Blogs and Conversation

The Observation Deck card says: "Ask a Question." Here's one: Why do I write this blog?

One reason is to record my voice. I've wished many times that I had more samples of the voices from my past--those I've loved and lost. Another reason is that I want to capture certain ideas I find valuable and remember them for future reference. Sometimes I look up an old blog I've written to remind myself of things I've figured out before, like Gretel following the trail of breadcrumbs through the dark forest.

A third reason is that I've always enjoyed writing. Why? Words fascinate me, and putting them down in just the right way to truly express an idea gives me satisfaction and joy. Just as others might express themselves with a painting or a song or a scientific experiment or a challenging rock climb, I express myself best with words.

A related question running through my mind quite often is: Why is it so damn hard these days to find good conversation? Sherry Turkle published a NYT article a few weeks ago called "The Flight from Conversation" that bemoans our tendency to focus on short electronic communications rather than the admittedly more messy, stop-and-start of genuine, real-time connection that can actually be had by looking someone in the eyes for an extended period of time, listening carefully and patiently to what is said, and then responding in turn. We do this, God help us, even when a person is sitting right there (I do it too). A recent Atlantic article asks: "Is Facebook Making Us Lonely?". Perhaps so.

In the olden days (my children), there were salons where intellectuals gathered for fascinating discussion. I fantasize about starting a monthly conversational potluck, where everybody brings a dish for dinner and a topic written on a slip of paper. Over dinner we would draw one topic at a time for discussion.

What could possibly go wrong? A political or religious topic might throw the group into heated argument--what joy! Or...nobody would know how to get started because we've all forgotten how to actually converse. People would clam up, or retreat to the bathroom to check their iPhones. But surely intelligent, verbally adept people could get beyond these obstacles. The more I think about it the more I love the idea, but I also fear rejection--what if I try it but nobody wants to come? They'd rather stay at home "liking" on Facebook and tweeting into the ether, or simply enjoying peace and quiet. As Sartre pointed out, "Hell is other people." Can conversational skills actually atrophy? Real conversation still happens for captive audiences on airplanes who are wirelessly deprived, so I see a glimmer of hope. Although I admit I am the first one to bury my nose in the book on the airplane, sending the clear signal that I Don't Want to Talk...perhaps I should revisit that.

Ribe Tuchus (Sit Still)

According to the Observation Deck, the literal Yiddish translation of ribe tuchus is "rub your bottom on the chair."

Flannery O'Connor had a rule that she would sit at her writing desk for three hours each day. If she had nothing to write she would stare at the wall, but she often did have something interesting to say as we know. I also find that by sitting still with my notebook I often surprise myself by having something to say after all--sometimes I get a jump start by observing my immediate surroundings and describing them. 

Right now I see a slender young woman sitting immediately on the other side of the coffee shop window on the patio, feet up on one of the black wrought iron chairs, typing on her laptop. It's hard to imagine how she can see anything on the computer screen in the bright sunlight, but she continues to continue. She's dressed in a green-toned camouflage tank top, extremely short faded denim cutoffs, a two-inch wide belt beaded in orange and turquoise, many silver bracelets on both wrists with one pulled up past her elbow, and large silver hoop earrings--but she wears no rings at all. Her long, dark hair is piled high on her head with a few strands artfully coiling down to frame her face. She wears woven ankle-high sandals. She chews gum furiously as she finally decides to move herself to the shady half of the table where there is some hope she might be able to view the computer screen and opens two books on her lap, pen in hand, a page of notes peaking out from underneath the laptop and flapping gently in the breeze. She takes a brief call on her cell phone and then turns back to her work.

I'm guessing she's a CU student and I once again feel that surge of envy I often have for those whose entire focus in life is learning. I didn't appreciate it as much as I could have in my youth. Of course if asked, this young woman might assure me that her life is far more complicated than simply learning, and a far cry from the bliss I imagine. In any case, I remind myself that I also continue to learn at my work, through my experiences with people and technology and in brief furious spates of research, for example each time I hear yet another technical acronym that is new to me. One of the best things in life is that we continue to learn until the very end; all that's required is that we remain open and curious.

Squint

The card from the Observation Deck says:  Squint

The idea is that squinting at a familiar scene lets you see it in new and less familiar ways by observing lighting, angles and nuances not previously perceived.

For me, it becomes a blurred and shimmering glimpse of a terrifying future in which one of my most precious senses, my sight, might be diminished.  I'm filled with intense gratitude right now that I still have my vision.

Both my mother and her mother had macular degeneration - an eye disease that, spot by spot, robs you of your central vision leaving you with some peripheral sight if you're lucky.  For years my mother brought Granny talking books from the library so she could continue enjoying one of her greatest pleasures, reading.  Famous actress Dame Judith Dench who has the disease and now has to have new scripts read to her, has said that the thing she misses most is being able to see the face of her dinner partner at a restaurant.

Recently my optometrist gave me a sheet of paper with a grid and two angry red dots at the edges to be used for self testing. She sees the first signs of the disease in my eyes.    The idea chills me to the bone; of course, fear of what the future might bring is one of the things I am constantly trying to resist.

There are preventative measures:  diligently wearing sunglasses in the Colorado sun, taking supplements like lutein, regular check ups.  How could I face not being able to see the forest in Spring, a beautiful sunset, a future grandchild's face, or words on a page?  If all prevention fails me, will I in fact perceive the world in new ways, hearing the birdsong in the forest at dusk more distinctly and the beloved voice of the grandchild more clearly?  Helen Keller, who surely knew, said, "When one door of happiness closes, another opens."

Need a new perspective?  Just squint.

Create a Sacred Space

Since I've had quite a dry spell in my writing, I decided to pull out The Observation Deck--a deck of cards with creative writing ideas to give myself a jumpstart.  The point is to make your self write something about the idea on the card no matter what; there's a little booklet with a few paragraphs about each card to help get the juices flowing.

The first card I pulled read:  "Create a Sacred Space"

I was reminded of my small efforts over the last several months to create a more welcoming spiritual place for myself in my office at work. It's a small corner office many would envy:  huge windows facing west the a clear view of the Front Range. In one corner of my desk I've placed a small cascading fountain and I've arranged my five little ivory laughing buddhas around the fountain and up its steps.  Nearby stands a small white statue of a guardian angel given to me by a friend during some very dark days a couple of years ago.

Next to the fountain is a meditation chime--a metal cylinder cradled on a wooden base with a small wooden mallet which can be used to strike the chime, issuing an extremely clear, bell-like tone that fades ever so slowly back into silence again.  The chime helps me remember to breath and be present.

Also on the desk is a daily Zen calendar with a new quotation for each day; I've saved some of my favorite quotes which are arranged somewhat haphazardly on the desk for repeated reference, including:

"Always stay in your own movie." - Ken Kesey

"Only the madman is absolutely sure." - Robert Anton Wilson

"My father considered a walk among the mountains the equivalent of church-going." - Aldous Huxley

"Awareness is therapy per se." - Fritz Perl

A weekly calendar is on another corner of the desk with beautiful photographs of nature and wild animals;  I look forward to turning the page each Monday morning.  A monthly wall calendar has nature photographs and quotes by that master of the here and now, Eckhart Tolle.  A carved wooden bowl sits nearby which I keep filled with tangerines and apples.  

On the wall opposite the windows is a framed panoramic photo of Boulder's Flatirons glowing pink and orange at dawn.

I spend a lot of time at work and I'm glad I've succeeded in creating a welcoming and spiritual space there.

My bedroom at home is a restful place, with a huge picture over the bed of the ocean viewed through a window with thin white curtains stirring gently in the sea breeze.  Deep blue glass bottles filter the light from the window, pictures of my family grace the walls, a big white goosedown comforter covers the bed.  On the wall by the door is a photograph given to me by my true love of a tree-lined Parisian walkway, the sun filtering down through the leaf canopy.  Perched on one corner of the picture frame is a yellow and purple feathered Mardi Gras mask.

So I think I know how to create sacred spaces for myself.  But when it comes to my writing, I lean toward extreme portability. I like to load my backpack for long walks, carrying with me everything I'll need to write anywhere.  In this case I carry my sacred space inside my head by staying aware and noticing the vastness of the world around me.

Do you have a sacred space?