Snippets: “Old” from the outside, movies, and winter walks

I’ve been feeling a little like a whirling dervish the past few weeks, too busy to do all the things I want to do (does this sound familiar?). As I whirled, a whole flock of thoughts have landed along the wires of my mind, although you’d never know it from this blog. So, seeing no large chunks of free time ahead, I thought I’d pass along a few “Cliff Notes” on this mental aviary.

“Old” as a culture—the view from the outside

Last week, my partner and I went to Houston for the biannual National Multicultural Conference and Summit. This conference is put on every other year by several sub-groups of the American Psychological Association. It’s intended to offer a space to consider in some depth the issues that arise when psychologists put their collective mind to questions of diversity and multiculturalism. It’s always a thought-provoking few days, and it regularly pushes me to think on new levels about these things.

This time, I attended one session that framed aging as a culture in its own right. Now, I’m not personally persuaded that this is a worthwhile framing. We old people for sure create communities, and we might (emphasis on might) be able to identify some commonalities about us. But the “culture” label seems a stretch to me. Anyhow, I was prepared to consider this notion and to be stretched by the process. Unfortunately, I was not only disappointed but a bit irritated (cranky old woman that I am). Here’s what got me going:

Throughout this presentation, the speakers (three mid-life-ish women) kept referring to old people in the third person. “They” do this or that. “They” need something or other. “They” have one or another characteristic. I can’t quite express how odd it felt to be sitting in the room, being talked about as if I weren’t there (and I wasn’t the only older person in the audience). I’ve had this experience as a lesbian before, many times. In that case, at least there’s the excuse that my sexual orientation is (rather) invisible to those who don’t know me. But my age is not—nor was the age of the other old folks in the room. Still, the speakers completely invisibilized us. In the language of diversity educators, they “othered” us. They made us “others” who didn’t belong to the group with the power—the power, in this case, to describe us and our lives. It was really creepy.

Now, I knew that these people were undoubtedly well intentioned. They were trying to present old people in a positive light and themselves as appreciative of old people. But in the process, they were doing this thing we so easily do when we really want to do the right thing by a group: we create an idealized image of them, we dress that image up in all the best stereotypes about the group, and we smile at our creation. In the process, we objectify and dehumanize the individuals that make up that group. 

For instance, the lead presenter kept saying how much she “just loved” old people. “They're the most amazing people!”, she said. The problem is that we're not. Some of us are extremely cool; some of us are jerks; most of us are somewhere in between. Most of us are cool sometimes and jerks at other times. We're complicated human being with good and bad moments. Given her idealization of old people ("exoticizing," diversity folks call it), you have to wonder whether she'd care about us at all if/when we aren't amazing. Like when we're crabby or when we complain or when we're frail instead of matching her view of vibrant retirees who dance and jog and adventure their way through life. Does she “just love” old people, or does she love her idealized, imagined version of old people? 

As I reflected on all this afterward, I had yet another troubling realization: none of the presenters was herself an old person. Think about this: It would be totally unacceptable to present a session about virtually any other group and not give that group a chance to speak on their own behalf. I can’t anyone planning a panel about, for instance, people of color, people with disabilities, LGBTQ people, or religious diversity if the group in question was not included in some significant way. Yet, these presenters apparently thought it was completely appropriate to speak on our behalf. Creepy.

So, did I say anything about this at the tinme? No. I can argue that the session ended without time for questions—which is true (and all too common). But I could have spoken to the presenters afterward. I didn’t. Why? I was sort of dumbfounded. I’m basically shy. I hadn’t quite articulated to myself what felt so uncomfortable. All true … but I realize that those answers simply permit their approach to go unchallenged and prevent them from realizing something that may not have crossed their minds.

Dang! All right, I get it. I’ll send a thoughtful, reasoned (vs. flat-out cranky) letter to the lead panelist. Thanks for the nudge.

Movies

“Cliff Notes” about some of the movies we squeezed in over the holidays and the long (MLK Day) weekend:

Skyfall: The latest James Bond flick, different (I think) from others in this series. Less violence (although some), fewer gimmicks and contrivances (also, some), more actual drama, great scenery. I liked it partly because it was sort of an ode to age and change: the old guard is moving on (dying, even), and the youngsters with new ideas and new techniques are moving in. I mean that in a good way.

Les Miserables: A familiar story from the stage version. Great acting, good music, thin plot line … but hey, it’s a musical!

Django Unchained: Terrible, over-the-top violence and gore bring awful realism to the horrors of slavery. This one has received really intense commentaries—pro for dealing directly with slavery and the completely understandable Black anger it aroused; con for its historical and psychosocial inaccuracy, it's disempowerment of slave women, and its gratuitous violence.

Lincoln: Excellent acting really brought Lincoln to life for me. I learned a lot about the Civil War era and the end of slavery—like about the questionable legality of the Emancipation Proclamation (BTW: you can now get an Emancipation Proclamation commemorative stamp at the post office). Don’t miss this one. Really.

Silver Linings Playbook: Getting good press, but some psychologists I know are conflicted: They’re glad to see mental health issues addressed as (potentially) manageable. But they’re bothered by the the overly-simple message: one still-troubled person rescues another still-troubled person and they live (apparently) happily ever after.

Zero Dark Thirty: The story behind the killing of Osama bin Laden. How could it not draw big? But I hated the not-at-all subtle message that torture is OK and that good information was gleaned through torture. The research is really clear that people who are tortured can be made to say things. Some of it is true, and much of it is false (either because they really don’t know and make stuff up or because they lie). Also, good interrogators can get as much, equally good information without torture. This stuff was dramatic (and sometimes graphic) but unnecessary. Maybe they used it to keep the audience engaged because otherwise, it’s sort of sloooow until the final moments.

The Impossible: The story of a (wealthy, Spanish) family of 5 who were vacationing in Thailand when the Dec. 26, 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami struck. I found myself scrunched down in my seat, practically sucking my thumb (an understandable if not especially functional response to terror) as I watched. The movie pulled me right into the vastness and power of the waves and the relative insignificance and powerlessness of the people in their path. And then, after the water receded, it pulled me into the pained struggles and heroic resourcefulness of the survivors. The intensity never let up (although there were isolated happy moments), and the film stayed with me for a day or so. Some have criticized the focus on this rich foreign family when millions of local people all across the region suffered equally, and hundreds of thousands died. A legitimate critique. Still, the intensity of the movie changed forever how I understand the impact of natural disasters. I'd say see it for sure. Take your blankie.

Still to be seen: Life of Pi, The Hobbitt, and Amour (if we can find it). And any others you all suggest. Time permitting.

And finally ... Winter walks

Among the (many) blessings of the place I live is the weather—although climate change may make me eat my words. Colorado is graced by lovely sunny days, even in the midst of winter. Add to this the fact that the Boulder area is woven together by bike and walking paths, including many along creeks and beside wetlands. That combination makes for scenes like these on winter walks:

                    

          

What a gift to live here.

Cultured

OK, I am now totally cultured. It took two days, two museums, the Hard Rock Café, a bookstore, a piano/flute concert, a slide show about the Civil Rights movement, and a stop at the hat shop … but the result is undeniable. I am cultured.

It’s rare for my partner and me to take a full day off from our various regular pursuits to play. But on Friday, that’s just what we did. She hadn’t seen the da Vinci exhibit, and although I had seen it twice before (the first time alone, chronicled here, and again with a friend who read my rave review here), I was totally game to go again. So after breakfast (our first trip to Snooze. Try it!), we spent Friday morning with Leonardo. This time, I got to see the whole movie, along with some short videos designed for our co-visitors, middle schoolers with ADHD. Their reactions were entertaining—especially their serious discomfort with full-screen shots of da Vinci’s famous “Vitruvian man” (Slip into your 11-year-old sensitivity and take a look). The movie was great. It added layers of historical information that gave an additional dimension to da Vinci’s inventions and his art. We wondered (leave it to two psychologists) whether his extraordinary perspective, his ability to draw physical renditions of ideas that others hadn't envisioned, had to do with some distinctive neurological characteristic. Guess we’ll never know, but it’s interesting to speculate.

Leonardo’s show was less than a block from the Hard Rock Café, so, given my partner’s enthusiasm about all things musical (remember the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame?), lunch just had to be there. In addition to the ceiling-to-floor rock ‘n’ roll memorabilia, the café had a continuous video of various rock performances. As good fortune would have it, the loop during our lunch included Bruce Springsteen singing my partner’s currently favorite-in-the-world song, “We Are Alive” from the Boss’s latest album. If you’re into message music, give a listen. (Think symbolically when you get to the part about worms and such.)

Then we were off to the Denver Museum of Nature and Science for the Pompeii exhibit. I had been keeping an eye on this, thinking I’d go for some Wednesday outing. But I’d failed to notice that it was about to close—like, it’s now gone (sorry). My partner was interested, too, so we braved the sinking temperatures and promise of snow to see the last days of Pompeii. The exhibit was really well done, drawing visitors into the daily lives of these folks before that morning in 79 A.D. when Vesuvius came alive and buried Pompeii (and several other towns) in ash and stones. Arguably the most powerful part of the exhibit was the casts of people and animals frozen in the positions they held when the ash and fumes overcame them. I’d seen pictures of these before, but being close the their life-sized reality was another experience entirely.

I was also stuck by some uncomfortable indications of the Roman class system on display in Pompeii. For example, I learned that wealthy folks sent their clothing to the “dry cleaner’s” to get it cleaned and bleached. The bleaching part was done by slaves, who walked on the clothing in pools of urine (collected from passersby and from animals), which served as a natural bleaching agent. And then there was the cast of one person who didn’t escape from the city (only about 1,000 of 20,000 citizens didn’t escape). You could tell he was a slave or a prisoner because the shackles were still on  his ankles. On the other hand, there was the apparent consciousness conveyed by a mosaic that hung in someone’s dining room. It represented death, portrayed as a skull, as the great equalizer that cancels out differences based on wealth and class. The mosaic depicts a level with a plumb line hanging from it; the weight is a skull. Hanging from the two arms of the level, balanced by death, are symbols of wealth and of poverty. I guess it is true that death comes to us all regardless of wealth. But it’s also true that the man with the shackles had no chance to escape, while most of Pompeii did. Well, for the time being. I guess they're all equally dead now.

Death as the great equalizer. Mosaic from a Pompeii home.

 After we left Pompeii, at once fascinated and stunned by the exhibit, we slopped through the falling snow to a coffee/reading break at the Tattered Cover, still Denver’s premier independent bookstore. That stop warmed and settled us enough to move on to our evening engagement: a piano / flute concert. Long ago, I wrote about a lovely evening spent with two women who have used their retirement to pursue their true callings: painting for one and music for the other. The music woman was the pianist at this concert, and she was joined by a flautist who also plays for the joy of it (neither of them was paid for this free concert). Their music was wonderful, and it seemed like it rounded out the day nicely, smoothing the ragged edges from Pompeii and taking me back (musically) to the time of Leonardo, where we started the day. Well, not all of the music was from that era, but the parallel is too good to pass up.

Finally, for a very different sort of cultural experience, on Saturday, we went to a presentation/discussion about a 1965 Civil Rights march in Birmingham. This march followed the famous “Bloody Sunday” confrontation when marchers first tried to walk from Selma to Montgomery and met with violence instead. The march we were there to hear about moved from the African-American section of Birmingham to the state capitol building in that city. A number of folks from Denver and Boulder joined the march, and this event featured their snapshots, turned into slides, and a narration preserved by the Carnegie Library in Boulder. Several folks who had walked that day were at this event, and they added their own recollections and reactions.

Seeing the pictures and hearing the participants’ commentary—in person and in archived form—gave an immediacy to the whole event that I think would have been missing if it had been just a lecture. Imagine marching through falling rain out of the muddy, unpaved streets and meager homes of the African-American section of town into the paved streets and well-heeled business district near the capitol. Imagine being “protected” by Alabama National Guardsmen with confederate flags on their uniforms. Imagine being unsure how (or whether) you could get from the end of the march back to the airport safely. Imagine your relief as you returned to Colorado just 24 hours later—aware, as one of the white marchers said, that your own fear ended when the plane you got home, whereas Birmingham’s Black residents lived with that fear all day, every day.

What more could you ask of a two-day experience of cultural immersion? Let’s see: painting, sketching, and invention wrapped in historical context; rock ‘n’ roll music, complete with nostalgic memorabilia; Roman elegance and death as the great equalizer; leisurely reading with good coffee; classical music performed in a soaring cathedral; and a trip back to a historical moment within my own lifetime.

Oh, yeah. I almost forgot the hat story. My partner has been craving a type of hat that I recently learned is called a “Donegal” hat. She found it between the Hard Rock Café and the Denver Museum of Nature and Science.

Just to cap off the day.

Oops! I forgot I was old

“Never trust anyone over 30,” advised a famous 1960s quote. The line has been variously attributed to Jerry Rubin, Bob Dylan, and the Beatles. But apparently, the real source was Jack Weinberg, a leader of the Berkeley cohort of the 1960s student movement for peace, justice, an end to Vietnam War, and reliance on youth for the answers to questions that older folks didn’t even dare ask.

It doesn’t matter, really, who said it. The point is it expressed the mood of a generation, the angst and egocentrism of youth coming up in an era when the “generation gap” was an everyday, throwaway phrase. It was us (youth) vs. them (grown-ups, pigs, “the man,” “the establishment”), and I was among the “us,” if quietly so. At the time, people in their 30s did seem pretty old to me, and decidedly untrustworthy. People in their 40s or 50s (like my parents) seemed really old, and I couldn’t even imagine how feeble and totally out of touch 60 or 70 would be.

I mention this because I’ve had a few experiences lately that reminded me that I am, from that late-adolescent / early-adult perspective, very old. Late-60s old. Fast approaching 70, the age after which my younger self was certain that no worthwhile life remained. But now, living inside that age, I don’t feel at all like I expected to feel. I expected that the late 60s would feel fragile, isolated, and needy. Instead, with the notable exception of certain physical limitations, I feel pretty much like I felt back in the day when I thought 50 was beyond the pale. Sure, I wish I could still do all the things I used to do. And sure, I appreciate the perspective that several added decades of experience bring. But for the most part, my age is invisible to me and pretty irrelevant.

This is unexpected: from the inside, being old is not a major shift from not being old. In fact, I often actually forget that I’m old. I mean that very literally. I actually think (without reflecting on it) that I’m still that younger person and that other people see me as I do. I move through life thinking of myself as … well, myself … and then something reminds that from the outside, my physical appearance marks me as an old woman.

Sometimes, I’m reminded of my age by an encounter with ageism, by the realization that the idea of “old woman” comes heavily wrapped in assumptions, expectations, and stereotypes. On these uncomfortable occasions, all that wrapping unwinds and I realize that people are responding not to me, but to some imaginary creature, their particular concept of an “old woman”—probably not unlike the concept I used to hold.

The other evening, my partner and I were leaving a restaurant, and we stopped to hold doors open for a crowd of folks coming in as we went out. The last two people were a man and a woman who looked to be in their 40s or so. As they passed through the door, the woman said to me, “Thank you! We should be holding the door for you.” Before I even thought it through, I knew I had just smacked into ageism. Whether or not she consciously intended it, the message was clear. “I’m young; you’re old. I should be holding the door for you.” My age had been the farthest thing from my mind, but in that moment, I was reminded that I am old. And I was reminded that my age leads people to treat me not as who I am but as who they see, who they imagine when they encounter an old woman.

But then on other occasions, I’m reminded of my age in a far happier way. I can be sitting with a group of friends of varying ages, just talking, when suddenly one of my friends says something—a story, a life circumstance, a hope, a struggle—that reminds me that I am decades older than she is. I’m really taken aback when this happens because I had forgotten. I know, as I think about it, that when they look at me across the room or across the table, they see my aging physical self, the wrinkled face, graying temples, sagging physique. But their response to me doesn’t carry an ageist tone—nor does it carry patronizing “respect”—so I settle safely into the ease of forgetting.

I actually love the differences in age that inhabit my life. The fact that my friends and I are not all age mates adds lovely texture to our interactions. Events that shaped my coming of age are the stuff of history books for some of them, and their early years were dramatically different from anything I have known. Still today, their lives are filled with experiences that are hugely different from my own. We all have perspectives that have been shaped by those differences, and that makes for conversations that are rich and unexpected. There are a million things we can share, and none of them requires that we be the same age.

Overall, it’s an odd sort of out-of-body experience, this being startled by reminders of my age. I guess it makes sense that I forget. We regularly fail to notice things that seem familiar, and the flow of years through my life seems totally familiar. But if I had 20 to do over again, I think I’d be more inclined to trust this older version of myself. After all, I’m most definitely not the person I expected to be at this age.

Still, this hardly makes for a catchy quote:

“It’s safe to trust people over 30, provided they don’t feel like you think you’ll feel when you reach their advanced age.”

Somehow, I just can’t imagine that on a bumper sticker.

The changing landscape of equality

Today’s New York Times carried the story: Just after midnight yesterday, marriage equality arrived in Maine. It became legal earlier this month in Washington State, and marriage equality will begin in Maryland on Tuesday. On the same day that these three states legalized same-sex marriage at the ballot box, Minnesota voters defeated a constitutional amendment that would have added a ban on marriage equality to that state’s constitution.

Prior to this November, same-sex marriage had been on the ballot 31 times, and it lost 31 times. This year, marriage equality was on the ballot in four states, and we won in all four.

Actually, to be precise, Arizona pro-equality voters defeated a constitutional ban on same-sex marriage in 2006, largely by “de-gaying” the campaign. They did this by arguing that their opposition to the amendment wasn’t about same-sex marriage, which was already illegal in Arizona. Instead, they opposed the amendment because it would result in the loss of benefits for many of the state’s seniors. Underscoring this position, ads against the amendment featured older heterosexual couples instead of same-sex couples. Just two years later, voters undid the “win,” handily passing an amendment banning marriage equality.

This year’s wins are testimony to how far we’ve come—in changing voters’ attitudes and in crafting successful campaigns that actually foreground marriage. And it speaks volumes that in this election, LGBTQ issues were not successfully used as a wedge issue on the national stage.

Those of you who are interested in these things might enjoy this excellent Atlantic Monthly review of the campaign for marriage equality since Proposition 8, the 2008 initiative that overturned Californians’ right to marriage equality. In it, Molly Ball outlines the ins and outs of the story behind this amazing shift from persistent losses to dramatic wins. Among other things, she discusses the “breathtaking epiphany” that began to shift the argument for marriage equality from a discussion of rights to a discussion of love and commitment. I first learned about this shift-in-process at the NGLTF Creating Change conference last year. And here it is, in the news, as the strikingly new narrative of the suddenly successful marriage equality movement.

In some ways, marriage equality now seems inevitable and even imminent, like it may become the law of the land even in my lifetime. But there are still major obstacles ahead, not the least of which is a fundamentally conservative Supreme Court, whose rulings on the cases it has chosen to hear may set the movement back rather than forward. Even a favorable ruling in the case of Prop 8 could leave Californians no farther ahead than if the Court had refused to hear the case, and no other states may be effected. The other case has to do with whether the federal government can withhold federal benefits from married couples in states that already approve same-sex marriage. In this form, the case will have no effect on states that already ban same-sex marriage, as most states do. In fact, some 31 states (including my home state of Colorado) have constitutional amendments banning same-sex marriage—which are far harder to overturn than simple legislative acts.

But even if marriage equality were achieved, this is only one issue that the LGBTQ community needs to address. In fact, many folks argue that we have spent far too much time, far too much money, and far too much political capital and citizen good will on marriage. Marriage, after all, will benefit only that slice of the community who want to marry; who have the social, professional, and physical safety to take such a step; who have a partner to whom they choose to make this very complicated social and financial commitment; and who believe in marriage in the first place. (This may not seem obvious, but that last item actually cuts out a fair number of folks.)  

Besides, while we have been focusing on marriage, other burning issues have been largely ignored—or at best, inadequately addressed: the invisibility of transgender people and their issues in the mainstream LGB(T) rights movement; the relatively high proportion of LGBTQ people (especially lesbians and their children and trans people) living in poverty—particularly LGBTQ people of color; legal and practical problems around parenting and adoption; continuing discrimination in employment and housing as well as in mainstream organizations like the Boy Scouts; persistent racism, classism, sexism, and other forms of prejudice and discrimination within the LGBTQ community. And more.

I may have told this story before, but it fits so well: Some years ago, when I was grousing about these things, my partner said to me, “But imagine it were any other group—people of color or poor people or a particular religious group—who were trying to achieve marriage equality. Wouldn’t you support them in that cause?” Of course, I had to say yes. And on that level, as a group seeking equality in one of society’s major institutions, I support the marriage equality movement. I have donated both time and money to the groups who are pursuing this end. But I’ve never stopped feeling uncomfortable about it on another level. At the level of all the issues left aside by this movement. The level where I resist the notion that the government should have any say in my relationships, in what sort of relationships should and should not be privileged (e.g., by eligibility for social  recognition and financial support—insurance, Social Security, parenting rights, health care, all of it).

Still, this is the movement we have at this moment, and I do celebrate the wins. Yet, I try to keep in mind that other issues are just as (or more) burning for many in our community. Some of these are linked to marriage—e.g., many parenting issues would be eased if same-sex couples could legally marry. Others wouldn’t be helped at all.

Looking for a way to reconcile these perspectives—the joy and the discomfort—I realize that we have learned some very important lessons in this process that may serve us well as we (hopefully!) turn to other issues. Here’s one lesson:

As the Atlantic article explains, a large part of the shift we saw this November from all losses to important wins was a shift in the message LGBTQ campaigns used in arguing for marriage equality. At some point, some activists realized that the LGBTQ movement had been appealing to people’s minds (“Let me give you some statistics about inequality”), while the anti-equality movement was appealing to their emotions (“Let me tell you a story that will move you”). It turns out that stories and feelings trump numbers and minds and when it comes to voting on complicated and confusing wrinkles in the cultural fabric. So these recent, successful campaigns focused not on data but on LGBTQ people and their allies telling their stories. Door-to-door canvassing didn’t involve peppering voters with facts. Instead, it involved having conversations about shared values and personal lives.

I was reminded of this lesson about the importance of stories this morning when I read this article about a lesbian couple’s attempt to adopt a child. I was moved by this article, and I imagined that others, even those who have not thought about such things before, might be as well: the simple fact of wanting a child made far too complex and fraught. This couple could have been heterosexual, and many of the same events might have transpired. But the limitations on their options for adoption and their inability to fully support each other stemmed from nothing but persistent prejudice and discrimination. Since I have lesbian friends with a new baby, I couldn’t help but think of them and of all the thought, hope, fear, excitement, anxiety, uncertainty, and joy they experienced waiting for their child.

In all of the many ways that children may come into one’s life, sexual orientation ought to be such a non-issue. As we turn to other issues of equality, stories like this one may be what changes hearts.

Leonardo's genius

For my weekly Wednesday reminder that I’m retired, I went this week to the Leonardo da Vinci Machines Exhibition at the Denver Pavilions. For anyone who loves to tinker and who takes great pleasure in trying to figure out how things work, this exhibit is a total treat. It’s also a treat for anyone who is fascinated by genius—artistic, mechanical, scientific, architectural, across-the-board genius. For those with a historical/cultural bent, there’s a 45-minute movie about da Vinci's life and times. I was too fascinated with the inventions and ran out of time before seeing most of the movie. Good reason for a repeat trip.

Leonardo da Vinci is probably best known as an artist, but it was his inventive genius that caught my attention when my partner sent me the link to the exhibit website. There, I found pictures of all these models of his inventions. How could I not want to check these out? The models have been created from da Vinci’s drawings by artisans using the sorts of tools and materials that were available in his time. Apparently he left behind about 45,000 loose sheets of paper with notes (mostly in mirror writing), drawings, thoughts, experiments, and ideas for inventions. Some have been gathered into books, most of which are owned by museums around the world (except for the one that Bill Gates owns).

Waterwheel-driven saw - a gear-driven mechanism
moves the saw up and down and also slides the lumber forward

Ball bearings and spindles - freely moving parts reduced
friction, allowing one surface to move easily on another
("Lazy Susan" anyone?)

This description of da Vinci's study of chains
also shows the detail of his drawings

You can see about 60 models of his inventions at this exhibit, along with prints of several of his paintings (Mona Lisa, The Last Supper, and others). The inventions range from war machines through flying machines to a flood lamp and a 360° mirrored closet. Some have “Do not touch” signs, but others are interactive (those, of course, were my favorites. Tinker, tinker.) A large group of inventions and “studies” (where he played with ideas, tried out things without any particular end in mind) reflect da Vinci’s interest in mechanics. Turns out he either invented or pioneered in the development of such fundamental mechanisms as ball bearings, gears and gear-shifters, chains (which weren’t re-invented for another 300 years), differential gears for carts, pulleys, worm screws, fly wheels, hydraulic drills, systems to translate circular motion into linear motion, and a gadget that proved the impossibility of perpetual motion. Many of these were incorporated into his inventions: countless hoisting systems, modes of transportation (a horseless carriage, skis to walk on water, the bicycle, flying machines), gun turrets, robots, and on and on.

Differential gears allow a 2-wheeled cart to turn corners.
The design is basically like that used in cars today

This cart requires no horse. It moves using energy released
by the leaf springs, which is translated into forward motion
by the gears.

The things da Vinci invented depended partly on who his employer was. For instance, he lived in an era rife with wars—warring lords, warring fiefdoms, warring countries. So a lot of his inventions were designed as offensive or defensive weapons. These included an armored vehicle (forerunner of the tank), numerous devices to scale walls and to repel others trying to do the same, ship-borne mechanisms that tore apart enemy ships with a scythe, a multiple-cannon rotating turret for a ship, catapults, and more. The worst beast of all was a horse-drawn cart with four long blades that stretched out horizontally from the cart’s midline, rotating as the cart moved to cut a swath through any group gathered in the vicinity. Horrendous, though brilliant.  

The war monster - blades set rotating by the cart's motion
slash at anything in its path as horses pull it forward

Ship loaded with a scythe to tear apart enemy ships.

  

The original life preserver,
designed by da Vinci

Others inventions reflected his fascination with flight, including his famous “helicopter” and several designs for wings that a person might wear. Still others displayed his interest in water, including the first-ever design for the now-standard life preserver, another apparatus to allow a person to breathe while under water, and over-sized inflatable shoes to walk on water (with poles for balance). 

Some of his inventions have proven amazingly enduring, like the double-hulled ship, which kept the ship afloat even if a cannon ball ripped through its outer hull. It's now standard on commercial and military ships. Or the hinged ladder, which is now used on fire trucks. da Vinci designed it to scale enemy walls while being able to retract it at will if hot oil flew over the wall … but it’s still ingenious.

Double-hulled ship

Hinged, retractable ladder

And then there were his studies of anatomy, which he employed to magnificent ends in his painting and sculpture. (Reverting to his mechanistic frame of mind, he also designed a robot, clothed in a knight’s armor, based on his understanding of the mechanisms of the body.) Although one of his patrons was a Pope and the Catholic Church frowned on dissection, as an artist, da Vinci was given permission to participate in dissections, and his anatomical drawings are evidence of the care he took in this endeavor. Some of them are creepy (to me), but nonetheless fascinating. Unfortunately, I didn’t take any pictures of these … you’ll have to go see for yourself.

"The Last Supper" as a backdrop to gears and gizmos

The exhibit lasts through January 2013. Go see it – you’ll be glad you did!

Oh, and plan enough time to see the film …

Proof that perpetual motion is impossible.
You have to see it to understand (then please explain it to me)

Solstice, cycles, and the Mayan calendar

Friday was Solstice, the shortest, darkest day of the year. And it was simultaneously the moment when the days started getting longer, when the light began to return. It’s easy to understand how rituals grew up around this time of year. For weeks, even months, it seemed like the sun was leaving, dropping out of the sky to the south. How could we, being creatures who cherish and depend on light, not celebrate when it seemed to have changed its mind and started climbing back up the sky?

Not surprisingly, virtually every civilization has marked this moment in some way. Around the world, ancient calendars and other forms of time keeping showed some awareness of this change in the cycle of the days. Southwestern US Indians built structures that were perfectly aligned to this date, and, as we learned from endless coverage this year, the Mayans recognized 12-21-2012, Friday’s Solstice, as a key moment in their calendar.

I’m sure you all heard about the (supposed) Mayan prophecy that the world would end on 12-21-2012. This “prediction” became an excuse for end-of-the-world parties (including among high school kids, as I learned from the local filling station attendant, who had waited on several groups of such drunken revelers). And, as a website dedicated to this prophecy informed us, it also inspired thousands of people to flock to a mountain in France that was supposed to open up, revealing a space ship piloted by aliens that would take people away at the end of the world. Some folks traveled to an alternative safe place in Turkey.

Experts in Mayan culture, on the other hand, tell us that the Mayan calendar does not predict the end of the world. It predicts a new beginning.

The Mayan calendar is actually very complex. It’s based on several nested cycles, one within another, going back to the mythical beginning of the world, about 4111 B.C.E. on our calendar. One of these cycles is about 360 days long, similar to our year; another is about 52 years long, roughly a generation. And then there’s the “long count” calendar, which chronicles a cycle about 3000 years long. This is the calendar said to promise the end of the world. The long count does indeed mark 12-21-2012 as a special day—the transition from the first long-count cycle to the second. (Interestingly, after the fact, the website devoted to the end of the world now describes the day as a transition instead.) The next such transition will occur in about 4772 C.E., so it’s pretty safe to say we won’t be here for it.

Part of the discussion about the end of the world was the suggestion that the prophecy actually predicted the end of the world as we know it. This interpretation was favored in part, I imagine, because there’s a song to fit. In part because when it comes to the end of the world, the phrase “as we know it” is easier to swallow than the word “forever.” Perhaps in part because in some sense, every year, every day, every minute is the end of the world as we know it. No moment is ever precisely like any moment before it—if only because this moment is already a part of my past by the time the next one arrives. And in part because some people had somehow learned a more accurate interpretation of the Mayan calendar that recognizes this concept of ongoing cycles and renewal.

The Mayan calendar and our misunderstanding of it tells us something about ourselves. About how easily we accept misinterpretations of other cultures’ beliefs and artifacts, interpretations that obscure the wisdom those beliefs carry in favor of drama. About how easily we accept misunderstandings “sold” by folks who know how to market crises. But also, if we can step back from the hype, there’s something about the common threads that connect cultures and belief systems within cultures. And the threads that connect those beliefs with the world we all inhabit.

Like this notion of cycles. Solstice, the return of the light celebrated in some form across the centuries and across cultures, is at once the end and the beginning of a solar “year.” The Mayan calendar marks the end of a long count cycles and simultaneously the beginning of another. Cycles are like that. Life is like that. I often think of life as a sort of treadmill, with each generation fading into the one before and the one after. One generation slips off the front end, but the treadmill is never empty. There isn’t even a gap in the flow of generations because the generations flow into one another, each is both one generation and the next. Just as Solstice is simultaneously an ending, a transition, and a beginning.

We had a Solstice gathering on Friday night with a group of friends. We lit a lot of candles and dimmed the electric lights. We shared poems, writings, music, and personal experiences that spoke of darkness, light, and renewal. We talked (and talked and talked) about all kinds of things—about community and religion, about finding “light” in oneself, inspiration in music, hope in love, and comfort in the promise of home. About the “resurrection” that comes from the meaning and hope we leave behind us as we pass. And we talked about life and death. About the painful loss of beloved pets and dear friends, and about the new  baby recently born to other friends. We even talked about the Mayan calendar and its message of renewal. Without, I think, ever mentioning “cycles” per se, we talked about the cycles of our lives and of “life” beyond our lives.

Western cultures are so enamored of the notion of the self-contained individual. I wonder what we miss by thinking of ourselves in this isolated way. It’s true that if I focus on my self, I can identify a beginning and an end. But if I focus on cycles and on communities, then that demarcation disappears. Sure, beyond a certain point, my self-contained individual self won’t be here to witness the continuation of these nested cycles or the ongoing life of these communities. I’ll have stepped off the end of the treadmill.

But the Mayans had it right, I think: seen from the perspective of 3000 years, the moments that seem like endings are simultaneously beginnings, transitions. And there is no end to that.

Otherwise

Tuesday, I learned that a friend of mine had died. So on Wednesday, she was very much on my mind when the following poem by Jane Kenyan appeared in my email box, beneath a signature block. 

 "Otherwise"
 
 I got out of bed
 on two strong legs.
 It might have been
 otherwise. I ate
 cereal, sweet
 milk, ripe, flawless
 peach. It might
 have been otherwise.
 I took the dog uphill
 to the birch wood.
 All morning I did
 the work I love.

 At noon I lay down
 with my mate. It might
 have been otherwise.
 We ate dinner together
 at a table with silver
 candlesticks. It might
 have been otherwise.
 I slept in a bed
 in a room with paintings
 on the walls, and
 planned another day
 just like this day.
 But one day, I know,
 it will be otherwise.
 

It’s a beautiful, deeply conscious poem, noticing each minute the privilege of that moment. And I suppose the last line, “But one day, I know, it will be otherwise,” could mean all sorts of things. It could refer to, say, a change of job, a change of partner, a change in health, retirement. In fact, I guess it could refer to life. We all live always knowing that “one day … it will be otherwise.”

But coming on the day it did, the poem spoke to me of the inevitably of death. Each day, I go to sleep planning another day … but one day, it will be otherwise. This time, it was a friend’s “otherwise,” and my response to her death reminds me that one day it will be mine, too.

I met my friend through my work as a volunteer, a sort of “buddy,” with Boulder County Aging Services. From the first day I met her, I loved her spirit, her wit, her determination to be as engaged in her world as she could be—this despite a progressive illness that was stealing her physical abilities and would eventually diminish her mind as well. That first day, we spent a couple of hours talking, getting acquainted. In that conversation, I got my first glimpse of her sense of humor as she told me stories about her life and her kids. Like, about their embarrassment (which disguised delighted pride, I quickly realized) at her playful, unfettered approach to life. Once, traveling on a mountain road with her kids, she took a pit break next to the car. One son said (I imagine him rolling his eyes in jest), “I wish I had a proper mother.” “What would that be like?” she asked. “A mother who wears white gloves and plays Canasta.” She laughed and drove on. I learned so much about her from stories like that—and she had many.

That initial conversation also gave me an idea of what an active, engaged life she had led before she got sick—“back when I was alive,” she said. As I left that first day, she gave me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. Definitely not something my family has ever done, even with one another, but it seemed right and welcoming. I soon learned that this is the standard Dominican greeting and farewell for family and friends. Once, she asked me why I didn’t say hello to her when I arrived. “But I did,” I insisted. “You didn’t kiss me.” I got it: No hello (and no goodbye) counts without a kiss on the cheek. I left hoping we would become friends.

On our first outing together, we went to the senior center to see what programs there might catch her fancy. We signed her up for a simple fitness class (“Sit ‘n’ Fit”) that seemed suited to her ability and interest, and then for lunch at the center on the two days the class met. Leaving the building, she seemed quiet, and I asked, “Are you exhausted?’” She answered, very quietly, “I’m excited!” And I thought, “I love this woman!” It fit so well with my own wish to stay engaged and alive as I age. How could I not love someone who shared that wish?

I took her to the fitness class the next day, planning to drop her off at the class and return later for lunch. I sat beside her in the exercise circle before the class began and asked if she was OK. “I’m scared,” she said. My instant reply, “I’ll stay.” Now, I have to admit that some of my reaction comes from my own wish to be needed—after all, how better to stay visible? But I also loved her willingness to share this range of emotions—“I’m excited” and “I’m scared.” It was a great match. She was energetic (insofar as her disease allowed), witty, loving, enthusiastic, smart—just what my soul craves. And she seemed to like and trust me. Perfect.

And so began nearly two years of bi-weekly exercise classes followed by lunch at the senior center. Over the past year, I have seen her health declining. She complained more often about not feeling well, but she still wanted to go to exercise class. “If I don’t go, I’ll do nothing,” she said. “That’s worse for me.” Conversations had always been hard for her because her disease meant that her ability to speak lagged way behind the thoughts she wanted to express. Over time, this had become more noticeable. Plus, it was harder and harder for her to show any sort of facial expression, and that bothered her. Try though she might, she could barely force a slight smile for a picture. In fact, I didn’t realize how much her physical appearance had changed until I compared two pictures I have of her—one taken at last year’s holiday party at the senior center and the other at this year’s party. Last year, the smile came easily. This year, it was faint. She reminded me (and others) that this was “the mask” that characterizes her particular illness.

I saw her last Thursday for the annual party. We ate junk food together. (She loved chocolate. She said she ate chocolates because opening them was good exercise for her fingers.) And I took her picture with the fire chief, who stopped by to visit. (She loved firemen. She always said that she liked to fall because then the handsome firemen would come help her up.) Then I dropped her off at her home, saying two goodbyes as we always did—once inside, with a kiss on the cheek, and then again as I stood outside the door, our palms touching through the screen. I said I’d see her Tuesday. Instead, Tuesday was the day I learned she had died.

So now it’s Thursday, a week since we last met. I went to the visitation today and saw her lying in her coffin. Some folks say that this experience provides “closure.” Perhaps the reaction is cultural or regional or dependent on one’s religion. But I didn’t grow up with “viewings,” and the few I’ve attended did not bring closure for me. Her lifeless figure didn't feel like the woman I knew—whereas the picture to the side, the one with just a hint of a mischievous smile, did. Tomorrow is the final service, and my time with her will be over.

Just last Thursday, I saw her. We joked, talked about her plans for Christmas, and ate chocolate. Tuesday, “I got out of bed on two strong legs,” planning to see her … but it was otherwise. Inevitable perhaps. But it makes me really sad.

Swallowed

These past few days, I've felt like I've been been swallowed. Consumed. The very first thought in the morning. Struggling not to make it the last at night so I can sleep. At once horrified, moved, touched, obsessed, and so very very sad. Where is the line? Wanting, needing to know more, futilely trying to make meaning from absurdity. To find order and control in chaos. Yet knowing that no amount of burying myself in information will answer the deepest questions. Knowing that living and reliving every detail from afar keeps me preoccupied, swallowed. When I first read about it, the first vague but nonetheless paralyzing, heart-stopping reports, tears sprang to my eyes. Before I could even “think” about it. Before I had framed any words, any anger, any stark terror or outrage came tears of disbelief and sadness. For the kids, the teachers, the principal, the school psychologist who died. For their families. Their friends. The children and adults who survived in the school's offices, hallways, classrooms. The town. This Newtown, now another chapter in a horribly, painfully familiar story.

So much has been written and said about this incident. “Sandy Hook”: It's already morphed into a label that will forever represent that gruesome day. My thoughts about this feel so fragmented. I have mental piles of clippings, tidbits of news read and heard, pictures. Much of this, my mind has undoubtedly already re-written trying to create a sensible pattern where there is none. But these fragments have no glue. They’re like a pile of feathers that can be scattered into chaos by the next breeze of rumor or detail, by a photograph or a quotation from a child.

In the past few days, I’ve read three very different pieces that have seemed helpful as I, like millions of other people, try to find some thin thread of understanding and direction to tie all this together in a package that I can carry. If you’re still looking, you might find them helpful. Or not. We all do this in our own ways. Please feel free to pass on other ideas.

The first is an informative, analytic piece that draws a parallel between suicide bombers and mass murder/suicides. I found it interesting and persuasive—maybe because it makes some sense, as little does in this frantic search for the “why?” But it leaves me wondering what we can do about it. As individuals and as a nation.

Then, the second offers some helpful thoughts about how we (try to) cope with such incomprehensible tragedy and what we can do in its wake.

And finally, the third is really grounding in its reminder that trauma does not spell unmanageable distress or unending problems for most people, of any age.

Friday is Solstice, the return of the light. And there are murmurings of hope that gun control will finally enter the public and political conversation again. Too late, and probably too little. But although the light returns slowly, return it does. I hope that’s a metaphor. 

Frabjous Shchedryck

I’m finally coming out from under the piles created by two weeks away, and I just remembered that I’d failed to create a “picture blog” from the trip. Then, last night, we went to hear Sound Circle, which planted a couple of new ideas. So the following is a sort of mash-up of my vacation on the east coast and Sound Circle’s magnificent Solstice concert.

I’ve written before (several times) about Sound Circle, so you already know how much I love their music—both for its artistic excellence and for its varied message. Last night’s concert had some really playful parts that I found delightful. Among those was a piece based on Lewis Carroll’s poem “Jaberwocky.” You remember …

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
  And the mome raths outgrabe.

Well, one of the “nonsense” words in that poem caught my ear. It was in this phrase: “O frabjous day!” What a great word: frabjous! The brief lexicon given in the program explained that “frabjous” is a combination of “fabulous” and “joyous.” (If you’re curious about possible meanings of other nonsense words in Jaberwocky, read this.)

What a perfect word to describe an especially fine day: frabjous! I tucked it away, wondering how I might use it one day. My experience with new words tells me that if I want to make them my own, I have to use them. So I vowed to find an opportunity to find something totally frabjous.

And here’s that opportunity, just a day later: a link between Sound Circle’s Solstice concert and pictures from my recent vacation – which had many frabjous moments.

Like the the discovery of lavishly decorated cows scattered about the University of North Carolina campus. (Night pictures, but you get the idea) 

               

How could you not think these multi-hued bovines frabjous? These bulls seem to be some sort symbol of UNC since they're everywhere. But why bulls? The team (and UNC students) are called “Tarheels,” a reference to the huge tar and turpentine industry in the state, along with Civil War stories of North Carolina soldiers’ having tar on their heels that made them tenacious and immovable. No bull there. And the school mascot is a ram, apparently because a favorite football player was nicknamed “battering ram” about the same time the school decided it needed a mascot. No bull. So I asked around about the relationship between bulls and UNC, and the best guess seems to be some obscure link to Bull Durham tobacco, probably the best-known local product. Anyhow, the painted bulls are definitely cool, so discovering them along my evening walk was a most frabjous moment.

And, obviously, frabjous is the perfect word to describe our sunrise walk on the beach near Wilmington, NC, between a gig at the U of North Carolina, site of the bulls, and the drive north to MD. Fabulous and joyous.

Then, we spent some time in southern MD, from whence we took a day trip to DC to visit the Smithsonian. I had a totally frabjous day there, swallowed up by the new exhibit on evolution, which I already raved about in an earlier blog. But what I didn’t do before was show off these pictures from that frabjous day.

     

And for another frabjous moment, consider this view of the late evening sky out the gabled window of our hotel in Port Jefferson, NY.

… and of the ferry (which I didn’t get to ride) emerging from the fog.

And finally, imagine my frabjous delight when my dear old gull friend Mildred (whom you met before and before that) stopped by the Port Jefferson pier to say hello.

So, back to Sound Circle … In addition to gathering the word frabjous into my vocabulary, I also learned something new at the concert that served as a reminder of easily we appropriate others’ lives in order to adorn our own. In this case, I learned about the appropriation of a song.

The guest musician for the evening, Beth Quist (BTW, if you have a chance, go see this woman!), performed a piece that she introduced something like this (not a direct quote, but close): “This is not a Christmas song,” she began. “It’s pagan,” she continued, smiling. So far, no surprise. This was, after all, a Solstice concert, not a Christmas concert. “It’s a new year’s song,” she went on, “but in this case, ‘new year’ refers to spring—the emergence of new life and the beginning of the planting season.”

The song, called “Shchedryk” (from the Ukrainian Щедрий вечiр, meaning bountiful evening), is based on an old Ukrainian folk chant from pre-Christian Ukraine, when the new year was celebrated in April. The song is about a swallow who flies in through the window of a farmhouse, announcing the arrival of spring and promising a bountiful new year.

Now, to make this really cool, you need to listen to the original song before you read on. In this recording, it is sung by a Romanian chorus in its original form. Just click on the title to hear Shchedryk. Be sure to listen before you read on.

Recognize the tune? Here’s the story: When Ukraine became a Christian country in 988 AD, the celebration of the new year was moved from April to January to match the Christian calendar. You recognize it because the melody of Shchedryk was adopted as the tune for an English Christmas carol. After the Ukrainian National Chorus performed the original version at Carnegie Hall,  Peter J. Wilhousky, an American composer of Ukrainian/Russian ancestry, wrote English lyrics that transformed the song into “Carol of the Bells.” The rest is history.

For any hard-core music buffs out there, here’s the musical score (with audio).

So what does this have to do with my vacation? Well, for reasons that I'm still sorting out, when I learned about this connection … this appropriation … I thought immediately of the Dickens Festival in Port Jefferson, NY, the last stop on our trip.

As I mentioned in an earlier blog, Port Jeff holds an annual Charles Dickens Festival, which includes a performance of Dickens' “A Christmas Carol.” For several days, townspeople stroll around town dressed in very fancy Victorian garb. They wander through restaurants and coffee shops, speaking in quasi-British accents and posing for photos for (and with) tourists.

     

 

The link between Shchedryk and the Dickens Festival is complicated. I actually wrote paragraphs about it, only to decide it was too obscure (and even cranky) to post. So let me leave it at this:

Charles Dickens was a social critic, and “A Christmas Carol” challenged rich folks to recognize their common humanity with poor people and people with disabilities folks. Yet, the “dress-up” part, at least, of the Dickens Festival seemed to be steeped in wealth. Who could afford a full-length velvet dress, new for each year’s festival? How different it would be to devote the same funds to feeding the Bob Cratchits and Tiny Tims of New York ... especially given that this was right after Sandy blew through.

I wonder if it’s too much of a stretch to draw a parallel between this event and Shchedryk. In both cases, the meaning of a work of art has been altered to fit comfortably into the lives of the folks who claim it for themselves. Shchedryk, a pagan song about spring, has been claimed as a Christmas carol. Dickens’ work, a critique of class and ability privilege, is celebrated by an exercise in excess. Obscure? Cranky? Maybe so.

The less contentious point (but one that wouldn’t allow me to post pictures from my trip) is that I so often learn stuff from Sound Circle’s music. Sometimes it’s overt, sometimes more subtle. Often, it stays with me and makes me think. Shchedryk (a.k.a. "Carol of the Bells") definitely did that.