On humility, "facts," and life changes

I heard a comment on NPR recently: “One must be humble in the face of facts.” It struck me as really important, though I wasn’t sure why. So I wrote it down. Eventually, this comment took me in two very different directions – one about the nature of “facts” and the other about life changes.

My first train of thought was about what we mean by “truth” and about our collective tendency to confuse opinions with facts. I should preface this by saying that I have a long-standing fascination with the nature of knowledge—what the philosophers call “epistemology,” the study of how we come to know and what we accept as “truth.” So, I realize that what counts as a “fact” is always a matter of perspective. What we call “truth,” any of us, depends on the time and place and circumstances of our lives.

For instance, if we had lived in Europe in the 13^th century, we would have known for certain that the sun circled the earth. If we had lived in Salem, Massachusetts, in the late 17^th century, we would have believed without question that some people were witches. If we had lived virtually anywhere in the Western world in the mid-18^th century, we would have been convinced that women were biologically incapable of higher education and that becoming too educated was likely to make them infertile. And if we lived above the Arctic Circle today, the concept of regular cycles called “day” and “night” would make no sense, except for the requirement to interact with the outside world.

So I know it’s important to take the very idea of “facts” with a grain of salt. I also know it’s important not to simply dismiss opinions as meaningless. Folks’ opinions are derived from their experiences, and they often provide valuable insights into reality (especially as perceived by that person).

Still, I find it troubling when actual verifiable, reliable data are dismissed with a comment like, “I don’t believe that.” For example, someone might say, “The research shows that women still face a lot of barriers in this society.” This might be followed by, “I don’t believe those studies. I think women have exactly the same opportunities as men.” Research findings, actual data about discrimination and misogyny are dismissed in favor of personal opinion, which apparently counts the same as any other input. This used to happen sometimes when I was teaching. From what I hear through friends who are currently teaching, it seems to be happening even more now. I was always dumbfounded by it. “Research findings aren't a matter of opinion,” I wanted to scream. “Whether or not you like them, we’re talking about facts here!”

Following this train of thought a bit farther, here’s a risky bit of speculation about the possible historical increase in this tendency. I don’t want to sound like a total Luddite here (or worse, a cranky, ageist old woman), but I wonder if a piece of this tendency comes from the amazing growth of the Internet. Today, you can find nearly any point of view about nearly any topic on the ‘net, and it’s not always clear how to differentiate the wheat from the chaff. What is merely someone’s opinion and what is documented fact? The very existence of social media (and blogs like this one) implies that whatever any given person has to say is worthwhile. It’s as valid as what anyone else has to say. So, if one person’s opinion is as good as any other piece of information, what’s a “fact” anyway? In this sense, “humility in the face of facts” may be somewhat (even increasingly?) scarce these days.

I wish I could say I’m immune to this tendency myself. But it’s easy for any of us to slip into: “I’m so certain about this, how could it possibly be otherwise?” I have to remind myself that the folks in early Europe and 16^th century Massachusetts and 19^th century America were certain, too. Turns out it’s not always easy to differentiate between subjective certainty and objective data. This definitely calls for the humility championed in the quotation I started with.

And then, I had another thought about this idea that we must be "humble in the face of facts,” this one a reflection on life changes. Here’s how this train of thought happened.

Over lunch, a friend and I were talking about how surprised we are by this seemingly sudden aging of our bodies. Back in the day, she and I were in a group of friends who spent a lot of time engaged in very active, often very strenuous pursuits, most of them outdoors. In recent years, we have both had to come to terms with the growing number of limitations on our activities. The specifics of this path have been different for the two of us—she’s holding up better than I am—but the overall trajectory is similar: the loss of physical excellence, followed by the loss of physical competence, leading now into the territory that looks a lot like the loss of physical ability. This is really hard to accept, even to believe.

What a change from my young adult years! For me, those years lasted for decades. My friends and I were healthy and active, loved the out-of-doors, and had the resources and time to do just about what we wanted to do. Also, I had no children, so there was really nothing to remind me that I was aging, no events to mark the passing of years and decades. No child had a first step, a first day of school, a first date, a graduation, a first live-in partner, a child of her/his own. I had no “empty nest” crisis because the nest was always “empty.” As far as I could tell, life stayed the same over decades (of course, some things changed, but you get my meaning). My body, my health, my activities stayed the same, year after year. So, with little sense of the gradual passage of time, suddenly, this astonishing process of aging materialized. So ultimately futile to deny and impossible to avoid.

(Just to be clear, this isn't all we talked about ... it's just the part that's relevant here.)

Driving home after this conversation, I realized that our discussion was exactly about cultivating humility in the face of facts. It’s often impossible for me to grasp that life has changed so much, that there are things I simply can’t do any longer—backpacking, downhill or cross-country skiing, bike trips, canoe trips, running, dancing, even opening stuck jars without mechanical help!—no matter how much I might want to. In fact, whether I want to do a particular thing or not is sort of irrelevant. It’s frequently not an option. This is hard to believe, hard to absorb. Certainly hard to face with humility!

I’m definitely not suggesting that aging is a process of giving up on living energetically. On the contrary; for me, it’s a process of maximizing the possibilities that I realistically have. My life is full now of different sorts of adventures with their own, very different sorts of satisfaction. In fact, part of what we talked about was just this: how grateful we both are that we have other interests, non-physical passions.

Still, although it may be a fact, this aging thing is still something of a surprise to me. Therein lies the challenge: to be humble in the face of facts. And then, I guess, the rest is up to us.

Escape from the whimpering funk

As expected, I have made my way out of my whimpering episode of a few days ago. That particular bummed-out mood was the result of too strong a hit of the world’s troubles without much to balance it out. So, I attribute the rise in my hope-and-joy quotient to two forces of balance:

First, I went to hear Sound Circle perform “Praises for the World” again. Even though I just heard "Praises" a few weeks ago, I knew that relaxing into that calm space that’s somehow both very present and totally somewhere else would help. It did.

And second, I went to hear Obama speak. Why, I ask myself, is this so cool? For one thing, think about how often I’ll get to see a President, live and in real time. Probably once—this time. Add to that the fact that this isn't just any president. It’s Obama, the most enlightened, exhilarating president since JFK. The welcome remedy for too much “W.” The embodiment of the hope that progressive issues would at least be on the table again. And the only person who will ever be the first African-American president. Ever.

Obama at CU - he's the speck behind the podium. Trust me. 
For better pictures, click here.

Sure, it’s not all sweetness and light. I’m disappointed in Obama in a lot of ways. Virtually every progressive social-change advocate I know is. Still, several things make me deeply appreciative of him—and eager to share that enthusiasm with about 10,000 other noisy folks. Items on my list:

1.      I take responsibility for a large chunk of my disappointment. The man I voted for, the man for whom I shed tears at the inauguration, was at least partly a figment of my grandiose hopes. I saw him as everything W was not. I saw him as the personification of everything I thought should happen. I saw him a super-human. The contrast between fantasy and reality is often disappointing. It’s always disheartening when idols turn out to be mere mortals operating in a world of mortals. It's tough when the image we have of someone (full of nonsense though it may be) turns out not to be who s/he actually is as a human being. We’ve all had that experience. This time, it was just so huge—the hopes, and therefore the loss. In truth, much of what I’m disappointed about was never on Obama's agenda. It was on mine.

2.      I am aware that lots of what he “failed” to do was the result of working against incredible odds. He had very little experience in Washington, a Cuisinart of a place that can turn anything into mush in a minute. He started with a massive deficit, an economy on the fast track to heck, and a totally obstructionist congress. Sure, it’s all his responsibility now, and lots of us wish he had done more. But he did start out at a bit of a disadvantage, which my idealistic image hadn’t accounted for very well.

3.      Despite all this, he has actually accomplished many things, lots of it below the radar. Many of these initiatives have felt like far too little and often too late. He has completely failed in some domains—“evolving” on same-sex marriage now puts him squarely with most prominent Republicans, and immigration reform remains largely an empty promise. But he has led the way on some significant changes, even in the face of a process that is clearly broken. And, equally (or more) importantly, he has changed the conversation. Before this presidency, we weren’t even discussing health care reform; hate crimes legislation dragged on largely unnoticed; banking reform, credit card reform, and mortgage reform weren’t even in the lingo; and the idea of actually working together with other nations, considering diplomacy as a useful and honorable strategy, was a long-forgotten dream. At least I hear my concerns discussed, even though they are not always fruitfully resolved.

4.      Finally, there’s the practical bottom line. This argument is less noble but equally compelling: Who else would I vote for? When I consider the alternatives, I realize that Obama’s losing in the fall would mean a 180° retreat from a whole host of issues that matter to me.

I'm not campaigning here. Just clarifying why I was willing to go through the hassles it took to see this man from across a packed event center, disheartened though I sometimes am by his administration.  

So, I went. In fact, I went way out of my way to do it. One day, my partner and I stood in line waiting for her ticket because she was in a different ticket category from me. The next day, I stood (actually, I sat) in line for almost 3 hours waiting to get my ticket. Then, on the big day, we started waiting in line at 3:15 for a 7:00 event. We actually got in about 4:30, I think, which means that we waited for another 2½ hours after we got through the door (and the security screening). Once inside, we were able, thanks to a friend who went with us, to strategize and rush through the crowds of students (aptly nicknamed the “thundering herd”) to get seats directly across from the stage. (The truth is that our friend actually did both the strategizing and the rushing; we just followed her to the seats she staked out).

Nothing in Obama’s talk was surprising. But it was Obama, after all, and he is such a remarkable orator.  A recipe for vegetable soup would sound lofty spoken by him. Besides, he was talking about college and students and student loans, topics close to my heart. I expected his speech to revitalize my hopefulness, and it did.

So, there you have the antidote for bummed-out thumb sucking. A hit of inspiring music, a dose of soaring oratory—neither of them surprising but both uplifting—hoisted me out of my whimpering funk and back to the land of everyday joy and distress. 

I knew it would happen. But when my thumb is in my mouth, I sometimes have trouble seeing past my fist. 

Whimper

After some strikingly distressing movie experiences this weekend, I find myself in the midst of an unaccustomed bout of despair. I could as well be in a friendlier and more accustomed mood of hope. But driving through the fields that surround Boulder this afternoon, where my favorite activity is watching for hawks and coyotes, I realized that my mood was leaning more toward “oof” than toward “yippee.” 

I attribute this largely to these two movies I saw that were both inspiring and deeply troubling. I was thinking about writing something about the inspiring part of each of them—and I will mention that—but I found myself overtaken by this distressing feeling I carried away from the second one. More a punch in the gut that a kick in the ass, to borrow neighboring metaphors. Here's the story.

On Friday night—some hours before they closed the CU campus to outsiders like me (and sprayed the grass with fish fertilizer) in an effort to stop the 4/20 “smokeout”—I went to an event on campus. The campus is beautiful on these spring evenings, and I was prepared to enjoy my outing.

The event featured the film “Precious Knowledge,” followed by some speakers.  This film is about a Mexican-American Studies program in a Tucson Arizona high school that got cancelled because powerful folks thought it taught kids awful things—like about their ethnic roots, about oppression, and about self-empowerment. Never mind that the graduation rates among these kids soared (heck, the staying-in-school rates soared, pretty much a prerequisite for graduation). Never mind that these kids were learning personal responsibility and collective problem solving. It was seditious, what they were teaching! It was hateful and racist! It violated what Martin Luther King taught! All nonsense, of course, but the folks in power had the wherewithal to declare it so, and the program was cut. Heartbreaking.

There were great stories here, too, of kids who made it through school because of this program and, equally marvelous, of kids who decided they would work to change the world because of their experience in this program. Actually, they have already tried mightily, lobbying, fund raising, even running as a relay team from Tucson to Phoenix to testify before state officials in an effort to save the program. One girl had a tattoo on her ankle that she designed as a reminder of her need to work for a better world. Inspiring.

Then today, I saw the film “Bully” (now in a theater near you; here’s the official trailer … more clips online). This is a film about a handful of kids in various towns (all in the Midwest and South, unless I missed someone) who endure daily, relentless bullying from their peers. Their collective sin, of course, is that they’re different. The adults in the film—especially school administrators at all levels, police, government officials, and other “public servants,” but also parents—somehow just don’t get it. They ask the bullied kids to change instead of insisting that their tormentors stop. They write it off as “kids will be kids.” They minimize, trivialize, disregard, and blame the victim until it made me want to cry. No, actually, it made me cry.

There were uplifting stories here, too. Parents who have taken it upon themselves to spend a lifetime working to end bullying, although it took their losing a child for them to do that. A lesbian teenager who chose to stay in her small town, even though her parents said they would move to someplace more welcoming, because she wanted to help change things. “If we move away,” she said, “they win.” She finally decided she wanted to move, but still plans to work to change things—just somewhere else. Inspiring.

Then, to add another layer to the weekend, my partner was off in Minnesota, participating in a major event designed to educate folks in that state about same-sex marriage ahead of their anti-marriage equality ballot initiative this fall. This, too, has both up and down sides. Upper: How wonderful that people from all walks of life are now gathering around to support LGBT folks in their battle for marriage equality. Not long ago, little such activism could be found. Downer: Why is it necessary to prove that LGBT people—heck, any people—are entitled to the same rights as other human beings?

Usually, I’m pretty easily able to grab onto the uplifting parts of stories like these. To feel inspired, see them as lessons for my own life and reminders that good things are happening. Usually, I’d be saying, “Isn't this cool? Look at all the ways that folks are working for progressive change!”

But this time, I just came away bummed. It’s wonderful that these kids are standing up against racism, homophobia, oppression of all sorts. It’s great that they’re aspiring to noble, change-the-world goals. But it makes me so sad that they have to. It’s wonderful that parents become ambassadors and organizers for their kids. But how tragic that they lost a child before they were moved to do that. It’s great that the world is beginning to grasp that equal rights for LGBT people is simply another form of equal rights for all. But why is this even a question?

I’ll get over this, I’m certain. Soon. But sometimes, I just need to suck my thumb and whimper.

Inspiration \,in(,)-spә-rā-shәn\

Here’s a fun fact to know and tell: The early Greeks used to believe that the mind was located in the lungs. As proof of that, they pointed to the fact that thoughts and ideas, which come from the mind, are expressed in words. Since speaking involves expelling air from the lungs, the thoughts or ideas must be in the lungs—hence, the mind is in the lungs.

This may be why the word “inspiration” has two seemingly different meanings: inhaling and being uplifted. “Inspiration” comes from the Latin word “inspirare,” which means, literally, to inhale (the “in” root means in, and the “spir-” root means breathe). We sometimes use the word inspiration—at least medical folks do—to mean inhaling. But mostly, we use it to describe an experience that feels energizing or moving or uplifting.

It makes sense to me that these two words have the same roots. Both have to do with taking in something. Whether it’s air or excitement, that “something” keeps us alive and provides the energy to move forward with our lives. 

I thought about all this over the weekend, when I found myself feeling moved and uplifted in two very different circumstances. (Both of them, by the way, involved that Greek thing about meanings emerging in voices.) I wanted to say that I was inspired by both. But then I started wondering what I meant by that … and that took me on the above side trip into Greek philosophy and the meaning of Latin roots. My digression reminds me of that bumper sticker, “Not all who wander are lost.”

Anyway, here’s what was so inspirational, what gave me a lift, what took my breath at moments. The first event was an enthusiastically delivered, unapologetically progressive, loving, and deeply thought-provoking speech by Cornel West. You may know Cornel West as an outspoken and often controversial African-American scholar, activist, gadfly, writer, and remarkable orator. He held a full-house audience at CU enthralled for a couple of hours. Lots of us wore hoodies, a statement of solidarity with Trayvon Martin and his family. But that seemed such a tiny gesture next to Dr. West’s soaring rhetoric and experiential gravitas. For a treat, listen to him for a few minutes. Through student friends, we were able to sit in the second row, where we could watch his expressive face—and feel almost like he was looking at us. His words and his impassioned, joyful presence were inspiring. I breathed it in.

The next day, we went to a concert by Resonance Women’s Chorus of Boulder. Resonance is directed by the same woman who directs Sound Circle (the 16-voice a cappella chorus I wrote about recently, twice), and it bears her stamp. Which is to say, Resonance makes inspiring music. This concert was full of it, including violin, flute, and cello accompaniment, deep lyrics, and rich choral sounds. I don’t want to do a review here—I don’t know nearly enough about music for that. I'll just say that these 130 women make beautiful music together, and in the process, they remind us of the importance of meaningful participation in the world. I was touched by many of the songs, but I'll just mention one, “Deep Peace,’ which I think is particularly wonderful. It has a meditative quality that I want to experience as I move through the last stages of life. Read the lyrics for a sense of what I mean. Better yet, check out the You Tube version (with a lovely slideshow). Best of all, go to the concert next weekend to experience it yourself.

So, afterward, I found myself wondering why two very different experiences—the booming voice of a singular, radical, hyper-energetic orator and the smooth harmonies of a large women’s chorus—both fit in the category of “inspirational.” Part of it is a message they share: both emphasize progressive social consciousness and personal engagement with the world, although they have different focuses and express their vision in different ways.

But mostly, I think it’s that both are inspired themselves—by their own messages and by their commitment to their respective causes. Seeing people who are inspired, who clearly love what they do and what they bring to others is, well, inspiring. It makes me want to sit nearby and breathe it all in.

Wait! If I breathe it in, that means I’m inspiring (in the sense of inhaling), even though they are the ones who are inspiring (in the sense of being uplifting). This is fascinating! It’s like the doing and the receiving are one.

Someone should definitely write about this.

Conference on World Affairs

I’ve been spending a good bit of time this week at the Conference on World Affairs (or CWA) at CU-Boulder. I go as much as I can every year. If you live near Boulder, you really should check it out. What a great way to rev up your brain after the winter doldrums! Besides, I always think that spending time on a college campus is good for anyone. It reminds us that the conveyor belt of life is in working order. There are folks coming along behind us, eager to start their adult lives. But about CWA …


Since 1948, the CU-Boulder campus has hosted the annual Conference on World Affairs. It began as a conference on international affairs (which makes great sense: it was shortly after the end of WW II). But it has since expanded to include sessions on the arts, the media, science, technology, ethics, the environment, politics, business, human rights, etc., etc. To quote Roger Ebert, who participated in CWA for decades, it’s the “conference on everything conceivable.”  Conference planners bring in about 100 scholars, performers, academics, business and government people, and assorted folks with something to say. These folks come at their own expense and without getting paid. All day, every day, for a whole week they gather in auditoriums and rooms around campus to explore every conceivable topic in plenary sessions, panels, and performances—more than 200 sessions in all.


The really astonishing thing about this conference is that all of these events are free and open to the public. Imagine that! A week of free mind-expanding continuing education with some brilliant thinkers, artists, politicians, and wannabes, all without needing to register for anything or pay a cent! Not surprisingly, a huge proportion of the audience is made up of community folks, many with gray or white hair. This is another of the gifts of retirement: the freedom to hang out with ideas in the middle of the day for a whole week!

CWA folks are easy to spot. We're the ones clogging the walkways between sessions, wearing walking shoes for our day on campus. We're carrying a satchel with an umbrella and the conference program peeking out, or we're sitting on a bench and perusing the schedule while we down a snack or some water. We pretty much fill the cafeteria at lunch time. I keep thinking that the cafeteria staff must be warned in advance about this because they are so easy going about all these folks who don’t know quite know how the food court works or where to pay.

The other main group of folks attending CWA sessions is made up of college students. Of course, the location is handy for them, and they also are often encouraged (or required) to attend. The result is a great cross-generational learning opportunity. Think about it. In how many settings do we sit side by side with people 50 or 60 or 70 years our junior (or senior) and share a moment of intellectual challenge?  How often do we get to listen to the questions that college students ask about politics, morality, technological change … and how often do they get to hear ours? There’s just so much to be learned from this.

So that’s how the world looks to a 22 year-old majoring in political science!

Wow! There are actually college students who have never heard of McCarthyism.

Do they really think that the 1960s were “a long time ago”? (answer: yes.) 


Am I hearing this right? The social construction of race, a "fringe" idea in my day, is now taken for granted. Wow. 

Ah! She didn’t understand the point because “before the pill” doesn’t mean anything to her. She never knew a time when contraception wasn’t available.

I can only imagine what thoughts the students have as folks of my generation rise to speak. I hope they find it equally intriguing.

So, I’ve attended about half a dozen sessions so far this week. Of these, I found one (a plenary) pretty boring. But still, I came away with some murmuring thoughts despite not being too enthralled. Another session (also a plenary), I found entertaining, informative, and thought provoking. However, I can’t recall being moved to think about it much. Maybe that’s because I agreed with the speaker so much I just nodded at his points and laughed at this jokes. Both of these were basically on the current crisis of national political polarization. 

The rest of the sessions I’ve attended have been panels: ethics and the new genetics, disability pride, same-sex marriage, and parallels/differences between the Tea Party and the Occupy movements. Three of these four were great! I learned a lot and got stretched a bunch in each of them. But one (same-sex marriage) was extremely frustrating. Probably because I know a fair amount about this (my partner knows a ton, and I absorb a lot from her), and the self-described “experts” on the panel didn’t. But they thought they did.

This is one of the challenging (sometimes fun, sometimes frustrating) things about CWA. The panelists are given only a title for their session—no description, no guidance about what they should say. The titles are pretty vague, sometimes provocative, sometimes obscure. Some panelists take their role really seriously; they think about the topic a lot in advance, read up on the issues, prepare remarks. Others just wing it, sometimes saying something like, “I don’t really know anything about this, but here’s what I think.” It’s sort of pot luck, so I count my experience of three excellent panels out of four as a very tasty outcome. And I haven't had many chances recently to share a tasty potluck with college students. 

Permafrost

The Arctic permafrost is a personal friend of mine. I’ve spent weeks at a time hiking, camping, and rafting with permafrost beneath me. So two articles I just read about the Artic thaw had more than just scientific interest. 

The first article was about oil. We all know that the Arctic ice cap is shrinking as we speak. Some see this as an exciting event. It promises to be a boon to the oil industry, because it will open up whole new areas for deep-water drilling. It will also make shipping easier—like the trip between Europe or Russia and the US west coast or East Asia would be far shorter through the northern passages than by the old routes through the Suez or Panama Canal. On the other hand, environmentalists worry about the impact of oil drilling, shipping, and increased tourism on the fragile ecology of the arctic.

Along with the shrinking ice cap, there are also signs that the Arctic permafrost is thawing. This is a big deal. The second article discussed some new research suggesting that the thawing Arctic permafrost may be a key element  in rising temperatures in the Arctic—not just a victim but also a cause of global warming. The story goes like this: According to this research, about 55 million years ago, the Earth experienced a period of intense heating that lasted for tens of thousands of years. This heating was caused by atmospheric gasses. And the source of those gasses, it seems, was thawing permafrost in the Earth's polar regions. When the frozen soils thawed, the organic matter began to decay, releasing methane and carbon dioxide, which heat the atmosphere. And today, we may be seeing the beginnings of a similar cycle: increasing temperatures thaw the permafrost, which releases gasses that heat the atmosphere … and so goes the cycle.

Reading these articles took me back to my own encounters with permafrost. I first met the permafrost up close and personal on some long-ago backpacking trips to Alaska. Two images come to mind in particular. 

My first such trip started at a lake at the summit of the Brooks Range, an east–west range above the Arctic Circle that separates the bulk of inland Alaska from the northern plains and the north shore (of caribou breeding and oil drilling fame). A pontoon plane dropped us off near the shore of this lake and then disappeared into the clouds. There we were, three women heading into a trail-less wilderness—a guide and two experienced backpackers without a clue about what backpacking in Alaska would be like. Walking south on our first day, we passed what looked like a riverbank (except there was no river). Framed in this bank was an ice lens—which is just what it sounds like: a lens of permanent ice about 5 or 6 feet wide and about 3 feet high, buried in the bank. Our guide explained (briefly; she was a woman of few words) that there are ice lenses all over the arctic, mostly not exposed like this one was. I took a picture of her in front of it … unfortunately, it was before digital cameras, so I can’t share it, but I’ve included someone else’s picture of a different ice lens to give you an idea.

My next permafrost experience came in discussions with the woman who ran a bed and breakfast in Fairbanks that served as a temporary home before and after this trip (and also before and after two subsequent trips). Betty was a most interesting person, well suited to Alaska. She came because her husband had a job working construction on the Alaska pipeline. She stayed after they parted because she liked being where people pretty much left her alone and where she could see the Northern Lights with great frequency (she had some great videos!). Betty was taking architecture classes at the University of Alaska in Fairbanks. She wanted to specialize in building and rebuilding on permafrost. Her own house was built on permafrost. This was clear every time you walked across a room or set something on a table. Getting up at night was a perilous adventure, because the bedroom and bathroom were on totally different slants, each steep enough to throw you off balance if you were less than alert. The house above isn't Betty's (and that's not Betty!), but it makes the point. 

After talking with Betty about this, we began to notice lots of buildings around Fairbanks that were similarly askew. “Outside,” as true Alaskans call the lower 48, we would see these as run-down and poorly maintained. We’d probably use words like a “heap” or at best a “shack.” But the problem isn’t the owners’ care taking. It’s the permafrost. When the permafrost melts, the ground sinks. When the water freezes, the ground rises as the ice expands. But it does all of this unevenly because the ice isn’t evenly distributed in the ground and the heating from above is uneven.

It’s not just buildings that get all akilter. Roads become treacherous with “frost heaves,” bumps and dips caused by the shifting of freezing/melting water in the earth. I imagined subterranean ice lenses everywhere! All of this heaving happens at superficial levels, when the moisture near the surface freezes and thaws. Beneath this layer, though, is the true, solid permafrost—which is, literally, permanently frozen. Here’s a great diagram, if you’re interested in the visual-learner’s version.

Water sits on top of this frozen layer and, so it has nowhere to go when it freezes, except up. This also means that water flowing on top of this layer is very, very cold. Alaskan rivers, especially in the far north, can’t cut deep channels because the permafrost is too solid. So they spread out into several shallow channels; they’re called, almost poetically, “braided” rivers. I’ve included a picture so you can see what I mean. These rivers are ice cold because they flow along a bed of permanent ice. I say this from experience. That “trail-less wilderness” I mentioned includes wading across a lot of rivers. We even waded down the center of some streams because it was the only route through dense stands of willow. And they were cold!

So, when I read about this phenomenon that I’m calling the “northern melt” these days, I drift back to Alaska—Denali’s braided rivers and amazing wildlife, the wildflowers and eagles on the passes in the Brooks Range, the grizzlies wandering solo and the two muskoxen holding a stand-off on the tundra of the north shore. I think in micro terms about the costs of our indifference to the environment, in terms of the individual organisms and the individual scenes that I witnessed spending time on the permafrost.

And now it appears that we have growing evidence of the consequences of the northern melt in macro terms. It looks like the permafrost itself may play a huge role in the coming global warming. The irony of this is striking.

When they were building the Alaska pipeline, they built miles and miles of it above, instead of below, the ground because the hot oil would melt the permafrost. This would have been an ecological disaster, as everything from the tiniest arctic flower or moss to the largest grizzly or muskox has evolved in synchrony with permafrost.

And here’s another irony: the oil that comes to us through that elevated pipeline, carefully designed to avoid melting the permafrost, is part of the cycle that threatens that very permafrost. We drive our cars and heat our buildings with that oil, warming the environment, slowly melting the Arctic ice and the permafrost. And now, to come full circle, it turns out that the melting permafrost may actually contribute enough heat to drastically warm the environment by itself.

We’ve all heard/read about the long-term, human consequences of this process. Reduced to the level of the particular, the northern melt reminds me of ice lenses and Betty, frost heaves and frigid streams, Arctic flowers and tussocks, and the tundra creatures. I feel incredibly lucky to have seen them, even lived among them for weeks on end. I wonder how many more generations  will have that opportunity.

Change in rhythm

I came back from our trip to the Oregon coast with some sort of bug, which has me a bit laid up this week. So I’ve cancelled some stuff I had planned and settled down to being pretty much a homebody for a few days. I’m finding that this is so much easier to do than it would have been at (most) other times in my life. Not just because I have fewer commitments but also because I’m so much more content to just move slowly. This awareness brought to mind a train of thought I’ve been toying with lately.

Lately, I’ve noticed this nice change in my rhythm, the pace of my days. It’s slower, more open to what arises, freer to ignore time and follow whatever entices my interest. This is different for me. I’m far more used to having my time pretty full and pretty structured—even since I retired. So this is a shift, and for now, it feels like a good one. I don’t at all assume that this will be the final pattern for every day in the future. But it’s interesting to notice the change and my (current) comfort with it.

For instance, here’s what a typical day looks like these days:  I have a leisurely breakfast reading the news. Next, I do an hour or two of work on my now-very-part-time editing job. Then, I walk to the gym for my tri-weekly session of pumping iron, which I actually enjoy! I meander home and settle into some more editing. That finished, I may visit a coffee shop, read a book for a while, and then meet my partner for dinner.  In the evening, I might finish up some left-over editing, catch up on email, or play with a blog, and then crash.

Or, some days I have actual scheduled events, and one of those days looks more like this: I start my day in much the same way: breakfast with news, a couple of hours’ editing. Next, I pick up my pal, and we go to the “sit ‘n’ fit” exercise class at the senior center and then have lunch there, visiting with folks I’d never meet if I weren’t doing this volunteer gig. After I drop her off, I change my clothes, grab a water bottle, and head out for a long, lovely, luxurious, walk. I come home tired and totally content and settle into a bit more editing. With that finished for the day, I move into the same sort of evening pattern.

So, I’ve been thinking about this new rhythm, contrasting it with how my days looked just a few short months ago. Back then, I described here a couple of “days in the mix,” detailing how I had spent those days. Check it out to see the change. And I was doing about twice as much editing work then. No wonder I felt crunched for time!

Where does this change come from? Part of it is that my awareness of my time and my freedom shifted when I lightened my work load. Before, it was hard for me to even contemplate long, leisurely walks—I just felt too frantic. In addition to that, I’m wondering if part of it was a change of mind, a shift in perspective that came from (a) my encounter with boredom and the realization that I needed to do something about it and (b) my program to reduce (if not eliminate) my tendency to turn to my computer (Linus) to pass the time.

I’m thinking it went something like this. Having less work naturally eased my sense of time pressure and freed me to spend time doing things I had let pass me by before. That freedom, though, left me a bit worried about whether I might be bored with all this uncommitted time. What would I do?! I suspect this is what a lot of folks face (or worry that they’ll face) when they retire … I just postponed it a few years. Knowing that I had to do something about this boredom thing, I set about trying to re-write how I spend my time. I realized, with a friend’s encouragement, how easy it had been to hunker down with Linus to pass time, even when there’s nothing particular to do at the computer. As I worked to let go of that habit, I turned outward in search of ways to fill, to enjoy my extra time. And all of this freed me on a new level to turn down the frantic.

Easing back on the throttle, I believe I discovered a new level of flow, ease, time. At least for now. This may change. I may find a new project that captures my passion and consumes my time. But for now, to steal a phrase, I’m lovin’ it. 

A weekend at the shore … and a confrontation with existential angst.

 This is a story in two parts about, first, a trip to the Oregon coast and, second, reflections on matters less … um … uplifting. Like death and terror and The Hunger Games. It all fits together, odd though that may seem. It’s complicated, though, and it took me a while to decide whether to write this blog. But here it is. So come along for the twisting journey from seagulls to existential angst.

It all began when my partner and I set out last Wednesday for a trip to Oregon. Our sojourn began with the purported reason for the trip: a panel presentation in Salem. The panel focused on the movie “Ballot Measure 9,” which details the events surrounding Oregon’s 1992 experience with virulent and even violent anti-LGBT politics. We both got to talk about the parallels between Ballot Measure 9 and Colorado’s Amendment 2, which happened in the same year. It was a great event with lots of folks in attendance, good discussion, and welcome political energy.

The next morning, over an excellent breakfast, we shared one of those wonderful conversations that make these friends so special. On this particular morning, we talked at length about life, aging, and dying. Our collective fear of death, despite all the philosophizing to the contrary. The difficulty of accepting its inevitability. The denial that makes us search for a cure to this or that, as if the end wouldn’t come if we could just cure this or that. And the realization that we (individually and collectively) keep doing things to prolong life (or at least to avoid shortening it). We take vitamins, eat blueberries, drink milk with Omega 3, exercise, avoid second-hand smoke, get regular check-ups, etc., etc.

We do these things in the name of improving the years we have, even as we cling to the rhetoric telling us that they’ll extend our life (indefinitely?). We do them even though we know that more years doesn’t necessarily mean more good years. As one of our friends put it, citing a Ted Talk she’d heard: Let's be clear: the years we add aren’t young years.

This wasn’t a morbid conversation, but a realistic one. We all die, after all. As I once read, despite all the magic of modern medicine, the mortality rate remains stubbornly at 100%. It was really good to have this discussion with such thoughtful people ... in this case, people who are much younger than I and who therefore have a different relationship with aging. It felt like a relief. I think about all this often, but don’t often have a chance to process it much.

But before I continue with this train of thought—because it will clearly not be as fun as photos of the Oregon coast—let me share tales of days on the beach, which is where we headed after breakfast.

Unlike our earlier Oregon trip where we were somehow blessed with lovely sunsets in the midst of storms all around, this time the weather was ferocious, and the sea shared the mood. It rained hard as we drove to the coast, watching rivers raging and spilling over their banks, the wind pushing the rain horizontally across the road. But we got lucky with the weather once we arrived. It seemed to stop raining every time we went out—and started again each time we got in the car or returned home from a walk.

Dodging between rainstorms (if not raindrops), we watched the stormy sea ...

were greeted by Mildred, my gull friend from our last trip (whose a little pixelated in this photo; she's third from the right in the group photo) ...

         

cruised along the shore, spotting pussy willows in new bloom, huge logs thrown up by the storm, and trees left suspended by eroding soil ...

and explored tide pools ...

During these lovely moments, our earlier conversation about death slipped into the background. But it was to come back to me, wrapped in a book I’d been reading.

On the plane trip to Oregon, I was reading The Hunger Games. I was curious about the hype surrounding this book / movie, and I had heard an NPR story that presented it as an anti-war allegory. So I decided to read it on this trip and got well into the first book of the trilogy before we arrived.

Then, one night, snuggled down in our nice cottage at the coast, I had a really awful dream about fear (terror, really) and betrayal and a sense of inescapable danger. I didn’t dare go back to sleep, and spent the next couple of hours trying to figure it out—in the shower, walking on the beach. It finally made sense to me in the context of the book and our earlier discussion of death. The story line of the book was the story line of my dream—not the details, not the characters, not even the events. But the feelings. And that story line shared a feeling left over from our earlier conversation about death and its inevitability.

I won't be finishing that trilogy. Partly because I think it's an awful story, made worse by at the fact of its incredibly positive reception and large following. But the larger reason is that it touched something so terror-stricken that to return to it would be insane.

Clearly, I don't feel so casual and intellectually distant from death and its inevitably—or its approach. But I sure don't need to encounter the stark reality of it through a story that's so disturbing in its own right. Instead, let me sort it through in the company of friends.

The rest of our time at the coast was wonderful, full of walks between raindrops, good food, and interesting conversations, capped off by dinner at a restaurant with an amazing view where Charlize Theron once filmed a movie scene.

I’ll definitely be back—to the Oregon coast and my gull, Mildred, that is. Not to The Hunger Games.