S'no secret

Here it is a winter Monday morning just a bit more than a week after a decent four inch snowfall blanketed the Miami Valley. We had a pretty cold week and the snow stuck around nicely. But this morning, after a pretty ‘warm’ weekend -- mid 40 degrees or so -- only the deepest piles of snow remain. The rest has melted into memory.

And in that seasonal reality, is today’s blog idea: snowy days when one can stay at home and just watch it come down is a gift that’s hard to beat. True, I never had a winter job that I had to get to, no matter what. I suspect grocery story workers, gas station attendants, and police and fire departments don’t share my joy of snowy days. They have to make it in. It is only the extraordinary snow event -- a blizzard or the 12-incher -- that shuts down the majority of businesses until things get unburied.

I suppose it is the teaching profession that honed my joy of snowy days. Snow predicted? Even if it’s just a dusting, Cindy Lou and I would watch the late night news hoping the prediction was improved to a deeper snowfall. The first thing we’d do when the radio alarm came on at 5:45 am was listen for school announcements. And on those days when we’d hear, ‘Huber Heights City Schools, closed’ we’d give a little hoot and pull up the covers for a bit longer winter’s nap. When we got up later in the morning would be plenty of time to begin the refiguring of lesson plans to see how we would adjust to the loss of one instructional day.

But for me, one of the true joys of snow is the quiet world it creates. The accumulation on the lawn hides the winter brown of the front yard grass. And in the back of the house, where we are mostly bushes and trees, the snow gently settles on limb and branch to change its look in ways we know will be only temporary, but nonetheless beautiful. While it’s falling, a wonderland of change is taking place. The ‘sin’ of autumn’s fallen leaves is covered quickly in a good storm, and in my mind, at least, the natural transformation is a time for contemplation.

And that, I suppose, is this part of the world’s snow secret. On a heavy snow day, the world changes before your eyes in just hours. And it’s more than just visual. Mundane shopping trips are postponed, sometimes even church closes. Busy schedules change. The world slows down. Folks are known to pick up books they got for Christmas they haven’t had time for yet, grab a blanket, and a late morning read on the couch ensues. We don’t burn wood for essential heat in our house, but on snowy days I like to fire one up just for the ambience and the wood smoke smell that lingers in the house.

But especially for me, it’s the walk in the snow that really makes my day. Yes, the driveway will need shoveling, and that can be a backbreaker. But before I tie into snow’s removal, I love to walk out in it. Traffic is minimal, if at all. And the quiet. It’s almost tangible. The soft white stuff soaks up sounds that leaves me in a place I don’t find myself very often: true silence. No TV in the background. No phone ringing. No hum of computer fans. Just quiet.

Well, maybe the laughter of an accompanying grandkid who’s out of school for the day cuts through the snowfall, but that’s part of the snow secret, too. Good stuff. Makes life in these parts pretty special.

Today’s elder idea: Kindness is like snow. It beautifies everything it covers.

anonymous

Western zen

I’m not big on new year’s resolutions. Like so many others, I’ve never been successful at keeping them for longer than a couple of weeks, if I ever even get started with them in the first place. I must admit, though, there is a positive feel to ending a year with the hope of putting some poor habits aside in the attempt of doing life better.

For me this year, there were two resolutions: first, in conjunction with the lovely Cindy Lou, we committed to working out three days a weeks at the rec center. Weight has something to do with this one, though both of us would feel better if we just got a bit more tone in our bodies. So far, pretty good. We’ve missed a few days, but we’re still on schedule. She likes the walking machines, I’d prefer just walking the indoor track. We spend about one hour doing what we do, then get back to our regular business. I must admit, too, that like going to church, our rec center visits have the potential of broadening the ground we share and deepening our relationship. Besides, we’re having some fun together.

My second new year’s resolution was a more personal thing. Many moons ago a counselor suggested I try reading Jon Kabat-Zinn’s zen masterpiece, Wherever You Go, There You Are. Steven offered that some of my angst with living might be alleviated by being more zen and practicing mindfulness. That was Kabat-Zinn’s mantra: practice regular meditation, and in so doing, the power of the universe can be better realized in our own lives.

I tried the meditation road for a while, but I could not stay with it. I liked the quiet sit, but I could never quite figure out where it fit into my day. Morning would be best, of course, but then there is the daily walk I’m supposed to take (that was another morning resolution from long ago), the daily newspaper to read, and the myriad other things that retired folk find on their calendar. Still, I thought taking on a short chapter from Kabat-Zinn’s book every day might get me back into a deeper spiritual track.

I am still hopeful, but when I just now picked up my copy to scan for the graphic included above, it was the first time I touched the book in 2010. A new year’s resolution failure already by January 12? Maybe, but I know Kabat-Zinn is there when I need him. And to be honest, I do feel that I’m pretty mindful in my life. Whatever I’m doing, I do try to be present with it. I haven’t missed any weekly blogs this year yet. That’s good. And when I’m in the kitchen, I love to get into food prep. And I’ve done a little bit of writing. So I think I’m pretty zen in some ways.

Still, my Western life style keeps me buzzing around pretty often and the zen of being still eludes me. And I guess that is the point of my blog today: I am weary of concluding for some time now that by living the natural lifestyle of mid-America, I am somehow missing the deeper truths of life and the universe offered by Eastern zen philosophers.

So instead of feeling guilty for already giving up on Wherever You Go..., I feel a bit more comfortable today just believing that life is as it should be and I’m making way honestly and authentically. I’m no lazy bum and I try to be aware of what’s going on around me, whether that’s nature- or people-based. I guess I want to think that what I’m doing is good enough. Not that I don’t have more to learn. It’s just that feeling like I’m missing the philosophical boat every day -- that isn’t a natural part of my Western thinking -- leaves me with way too familiar feelings of guilt. Rather not go there if I don’t have to.

I think I know that living a mindful life might look different to different people. If the truth be told, I’m pretty happy with mine the way it is.

Still, I’d recommend Wherever You Go, There You Are. Good stuff to fold into living.

Today’s elder idea: To allow ourselves to be truly in touch with where we already are, no matter where that is, we have got to pause in our experience long enough to let the present moment sink in; long enough to actually feel the present moment, to see it in it fullness, to hold it in awareness and thereby come to know and understand it better.

Jon Kabat-Zinn

from Wherever You Go, There You Are

Old friends

Lost a good friend earlier today. Totally unexpected. Age mate. Actually, just one day younger than I am. She’s the one in the picture on the left. Married one of my oldest and dearest friends -- the guy in the middle -- back when we were all just kids.

We didn’t think we were kids then, of course. We were pushing 21, for pete’s sake. We knew we didn’t know everything, but we had confidence we’d cypher out the puzzles, whether social or personal. Her name was Jana. He is Richard, though most call him Dick. Her death is a mystery.

We were all going to turn 60 in March. God willing, the remaining three of us will. Just not Jana. Oh, and the party we were already planning. You see, Dick’s and my birthday are both 23 March. Jana’s was the 24th. (The other gal pictured here is Mary. Her birthday is 6 March.) Ever since our 40th birthday in 1990, we’ve had a party for friends and family every five years.

Dick and I are particularly good buddies because after our high school days -- we’re both Carroll HS 1968 -- we rented a house along with another high school buddy, John. John and I were attending dear old Wright State U, while Dick finished at ITT and took a real job making real money with real benefits in the lumber/millwork business. Oh, the parties we had! Not too many, but cool. Lots of friends. Ping pong, talk, some guitar music and song amid the smoke in the bedroom. Couldn’t tell you what kind of food we had. I’m sure it wasn’t much, but nobody complained. At one party, a friend of mine lamented the absence of his girl who lived in Ravenna, Ohio, up by Kent State. I was between girlfriends, but had a hot prospect in Cleveland. I looked at him, he looked at me, and then he said, ‘I’ll drive.’ I said, ‘I’ll share the gas.’ And away we went to see the women. Such a visit that was.

Since those days on Samuel Street, John went to work for the state (social work) and I took a job teaching in Huber Heights. Dick carried on with lumber -- and was the first of our triumvirate to move on. He and his girlfriend, Jana, were ready to make the commitment. Indeed they did. They ended up with two lovely daughters and -- so far -- a couple of grandboys.

A couple months before that 40th birthday party, I got a phone call from John’s mother-in-law. She spoke haltingly and I couldn’t quite comprehend what she said. Perhaps it is more accurate to say I didn’t want to understand what she said: John had suffered a brain aneurism and was at death’s door. It wasn’t good. He lasted a few days, but never was able to tell anybody anything. Many of the folks from those good old parties gathered one more time to escort John to his final resting place. Still, the 40th birthday party went on. John’s picture, placed on the mantel, was toasted many times that evening.

And now as we plan our 60th birthday party -- Jana had been in on the details -- we’ll have another picture on the mantel. Such a shame.

Still, we know we’re all headed in that direction. As I say every once in a while, ‘Nobody’s getting out of here alive.’ And it’s true. Cindy and I have been to three or four funerals lately of folks about our age. And every time we get home, we talk about our own demise. And we hug and are grateful for one more day.

I feel great loss. Jana was a sweet spirit. Dick hurts. Their girls hurt. Jana won’t get to watch those little boys grow up. That’s one of the things that gets to me most. I so much love to work and play with my own grandkids. She has been deprived of that joy. Same with John. Shoot, John didn’t even live long enough to meet his daughter-in-law.

And I guess that makes me lucky to still be here. Trust me. I know.

Today’s elder idea: Can you imagine us years from today, sharing a park bench quietly? How terribly strange to be 70.

from ‘Old Friends’/ Simon & Garfunkel’s Bookends (1968)

Peace and values

As a dad and granddad, I’ve been interested in how kids grow up for many years now. Surely I wanted my own girls to end up with a meaningful career, a house in a safe neighborhood, a trustworthy car, and enough food in the pantry to insure nobody went hungry. In addition to those concrete things, I wanted my kids and grandkids to grow up and older with a solid sense of community values.

I hoped fairness and honesty would be front and center values for my progeny. On the most part, I’d say they met my expectations. Sometimes I wish I could make an honest comment that would be accepted, perhaps even put into play in raising their own kids. There are times, however, I have come to accept that dad’s ideas are unwelcome. I don’t always like it, but I accept that my girls are now women and mothers of their own families and my thoughts/ideas/suggestions merely come from another generation whose prime time has come and gone.

Still, my heart hurts when I realize one of my most sincere dreams from the 60s -- peace -- does not rank high in either my daughters’ or their children’s hierarchy of values.

Around Grandpa Tom’s house it was made known summers ago that we don’t play with guns here. No ‘shoot ‘em up’ stuff on the Wii, either. Golf, tennis, and bowling are cool, but no shooting countless villains while storming, often, a bastion of goodness. Kids these days get a charge out of being big bad Darth Vader. They seem to forget he stood by as a willing apprentice while planets of (fictional) good people were destroyed in one fell swoop. Being the bad guy and wearing black is cool. I suppose Johnny Cash thought the same thing, too.

I do know that I ‘played guns’ when I was a kid, too. It was cowboys and Indians back then. And, yes, the Indians were the bad guys. Reading Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States and teaching history for over a decade has changed that. I’m not so sure these days just who is the bad guy. Conservatives would probably condemn me for thinking it just might be us more often than not.

Still, I have held throughout my adult life that treating others with peace is one of my richest core values. And not just neighbors, students, or spouses either. Nature’s people deserve the same, too. Sure, I discourage squirrels from cleaning out my peanut feeder, but I have made a daily practice of offering bird seed and water to Nature’s People, even on days with freezing temperatures like this one.

Surely peace is a deep and complicated value that defies simple analysis. I feed birds, but how about my eating chicken and turkey? Isn’t raising critters for butchering a kind of brutality? Shouldn’t all self-professed peaceniks be vegetarians or vegans? Maybe. I tend to think that eating a balanced diet is the way Earth operates. I need not be ashamed of my meat-tearing incisors.

I have watched the 10-something boys use sticks and plastic golf clubs as rifles, firing away at phantom enemies, dropping them in great numbers. They even seem to enjoy being ‘hit’ themselves, tumbling into a heap of temporary death now and then. I suppose I did the same thing. I still give the ban on violence lip service, but I accept the kids are acting out something that is beyond my control.

Still, it hurts to know that peace does not rank a higher place in family values that I tried to instill as a young dad beginning almost forty years ago. I suppose all I can really do is model how it’s done through my own behavior. And trust me, I’ll continue to encourage kids to set out the model train on the basement floor and get creative with blocks instead of getting zoned out on Call of Duty or Halo. There are days it seems like a lost cause, though.

Today’s elder idea: If we are to teach real peace in this world, and if we are to carry on a real war against war, we shall have to begin with the children.

Mahatma Ghandhi

Wild Grace III

Back in the mid-80s when I finished my masters degree at Wright State, I had just embarked on a long and rich relationship with the Audubon society. I was lucky enough to win a scholarship from the Dayton chapter to attend a two-week program at the Audubon Ecology Workshop on Hog Island, Maine. Life has not been the same for me since.

Just prior to my departure for that summer program in Maine, I had completed a graduate level workshop on Emily Dickinson. With the trip to Maine on the docket, I thought how cool it would be to visit Emily’s homestead in Amherst, Massachusetts. From my starting point here in Ohio, central Mass was right on the way.

To be most accurate, it was the stop in Amherst that was the beginning of the big changes. The Dickinson Homestead was closed to visitors on that day, but I was able to find the Dickinson burial ground where Emily and her sister and parents are interred. My shot of Emily’s gravestone taken that day is still one of my favorite pictures in my personal portfolio.

Trust me. I could go on about this story for some time. Just let me say here that Emily and Audubon have grown to inhabit big chunks of me since. I served on Dayton Audubon Society’s board for close to 20 years; worked hard to see Audubon Ohio (the state office for National Audubon) come into fruition; functioned as president of Friends of Hog Island (FOHI) for a short spell; edited the FOHI newsletter for a couple of years; and am now in the process of writing a book on Mabel Loomis Todd, the original editor of Emily Dickinson’s poetry AND former owner of Hog Island. And as many of you know, I am a member of the local writers’ group, Emily’s Boys, who is celebrating the first anniversary of the publication of our first collaboration, Letters to the World.

But the topic of today’s blog is Wild Grace III. Ever since I first set foot on Hog Island in 1981 and recognized the magic of living on an island, I have pondered the possibility of buying a wooded piece of southern Ohio to be my ‘island.’ My ex- and I bought 10 acres of Adams county about the time I finished my masters work. Unfortunately, our marriage didn’t survive -- neither did land ownership. I got the land in the divorce, but I couldn’t keep it due to tight finances.

Now, however, as I enter my 60th year, I am re-energized by the possibility of reacquiring a piece of Ohio I can steward. Cindy and I have looked at a couple of parcels so far, neither to our liking. Too busy and not open enough. But the search continues. And there is the long-range hope of putting a modest cabin on the spread that could serve as a weekend/summer retreat. The thought of moving forward on the purchase of that wild piece of my home state really has me going. Hopefully I’ll be able to report a purchase of land some time in 2010.

Why the name Wild Grace III? I’ll take a crack at explaining that in an upcoming blog. Do you have a hankerin’ to have a patch of something to just be with?

Today’s elder idea: ‘Wild grace has its own place / has its own face prone to fly’

from Michael Martin Murphy’s ‘Swans against the Sun’

photo: Emily Dickinson’s tombstone with the inscription ‘Called Back.’ [Tom Schaefer 1981]

Winter solstice

I was going to offer in today’s entry that, while I love Christmas, I’ve grown to feel more connected to winter solstice in the past twenty years or so. The more I thought about it, though, the more I realized such an idea was really more complicated than I originally thought.

First, let me say, Christmas is great. It is perhaps the best national/international holiday around. I don’t mean to discount Hanukkah, Kwanza, or Ramadan, but as a Christian, I have a lifelong experience with the celebration of the birth of Jesus. And for most Westerners, whether Christian or not, this end-of-year season permeates just about all aspects of culture: music, literature, commerce, mythology, cuisine, even social contracts. No other Western holiday or holy day can compete with that. The three other events mentioned above are also multiple day ‘seasons,’ but again, they aren’t in my cultural experience. I’ll let other folks sing their praises.

Ever since I was a kid, Christmas was special. The Jesus-thing was front and center for our family. When I was little, my father made a small business of building creches he sold to friends and, for a time, even sold through a downtown church supply. We kids helped collect bug-free bark from downed trees to side those little nativity buildings. After the bark was nailed to the plywood walls, we gave it a black ‘wash,’ then a splash of white or silver paint to give the appearance of frost. One of those wonderful little buildings survives and currently resides on the piano upstairs, just opposite the Christmas tree. I look at it as a family heirloom. My sibs feel the same way about theirs.

And then, of course, there is the Christmas giving. I mean, what kid wouldn’t like Christmas? ‘Good’ behavior is rewarded with gifts from Santa. What’s not to like about that? But then comes all the commercial hype that encourages us to buy Norelcos for the guys, something from Kay’s for the gals, and tons of toys for the little folk. Commercials, commercials, commercials. Combining that with the idea of ‘saving’ retail businesses with strong end-of-year sales, tends to leave me, as an adult, with a guilt complex that, if I don’t spend enough, retail job loss will be my fault.

Winter solstice. Now that’s a different idea. A natural idea, in fact. First, Christmas was placed in the Christian calendar because of solstice. I’m not sure exactly how many cultures recognized the shortest day/longest night of the year with ceremonies, but you can bet it was widespread. Christians placed Christmas in this timeframe to compete with ‘pagan’ rituals and give the faithful something special to celebrate. Same thing happened to springtime’s Easter ‘rebirth.’

Christmas has had a long and healthy run for the last two millenia. But winter solstice goes back much farther. And that is the main reason I want to be mindful of it. Long before homo sapiens lived in community, there was seasonal awareness. The changing starting place of the sun on the eastern horizon was connected to warm and cold, hunger and the growing season. Life depended on early people’s awareness of when days began to get longer and an anticipated more plentiful food supply. That’s really important stuff, you know? And it’s not mythology, either. It’s life.

And I guess that’s why I want to feel more connected to solstices and equinoxes these days. As I get older I recognize I am more human than Christian; more product of the earth than product of ancient mythology. Both are significant, but I prefer to think of myself first as an Earthling.

Maybe I ought to start a fire out in the back yard tonight to remind the sun not to forget about us and begin its journey back to our growing season starting tomorrow. Care to bring your drum?

Today’s elder idea: Love is all --

Emily Dickinson

Inscription on Cindy’s and my wedding bands. On this winter solstice we celebrate our 17th anniversary.

photo: The first Windham Hill solstice music sampler (1985).

Frosty the Waffleman

For those of you waiting with bated breath for the outcome of Frosty's 'shooting,' I offer the above proof that all went well. No snowmen were injured in the picture taking.