Deep.

When I’m out hiking on my weekend hike I often spend much of the experience in contemplation. My thoughts are usually tickling at Warp 10, going everywhere possible at once, but then I ramp it back a bit and I just think about an assortment of topics at any given moment. Out in nature is really a good place for me to get things back into perspective, and I usually feel the better for it when I get back home.

This is in addition to planning, filming, and producing (at least in my head) a video of the hiking experience of the moment.

One of my constant struggles is settling down on my approach to technology to something That Just Works, which is difficult, because we all know there’s very little in today’s world of technology That Just Works. Heck, we can’t even reliably count on a new dishwasher to do its thing for more than a year or two. I miss the days when a computer would just do what we wanted it to do without allegedly trying to think for me. I want my computer to be a reliable tool, not something that constantly requires engagement in fake conversation.

Yes, “A.I.” is cool, but it doesn’t need to be in everything.

As I struggle with however I want to be productive, namely around using software to track all the things that are floating around in my head, I end up switching between methods way too often. I’ve talked about this a lot on this blog. You should see how much the topic comes up in my personal journal!

The only way I’ve been able to keep this under control is by reviewing my personal goals every morning. What do I need to do to reach my personal goals, or at the very least, inch in the proper direction toward those goals.

Anyone reading this entry probably sees this as common sense and something they don’t even think about on a daily basis. Me? It’s just one of the many items floating around my head at any given moment.

No wonder my ears pop so much.

My dad’s biggest display of emotion toward me took place after Grandpa Country died. After the funeral, family and friends gathered at his mid-century modern home situated on an empty egg and beef farm to pay their respects and have some potato salad. My grandmother had passed a little over nine years before his passing; his second wife was distraught and sitting in the dining room under the Tiffany lamp my grandmother had picked for the family to enjoy. She had endured the passing of three husband.

I went outside and sat on a folding chair in the driveway, looked at the once vibrant barns, and broke down in tears. The home of Gram and Gramps had changed considerably after my grandmother had passed; with Gramps’ passing as well I knew it was just a short amount of time before what I considered to be one of the most beautiful houses in the world would be emptied and someone else would occupy it. That happy story was coming to an end. I was 37 at the time, but it was the heart of one of sixteen grandchildren that was aching. My dad saw his only son break down in tears and he was genuinely concerned. He hugged me voluntarily that day. He said words to me he had never said out loud before.

Just writing that paragraph makes my throat hurt.

As a Gen-X offspring of a baby boomer couple composed of rural farm boy and a city girl, I grew up with the best of both worlds. I’m sure my circumstance is not unique, but most of my classmates came from families that knew each other from the hometown we all grew up in. My mom? She came from outside, “the big city” of Syracuse. My dad? I went to school with the offspring of his married classmates. Some still thought of my mother as an outsider.

My mother expresses emotion at the drop of a hat. Cry, shriek, laugh, yell: she could rattle dishes in the kitchen cabinets of the neighbors across a hay field. I’d known her to breakdown in tears when my father shunned her sloppy joes. Temper? Nah. Exasperation. You betcha. My dad grew up in an environment where there wasn’t much expressed in the way of emotion. I remember hugging my grandmother, his mother, once in 28 years. He took after his mother. Not only was he a man of few words, he didn’t really share his emotion. I fully believe it just wasn’t part of his vocabulary. And that was perfectly fine with me. I got it. His laugh was genuine, but the other stuff was kept inside. We didn’t hug much; I knew very much that he loved me but it wasn’t expressed verbally, and crying was not a thing that guys from his side of the family did. I always figured that Mom’s more emotive side fueled some sort of gay tendency for me to express my emotion. I was different, and my tendency to be expressive in that way was just part of the equation. I can still remember leaving his home after a family dinner, my husband in tow, and Dad saying “I love you son” and me breaking down in tears on the front porch and then my husband crying as well because he knew that was a rarity. I figured my dad liked the guy that became my husband after all. Hearing him say that he loved me, well, that just blew my mind. It was always just a given.

With social media and the like it’s common to read about the passing of relatives of friends. This is just a part of the cycle of life. While I do choke back tears from time to time, I don’t really feel the need to wail or carry on when someone passes. I don’t know if it’s because of the way I’m wired or what, but I can vividly see the person that has passed moving on to the next step in their existence and being very happy. When my father-in-law passed, I had very vivid visions of him happy and holding his first wife’s hand for the first time in a long time. This didn’t negate his relationship with his second wife; there’s enough love to go around. It’s just that he was with his first wife again and blissfully happy to see her for the first time in a long while. I can see it as plain as day.

On Facebook I’m friends with the officiant that was part of our wedding and recently her Mom passed. She asked for no expressions of remorse or “thoughts and prayers” or messages of condolences. She asked for posts of happiness and celebration. She believes as I do; the passing of a human being is just movement from one phase of existence to the next.

When I die I hope people laugh and have pleasant memories and say, “he was such a joy to be around”. I don’t want people wailing and crying and having dark thoughts or sadness. I’ll forgive loneliness. But I believe my passing will be just moving on to the next stage of my total experience. I have absolutely no doubt that my spirit, who I am, will move on to something better, something joyful. I believe that happens to all of us. It’s a moment to be celebrated. So, if you’re a reader of this blog and my husband posts something about my death, take a moment to smile. And hug someone you love.

How you choose to express yourself, own it.

I walk through the streets, trying to get a little bit of exercise during the pre-dawn hours, before the madness of my workday kicks in. As I walk by the darkened buildings, apartments, condos, and houses, once in a while the reflection of a large television will catch my eye. As I maintain my pace of 3.5 MPH, I’ll catch a glimpse of a large television screen with various news stations shouting into the room. This morning my brain moved fast enough to catch snippets of 24 hour news station crawls: “Salvadorians denied…”, “Immigrants removed from…”, “Chaos in the White House…”. Someday I’d like to see something happy like, “Democrats and Republicans agree to work together on hunger and homeless crises”, but we know that will never happen.

Since Trump took office we have swung into this societal trend of having no empathy. I find this era of indifference to be overwhelming. The inexplicable public support of “I’ve got mine, I don’t care that you don’t have yours” just boggles my mind. I try to step into the world of ignorance, where my only concerns are those of my own, but I can’t help but think doing so would be socially irresponsible and negligent.

I was hoping the border wall had been forgotten. I still read and hear chants of “Lock her up”, even though the only reason Hillary Clinton is relevant in politics today is because those against her won’t let her have her life in peace. There is a crazy amount of vengeance permeating the populace today. People have turned real life into a poorly scripted reality show. Quite frankly, anyone that thinks the United States is in a good place right now is either incredibly stupid or willfully ignorant.

The issue is the noise is overpowering but the only way to fix things is to make more noise. But I’m tired. 2018 has felt exhausting and it’s only the 9th of January.

My love of road trips and roads in general goes back to my elementary school days. I’ve always been fascinated with the view from a roadway. I vividly remember riding in the back seat of my parents’ vehicles. The first one I remember was a VW Beetle. I don’t remember where we went in it, as I was just a toddler, but I remember riding in it and watching the scenery whizz by. 

Earl and I are currently on the Indiana Toll Road headed for Chicago. We’ve passed a couple of cars with video monitors installed in the backseat, movies or cartoons playing. I peer in the windows as we go by and see kids fixated on the electronic gizmo. The world is literally passing them by as they’re being entertained by electronics. 

I find the surrounding world so entertaining. I am so happy these electronic gadgets weren’t around when I was a kid. I love discovering the world from the road just as much as I love discovering the world from the air. 

Earl handles the drives to Chicago and back because he has more of a lead foot than I do, plus I worked from the passenger seat for the first 4 1/2 hours. Once we were out of New York and Pennsylvania I put the work computer away and started watching the world go by. 

I nod to truck drivers. I smile to kids and parents. I see all the different types of utility poles and high tension wire towers. I spot difference in road signs, I compare fuel prices, I wave to cattle and I smirk at horse and sheep. 

The world is out there waiting for us to explore it. Take the opportunity to see it whenever you can. 

You might appreciate your surroundings much more when you’re in their presence. 

The lyrics, melody,instrumentation and vocalization of this track touch me in a way that is impossible for me to describe with mere words. Ethereal. Transcendent. Grounding. Fleeting. The proper way to listen to this track is with a pair of quality noise canceling headphones. Don’t miss a beat. Don’t miss the depth of the harmonies. Let your thoughts soar with the angelic vocals. Be breathless with the vocalist.

I wish I could paint the thoughts that come forth in a giant three dimensional watercolor full of motion. Pulsating colors of joy dancing around with soaring bursts of brilliance. My painting would be an incredibly beautiful picture with moving swirls of gold and silver and purple and blue. The color green is frolicking amongst the movement of the other hues. The vibrance is one of joy. The movement is fueled by passion. The destination is unknown for the journey is never ending. The motion is forward and upward. Dreams soar amongst these beautiful colors dancing on my canvas.

It’s the canvas of my life. It’s my canvas of 2017. No darkness. No doom. Gold, silver, purple, blue and green. Take a leap of faith. It’s time to paint the next part of my journey. A moment of clarity. Brilliant clarity as it dances in colors within my view.

“Illuminating” by Haley from the album “All This Love”.

If I’m awake, then I can’t tell
I’m in a daze, like I’m someone else
A familiar place that I don’t recall
It’s an empty space and I watch me fall

The time is now but I don’t know when
I close my eyes and I start to spin
I start to spin

The more I look around
The more the walls come down
And something comes to light
Something comes to light

The more I look around
The more the walls come down
And something comes to light
Something comes to light

Illuminating

And suddenly within my view
Images of something new
I’m reaching out but there’s no end
All explained in messages

The air is getting thick with the impending Presidential elections in November. I’m starting to overhear conversations at work and they are heated. A keep hearing and seeing the word “united” in the “United States of America” but the people don’t seem united. There are united factions, but the people as a whole seem split right down the middle. Everything is 50/50. One extreme or another. No shades of gray, it’s either black or white. Negative or positive. No compromise. I wonder if the media cooks it up to be a tight race so that there will be more ratings, which ends up with the sheep following their lead.

Kind of heavy stuff to be thinking about on a sunny Friday afternoon. I sometimes wonder what the world would be like today had Hillary been the nominee in 2008 instead of Obama. I guess I’ll have to find a way to an alternative universe to find that out.

I remember it like it was just a few days ago. It was third period of a typical freshman day back when I was in high school. I was sitting in Room 208, ready for English class. I was feeling particularly good because I had read the assigned short story the night before. I adored reading back then, just as I do today, but I despised being told what to read. For me, part of the joy of reading is discovering on my own as to what I want to read. Being told to read something with empty promises of literary escape just rubs me the wrong way. But I felt pretty good because I had read the short story that was assigned to us and I was ready for the quiz that I was sure Miss Whalen was about to pop.

Miss Whalen entered the room carrying all of her necessary teaching equipment, she was one of the few teachers that didn’t have her own room because the school wasn’t big enough for the temporary population explosion going on in our tiny village. This was her usual way of entering the room, book bags and gear in tow; what was unusual on this day was that she was pushing a cart with a TV and one of those newfangled VCRs.  We were going to watch a movie.

So much for the pop quiz.

Now when I completed my assignment and read “The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson the night before, I kind of envisioned it taking place in some sort of nebulous time that wasn’t the present. They were talking about lotteries and crops and stonings and the like, so I figured it must have taken place in some medieval time. People didn’t act that way anymore.  Why would a community want to stone people to death in the 20th century? Stoning a person to death was something that happened in the Middle Ages.

Miss Whalen made a few remarks and then started up the VCR. I was immediately surprised by the setting as soon as I saw the pickup truck: it was taking place in a small farming community that could have been any community not far from the little town I went to school in. While the film felt ‘old’ (it was made in 1969 and the year was 1982), it still felt far more contemporary than the scenes I had played in my head the night before as I was doing my assignment. The clothes were familiar. The vehicles were familiar. The attitudes were familiar.

As the short film progressed, almost word for word with what I had read the night before, I realized that something was wrong with those people on the screen. Why didn’t they think about what they were doing? They were just blindly following a tradition that no one really understood anymore other than the saying “Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon”.  These people paid no attention to the fact that they were about to stone a woman to death. And she was such a nice woman. She wasn’t some medieval woman who wore big dresses that I envisioned in my head thing night before. The woman they were about to stone could have been the mother of any of my classmates.

My young heart cried out as the first stone hit Tessie Hutchinson as she cried out “it’s not fair.”  Terrified for Tessie and terrified that I would be teased for the remainder of the day, I hid the tears that were welling up in my eyes. I shoved the lump in my throat back down where it belonged. I wasn’t going to gasp out loud and I wasn’t going to cry for this fictional character. No one would see me do that. But something struck a chord within my soul that day in Room 208.  Luckily, the film wasn’t horribly graphic but the audio was another matter. Her cries freaked me out and rattled me immensely. Watching that film was a life changer for me.

Heavy stuff for a naive high school freshman.

Last night as we left the movie theatre, having just thoroughly enjoyed “The Hunger Games”, my thoughts drifted back to “The Lottery” and Tessie Hutchinson.  I did a quick search on the Internet when I got home and found it available on YouTube. I watched it again from beginning to end. No fast forward. No skipping. No rewinding. Beginning to end, just like the day in Room 208. I cringed and teared up and honestly, I’m not afraid to admit that I had to go upstairs and cuddle with my husband for a few moments. It’s been 30 years since I last saw that movie but it hit home just as hard, if not harder than it did back in high school. The folks in the story were doing what tradition told them to do, without even thinking about the ramifications. They did something just because “that’s the way it’s done”. The old man that keeps grumbling about new thought and the young people in neighboring towns ending the tradition of the Lottery even though we don’t really know why they’re doing the Lottery, other than the brief mention about “Lottery in June, corn heavy soon”, how different is that from the talk about “traditional marriage” today? How many people blindly follow tradition without providing any thought to what they’re doing? I have little against folks that follow the teachings of the Bible, as long as they’re using their brains when they’re studying the words that they’re following. Today, how many elders cast stones and then hand more stones to their youngsters so they’ll blindly cast stones as well? How many teenagers brutally attack their classmates that are different simply because they’ve seen their parents act the same way? How many people today follow tradition simply because they’re following tradition? How whacked out is that?

Olive Dunbar plays Tessie Hutchinson in the 1969 version of the movie and she does it well. The changes in her expression with each realization as the lottery progresses hits me hard. Like I said, she could easily be the mom of any of my contemporaries. She goes from a housewife who is late to the ritual because she didn’t want to leave dirty dishes in the sink to a woman who is forced to realize her own mortality in minutes, all in the name of tradition. The cinematography is subtle. Most would find it bland, boring and amateurish. I find it moving. It steps out of the way and makes the viewer think.

Just as the assigned reading did back in 1982.