Doing the Work

“The very least you can do in your life is to figure out what you hope for.  The most you can do is live inside that hope, running down its hallways, touching the walls on both sides.”  (Kingsolver – Animal Dreams)

I am better with language than I am with people. This past month I have immersed myself with discipline into the craft of creating a story.   I am choosing to do the work while keeping a receptive mind and an open heart to what my characters need to say.  Daily writing and re-writing will be a long process for me.  To this end, creating a novel that I can share with you, I will not be posting on the blog.   I will leave the blog site open for readers who may want to read one of the 185 past posts. 

Yes, a tree fell in the forest of my life; this time I have listened and there is a story to tell.

"A Prison of his Own Making"

Recently, when corresponding with a friend, the topic of a relative came up.  My friend stated that this person lived in “a kind of prison of his own making”.  This written conversation brought to mind a Henry David Thoreau quote:  “Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.”  This morning, upon waking, I profoundly felt the sadness of this statement – not only for my friend but for me.  There is a truth in confining oneself that I understand.  And, I fear that I am headed for that demise … the inability to listen and share creatively because I box myself in a psychological prison of my own making.

For me, the concept that I have a song that needs to be sung is a hurdle. I know that what separates the people who take action and those who live in a mental world is this: doing. We are all the same in that regard.  The person who releases their “song” has had to walk through the shadows, knowing that there is sun, during those times when the artist is stuck.  This is when she questions if what she is producing is worthy.  An artist has to reside in this mysterious, sometimes frightening, gloom and yet, keep working to produce the image she has held in her mind and heart in order to birth the end product ... art.  This creation is a personal expression of interacting in the world and what it has meant, how living has felt, at least in this one instance, a written piece is an attempt at offering a personal truth. 

Last December, I received a Christmas card with a simple one word message: “Believe”; that was it.  This word is a perfect descriptor of what I have lost or, more likely, never had.  I do not have a deep sense of knowing what it means to believe. 

Looking up the word in the Oxford Pocket Dictionary (2005), I found a couple of definitions that I would like to share.  Believe means to accept that something is true or someone is telling the truth and secondly, the word is defined as to have faith in the truth or existence of. 

There are limitless examples in the world of people believing … people who have overcome the melancholy, the Venus Fly-trap sticky spot that lures them into nonproductivity.  There are no excuses ... action is required.  No person who achieves is spared ... "Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadows of death, I will fear no evil."  (23rd Psalm)

I understand this, I too have built walls of confinement to stifle inspiration.  I have gotten very good at running away from a song that screams to be written … my song.  I am writing to you to pronounce that I am continuing the journey … the excursion to produce work … to unlock the prison confinement, the one of my own making.

I am challenged by this endeavor … the endeavor to:  Believe.

Weddings

Officiating wedding ceremonies is an enjoyable experience for me and hopefully, for the couples that have hired me.  This week I have been invited to perform a special service in St. Thomas, Virgin Islands.  I have never been there and the prospect is quite exciting.   I will be staying with the other guests in a large villa on the secluded side of the island – they’ve hired a chef – oh please … pinch me : )

As I draft the words for the couple, what they will say, what I will say, I gain a deeper understanding that the ritual of marriage is one of the joyous moments in life’s journey.  I have discovered that serving as officiate adds zest to my life as well as reminding me the importance of love.   Most of us know this – love is all there is (Beatles) - but troubles and challenges often absorb our energy – our focus becomes blurred.  We forget. 

What I have witnessed at the moment of union when the betrothed gaze into the eyes of their beloved, join hands and repeat their vow is a spiritual beauty, an aura, or a presence, if you will, that embraces all of us in attendance with love.  This emotion can be felt; there is a momentary hush among the onlookers as the man extends his heart to protect and honor the woman before him.  She knows that she is his girlfriend and more…she is cherished.   

In my last post, I quoted a scene from the movie:  P.S. I love You.  I am going to use that movie dialogue again.  The main character Holly is strolling along the water’s edge with Daniel when a senior couple stops near them to also enjoy the view.  Holly and Daniel are eating and laughing when Holly makes an observation about the older couple.

Holly:  That’s a real honest to goodness couple right there.  They’ve probably been together since the flood.

Daniel:  We’re so arrogant, aren’t we?  So afraid of age, we do everything we can to prevent it.  We don’t realize what a privilege it is to grow old with someone.  Someone who doesn’t drive you to commit murder or doesn’t humiliate you beyond repair.

Ahhhh...call me a romantic…I don’t care.  In a world where many folks are not making commitments, selfishly worried about what they may give up or what they need to get; I feel honored that there are men and women who cherish each other enough to take this important step and, this is the fun part, ask me to oversee this promise.  All of us who witness such vows have a duty to support and encourage the couple.   It is a privilege.

P.S. What Do Women Want?

Each morning I sit with a cup of coffee in a location where I can enjoy watching the birds feed on the oiled sunflower seeds that I put out.  It doesn’t take much observation to understand that within the species of birds, there are defined roles for the male and the female.  They know instinctively their place.  Humans are more complicated and I believe confused with gender roles.

Let me share an example.  Yesterday I was sitting next to one of my grandsons in the bleachers at a baseball game.  In my peripheral vision I saw a man approaching and all though quite a distance away, I recognized a friend.  I commented to my grandson that he was probably coming over to greet us and that it was the right thing to do to extend his right hand and say hello when greeting another male.  I explained that it was an action that was appropriate much like opening doors for women.  These actions are polite and respectable for a man to do.  He took this information in stride and when my friend arrived he put his hand out and said hello. 

Later, a man (about 45) seated next to my grandson – a stranger – commented, “I am glad to hear you say that … that a man should be opening doors for women.  I tell my son that too.”

Reflecting on that event this morning as I view the bird couples, I realize in my world the roles of men and women are often a mystery.   I believe that emotionally a female has a spot in her heart that longs for a strong male, one who not only sexually pleases her but one who supports her emotionally.   Of course, she should exhibit the same qualities and behavior toward him … she sexually pleases him, she demonstrates respect towards him and considers him her best friend.  The exception between a man and a woman is that he is the protector.  The upper body strength of the male is in most cases, designed to be stronger than a female.  This is a physiological fact.  He is intended to be the defender of his family.

I know that growing up without a father and also during the tumultuous 60’s and 70’s have contributed to my not having this baseline information established in my psyche.   I have observed that a lot of men and women aside from me also seem baffled about the importance of a strong man in their life.

There is a scene in the movie 'PS I love You' that makes me laugh.  Daniel (Harry Connick Jr.) is having a conversation with Holly (Hillary Swank) in a bar.  He asks her out and she gently turns him down.  He turns to leave and then abruptly turns back to her and blurts out:

Daniel:  I don’t mean to throw this at you from left field, but what do women want?  I mean, I can’t figure it out.  They want us to ask; they don’t want us to ask; they want us to make a move, not make a move.  They want us to be on bottom; they want us to be on top.  Use hair products, don’t use hair products.  What do you people want?

Holly:  I’ll tell you.  But, you have to promise not to say I told you.

Daniel:  I… I swear.

Holly:  Because it’s a sacred secret.

Daniel:  A sacred secret.

Holly:  You ready?

Daniel:  Yeah.  (He leans in close to her.)

Holly:  You sure?

Daniel:  I think so.

Holly:  (whispering)  We have absolutely no idea what we want.

Daniel:  I knew it!

A funny scene but, I believe, inaccurate.  Instinctively, unlike this movie dialogue, both sexes know what they want in a committed relationship. I want my grandsons to know what I believe a woman wants and admires. 

As I watch the Cardinals at the bird feeder, I have been given a visual confirmation of the explicate role that I admire in a male.  He is bright red compared to her equally beautiful but subdued coloring of tan with red in her wings, tail, and crest.  The male bird is always there with her, sometimes on the tree branch above but he is watching out for her.  If another bird seems to be a threat, he immediately flies to her.  He is territorial ... her protector.  I have never seen a male bird attacking his mate ... not ever.  I have never seen her attacking him ... never.

To my way of thinking, the human world is all upside down and topsy-turvy.  Neither men nor women know their role.  Being the stronger does not mean the man should demean his mate nor should woman put down her man.  From my experience, a woman wants a faithful lover, champion and best friend.

Our natural instinctive need for sex has been fueled by the media to a point where this powerful energy has been used against us.  We want sexual intimacy without reflecting on the ability of the person we partner with to cherish us and likewise, for the female to be able to respect and cherish the man.  If that is not happening before marriage, I have never witnessed a couple changing.  They are both disappointed - either openly or secretively. 

If only we could clear out our past experiences and media promoted confusion to enjoy femininity and maleness as nature intended.  The birds seem to have this right.  Little boys also seem to instinctively know this ... I'd like my grandchildren keep this truth.  Perhaps with understanding their role, they can select a mate and together create joy.

Luminosity

There is a beautiful half moon in Cheboygan, Michigan tonight; no traffic except for me … human traffic walking briskly on an empty sidewalk at 10:30 p.m.   I am alone and I feel safe.  The quiet is clean, inspiring and fresh.   My brain seems to be static with an extra snap … snap …. Synapse.     I am ready for this; I am listening … hide it under a bushel … no.  Instead, shine girl, let it shine.   

Father's Day

The accidental death of my dad occurred when I was six years old.  That traumatic loss left a gap, an emotional hole in my heart that has never repaired.  I am damaged goods; and, I have learned, so are most people in one way or another.  (I have not met, to date, a person spared from an affliction caused by a past experience with another person.)

Today I want to thank the men in life that have kindly stood by me through daily struggles, understanding the necessity for me to have a strong, compassionate male … fair or not fair has not been debated with me … they have taken on the role as friend and protector.

I lost one special friend this past year who demonstrated character and integrity always toward me. I know that he was a blessing.  When I grappled with an issue, he would say:  “Straighten your back and do what is right for you.”   He never said I was wrong (although most often I was : ).  He was neither offended nor indignant by my divergent point of view.  He liked me as I was and told me so. 

Not a day goes by that something he has said to me throughout my years of knowing him as friend does not pop into awareness.  I can only hope that when I am gone, someone can say the same about me.    

Home Run

After registering to take Physics this past January, an acquaintance challenged me by remarking:  “I’d be surprised if you got a “B” in a college level physics course.”  That comment has controlled me throughout the semester, driving me to study when I did not feel like it.  I know, silly and vain that I had the need to disprove this declaration questioning my ability… but competition reared within me.  I worked hard; I studied many hours.

Physic 051 is complete, final exam taken, and I have been anxiously waiting for the final grade posting.  The professor said that grades would take a couple of weeks to show up on Blackboard, the electronic communication system used by the college.  Needless to say, I have not demonstrated patience and have accessed my student number several times only to learn that he was right … grading still not announced.

On Saturday, I spent the afternoon watching a girl’s softball tournament that my granddaughter played in.  She is a good player and exuberant about her ability.  After slugging a line drive for a home run, I heard her voice congratulating herself in the dug-out, “Wasn’t that an awesome home run!”  And after checking the line-up for field positions,  I heard the familiar jovial voice proclaim, “Guess who gets to play first base?” 

This has been her first season as a ball player and I believe she is surprised that she can contribute.  Also, her coach thinks so too.   Her enthusiasm made me laugh … such innocence.   Of course, I am from the 50’s – I have never played a team sport, but thought a little lesson in humbleness was in order.

On the way home, I said, “I loved watching you play.  I can tell that you care about the game and truly put an effort into helping your team achieve the win.”

“I am good at it,” she smiled while her eyes twinkled.

We talked a bit about the game and then I commented, “Do you want to know a secret?”

“What?”

“A life secret … something that I have observed…”

“Sure,”   there was a hint of hesitancy in her voice.

I continued, “Let every compliment about your performance come out of someone else’s mouth.  It will mean more.” 

I didn’t drive the point home any further.  I was pleased that she did seem to get what I was trying to say.  At least, she was quiet for a moment considering the remark before chattering the rest of the way home. 

Later, she asked to spend the night, then her brother wanted to spend the night, and another grandson found out making it a sleepover of three.  (“Over the river and through the woods, to grandmother’s house we go!”)  That evening,  my granddaughter was busy painting a picture while the boys were playing a game on their laptops.  Both little guys thrilled that I had entered the 21^st century and finally (their words) purchased the Verizon jet pack so they could use a wireless connection to play against each other.  I took the moment, everyone involved in their own stuff, to check if my Physics grade had been publicized.

Viola!  Posted: Susan McCoy Physics:   4.0.

Yes, I did a happy dance, actually squealing, “Hey guys look at this!”  The boys, always interested in anything on a computer, ran to look over my shoulder.

“Look, 4.0 in Physics … I’m brilliant!”

They laughed, me still dancing in glee when my granddaughter looked up from her painting project, a “gottcha” smile on her face.

“Grandma, can I share a secret? “

Oops, I Made a Mistake.

Last Saturday, I took a short 3 mile day hike in Kensington with a group of bird enthusiasts.  I have been in the park several times to view the Sandhill cranes this spring and was embarrassed to find out, from Saturdays' hiking guide, that the nests I believed were made by Sandhill Cranes are actually nests of the Great Blue Heron.  I have reworked that particular chapter in the book I am working on and thought I should also share with you since I posted that excerpt on the blog site.
Sandhill Cranes are private and build their nests on the ground in the marsh.  I have sat on the park bench and watched those birds several times but the trees are just far enough away that I could not make out the color details (physics has helped me understand that reflection, refraction, focal point of image all play into the tricks my eyes can play when I let my mind work overtime).  The Blue Heron has a large size but shape, beak, and color are very different from the cranes I love to watch in the marsh.  I apologize for this careless mistake.


Another quick update:  My physics final is Thursday … still holding on to my “A” and I am very proud of myself.  I find the Math fascinating and have discovered that I “get it”.  There is so much going on in the invisible world of electromagnetic fields, wavelengths, light, charges, chemical reactions, atoms, electrons … okay, I’ll stop.  I have been told that I can be a nerd.  I am proud of that too.

Newton's First Law

This excerpt is from the novel I am currently working on.  The main character, Madison, has parked her car and is walking toward an established rural cemetery located on a hilltop surrounded by a protected wetland.

In contrast to her mood, she could not help but notice that nature was surging with the potential energy of life ready to burst.  Michigan’s early crocus had already poked through the half frozen ground – yellows and purples -  colorful, small flowers in brilliant shades, each bloom emanating loudly that yes, they were the precursors to full blown spring.   Buds formed into plump, red nodes on the Maples lining the side of the path.   Geese clamored at each other from the adjacent wetland area.  Honk … honk … an unpleasant sound in comparison to the trumpet repetition of the Sandhill Cranes that also inhabited the marshy area.  Kar-r-r-roo, kar-r-r-roo … their purring karrrroo call reminded her of the rolling ‘r’ in the French language.  She had recently returned from France and her struggle to communicate using the correct intonations of the local language had been difficult … well, not difficult, unsuccessful would be a better descriptor.   Although home, state side … seeing the cranes brought back memories of France, each thought a wave, undulating through her mind, bringing forth a conscious reflection of the French countryside.

From the thicket of the marsh, a crane duet reached a crescendo, seemingly begging her to delay her climb to the grave site and instead, walk closer to the water’s edge.  What matter the delay?  He was not there – and,  within her belief system, there was more probability that he could be honored by watching the birds; yes, more hope in that act than paying homage to a mound of dirt.   And … it did not matter where she was, location was only geography … the hurt traveled with her. 

Several cranes flew overhead but it was the continued harmonizing sounds from the brush that caused her to change direction.   After a few moments of concentrated study, she spotted the couple; their earthy tint was a perfect camouflage allowing them to hide from her in the wild fountain grass and dried cattails.  No green on the marsh as yet ... most plant life was still dormant.   How could she have missed them?   She marveled at their magnificent prehistoric size.

 There were only two birds; a lot of melody for only two, she thought.  Unlike most birds in which the male was easy to spot because his color shouted – yes, I am the male; both of these Sandhills were similar in markings, other than size, she could not tell them apart – a blend of grays and brown.  After stepping closer to get a better look, she decided that the female must be the smaller crane.  Small was an understatement though, each bird was over four feet tall and both had a brilliant rusty, red forehead.  Really, you guys are quite flamboyant.  

Taking the apartment last year in France, had kept her from enjoying Michigan’s spring.  Living abroad had carried the hope to write herself into a place where she could emotionally live and forget.  That intent had been as unsuccessful as her endeavor to master the rolling ‘r’ sound of the French tongue.  

With each step into the marsh, she broke through the thin, brittle layer of ice still clinging to the edges of the swamp until; finally, she stopped unable to go any further without soaking her hiking boots. 

 In the center of the water, a group of tall trees protruded from an insignificant clump of land.  This region was a protected nesting area for the Sandhills under the jurisdiction of the metro-park authority.  With the branches still naked, only the buds made the promise of forthcoming leaves, the unusually large crane nests were exposed.   In the topmost branches, she counted ten ... there were ten nests.   

“Wow,” she whispered. 

At that moment, a crane flew toward the treetop breeding area.  The head of the bird and its long neck were tucked into the sizeable body as it flew while the legs dragged horizontally behind.   Large wings (over six feet expanse) carried all of the weight gracefully to a stop.  Whoosh … whoosh …  it momentarily hovered before straightening its long, black legs to a vertical position to land on a limb, which, from where she stood, appeared too fragile to hold the splendid bird. 

These large winged species brought to mind the enormous Storks of France, also a symbol of spring.  While wandering medieval cities, she had often spotted an oversized nest high in the ramparts. Those nests had not seemed out of place on a castle wall; different here in Michigan where history was not a constant reminder.   From the window in her apartment in Colmar, a city in the Alsace region, she had been privy to a direct view of a stork nest located on the top of a medieval church.  The narrow street between her apartment and the rooftop made it possible for a very close observation of the mother feeding her young. 

Out in the marsh, she again caught sight of the singing couple; they had moved quite a distance away from her.  A Sandhill Crane could be nature’s pallet for the blends and hues of khaki and gray.  Subtle shades, with the bright red forehead, white cheeks and a long dark beak.  The birds walked through the brush slowly; carefully lifting each foot, knee joint bending back like a human elbow and then extending the three pronged foot forward.  The female stayed a short distance behind the male, both easily maneuvering through the dry stalks surrounded by mini patches of snow.  They would stop often, no hurry to their stroll, often the kar…rr...oo communication would take place:  kar...rroo – the male once; the female answered – kar...rroo, kar...rroo.  She knew the birds mated for life and both parents attended the young colt (the newborn bird) for several months.  That had been her intent too … to mate for life.

She continued walking around the marsh edge while keeping the cranes in sight.  The ground was still frozen below the surface, a bit spongy for about an inch but then firm.  Within a couple of weeks the edge of the bog would turn into a muddy mess.   Spring would open to summer– that was a constant – after winter there was always spring.  The birds were another of nature’s invariables –– each year the birds returned.   That too was geography.

Forgiven. Not Forgotten (the Corrs)

Thank you to my faithful readers.  I am currently involved in a personal matter that is particularily draining, along with the Physics class (still have the A after test on Thursday - instructor posted online today), and I was inspired two weeks ago to begin a novel ... thus my lack of entries.

I will post an excerpt to the novel soon.  What I would like is for readers to forgive my inability to post at the present time, and to not  forget me (this blogger will post again).

"They Tell Me there is More to Life than just what I can See" ("Believe" Brooks and Dunn)

Thank you for your patience.  Physics has taken over my life : )  I will post a new blog soon.  By the way, I have an A in the class at the half way point.  Next exam is Thursday, March 21. 

For those of you who are acquainted with me;  I  have learned the importance of neatness.  (I used to like to write figures - computations -  all over a page with no visible pattern.)  I had no problem writing numbers in a circle or listing them on opposite corners of a page to the annoyance of my math friends.  There is hope; I have discovered the significance of neat columns.  Answers to complicated formula get screwed up with my old artistic method. And, my professor refuses to grade a paper that is not orderly and completed in proper form.  I like this.  In the past, I am sorry to admit, I argued my need for personal expression when defending my sloppy, numerical notes.  I concede.

“You Can Tune a Piano but you can’t Tuna Fish” (REO Speedwagon 1978)

Several years ago, I purchased a violin with the intent to learn how to play.  I liked the portability of the instrument.  My reasoning at the time was that there was no excuse not to practice; I could take it anywhere.   I am a fan of the Irish pop group The Corrs (Forgiven not Forgotten) and also love listening to classical violin performed by Hilary Hahn (Barber & Meyer Violin Concertos).  When the violin is in the hands of a master, there is an incredible range of tones that sympathetically vibrate to each other, producing resonances that always evoke an internal response from me.  My inner core loves music – I can burst in to song in reaction to what someone says or when experiencing an event; the song just pops out of my mouth and is not always appreciated by the unlucky person next to me.  (I have been told that maybe my voice would sound better in a choir.)  As for the violin, I love the feelings of happiness and sadness that can be produced from what I considering a very sexy looking instrument.

As for my violin playing, I found a teacher and was prepared to learn.  After one particularly discouraging lesson, I walked into the main studio area located off the hall where the small lesson rooms were.  There was a man and a young girl (perhaps 6 years old) seated on the couch waiting for her lesson to begin.  She was holding her violin case in her lap, her hands clasped the handle and she had that eager look of youth – all hope and bright prospect.  Knowing that they probably heard my excruciating performance and expected a four year old to walk out of the lesson room, I could not resist saying, “If you practice hard, you too will be able to play like me.”  The little girl’s eyes opened wide (perhaps in fear) but her father laughed.  His booming guffaw eased my disappointment at how lousy I was.  At least I could make someone laugh at the humor of the situation - a 50 year old woman trying to play “Lightly Row” and not doing very well at the task.   

What does this remembrance have to do with physics (the topic that I am using as my writing prompt)? 

This past week, I took exam number two in the introductory physics course I am taking; part of the content covered was a brief overview on simple harmonic motion relating to the swing of a pendulum and the oscillation of a spring.  (I put a lot of work into plotting mass against time and mathematical predictions of potential energy and kinetic (motion) energy).   In the lab and with my home experimenting, I could not help but understand that the curve on a graph of the vibration, created by the oscillations, repeats itself regularly and, if there are no frictional forces, the movement would go on indefinitely.   I find these formulae and patterns to be amazing and, hopeful, because in physics there is also restoration.   Gravity is the restoring force for the pendulum – pull it to one side and gravity pulls it back to the center.  Or in the case of a mass attached to a spring (for example, a block of wood),  it is the elastic motion of the spring that moves the wood and once the movement is slowed to a stop, I can pull back on the spring to restore the potential energy. 

This week I read that on a piano (specifically in western music) songs created are based on twelve tones – only twelve arranged in different patterns give rise to the repertoire of songs I like to belt out.  I can play the note ‘B’ (494 oscillations) and a ‘B flat’ (466) and nothing in-between.  I can’t produce a note that is say 475 oscillations; it is not possible on a piano.  (Roger S. Jones)   In contrast, I can play an infinite number of tones produced from the strings of a violin; although, in my case, the listener may want to cover their ears while I am undertaking the job.  

For me, I see a similarity in life, I need restoration and I like knowing that in the natural world, as I learned in physics this week, there is continuity, a pattern, and restoring forces … in one sense, an ability to be tuned.  Writing this blog is my attempt to rewind myself, to tweak my writing with the hope that I can offer something helpful to those I interact with.  I know that even if a piano is tuned perfectly the twelve tones can be combined to produce sounds painful to hear – that is not my goal.  As for the fish (in my title), to my way of thinking, I agree.  A fish does not have to be tuned; if life didn’t interrupt, it would keep on swimming.   But, then … there is always the possibility of that darn old worm dangling at the end of a lure camouflaging the nasty hook.   

*Jones, Roger S.  Physics for the Rest of Us.  New York: Fall River Press, 2011 edition.

“Butterflies Are Free to Fly” (Elton John)



This guy is not free to fly.

The chaos theory is a field of study in mathematics that has applications to physics (and several other disciplines).  I used the metaphor of the the butterfly effect, which is based on the chaos theory, in the prelude of Heart Root. A brief and inadequate synopsis of the theory is that small differences in initial conditions yield widely diverging outcomes for some dynamical systems (based on Newtonian mechanics).  An example would be a mathematical model describing the number of fish each spring in a lake.  Small changes in the conditions can cause deviations in the otherwise natural number of fish.  

What brought this to mind today is a butterfly seemingly peering out my kitchen window.  Keep in mind that I live in Michigan and the outside thermometer reads 28 degrees (F). The tiny insect perched on the window sash is perhaps instinctively longing for the warmth of light.  So am I - but there is no sunshine today.  As you can see in my terrible photograph, the deck railing is snow covered and the sky grey and bleak. 
I am not sure what natural system I disrupted by transporting this delicate Lepidoptera.  A possibility could be my recent purchase of  flowers, hoping the warmth of the orange color could help brighten my mood.  I also purchased a fragrant bouquet of fresh basil.  Perhaps the butterfly was nestled in the aromatic fumes of the fresh herbs, of course, with no knowledge that he was headed for demise. 

Measuring from the tip of the wing to the head (minus antennae), it is 2.5 centimeters.  The color is a green with yellow undertones and the entire wing and underbody are streaked with a thin mist (like overspray) of dark, ink color reminding of a minute piece of art detailed in pointillism. I encouraged the tiny visitor (or captive – not the same as guest) to open his wings.  Although fluttering wildly, I can see that the wings are white/yellow with distinct black circular markings, each wing identical and edged in black.  Using binoculars designed for insect study, I view that his body is covered in delicate, pale-yellow fuzz.   His head is more punk rock – a spiking of black and yellow covering from which two slender antenna extend.  His macro appearance reminds me of an Elton John costume from his flamboyant early concerts.  This butterfly is not free to fly –  fly away bye bye.  He is going to die.  But then, we are all dying – from our conception in the womb, there is that predetermined finality.

Recently, I have been reading work by Amit Goswami PhD (Quantum Physicist).  He states that our consciousness does matter in how we experience life.  Well, I am not sure if life is a projected hologram from my mind or not.  I can imagine that there is the possibility.  What I do know is this:  I believe in the chaos theory.  And, the butterfly in my kitchen will most certainly die soon...not because of me (I have no plans to speed up his last hours) but, because that is how life goes.  What has been disrupted by its capture...I’m not sure.



Excerpt from Prelude (Heart Root):  My mind’s eye works like a camera...through the lens I consider a tree falling in slow motion, the focus automatically sharpening on a nearby squirrel as it scurries away.  In the distance, a doe lifts her head twitching her ears forward as a fawn peers out from beneath her.  Audio wave lengths interact with my ear drum – a screeching crow takes flight at the tremor of cracking wood; the large bird powerfully moves its wings disturbing the air into a wind...whoosh...whoosh.  Canadian geese take off from an unfrozen pond creating ripples, tiny waves that slap the edge of the shoreline.  This energy gust creates a steam of air that picks up speed as it travels close to the ground, through a neighborhood, swirling under a poplar tree and continuing over frost covered blades of grass to the back door of a brick house causing the loose metal weather stripping to hum.

The Dog Ate My Homework

No dog ... so I can't use that excuse.  The lights went out?  No, that was the Super Bowl.  

In truth, life ... life "stuff” filled in all the empty space this past week.   Here is a fact I can share though:  Upon the completion of next week's blog entry, I will have taken my first physics exam.  Do I understand what I have learned; can I do the math?  I am looking forward to this assessment - I don't know what I don't know until I am put to the test.

“Keep Reeling It In” (Line from: “On Golden Pond” 1981)

My youngest grandson is obsessed with fishing.  He has no problem putting the worm on a hook, neither casting nor later, after reeling in his catch, taking the hook carefully out of the fishes’ mouth before throwing it back into the water.  There is no denying the joy he experiences while practicing the art of catching fish.  One day this past August, I took him into the city of Brighton, Michigan to a favorite spot for young fishermen.  Alongside and over the meandering river and wetland in the center of town, walkers have easy access to bridges and paths lined by geranium filled pots … a peaceful setting.  But, fishing with Cameron, is not a “Norman Rockwell” event, but instead, he is an aggressive tracker of fish.  His actions bring to mind Billy, the young boy Norman Thayer (Henry Fonda) in “On Golden Pond” taught how to fish as they pursued the “big fish” Walter. 

On this particular summer day, Cameron caught sight of a “humongous” (his word) catfish.  Once the fish was in his line of vision, there was no stopping the chase.  We were up and down the walkway with the fish controlling our stride.  At the top of the bridge, I peered over the handrail admiring the size of the fish (since it had momentarily paused) while Cameron quickly dropped his line in the water. 

“Grandma,” he said, “I’m having a heart attack.”

“What?”

“A heart attack,” he repeated.  “Every time I see that fish my heart beats so hard I think I’m having a heart attack.”

I wanted to laugh but he was so serious that I managed to keep my emotion hidden.  I realized that the moment, him sharing his truth, was a privilege – special.

You may be wondering how this fishing story connects to my past week of Physics?   My basic algebra skills were learned years ago and long forgotten.  I have had serious doubts if I would ever catch on to the abstractness of letters representing numbers.  Each time I tried to work the math conversions and computations, I tensed up.  During this past week, I went twice for tutoring at the library spending a couple of hours each session.  I also reread the beginning chapters of the text and completed the questions and experiments at the end of each section.  My last thoughts before sleep included words like velocity, acceleration, speed, time, scientific notation, all swirling in the murky waters before dozing off.

 Today, I finished two pages of physics story problems.   I was able to work every formula.  I actually plugged the correct calculations in the right order to solve two pages of math.  I have a dear friend who teases me when I make a life mistake by reminding me that even a fish can’t get caught if it does not open its’ mouth.  Well, apparently some part of my brain has opened; for the moment, I’ve caught the physics fish.

“Good God!  It’s Walter!” *

My heart is thumping like a “heart attack”. 

From “On Golden Pond” 1981:

“Good God! It's Walter!

What the hell you doin' here, you son of a bitch?

Oh! Keep that line tight, boy!

Oh, you beauty. Keep your line tight.

Keep reeling in.

Little closer. Little closer. Oh, look at that!” 

She's on to Something ... "Village Idiot" (Van Morrison)

I’ve received one week of physics instruction.  On the first day, I entered the lab and quickly noticed every seat was occupied with the exception of one in the back row.  After taking the seat, I sized up the group.  Clearly, I am the oldest.  My past experience (working for years in a high school) allowed me to fairly accurately identify the majority of attendees as eighteen-year-olds. 

Class began with a long dissertation presented by our instructor on class protocol.   A full five minutes was allotted to the need to turn off cell phones while class is in session.  Students are not allowed to use their laptops either; apparently in the last semester, there was an epidemic of facebook and email access during lectures with the consequence of numerous failures.  The teacher then continued to explain the university electronic communication system, Blackboard.   Upon finishing he asked:  “Are there any questions?  Has everyone here accessed Blackboard?”

Silence.  Not one word was uttered.  After what seemed to be a full, uncomfortable minute, he turned directly to me, made eye contact – along with most of the other student eyeballs (those that had not glazed over into a stupor) - and asked me, “Miss, do you understand how to use Blackboard?”

I am thinking:  What ... are the words “village idiot” tattooed across my forehead?  I felt a flush of warmth take a strangle hold through the neck area before creeping up to my cheekbones.  Geez – this is going to be fun.  I had not accessed the communication system but do you think I wanted to ask a question … with all eyes on me? 

“No,” I responded, “but, I’ll figure it out.” 

I promise I kept the sarcastic edge out of my voice.  In my heart, I believed the neon tattoo was not the words” village idiot” but instead, AGE.  I wanted to be a smart aleck and announce:  Why yes, I’ve taken this course forty times and I am still struggling!  For certain, my competitive spirit was awakened as the teacher continued by announcing that we will be graded on the “Bell curve”, I was secretly plotting how much study time I needed to put in so as to blow these kids out of the water. 

Okay, settle down, an inner voice reproached, be nice. 

The truth is:  I will have a lot of studying to do.  Although the metric system is the system of choice in the world (even in the U.S. metrics is the quantitative system of science and international commerce) I have resisted learning.  I have not even acknowledged the need.  Well, that fantasy is over; to complete the math necessary for this class, I have to know it.

Students were assigned lab partners for our first assignment.  Mine is an exuberant young man who was thrilled to show me the ropes of math computation.   Upon completion of this preliminary project, this whippersnapper signed “our” lab with a flourish while stating:  “I’ll help you with any math questions.”  He slid the paper to me and as I signed my name to the sheet, I knew that I had no idea what “we” had just completed. 

After class I walked (no, the truth is I sprinted) across the campus to the tutorial learning lab located in the library.  My shoulders were tight and the math anxiety knot in the pit of my stomach was tightening.   Signing up for help was emotionally uncomfortable.  I was embarrassed as I asked the young man behind the desk, “Do you have a person who could tutor me in physics?” 

He flipped through a few papers on a clipboard checking which tutors were on duty before answering, “I can’t help you but Sheng-Li is in the lab.  He’s assisting another person right now, if you don’t mind waiting, he will be able to help.”  He pointed toward the glass door, “Inside each table is labeled with the subject.  He will come to you.” 

In the far corner of the room, there was the word “Physics” printed in bold type on a card that dangled from a string fastened to the ceiling.  Each time the lab door opened, the card gently swayed.   I took my seat at the empty table.  As I waited my turn, I considered the many students I had sent for remedial help as an English teacher.  A lot of them must have felt what I was feeling.  Asking for help is humbling; there is a component of self doubt – a self questioning of personal ability.  A bit of panic set in.

What am I doing? There is the possibility to drop the course and receive a full refund if I take this action by next Monday.   

Sheng-Li interrupted my thoughts, “You have a physics question?”  He asked before taking the seat next to me.

I nodded and blurted, “I attended my first class and I am overwhelmed.  I do not know the metric system.  I have never converted numbers to a Scientific Notation, “I paused to take a breath.

He quietly considered me before reacting to my outburst, “You will be fine.  You will like using metrics.  The system is beautiful.  How many inches are there in a foot?”

“Twelve,” I said relieved that I could answer this first question.

“How many inches in a yard?”

“Thirty-six.”

“Twelve, thirty-six … messy, messy, messy,” he smiled as he talked. “You will love the metric system.  You can work with large numbers and always have the perfectly easy zero to manipulate.  It is elegant.”  As he said this, his arms opened, extending out from his body as if encompassing the entirety of the Milky Way galaxy.  I got the impression that he believed if he could convince me, I would be able to consider the mysteries of the universe.

He proceeded to tell me that I could master this unit of measurement.  Not only that, but I would be able to convert a number to a Scientific Notation with a simple two-step process.  He knew that I would find using the powers of 10 clear, concise and neat.   I liked him.  He actually blushed when speaking to me; perhaps at his enthusiasm or perhaps because in the Chinese culture conversing to me with such exuberance – a person he considered an elder – made him uncomfortable.

“You can do this,” he affirmed.  “You are a competent person.  Put the study time in and you will be successful.” 

That brief fifteen minutes with Sheng-Li gave me confidence.  I left the library feeling good.  Normal people can master physics. Later that evening, upon reflection, I began to question why I could not relax and simply enjoy learning.  Why do I have to be at the top of the class? In the past, I had set up a scenario for success … I am heavily weighted in the humanities because I only took classes in which I could stand out. As a retired person, I no longer need to prove anything.  There is no reason to feel competitive (if there ever really was one).   

Then I had an epiphany… also at the crux of my insecurity was my inability to accept age; to be specific, my age.  There are advantages, aside from the senior tuition discount; I am at a place in life where I can learn for the joy of knowing.   This is an elegant thought.

On Thursday, the second session of class, I was surprised that there were only fifteen of us present.  Apparently, I was not the only person intimidated.  I sat down in the half empty third row with a sense of pride … pride that I had decided not to quit.  (I also reconsidered how many hours of study it would take to excel – ah; some traits are going to take more work to put aside.)

That night, as I listened to a Van Morrison song; his mellow, rich, gravelly voice captured my heart and mind.

Village idiot, simple mind
Village idiot, he does know something
But he's just not saying

Don't you know he's onto something
You can see it, you can see it in his eyes
Sometimes he looks so happy
As he goes strolling by

Oh village idiot, he's complicated
Village idiot, he's got a simple mind
Village idiot, must know something
But he's just not saying

(Lyrics from Village Idiot written/performed by Van Morrison)

“Glazed Over Eyes Never Lie” (Secret Lives!)*

I must admit that my smug satisfaction upon learning of reduced tuition for senior citizens was short lived after completing the registration process.  Lab fees and the cost of textbooks caused a misstep (an actual tripping) in my spirited ballet.  (Yes, I am referring to last weeks’ entry to you; the one complete with bagpipes and the dance of the Highland fling at the delight of saving money.)   To be clear:  the two classes I chose are tied to the two most expensive lab fees.  And, lab fees are not discounted.

Belatedly, I discovered that used textbooks can be acquired on Amazon.com with a less costly price tag than the used volumes I found at the college bookstore.  A person would want to make the purchase in plenty of time before the class began to allow for the inexpensive standard shipping rate that may take 7 – 10 days to arrive.  Buying a new book on Amazon (for either course) was the same price or more depending on vendor.  Since the introduction to physics curriculum begins within a week, I did not want to take the chance of attending the first day without the text.   

After reading the first chapter of the physics text, I recognized that I must get familiar with the metric system.  In the past, I have resisted this.  Another noteworthy point is that I am afraid of math.  Instead of offering you the lengthy rationalization of why I have math anxiety, suffice to know that I am determined to relax in this area with the intent to be trained.  I had to laugh when the book explained that using proper math symbols will reduce the need to repeat myself and offered the ability to be accurate, clear and brief. 

In the past (my children will readily attest to this) I have witnessed a glazed over look when I “over” talked.  I once had a friend ask:  “Is this going to be a conversation during which my eyes are going to roll back in my head?”   Ouch!  I would like to be elegantly simple when speaking and writing.  Perhaps, using the conciseness of math as a guide will help me be clear when communicating.  The scientific approach, I believe, will enrich life; not only for me, but for those people I love.    

For example, if I would have taken the time to do my homework before purchasing textbooks (observation, data collection), I could have saved enough money to buy a decent bottle of wine and invite friends over for dinner.   (I will not have this excuse for long so you need to hold me to the invite.) 

If you’ve started to glaze over while reading or if your eyeballs are in full roll-back tilt, next week I promise to be quantitatively succinct.  At some point, I am finding out, it is good to pause for breath instead of continually blowing through my “bagpipes”.

*Amusing to me is that although I like the lyrics of “Glazed over Eyes Never Lie”, I could not understand one word of this song when performed by the hard rock group Secret Lives!  My grown children have expressed that some of my lectures to them, when they were young, evoked the same confusion.

Bagpipes : )

 “And yet, it just won’t go away:

I feel it and cannot understand it;

Cannot hold on to it,

Nor yet forget it;

And if I grasp it wholly,

I cannot measure it!”  - Richard Wagner

(Wagner’s words copied from intro panel of Roger Jones’ book. *)

This week, I am registering for classes.  I am thrilled to learn that senior citizens receive major tuition discounts (my vanity caused my fingers to hover - actually hesitated - over the key pad before typing the word senior).  At University of Michigan, I can take all the classes I want for a flat rate of $2,000.00.  A person 65 or older may do the same at U of M for $1,000.  Wayne State University allows a seventy-five percent discount.  Ah, my Scottish heritage kicks in when I hear tidings such as these motivating me to make several calls.  Each university contacted has such programs, different, but like U of M, lower costs for tuition thus giving me several choices of where to complete my beginning courses.  I am looking for introductory levels in both astronomy and physic making a community college a possibility.  But, I want an interesting, exciting class – both Wayne State and University of Michigan have their own planetariums.  For me, there is nothing worse than listening to a lackluster presentation coupled with makeshift labs that do not seem real.  Still, I may take the community college route to build confidence.

I desire to come out of this first term with an understanding of the basic elements that link me (and ultimately culture) with science (I’ve chosen to spotlight astronomy and physics).  Oh perhaps, if I am intrigued enough in a particular area, over time - years - I will master the intricacies of some technology but that is not my intention.  I would rate myself illiterate in physics and I find that fact to be intolerable.

If I am blessed (some may say cursed), I have, maybe, twenty years of life left; so, physics literacy definitely is attainable.  Further on, I would like to be able to relate science to the spirit and meaning of life.  I believe science has a responsibility toward this question.  To my knowledge, this discipline (revered as it is) has never offered an answer to the purpose of human existence.    Roger S. Jones (former Professor of Physics University of Minnesota) wrote in 1992:  “The character of a miracle, however, cannot be judged by whether or not it complies with the known laws of science.”   Has this changed within science?  In my past experience, science was always kept separate from the humanities.  Will I discover that division still exists? 

Science has transformed my world; I am being asked to embrace personal change and political views based on what the “experts” have shared with me.  No, let me correct the word “asked”, instead technology has radically split reality without cultivating my soul (the spirit of living) and with zero input from me.   I want to add to the discourse as I learn.  Definitely a lofty goal, my intent to write about science but after all, a physicist is human and science is a human endeavor. Well, at least I have found one commonality – our humanness  : )

Since the technological revolution has needed funding and support, I expect science to demonstrate humility toward my effort to be educated.   After all, there is ability aside from all the good scientific advances has afforded us, to also blow us to smithereens. 

I am intimidated; this coupled with a sincere quest to have intelligent awareness of an area of study that I have ignored, should make me work hard.  I do not want to accept the next far-reaching discovery without any thoughtful reflection as to what I am gaining along with what I may be giving up.  Enough though, for now, I need to select the proper class for this term and if you are a reader younger than I, there are some benefits to age – my tuition costs less than yours.

*Jones, Roger, S.  Physics for the Rest of Us.  New York: Fall River Press, 1992 (2011 edition).

“Breakthru” (Queen)

 My grandson shared with me that he wants to be an astrophysicist.  As a former librarian, I began looking for a Christmas gift on this topic suitable for a 5^th grader.  (Who was I kidding?  Suitable for me would be nice.)  As I searched through the materials offered on Amazon, I became fascinated.  The book I selected (Bang! The Complete History of the Universe by May*, Moore, and Lintott) seemed intriguing, filled with color illustrations complimented by engaging text.   When the hardback arrived, I could not put it down.  And, in true Susan form, I found a connection between what I was reading and daily life.

What occurred to me was that I could use the universe as a guideline (even while typing the sentence I’m smiling at the audacity) for making the tough choices in life.  Well, that was my thought and I do believe it has validity.  Interesting to me, is that even an astrophysicist cannot define how big the universe is because the answer changes within an instant – so it seems is life.  It is impossible to identify a single movement called ‘now’ because doing so will not hold up across the universe.  Where you are in any moment and time, changes the meaning.  We are unbounded (or perhaps curved which is essentially the same thing to my way of thinking).  There is not an edge.

Like the universe, life problems do not have a definition (or an edge) that can withstand the test of time and be true for all people.  If we are lucky enough to have basic human needs such as food and safety met; the mind can open to studying other connections with the universe at large.  For me, answers to questions are more like waves of movement; and, within a wave are ranges.  When I labor to describe and understand what is happening to me now, I must accept that my comprehension will be different in time and space from another mind partially dependent on where, in the world or space, that brain calls home.  This is like the ‘Doppler effect’.    There is information approaching at the same time other information is receding and in addition, like a galaxy, there is also dark matter that I do not see. 

 To help make sense, I envisioned Sir Issac Newton passing a ray of sunlight through a glass prism.  Aha! He must have been ecstatic to witness that light is not a single beam but instead an assortment of wavelengths from the long red through to the short violet … a rainbow that is there even though I cannot see with the naked eye.  Later, to give you a very inadequate background, W. H. Wollaston (1801) demonstrated that dark lines crossed the colored bands.  He thought the dark lines were boundaries.  Ten years later, Joseph von Fraunhofer mapped the dark lines.  In 1858, Gustav Kirchhoff and Robert Bunsen documented that these dark lines give information about motion and distance.  Ah, the birth of modern spectroscopy.  A spectroscope can break up light into a gamut of color.  Lower the pressure and Kirchhoff and Bunsen observed that each line identified an element with exactness much like a bar code or the ISBN number of the book I refer to, are tied to a specific item. 

I am not trying to be complicated.  (I am out of my league – uncomfortable with my lack of expertise.) What I have decided, though, is that I would like to use astronomy to enhance perspective.   Being rigid is foolish; history has proven that fact.   I am dedicating 2013 to a study of astronomy, partially because I want to converse with a ten year-old boy who seems to be looking toward the stars and also, because I have a desire to learn more about the cosmos to which I am integrally connected. 

Yes, I am going to have to go back to school.  My blog entries will be once a week dealing with such questions as:   What’s it like to start anew?   How does it feel to be (probably) the oldest person and perhaps the least knowledgeable student in the class?  So, what readers can expect is my assessment of this experience, plus a bit of what I learn about astronomy.  I may not “rock you” like Queen did, but I am going to try. 

Happy New Year!

* By the way, one of the authors, Brian May, is a founding member of Queen.  He was a PhD student in Interplanetary Dust when the rock group hit the charts.