Category: Writing a Book

Dad’s 110th

Had he lived, my father would be 110 years old today. He didn’t have much of a life. Not what you’d call a “good life.” Not from my point of view anyway.

But Dad was survivor. I inherited that from him. From both parents, if I’m honest.

Dad was a severely abused child. Physically and emotionally. The worst tormenter in his young life was his mother. By all accounts, she was a selfish and heartless woman. She was known to be unsatisfied with her lot in life. I doubt that is the reason why she abused her children. If she were alive today, I am sure she would be diagnosed with some degree of sociopathy.

Dad blamed his mother for most of his emotional ills and difficult, fragmented life path. Dad also blamed his father because he didn’t step up to intervene in her assaults.

Possibly the worst story I heard was that of the kerosene barrel. Back in the days of the early twentieth century, kerosene was a necessary household staple. It kept kerosene lamps alight. It fueled kerosene heaters for necessary warmth in the piercing mid-winter cold of provincial East Coast Canada.

Dad was a curious child. A trait he carried forward into late adulthood. His interests seemed boundless. That curiosity led him to the woodshed one evening where the kerosene barrel was kept. Ominously, he had brought a box of matches with him.

When he lit a match, the uncovered kerosene barrel flared up and burned all of my father’s face. At the tender age of only 7 or 8 years old, my father would have been nose-to-nose with the barrel. He screamed piteously and his mother came running out of the house from the kitchen, just inside.

In rapid succession, she saw the kerosene barrel after the flareup extinguished itself, the matches and my father. In a rage, she slapped her hand across my father’s red and peeling face. The details of what happened after are mostly left to speculation.

Dad recalled that the skin of his face hung down on the sides. The damage was so extensive, he was never able to grow a beard. Hearing the story later as a young adult, I was horrified and stupefied.

A normal mother and normal parents might have bundled up their injured child and rushed him to a hospital. That did not happen. In the classic response of an abused child, my father exonerated my grandmother: “She stayed up all night putting egg whites on my face.”

It took years of healing myself to understand the enigma that my father was. He was a handsome, well-built, strapping man. Yet until the day he died on December 24, 2005, a large part of him remained that fearful and abused child.

Dad described himself as suffering from an “inferiority complex.” I would describe it now as post-traumatic stress disorder. He never really recovered.

Bear in mind this horror story is only the tip of an emotionally abusive iceberg. I can only imagine the small and consistent episodes of abuse and general lack of love in that household that my father and his two older brothers endured.

I admired Dad because he never stopped searching for a cure to his inner anguish and turmoil. He took several Dale Carnegie courses. Carnegie’s “How to Win Friends and Influence People” had a prominent place on the bookshelf beside Dad’s law books. Dad won awards for public speaking at these meetings.

He attended “Men’s Retreats” put on – I assume – by some church group. Catholic, no doubt, as that was the predominant religion and power broker in the province of Newfoundland at the time.

Dad tried and repeatedly failed to quit booze for good. He got all the way up to one year of sobriety once. But on his 92nd birthday – just two months before his death – he was drunk as a lord and emotionally effusive as he would always be when loaded. I had begun to not care. His deficits created many of my own and I was in the middle of sorting through them and trying to heal.

It would be fair to say my Dad was an atypical father. He didn’t seem to have the protective instincts of other fathers I encountered among my friendship group. Support from him was erratic and situation specific. He was feeling good about life and himself, I was often the beneficiary. When I really needed something and asked for it, I would be denied if he didn’t feel generous.

Dad knew he was afflicted. He used to say: “I am doing my inadequate best.” High marks for self-awareness.

Of course, Dad would not have lived to 110. I am not sure I would have wished him to. HIs passing for me was tinged with equal measures of grief and relief. He left an emotional morass and three badly damaged daughters in his wake.

I don’t know if I will be be able to leave a cleaner slate when I die. I certainly followed in his footsteps in many ways. The difference is that I was able to seek and find relief and healing from my abuse. To be fair, I grew into a time where that was more acceptable and easier to access in society.

Still today, in particular, I think of him and the influence he had on me and my life. I’d like to tell him I survived him. I might phrase that differently if I were face-to-face with him. He was my Dad and I loved him. I would say he loved me and my sisters in his way.

I would also say, that just like him, in the realms of parenting and marriage, I am doing my inadequate best. I have worked my whole life to break the ties of intergenerational trauma. I hope my children and grandchildren will eventually benefit from that. Time will tell.

RIP Dad. I hardly knew you but I send my love to you today. Wherever you are.

Shot Down

I wish I was spiritually evolved enough to roll with life’s punches and “see the lesson” in them as they hit. I am not. I ruminate more than I should over woundings and insults whether they are hurled intentionally or not.

The house build behind us is moving forward. I did everything I could to intervene and stop it. I stalled it by a month but my overall attempt has failed. The house markers have been set in the ground. A white pickup truck with an engineering logo on its side doors regularly visits the property no doubt finalizing the build strategy. The Wildlife Commission wrote an email this week to say there is no gopher tortoise violation on the “subject property” as I had hoped.

The die – as they say – appear to have been cast.

Part of me thinks this is instant karma. Punishment from the Universe for cutting a real estate agent we’d been working with – no binding contract but more of an implicit arrangement – out of the closing. We had to move fast and efficiently to get the house, I reckoned. Part of me knows I am rationalizing.

Fear-based thinking. Again.

There was a something that lingered in the air above this house deal though. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. That may sound a little too flakey for most of you. It is too flakey and “oooie, oooie” for me to take seriously. But I wonder.

I think of all the ways in which this development could be worse. I think of the chaos and upheaval of Israelis and Palestinians preparing for the savagery of war. I reflect on seeing an arm uncovered in the rubble of that Gaza hospital and the horrible news that will be delivered to a family. Many families in this case. I think about Ukrainians returning to where their family homes once stood and learn they have been obliterated by bombs.

My troubles are so small by comparison. Miniscule. But they are my troubles. I feel I need to stand up for them and give them their emotional due. I spent years ignoring and diminishing hurtful events in my life. They just backed up inside of me.

I would explode disproportionately when some other minor insult triggered the backed up, unhealed hurt inside of me. The earlier hurt hadn’t been dealt with so it could dissipate. It had merely gone underground waiting to rear its ugly head when triggered – usually by a more minor threat by a relatively innocent bystander.

It is common for people to ignore or diminish troubles of others when those troubles don’t affect them personally. There is a human tendency to feel a sense of sympathy and concern about others’ misfortunes and an equal measure of relief because it isn’t happening to them.

We all encounter problems on our journey in life. Mostly we are thankful when someone else’s tragedy does not touch our own life. When tragedy does strike us, we pray for the grace and strength to face and overcome it. It is one of life’s toughest learnings.

People are not comfortable generally with strong feelings. Either their own or someone else’s. We like our shared illusion of a calm and stable society.

If strong feelings were easily accepted and as easily processed, the booze and illicit drug business would collapse. Angry people are called “hysterical” unless the listener has buy-in with the issue people are angry about. I think of Trump and his legions of followers who eagerly slurp up his incessant brand of outrage over hard done by “patriots” like him.

It is so automatic to shush a child who is crying healing tears. It is common to accuse a woman of “being dramatic” when a sudden, inconceivable loss bends her in half convulsed in tears. Or her husband has beaten her senseless and is holding her children hostage in a bitter custody case.

Unbelievably, Alex Jones accused grieving Sandy Hook parents of delusion when their children were mowed down by a madman toting an AR-15. Jones finally came to justice but not before numerous grieving parents were tortured and belittled by Jones’ ardent followers.

The insinuation of grief creeps slowly into our lives. It is easier to manage when we are young, we reason, because we are more resilient. We can certainly move on faster. When we’re older, the processing of grief is usually more internal. “Stiff, upper lip” syndrome comes into play.

Loss is a fact of life. Some losses we can easily identify and readily relate to. Other losses are more personal and nuanced. How we learn to handle loss is spread across a very wide continuum.

So I accept that I am on a grieving path. For trees. And a view. And a dream of peace and solitude that will soon be irrevocably shattered. Does it matter in the grand scheme of things? Of course not. But does it matter to me? Absolutely.

I have learned that self-love and self-respect means owning all of our feelings and failings and giving them their due until they have been integrated into your heart and psyche. Life is not an endless series of “happy, happy, happy.” I challenge anyone to show me someone whose life is.

Change is inevitable and pain is manageable. I take this recent loss as another opportunity to apply what I’ve learned about managing disappointment. And of course, I wish I didn’t have to. I’m only human, after all.

How America Got Mean

From The Atlantic, August 14, 2023.

“A culture invested in shaping character helped make people resilient by giving them ideals to cling to when times got hard. In some ways, the old approach to moral formation was, at least theoretically, egalitarian: If your status in the community was based on character and reputation, then a farmer could earn dignity as readily as a banker. This ethos came down hard on self-centeredness and narcissistic display. It offered practical guidance on how to be a good neighbor, a good friend.”

How America Got Mean. Written by David Brooks, someone who is quickly becoming my favorite writer.

This article needs to be shared – and read – widely.

https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2023/09/us-culture-moral-education-formation/674765/?utm_source=copy-link&utm_medium=social&utm_campaign=share

Looking Up

I sure needed these little nuggets of joy I found recently.

In one astonishing clip, a four year old boy speaks to his mom about his emotions and how he is processing them. Four years old!! I know forty year olds (and even much older) who couldn’t get close to this level of emotional clarity. https://www.facebook.com/reel/562156025745695

Another story highlighted the business venture of a young French architect Clarisse Merlet who is making construction materials out of recycled fabrics. Bricks to be exact. https://www.euronews.com/culture/2023/09/04/meet-the-french-eco-chic-architect-crafting-fashionable-bricks

Hers is a small, energy intense, hands-on little business. To date, she has already made 12,000 clothing bricks. She has sold them as office partitions and decorative items. She is doing a lot of research to expand their utility and reach in large scale construction projects.

The concept could not be simpler and yet more profound in its potential impact. Who among us doesn’t have a few dozen pieces of extra clothing in our closet that we could easily offload? Having them reused sustainably would be a total bonus.

Kermit The Frog popped up somewhere singing a Talking Heads cover: “Once in a Lifetime.” https://youtu.be/PCY0aeUx-Ns

YouTube gold. Kermie captured my heart years ago with, “It’s Not Easy Being Green”, a sentiment we can all relate to the way Kermie sings it. And, of course, The Rainbow Connection. That musical gem still gives me goosebumps.

A writer in the New Yorker pens a comic strip about an elderly gentleman who plays the sound of birds chirping in his car all the time. It is his way of feeling like he is in the country when he is still living in the city.

More and more often, I am reading rebellious writers like me who are pushing back against the execrable weight of information overload and faceless wealth hoarding billionaires. Like me, too, it seems, they are trying to tease out and claw their way back to a sense of what it means to be human. Especially these days.

They give me hope for today and for the future. Maybe this dog’s breakfast we are living through will have a satisfactory ending after all.

And to drift into political waters that I usually avoid like the plague, Jim Jordan wasn’t elected House speaker. It looks very much like he won’t be.

That single news story tells me there may be hope and common sense at work out there in the world, after all. Sigh.

Bridging

I feel simultaneously hyper alive and hyper tired lately which is a strange juxtaposition. The marrow in my bones is tired. Don’t ask me how I know that. I just do.

The hoard offloading I recently went through wrung me out like freshly laundered sheets put through an old-fashioned wringer washer. Where I came from, they would say about someone if s/he looked particularly rough that he looks like s/he has been “drug through a knothole.”

Reasonable reference emergent from a logging based economy where knotholes were as plentiful as the pine forests that produced them.

Feeling hyper-alive might just as easily be described as a kind of hyper-sensitivity. Coffee smells stronger which is nice. So does the cat’s litter box. Not so nice. It is as if my senses fear being dulled by my exhaustion so they rev up their attention to little things to remind me I am fully alive.

Unseasonably chilly temperatures this morning forced me to put on my trusty old sheepskin slippers. I found my flannel nightgown to wrap myself in and curled up on the couch.

I am feeling a deep need for comfort. Usually on my forbidden list, I bought a half dozen apple cider donuts this morning. Frozen macaroni and cheese sits in the freezer ready to break out when bidden. I just know macaroni mastication will be the perfect remedy to my tired, slightly depressed demeanor later on today.

I view the “meh” state I am in as much a part of the rhythms of life as the highest highs and the lowest lows we experience. Everyday life, in the main, we spend somewhere in the middle of those two extremes.

We seem to be almost subconsciously called to rest by our minds and bodies when we have heavy labors ahead of or behind us. In a tender memory, I remember the kindness and comfort of the labor room delivery nurses who wrapped me in warmed up flannel sheets after my son was born.

I had read that in India, both the mother and baby are regularly massaged in the baby’s first few months to pamper and comfort them. There must be considerable healing in loving touch as a new mother adapts to her demanding new role.

Recently I bought a towel warmer. I want to replicate that delicious warm flannel feeling after my son’s birth when we step out of the shower.

There was a time in my life when luxury seemed shameless indulgence. Now it is just part of my regular self-care menu I weave into my life when and where needed. Facials, massage, reflexology, herbal teas all seemed senseless extravagances to me once. Now they are mandatory parts of taking care of myself. .

We learn to take care of ourselves I’ve learned. It is not automatic. I didn’t see a lot of healthy self-care modeling growing up. Mom took hot baths and I mean hot. She would emerge from the tub with bright red legs and half her torso. For many years, I thought this was the preferred and only way to take a bath. Until I unlearned.

Dad managed his stress with booze and eventually, following his example, so did I. It wasn’t very effective. The state of drunkenness followed by the hours of hangover was hardly a relaxing stress relief strategy. The only relief was in recovering from the binge and the hangover that followed.

So I am heading for the fridge. Going to get me a tall, cold glass of milk and one of those apple cider donuts – warmed ever so slightly in the microwave. Maybe I’ll put a scoop of French vanilla ice cream on top.

Today is not one of my stellar days to be sure. But it is a day with its own learnings and lessons just as other days. Practicing self-care being one of them.

I am about to happily take the edge off unapologetically with a little treat. While my body and spirit are feeling the effects of demanding recent events, I am grateful for an easy, short-term solution to take the edge off.

I’ll get myself back on the apple cider donut wagon when I feel better.

Boredom Begone

I’ve never understood boredom.

I have been bored from time to time and usually for very concrete reasons. Sitting at a conference table listening to someone in love with the sound of their own voice, going on and on has been tantamount to coming close to death by boredom.

Some of my teachers and university lecturers were less charismatic than others. Some would drone on in a monotone that suggested they were more suitable candidates for administering hypnosis than complex intellectual theories.

Anything that is examined closely will often put you on a path that will yield more insight and education than you can possibly absorb in one lifetime. It can feel as if knowledge and insights go on forever and ever depending on the path of inquiry we pursue.

The word “gardening” is a pretty bland high level description of what most of us have passing familiarity with. We glean our familiarity either as the beneficiaries of some gardeners’ efforts or as gardeners ourselves.

I have been scouring gardening sites, looking for fast-growing plants germane to our climate and environment. What started out as a quick jaunt to get familiar with what might, and what will not work, in our yard, I am on track to earn a PhD in horticulture.

There is not only a dazzling variety of types and colors and heights and purposes for plants but a dazzling assortment of species and sub-species within any plant genus.

To many people – often depending on their age and stage of life – gardening is dead boring. An end of life activity that rates on the excitement scale right up there with watching grass grow.

But as you begin to tease out this plant’s hardiness and drought-tolerance against that one’s delicate and easily undermined growth temperament, the whole genre of gardening becomes complex and multi-layered. Master gardeners are often referred to as “artists” and with good reason.

Life is rather like this. Admittedly we all arrive on the planet with little other agenda than to get our needs met and survive. Sadly, some people get stuck at this stage for their whole life. I kinda feel like I was stuck there for an unnecessarily protracted period of time.

Curiosity has always been one of my primary drivers. I need to understand something inside and out and upside down before I can rest easy. This has applied to many aspects of my life from family, to religion, to alcoholism, to power structures, and money. I unashamedly admit the parallels with my life challenges.

So except for exposure to self-important windbags, I am rarely bored. It is said it was philosopher Aristotle who said: “The more you know, the less you know.” A blogger/software architecture developer called Ardalis (https://ardalis.com/blog) that I recently came across explained that phenomenon this way:

“Try to keep in mind that most of the things you have a cursory knowledge of, but which really are known unknowns to you, probably are similar in that if you were to really dive into them, you’d find there’s a lot more to them than you realize now. Doing this has several benefits. It helps keep your ego in check. It helps keep your curiosity and willingness to learn alive. And it helps you develop and maintain respect for others who maybe have taken the time to learn more about a topic about which you’ve only scratched the surface.”

This is a bugbear of mine in our modern world. Everyone is pitching themselves as an “expert” in spite of limited experience and equally truncated chronology.

“This paradox of “knowing just how much you don’t know” can lead us to a more human centric solution: “It’s easy to feel small when we consider how large the world (and universe!) is. It’s good to keep in mind just how big the world is, as it offers us humility, but to keep from feeling down it’s important to focus on what you can impact. This starts with yourself. How can you make yourself better? What can you do this day to make it so the you of tomorrow is better than the you of today? Once you’re on the path to trying to improve yourself, it’s gratifying to try and help others do the same. Can you help the whole world or move the universe? Perhaps not. But everyone can help someone. Even if all you do is share your journey and what you’re learning, even your struggles, you’re bound to help others facing similar hurdles. Do these two things, consistently, and you will look back and see the progress you’ve made and the lives you’ve touched and hopefully feel that you’ve made a positive impact.“

What I personally don’t know could fill volumes. Or copious numbers of concurrent blog posts. Given all I don’t know and all there is out there in the world to know, boredom is the last thing I, or anyone, should allow themselves to be.

Whether your thing is gardening or nuclear physics, there will always be more to explore and discover during your lifetime, even when it most seems like there ain’t.

Non Sense

Some days, certain things drift by on the Internet or into your inbox that might be worth sharing. Not always. Maybe not even this time. But often.

So forgive my shortcut as I share this wonderfully inane email that has been circulating lately. Inane though it may be, it resonated like a boss with me.

As the current abominations occurring in the world, these are pretty mild. But should be worth an eye roll or two.

Hope it musters a chuckle or some resonance with the ludicrous times we live in.

Civilization in 2023: A Cynic’s Guide

Our Phones – Wireless

Cooking – Fireless

Cars – Keyless

Food – Fatless

Tires – Tubeless

Dress – Sleeveless

Youth – Jobless

Leaders – Shameless

Relationships – Meaningless

Attitudes – Careless

Babies – Fatherless

Feelings – Heartless

Education – Valueless

Children – Mannerless

We are SPEECHLESS.

Government is CLUELESS.

Politicians are WORTHLESS.

And we’re scared WITLESS.

SOME THINGS WORTH PONDERING …

Why do we leave cars worth thousands of dollars in the driveway and put our useless junk in the garage?   ️

Why do drugstores make the sick walk all the way to the back of the store to get their prescriptions while healthy people can buy cigarettes at the front checkouts?  ️

Why do people order double cheeseburgers, large fries, and … a diet Coke?  ️

Why do banks leave vault doors open and chain the pens to the counters? ️

Why can we only buy hot dogs in packages of ten and buns in packages of eight?  ️

Why do they have drive-up ATM machines with Braille lettering?  ️

EVER WONDER …

Why the sun lightens our hair, but darkens our skin?   ️

Why you don’t ever see the headline, “Psychic Wins Lottery”?  ️

Why “abbreviated” is such a long word?    ️

Why lemon juice is made with artificial flavor, but dishwashing liquid is made with “real” lemons? 

Why the person who invests your money is called a “broker”? 

Why the time of day with the slowest traffic is called “rush hour”?  

Why there isn’t mouse-flavored cat food?  ‍  ️

Why they sterilize the needle for lethal injections?   ️

Why Noah didn’t swat those two mosquitoes?   ‍  ️

Why the whole airplane isn’t made out of the same material used to make the indestructible “black box”?

If con is the opposite of Pro, is Congress the opposite of progress?  ‍  ️

If flying is so safe, why do they call the airport the terminal?  

And for my fellow Canadians, has anyone figured out the oxymoron that is the Progressive Conservative party? Nah. Didn’t think so. ‍ 

Yours in silliness.

Off-Putting

Today’s writing prompt: What have you been putting off doing? Why?

Taxes.

I know I am not alone in this. The prompt is timely as I am remiss in providing my accountant with all of the necessary records and statements to get the verdammtes things finished.

I believe my aversion to taxes is connected to other money-based fears I have.

My father was a miser. In retrospect, I would call it an identifiable disorder. I know his miserliness emerged from childhood trauma. In his childhood, he experienced severe emotional and also financial lack (though not wildly different than others of his generation).

His miserliness in coin and spirit defined him and his life.

By contrast, my mother was exactly opposite. She freely and frequently spent money she didn’t have. She would not concede that there would be a lack of anything in her life – no matter what reality showed her.

In both parents, money issues came from dysfunctional childhoods and plagued them to their grave. In fact, their money management styles only became more deeply entrenched as they grew older.

My father exhibited visible pain when his caregiver selected a package of ham only slightly more expensive than the ham offered at the lowest price. She switched them out and bought the lower priced (and lower quality) ham. His relief was palpable.

For awhile, he ran an ice cream parlor. That was a sweet semi-hobby (pun intended) my father took on in retirement. For his grandkids, it certainly was. But Dad drove his employees up the wall. He hung around the shop all day and would not stockpile perishable items, like bananas.

When someone came in and ordered a banana split, Dad would get in is car, trundle down to the supermarket ten minutes away to buy one. One banana. I can’t imagine his strategy was all that great for attracting repeat business when a customer had to wait 20-30 minutes for an ice cream treat. I can’t imagine any money he saved by not stockpiling made up the cost of his gas.

My mother was completely opposite. A bit of a scofflaw if I’m honest. When the banks came after her in her dotage for unpaid loans, she actually took them to court to argue that she hadn’t made payments on the loans because the banks miscalculated the interest.

I can’t imagine the legal logic she deployed to make that argument. I never saw the argument written down on paper. I’m not she ever did write it down or would have dared. I only know Mom lost that case to the banks. She often said, “The banks never lose.” She knew that going in.

I know people who actually do their taxes themselves, every year and submit them on time. I do not understand those people.

Even with hired help to get the dreaded taxes done, my neurosis hangs on. I am a procrastinator extraordinaire when it comes to tackling my taxes. Or I go the opposite way. I binge produce my statements only to have the whole process slow and eventually shut down because I missed sending one statement in the annual batch.

It is an immaturity to be sure. It is also clearly a neurosis. A crazy mix of my mother and father’s belief and treatment of money. I save every receipt and invoice and bank statement like Gollum holding on to his “Precioussssss.” Unlike Gollum, I don’t get the same emotional or psychological satisfaction from grasping and holding on to fading pieces of paper.

During my recent hoard unload, it was beyond satisfying (and embarrassing) to throw out batches of receipts and paper clutter I had been hanging on to for decades. It is important to mention that not once in all those years of hoarding receipts in case of a tax audit, did I ever have to face one.

Yet there is a teeny-tiny voice inside that says if you start throwing away receipts now, you just KNOW the tax department is going to come for you. Maybe. Maybe not.

I only know it seems like a silly (but essential) habit of receipt hoarding I have had my whole adult life.

So there. I am making my fears known and facing the buggery tax returns. I’ve done that before and it is usually enough to get me partway through the backlog. I need to do it again. Ad infinitum it would seem. Or at least annually.

So guess what I’m doing today? Honest? Likely anything but taxes unless the money gods conspire to inspire me. Sigh.

Turning Tides

In The Atlantic, I recently read an article with the tragic title: Why The Past Ten Years of American Life Have Been Uniquely Stupid, and the even sadder sub-title: It’s not just a phase,” by writer Jonathan Haidt.

I read Haidt’s article with a curious mix of horror and hope. Let me explain.

We all know – or should – that we are living in unprecedented times. I hadn’t been sure when the “tipping point” occurred but by author Haidt’s calculation, it was around 2010.

It was during and after that year that social media evolved from being benign social sharing platforms into something immensely more insidious and hateful.

Added capacities on social media platforms such as “share” buttons and “retweeting” meant that any random ideas or comments – no matter how wrong, inflammatory or hysterical – could spread like wildfire.

Viral posts could elevate someone’s profile for a short time or destroy someone in the same timeframe, depending. This capacity for viral gang banging has been deadly on our society, our mental health and our level of trust in established institutions set up to guide and oversee our collective stability and well-being.

Once upon a time, the leaden processes of discourse and change drove me nuts. To achieve or change anything, there were protocols that deemed, and often doomed, positive change, especially if a quick response was required.

As most of my early work life was in academia and government, I would shudder when an issue needed to be submitted to and resolved “by committee.” Committees met infrequently. They were often populated by self-interested windbags more interested in the sound of their own voice than in speedy and positive resolution of anything.

My mind often moved more quickly tin those days to a “logical conclusion.” I saw committees as largely self-serving, pedantic entities that doomed many great ideas to the dustbin. Death by attrition.

At this time in history, decision-making power over important issues was concentrated in the hands of the elite few. That was the case in universities, government, sometimes churches, and definitely in financial institutions.

Enter the internet and social media. Global game changers. But not in a good way as it has turned out. There is a strict separation between the left and right. There is an erosion of trust at all levels and in all institutions. The problem will not go away or get better, Haidt points out, as AI informs and adds to the mountains of disinformation so readily available and consumed.

I now find my support for the internet’s possibilities much more conservative. I was excited to my very core when the internet emerged. I lauded its democratic promise. Now, I reasoned, anyone, anywhere, with a computer and wifi had access to all of the knowledge in the world. Wow.

Its ramifications for artists and innovative thinking were limitless, I reasoned. Authors rejected by traditional publishers for their whole careers could now find a corner of the internet where their writing could be read. Their manuscript could be published. It might be dreck but it was their very own dreck.

Free speech would arise in unison from all corners and classes, I reasoned. Free speech combined with easy access to information and facts would create a more democratic and just society. How naive was I?

Jonathan Haidt writes: “The story of Babel is the best metaphor I have found for what happened to America in the 2010s, and for the fractured country we now inhabit. Something went terribly wrong, very suddenly. We are disoriented, unable to speak the same language or recognize the same truth. We are cut off from one another and from the past.“

Haidt continues: “… Babel is not a story about tribalism; it’s a story about the fragmentation of everything. It’s about the shattering of all that had seemed solid, the scattering of people who had been a community.“

It is the conclusion of Haidt’s article that heartens me. He identifies pockets of sanity and resistance that are emerging. Hallelujah. Haidt alludes to something that has been on my mind for some time. It is “We the People” who must work ourselves out of this mess.

We collectively recognize the downward and unpleasant shift in angry and violent discourse because we are living it. Here is where we must recommit ourselves – as in so many instances – to self-salvation, if there is salvation to be had from technology’s less positive influences.

“In recent years, Americans have started hundreds of groups and organizations dedicated to building trust and friendship across the political divide, including BridgeUSA, Braver Angels (on whose board I serve), and many others listed at BridgeAlliance.us. We cannot expect Congress and the tech companies to save us. We must change ourselves and our communities.“

Excuse me while I head over these websites to see how I can do my part in bringing this runaway train back into line. You may hear more about this issue from me. It feels critical to sustaining our democratic institutions and processes.

Even more important to my personal hobby horse about elevation of the health and well-being of individuals, it feels critical to recapturing our collective sanity and peace of mind.

Just This Today

Because this one fact is just that important to contemplate and remind ourselves … again and again and again ad infinitum. Because truth is true and worthy of reminding ourselves. Frequently.

“Life is tragic simply because the earth turns and the sun inexorably rises and sets, and one day, for each of us, the sun will go down for the last, last time.

Perhaps the whole root of our trouble, the human trouble, is that we will sacrifice all the beauty of our lives, will imprison ourselves in totems, taboos, crosses, blood sacrifices, steeples, mosques, races, armies, flags, nations, in order to deny the fact of death, the only fact we have.

It seems to me that one ought to rejoice in the fact of death–ought to decide, indeed, to earn one’s death by confronting with passion the conundrum of life.

One is responsible for life: It is the small beacon in that terrifying darkness from which we come and to which we shall return.” —James Baldwin (THE FIRE NEXT TIME; Vintage Books & Anchor Books)