The dark side

It is a truism that many of us spend time and energy (re)learning lessons we resist, whether the lessons are academic, professional, or personal. One of my recurring lessons is the value of darkness.  I'm not a fan of the dark, whether the dead of night or the dead of winter. And when considering the darker side of our natures, I often struggle to reconcile it with the better angels.

The evidence from the last two times I spent with my camera--another trip to the local cemetery I visit often (to be fair, I pass it to and from work, so it's not quite as morbid as it might sound) and a recent trip to New York City--suggests that I remain intrigued with the dark side.  Three of my favorite photographs include a window in the lobby of The American Museum of Natural History and the shadow cast while my daughter and I contemplated the Statue of Liberty.

As with many things in life, the dark side is easier to appreciate as art, with the perspective gained by distance.  But I think a full and well-lived life requires that we appreciate the darkness while we are surrounded by it or walking within it.  Even when the darkness is large enough to obscure the very place in which we are standing.

This is going to be a life-long course for some of us.

Our stories

The first time I saw the Statue of Liberty was from the Staten Island Ferry. I was in graduate school and the statue was in scaffolding for cleaning and refurbishing. The second time I saw her (also from the Staten Island Ferry), we were on a trip that simply didn't have her on the itinerary. The third time I saw her was from the ferry headed to Liberty Island.  This time, after standing in the long, slow security line, I was able to really see Lady Liberty.

The design and construction of the statue is enough to leave one marveling. The view of the harbor is the stuff of which posters, puzzles, and magnets are made. And the Statue of Liberty is for sale in various forms all over the island of Manhattan. But the meaning of the statue to those who saw her for the first time at the end of their long journey to a country I have always been fortunate enough to call home is what I brought home.

It was the letters.  The handwritten letters in the museum. The letters in a beautiful script, rarely used today, by men and women who saw the Statue of Liberty for the first time with families and strangers with whom they had spent a week or more (not including time to reach the port from which they left) traveling from the home they had always known to one they hoped would be better.

When I read in an elegant script one 80-year-old woman's account of the crossing, seeing the Statue of Liberty for the first time with her younger sister beside her, hearing the cries of joy from passengers who knew their destination was in sight, enduring the long and unpleasant processing at Ellis Island, making a home in a new country...and offering her $5 donation (because it was all she could afford) to help refurbish the Statue of Liberty, I cried.

My college freshman daughter and I recently viewed a documentary about El Salvador that was shown on campus.  It was for her Spanish class, she didn't want to go alone, and I didn't particularly want to go.  But I did.  And I was glad.  And afterward, my daughter told me that she enjoys history, but only when it's told as a good story.

History is always a good story, despite the fact that we often don't tell it well. Some would say that everything worth knowing is part of a story...and that it's the story we remember...that the story helps us make meaning of what we need to know, learn, and do.  And I have a reminder in my office of a story of gratitude written simply, from the heart, and accompanied by $5.

Going there to see here

There is a sidewalk on my campus that I only use about twice a month. Over the course of almost 10 years, I've observed the changing seasons, the changing students, and the ubiquitous construction.  I've pretty well seen what there is to see on that stretch of sidewalk. Or so I thought.

Last week, I saw the light.  Literally.  In fact, I saw two of them, flanking the entrance to a building.  And I realized that I had seen that light two months and 300 miles away, walking the streets of Memphis and capturing architectural details through the lens of my camera.  Why had I never seen that light in my own backyard?

As I pondered that question, I searched through 200 or so photos of architectural details (light fixtures, molding, brick patterns, ironwork, bridges and more, in true geek fashion) to find the one I remembered.  Memory being what it is, the lights are similar in design and material, though not identical. But had I not taken the photo there, I doubt that I would ever have noticed the light here.

Sometimes we can only see some parts of where we are by returning there from somewhere else. T.S. Eliot captures it best, perhaps, in "Little Gidding" from Four Quartets:

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

Minds traveling

Last week, we visited the clock tower on campus. A group of 19 freshmen and I walked through the corridors of a historic classroom and office building to see the original bell (from the bell tower located at the other end of the building), the history of the clock tower that had no clock for most of its life, and the mechanism that currently produces the Westminster Chimes heard each day between 8 a.m. and 8 p.m.

The clock tower is both a working tower and a museum (albeit on a small scale) to honor history and tradition.  For me, it is a reminder of childhood days spent in Germany, where church bells and manicured cemeteries are ubiquitous. In fact, I found myself explaining to the students the unique sound of Westminster Chimes (yes, I was singing; there's really no other way) and searching for a connection that would resonate for most of them.  The one that worked? Mary Poppins.  The movie.  With The Palace of Westminster and Big Ben in the opening scenes.

When we returned to class, I offered a brief explanation of my fascination with pendulum clocks and the various chimes associated with Bavaria.  And I've been thinking for several days now about how each place I've traveled (Panama, Canada, Mexico, the United Kingdom, Germany, Denmark, Sweden, Norway, Switzerland, Austria, France, Belgium, Holland, and the majority of the 50 U.S. States) has influenced my thinking, my preferences, my attitudes, my reading...an impact that reaches far beyond the actual time spent in traveling:

• Cemeteries I visit and photograph: Germany.  
• Tulip bulbs in my garden that herald Spring: Holland. 
• The locks of the Panama Canal that fascinate me: Panama.
• Quality chocolate : Switzerland, Belgium, France.
• Classic movies I enjoy watching: Germany, Switzerland, France (Paris), the United Kingdom (London)
• Trains I ride as often as I can: Europe

The list goes on, as I age, travel with my daughter (most recently London; next up New York City), and encourage students to look beyond the immediate to see the past as something other than a history text to endure, to experience the present unfolding both in their own community and in the communities of others, and to image the future differently because of those experiences.  Whether we travel by way of reading, by way of theory (Stephen Hawking is one of my favorite role models for mind travel), or by way of imagination, it's important that our minds travel.  

As a case in point, after class I did a bit of reading about Westminster Chimes and learned that they are also called Cambridge Chimes.  St. Mary the Great, located in central Cambridge, is the home of the chimes which have always been Westminster Chimes to me.  

Minds traveling are minds learning.

A synaptic jungle

When I'm juggling many things at once, unable (or unwilling...possibly, maybe) to let any of them fall, focusing my thoughts long enough to finish any one thing seems far harder. I like to think that I do my best work when I focus, but that would mean that I'm not doing my best work.  A bit of a conundrum.

Some of the disconnected thoughts about which I've made notes to write:

Why is it that each generation thinks itself the only source of significant invention or creation?  As though some cosmic vacuum allows current-generation brilliance to spring forth, absent any antecedent?  The two recent examples on my mind are abbreviated communication and voice recognition technology.

Twitter is the pinnacle of short-form abbreviation, challenging the witty and erudite to create brilliance in 140 characters (114, if you include a link).  And texting has created an entirely new way of (non)spelling and (non)punctuation.

Yet, e.e. cummings (who lived from 1894 until 1962) eschewed punctuation throughout a lengthy literary life and in Twitter+64, Orville Wright announced the first successful powered flight...in December 1903.  Wright used a pay-per-character invention called the telegram:

Success four flights thursday morning all against twenty one mile wind started from Level with engine power alone average speed through air thirty one miles longest 57 seconds inform Press home Christmas.

And what about about sophisticated voice-recognition technology that allows the spoken word to be "translated" into the written word?  In a meeting (one of way too many) recently, one colleague word-smithed for another this way:

" ...open parentheses for faculty who do not have access close parentheses period new sentence..."

With age and experience, we've breached the gap between anachronism and cutting-edge cool.  Those of us old enough to have dictated reports or other communication into an old-fashioned technology are the ones most capable of effectively using the new technology.  For voice recognition software to produce something other than comically-inaccurate renderings (pay close attention, sometime, to the closed captions on live news stories), the speaker needs several skills in short supply today: proper grammar, punctuation, and pronunciation (diction, to the elderly among us), plus the ability to translate all of those into spoken narrative "on the fly" as it were.

The paradox of new innovation.

Some days, the technology wins

Today is one of those days.  Actually, it's one of those weeks.  How much I appreciate technology when it works is exactly how much I am frustrated when it doesn't.  And here's the thing that should give us all pause: We are far too dependent upon technology for our day-to-day existence.

I'm not a Luddite, nor am I an innovator...not even an early adopter.  Technology of any form should, I believe, make my life easier or better in some way.  Some times it does.  I'd put the electric iron, air conditioning, telephones, and electricity squarely in the corner of Easier or Better in Some Way.  Computers and the attendant peripherals tap dance all over the line between Easier-Better and something best spelled with far fewer letters.  And as cell phones become more computer than phone, they, too, slip further from Easier-Better.

There was a time when we all knew the telephone numbers of our parents (or children, depending upon our age), neighbors, local businesses, and close friends.  Far too many of us don't know the work or cell phone numbers of our spouse or closest friends; when the cell phone stops working, we are frighteningly helpless.  As a friend of mine asks frequently, what will happen when someone unplugs the cord?

The source of my pique today is a recent issue with my home modem, which seems to have stopped working due to a storm-related power surge.  These things happen (though not, I might add, to my books, pens, or paper....just sayin') and the modem was still under warranty.  Installed the new modem and...the wireless router won't allow a connection. After close to an hour on the phone with the helpful (yes, they really were) people at A.T.&T., we reach the end of the support they can provide.  Only when I am left on my own to do the requisite research do I learn that the router has been "phased out" (that's Greek for "we are now making something else that costs a lot more") and is no longer supported.  Would have been nice to know that when I replaced the decrepit modem two months ago.  In order to have wireless access, I am now forced to buy another piece of technology.  All I get to decide is which piece and at what cost.

Lest you think I am overstating the case of our tech-dependency and helplessness, here's what happened when I previewed this post mid-way:

Today, the technology won.  We'll see how tomorrow goes.

"Self-expression over excellence, confidence over perfection."

I read and copied it (by hand) without attribution many years ago.  There's a sadness in my inability to attribute authorship to words powerful enough to write about some 15 or so years later.  A significant learning in the intervening years is the wisdom of always noting the source, whether a book, a lecture, a website, a speech, or a private conversation. If it's important enough to remember, it's important enough to remember the source.  Though I've tried, I've not yet been able to find the source (and, yes, help is welcome).

What I do remember is why I kept this quote for (re)discovery.  It captured much of what I wanted to convey to my now-grown daughter about the difference between striving for perfection (by some external standard) and accepting who we are. Striving to achieve the unrealistic goal of Perfect derails the very efforts that lead to excellence, as well as the efforts that lead to failure--the failure required for learning.

This doesn't excuse mediocre work or cutting corners or accepting less than our best effort.  What it does, however, is free us from the debilitating effects of chasing a perfection we will never reach.  It frees us from the tyranny of perfection, the tyranny that most often blossoms as procrastination.

Knowing we cannot reach perfection, we fail to reach at all.  Far better to start with an honest assessment and acceptance of who we are and what we know, then find the people and the opportunities to challenge us to personal excellence.