When I went to Kyrgyzstan last summer to help initiate a research survey, I initially planned to spend a few days in each town and city where Kyrgyz research assistants already had been hired by the project leader to do the surveying. My purpose would be to help each researcher begin her survey work, and to help her solve any difficulties she might encounter.
But as I learned more about the country, I realized that I had to decide whether it would be safe to travel to Osh, where E, one of the researchers, lives. Osh once was a stopping point on the Silk Road. Now it's a provincial capital in an unsettled region near the Uzbekistan border, where there have been recent ethnic clashes and one incident in which U.S. tourists were briefly captured. Getting there would require a flight over the gigantic Tien Shan mountain range in an aging, Soviet-built airplane. And Kyrgyzstan itself is not so far from Afghanistan, Pakistan, or Iraq. Though it's relatively calm, it seemed a place to avoid taking chances. I researched news reports and U.S. State Department advisories, and consulted with a friend who had been a Peace Corps volunteer in Kyrgyzstan. By the time I flew to Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan's capital, for a planned kick-off meeting with the research team, I had decided not to travel to Osh.
E, though, had a different idea. Soon after meeting her in Bishkek, I realized how much she would love to show her town to a visiting American. Her hope--were I to agree to come to Osh--was to take me to the mountains for a short stay in her family's yurts and a little horseback riding. That idea was tantalizing, I enjoyed E's company and trusted her, my friends in Bishkek all judged that the trip would be safe enough, and so I soon agreed to fly to Osh.
Some of my confidence evaporated when I boarded the tiny, very stale-smelling Yaak jet, and little of it was left after mechanics spent the next two hours hammering on the engine to fix a problem of unclear magnitude. No one else seemed a bit perturbed, though, so I stayed in my seat, the plane eventually lifted off, I had a few glimpses through clouds of snowy Tien Shan ridges and valleys, and then we landed at Osh's airport, where E and her husband were waiting to greet me.
I had a fine time in Osh, after all, though unseasonable rains prevented our expedition to the mountain yurts. Most days, E and I worked on project tasks, but we also fit in some memorable sightseeing and socializing. We hiked up Solomon's Throne, a small peak above town, to see the cave where Babar, an great spiritual leader, had lived many centuries ago. We saw Silk Road artifacts and a rare two-story yurt built specially for Osh's 3,000th anniversary celebration. One evening, we drove out to a country village for a traditional dinner with E's inlaws. We spent another evening in a lovely outdoor cafe set in a wooded park, drinking kummus (mare's milk), eating traditional foods, and enjoying Kyrgyz music performed by a family of musicians who are friends of E's family. Afterwards, we posed for pictures together and I took photos of the family's two children: a slim, handsome teenaged girl with beautiful dark braids and her wide-eyed younger brother. He stood tall and bravely in his felt Kyrgyz man's hat, but was obviously daunted by the tall foreigner.
Then I flew safely back to Bishkek, and eventually home to Seattle, where my Kyrgyz friends and travels have been fading in my mind. But the memories came back a couple of days ago when I found a note from E in my morning email. She thought I might remember the musicians' little boy. He has just died, she told me, and she asked whether I could send copies of my photos for his mother.
I did remember the boy, and of course I sent the photos. Now I'm at my desk, reflecting that, after all my concern about going to Osh, it's I who sits comfortably, warm and breathing, and the little boy who is gone.
Aesop didn't append moral lessons to his fables. They were added much later by some ancient scribe. If I were that scribe, perhaps I would add just a few words to my little tale:
You can never tell. You just can never tell.
Thursday, January 27, 2005
Dad has been home from the hospital for nearly 2 weeks now, and has left the ladybug to her own devices. It eventually turned out that he had to have a somewhat scary procedure, so I hurried to join him and Mom to, well, mill around and appear reasonably competent, just in case something useful to do turned up.
My role proved to be essentially moral support, but in the course of events, Mom performed a rescue. They are a sort of habit of hers. One of her rescues at sea is prominent among our family stories. In that one, though she had no experience with boat engines, she was able to fire up a sailboat's engine in time to rescue Dad and E from a leaking rubber dinghy, and what would have been a dangerously cold bath in Prince William Sound.
Her latest rescue was medical in nature. Dad was sent home from the hospital with five new prescriptions. As soon as he was comfortably settled at home, Mom hustled off to the pharmacy to fill the new prescriptions. We had been told that Dad must not wait a day before beginning all of them. When she returned, we were all dismayed by the array of new pill bottles that were to be added to Dad's existing collection. It seemed like an awful lot of medicine. But as Mom read off what each was supposed to do, the verbage seemed pretty convincing. The doctors knew best, we supposed...
I went home later that day, and called the following day. In the meantime, Mom had pulled out and carefully compared the documentation for each of Dad's existing prescriptions with the documentation for the five new ones. Her careful analysis showed that two of the new prescriptions were actually the same as ones Dad was already taking. For those two cases, one prescription was under a generic name, and the other under a trade name. A third prescription was for high blood pressure, but Dad actually has somewhat low blood pressure these days. They consulted with Dad's regular doctor, who agreed that Dad should not be taking either the duplicate doses or the high blood pressure medicine.
Mom rocks!
My role proved to be essentially moral support, but in the course of events, Mom performed a rescue. They are a sort of habit of hers. One of her rescues at sea is prominent among our family stories. In that one, though she had no experience with boat engines, she was able to fire up a sailboat's engine in time to rescue Dad and E from a leaking rubber dinghy, and what would have been a dangerously cold bath in Prince William Sound.
Her latest rescue was medical in nature. Dad was sent home from the hospital with five new prescriptions. As soon as he was comfortably settled at home, Mom hustled off to the pharmacy to fill the new prescriptions. We had been told that Dad must not wait a day before beginning all of them. When she returned, we were all dismayed by the array of new pill bottles that were to be added to Dad's existing collection. It seemed like an awful lot of medicine. But as Mom read off what each was supposed to do, the verbage seemed pretty convincing. The doctors knew best, we supposed...
I went home later that day, and called the following day. In the meantime, Mom had pulled out and carefully compared the documentation for each of Dad's existing prescriptions with the documentation for the five new ones. Her careful analysis showed that two of the new prescriptions were actually the same as ones Dad was already taking. For those two cases, one prescription was under a generic name, and the other under a trade name. A third prescription was for high blood pressure, but Dad actually has somewhat low blood pressure these days. They consulted with Dad's regular doctor, who agreed that Dad should not be taking either the duplicate doses or the high blood pressure medicine.
Mom rocks!
Friday, January 14, 2005
It's morning on a day of high broken clouds that seem to promise a dry day. But my wildlife biologist father woke up to this sky this morning in a hospital bed, where he has found himself for something that we hope is relatively minor.
We talked by phone last night. He would rather come home, but has made a reasonable peace with his circumstances. It's a fine hospital with a kind, competent staff, and Mom had reported that he has a room with a view out across evergreen forests to the Olympic Mountains. "Are you by yourself?" I asked. "No," he answered, "there are the bugs."
I thought that might have been his own funny name for other patients, but he meant a ladybug and two other round-bodied bugs. "So it's spring here in this room," he reported. He has been enjoying watching them moving about the room.
Steve McQueen once said that he would rather wake up in the middle of nowhere than in any city on earth, and I bet Dad would agree with him. Dad spent his career as a pilot-biologist in Alaska. On a January day such as this one, he might have found himself flying to Kodiak ferrying supplies to a field camp, or perhaps over Arctic Ocean ice floes surveying polar bears. Or he might have been skiing with me up a mountain valley in the Chugach Range above Anchorage, reading the animal prints in the snow to decode the recent activities of moose and coyotes.
Part of the art of Being Here Now, I suspect, is that if one day, you find yourself no longer a young biologist in a parka and mukluks, but an 84-year-old man in a hospital bed, you just enjoy the ladybug that you find in the room with you.
We talked by phone last night. He would rather come home, but has made a reasonable peace with his circumstances. It's a fine hospital with a kind, competent staff, and Mom had reported that he has a room with a view out across evergreen forests to the Olympic Mountains. "Are you by yourself?" I asked. "No," he answered, "there are the bugs."
I thought that might have been his own funny name for other patients, but he meant a ladybug and two other round-bodied bugs. "So it's spring here in this room," he reported. He has been enjoying watching them moving about the room.
Steve McQueen once said that he would rather wake up in the middle of nowhere than in any city on earth, and I bet Dad would agree with him. Dad spent his career as a pilot-biologist in Alaska. On a January day such as this one, he might have found himself flying to Kodiak ferrying supplies to a field camp, or perhaps over Arctic Ocean ice floes surveying polar bears. Or he might have been skiing with me up a mountain valley in the Chugach Range above Anchorage, reading the animal prints in the snow to decode the recent activities of moose and coyotes.
Part of the art of Being Here Now, I suspect, is that if one day, you find yourself no longer a young biologist in a parka and mukluks, but an 84-year-old man in a hospital bed, you just enjoy the ladybug that you find in the room with you.
Sunday, January 09, 2005
During a 1980 trip down Baja California, I camped for a few days on the beach near Cabo San Lucas with R, J, and some friends. One calm, sunny afternoon, I learned to body surf. I soon had the hang of it and was enjoying the relaxing feeling of being carried along on the gentle swell. But I hadn't noticed that a tanker had passed by behind me. Suddenly--too soon to take a breath--the bow wave folded over me, the air and sky vanished, and I found myself whirling through the water, uncomprehending, propelled by a force so strong that I could not hope to fight it. Then I was slammed down onto the beach, and the receding wave began to pull me back out to sea. I dug my fingers and toes into the sand to resist the powerful suction force, finally broke loose, and scrambled up the beach with dignity lost and swimsuit full of sand.
That episode must have lasted only a few seconds, but it terminated my body-surfing career. Of course, I remembered it as I began to take in the enormity of last week's tsunami. The wave that caught me must have been tiny compared to the tsunami, but it gave me some small idea of the immense force that struck the Indian Ocean coasts-- just enough personal experience to create the beginnings of empathy.
When something terrible happens in some faraway place, I often think that somewhere in that place there must be a woman like me. I try to imagine what she is experiencing. For the dead, the pain is over, of course, but for the living it has just started. We hear stories of people who have lost their entire families, and who perhaps saw it happen, or found familiar bodies on the beaches, or will never find the bodies. How will they go on living? How will they find any meaning or comfort in this?
This line of thinking brings me to B, whom I knew when I lived for half a year in Iliamna, a village in the Alaskan bush. At that time, B constantly emoted a sort of happy maternal force, so that you felt warmed any time you were in her presence. She and her Athabaskan husband A were central and favorite figures in Iliamna, and I never saw either of them sad. B and I worked together in a fishing lodge, she as chief cook and me as waitress. She taught me to polka; we once danced together on the bar when the owner was away; and from time to time she rescued me from hunting guides who had gotten too fresh.
B originally came from the Seattle area. She had been living a happy life down here until she lost her husband and children in a car accident. I don't remember how much time passed between that day and the day she arrived in Iliamna, or how she managed to get through that time. When I knew her, I was too young and inexperienced to comprehend what she must have gone through. I don't remember just what circumstances brought her from Seattle to Iliamna. But I remember her now as an example of someone who could not be kept down.
For the Indian Ocean dead, may they find auspicious rebirths in some fortunate country. For the living, may they find the resolute courage that B found in herself and, in some future time and place, her unextinguishable joie de vivre.
That episode must have lasted only a few seconds, but it terminated my body-surfing career. Of course, I remembered it as I began to take in the enormity of last week's tsunami. The wave that caught me must have been tiny compared to the tsunami, but it gave me some small idea of the immense force that struck the Indian Ocean coasts-- just enough personal experience to create the beginnings of empathy.
When something terrible happens in some faraway place, I often think that somewhere in that place there must be a woman like me. I try to imagine what she is experiencing. For the dead, the pain is over, of course, but for the living it has just started. We hear stories of people who have lost their entire families, and who perhaps saw it happen, or found familiar bodies on the beaches, or will never find the bodies. How will they go on living? How will they find any meaning or comfort in this?
This line of thinking brings me to B, whom I knew when I lived for half a year in Iliamna, a village in the Alaskan bush. At that time, B constantly emoted a sort of happy maternal force, so that you felt warmed any time you were in her presence. She and her Athabaskan husband A were central and favorite figures in Iliamna, and I never saw either of them sad. B and I worked together in a fishing lodge, she as chief cook and me as waitress. She taught me to polka; we once danced together on the bar when the owner was away; and from time to time she rescued me from hunting guides who had gotten too fresh.
B originally came from the Seattle area. She had been living a happy life down here until she lost her husband and children in a car accident. I don't remember how much time passed between that day and the day she arrived in Iliamna, or how she managed to get through that time. When I knew her, I was too young and inexperienced to comprehend what she must have gone through. I don't remember just what circumstances brought her from Seattle to Iliamna. But I remember her now as an example of someone who could not be kept down.
For the Indian Ocean dead, may they find auspicious rebirths in some fortunate country. For the living, may they find the resolute courage that B found in herself and, in some future time and place, her unextinguishable joie de vivre.
Saturday, January 08, 2005
Today I encountered some behavior worth emulating...
This gray Seattle morning, I stayed in bed as long as I could before needing to get up for yoga class. At the last possible minute, I climbed unwillingly out of bed, and shuffled out to the kitchen to start coffee water heating. On the way, I noticed that about a quarter-inch of snow had accumulated overnight. "Huh, snow--nice," I thought dimly, and began searching for the coffee press.
A few minutes later, my housemate C emerged from her room, and shuffled out towards the kitchen. But the sight of the snow stopped her in her tracks. "Oh! SNOW!" she exclaimed, and bounced across the living room to the window. "Oh!" More appreciative bounces.
I realized that I was seeing a fine example of Being Here Now, and began to feel excited about the snow, too. I thought that perhaps I would have time to take a walk after class.
Our coffee was ready. "So why do you think snow makes people feel excited?" I asked, as we sat at the breakfast table and looked out over the backyard. It's a break in the routine, she said--something different that makes a familiar landscape seem new and dramatic. I thought it perhaps also had to do with happy childhood memories. I described how my brothers and I used to tramp out giant "Merry Christmas" greetings in the snow for pilots. She likes that there are a lot of kinds of snow, and we both like the way that a blanket of snow makes everything look clean. Besides snow, she also loves the ice storms in her native Iowa, and the way that the ice-coated trees sparkle in the sun.
And then our coffee was drunk and it was time to head off to class.
This gray Seattle morning, I stayed in bed as long as I could before needing to get up for yoga class. At the last possible minute, I climbed unwillingly out of bed, and shuffled out to the kitchen to start coffee water heating. On the way, I noticed that about a quarter-inch of snow had accumulated overnight. "Huh, snow--nice," I thought dimly, and began searching for the coffee press.
A few minutes later, my housemate C emerged from her room, and shuffled out towards the kitchen. But the sight of the snow stopped her in her tracks. "Oh! SNOW!" she exclaimed, and bounced across the living room to the window. "Oh!" More appreciative bounces.
I realized that I was seeing a fine example of Being Here Now, and began to feel excited about the snow, too. I thought that perhaps I would have time to take a walk after class.
Our coffee was ready. "So why do you think snow makes people feel excited?" I asked, as we sat at the breakfast table and looked out over the backyard. It's a break in the routine, she said--something different that makes a familiar landscape seem new and dramatic. I thought it perhaps also had to do with happy childhood memories. I described how my brothers and I used to tramp out giant "Merry Christmas" greetings in the snow for pilots. She likes that there are a lot of kinds of snow, and we both like the way that a blanket of snow makes everything look clean. Besides snow, she also loves the ice storms in her native Iowa, and the way that the ice-coated trees sparkle in the sun.
And then our coffee was drunk and it was time to head off to class.
Friday, January 07, 2005
My brother E is warm-hearted and empathetic--good qualities for the IT support specialist that he is. He often teaches me new things about my field of technical communication, though I don't think he knows that.
For example:
Just as Dad has been trying to put the final refinements on his memoir of his years as a WWII fighter pilot, his copy of Word had begun to act more and more strangely. First, it would simply die from time to time. Later, it refused to show some of its menus, and instead took to displaying cryptic error messages accusing Dad of things he was pretty sure he had not done. I checked to see what I could do. I can often fix Mom and Dad's minor computer problems, but I had no clue. The Big Gun was needed for this baffling problem. E arrived, took one look, and fixed the problem in about 30 seconds, max, as Dad and I watched. E knew what I had forgotten: Dad uses System 9 on his iMac. To fix his problem, you simply need to delete the corrupted settings file for the offending program.
Dad was curious about this instant fix to a problem that had been pestering him for weeks, so E explained about settings files: "Say you wanted to change the defaults for your program--maybe you wanted to use a 14-point font instead of the default 12-point. So you'd change the default font size. If something goes wrong with the settings file, you delete it from your system, and the problem is fixed, but the default program settings are restored."
This explanation was nearly meaningless to Dad. So E explained a different way: "Say that on your P-40, the guns were toed in a certain amount according to the factory specs. But you wanted to change that, so you adjusted the settings to toe the guns in a little differently..."
This explanation connected with Dad. What I especially like about it are two things: First, E used language and concepts familiar to his audience--something technical communicators are taught to do, but he gets extra points for so creatively transferring concepts between domains. Second, E's choice of explanation was respectful of Dad's expertise and knowledge. It put attention on Dad's knowledge rather than the technical details of his computer. It's so easy for someone who has wonderful expertise in other domains to feel like a dumb novice when faced with a disobedient computer. E gracefully prevented that from happening.
For example:
Just as Dad has been trying to put the final refinements on his memoir of his years as a WWII fighter pilot, his copy of Word had begun to act more and more strangely. First, it would simply die from time to time. Later, it refused to show some of its menus, and instead took to displaying cryptic error messages accusing Dad of things he was pretty sure he had not done. I checked to see what I could do. I can often fix Mom and Dad's minor computer problems, but I had no clue. The Big Gun was needed for this baffling problem. E arrived, took one look, and fixed the problem in about 30 seconds, max, as Dad and I watched. E knew what I had forgotten: Dad uses System 9 on his iMac. To fix his problem, you simply need to delete the corrupted settings file for the offending program.
Dad was curious about this instant fix to a problem that had been pestering him for weeks, so E explained about settings files: "Say you wanted to change the defaults for your program--maybe you wanted to use a 14-point font instead of the default 12-point. So you'd change the default font size. If something goes wrong with the settings file, you delete it from your system, and the problem is fixed, but the default program settings are restored."
This explanation was nearly meaningless to Dad. So E explained a different way: "Say that on your P-40, the guns were toed in a certain amount according to the factory specs. But you wanted to change that, so you adjusted the settings to toe the guns in a little differently..."
This explanation connected with Dad. What I especially like about it are two things: First, E used language and concepts familiar to his audience--something technical communicators are taught to do, but he gets extra points for so creatively transferring concepts between domains. Second, E's choice of explanation was respectful of Dad's expertise and knowledge. It put attention on Dad's knowledge rather than the technical details of his computer. It's so easy for someone who has wonderful expertise in other domains to feel like a dumb novice when faced with a disobedient computer. E gracefully prevented that from happening.
Saturday, January 01, 2005
I'm just back from our New Year's family gathering, where there has been an outbreak of knitting.
After many months of waiting, K was recently approved to begin hospital corpsman training, and soon will head for the Navy's Great Lakes training center near Chicago. Knowing of the cold winter weather in that part of the country, J got some good, warm yarn and started work on a birthday scarf for K (today is his birthday). Watching her work, O became intrigued, and asked for a lesson. He quickly learned the basic stitches, and soon was snuggled next to J on my parents' couch, both of them working together on K's scarf and making rapid progress. How nice for K to get a scarf knit by both his mom and kid brother!
Meanwhile, J's mom S had joined us for our gathering, bringing her own knitting bag and pattern books. She got her first chance to hear a bagpiping concert by my brother E, and was most impressed. Not only is he remarkably good for a novice, but he looks the part, with his full red beard and piper's wardrobe of kilt, sporren, glengarrie, and so on. There was just one thing: to S's knitter's eyes, his kneesocks didn't quite make the fashion cut. So she and O were soon on the floor with tape measure in hand, measuring E's feet and calves. She will knit him a proper pair of socks, with O helping.
My housemate C tells me that knitting is the new rage among young college women. Who knew? But I think my family must be in the forefront of the Collaborative Knitting Movement.
After many months of waiting, K was recently approved to begin hospital corpsman training, and soon will head for the Navy's Great Lakes training center near Chicago. Knowing of the cold winter weather in that part of the country, J got some good, warm yarn and started work on a birthday scarf for K (today is his birthday). Watching her work, O became intrigued, and asked for a lesson. He quickly learned the basic stitches, and soon was snuggled next to J on my parents' couch, both of them working together on K's scarf and making rapid progress. How nice for K to get a scarf knit by both his mom and kid brother!
Meanwhile, J's mom S had joined us for our gathering, bringing her own knitting bag and pattern books. She got her first chance to hear a bagpiping concert by my brother E, and was most impressed. Not only is he remarkably good for a novice, but he looks the part, with his full red beard and piper's wardrobe of kilt, sporren, glengarrie, and so on. There was just one thing: to S's knitter's eyes, his kneesocks didn't quite make the fashion cut. So she and O were soon on the floor with tape measure in hand, measuring E's feet and calves. She will knit him a proper pair of socks, with O helping.
My housemate C tells me that knitting is the new rage among young college women. Who knew? But I think my family must be in the forefront of the Collaborative Knitting Movement.
Thursday, November 11, 2004
France--and the cheerful, floaty state I was in when I went there--are now a few weeks in my past. We had a wonderful time there. I already knew that it's a remarkably hospitable country, but what I hadn't known was how much France loves young visitors. O got special treats and attention everywhere we went. All of this left him in a tricky position, in terms of self-presentation. He is currently trying very, very hard to be a hip, uncaring teenager (though he has a year to go)--but that's so hard to pull off when people are being very nice and attentive, and so quick to offer fun activities. It was fun to see the 11-year-old break through the carefully cultivated teen exterior, again and again: sliding full-tilt down the summer luge at Chamonix, feeding pet deer in Burgundy, playing with new friend B in Lyon, making like a gargoyle hunched on the rooftop of Notre Dame...
Today, in traumatized, post-election Seattle, I feel a world away, and struck by how softly sad everyone's eyes look. Perhaps it's a stage of grief that my liberal city must pass through. People look like the harbor seals I used to see when sailing in Prince William Sound years ago. There, each evening, we'd be followed into our chosen anchorage by a seal, quietly regarding us with eyes nearly brimming over with what seemed to be deeply felt sorrow. I'm seeing those eyes again today, on the bus, in the yoga studio, in the Grateful Bread cafe, where I stopped for tea and a muffin after class, then along my walking route to campus.
For myself, though, I've begun to feel better. For the past few days, I've been in and out of depression, having trouble concentrating and speaking, needing to sleep and lacking energy. Today, though, I've begun noticing the beauty in the world, in the same way one does when emerging from a bad illness. Just the smell of the coffee I made after waking up in early morning darkness! Then a yoga class filled with favorite poses! A warm carrot muffin! And, as if that weren't enough, a favorite walk across Ravenna park on its series of footbridges. All around me, sunlight shafting down through yellow and brown leaves, and my own feet making crisp swishing sounds through the fall leaves. Not all is right with the world just now, not by any means, but today I can see again how filled with beauty it is.
Today, in traumatized, post-election Seattle, I feel a world away, and struck by how softly sad everyone's eyes look. Perhaps it's a stage of grief that my liberal city must pass through. People look like the harbor seals I used to see when sailing in Prince William Sound years ago. There, each evening, we'd be followed into our chosen anchorage by a seal, quietly regarding us with eyes nearly brimming over with what seemed to be deeply felt sorrow. I'm seeing those eyes again today, on the bus, in the yoga studio, in the Grateful Bread cafe, where I stopped for tea and a muffin after class, then along my walking route to campus.
For myself, though, I've begun to feel better. For the past few days, I've been in and out of depression, having trouble concentrating and speaking, needing to sleep and lacking energy. Today, though, I've begun noticing the beauty in the world, in the same way one does when emerging from a bad illness. Just the smell of the coffee I made after waking up in early morning darkness! Then a yoga class filled with favorite poses! A warm carrot muffin! And, as if that weren't enough, a favorite walk across Ravenna park on its series of footbridges. All around me, sunlight shafting down through yellow and brown leaves, and my own feet making crisp swishing sounds through the fall leaves. Not all is right with the world just now, not by any means, but today I can see again how filled with beauty it is.
Thursday, September 02, 2004
This week while the RNC convenes, I've established a personal news blockout. I check Google News or NPR for a few minutes once or twice a day to be sure I'm not missing something big, but otherwise, I leave the news alone.
Nevertheless, I'm getting a picture of a very doom-and-gloom convention, which led me to think of a new slogan for my own party:
"Don't be a scairdy-cat,
Vote Democrat,
The party that isn't terrified by the rest of the world!"
In contrast to the conventioneers, I'm in a cheerful, floaty state, filled with happy anticipation. The reason: I have airline tickets that will take me back to France, then on to England, first thing next Tuesday. The purpose for this trip is that I'll be presenting some research results at a conference in Brighton. Since nearly all of my travel to Europe will be paid for by the Grad School, I asked my sister-in-law J to join me for a few days in France, along with my youngest nephew, O. J agreed and O was delighted (it was his idea in the first place), so today, she's purchasing our railpass while I shop for a present for French friends of J's father, who have offered to host us for a weekend in Lyon. We'll also visit Chamonix and Paris, where O will have his 12th birthday!
I'm really glad to be getting back out into the world beyond the US. Going to Europe and Kyrgyzstan earlier this summer made me aware of how fearful life in the US has become. The constant terror alerts and warnings make a slow, steady drain on the spirit, and it sometimes seems to me that many people have become a bit depressed. Outside the US, I found, people continue to enjoy life--even though the last few days of news are a clear reminder that the US isn't the only nation targeted by terrorists. In fact, this US fearfulness predates 9/11. During a business trip to France in January 2000, I was struck by the contrast between the Y2K Bug fears that largely spoiled the turn of the Millenium in the US, and the way that France had taken the Millenium to be an excuse for a big party. For example, the breakfast room in our hotel was decked out with Millenium-themed party placemats and napkins, and best of all, each evening at sunset, the Eiffel Tower began to sparkle and shimmer with thousands of tiny white lights, specially for the occasion.
So laissez les bons temps rouler, and vive la France--we're off to join the global party!
Nevertheless, I'm getting a picture of a very doom-and-gloom convention, which led me to think of a new slogan for my own party:
"Don't be a scairdy-cat,
Vote Democrat,
The party that isn't terrified by the rest of the world!"
In contrast to the conventioneers, I'm in a cheerful, floaty state, filled with happy anticipation. The reason: I have airline tickets that will take me back to France, then on to England, first thing next Tuesday. The purpose for this trip is that I'll be presenting some research results at a conference in Brighton. Since nearly all of my travel to Europe will be paid for by the Grad School, I asked my sister-in-law J to join me for a few days in France, along with my youngest nephew, O. J agreed and O was delighted (it was his idea in the first place), so today, she's purchasing our railpass while I shop for a present for French friends of J's father, who have offered to host us for a weekend in Lyon. We'll also visit Chamonix and Paris, where O will have his 12th birthday!
I'm really glad to be getting back out into the world beyond the US. Going to Europe and Kyrgyzstan earlier this summer made me aware of how fearful life in the US has become. The constant terror alerts and warnings make a slow, steady drain on the spirit, and it sometimes seems to me that many people have become a bit depressed. Outside the US, I found, people continue to enjoy life--even though the last few days of news are a clear reminder that the US isn't the only nation targeted by terrorists. In fact, this US fearfulness predates 9/11. During a business trip to France in January 2000, I was struck by the contrast between the Y2K Bug fears that largely spoiled the turn of the Millenium in the US, and the way that France had taken the Millenium to be an excuse for a big party. For example, the breakfast room in our hotel was decked out with Millenium-themed party placemats and napkins, and best of all, each evening at sunset, the Eiffel Tower began to sparkle and shimmer with thousands of tiny white lights, specially for the occasion.
So laissez les bons temps rouler, and vive la France--we're off to join the global party!
Thursday, August 26, 2004
I told a friend earlier this week that my life in the past few months--since I last wrote in this blog--has consisted of two states: (a) about 90% of the time, sitting in front of a computer, madly writing or analyzing data, with some deadline near at hand, and (b) about 10% of the time, wandering about overseas, often with a nice drink in my hand.
During the past 2 years, I've been working on three concurrent experiments, and all have been producing interesting results. So this has been the year to report those results: first at a conference in Baltimore in May, then in Sweden in June. Soon I travel again: to Brighton, England, and then to Minneapolis for the final conference of the season. I've also had the opportunity to travel to Kyrgyzstan to help with project fieldwork--what an amazing country it is, and how destroyed are my fearful stereotypes of Central Asia! And I participated in a wonderful workshop at the University of Twente in Enschede, the Netherlands.
As one travels in this electronically-linked world, these days, one leaves little cyberfootprints behind. Below is a link to a photo on the website of the Sweden conference (I'm the one in blue, expostulating to a Norwegian researcher)...
During the past 2 years, I've been working on three concurrent experiments, and all have been producing interesting results. So this has been the year to report those results: first at a conference in Baltimore in May, then in Sweden in June. Soon I travel again: to Brighton, England, and then to Minneapolis for the final conference of the season. I've also had the opportunity to travel to Kyrgyzstan to help with project fieldwork--what an amazing country it is, and how destroyed are my fearful stereotypes of Central Asia! And I participated in a wonderful workshop at the University of Twente in Enschede, the Netherlands.
As one travels in this electronically-linked world, these days, one leaves little cyberfootprints behind. Below is a link to a photo on the website of the Sweden conference (I'm the one in blue, expostulating to a Norwegian researcher)...
Saturday, January 24, 2004
In my department, it's the season for preparing and submitting papers to conference organizers. If those papers are accepted, we'll present them at conferences later this year. I'm working collaboratively on two paper drafts this weekend, and last weekend, I worked with other authors on two paper proposals.
The drill is as follows: one member of a research group creates an initial draft, then emails it out for review and editing by other members. Someone else takes a crack at the draft, using Microsoft Word's Track Changes feature (which allows everyone to see just which changes were made and who made them). Meanwhile, someone else might go off on a literature review to find better support for some argument in the draft. The emails and drafts go back and forth, following us back and forth to home and office (since most of us work in both places at different times). After a few rounds of such editing, researching, and review, everyone's finally happy, and the paper or proposal is submitted to the conference organizers.
I love the process of writing collaboratively with others who are good at it, as my colleagues are. The document that finally emerges is better than any one of us could have produced alone. Not only is each weak point in each author's arguments and syntax identified; someone else offers up a better alternative. We all learn something in the process and the draft is strengthened.
Aristotle would be pleased. His view was that a group of people who put their heads together will arrive at thoughts that are wiser than even the wisest person could achieve alone. Here's how he put it in Book 3 of "Politics": “For it is possible that the many, though not individually good men, yet when they come together may be better, not individually but collectively, than those who are so, just as public dinners to which many contribute are better than those supplied at one man's cost; for where there are many, each individual, it may be argued, has some portion of virtue and wisdom… “
The drill is as follows: one member of a research group creates an initial draft, then emails it out for review and editing by other members. Someone else takes a crack at the draft, using Microsoft Word's Track Changes feature (which allows everyone to see just which changes were made and who made them). Meanwhile, someone else might go off on a literature review to find better support for some argument in the draft. The emails and drafts go back and forth, following us back and forth to home and office (since most of us work in both places at different times). After a few rounds of such editing, researching, and review, everyone's finally happy, and the paper or proposal is submitted to the conference organizers.
I love the process of writing collaboratively with others who are good at it, as my colleagues are. The document that finally emerges is better than any one of us could have produced alone. Not only is each weak point in each author's arguments and syntax identified; someone else offers up a better alternative. We all learn something in the process and the draft is strengthened.
Aristotle would be pleased. His view was that a group of people who put their heads together will arrive at thoughts that are wiser than even the wisest person could achieve alone. Here's how he put it in Book 3 of "Politics": “For it is possible that the many, though not individually good men, yet when they come together may be better, not individually but collectively, than those who are so, just as public dinners to which many contribute are better than those supplied at one man's cost; for where there are many, each individual, it may be argued, has some portion of virtue and wisdom… “
Friday, January 16, 2004
Globally, the most important issue right now may be the recent decision by the Iraqi Governing Council to base Iraqi family law on Islamic Shari'a law, rather than the previous secular family laws. Riverbend described the decision and its expected outcomes in her January 15 post. She noted that the issue has received strikingly little attention in the media, and I've noticed the same thing (what a contrast to the extensive coverage of the few women who dared to remove their burkas in Afghanistan!). I'll send an email out later today to alert friends to this issue--it needs more attention.
In my own individual mind, another issue demands attention: a pile of upcoming course assignments and conference paper drafts need to be completed. Most interesting is a paper I need to write for a class in "Public Opinion and Communication." In this paper, I need to initially define a topic for my final paper.
During the past few years, my particular interest area has been usability engineering--designing things, especially computer interfaces and websites, to be easy for people to figure out and to use. Over the past year or so, in response to coursework I've completed, that interest area has broadened to include cross-cultural issues in usability. E.g., if an interface is easy for me as a Westerner to use, will it also be easy for an African or an Asian, or do they face difficulties (e.g., unfamiliar design metaphors) that I don't? Are there ways to design interfaces to work well for global audiences, or is localization--tailoring versions of the same interface to different cultural settings--the only solution, if achieving usable design is important to its designers?
Lately, that interest area has expanded again, mainly because of the communication patterns I observe online, especially in the blogosphere. I'm beginning to wonder how people's images of each other change when they are able to communicate face to face. For one thing, I'm of course thinking of the remarkable experience that millions of other Americans and I had last year, reading Salam Pax's blog posts from Baghdad as our government prepared and conducted an invasion of his country. The experience makes me wonder: If someone had started out with an image of Iraqis as the "enemy," how might reading Salam's blog have changed that perception? Would it have? For another thing, I've been astounded by the ferocity of comments I see in many blogs, especially in response to blog authors' comments about controversial issues such as America's war on Iraq. When interchange between people on opposite sides of an issue is vitriolic in the ways typically seen online, how are readers affected? In particular, how do their images of the commentor's cultural group change (or do they)? Do preexisting feelings of hostility worsen?
The topic I'm thinking of researching for my class remains squishy and nebulous in my mind right now, but at this point, I frame it like this: As an Internet user encounters online information--especially first-person material like blogs--about members of another cultural group, how do those encounters affect her image of that cultural group? In particular, if she previously held an "enemy image" of that cultural group, how is that image affected?
It's these questions that I'll likely address in my paper, but I'm also interested in possible design implications of what I might find. Can (does?) design influence communication in ways that affect communicators' images of each other? I have a meeting scheduled with my professor later this morning, to discuss my paper proposal and possibly clarify some of the issues that are currently all muddled together in my mind. Let's see where this project goes...
In my own individual mind, another issue demands attention: a pile of upcoming course assignments and conference paper drafts need to be completed. Most interesting is a paper I need to write for a class in "Public Opinion and Communication." In this paper, I need to initially define a topic for my final paper.
During the past few years, my particular interest area has been usability engineering--designing things, especially computer interfaces and websites, to be easy for people to figure out and to use. Over the past year or so, in response to coursework I've completed, that interest area has broadened to include cross-cultural issues in usability. E.g., if an interface is easy for me as a Westerner to use, will it also be easy for an African or an Asian, or do they face difficulties (e.g., unfamiliar design metaphors) that I don't? Are there ways to design interfaces to work well for global audiences, or is localization--tailoring versions of the same interface to different cultural settings--the only solution, if achieving usable design is important to its designers?
Lately, that interest area has expanded again, mainly because of the communication patterns I observe online, especially in the blogosphere. I'm beginning to wonder how people's images of each other change when they are able to communicate face to face. For one thing, I'm of course thinking of the remarkable experience that millions of other Americans and I had last year, reading Salam Pax's blog posts from Baghdad as our government prepared and conducted an invasion of his country. The experience makes me wonder: If someone had started out with an image of Iraqis as the "enemy," how might reading Salam's blog have changed that perception? Would it have? For another thing, I've been astounded by the ferocity of comments I see in many blogs, especially in response to blog authors' comments about controversial issues such as America's war on Iraq. When interchange between people on opposite sides of an issue is vitriolic in the ways typically seen online, how are readers affected? In particular, how do their images of the commentor's cultural group change (or do they)? Do preexisting feelings of hostility worsen?
The topic I'm thinking of researching for my class remains squishy and nebulous in my mind right now, but at this point, I frame it like this: As an Internet user encounters online information--especially first-person material like blogs--about members of another cultural group, how do those encounters affect her image of that cultural group? In particular, if she previously held an "enemy image" of that cultural group, how is that image affected?
It's these questions that I'll likely address in my paper, but I'm also interested in possible design implications of what I might find. Can (does?) design influence communication in ways that affect communicators' images of each other? I have a meeting scheduled with my professor later this morning, to discuss my paper proposal and possibly clarify some of the issues that are currently all muddled together in my mind. Let's see where this project goes...
Monday, January 12, 2004
Two particular inspirations led me--a confirmed blogosphere lurker--to begin this blog late last month. First, I was inspired by Rebecca Blood's essay, Weblogs, A History and Perspective. In her essay, Blood describes how, by writing in her blog, she "discovered her own interests," learning that they were different from the interests she'd thought were most important to her. She asserts that bloggers can become more confident, adventurous writers and, over time, can increase their trust in their own perspectives. What appealing possibilities! Who could resist?
Second, my near-daily forays into the blogosphere have reminded me of nothing more than a description in Rudyard Kipling's "Kim" of India's Great Trunk Road. The Road is a long-distance route traveled, in Kipling's time, by as wide a diversity of humanity as you could find anywhere, from royalty to peasants--everyone interacting and traveling in each other's company in the same general direction. When I first read Kim, it was easy to imagine entering into the great human river--how much fun it would be to set out towards the horizon along that road. Joining the blogging community doesn't seem so completely different, in principle...
And why did I call this blog "Beginner's Mind"? First, because that Zen idea of the beginner, who maintains an openness to other perspectives and experiences, is one I'm trying to cultivate in myself. Second, because in midlife and mid-career, I have deliberately become a beginner. During the last year and a half, I have left a stable and secure career to return to graduate school, sold a house and nearly all my possessions, and ended my membership in a liberal Protestant congregation in order to explore other spiritual paths, especially the contemplative traditions of the East. Let's see how it all turns out.
Second, my near-daily forays into the blogosphere have reminded me of nothing more than a description in Rudyard Kipling's "Kim" of India's Great Trunk Road. The Road is a long-distance route traveled, in Kipling's time, by as wide a diversity of humanity as you could find anywhere, from royalty to peasants--everyone interacting and traveling in each other's company in the same general direction. When I first read Kim, it was easy to imagine entering into the great human river--how much fun it would be to set out towards the horizon along that road. Joining the blogging community doesn't seem so completely different, in principle...
And why did I call this blog "Beginner's Mind"? First, because that Zen idea of the beginner, who maintains an openness to other perspectives and experiences, is one I'm trying to cultivate in myself. Second, because in midlife and mid-career, I have deliberately become a beginner. During the last year and a half, I have left a stable and secure career to return to graduate school, sold a house and nearly all my possessions, and ended my membership in a liberal Protestant congregation in order to explore other spiritual paths, especially the contemplative traditions of the East. Let's see how it all turns out.
Sunday, January 11, 2004
During discussions of current U.S. military efforts in Iraq, there's a fair amount of "we"ing going on, enough so that a visitor from another planet would naturally conclude that the peace in that country, such as it is, is being kept mainly by middle-aged, male media commentators rather than the professional military.
One of the newest actual members of America's fighting forces, my nephew K, arrived home from the Navy's recruit training center on Wednesday. He was just a few days late to celebrate his 19th birthday (he's now only 2 years too young to drink legally in our state). He's enjoying two weeks of leave before he reports to the warship to which he's been assigned. He was met by his tired father at the airport very late at night, after a series of flight delays caused by a snowstorm. The next morning, K slept in, even though his body clock must still have been set to an earlier time zone. When he finally arose on his first post-boot camp morning at home, he reverted instantly to his normal routines, according to his mother, J. First, he shuffled out to the kitchen for a bowl of cereal. A little later, he was observed in his pajamas, eating his cereal and watching the History Channel--a standard pre-boot camp morning routine.
The one break from pre-existing habits is that--because the contents of his sea bag are strewn across his own bed--he is currently bunking with his younger brother, O. During a field trip to Yellowstone last year, O learned about wolves and grizzlies and was introduced to the concept of the alpha male. He decided that he would like to be one, at least in his own bedroom. So he has made K take the top bunk. Part of his reasoning, he explained to J, is that he's helping K adapt in advance to shipboard life. K is an indulgent and kindly big brother, so he is allowing himself to be helped without fussing or grumbling, according to J.
It seems absolutely astounding to me that K is now in the military. It was only the other day that I was giving him piggy-back rides, showing him how to cut out paper snowflakes, and, during his dinosaur phase, convincing him that he'd just missed seeing a stegasaurus in the woods behind his grandparents' barn. His eyes would grow wide, and he'd rush to the window, but suspicion would begin to set in: "Aunt Mary, you're telling a whopper!" he would eventually exclaim.
Now it's I who feels very much as though I'm being told some sort of whopper. How can it be that this boy is now in the military?
One of the newest actual members of America's fighting forces, my nephew K, arrived home from the Navy's recruit training center on Wednesday. He was just a few days late to celebrate his 19th birthday (he's now only 2 years too young to drink legally in our state). He's enjoying two weeks of leave before he reports to the warship to which he's been assigned. He was met by his tired father at the airport very late at night, after a series of flight delays caused by a snowstorm. The next morning, K slept in, even though his body clock must still have been set to an earlier time zone. When he finally arose on his first post-boot camp morning at home, he reverted instantly to his normal routines, according to his mother, J. First, he shuffled out to the kitchen for a bowl of cereal. A little later, he was observed in his pajamas, eating his cereal and watching the History Channel--a standard pre-boot camp morning routine.
The one break from pre-existing habits is that--because the contents of his sea bag are strewn across his own bed--he is currently bunking with his younger brother, O. During a field trip to Yellowstone last year, O learned about wolves and grizzlies and was introduced to the concept of the alpha male. He decided that he would like to be one, at least in his own bedroom. So he has made K take the top bunk. Part of his reasoning, he explained to J, is that he's helping K adapt in advance to shipboard life. K is an indulgent and kindly big brother, so he is allowing himself to be helped without fussing or grumbling, according to J.
It seems absolutely astounding to me that K is now in the military. It was only the other day that I was giving him piggy-back rides, showing him how to cut out paper snowflakes, and, during his dinosaur phase, convincing him that he'd just missed seeing a stegasaurus in the woods behind his grandparents' barn. His eyes would grow wide, and he'd rush to the window, but suspicion would begin to set in: "Aunt Mary, you're telling a whopper!" he would eventually exclaim.
Now it's I who feels very much as though I'm being told some sort of whopper. How can it be that this boy is now in the military?
Wednesday, January 07, 2004
In at least some respects, we Americans need to get over ourselves. This morning, listening to NPR, I hear three related stories:
Bechtel has been awarded yet another contract to rebuild Iraq. What has been remarkably absent from the news, all along, is any indication that rebuilding contracts are being offered or given to Iraqi firms. Why are no reporters asking about this? Does it seem so unnatural to us that people other than Americans could be capable of rebuilding their own country? Iraq is an ancient center of learning, science, and technology (Herodotus colorfully describes the remarkable feats of the engineering queens, Semiramis and Nitocris, of ancient Babylon). And Iraqi bloggers are educating us that modern Iraq remains full of skilled professionals and technicians (see especially Riverbend's August 28, 2003 post). Surely they understand their country's needs and preferences much better than we do. What an insult to leave them out of the process, if that's what we're doing! We may be missing an important opportunity to make friends in Iraq.
International travelers report that they are offended, as I would be, by the new US program to fingerprint and photograph them on arrival in this country. Many express hopes that their governments will implement programs to fingerprint Americans who travel to their countries. A Mexican woman reports that she has chosen to pay extra to travel to Paris, rather than to stop over in the US: "Let them stay in their gold cage," she exclaims, "the rest of us will travel freely." I have been hospitably welcomed in many countries, and I'm saddened that people coming to my country will not be treated as well. I also suspect that this program is an overreaction to potential risks. We would be safer in the long run by cultivating our alliances with countries willing to support us, and by taking greater care to avoid measures that will be seen as demeaning to their citizens. We will make ourselves much less safe if we garner a reputation as a country that continually overreacts, cries wolf, and insists on going it alone.
Yet again in the news is yet another design decision about the 9/11 memorial in NYC. I've come to feel impatient whenever I hear or see yet another news item about this memorial. Everyone who has suffered a significant personal loss knows that eventually, it's necessary and healthy to let go. Our focus on this project, viewed against the many times we've ignored greater tragedies elsewhere, must be seen by others as yet more evidence that we Americans view American lives as more important than our own.
As a country, we sometimes look too much inward and not enough outward.
Bechtel has been awarded yet another contract to rebuild Iraq. What has been remarkably absent from the news, all along, is any indication that rebuilding contracts are being offered or given to Iraqi firms. Why are no reporters asking about this? Does it seem so unnatural to us that people other than Americans could be capable of rebuilding their own country? Iraq is an ancient center of learning, science, and technology (Herodotus colorfully describes the remarkable feats of the engineering queens, Semiramis and Nitocris, of ancient Babylon). And Iraqi bloggers are educating us that modern Iraq remains full of skilled professionals and technicians (see especially Riverbend's August 28, 2003 post). Surely they understand their country's needs and preferences much better than we do. What an insult to leave them out of the process, if that's what we're doing! We may be missing an important opportunity to make friends in Iraq.
International travelers report that they are offended, as I would be, by the new US program to fingerprint and photograph them on arrival in this country. Many express hopes that their governments will implement programs to fingerprint Americans who travel to their countries. A Mexican woman reports that she has chosen to pay extra to travel to Paris, rather than to stop over in the US: "Let them stay in their gold cage," she exclaims, "the rest of us will travel freely." I have been hospitably welcomed in many countries, and I'm saddened that people coming to my country will not be treated as well. I also suspect that this program is an overreaction to potential risks. We would be safer in the long run by cultivating our alliances with countries willing to support us, and by taking greater care to avoid measures that will be seen as demeaning to their citizens. We will make ourselves much less safe if we garner a reputation as a country that continually overreacts, cries wolf, and insists on going it alone.
Yet again in the news is yet another design decision about the 9/11 memorial in NYC. I've come to feel impatient whenever I hear or see yet another news item about this memorial. Everyone who has suffered a significant personal loss knows that eventually, it's necessary and healthy to let go. Our focus on this project, viewed against the many times we've ignored greater tragedies elsewhere, must be seen by others as yet more evidence that we Americans view American lives as more important than our own.
As a country, we sometimes look too much inward and not enough outward.
Tuesday, January 06, 2004
A winter storm arrived in Seattle early this morning, and it's expected to deposit more snow than we've seen for many years. When I awoke at 6 am, I saw only a light dusting, but by 7 am, about an inch had accumulated and the snow had begun to fall faster. I listened hopefully to the radio to find out whether the University would be closed today, but it has stalwartly insisted on remaining open. So I dressed in my warmest winter gear, wrapped my laptop carefully in a plastic bookbag, and tromped down to the bus stop.
By the time the bus dropped me at the bottom of the hill below campus, there were about three inches of snow on the ground, with more still falling fast, and the line of students working their way up the steep hill to campus reminded me of old photos of the Klondike gold rush.
Because I grew up in Alaska, today's snowy commute reminded me of my experiences making my way first to school in Anchorage and later to college in Fairbanks. My brothers and I used to walk to elementary school together, making our way through the neighborhood and along a trail up over a wooded ridge, then down the other side and through another neighborhood to our school. Mom and Dad had trained us in what to do if we encountered a moose--above all, avoid getting too close--so we kept a sharp eye out.
Later, I took a bus to high school from our new house up on the wooded foothill above Anchorage. I had to walk a half mile or so to the bus stop, still watching for moose. By then, I'd adopted the standard Anchorage teenager's dress code. On the coldest mornings, Mom would entreat me to dress more warmly: she hoped that I'd at least wear tights under my miniskirt ("You could take them off at school and leave them in your locker, dear..."). That idea was utterly horrifying to me, so, each day, I crunched along the snowy trail to the bus stop in my own choice of dress: usually street shoes, nylon stockings, and a miniskirt, topped by a down parka. At the bus stop, I waited alone in the early morning darkness, listening to the squeaky tread of moose grazing in the willow thicket behind me.
At the University of Alaska in Fairbanks, in Alaska's cold interior, far from the moderating influence of Cook Inlet, I encountered temperatures as low as -60 and -70 degrees F. Fortunately, the college student's dress code didn't include miniskirts: both women and men wore jeans, wool shirts or sweaters, and leather, rubber-bottomed boots. We could be told apart because men wore beards.
At UAF, I lived in a dorm on a hill above the main campus, and walked or skied to my classes and labs. As a biology student, I usually attended labs in a cluster of big institute buildings located about a mile from the main campus, because that's where the nearest sizable patch of permafrost-free ground exists. In midwinter, I arrived to classes and labs about 10 minutes early on winter days to leave myself enough time to lean my skiis on the back wall and to take off the three or four layers of winter clothing I'd needed to avoid frostbite. Eventually, spring would come, and the sun on the trunks of the alders along my route would strengthen enough to start the sap running again. The smell of that sap, after months of winter, was enough to make a person drunk...
While my Alaskan experiences may sound rugged (unless you're from Montana or Siberia), life is more rugged elsewhere. Inside the student union, I overheard a conversation between a new student from the Phillipines and one of her professors. She had called home the previous night to tell her family that a storm was on its way. She explained to the professor that to the people of the Phillipines, a storm is a fearsome event: elemental, powerful, and destructive. She had expected something along the same lines, and now was feeling greatly relieved to see nothing more frightening than a peaceful snowfall.
By the time the bus dropped me at the bottom of the hill below campus, there were about three inches of snow on the ground, with more still falling fast, and the line of students working their way up the steep hill to campus reminded me of old photos of the Klondike gold rush.
Because I grew up in Alaska, today's snowy commute reminded me of my experiences making my way first to school in Anchorage and later to college in Fairbanks. My brothers and I used to walk to elementary school together, making our way through the neighborhood and along a trail up over a wooded ridge, then down the other side and through another neighborhood to our school. Mom and Dad had trained us in what to do if we encountered a moose--above all, avoid getting too close--so we kept a sharp eye out.
Later, I took a bus to high school from our new house up on the wooded foothill above Anchorage. I had to walk a half mile or so to the bus stop, still watching for moose. By then, I'd adopted the standard Anchorage teenager's dress code. On the coldest mornings, Mom would entreat me to dress more warmly: she hoped that I'd at least wear tights under my miniskirt ("You could take them off at school and leave them in your locker, dear..."). That idea was utterly horrifying to me, so, each day, I crunched along the snowy trail to the bus stop in my own choice of dress: usually street shoes, nylon stockings, and a miniskirt, topped by a down parka. At the bus stop, I waited alone in the early morning darkness, listening to the squeaky tread of moose grazing in the willow thicket behind me.
At the University of Alaska in Fairbanks, in Alaska's cold interior, far from the moderating influence of Cook Inlet, I encountered temperatures as low as -60 and -70 degrees F. Fortunately, the college student's dress code didn't include miniskirts: both women and men wore jeans, wool shirts or sweaters, and leather, rubber-bottomed boots. We could be told apart because men wore beards.
At UAF, I lived in a dorm on a hill above the main campus, and walked or skied to my classes and labs. As a biology student, I usually attended labs in a cluster of big institute buildings located about a mile from the main campus, because that's where the nearest sizable patch of permafrost-free ground exists. In midwinter, I arrived to classes and labs about 10 minutes early on winter days to leave myself enough time to lean my skiis on the back wall and to take off the three or four layers of winter clothing I'd needed to avoid frostbite. Eventually, spring would come, and the sun on the trunks of the alders along my route would strengthen enough to start the sap running again. The smell of that sap, after months of winter, was enough to make a person drunk...
While my Alaskan experiences may sound rugged (unless you're from Montana or Siberia), life is more rugged elsewhere. Inside the student union, I overheard a conversation between a new student from the Phillipines and one of her professors. She had called home the previous night to tell her family that a storm was on its way. She explained to the professor that to the people of the Phillipines, a storm is a fearsome event: elemental, powerful, and destructive. She had expected something along the same lines, and now was feeling greatly relieved to see nothing more frightening than a peaceful snowfall.
Thursday, January 01, 2004
I've seen more movies this week than I do in most months, and am just now back from seeing "The Return of the King."
So many main elements of the LOTR story are reminiscent of Western cultural icons that I found myself picking them out as though playing a sort of matching game. Sauron and Mordor look a lot like Satan and Hell, for example. And the uneasy alliance between Gondor and Rohan, pluckily preparing to repel the onslaught of Sauron's vast forces, remind us of Herodotus' description of Athens and Sparta facing the Persian advance.
Another familiar element in the third movie of the series was the series of mountaintop beacon fires alerting Rohan of Gondor's peril. If you've read Aeschylus' Oresteia, then you know that those fires were Queen Clytemnestra's idea. She arranged to have them set to bring the news of the end of the Trojan War back to Mycenae. And she was delighted when those beacons functioned flawlessly:
"From Troy
to the bare rock of Lemnos, Hermes' Spur,
and the Escort winged the great light west
to the Saving Father's face, Mount Athos hurled it
third in the chain and leaping Ocean's back
the blaze went dancing on to ecstasy--pitch-pine
streaming gold like a new-born sun--and brought
the word in flame to Mount Makistos' brow.
No time to waste, straining, fighting sleep,
that lookout heaved a torch glowing over
the murderous straits of Euripos to reach
Messapion's watchmen craning for the signal.
Fire for word of fire! tense with the heather
withered gray, they stack it, set it ablaze--
the hot force of the beacon never flags,
it springs the Plain of Asopos, rears
like a harvest moon to hit Kithairon's crest
and drives new men to drive the fire on...
and the light inflames the marsh, the Gorgon's Eye,
it strikes the peak where the wild goats range--
my laws, my fire whips that camp!
They spare nothing, eager to build its heat,
and a huge beard of flame overcomes the headland
beetling down on the Saronic Gulf, and flaring south
it brings the dawn to the Black Widow's face..."
(Robert Fagles' translation)
In Aeschylus' play, those beacons symbolize the doom bearing down on the unhappy House of Atreus: Clytemnestra will soon slay her husband Agamemnon, in retribution for his sacrifice of their daughter, Ipigenia. She will then be slain by their son Orestes. In LOTR, in contrast, the beacon fires represent Gondor's only hope for survival.
So many main elements of the LOTR story are reminiscent of Western cultural icons that I found myself picking them out as though playing a sort of matching game. Sauron and Mordor look a lot like Satan and Hell, for example. And the uneasy alliance between Gondor and Rohan, pluckily preparing to repel the onslaught of Sauron's vast forces, remind us of Herodotus' description of Athens and Sparta facing the Persian advance.
Another familiar element in the third movie of the series was the series of mountaintop beacon fires alerting Rohan of Gondor's peril. If you've read Aeschylus' Oresteia, then you know that those fires were Queen Clytemnestra's idea. She arranged to have them set to bring the news of the end of the Trojan War back to Mycenae. And she was delighted when those beacons functioned flawlessly:
"From Troy
to the bare rock of Lemnos, Hermes' Spur,
and the Escort winged the great light west
to the Saving Father's face, Mount Athos hurled it
third in the chain and leaping Ocean's back
the blaze went dancing on to ecstasy--pitch-pine
streaming gold like a new-born sun--and brought
the word in flame to Mount Makistos' brow.
No time to waste, straining, fighting sleep,
that lookout heaved a torch glowing over
the murderous straits of Euripos to reach
Messapion's watchmen craning for the signal.
Fire for word of fire! tense with the heather
withered gray, they stack it, set it ablaze--
the hot force of the beacon never flags,
it springs the Plain of Asopos, rears
like a harvest moon to hit Kithairon's crest
and drives new men to drive the fire on...
and the light inflames the marsh, the Gorgon's Eye,
it strikes the peak where the wild goats range--
my laws, my fire whips that camp!
They spare nothing, eager to build its heat,
and a huge beard of flame overcomes the headland
beetling down on the Saronic Gulf, and flaring south
it brings the dawn to the Black Widow's face..."
(Robert Fagles' translation)
In Aeschylus' play, those beacons symbolize the doom bearing down on the unhappy House of Atreus: Clytemnestra will soon slay her husband Agamemnon, in retribution for his sacrifice of their daughter, Ipigenia. She will then be slain by their son Orestes. In LOTR, in contrast, the beacon fires represent Gondor's only hope for survival.
Tuesday, December 30, 2003
Here in Seattle, we're on multiple alerts: waiting for both snow and terrorists tonight. Let's see which arrives first, or if either arrive, or neither.
My nephew K, a new Navy recruit, is an astute student of history. When he went on a road trip with friends last summer, he brought along a copy of Herodotus that I'd given him for his birthday. My guess is that he's already mused about the similarities and differences between ancient and modern warfare.
Some things stay the same. Like an Athenian youth off to confront the Persian forces, K leaves behind a young woman who would rather he stayed--in his case, his girlfriend, A. She is stoutly anti-war, and although they'd been together for a couple of years, I thought his enlistment might put a swift end to their relationship. But it hasn't done so, and she traveled halfway across the country to attend his boot camp graduation ceremony earlier this month. I'm crossing my fingers that she'll stick with her young man, because she's a true "catch": beautiful, talented, and socially graceful well beyond her 18 years.
And some things change. K returns for a few days of leave next week, just missing Christmas and his birthday, which falls on New Year's Day. This afternoon, his mother J and I contemplated what he might want for presents. We know that anything we give him must be small and portable. After some discussion, we arrived at two possibilities: either a gift card for the local outdoor gear store or DVDs for his newly-purchased portable DVD player. I had thought of a phone card, but he's already gotten himself a cell phone.
Of course, the Athenians had no Gore-tex, couldn't call home, and couldn't watch the latest LOTR while rowing their triremes...though they won their war, against all the odds.
My nephew K, a new Navy recruit, is an astute student of history. When he went on a road trip with friends last summer, he brought along a copy of Herodotus that I'd given him for his birthday. My guess is that he's already mused about the similarities and differences between ancient and modern warfare.
Some things stay the same. Like an Athenian youth off to confront the Persian forces, K leaves behind a young woman who would rather he stayed--in his case, his girlfriend, A. She is stoutly anti-war, and although they'd been together for a couple of years, I thought his enlistment might put a swift end to their relationship. But it hasn't done so, and she traveled halfway across the country to attend his boot camp graduation ceremony earlier this month. I'm crossing my fingers that she'll stick with her young man, because she's a true "catch": beautiful, talented, and socially graceful well beyond her 18 years.
And some things change. K returns for a few days of leave next week, just missing Christmas and his birthday, which falls on New Year's Day. This afternoon, his mother J and I contemplated what he might want for presents. We know that anything we give him must be small and portable. After some discussion, we arrived at two possibilities: either a gift card for the local outdoor gear store or DVDs for his newly-purchased portable DVD player. I had thought of a phone card, but he's already gotten himself a cell phone.
Of course, the Athenians had no Gore-tex, couldn't call home, and couldn't watch the latest LOTR while rowing their triremes...though they won their war, against all the odds.
Tuesday, December 23, 2003
During Christmastime 1980, my brother R, his wife J, some friends, and I traveled down Baja California and back. We traveled rough and cheap in a tiny car we rented in Tijuana. Each evening, having neither the money nor the inclination for hotels, we took our sleeping bags and dispersed out into the desert for the night. One evening, a pair of young and curious coyotes cautiously nuzzled my face; another night, pigs from a nearby farm surrounded me. Each morning, we woke, cooked up coffee and breakfast, and continued our rambles. We hiked through amazing Dr. Seuss forests and up in the high country, watched for birds, whales, and dolphins along the beaches, and stocked up on supplies in the little towns along our route. We spent Christmas Day body-surfing near Cabo San Lucas.
At some point--I think it may have been during a night spent camping and drinking rum on the sandy beach below a volcano--we developed a plan to pool our money and buy a live-aboard sailboat. We would sail around the world, choosing an itinerary that best pleased us, and staying however long we liked when we happened upon a congenial port or island. We would keep our expenses down by fishing, and perhaps we would work from time to time--say, while waiting out hurricane seasons. It seemed a solid plan--we even gave careful thought to the boat's dimensions and layout.
We'd long ago forgotten that plan. But tonight, I stopped by R and J's house to drop off a present for my nephew O, arriving in time to join them in watching a rented DVD of "Pirates of the Caribbean." We watched salt spray fly, swells roll, palm fronds rustle in the wind, and hulls slice through the water. By the end of the movie, I had remembered our old plan.
Hey, I said--remember when we were going to buy that sailboat? R and J did remember. Well, it wouldn't be too late to do that, I pointed out. O agreed to be cabin boy. It seemed a solid and agreeable plan to him. I remembered that our cousin C had sailed with her father to Cuba and back, not so long ago.
Of course, the difference between then and now is that then, we were more than half convinced that we would really buy that boat...
At some point--I think it may have been during a night spent camping and drinking rum on the sandy beach below a volcano--we developed a plan to pool our money and buy a live-aboard sailboat. We would sail around the world, choosing an itinerary that best pleased us, and staying however long we liked when we happened upon a congenial port or island. We would keep our expenses down by fishing, and perhaps we would work from time to time--say, while waiting out hurricane seasons. It seemed a solid plan--we even gave careful thought to the boat's dimensions and layout.
We'd long ago forgotten that plan. But tonight, I stopped by R and J's house to drop off a present for my nephew O, arriving in time to join them in watching a rented DVD of "Pirates of the Caribbean." We watched salt spray fly, swells roll, palm fronds rustle in the wind, and hulls slice through the water. By the end of the movie, I had remembered our old plan.
Hey, I said--remember when we were going to buy that sailboat? R and J did remember. Well, it wouldn't be too late to do that, I pointed out. O agreed to be cabin boy. It seemed a solid and agreeable plan to him. I remembered that our cousin C had sailed with her father to Cuba and back, not so long ago.
Of course, the difference between then and now is that then, we were more than half convinced that we would really buy that boat...
Saturday, December 20, 2003
Bring on the cookies...
In the U.S. during the Cold War, we knew--without anyone having to tell us--not to say in public that there could possibly be any positive aspects to Communism. In the current political climate, we now know that we'd darn well better "support the troops," or risk shunning. As someone who spoke out against the invasion of Iraq, I can see that my support for the troops is under question in many quarters.
But the concept itself is troublingly squishy: just what does it mean to support the troops? The natural association between supporting someone and condoning their actions creates difficulties for me. On the philosophical level, I've gotten only this far, so far: I support US military personnel in the same way that I support all fellow beings who are in danger or suffering in some way. I empathize with them and wish for them to be safe and well. I also feel a particular debt of gratitude to U.S. military personnel, who--I'm willing to believe--have chosen to put their lives at risk because they have judged doing so to be a way to protect others or end injustice. While I can wholeheartedly support the troops in this way, I can't agree to condone whatever the US military might do or has done. My Lai comes too immediately to mind.
And then there's the personal level, and the issue of supporting one particular troop, my nephew K. Now I'm coming to see that the "support the troops" concept is difficult not only on a philosophical level but on a logistical level as well.
K recently graduated from Navy boot camp and has just started an intermediate training session. He'll then come home for a brief period of leave, and then will be assigned to a Navy warship. That ship is at its home port now, but the rumor is that it may leave for a different port a few days before K is to join it.
K's mailing address changes with each move, and his mom, J, faithfully updates us with each new address. Yesterday, he reported a new mailing address, good for about the next 2 weeks. I'd already mailed off a Christmas card to his old boot camp address. Although I hope that card will be forwarded by Christmas, we're hearing that mail sent to the boot camp address has been taking a long time to get to K (because of security precautions, I suppose). So I'm only guardedly optimistic.
Meanwhile, K's birthday is January 1, so now it's time to send a birthday card to the current address, hoping that the card will reach K before he moves on again. I'll need to wait to hear what the next address will be before I can send anything else.
And J has alerted us to one more development: K is now authorized to receive care packages (he could receive only cards and letters while in boot camp). He's also reported that he's lost weight. K's grandmother's response: Bring on the chocolate chip cookies! Mom will bake a batch tomorrow to mail off on Monday morning, hoping they'll reach K by his birthday.
I hope the cookies, cards, and K will meet up at the appropriate times and places, but I'm starting to imagine that as K travels about the world, a cloud of letters, cards, and packages will be following along behind him, never quite catching up before he moves off again.
In the U.S. during the Cold War, we knew--without anyone having to tell us--not to say in public that there could possibly be any positive aspects to Communism. In the current political climate, we now know that we'd darn well better "support the troops," or risk shunning. As someone who spoke out against the invasion of Iraq, I can see that my support for the troops is under question in many quarters.
But the concept itself is troublingly squishy: just what does it mean to support the troops? The natural association between supporting someone and condoning their actions creates difficulties for me. On the philosophical level, I've gotten only this far, so far: I support US military personnel in the same way that I support all fellow beings who are in danger or suffering in some way. I empathize with them and wish for them to be safe and well. I also feel a particular debt of gratitude to U.S. military personnel, who--I'm willing to believe--have chosen to put their lives at risk because they have judged doing so to be a way to protect others or end injustice. While I can wholeheartedly support the troops in this way, I can't agree to condone whatever the US military might do or has done. My Lai comes too immediately to mind.
And then there's the personal level, and the issue of supporting one particular troop, my nephew K. Now I'm coming to see that the "support the troops" concept is difficult not only on a philosophical level but on a logistical level as well.
K recently graduated from Navy boot camp and has just started an intermediate training session. He'll then come home for a brief period of leave, and then will be assigned to a Navy warship. That ship is at its home port now, but the rumor is that it may leave for a different port a few days before K is to join it.
K's mailing address changes with each move, and his mom, J, faithfully updates us with each new address. Yesterday, he reported a new mailing address, good for about the next 2 weeks. I'd already mailed off a Christmas card to his old boot camp address. Although I hope that card will be forwarded by Christmas, we're hearing that mail sent to the boot camp address has been taking a long time to get to K (because of security precautions, I suppose). So I'm only guardedly optimistic.
Meanwhile, K's birthday is January 1, so now it's time to send a birthday card to the current address, hoping that the card will reach K before he moves on again. I'll need to wait to hear what the next address will be before I can send anything else.
And J has alerted us to one more development: K is now authorized to receive care packages (he could receive only cards and letters while in boot camp). He's also reported that he's lost weight. K's grandmother's response: Bring on the chocolate chip cookies! Mom will bake a batch tomorrow to mail off on Monday morning, hoping they'll reach K by his birthday.
I hope the cookies, cards, and K will meet up at the appropriate times and places, but I'm starting to imagine that as K travels about the world, a cloud of letters, cards, and packages will be following along behind him, never quite catching up before he moves off again.
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