.</a><br />
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No wonder we’re all dying to climb into an Xbox and play <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g_txF7iETX0">Natal. </a>nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479513795401048834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427943512732773427.post-66417176347336111392008-11-07T03:33:00.000-08:002008-11-07T03:43:39.231-08:00The One for All of UsI've finally emerged from my retreat. This election has been exhausting. There were times in the last two weeks when I didn't think I could stand it for another minute! On Wednesday, when it was finally over, I was totally spent. I watched television all day, finally able to enjoy every political discussion, whether from the Right or the Left ... and really <span style="font-style: italic;">loving</span> the crew at MSNBC (even Joe Scarborough, who was ever-so subdued :-)<br /><br />I was enthralled by Barack's speech, but also felt very sad for him. I immediately saw a difference in his demeanor: somber, serious, deliberate, overwhelmed but -- as ever -- under control. Even his embrace of his beloved Michelle was restrained, as was hers of him. Only with his girls did I see a relax in his body language for a few seconds. This is a man who is undertaking the hopes, not of millions, but of <span style="font-style: italic;">billions</span> of people. No one knows better than Barack what a mess this world is in. Maureen Dowd said it so well, writing in <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/11/06/opinion/06dowd.html?_r=1&scp=2&sq=maureen%20dowd&st=cse&oref=slogin">The Times on Wednesday.</a><br /><br />This country was/is at a crossroads (the world, actually.. which is much of the point here), where we were either going to get impossibly worse, or try to get better. He is The One in This Time for This Moment. Somehow, we passed the test and I anticipate the world getting on board, because we are <span style="font-style: italic;">indeed</span> one people and we <span style="font-style: italic;">all</span> need a leader.<br /><br />So many respond to Barack's grace, his civility, his smile that comes almost in spite of himself, his ability to explain to the rest of us what is happening, his gift for inspiring us all to do and be better, his patience, his thoughtfulness that somehow also seems to spring from intuition .. all of his passion wrapped in a somehow DISpassionate nature that can see the big picture, but still handle the small details. He's amazing.<br /><br />So here we are.. with a heckuva guy for President. Man, it's just lovely, isn't it?nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479513795401048834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427943512732773427.post-16479124995034892532008-10-20T07:43:00.000-07:002008-10-20T08:02:57.253-07:00To Colin Powell and Barack Obama and Many MoreA friend of mine recently applauded Colin Powell's response to the question of whether or not Obama is a Muslim, in which Powell posed the incredibly sensible, laudable, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">American</span> question: "What if he was?" I've been struck by the integrity, civility, temperance, patience, and strength of so many Black Americans who have remained role models despite the idiocy raging around them. Instead of fearing such men, we should be thanking God for the character they display, so unfortunately forged in pain. There is a special dimension to the greatness that emerges from both Powell and Obama (and from many other Black men of that ilk, the most prominent of whom was, of course, Dr. King) and, surely, it does take shape in the experience of being male and Black in America. That quiet character.. that really deep understanding of freedom and rights and patience and compromise, coupled with incredible strength and persistence ... is striking and awesome. What the <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">heck</span> are we afraid of?nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479513795401048834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427943512732773427.post-28994771745647175212008-10-17T09:48:00.000-07:002008-10-17T09:52:28.407-07:00No Poppin' Goin' OnI've noticed that the wheels are turning <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">veeeeeeeery</span> slowly on every front. I suspect it's a combination of extraordinary anxiety about the economy and angst about the election, both culminating in communal exhaustion. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">No one</span> is getting much done.nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479513795401048834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427943512732773427.post-67754167222053135872008-09-26T05:29:00.001-07:002008-09-26T08:14:52.788-07:00Sarah Palin Is No Elle Woods.. There IS no Elle Woods.. YetEver since <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sarah_Palin">Sarah <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Palin</span></a> was named McCain's vice presidential pick, I've been perplexed [and frantic], wondering how <span style="font-style: italic;">any</span> woman could support the nomination of a person so obviously <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">uncomplex</span>, uninformed, unsophisticated, and untested. Writing in <a href="http://warner.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/09/25/poor-sarah/"><span style="font-style: italic;">The New York Times</span></a> this morning, Judith Warner gave me the insight I've been searching for. It's the Elle Woods syndrome. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Palin</span> supporters see in this former beauty queen the notion that feminine [and by feminine, here I mean <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">girly</span></span>] can trump masculine -- that girly is as smart, as strong, as dominant (or more so).<br /><br />This is a state of mind that lurks in the dark corners of every woman's psyche -- from the strongest and most accomplished among us, to the weakest and most vulnerable. All of us harbor the <span style="font-style: italic;">fantasy</span> that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">girly</span> can win. Hear me out, my sisters ...<br /><br />Who is <a href="http://www.imdb.com/character/ch0007378/">Elle Woods</a>? She's that truly <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">girly</span> gal who beat all the men at Harvard -- and, notably, all the <span style="font-style: italic;">non</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">girly</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">women</span> --at their own game. In the end, she even saddled the guy <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> his white horse. Meanwhile, no, Elle didn't have to give up pretty pink stuff, or the feathery, sparkly, <span style="font-style: italic;">soft</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">accoutrements</span> of a cozy nest. She didn't have to leave her loyal dog behind [note: in this case, dog stands-in for baby]. Elle Woods <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">suceeded</span> while looking gorgeous <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> <a href="http://t-shirts.cafepress.com/item/ballroom-dance-backwards-in-high-heels-cap-sleeve/247913632">wearing high heels.</a> And, best of all, she remained friends with all her Delta Nu sorority sisters. In short, she succeeded in a <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">girly</span> </span>woman's world. Wow.<br /><br />Think about it for a moment. Here we are, <a href="http://www.house.gov/pelosi/">Nancy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Pelosi</span> </a>and <a href="http://donnabrazile.com/page.cfm?id=2">Donna <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Brazile</span></a> and <a href="http://www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/business/jan-june05/fiorina_2-10.html">Carly Fiona,</a> all succeeding. But where? Sadly, in a <span style="font-style: italic;">man's</span> world, on <span style="font-style: italic;">men's</span> terms, and with <span style="font-style: italic;">men's</span> rules (don't wail; you know it's true). And, though we almost never admit it to ourselves -- and certainly not to each other or, heaven forbid, <span style="font-style: italic;">men</span> -- oh truly, how we do yearn to be Elle, doing our achievement thing in ways that make <span style="font-style: italic;">us</span> feel comfortable. No compromises. Just all of us, all "getting along," all the time. Happy happy, back in the cave, with our sisters and our babies, cooking scrumptious T-Rex, cutsey-ing up the stone walls, watching out for each other's kids, sharing, bonding, giggling, and <span style="font-style: italic;">talking ... </span>[admit it: we love to talk].<br /><br />That's the Elle Woods fantasy ... and that fantasy is what makes the "girly" women among us easily fall victim to the mirage of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Palin</span> Power. We can't deny that these girly girls are, primarily, Republican women -- homemakers, and evangelical church goers, and "wives" of "men" -- all believing that Sarah <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Palin</span> is Elle Woods come to life. I'm not talking about those accomplished women among us who, for thoughtful reasons and/or by instinct, believe in making homes for kids. I'm talking about those women who just want to be cave girls forever, even when they live in McMansions built by men.<br /><br />Sadly, this election isn't about Elle Woods, folks. And when the <a href="http://www.sourcewatch.org/index.php?title=Neo-conservative"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">neo</span>-cons</a> get their teeth into <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Palin</span>, all she'll be is a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Stepford</span> VP anyway. That's the reality show.<br /><br />So, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">girly</span> girls, a vote for Sarah <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Palin</span> is -- in truth -- a vote for Dick Cheney and Donald <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Rumsfeld</span> (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">c'mon</span>, you <span style="font-style: italic;">know</span> you don't really like them; these are the guys who drag cave women by their hair and sacrifice their babies, when "necessary").<br /><br />Listen up, baby: We've come a long way ... but we've got a long, long way to go. And we're <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> getting there in high heels.nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479513795401048834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427943512732773427.post-85951582985644603232008-09-17T05:12:00.000-07:002008-09-17T06:02:03.142-07:00Little Romans BurningThe initial Palin Feeding Frenzy seems to have been swallowed up by <span style="font-style: italic;">real</span> news. There's no doubt the Repubs are responsible for much of what's happened on Wall Street and maybe most Americans are realizing -- or at least intuiting -- it.<br /><br />The revised Bankruptcy Law passed in 2005 (which, I have to say is Your Bad, Congress, and including yours, Joe Biden from Delaware) was the initial inkling that credit card companies were worried about the average American being waaaaaay over-extended . If Congress hadn't passed that bill -- which basically left people with severe hardships totally unprotected -- the credit card companies would have shut down easy credit much earlier. Instead, the new law provided carte blanche to put the screws to consumers. With consumers no longer able to attain debt forgiveness under any circumstances, the credit card companies couldn't lose. But that wasn't all. Now protected from consumer defaults, the credit card companies instituted unconscionable late fees and mammoth interest rate increases for the smallest infraction. Big Money wins.<br /><br />Enter Bad Repubs Two: Lower and lower interest rates. For most American families, real earning power -- and associated "savings" -- have been stagnant or declining for a decade. Even <span style="font-style: italic;">with</span> two or more people in the household working, people are barely making it. The solution? Offer cheap money for mortgages, which, in turn, boosts market demand for housing, which, in turn, inflates housing "value," which, in turn, inflates the value of consumers' only remaining <span style="font-weight: bold;">real</span> asset -- the family home. Voila! Easy access for the average American to huge amounts of "paper" wealth .. which they promptly converted into REAL debt -- sometimes extravagantly for vacations and digital toys, but more often for paying off those skyrocketing credit card bills, housing repairs they couldn't afford otherwise, ballooning health care costs, college tuition hikes, and those alluring SUVs (also made cheap and easy to buy) that burned oil like no tomorrow.<br /><br />The people setting monetary policy were totally responsible for stopping all this. Instead they fueled it. The might have injected some market discipline by boosting interest rates, but they didn't. The Republicans knew that real income was declining for most Americans, but <span style="font-style: italic;">consumers</span> didn't realize it because they were suddenly "wealthy" from mortgage "refi" that the financial "experts" told them was going to be "fine, folks, just fine." Meanwhile, the Republicans fiddled no end, because their political futures were looking very solid. Moreover, the Republican policymakers' colleagues were/are/and always have been the credit card companies, the financial institutions, the global congolomerates, and the oil companies ... all of whom were ecstatic, guzzling the new cash flow. Meanwhile, the public was feeling "rich" and happy. Yep. Great psychology for the 2008 election.<br /><br />So, yes. Make no mistake about it. Blame the Republicans who have always protected Big Money. But now <span style="font-style: italic;">they're</span> burning, too? Well, yes, except that now policymakers <span style="font-style: italic;">are</span> coming to <span style="font-style: italic;">their</span> rescue ... while Little Romans burn.nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479513795401048834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427943512732773427.post-26307974627631444972008-09-15T04:15:00.000-07:002008-09-15T04:40:08.395-07:00WTF?I don't understand HOW the housing and mortgage crisis could have caused FannieMae, FreddieMac, Merrill Lynch, AND Lehman Brothers *all* to sink like hot rocks. I mean, hell yeah, some people bought inflated houses and now they're defaulting, but there's GOT to be more to this fiasco.<br /><br />How about the dimension of ordinary people refinancing their houses and spending every dime on [sometimes] vacations and flat screen t.v.s but [more often] on paying off the credit card bills that filled in when they just weren't making it otherwise [no, no, no... we're not in a recession, America; it's just a slowing economy.. gag ...]<br /><br />... or the practice of the scurrilous credit card companies SCREWING people for the tiniest of transgressions [a day late? $35 and STFU] ..<br /><br />.. or the fact that tens of thousands of us [more?] are dealing with medical crises and/or job losses ...<br /><br />... or the outrageous interest rates charged for student loans that ALSO are going to go into default ...<br /><br />... or the whole greedy Republican banking, energy, and media FUBAR that lets corporations (American and global) bleed people until they're anemic and then gives the transfusion to the transgressors.<br /><br />No, we don't need to fix health care, or credit practices, or higher [and lower] education, or oil fixation, or corruption, or lies and propaganda at the highest levels of government. Not a problem. Have another drink, or pill, or Dance with the Stars. It's fine. Really. It's just fine.<br /><br />p.s. Did you say AIG? Did you say General Motors? Did you say trillions to wage war? Did you say <span style="font-style: italic;">Depression?<br /><br /></span>nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479513795401048834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427943512732773427.post-51633139460857114682008-08-18T10:03:00.000-07:002008-08-18T10:32:05.031-07:00Scary China: Not So Scary After AllOkay, I admit it. I’ve seen the Chinese as formidable opponents ever since I went to college in Tokyo with a bunch of kids from Hong Kong and Taiwan. It wasn’t just that these guys and gals were smart. They were. But they had this competitive, entrepreneurial spirit that drove them to excel at everything they touched. These weren’t the Chairman Mao Chinese, mind you, but all last week in Beijing, I kept seeing the same darn thing: win, win, win. But I really got worried this morning when I read what the Chinese Olympic fans were saying when they <span style="font-style: italic;">lost.</span><br /><br />According to this <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/18/sports/olympics/18hurdles.html?_r=1&th&emc=th&oref=slogin"><span style="font-style: italic;">New York Times</span></a> article, Liu Xiang was the first Chinese guy to win a track and field gold medal in the 110 hurdles in 2004. He had become a national hero, an icon, a demi-god. But before Liu could compete in 2008, he injured both his hamstring and his Achilles’ tendon. The Chinese response startled me.<br /><br />“It is a very hard moment for all of us,” Sun [Liu’s coach] said.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Well, wait. It's not really about ALL of you, is it?</span><br /><br />I’m very disappointed, very disappointed,” said Wang Jifei, a reporter with <span style="font-style: italic;">The Chengdu Economic Daily. </span>“Liu Xiang is our, you know, national hero. But right now he has failed.”<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Failed? I don’t think I’ve heard the word “failure” applied to an injured athlete before ... have I?</span><br /><br />“Everybody has been waiting for such a long time. We hold very high expectations. But I think people understand,” said a fan.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Maybe I’m wrong, but to me that sounds a lot like, “I think people forgive.”</span><br /><br />Another fan said, “What a regret. But he’s injured and that happens to everybody. An American got hurt, too. There must be something wrong with the track. Maybe it’s just unlucky.”<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">What, pray tell, does an American getting hurt have to do with this?</span><br /><br />And, finally, this from an eight-year old. “I’m not mad at him … I’m sure he’ll recover very soon and grab another championship in the future.”<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Well, what if he doesn't recover in the future? Will you be mad at him then?<br /><br /></span>I'm not getting this attitude at all. I simply don't understand the “collective” system that apparently characterizes current Chinese thinking to the point that an injured sports figure is owned by one and all.<br /><br />Where’s the aroma (and magnificence) of individual achievement, of the lonely runner on the hill, doing it for him or herself against all odds (with no “collective” support)? That’s the story <span style="font-weight: bold;">I</span> want to hear. That's what thrills the American me. Instead, I conjure up images of the Chinese government scouring the hillside for the thousands out of 1.5 billion who have a gift, followed by the years of training camps that discard anyone who sniffs of possible failure along the way. Thrown away children. Shattered souls. Human wreckage. Everybody keeps talking about how Chinese athletes don’t smile. Why would they?<br /><br />Do I exaggerate? I think not. How else could a single country have so dramatically increased their medal take (they already have 40 percent more medals in 2008 than in 2004 – forty percent!!) And it’s only been four years!<br /><br />Unless we're dealing with a super human race (wait, the Germans already tried that...) some serious pushing has been going down. Only a ruthless “collective” push can explain this achievement, and the major collective disappointment in poor Liu Xiang illustrates it. The real wonder is that any athlete from the United States – let alone Romania or Jamaica -- can beat the entire Chinese government at any game. But there’s a saving grace…<br /><br />I was getting very depressed until D. pointed me to an article a few days earlier <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/15/sports/olympics/15soccer.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=chinese%20soccer%20fans&st=cse&oref=slogin">[China Loves Its Soccer. Its Team? Don’t Ask].</a> Here’s something about Chinese sports I can relate to. Here’s a familiar human reaction, thank God, to losing at a sport when your team can’t seem to win no matter what. Apparently, Chinese soccer fans are not only rabid; they’re furious. So why is this good news? Because they are blaming the system -- the coaches, the players, the corruption, the whole stinking mess. How human, how divine!<br /><br />It's money, money, money – decadence, decadence, decadence – that the Chinese are blaming for the soccer’s team’s failure (in other words, capitalism). Reportedly, the Chinese soccer team (members of which make beaucoup bucks, just like soccer players do everywhere else in the world) doesn’t care enough about winning, say the fans. They’re lazy and the system is corrupt. Big money is the problem, complain observers, with many players having been caught with drugs and prostitutes (hey, so what else is new?).<br /><br />Bottomline: These Chinese super-humans are human after all. Gifted, competitive, smart, yes – but human. Get the enforcers out of the way, give ‘em a little compensation, toss 'em a little STUFF, and watch the Chinese lock-step falter. And that's a good thing.<br /><br />We simply cannot have human beings jumping over hurdles with puffy Achilles. That’s the work of machines. And we definitely can't have collective thinking, because then we don't have individual responsibility. Besides, it's just not any fun.nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479513795401048834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427943512732773427.post-28533982295783263872008-08-15T06:43:00.000-07:002008-08-15T13:55:30.134-07:00<span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >Never Mind the Girl; The Brain Can't Take It<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><a style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/02/24/business/24drug.html?th&emc=th">This article in The New York Times</a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> gives a small idea how maddeningly complex the brain is. And -- as much as we love to hate "the pharmaceuticals" -- without this kind of research (albeit motivated by return on investment), probably we wouldn't be making any progress at all in understanding brain dysfunction.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Meanwhile, as we crawl out of the Dark Ages in our perspective on mental illness, the number and nature of disorders seem to be evolving much faster than we are, along with an explosion of brand new "crazies." Is it possible we'll discover that </span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >none</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> of us humans has evolved sufficiently to cope with life in the 21st Century? Is one or another brain drug in everybody's [not so distant] future? With the planet's increasing shift to multiple choice disorder, dizzying speed, repetitious tasking, sedentarianism, vast hours of frenetic sensory input, chemically-laced food, poor diet generally, pervasive social pressures, and fear of absolutely, positively everything -- maybe our brains simply can't keep up. Maybe the world we live in -- the world we've created -- is causing our various receptors to go haywire.<br /><br />I asked several friends what they thought. One brilliant friend with a profound metaphysical bent, suggested that our growing mental problems are the result of <span style="font-weight: bold;">poor nutrition.</span> A second friend noted <span style="font-weight: bold;">other environmental factors</span>, saying, "I'm not sure what I would add to your list (it's pretty exhaustive!) other than a lack of sleep. As a society, I don't think we get enough sleep -- and isn't that recent research about breast cancer and light exposure at night interesting? I think (at least I hope) that we'll start to figure out that so much about the way we live is unhealthy, particularly the processed, chemical-laced foods."<br /><br />Another friend -- a psychiatric nurse -- said, "Your premise is that modern life is causing an explosion in mental dysfunction of all kinds, by (indirectly) causing brain chemicals to go haywire. And your list of factors contributing to the problem is convincing and right on..... <span style="font-weight: bold;">but still I hesitate. I'm not quite sure why."</span> She went on to note that schizophrenia has "been around for centuries." She observed that though autisim seems to be on the rise, she suspects it occurs during fetal development. Eating disorders, she notes, are "a result of society's conflicting values... a modern life dilemma." She concludes, "When we talk about mental health, <span style="font-weight: bold;">I'm concerned about what we're teaching young folks,</span> without even being aware that we're teaching. I'm talking about violence as a form of entertainment. It's scary to me..... the way movies, TV, and video games glorify violence, and often allow the perpetrator to walk away without consequences."<br /><br />In a terse one sentence response, a male friend agreed that life is making us crazy, but -- perhaps in concert with the posited nature of men to rush to solution -- mainly wondered <span style="font-weight: bold;">"What can we do?"</span><br /><br />A gifted eco-writer friend observed, "I see [the Internet] as an admirable idea gone wrong: technology intended to connect the world for noble purposes, hijacked by the less lofty masses for trivial, superficial pursuits. Media, once designed, again, to inform, educate and connect the world, now hijacked by commercial aims for pure profit. Corporate values that have severed the relationship between business and workers, favoring shareholders and thus, productivity and efficiency over everything else, leaving 'human resources' in cubicle mazes with mindless tasks to accomplish. <span style="font-weight: bold;">To my mind, a particular type of person has gained control of our culture, and the rest of us are at their mercy."</span><br /><br />A friend with two young children and a deep commitment to God, wrote, " ... we are on sensory overload on so many levels. Remember the axiom about early to bed and early to rise? And remember when food was wholesome and no one said you shouldn't eat it because it had too many carbs or too much fat or too many artificial whatevers? Remember when neighbors would help and talk to one another? Yes, we are overstimulated, but somehow underutilized as human beings. Where is the intimate connection? If a creative soul cries out for a 'stop the world moment,' we medicate them. Why can't they cope? Why can't they keep up? <span style="font-weight: bold;">We are all racing but where are we going?"</span><br /><br />Finally, one friend shared this: "With prozac, I gain weight, shop, and eat like a crazy woman. Add the Wellbutrin and the shopping and eating normalize. If that isn't a perfect testament to mind over matter I don't know what is. <span style="font-weight: bold;">I believe our heads are hardwired</span>-- and these drugs just normalize us, while sapping us of our sexual urges and creativity. If anything, the days of the Van Goghs and Hemmingways are done, replaced by well medicated intelligent beings who no longer suffer "needlessly". Needlessly being kind of a debatable word.<br /><br />It's worth talking about, to be sure.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">And, now for a *great* listen: "The Girl Can't Take It." Click </span><a style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4hZY_U24htI">HERE</a><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">]</span><br /></span></span>nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479513795401048834noreply@blogger.com3