5,000,000 Steps

It is 1986, a fall morning slides through Turner’s Gap. I am standing before a smoldering campfire, dunking a bag of black Pekoe tea into a black and blue, plastic Nationwide Insurance coffee mug full of hot water. Breakfast would be a Pop Tart (of course) and a cup of tea. Yesterday, Brian, Jenny, and I had hiked fourteen miles to this Rocky Run campsite from Smithsburg, one of the best Saturdays—hell, one of the best any days I had that whole year. It’s my senior year of high school, and I am with two of the best friends I thought I might ever have. That morning, as we stood around in the growing sunshine, considering those things that high school seniors consider while drinking tea in western Maryland, an idea hatched itself in my adolescent mind. I turned to Brian, at that point in my life the Butch to my Sundance, and said, “Big guy, we should hike this whole trail sometime.”

And then twenty-eight years went by.

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Each year, in my professional life, I am required to set goals. As part of my appraisal, I set two goals each August that help me to focus my energies on improving as a classroom teacher, as a colleague, and/or as a professional. I might set a goal to make more positive parent contacts; I might set a goal to use technology in more creative ways in my classroom; I might set a goal of increasing the achievement of a particular subset of my students. Each year it is different, but it is usually based on district initiatives or aligned with my building’s goals. In some ways it may seem like bureaucratic hoop jumping, but I usually find it a worthwhile endeavor that helps me stay on track. With all of the issues swirling around education, today, it is easy to get caught up in the whirlwind and lose focus on the matters at hand. Goal setting keeps me focused.

In my personal life, I am not much of a goal setter. Never have been. Sometimes, however, there are things in life that seem worth aiming for. Earlier this year, I wrote about a few guideposts that I wanted to set for myself. I have managed to keep my eyes on the prize in a few cases and, thus far, failed miserably on others. Recently, I voiced a desire to accomplish something that has been in the back of my mind for thirty years, perhaps.

On that fateful hike wherein Meghan and I took an unanticipated swim, I mentioned to Meghan that I was really thinking about thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail. In my contemplating, I decided that the best time to do that was when I turned fifty.  Why fifty? The easy answer is “Why not?” But, in reality, after not really making a fuss out of any of the ”milestone” birthdays I have had, it seems like fifty needs to be made some kind of deal of. Not to mention, how bad-ass would it be to walk 2000 miles during my quinquagenary?

So that gives me five years to research and prepare to meet this goal. Since we have returned from Colorado, I have been poring over a couple of books, a 2014 Thru-Hikers’ Companion and a memoir of a woman’s post collegiate trek from Georgia to Maine in 2005, Becoming Odyssa. The research has begun. I have also gotten back into running a little bit. After all, it is really impossible to recreate walking 30 miles a day, but running and walking are somewhere to start.

As with all ideas and goals, some are good and some are bad, some are met and some not. At this point, I don’t know which kind of idea this is, I don’t know if this is an achievable goal. I do know that after considering this endeavor since I was a teenager, I have resolved that if I just leave it in the realm of ideas, it will never happen. And sometimes, the best way to motivate myself to do something is to put it out there, sort of back myself into a proverbial corner by saying I will do something. After that, I leave myself no choice but to do it, right? I have lived with myself long enough to know that, otherwise, the odds are firmly against a thing getting done.

Still, there are a host of things that still need to be considered further in the future. In order to thru-hike, I would need about four to six months (I like to think I could do it in four, but, let’s say it takes longer). That would require me to take some time off of work. Traditionally, one would start hiking in Georgia sometime after March 1, and follow the spring north.  Obviously, that means I would have to miss at least fourth quarter. Furthermore, there is a significant (but currently unknown) financial outlay to outfit a 2000-mile overland expedition. Also, what on earth would Meghan do without me for that long? There: simply a trio of the myriad questions that I am currently researching and contemplating.

My preliminary assertion: in 2019, I will thru-hike the Appalachian Trail.

Oh, my: now, it’s said. It is, as Meghan would say, “out in the Universe.” All journeys begin with one step, right? Let’s consider this the first step in a journey that, with luck, will, planning, and nerve will take me five million more. I have set a goal. Or, more precisely, I have re-set a goal. Like Sundance once said, “Wherever the hell Bolivia is, that’s where we’re off to.”

Colorado Almost Killed Me

“Help!”

How did this happen? Here I was wedged up against a wall of boulders, one arm around a dead, waterlogged tree. At the end of my other arm, I gripped one of Meghan’s pack’s shoulder straps with such force that an F5 tornado wouldn’t separate us. And worst of all, we were both being buffeted by the intense current of the chilly North St. Vrain Creek.

We were at the tail end of a fourteen-mile hike to Lion Lake No. 1, a longer walk than we have taken in maybe ten years, but we had worked up to it with shorter hikes earlier in the week, a nine-miler to Sandbeach Lake on Wednesday, and an off day on Thursday. We had certainly challenged ourselves with this hike, which rose about 2300 feet from trailhead to destination (and most of that altitude gained over the last two miles of the hike).  Honestly, with a mile or less to go, our legs were pretty spent. At least mine were. As we made our way toward the trail head, the trail as level as a parking lot, we got that spring in our step that only the end of a long trail can give you. It had been a rough start to our hike, and some worry during our ascent, but we felt pretty good here at the end.

We’d left the trailhead at about 5:45. A bit later than we wanted, but we decided to eat some cereal before we left the cabin, figuring a few extra minutes at 5 am was not a big deal.  We were on vacation, we had plenty of day ahead of us, and we knew we had some time to play with. We would be up and down the trail well before any bad weather would come in. In addition, I underestimated how long the drive to the trailhead would be, which set us back a few more minutes. Again, no big deal.

As we got out of the car, I realized I had forgotten my ball cap. I was annoyed for having forgotten it. Sure, it was only a ball cap, but forgetting anything showed a lack of proper preparation. I didn’t like being poorly prepared, even a little bit. But Meghan had a spare hat in the car that fit me, so I wore that and thought little more of the missing hat.

About six minutes into the hike, Meghan realized she had forgotten her sunglasses at the car. We hesitated for a second, but decided to turn around and go get them. It was still early morning dim, but she would eventually need them. As we walked back, I thought to myself, the superstitious part of my mind rising up, “That’s two screw ups, today. What will the third be?” I contemplated suggesting we forget the whole hike. I was getting a bad feeling.  I laughed it off, the rational part of my brain beating the superstitions into submission. 

We passed a quartet of older hikers setting out as we made it back to the car. We got what we needed, made one last double check that we had not forgotten something else, and started back out. It was about 6 am.

At a trail junction about three miles into our hike, after watching a cloudy and windy sunrise break into a cool and beautiful blue morning, we caught up to the four hikers ahead of us. They were considerably older than we, but they were all in excellent shape. Their apparent leader seemed knowledgeable, as, every time we had been in ear shot of them to this point, he was pointing out some sort of lore or information about something along the trail. We speculated that he was an off-duty or retired ranger. As we met and passed them at the junction, they asked our destination. They were headed to the same place—Lion Lake.  The leader said, “They spotted a mountain lion up there last week. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” That was all I needed to hear.

There are three words that make me antsy on the trail. One of them is “bear.” I respect bears. I love them, as much as one can love any abstract concept of a wild creature. Yet, I do not want to encounter one on the trail. No, thank you. I have a similar attitude toward the other two words: “mountain lion.” Honestly, if I had to pick my animal encounter on the trail, I would pick bear over mountain lion every time.  There is a stealthy ferocity to a mountain lion that a bear just doesn’t have. Plus, for whatever reason (probably a general lack of interest in cats), I don’t feel the same way about mountain lions as I do about bears.

So, as we proceeded up the trail, knowing we were about to encounter what one trail guide refers to as an “unforgiving gradient,” now all I could think about was the impending mountain lion attack. Every rock hid a lion. Every chickaree scurrying through the underbrush was a catamount stalking us through the trees. Just as we reached the turn off for the worst of the vertical hike, I saw something large cross the trail behind us and move through the downslope trees. It was colored like a mountain lion, but I only saw glimpses of its hindquarters. Surely it was an elk. Mountain lions aren’t that tall.  It was moving down the slope; surely a mountain lion would attack from uphill. I was rationalizing in a big way. Most likely, at any rate, it was an elk, and, obviously, we were not attacked by a mountain lion.

We reached our destination, a beautiful alpine tarn, surrounded by snow banks, wildflowers, mountain peaks, waterfalls, rocky slopes, and mosquitoes. Truly, it is one of the most beautiful places I have ever been. I mentioned to Meghan as we approached the lake that it reminded me of some mythical Bavarian place I had in my mind, something right out of Heidi. We took a few photos, ate our usual trail meal, PB and J, relaxed for a few minutes (not easy with all the skeeters), and made our way back down the trail. It was about 10:30. We had plenty of time to make our way back to the car.

On the way back down, I didn’t worry quite so much about the lion attack, or bears, for that matter. I was wary, but not to the extent that I was on the way up. After all, I had seen the whole trail. There was no more mystery, no more surprises. We were just retracing our footsteps. What could happen?

So, as we walked that last mile, approaching Copeland Falls and the gaggle of walkers making their way up and down the trails near the trailhead and ranger’s station, tragedy and misadventure were the farthest thing from my mind. The trail bent close to the creek, with a gentle rocky slope leading down to the cool rushing water.  My general “safety-first” mentality left me momentarily, and I said to Meghan, “You want to stick your head in there and cool off?”  She said she did. And I walked over toward the creek side. I took off my hat and sunglasses, and crouched down by the creek. It was a bit slippery.

Meghan approached the bank, and, as she did, I warned her that it was slippery. The words left my mouth just as her toe hit a wet part of the rock. Her foot went out from under her, and she lost her balance. I reached out to grab her and in an instant, we were both being carried by the force of the current, like mere grains of sand.

In one’s life, the people you love experience difficulties, tragedies, sadness. We see things in other’s eyes that we hope never to see. As Meghan went into the creek, I saw in her eyes such fear and helplessness, that I know I will never forget it. Of all the things that happened in and around that creek in those minutes, that is the thing I wish I could forget.  I don’t know what I looked like, but I know how I felt and what I was thinking. One of my first thoughts was, “Is this really happening?”  These things don’t happen to Meghan and I, they happen to other people.  We are relatively experienced hikers; we do okay in the woods.  We are careful. We don’t put ourselves in these situations. Of course, given time to consider, we did put ourselves in that situation. We didn’t belong on that creek bank; we belonged on the trail. We had made a mistake, and we were paying for it.  While being propelled through the water, however, my only thought was, “This is not really happening.”

But it was.

After that initial question, I was focused on one objective: saving Meghan. I had no idea what to do as far as an exit strategy, but I was sure that if I could just grab ahold of her, I could get us out. This is really absurd when you think about it. We were both at the mercy of the water, a ripping current of white water that bounded over boulders and rocks, fell a few feet in several places, and, just a half mile along the current, descended precipitously at Copeland Falls.  We were in a pretty desperate situation. I wasn’t thinking of any of that. All I needed to do was grab Meghan. 

We went over one small drop. Meghan went under. I swallowed some water, but did not completely submerge. As a matter of fact, and don’t ask me how, I managed to eventually get back on dry land with dry hair. Weird, at any rate. After that first drop off, I managed to grab ahold of Meghan’s pack. We had tumbled down river about a hundred feet, but it felt like forever. We missed a few limbs that might have stopped us, but we were moving really fast. We eventually, by sheer luck, I am sure, managed to get pushed up against several rocks, where I grabbed a tree that seemed relatively stable.  I told Meghan I wasn’t going to let her go. “Okay,” she said. We looked around for a few seconds to see if we could extricate ourselves from our position and get into some slow moving water. Even though we had stopped moving, the power of the river was amazing, and we could both feel the rocks we were wedged against roiling and shifting slightly as the water pounded into them. We knew we were not in anything close to a stable situation. It was clear that if we tried to get out ourselves, the water would simply carry us farther down stream, bouncing us off of more rocks and scraping us up against more limbs, so we did the only thing we could think of. The trail was only feet away. People were passing, but had no idea we were there, so, I yelled for help as loudly as possible. In a moment, Meghan started yelling, too.

A young man, maybe fourteen, poked his head through the trees.  He had long brown hair under a ball cap.  He looked at us with surprise, a “what-are-you-doing-there?” kind of look. “We need some help down here,” I said. He nodded and turned back toward the trail.

An older guy showed up then, with the young man. He was short, but muscular, and all I can really remember was that he was wearing these wild green and yellow shoes. He looked around on the bank and grabbed a limb. “Did somebody go for the ranger?” I asked. He nodded and sent the kid up to send somebody to the ranger.

The older guy, the long-haired kid, and one or two other guys made a daisy chain, linking arms, and the older guy waded carefully out and extended the limb out into the creek. I grabbed it, and we just sort of stayed that way for a few beats, the four guys on the bank at one end of the limb, and Meghan and I at the other end. The rushing water was so loud that communicating was not easy. We could barely hear each other, and, I think, everybody was sort of wondering what was going to happen next.  Was Meghan supposed to make her way along the limb? That was not going to happen, because I was not going to let go of her.  Were we both supposed to crawl along the limb?  I wasn’t sure that limb was strong enough to handle our weight and the force of the water. I looked back at the older man, he looked at me, and he started to pull on the limb.  Within seconds, we were out of the torrent and belly down in an eddy of slack water.

We were safe. Cold, soaked, bruised, and scratched--maybe a bit in shock--but we were safe. We thanked the people that pulled us out, and were surrounded by another crowd of people asking how we’d gotten in the creek, whether we needed clothes, help, etc. Two women gave us emergency blankets to keep us warm. It was warm enough that hypothermia was probably not a risk, but let me tell you, brothers and sisters, those mountain streams are cold.

Our packs were soaked; our phones and cameras were ruined. Meghan lost her damn sunglasses in the creek, and I lost a shirt that was cinched on my pack and my Zip-loc bag of homemade beef jerky. I felt pretty stupid for needing to be pulled out of the creek.  However, considering what had happened and what could have happened, wet and bruised and standing on the trail was about the best way that whole situation could have ended. 

The ranger met us on the trail as we hiked out. Meghan and I had two Samaritans with us, Sally and Granger (I think was his name…maybe Garret). The ranger asked us some questions about what happened and how severely we were injured (not too bad, really).  He mentioned that we were the fifth and sixth persons to be pulled out of the creek that week.  That didn’t make me feel any better, but he also mentioned that some of them were far more seriously injured than Meghan or I, so I at least felt even more fortunate than I already did.

At the trailhead, we stripped off as much of our wet gear as decorum allowed, got in our vehicle, and headed home.  It felt like a weird sort of anti-climax (maybe that’s not the right word). We had been in this desperate situation; this moment in my life had just occurred that was far from ordinary, and now I was going to do something as banal as go home and take a shower?

Never in my life have I been happier to do a boring, mundane thing.

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For Meghan's perspective on this story, please visit Life Refocused.

Fallow Fields

Ideas. So many of them pass through our minds. Some we latch onto and can't let go. We obsess about them. We live with them. We develop them. Eventually, we act upon them, and bring either good or ill into the world.

Some of our ideas involve a memory of the past, such as why did I do such and such to this person, or why did this person do such and such to me? If we choose not to let these ideas go, we obsess about how to correct our own behavior or gain some recompense for that of others. Sometimes, we merely wonder if a choice we made was the correct one: should I have bought this house? Should I have majored in business? Should I have quit my old job for this new one?

Some of our ideas involve plans for the future, such as starting a business, or getting married. If we choose not to let these ideas go we play with our plans, alter them, hone them, and, often, act on them to affect some change on our lives. Sometimes we simply live with them, unsure if action is the right thing to do.

I have had many ideas the last four months. Many of them about subjects I could write about here in my own little forum. Some I even wrote down.  However, as I scroll through the list of topics on my phone, many of the subjects that I wrote down make no sense, or have lost their relevancy. For instance, I actually wrote the beginning of a post several months ago about Meghan and I being a childless couple by choice and some of the things that people have said to me or near me that made me wonder if they, subconsciously or otherwise, have little, if any respect for me, based solely on that one choice. I might share that idea later on, but, now, it doesn't ring with me as it did then. I apologize for not finding the time to complete it and post it when it had more immediacy, but, as Arlo always says, "We'll just have to wait for it to come back around on the guitar."

And, while we are waiting for that one to come back around, something else came back around to me in its place. Also in my notes was a poem I had written, 717 days ago. This is remarkable for many reasons. The first reason is that I don't write many poems, anymore.  I think, in the 717 days since I wrote this one I have written approximately zero poems. At that rate, I will have a book of poems some time after the Andromeda galaxy collides with our own. Look for it in bookstores near you!

The second reason that I find this rediscovery remarkable is that the poem was written when Monkey and I were in France two years ago.  Coincidentally, we are lucky enough to be going back there in three weeks! We won't be going to Provence, where this poem was written, but we will be spending a week in Paris, which I surprisingly found to be maybe my favorite city (that I've been to, anyway).

The third reason I find this remarkable is that it sent me down this rabbit hole of thinking (as these things often do). I had such a vivid memory of the moment that I wrote the poem. Which is the complete opposite feeling I felt when I looked at all these other notes I had written not ninety days ago. All of these words represent ideas--ideas that I found worthy of writing down--but only the ideas in the two year old words had any real connection in my brain. I mean, obviously, I contemplated the two year old ideas a bit more, making a story out of them (something I did not do with the other ideas). Also, the poem represents a singular experience, whereas the other ideas were primarily intellectual contemplations. I'm consistently amazed by my own mind's abilities and limitations. It is a regular occurrence that I come across some scrap of paper or other marginalia that fills me with curiosity, questions, frustration, and ironic humor as I try to parse out exactly what I meant by "8/5 work travelogue."

Be that as it may, I have a solid idea to work with this evening, and here it is. And while the poem itself is not about ideas, it led me, in this instance to a contemplation of ideas, even though, as a poem, it's really not about ideas, at all. After all, Charles Olson once said, "No ideas but in things." I don't know if I trust that anymore, but, as a younger cuss, I found Olson to be something of an idol.  He was certainly a thing that encompassed ideas.

Anyway, here's the poem (a fresh draft, and none too good), a photo, and a painting by some 19th century resident of the same grounds.

Hospital Saint-Paul, Saint-Remy-de-Provence

At the asylum
at the spot where
he painted the olive trees.  

A swift flies overhead.

A trio of women
ride horseback
through the ruined gate of Glanum.

The Asian tour guide
leads his flock
as they trace the weary footsteps
of Theo's older brother.

The olive grove (2012)

The Olive Trees (Van Gogh--1889)

Cogito Ergo Sum?

Yesterday, Meghan and I went to see Her. I was not impressed. I wasn’t emotionally compelled by the story, except to feel pity for the main character. I was not invested in the relationship (if you can call it that) between Theodore Twombly and Samantha, his OS. I wasn’t at all aroused by the parade of pathetically empty humans trying to connect (or sort of connect) sexually. My inner old man really took over for this film experience. I laughed a few times, but mostly I just felt uncomfortable. Intellectually, I understand the artistic merits of making the audience feel uncomfortable, but, in this case, I did not enjoy my discomfort on any level, aesthetically or otherwise. It was just discomfort, and an overarching sense of mental watch checking. When is this going to be over? I do not think we experienced an Aristotelian case of catharsis. This really wasn’t a tragedy, anyway. However, I can thank the film for giving me the opportunity to contemplate all of those freshman philosophy questions that have taken up much of humanity’s mental energy since abstract thought became possible.

One of the major questions the film brings to mind is reminiscent of Descartes Meditation. What is consciousness? Descartes, famously, determined that we think, thus we are. As Samantha, the AI OS thinks, develops, and, dare I say, evolves, she, predictably, puts that conclusion to a stern test. IS Samantha? Does she be? She seems to have the capacity for thinking, she makes apparently conscious choices, and she ultimately displays what could be free will. So is she real in the Cartesian sense?

Another major question the film demands the viewer to ask harkens back to that granddaddy of old thinkers, Plato. What is love? It might be that transcendent stairway that begins with physical attraction and proceeds to the plane of the intellect; however, the film’s central relationship complicates that concept by presenting an object of affection that is no real object at all. Can one have physical attraction for a nonentity? Scenes from the film might suggest that one can, but I am skeptical. Aristotle’s theories of love are also thrown for a loop, as the film makes his equation of two bodies and one spirit impossible to compute due to one missing body. (We will not wrestle with the devil of an idea of the soul.) So, can one love a (basically) inanimate object?

One of the more grounded scenes in the film occurs toward the end, when Samantha and Theodore are going through a difficult stretch in their relationship.  During one of many talks, Samantha pauses and sighs before a response to one of Theodore’s questions. Theodore asks, “Why do you do that?” Samantha does not know what he means. Theodore explains that she takes a breath sometimes before she responds. “You don’t breathe,” he tells her. Yes, Theodore, and what does that tell you? Samantha, in many respects, can be regarded as a rock that talks. She is a brain in the purely mechanical sense, albeit a brain that can convince itself that it can manifest feelings. She seems to be everything that a human being is, without the body. So, is she human? No. Is she alive? No. Can she love? Ah. That is a sticking point. After all, from Plato to Freud to Schopenhauer to Lou Gramm: does anybody really know what love is?

As an intellectual pursuit, I think this film was at least interesting. As a film, it was not my favorite. I will say, as a final word, that whatever future this film was set in, I look forward to the daily fashion of flannel pants, small- or no-collared Oxford shirts, and Buck-style shoes. I couldn’t see myself loving an OS (even one as pleasantly-voiced as Scarlet Johansen), but I could see myself styling in those fashion forward high-waist slacks. I would prefer a belt, however.  

Not Resolutions

Yesterday’s Lincoln Journal Star editorial listed out the paper’s priorities for its editorial board this year, including pushing for a southern bypass for Highway 2 and keeping an eye on the current debate over tax reform, among other things. It got me to thinking, as most things do.

I am not prone to making resolutions, either at the dawn of a new year or at any other time. I have mentioned before my lifelong pursuit of relative planlessness, my disinterest in formal goal setting, and my general philosophy of facing each day on its own merits. As with any pronouncement, such talk has to be taken with a grain of salt. I did go to grad school with a goal in mind. I have a 403b. I spend at least a part of every workday setting objectives for my classroom and planning how we will reach those objectives. I have indeed done many things in my life that require forethought and preparation. Such activities are unavoidable to all but the most sloth-like.

But formally preparing a plan of attack for life in general, resolving to do this or that, or determining how I will conduct myself over any given 365-day, five-year, or ten-year period is something I have never been terribly excited to do or interested in. However, listing a set of priorities for an editorial board sounds like a completely legit and useful thing to do. Maybe it is simply a function of getting older, but for some reason, the idea finally made a certain amount of qualified sense to me.

So, I imagined myself as the board of an organization. That organization is me, consisting, as I do, of 65% water, 20% protein, 12% fats, and less than 1.5% each of DNA, RNA, and other organic and inorganic compounds, and governed, ostensibly, by the two and half pounds that is my brain. I am not about to get into any sort of Cartesian philosophical discussion of how that brain which is me can govern me, or what “me” is anyway. As that old hippie, Arlo Guthrie, is prone to saying: “That’s not what I came to talk about.”

However, I did spend some time thinking about what I wanted to set as my priorities for the year. I have tried not to phrase these priorities like resolutions, but sometimes that might be unavoidable. Whether they can be regarded as resolutions or not, I will not be referring to them as such. The Journal Star chose five priorities, so I have followed their lead.

First, I want to focus on consciousness. I am going to attempt to prioritize my choices to allow me to practice my beliefs more directly. For instance, I am ecologically-minded, so our household recycles, reuses as much as is feasible, tries to make food choices that are local and sustainable, and we keep the thermostat programmed and set at the minimum for comfort (or maybe even below…according to some guests) during all seasons. There is huge room for improvement, however. Primarily, we can eat more organic food. This is an expensive choice, but it would not create a hardship, I don’t think. Second, I could get back on my bike more often. I have not used the bike as transportation in far too long. My commute to work makes riding impractical, but I could use the bike for shorter trips. Perhaps the biggest manifestation of this priority is to look into improving the efficiency of this ninety year-old house. The windows need to be replaced, the doors need to be better weather-stripped, and the south-facing roof would be a perfect spot for solar cells.  Here, of course, money is the issue.

Second, I want to prioritize time outdoors. In the past, I would be out at a park or some other natural area nearly every weekend, regardless of season, birding, walking, fishing. I get out maybe once a month, now. That is a question of time.  I just have to make it.

Third, I want to prioritize charity. I currently donate to three organizations and whatever cause the kids are raising funds for at school. I think I can manage to part with a few more dollars to help other organizations whose missions I believe in and whose priorities are legit. I have not settled on which organizations those are, but I would like to double the number of groups that I support.

Also, I want to prioritize my profession. In reality, I don’t think I need to make this a priority, in some respects, since it is already probably my number one priority, but there are a few opportunities I want to take advantage of this year. I will attend the AP Summer Institute this year, something I have been considering since I started teaching. I also want to get serious about National Board Certification. I have mentioned this before, and the amount of work it takes to get certified seems daunting, but I think it would be a worthwhile experience. I don’t believe this is something I will achieve this year, but I do want to get the ball rolling in the next twelve months.

Finally, I want to prioritize writing. Thus far, I have done okay at keeping up with the blog posts. It has been only four weeks, so I have done nothing to really instill me with overwhelming confidence, but the fact that I am writing this now means that I am writing and not not writing. So, you know, I have got that going for me.

And, there it is: my five priorities for the year. I am going to go out on a limb here and say that I will be successful at developing some of these priorities and unsuccessful at developing others. I am okay with that. I hope that I remember to check back in with the board to see how I am doing at maintaining my focus this year, but even that is not guaranteed. One thing I do know: these are not resolutions, no matter how much they may sound like it.

Have you any priorities this year? I would be interested to hear where you are considering focusing your own energy. And, of course, I wish you luck!

What Kind of Idiots Are We?

The weather has finally broken here in the Great American Desert. It is far too early, but after a spell of frigidness, hearing the birds chirping and watching the snow melt away and feeling the sun actually warm on your back puts one in a mind of Spring. That’s where my mind was this weekend, throwing the ball to Parker in the back yard.  It was a joy to feel like the outdoors wasn’t trying to kill me for a change, but I am certain that some more bone chilling is on the way some time before April.

No, the outdoors isn’t trying to kill us, at least not anymore than it ever has been since mankind first hopped down out of the trees. The planet doesn’t necessarily have it in for us—it has it in for every living thing. Life is harsh. Weather, of course, is just the half of it. The whole circle of life or the whole system, if you will, is fraught with peril.  Predators search for prey, parasites look for hosts, Justin Beiber looks for neighbor’s houses to egg—it is a mad and dangerous world, left to its own devices.

However, having crawled down out of the trees, mankind has sought to alter the environment as we have seen fit.  And there is little seriously denying that those alterations have made existence that much more difficult for everything on this planet, be it a beast of the soil, a bird of the air, or a fish of the desperate sea (if I may paraphrase Jolie Holland).

Global warming notwithstanding, it is no secret that industrial, agricultural, and social choices made by humans have had drastic and usually detrimental effects on the natural systems and rhythms of the planet. From the melt down of nuclear plants to the discharge of waste into waterways, from the belching of the earliest coal plants to the damming and diversion of rivers, the things that have been done on earth have clearly made it a different place. More often than not, that “different” is a negative. Sure, somebody makes money somewhere along the line, but (and, yes, I am oversimplifying) that is more often than not the only indisputable positive to be gained from mining, deforesting, harvesting, terraforming, building, flooding, carving, etc.—and the benefit of that positive is debatable in itself from a Marxist perspective (which is not the perspective I am taking, today).

It would take an encyclopedia to catalogue the destruction of our ecosystems, but, on the optimistic side, many people are working to reverse much of the damage that has been wrought.  Recently, however, a couple of incidents have reminded me that too many powerful people have no real interest in ensuring the long term health of our surroundings. First, I read a story about tailing ponds in Canada, a byproduct of the tar sands oil mining that is going on up there. Granted, the incident that I was reading about occurred four years ago, but that doesn’t really matter. The point of the story, to me, is that the tailing ponds are so toxic that migratory birds that land in them die. So, to keep the birds from landing in the ponds, the oil companies have installed ingenious devices that use radar to detect the incoming birds. When a flock of birds is detected, the devices activate a moving model of a peregrine falcon, which is meant to scare away the birds. I will admit that this is a brilliant solution to the plan. Kudos to human/Canadian ingenuity. I just wonder if the thought ever crossed the mind of anybody trying to solve the problem that maybe the whole idea of having a bunch of toxic ponds anywhere was a good idea to begin with. I know, we need the oil…but, you know what? Maybe we don’t. I mean, when does the cost become too high?

The second item that got me going on this little jeremiad was the chemical leak that ruined the entire water supply of the city of Charlestown, WVA. If that is not a sign of impending environmental apocalypse, I don’t know what is. I don’t want to sound like a Chicken Little. I try to avoid that sort of overreaction as much as possible. However, some of the more infuriating revelations of this story is that a) the holding area where the chemicals that leaked were being stored had not been inspected by regulators for 23 years, b) Freedom Industries, the company that was storing the chemicals, knew the holding structures were faulty, and c) the government was unconcerned with the chemicals being stored because they weren’t deemed dangerous enough to monitor. I will leave the righteous indignation up to you.

We are good at holding people accountable, since it makes good press and good politics, so someone will be held responsible. Someone will be fined. Someone will lose a job. Some law will be changed (or at least debated). But that won’t change the fact that an immensely preventable spill of 7500 gallons of a “non-toxic” chemical made the water supply of an entire city non-potable. I don’t want anyone to think I am about to run off and join some Ellen Page-style environmentalist terrorist group. I just get rundown by so much of what people perpetrate on this planet in the name of money, or from just plain negligence.

The irony of both of these incidents is that we wrought the damage upon ourselves (and migratory birds (and fish (and aquatic plant life (and probably insects and amoebae and paramecia and who knows what all else)))). It is hard enough to hang on to life here on earth as it is. We have survived saber-tooth tigers, ice ages, earthquakes, meteors, tsunamis, diseases, poor posture, and the 70s. But I don’t know how much more we can take. We are slowly destroying the only home we have. What kind of idiots are we? 

Meat as Madeleine

Life is many things. Human life, anyway. It is miraculous, as is all life, of course—but a human’s life can be miraculous in ways that a meerkat’s or a sea worm’s probably can’t--primarily due to a meerkat or a sea worm being less self-aware than a human or less able to process the things that occur to and around it. A terrestrial life form other than a human cannot experience wonder. I don’t think a meerkat can experience wonder. Confusion, perhaps, but not wonder. This is a positive to being human, I submit.

On the other hand, there are things like melancholy. Melancholy, like wonder, is something that I imagine your various beastly herds do not experience. I might be wrong here. I know I have seen animals display things that look like sadness and sympathy, but I am not wholly convinced that that is what I am seeing. However, if they can experience sadness and sympathy, then I don’t imagine melancholy is much of a leap, and my whole idea falls apart. That is not a bad thing. If my whole idea falls apart, it is only because a new idea has replaced it. And what is better than a new idea? But, if I may, let’s accept that melancholy is a completely and singularly human feeling.

Melancholy, to the dichotomous mind, is probably a bad thing. Assuming that dichotomy is good/bad. If it’s color-based or number-based, I don’t know what category melancholy fits in. If I had to put it somewhere in those two possible dichotomies, I would put melancholy in the blue category and the three category (three being a completely arbitrary assignment on my part, fully recognizing that a dichotomy consists of two categories, which makes three a less-than-logical choice…ergo, arbitrary). However, there are many times when melancholy is a good thing. Or, at worst, it is precipitated by some association with a good thing.  After all, isn’t that the basis of Proust’s In Search of Lost Time?

This is all brought up by a particularly Proustian moment that I recently had. (I promise that this will not last for anywhere close to three-thousand pages, but I can’t promise that it will be any more entertaining or make any more sense than Proust.) I was making a meat sauce for our New Year’s Eve lasagna (a sort-of tradition). I started the sauce with a piece of pork, sautéed in some onions and garlic. This hunk o’ pig simmers along with the rest of the sauce for hours, just like the hunk of neck bone that my grandmother used to put in her sauce. After the sauce is cooked down (about three hours), the pork comes out, super-tender and super-flavorful.

Some cooks might shred that super-super meat and put it back in the sauce. Not me. My grandmother taught me that that is the most exquisite kitchen-counter meat-eating experience, to stand there and snack on the stew meat (sauce, soup, stew, whatever). So that is what I did. 

That first taste of pork immediately threw my synapses into a high-speed game of taste-and-go-seek. Like the whiff of your long-dead aunt’s perfume immediately puts you back in her presence, this taste of pork immediately shot my mind feed from live to video, and, for a split-second, I was in my grandmother’s EZ-bricked kitchen--with WITH (“The Music of Your Life” and the flagship station of the Baltimore Skipjack’s radio network) playing Nat “King” Cole--and tearing little pieces of steaming hot saucy pork off the bone with a woman I still miss almost every day, even after fifteen years. The memory was attended by the instantaneous melancholy that comes from any nostalgic recreation of genuinely good experience and the recollection of lost loved ones.

This is not remarkable, of course. It happens to everybody, every day, I suspect. This time of year, or the period just past, since the holiday season is just about over, probably jars all of us into both pleasant and unpleasant remembrances of things past. Usually, these feelings come and go so quickly, we might not even have the time to dwell on them. However, in this moment, I was lucky; I had time, as I stood alone in the kitchen to really allow myself the experience. I let the sad feelings wash over after the initial shot of joy.  But I realized, as I ruminated on the present meat and the past moment, that it was ultimately a happy moment. There was that one split second of a split second, that one half of a half of a heartbeat when I was really there, really back in that kitchen, twenty years ago. It was a pleasant visit. The sadness, the melancholy, comes from that realization that I have no control, really, over how (and/or when) I get back. I can think about things like the past and the people whom I miss who are no longer a part of my life at my own volition, but it is not the same. Only the unconscious parts of my brain have the real power to completely transport me back to wherever. I look forward to going back.