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)