There's a great phrase in the bible that's translated in the King James as "from everlasting to everlasting." The concept is as if you're standing in the middle of the desert, squinting off to the horizon trying to see where the line is between reality and mirage. The best you can make of reality while squinting into the shimmering heat is the "from" part of the phrase. The "to" part is turning around one hundred and eighty degrees and doing the same thing in the opposite direction.
Much of our life's energy is spent searching out some point on the horizon, just past the distance at which things can be easily seen. The range of possibilities associated with our relentless squinting and straining is infinite. We might be trying to anticipate something fun (e.g. "What am I going to get for Christmas?") or trying to adapt to a changing challenge, a threat or even a potentially horrible circumstance. All these exercises depend on our imagination for their existence.
The distant dancing shadows can be our biggest invitation to worry. It's an invitation we usually grab with both hands and hang on to like grim death. When someone is kind enough to point out that we're wrestling with shadows, we usually respond with a self justification that sounds like, "But they're my shadows." Somehow we imagine that because they're ours they're more real or at least more legitimate than everyone else's.
Of course, we give birth these shadows. We give them life, dress them up and sometimes even build our entire lives around them. Even though we work hard at ignoring, despising or at least managing them. we return to them every chance we get.
Shadow's lack normal perspective. As they grow closer due to the passing of time or our gravitating toward them, they grow in size out of proportion to everything else. They get big fast and as shadows do, they darken everything they touch.
Oddly though, once we pass them they shrink quickly or even vanish completely. In the end, the only purpose they've served is to distort the view that extends between everlasting and everlasting.
All shadows are cast by something; they never have a life of their own. In keeping with the theme of broken perspective, it is the universal characteristic of our invented shadows that they cast darkness out of all reasonable proportion to the object that creates them. Even when the originating object is what we might all agree to as being serious, our creation of the corresponding shadow creeps over everything, obscuring the original subject so much that it can barely be seen at all. This makes it all the harder to engage the issue itself as we're off flailing in the darkness, wrestling with nothing.
To oversimplify some, here's a simple layout of the course all lives follow: Birth, living, death, the thing that's next. Over arching the "birth, living, death" phases is the idea that the world is not perfect. In turn, we're asked during the "living" phase to respond to the present reality of imperfection with our power of choice. We can choose to rail against it, ignore it (still a choice), run away from it or accept it. While all these choices exist within the realm of the possible, accepting reality is the only option that makes sense. In the end, our choices are a necessary causal component of "the thing that's next." This is an area where it's important to be within the generous boundaries of right.
That brings the next question, what is reality? The clearest place to find the answer to this isn't in propositional logic. That's because human logic exists only in the narrative context of human life and society. It's shaded by everyone's respective shadows. My vote for a solid take on reality is the narrative found in the bible. I've written before about the book of Job. The book of Job is the best condensed expression of human state and of man's relationship to God I know of. Here's the short version of what God says there: "To understand reality, you must accept that I am who I say I am. You must accept that you are who I spoke you to be. Physical reality is the product of my creation and your broken choices."
That perspective is the yardstick by which all shadows should be measured. And in fact, shadows of proper proportion may be ignored completely because all we ever cared about was the object anyway.
I'll end this with a writer's confession. I find myself wanting to say more here, to address again the reflexive, "But you don't understand how tragic and scary my situation is." Any such reflex on my part is bound to fail. We must each find our own perspective and with God's help, force our shadows to submit. As we move between our vanishing points, we need, deeply need, to accept who and what God is, who we are and where we live. Everything else is distortion, darkness and shadow.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
How Much More
It's a wonder to me that any of us survive to adulthood. When you consider the entire catalog of accidents, coincidences and sibling conspiracies, it starts to seem like Shakespeare understated the case by quite a bit in Hamlet's "To Be, or Not To Be" speech when he summed it as, "the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to." Really, only a thousand?
The only things I remember from my own childhood had to do with me provoking a cat when I was 3 or so and driving my tricycle into a rose bush. Well, now that I'm writing this, I remember crashing my bike and smashing my mouth on a street curb; my front tooth is still broken off at the bottom...and oh yeah, I had a couple of my baby teeth knocked out...and then there was the time... You know, I think I'll stop now.
I pinned all of our children to the emergency room table at one time or another. Our oldest nearly died on a mountain in Wyoming. He was run over by a log that was being dragged behind a truck . For reasons to do with remoteness and terrain, it took us a couple hours to get him to the nearest doctor. Turned out that in addition to the couple of broken bones we were pretty sure he had, he also had a major laceration. It had severed an artery near the back of his knee. That particular artery did not bleed until the doctor touched it with a pair of forceps. At that point, in the doctor's office something like two and a half hours after the accident, it began pulsing blood. I know that happened because I was there and saw the artery clearly as well as the blood. It is an image that remains very clear in my mind.
Our son begged me to just please not let the doctor give him a shot and stitch him. The doctor offered to have one of his staff pin our son down so that he would not thrash while he was repairing the wound. I declined. I was not going to abandon the little one to his wounds and his fear. I laid across him gently to hold him still, and told him quietly that he would be alright over and over. It was very difficult not to cry at that point but to do so would not have been helpful.
When we finally got back to the cabin that night, my mother-in-law met me with a question. She said, "Would you like ice in it?" She was referring to the quite stiff drink she was going to pour me. This was the moment in our relationship when she liberated herself from all mother-in-law jokes ever after as far as I was concerned.
As traumatic as that day was, it wasn't the only such time. There was another morning that probably served as training for the event above, when our other son managed to pull a chair over to a counter, climb up on the counter, find the children's vitamins (with iron) hidden at the back, open the child proof lid and consume the entire bottle minus 2 pills. We presume he left the two pills there to throw us off track. He probably wasn't aware of all the purply goo surrounding his mouth.
After some quality phone time with poison control, we hurried off to the emergency room. There it was determined that stomach pumping was required. That was the first time I was offered a ticket out of the emergency room. The nurse who was to perform the operation was visibly shaken at the prospect of having to perform the rather traumatic procedure on a 2.5 year old and assumed that I'd be even worse off. I assured him that I would in fact be much worse off. However, that would come later after we were done with what needed doing.
I also laid gently across this boy, pinning his arms as gently as circumstances allowed to keep him from hurting himself still more. I carried him out after the procedure and held him the rest of that morning while he slept. I remember very much not wanting to put him down.
Our daughter was not quite as rambunctious as her brothers. Of course, she didn't have to be because she had them. One of them, who shall remain unidentified here, introduced her to the concept of broken bones. Another time though and all on her own, she managed to fall and open a cut nearly all the way down to her cheek bone, just below her eye.
By this time, we pretty much had our own express line at the local medical clinic, so we were taken in immediately. It was determined that several stitches about 3/8 of an inch under her eye would be required. I pinned this little bug as well. The doctor knew all our family and he wasn't just shaken, he was actually shaking a bit himself. I trusted him though as he'd stitched me up a bit a couple times...Of course one time, by the time he got around to the stitches the anesthetic had worn off. He joked that he could give me another shot but that he'd have to charge me double. I actually remember thinking that was pretty funny at the time.
This time though, he wasn't joking. There were a couple slight complications with the procedure due to the proximity to the girl's eye. That further upset the doctor and he steadied himself a couple times during the work. (He was a good doc, heading a short list I have of lifetime favorites.) Historically, our daughter has passed out at the sight of blood and/or mayhem. This time however, she remained fully conscious and screamed at the top of her lungs for the entire event. While we did eventually finish, I think the girl quit crying about 3 days later.
As a result of the slight scar (practically speaking, invisible now), we called her Franken Baby for quite awhile.
I started down this path after hearing someone quote one of Jesus' multiple statements of the form "...how much more does your heavenly father..." You likely have a response to that phrase that calls up a particular verse and context. If that's the case, consider looking again. Jesus actually uses it multiple times, applying it to different contexts. It seems that God and his love are much too big to be limited by a single "how much more."
Of course, the broken reality of where we live invites us to believe that God's waiting outside with our family and friends, or maybe even that he didn't come at all. On really really bad days, we might even think that he doesn't even know where we are.
The truth is though that he always knows, always cares and always loves. And that makes the fact that he's always present the most important thing in our lives.
He doesn't get us to the emergency room and then leave us. He takes us there, stays with us, comforts us. He even holds us gently in place while difficult and perhaps painful things necessary to cure and complete us are performed. All the time, his voice whispers, "It's okay child. It's going to fine." He knows we're already saved but he also knows that we don't quite believe it. That's okay too though because he's there to remind us and reassure us. "It's okay child. It really is going to be fine."
Of course, we cry out "Please daddy, don't let him give me a shot. Please dad, I'm just asking for this one thing." But still he won't let go. He won't leave us to our broken wounds or let us be crippled because of our fear. And in the end, when he carries us out and everyone goes out to eat to celebrate it all being over, he holds us all through the meal so we never forget how real he his and how much he loves us.
The only things I remember from my own childhood had to do with me provoking a cat when I was 3 or so and driving my tricycle into a rose bush. Well, now that I'm writing this, I remember crashing my bike and smashing my mouth on a street curb; my front tooth is still broken off at the bottom...and oh yeah, I had a couple of my baby teeth knocked out...and then there was the time... You know, I think I'll stop now.
I pinned all of our children to the emergency room table at one time or another. Our oldest nearly died on a mountain in Wyoming. He was run over by a log that was being dragged behind a truck . For reasons to do with remoteness and terrain, it took us a couple hours to get him to the nearest doctor. Turned out that in addition to the couple of broken bones we were pretty sure he had, he also had a major laceration. It had severed an artery near the back of his knee. That particular artery did not bleed until the doctor touched it with a pair of forceps. At that point, in the doctor's office something like two and a half hours after the accident, it began pulsing blood. I know that happened because I was there and saw the artery clearly as well as the blood. It is an image that remains very clear in my mind.
Our son begged me to just please not let the doctor give him a shot and stitch him. The doctor offered to have one of his staff pin our son down so that he would not thrash while he was repairing the wound. I declined. I was not going to abandon the little one to his wounds and his fear. I laid across him gently to hold him still, and told him quietly that he would be alright over and over. It was very difficult not to cry at that point but to do so would not have been helpful.
When we finally got back to the cabin that night, my mother-in-law met me with a question. She said, "Would you like ice in it?" She was referring to the quite stiff drink she was going to pour me. This was the moment in our relationship when she liberated herself from all mother-in-law jokes ever after as far as I was concerned.
As traumatic as that day was, it wasn't the only such time. There was another morning that probably served as training for the event above, when our other son managed to pull a chair over to a counter, climb up on the counter, find the children's vitamins (with iron) hidden at the back, open the child proof lid and consume the entire bottle minus 2 pills. We presume he left the two pills there to throw us off track. He probably wasn't aware of all the purply goo surrounding his mouth.
After some quality phone time with poison control, we hurried off to the emergency room. There it was determined that stomach pumping was required. That was the first time I was offered a ticket out of the emergency room. The nurse who was to perform the operation was visibly shaken at the prospect of having to perform the rather traumatic procedure on a 2.5 year old and assumed that I'd be even worse off. I assured him that I would in fact be much worse off. However, that would come later after we were done with what needed doing.
I also laid gently across this boy, pinning his arms as gently as circumstances allowed to keep him from hurting himself still more. I carried him out after the procedure and held him the rest of that morning while he slept. I remember very much not wanting to put him down.
Our daughter was not quite as rambunctious as her brothers. Of course, she didn't have to be because she had them. One of them, who shall remain unidentified here, introduced her to the concept of broken bones. Another time though and all on her own, she managed to fall and open a cut nearly all the way down to her cheek bone, just below her eye.
By this time, we pretty much had our own express line at the local medical clinic, so we were taken in immediately. It was determined that several stitches about 3/8 of an inch under her eye would be required. I pinned this little bug as well. The doctor knew all our family and he wasn't just shaken, he was actually shaking a bit himself. I trusted him though as he'd stitched me up a bit a couple times...Of course one time, by the time he got around to the stitches the anesthetic had worn off. He joked that he could give me another shot but that he'd have to charge me double. I actually remember thinking that was pretty funny at the time.
This time though, he wasn't joking. There were a couple slight complications with the procedure due to the proximity to the girl's eye. That further upset the doctor and he steadied himself a couple times during the work. (He was a good doc, heading a short list I have of lifetime favorites.) Historically, our daughter has passed out at the sight of blood and/or mayhem. This time however, she remained fully conscious and screamed at the top of her lungs for the entire event. While we did eventually finish, I think the girl quit crying about 3 days later.
As a result of the slight scar (practically speaking, invisible now), we called her Franken Baby for quite awhile.
I started down this path after hearing someone quote one of Jesus' multiple statements of the form "...how much more does your heavenly father..." You likely have a response to that phrase that calls up a particular verse and context. If that's the case, consider looking again. Jesus actually uses it multiple times, applying it to different contexts. It seems that God and his love are much too big to be limited by a single "how much more."
Of course, the broken reality of where we live invites us to believe that God's waiting outside with our family and friends, or maybe even that he didn't come at all. On really really bad days, we might even think that he doesn't even know where we are.
The truth is though that he always knows, always cares and always loves. And that makes the fact that he's always present the most important thing in our lives.
He doesn't get us to the emergency room and then leave us. He takes us there, stays with us, comforts us. He even holds us gently in place while difficult and perhaps painful things necessary to cure and complete us are performed. All the time, his voice whispers, "It's okay child. It's going to fine." He knows we're already saved but he also knows that we don't quite believe it. That's okay too though because he's there to remind us and reassure us. "It's okay child. It really is going to be fine."
Of course, we cry out "Please daddy, don't let him give me a shot. Please dad, I'm just asking for this one thing." But still he won't let go. He won't leave us to our broken wounds or let us be crippled because of our fear. And in the end, when he carries us out and everyone goes out to eat to celebrate it all being over, he holds us all through the meal so we never forget how real he his and how much he loves us.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Dog Years
I had a parakeet when I was little. We couldn't have a dog or a cat so my mom defaulted to a bird. I can't remember it's name anymore. I do remember though that it was the green variety of Budgee. And I remember that it was a female.
I know that last bit because among the few things I learned as a six year old from the process of owning that bird was that parakeets can be sexed by examining the color of their noses about 6 month after they're born. Alternatively, a great deal of determination and parakeet screaming is required. It turns out that males of the species are actually the most likely to bond with humans, to talk and to generally do the things that have caused humans to adopt parakeets as a domesticated pet. Unfortunately for the aspiring pet owner, the nose/beak does not assume the appropriate sex color until the animal is around six months old. That's typically much older than you want to start with a bird.
That bird lasted only about four years in our house. Ten years plus is more common for parakeets. That was another thing I learned from that bird's presence in my life. I learned how it feels to lose something you care about, even if you aren't really that involved with it. It's a life; and then it's gone. I cried over that bird's passing in a way that I never would have thought I could have. I think it was because I expected it to be around, vaguely annoying me with the ongoing revelation of my neglect forever. And of course, some day I'd do better and pay attention to it the way I thought I should. With the permission and help of landlords, we buried the girl on the property where we lived.
A few years went by and I started bothering my mom for another bird. This time, we'd get a male and I'd take absolutely excellent care of it. After all, I was older now. We went to the pet store, asked for a male and naturally received another female. This one had all of the first bird's interpersonal "challenges" but also was quite possibly the nastiest, meanest animal I'd ever encountered. That estimation includes a couple junk yards I used to walk by from time to time that had wicked nasty guard dogs.
Fritz (I remember the gender inappropriate name I gave to this creature) would literally hiss at you if you stopped in the vicinity of her cage. She was not shy and retiring. You could count on being attacked for doing her the favor of changing her food, water and grit. (Parakeets need sand-like grit to aid their digestion.) And let me tell you, that little...girl could bite.
It looked for a couple years like that miscreant feathered beast, all 30 grams of her, would overwhelm my good intentions. Or at least give me an excuse to return to form.
Then one day, I decided that her nasty attitude would not stop me from showing her affection. I can't remember exactly why this became important to me but it surely did.
I was in high school by this time. Killing two birds with one stone (and in my heart, that was only partially metaphor), I would put a chair next to her cage, endure a bit of hissing and then read my homework out loud to her. Eventually I read other things as well, including Copleston's "History of Philosophy" (11 volumes) and Theodore Roethke's "My Papa's Waltz" (a rather brief poem). She might hold the record for being the best read parakeet in the history of time.
She settled down some after hearing the drone of my voice for awhile. God bless Copleston. What he lacks in brevity, he make up for in excruciating detail. People who know me well gently suggest (well, usually gently), that the ongoing, pounding, relentless sound of my voice would beat anyone into submission, let alone a parakeet with gender identity issues.
I noticed that Fritz eventually started moving herself on her favorite perch so as to be closer to me. I experimented with this a little and pretty soon I noticed that her favorite perch became the one nearest me. Eventually, this led me to what had to this point been the unthinkable. I opened her cage door.
At first, she hesitantly came out and stood on her on her door which was a drawbridge like affair. And then she flew. She took enough laps around that small apartment to kill a migrating falcon, eventually crash landing into the drapes, panting like she'd cough up her heart and lungs. Seizing my opportunity and the bird at the same time, I caged her with my hands very gently as you do with birds and returned her to her cage.
I won't repeat my probably incorrect memories of the rest of her training but eventually she came around completely. My favorite remembrance of her redemption was her habit of sitting on my cereal bowl, eating my cereal with me. Answering the unspeakable, she never pooed in my food. She knew better.
Fritz spanned the time between childhood and my becoming an adult. My wife met the bird. Sadly, the bird loathed my then girl friend, soon to be fiance with all the well documented vile passion she was capable of. I do think she was jealous.
In my life since then, my wife and I have had three dogs. They are now gone.
My wife brought the first one home as a puppy from a supermarket box, given away by children with puppies from an accidental litter, a practice now illegal where we live. She surprised me with it. She knew full well her man could not resist both her and the ridiculously cute puppy. That is one scary woman I married.
That dog, Bleu (short for Bleu Cheese) was a much better pet than I was an owner. The way I taught her to not dig in the back yard was to point at a hole she made and, well, essentially lecture her. Somehow she understood, even though she couldn't possibly understand, that she had to help me. Every now and then she'd apparently think something like, "But he didn't say don't dig over here" and she'd try the other side of the yard. That happened about three times before she figured out that I meant "Don't dig holes anywhere in the universe."
She had a couple litters and for logistic reasons we kept one of her puppies. Sadly, it was the stupidest creature I've ever encountered. Bleu seemed to realize it too. When Doby would be scolded, Bleu would often hang her head and skulk away. Even though Bleu got it, I don't think Doby ever understood that she was being scolded.
Doby lived almost ten years and Bleu lived to be 17, so Bleu enjoyed her last years without the distractions and challenges of a wayward child.
We purchased Lady at the same time our son and his wife bought their dog, both of us taking puppies from the same litter. These were purebred Queensland Heelers. Lady was wound a bit tight but she loved people. She would bark like death at visitors but was always very friendly. She came along at a time when I'd begun spending more time hiking and she usually accompanied me. I took her on a leash a couple times but eventually gave up on it. It was completely superfluous, even in the regular presence of horses and other dogs. I'd just tell her to sit and she did, one hundred percent of the time. Of such are Queenslands.
I won't tell the whole, quite sad story here but when she passed she very much needed permission to leave the rest of us behind. She was a beautiful creature.
Our son who lives with us recently acquired a Siberian Husky. This is a different animal with a different life mission. Any Husky's life aspirations can be summed in two desperately important (to them) values: 1) Running 2) Hunting. Everything else is subservient. I will say the exception to this is that they do bond quite strongly to people if you're willing to make a herculean effort in that regard. In that case you as their human, become nearly as important as those other two things.
All these animals have taught me more about myself than I ever dreamed possible or in some cases, ever wanted to know. They have endured my inattention, silliness and wrong headedness with near stoic endurance and persistence. I've learned that if I'm just a bit persistent with them, they will be unyieldingly loyal and loving to me...even unto death.
Pet friendly literature defines cat and dog years as so many animal years to one human year. That is the math of the calendar, not of the heart. The time that animals spend with us, offering themselves to us and loving us eventually achieve their own definition. Those days, months and years mark themselves on us with their own pens, sometimes with the point pushing deep into our souls.
Our pets offer back to us the love we give them with grace well beyond what we offer. They are four legged (or maybe two legs with feathers) versions of love we don't deserve. They are a great help in understanding the overflowing rush of love that spoke us.
I remember now. That first parakeet's name was Tweety, like the cartoon.
I know that last bit because among the few things I learned as a six year old from the process of owning that bird was that parakeets can be sexed by examining the color of their noses about 6 month after they're born. Alternatively, a great deal of determination and parakeet screaming is required. It turns out that males of the species are actually the most likely to bond with humans, to talk and to generally do the things that have caused humans to adopt parakeets as a domesticated pet. Unfortunately for the aspiring pet owner, the nose/beak does not assume the appropriate sex color until the animal is around six months old. That's typically much older than you want to start with a bird.
That bird lasted only about four years in our house. Ten years plus is more common for parakeets. That was another thing I learned from that bird's presence in my life. I learned how it feels to lose something you care about, even if you aren't really that involved with it. It's a life; and then it's gone. I cried over that bird's passing in a way that I never would have thought I could have. I think it was because I expected it to be around, vaguely annoying me with the ongoing revelation of my neglect forever. And of course, some day I'd do better and pay attention to it the way I thought I should. With the permission and help of landlords, we buried the girl on the property where we lived.
A few years went by and I started bothering my mom for another bird. This time, we'd get a male and I'd take absolutely excellent care of it. After all, I was older now. We went to the pet store, asked for a male and naturally received another female. This one had all of the first bird's interpersonal "challenges" but also was quite possibly the nastiest, meanest animal I'd ever encountered. That estimation includes a couple junk yards I used to walk by from time to time that had wicked nasty guard dogs.
Fritz (I remember the gender inappropriate name I gave to this creature) would literally hiss at you if you stopped in the vicinity of her cage. She was not shy and retiring. You could count on being attacked for doing her the favor of changing her food, water and grit. (Parakeets need sand-like grit to aid their digestion.) And let me tell you, that little...girl could bite.
It looked for a couple years like that miscreant feathered beast, all 30 grams of her, would overwhelm my good intentions. Or at least give me an excuse to return to form.
Then one day, I decided that her nasty attitude would not stop me from showing her affection. I can't remember exactly why this became important to me but it surely did.
I was in high school by this time. Killing two birds with one stone (and in my heart, that was only partially metaphor), I would put a chair next to her cage, endure a bit of hissing and then read my homework out loud to her. Eventually I read other things as well, including Copleston's "History of Philosophy" (11 volumes) and Theodore Roethke's "My Papa's Waltz" (a rather brief poem). She might hold the record for being the best read parakeet in the history of time.
She settled down some after hearing the drone of my voice for awhile. God bless Copleston. What he lacks in brevity, he make up for in excruciating detail. People who know me well gently suggest (well, usually gently), that the ongoing, pounding, relentless sound of my voice would beat anyone into submission, let alone a parakeet with gender identity issues.
I noticed that Fritz eventually started moving herself on her favorite perch so as to be closer to me. I experimented with this a little and pretty soon I noticed that her favorite perch became the one nearest me. Eventually, this led me to what had to this point been the unthinkable. I opened her cage door.
At first, she hesitantly came out and stood on her on her door which was a drawbridge like affair. And then she flew. She took enough laps around that small apartment to kill a migrating falcon, eventually crash landing into the drapes, panting like she'd cough up her heart and lungs. Seizing my opportunity and the bird at the same time, I caged her with my hands very gently as you do with birds and returned her to her cage.
I won't repeat my probably incorrect memories of the rest of her training but eventually she came around completely. My favorite remembrance of her redemption was her habit of sitting on my cereal bowl, eating my cereal with me. Answering the unspeakable, she never pooed in my food. She knew better.
Fritz spanned the time between childhood and my becoming an adult. My wife met the bird. Sadly, the bird loathed my then girl friend, soon to be fiance with all the well documented vile passion she was capable of. I do think she was jealous.
In my life since then, my wife and I have had three dogs. They are now gone.
My wife brought the first one home as a puppy from a supermarket box, given away by children with puppies from an accidental litter, a practice now illegal where we live. She surprised me with it. She knew full well her man could not resist both her and the ridiculously cute puppy. That is one scary woman I married.
That dog, Bleu (short for Bleu Cheese) was a much better pet than I was an owner. The way I taught her to not dig in the back yard was to point at a hole she made and, well, essentially lecture her. Somehow she understood, even though she couldn't possibly understand, that she had to help me. Every now and then she'd apparently think something like, "But he didn't say don't dig over here" and she'd try the other side of the yard. That happened about three times before she figured out that I meant "Don't dig holes anywhere in the universe."
She had a couple litters and for logistic reasons we kept one of her puppies. Sadly, it was the stupidest creature I've ever encountered. Bleu seemed to realize it too. When Doby would be scolded, Bleu would often hang her head and skulk away. Even though Bleu got it, I don't think Doby ever understood that she was being scolded.
Doby lived almost ten years and Bleu lived to be 17, so Bleu enjoyed her last years without the distractions and challenges of a wayward child.
We purchased Lady at the same time our son and his wife bought their dog, both of us taking puppies from the same litter. These were purebred Queensland Heelers. Lady was wound a bit tight but she loved people. She would bark like death at visitors but was always very friendly. She came along at a time when I'd begun spending more time hiking and she usually accompanied me. I took her on a leash a couple times but eventually gave up on it. It was completely superfluous, even in the regular presence of horses and other dogs. I'd just tell her to sit and she did, one hundred percent of the time. Of such are Queenslands.
I won't tell the whole, quite sad story here but when she passed she very much needed permission to leave the rest of us behind. She was a beautiful creature.
Our son who lives with us recently acquired a Siberian Husky. This is a different animal with a different life mission. Any Husky's life aspirations can be summed in two desperately important (to them) values: 1) Running 2) Hunting. Everything else is subservient. I will say the exception to this is that they do bond quite strongly to people if you're willing to make a herculean effort in that regard. In that case you as their human, become nearly as important as those other two things.
All these animals have taught me more about myself than I ever dreamed possible or in some cases, ever wanted to know. They have endured my inattention, silliness and wrong headedness with near stoic endurance and persistence. I've learned that if I'm just a bit persistent with them, they will be unyieldingly loyal and loving to me...even unto death.
Pet friendly literature defines cat and dog years as so many animal years to one human year. That is the math of the calendar, not of the heart. The time that animals spend with us, offering themselves to us and loving us eventually achieve their own definition. Those days, months and years mark themselves on us with their own pens, sometimes with the point pushing deep into our souls.
Our pets offer back to us the love we give them with grace well beyond what we offer. They are four legged (or maybe two legs with feathers) versions of love we don't deserve. They are a great help in understanding the overflowing rush of love that spoke us.
I remember now. That first parakeet's name was Tweety, like the cartoon.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
You Don't Need a Weatherman to Tell Which Way the Wind Blows
(Bob Dylan song titles and lyrics are happily a lot like Star Wars movies. There's a phrase in there for every possible life context and event.)
I've been quite busy the last couple weeks and haven't had sufficient time and energy in one spot to think much about writing here. As a confession, there's been something else as well. I'm going to blog about it here to help with my recovery.
A few weeks ago, I became involved in a back and forth on the subject of climate change (specifically, anthropogenic climate change - AGW - humans causing weather changes) in the social media realm. I'm not sure if I was the back or the forth but I was definitely one of them. I kindly used the word "involved" here regarding my engaging of the issue. Slobbering obsession probably would be a more accurate description.
In this debate, I remain a skeptic in the formal sense of the word. That is, I believe the state of uncertainty regarding the information base associated with AGW is far greater than any degree of certainty.
I had considered this briefly a couple years ago. This matter came up accidentally when I was searching for background information on the winner of the X-Prize, Burt yes-I-really-am-a-rocket-scientist Rutan. I met Burt once at a function at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo. We are both alums.
Burt has a hobby debunking AGW claims and supports a private website dedicated to the subject. He acknowledges that he isn't a climatologist but rightly claims to being an engineer with excellent command of numeric information. His approach to the subject is based on applying the values and process of an engineering design review to the scientific subject of AGW. That has similarities to the idea of peer review in science but from personal experience, I'd have to say it's a good deal more harsh and often quite personal. Burt has accumulated literally hundreds of pages of text and hours of videos by climatologists on his website. His conclusion to date can roughly be described as: "If you brought AGW to an engineering design review, it would be a short meeting and you shouldn't go away expecting positive feedback in your next review."
After discovering that site and spending way too much time there, I checked AGW off my list. That was both a blessing and a mistake.
The general public may not be aware but the last month has been absolutely frantic in the climatology community. As is often the case in things human, this isn't the result so much of new science but rather, it is the product of a number of human actions. Briefly, information was leaked from an anti-AGW group called the Heartland Institute. Within two weeks, it was discovered that it may have in fact been stolen by one of the chief AGW climatologists (Peter Gleick). There is an ongoing felony in investigation...involving climatology and fraud of all things.
Don't confuse all this with "Climategate." That involved the leaking of a number of emails from pro AGW scientists that hinted at the idea that observational data does not currently support the wilder assertions of the pro-AGW community and happened a few months ago. You could say, that things are heating up in way that has nothing to do with the climate.
Let me lay out a few factoids to set the stage as it exists today with the proviso that this will in no way cover all then issues and will almost certainly be different by tomorrow.
There are many many more aspects of this debate that have consumed my time over the last few weeks but I won't recite them here. Suffice to say, I wouldn't get rid of my wool socks and overcoats just yet.
As is usually the case in human conflict, this is a story of one side against another. There is good and bad on both sides. Motivations get confused with facts and the arguments become about right and wrong rather than about science. It's always hard when you misplace your compass.
The best part though is that there are heroes lurking in the story. They may even be heroic enough to teach us a thing or two.
I mentioned Burt Rutan above. Burt's a fascinating guy. He's not a huge fan of smokestacks. Twenty plus years ago (1989 if you're going to Google), his self designed house was featured on the cover of Popular Science as the most energy efficient house ever built. Hint: It wasn't free either in terms of time or his money. (Right now in his retirement, he's working on a flying car.) Burt's not lost his compass and he doesn't mind advertising that he has one and what it is. It's a good lesson I think. Compasses are desperately important, particularly in a busy world where very often it's hard to pick out landmarks and all you can see is your next step.
I think the greatest hero to date though is Dr. Judith Curry. Curry is considered one of the U.S.'s leading climatologists. She is a co-author of the BEST study as well as being the chair of climatology at the Georgia Institute of Technology. She appears to be the rarest type of public intellectual, that is she is disciplined in her pronouncements in her field of expertise and she is quite humble regarding related areas in which she is neither trained nor expert. She is neither a "denier" nor a proponent of AGW theory, consequence and policy. Rather, she's much more like a Joe Friday (i.e. "Just the facts ma'am.") And not only that, but she actually encourages broad debate. I think this is what an ethical scientist is supposed to look like but it's been a long time, there isn't really a standard anymore and as a result I think I've forgotten how that whole thing worked anyway.
I have learned something from this process though. In a conflict, search out the heroes. If you run across someone prominent that genuinely does not regard themselves as heroic, watch them very carefully. Naturally they must be vetted. Still, you may quite possibly be in the very rare presence of greatness. Don't miss it.
I've been quite busy the last couple weeks and haven't had sufficient time and energy in one spot to think much about writing here. As a confession, there's been something else as well. I'm going to blog about it here to help with my recovery.
A few weeks ago, I became involved in a back and forth on the subject of climate change (specifically, anthropogenic climate change - AGW - humans causing weather changes) in the social media realm. I'm not sure if I was the back or the forth but I was definitely one of them. I kindly used the word "involved" here regarding my engaging of the issue. Slobbering obsession probably would be a more accurate description.
In this debate, I remain a skeptic in the formal sense of the word. That is, I believe the state of uncertainty regarding the information base associated with AGW is far greater than any degree of certainty.
I had considered this briefly a couple years ago. This matter came up accidentally when I was searching for background information on the winner of the X-Prize, Burt yes-I-really-am-a-rocket-scientist Rutan. I met Burt once at a function at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo. We are both alums.
Burt has a hobby debunking AGW claims and supports a private website dedicated to the subject. He acknowledges that he isn't a climatologist but rightly claims to being an engineer with excellent command of numeric information. His approach to the subject is based on applying the values and process of an engineering design review to the scientific subject of AGW. That has similarities to the idea of peer review in science but from personal experience, I'd have to say it's a good deal more harsh and often quite personal. Burt has accumulated literally hundreds of pages of text and hours of videos by climatologists on his website. His conclusion to date can roughly be described as: "If you brought AGW to an engineering design review, it would be a short meeting and you shouldn't go away expecting positive feedback in your next review."
After discovering that site and spending way too much time there, I checked AGW off my list. That was both a blessing and a mistake.
The general public may not be aware but the last month has been absolutely frantic in the climatology community. As is often the case in things human, this isn't the result so much of new science but rather, it is the product of a number of human actions. Briefly, information was leaked from an anti-AGW group called the Heartland Institute. Within two weeks, it was discovered that it may have in fact been stolen by one of the chief AGW climatologists (Peter Gleick). There is an ongoing felony in investigation...involving climatology and fraud of all things.
Don't confuse all this with "Climategate." That involved the leaking of a number of emails from pro AGW scientists that hinted at the idea that observational data does not currently support the wilder assertions of the pro-AGW community and happened a few months ago. You could say, that things are heating up in way that has nothing to do with the climate.
Let me lay out a few factoids to set the stage as it exists today with the proviso that this will in no way cover all then issues and will almost certainly be different by tomorrow.
- The most comprehensive study of modern earth temperatures to date is the Berkly Earth Surface Temperature study (BEST). The BEST study shows a virtually flat temperature signal (i.e. signal = wavy line on a graph) since 1998.
- Earth temperature has always been highly variable. This is from less comprehensive information than the BEST study. Namely, polar ice core samples and anecdotal (as opposed to systematic) geologic data.
- Ditto item 2 for atmospheric CO2.
- The graph plot of temperature over time is accepted as being chaotic. "Chaotic" in this context is a technical term meaning that at any given point it is impossible to plot the next point with meaningful precision. Further, you can't tell if the next point is to be up or down. You can only make probabilistic predictions.
- Until very recently, AGW theory has held that all or at minimum the vast majority of global warming since 1800 is the result of human activity. This has changed in the last year, simply because the observational data doesn't support the supposition. For those scientists who have amended their position (and to be clear there are many who stubbornly adhere to the old models), the human contribution to global warming is taken to be someplace between 50% and 1%.
- In any case, the idea that increased CO2 from whatever the origin, equals disaster is also highly problematic. Underlying this supposition is the doctrine of carbon forcing. Greatly oversimplified, carbon forcing states that a little bit of CO2 in the atmosphere means a lot of temperature increase. The BEST study has called this theory into question as the increasing CO2 over the last decade has not resulted in what should be according to AGW models a corresponding increase in temperature.
- Last, most plant life thrives on CO2. The more CO2 in the atmosphere, the easier green plants breathe. This is well understood from millions of years of both fossil, geologic and again ice core data.
There are many many more aspects of this debate that have consumed my time over the last few weeks but I won't recite them here. Suffice to say, I wouldn't get rid of my wool socks and overcoats just yet.
As is usually the case in human conflict, this is a story of one side against another. There is good and bad on both sides. Motivations get confused with facts and the arguments become about right and wrong rather than about science. It's always hard when you misplace your compass.
The best part though is that there are heroes lurking in the story. They may even be heroic enough to teach us a thing or two.
I mentioned Burt Rutan above. Burt's a fascinating guy. He's not a huge fan of smokestacks. Twenty plus years ago (1989 if you're going to Google), his self designed house was featured on the cover of Popular Science as the most energy efficient house ever built. Hint: It wasn't free either in terms of time or his money. (Right now in his retirement, he's working on a flying car.) Burt's not lost his compass and he doesn't mind advertising that he has one and what it is. It's a good lesson I think. Compasses are desperately important, particularly in a busy world where very often it's hard to pick out landmarks and all you can see is your next step.
I think the greatest hero to date though is Dr. Judith Curry. Curry is considered one of the U.S.'s leading climatologists. She is a co-author of the BEST study as well as being the chair of climatology at the Georgia Institute of Technology. She appears to be the rarest type of public intellectual, that is she is disciplined in her pronouncements in her field of expertise and she is quite humble regarding related areas in which she is neither trained nor expert. She is neither a "denier" nor a proponent of AGW theory, consequence and policy. Rather, she's much more like a Joe Friday (i.e. "Just the facts ma'am.") And not only that, but she actually encourages broad debate. I think this is what an ethical scientist is supposed to look like but it's been a long time, there isn't really a standard anymore and as a result I think I've forgotten how that whole thing worked anyway.
I have learned something from this process though. In a conflict, search out the heroes. If you run across someone prominent that genuinely does not regard themselves as heroic, watch them very carefully. Naturally they must be vetted. Still, you may quite possibly be in the very rare presence of greatness. Don't miss it.
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