Packing the Elephants

My Mom likes elephants. She always has, so, over the years, we kids have all given her elephants to add to her collection. Every Christmas, and each of her birthdays, one of us kids would manage to slip in an elephant of some kind.  She displayed them all, the hand made elephant coffee mug, the row of tiny green ones trailing each other across a bookshelf, a big one carved from exotic wood on the floor, a three dimensional tin one hanging on the wall and a small ceramic one with a big smile who sat happily on a little swing just above the sink.

Now Mom, being the woman that she was, would never had let on that perhaps, her love of elephants didn’t necessarily mean that she wanted to be given an elephant at every gift giving opportunity, nor did that love of pachyderms mean that she wanted her house to be turned into a shrine for the things…no, Mom, being the woman she was, loved the gifts and proudly displayed them all, and we were never told whether, in fact, she really loved them THAT much.

It was more important to her to show off the gifts that her children were thoughtful (or unimaginative) enough to continually give her. That was Mom. She was always the one thinking about what would make all of us happy and feel special, even at her own expense.

It wasn’t just elephants though. She had inherited a commemorative spoon collection from her mother-in-law, and over the years each of us would dutifully buy a spoon wherever we travelled. My brother, while he was in the Navy, definitely won the prize for bring back spoons from the most exotic places, but my sister and I did our share to add to the collection. I even found one in Florida that had elephants on it…what a score! These too, my Mom carefully displayed in wall racks.

I found out though, that perhaps she didn’t quite have the love for spoons that she had for elephants when, after I returned from a trip to Chicago, with new spoon in hand my Mom said, gently, ‘Thank you, but I’m not sure that I have space for any more spoons.” I may be limited as far as my gift-giving prowess, but I can recognize a hint.

No more spoons.

That was also about the time that we all started noticing that Mom was no longer quite as interested in a lot of things that she used to love. It was subtle at first, little things like the types of books she was reading, shifting from dense English History tomes to lighter mysteries, albeit the Brother Cadfel mysteries were set in middle ages Britain…but the change was there.

Other things changed as well. She stopped doing needlepoint, and her quilting passion diminished from sewing beautiful, intricately patterned bed-sized quilts to sewing together the occasional small decorative wall hanging to display as part of her themed bathroom. She stopped watching movies or staying up late to watch Letterman. Crosssticks puzzles were left half finished…things were changing.

These changes continued until they demonstrated an undeniable pattern that lead to a series of difficult and sad transitions…and painful choices for my sister and I. Mom could no longer drive. Mom could no longer live alone. Mom needed care givers. Mom needed to move into assisted living.

The other weekend, we moved Mom to a more dedicated care facility and had to once more pack her things away as the new facility had far less space. There was precious little space for more than a bed, a side table and a TV cabinet that now was heavily laden with family photos in a vain hope that they would somehow seem ‘homey’ and familiar.

But no more room for elephants.

So, in the process of packing her remaining possessions, I filled a box with a collection of carefully wrapped elephants…including a set of tiny green ones trailing each other, a 3-D tin one that hung on the wall and a smiling one who happily sat on a swing. The box went into the garage and will eventually go into storage where someday, some future relative, possibly who will never have met my Mom, will open the box marked “Mom’s Elephants” and will unwrap each of the carefully wrapped elephants and wonder why such care was taken for a collection of such worthless little things.

What is love?

Don’t worry, I don’t really have an answer to that.

I can’t tell anyone what love is, only that it is something that you know exists only when you have truly felt it for yourself. Love is many things of course. It is a fire that rages and burns you with fierce desire, but it is also the quiet of that gentle glance across a shadowed room. It is hands holding while tears stream and the ache that comes in the wee hours when a byzantine argument seems that it will have no end…and all you want is to fall into the person’s arms instead of screaming.

Love is fast moments of overwhelming passion and years of warm routine, it is sharing the world through each other’s eyes and being mystified by how someone cannot see what you see.

It is contradiction and consolation and condolence and a deep sharing of strength when it is most needed. It is being alone and forever together. It is respect and caring and anger and forgiveness. It is touching and kissing and longing for a touch that is withheld.

No, I can’t tell anyone what love is, only that I have found it myself and it still is amazing to me, and still so baffling. It is wanting to understand and being content with the journey of discovery…a journey that will last forever.

I can’t tell you what love is, because if you have found it yourself, then you already know.

One Dim Lamp

Imagine that you are sitting in a room, alone. There is a chair, a table and a small lamp with a weak bulb. The room is small and the walls are made of frosted glass that lets in the light, but no clear images, save for a few clear panels spaced randomly. These clear windows are small and allow you to only see a tiny clear image of someone perhaps walking past outside…but quickly the image disappears before you have a chance to focus on it. 

The room is not soundproof, but the walls are thick enough that they muffle the outside noise, so that unless someone stands close to the wall and shouts, you are not able to hear anything distinctly.

When you first enter the room, you can see well because there is a lot of light coming from the outside shining in. The light makes you feel less lonely, especially when you can see the outlines of people walking past outside, and you are able to recognize the faces that pass the clear windows.

But, as time goes on, the light from outside fades, and is replaced by the weak lamp in the room with you.  Because of the light in the room, it becomes harder to see the shapes of people passing by outside, and the faces in the clear panes of glass become less noticeable, and pass by less and less frequently. Also, for some reason, fewer people speak loudly outside the walls, so that you hear less and less distinct sounds, just muffled echoes.

Soon, the light from outside fades almost completely and you are left sitting alone in a small pool of light, with only an occasional echo or shadow coming to you out of the growing darkness. Once in a great while, a face will hover at the window long enough for you to notice, but often the shadows make it hard to recognize who the face belongs to, and even if you call out, the face disappears before you can get an answer.

The darkness becomes deeper, until all that seems to remain is your chair, the table and the lamp sitting in a pool of weak light. You are scared, and lonely and uncertain, and distrusting of the darkness because you have forgotten that there were once walls that you could see out of.

Now, if sounds come to you, they are frightening because they have no meaning, no attachment to anything real. If a face suddenly swims in from the darkness it is startling and distorted by the odd shadows cast off by the dim lamplight, making the face seem only vaguely familiar…like a face from a dream that you once remember having.

This is how I imagine Alzheimer’s must feel.

That is not my Mother

My mother laughs easily and doesn’t look out at the world through suspicious, haunted eyes. My mother tells stories about all the relatives that I will never know, but come alive in her words. My mother played games with me, and didn’t let me win just because I was too young to lose.

That is not my mother.

My mother knows what day of the week it is and remembers the last time I came to see her. My mother remembers the stories of all the stupid art projects that my brother and sister and I brought home from school through the years. My mother saved 3^rd grade report cards and handmade mother’s day presents slopped together by 5 year-olds-pudgy fingers. My mother never forgets birthdays.

That is not my mother.

My mother read books, so many books. She could tell you every one of the Plantagenets and then explain how they interwove themselves through English History. My mother could explain the relationship between Mary Queen of Scots and Elizabeth and all the intrigue that surrounded them. My mother could have written books.

That is not my mother.

My mother loved musicals because in college she loved working behind the scenes. My mother would iron and do housecleaning with the stereo blasting Camelot, The Music Man, South Pacific and My Fair Lady. “Each evening from December to December…” my mother knew all the words.

That is not my mother.

But, it is the woman she has become. She fades away a little more each day, my mother that I knew is disappearing. I love that woman with all my soul, but…

That is not my mother.

Strawberry Fields

Maybe it's not forever but it does feel sort of eternal somehow. The memorial to John Lennon in Central Park is simple, elegant and understated, perhaps like John Lennon himself, though I don't really know that for sure, the Beatles were sort of out of my sphere of focus musically. I, of course, know a majority of their major songs by heart, as I know iconic nursery rhymes by heart...Beatles songs having woven themselves into the fabric of our existence.

But as for John himself, I know of him, his aesthetic appearance, Yoko and the supposed reason that he left the Beatles to watch the shadows on the wall. And I know about Mark David Chapman and the day that he shot John in the back outside of The Dakota apartments in New York.

As for Strawberry Fields, Yoko endowed New York with over a million dollars to create the small triangular section of Central Park as a memorial for John, named of course for the song John wrote as a tribute to the Strawberry Field Children's home that the Salvation Army ran in Liverpool near where John grew up. It was there, in the fields behind the home that John would listen to the Salvation Army band and become inspired to become a musician.

the center piece of the memorial is the mosaic circle with the word "Imagin" in the center. It is simple and moving in it's own way. I spent awhile just sitting in one of the benches surrounding the mosaic and watching how people interacted with it. Most avoided walking on the mosaic at all, unless it was to kneel on it to pose for a picture.

Occasionally someone would just walk directly across the mosaic, seemingly oblivious to any significance that it might have. This struck me as being somehow disrespectful and part of me wanted to get up and tell these people to walk around the circle, to pay attention to where they stepped, which got me to thinking about respect in general and why and how it is given.

After all this mosaic was really just a collection of nicely shaped stones, arranged in a discernible pattern on the ground. Were the spot not marked as a special location, would any of us even know that some sort of deference should be given to this spot above any other spot? It is not as though John Lennon is actually buried there, he wasn't even shot and killed there, nor was he born there. Essentially he lived across the street...so why does it matter where we step?

It seems to come down to the fact that I knew that the spot had significance, and that I was aware of what that significance was and because of that awareness, I chose to offer that spot some respect. I have no control over whether others choose to embrue that spot with significance or whether they choose to pay the spot respect or not, which, in a way, is exactly what Lennon was probably trying to say when he wrote "Imagin" in the first place.

"Imagin there no heaven...above us only sky. "

I don't think John would care if someone walked on his memorial, but he would like that we were all there enjoying the spot together, in whatever way we chose.

Starting My New York Minute

It really doesn't matter what time you arrive, New York is always alive and happening. Our plane didn't land at JFK until nearly 11, so, after fetching bags and lining up a town car who then flew us along the Van Wyke through Queens until we approached the Queensborogh Bridge where we started getting our first views of the city...and I started getting that lump in my throat...that New York lump.

Ok, I admit it, I am a rube when it comes to New York. This is only my second visit (the first being two years ago for the marathon) and it was in that first visit that I became intoxicated by the place, and intoxication that has carried me over to today. This is THE place.

This is THE CITY. This is New York.

Right now K is pulling up various NY songs, especially Alicia Keyes brilliant and haunting Empire State of Mind and I am getting chills.

Defending Bill O'Reilly

Already the title of this blog has me cringing, but in this instance, I feel that Mr. O'Reilly, the Fox News scion of conservative bombast needs someone to agree with him that is not in his camp.

Recently Mr. O'Reilly posted a video commentary positing that the motion of the tides was proof of God's existance. Apparently some people took issue with this statement and called him on it, to which Mr. O'Reilly posted this response:

Bill O'Reilly on the Tides

Essentially, Mr. O'Reilly states that while we know that the moon causes the tides, we don't know where the moon came from, or where the solar system came from or anything.

Well, scientists were quick to jump all over these statements and label them as typical ignorant conservative creationist-theory rhetoric, thus perpetuating the kind of polarizing debate that Fox News and Mr. O'Reilly thrive upon.

But what is missed in this type of black and white, either/or debate is the subtlety that I think Mr. O'Reilly actually was pointing out, which is that while science can indeed explain how the tides are affected by the moon, and provide theories as to how the moon came to exist as a satellite around the earth, the thing that science has yet to explain if the overriding question of "why the universe (and everything within it) exists in the first place."

The universe is a incredibly complex and wondrous place, filled with intricate systems and processes that scientists have been exploring for centuries, and will continue to explore. As humans, we have been endowed with minds that are curious and driven to continually ask "Why?" and "How come?". As we learn more, we also discover that there is ever more to learn.  In addition to our curiosity, humans have also been endowed with a remarkable capacity for faith, in essence faith is the ability to believe in things that cannot be scientifically proven, things like a greater intelligence or supreme being that is the ultimate creator of all things. This idea of a creator of the universe crosses almost all religions and cultures.

So why is it so hard to reconcile these two human capacities? Scientific exploration and faith in a supreme creator? The two are by no means mutually exclusive as some would argue, rather if we look at our scientific curiosity as a way to continually discover the incredibly sublime mechanisms and complexity of a universe that was created by an intelligence far far superior to our own, then these two human capacities of curiosity and faith can be reconciled.

I'll take the analogy down a few levels to where it is more clear for me to understand, maybe it will help. Say I have a natural aptitude for mechanics and come across a vehicle that I have never seen before. Being curious I start to examine the vehicle, even start to disassemble and reassemble it. Along the way I discover that it runs on a certain type of fuel, that it has a navigation mechanism, that it has safety features and other systems that regulate and optimize its operation. In short, I find out all sorts of things about this vehicle except for who made it.

Obviously it was made. Obviously the vehicle exists for me to examine, disassemble and reassemble, and obviously it was manufactured somehow,,,therefore implying a manufacturer. So, even though we are unable to identify the creator of the vehicle through examining its parts, we can imply that the creator exists.

The disconnect seems to come when that same analogy is applied to natural systems and objects. A tree, for instance, has many component parts, utilizes intricate systems that facilitates its growth and development, and the tree interacts with the environment around it, which in turn presents even more intricate systems and interactions. Scientists are still exploring these inter-dependencies and systems...but none of their discoveries identifies who the creator of those systems and inter-dependencies is.

Why then, is it so unacceptable to imply that there is indeed a creator, and then continue our explorations. Nothing is lost by accepting this idea, except that in accepting the idea that there is a supreme intelligence that ultimately created everything, we become humbled and awestruck by the possibility.

This is where the real divergence takes place. Some who are awestruck by this supreme intelligence, then decide that there is no reason or merit in further exploration, and thus shut down the curious part of their minds to just accept that all things were created by God. While others, who see this kind of behavior are appalled that someone would willingly close such a valuable human capacity without question...and thus, in a kind of retaliation, shut down the idea that such a creator can exist at all.

But the divergence does not have to take place. As humans, we are capable of reconciling these two capacities, faith and curiosity, and use both to fuel and drive the other. The more we discover about the workings of the universe, the more in awe we can feel of the omnipotent power of a supreme maker.

And perhaps one of the greatest realities of this reconciliation is that the discovery process is infinite.

So Bill O'Reilly is right, we don't know...but that doesn't mean that we won't keep trying to find out more.

My Cynicism

I have become quite cynical and I really don’t like it. It is easy to be cynical these days because everywhere I look, I see evidence to support my cynicism. The most recent examples were the revelations that only 10% of the money donated to the American Cancer Society actually gets used to support cancer research,  the other 90% is used to support and perpetuate the ACS itself (including providing the CEO with a $1.7 MILLION dollar a year salary…or the Susan B. Komen foundation using 20% of its income to sue other charities who use the words “for the cure” in their title.

These are just a couple of the most recent examples that have come to light. Look anywhere, politics, education, business, the media itself and you’ll find ample evidence of humans subverting ideals with base objectives and self-serving intent.

So why not be cynical? Cynicism is a defense against the absurdity and blatant hypocrisy that seems to infect any endeavor that includes more than a handful of people.

So is the common element people?

Of course, humans are flawed beings that while capable of nobility, heroism and altruism, are also subject to the baser qualities of greed, covetousness, fear and ego.  In our evolution and progression through the ages we have developed so many advances, many positive and beneficial, yet we still can’t seem to get beyond our lusts of power, and acquisition, or our need to piously tell others how they should live their lives while at the same time righteously opposing any of those others who dare to tell us how we should live our lives.

My religious friends would recommend that I find God and give my heart to Jesus, but to do so would seem to require that I also allow myself to believe in the organized churches that promote these beliefs…and time and again the hypocrisy of organized churches just further fuels my disappointment and anger. How can organizations that have as one of its foundational tenets: “Love Thy Neighbor”, also advocate the alienation or outright destruction of another faith whose believers interpret the supreme being differently?

The problem is that cynicism erodes the spirit and ultimately destroys the soul. It makes believing in anything feel like a childishly foolish pursuit that denies the intellect and subsumes common sense.

And yet, we humans have been endowed with the incredible capacities for faith and caring and trust. We have the ability to feel empathy and compassion for others, to feel love and the joy of altruism…all capacities that are also subsumed and eroded by the repeated onslaught of the evidence of human greed, avarice and evil.

So how do we balance our better capacities against our baser elements, and still maintain some kind of sanity?

The only answer that seems to offer some hope is on a purely personal level. I can control myself and how I treat others. I have a mind that allows me to make my own decisions, and a soul that guides my actions using a moral compass of my own creation. I cannot make anyone else act in any way, nor do I feel that I have the right to judge someone else, even though I may feel those judgments are justified according to my own moral beliefs.

Conversely, I can’t stop others from having their own judgments about me, though I don’t believe that they have any right to impose those same judgments on me. But if they try to impose those judgments, then I reserve the right to accept or deny them as I feel is right.

Is this enough? Does it free me from the weight of my cynicism?

Yeah right.