It has always struck me as a strangely fallow time of year, that gap between whatever winter solstice holiday you celebrate and the time when various calendars proclaim it to be a “new year.” Two peaks in the public consciousness between which is “the hollow” where a listlessness prompts its twin lassitude to stir drifting thoughts.
Among mine are reflections on “Distilled Harmony,” the world view I have be toying with for the last decade or so, and various comments from here on the Wall and elsewhere that wonder how I manage to cling to a positive view of the world when “information media” present a rather contrary view of existence. Hmmm.
I believe it was my mother who first read the Pollyanna books to my sister and me. If I am wrong Margaret will switch on her super sister memory and correct me. For those of you without access to that marvelous resource, Pollyanna, was a children’s literature classic written by Eleanor H. Porter in 1913. Wikipedia tells us that Pollyanna"has become a byword for someone who, like the title character, has an unfailing optimistic outlook.”
When you consider the four major tenets of Distilled Harmony, Foster Harmony, Enable Beauty, Distill Complexity, and Oppose Harm, it would be understandable to consider the Distilled Harmony view of existence to be skewed a tad toward Pollyanna. And that is just fine, as Distilled Harmony is a positive perspective on existence, but not naively so. There are some clouds in this predominantly blue sky interpretation of existence. And it behooves me to clarify the exceptions, which, not surprisingly can be found predominantly in the oppose harm tenet.
First, perhaps, is my extreme dislike of “negative noise.” That is a pretty fuzzy notion. To clarify, I guess I would say “negative noise” is any audible manifestation of discord. Still broad, but perhaps less so. A whining puppy, a bawling calf, the banging of a storm loosened shutter - these are all negative noises, and I find them disturbing. But, as we are discovering regarding many of the world’s woes, most negative noises are created by people.
A personal bete noire is voices raised in anger. I was fortunate to have been raised in a home where discord was most often expressed more gently than I have come to learn was, and sadly still is, the norm in many domestic interactions. And I supposed my surprise at this stark reality is in itself a tad strange given that in my 1990 book, Taming the Wild Tube, I laid blame for this distorted notion of normalcy on the media and its impact on “real life.“ Unfortunately things on that front have not gotten any better.
In journalism the notion of “If it bleeds it leads,” is alive and well. The latest clashes from the never-ending wars of the world usually lead. In “reality TV” think Dr. Phil, or other programs in that genre. Or even “fictional dramas” that center on conflict, the conversations most often featured are manifestations of anger, stress and violence. More “negative noise.” Political “discussions” have “devolved” into media enhanced confrontations bearing more similarities to a fifth grade cafeteria food fight than a rational discussion of pressing local, national, or global issues. And, to stay with the analogy for just a moment, given the tawdry presentation of life via the media, is the rise of the taunting, belittling playground bully in political life really any surprise? Whew! That felt good. And isn’t that the problem?
Well, obviously, if I dislike mediated presentations of conflict, those entities pale in comparison with “real life” arguments, feuds, disagreements, etc. Fortunately, and not entirely by chance, my “real life” has been relatively free of personal “negative noise.” There was, in hindsight, not even much hollering during my divorce. There is an argument to be made that part of that avoidance of “negative noise” in my “real life” has come at the cost of “fighting the good fight!” It is an argument I choose not to make as the idea of a “good fight” is, as manifested in contemporary culture, in itself an oxymoron.
OK. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Things I am not “Pollyanna-ish” about.
Authoritative voices from on high, or on paper, or these days on a digital screen, demanding behavior that ultimately proves foolish. OK, for this one you’re going to have to squeeze into the WayBack machine with Sherman, Mr. Peabody and me because we are headed to the mid-1960s. Those were the years when young men over the age of 18 began to receive letters that began: “Greetings!” Long, very long, story short, these were letters from on high - the “on high” in this case being the Selective Service System - I don’t believe the irony in the name was intentional - telling them to report to their local draft boards to begin the process that had a good chance of sending them to Vietnam.
Now, I have no intention to debate that incredibly divisive period in our history. Rather my concern is with the whole “voice on high” from the rather arbitrary Selective Service System. Everyone’s experience during this time was unique, as was mine:
One thing each young man had to do was get physical - and not in the Olivia Newton-John sense of the concept. So, I did, and that was where things began to get strange. I have terrible eyesight, fell into the orchestra pit during a rehearsal for Bye, Bye Birdie in high school. Which bruised my ego but strengthened my case to get contacts. So, word on the street was my eyesight would deem me unfit to serve. But the process was the process, so I went for mu physical; moved from doc to doc, station to station - discovering in one station that the examiner was a good friend of my then wife’s parents. “Give them my best!” he said as he shoved me along to the next station.
And soon I was back on the bus headed for home. Now, another little bit of history. Since this was after December 1, 1964 I was part of the “draft lottery,” a system devised by the Selective Service System that assigned each potential draftee a number between 1 and 366, which determined in what order the draftee could be called to serve. Low number - pack your bags. High number - chill. More of a Random Service System.
My number was 133, or 131, not 132. Funny the things you can sort of remember after 50 years. So another thing draft eligible guys tended to remember was their “draft classification” a letter/number combination that worked in combination with your lottery number to predict your future. 1A - pack your bags. 4F - write a nice thank you note to the AMA because you have been declared physically unfit. So a generation of American lads, sat around watching the mail - analog mail, 1964 remember - for another notification from on high to learn their “draft classification.” I was classified 1H. No, that is not a typo. I was classified 1H. I had no idea what that meant. And like other young men of my era, we were quite familiar with the argot.
I did some research - again, at the library - no computers. I never found any reference to a draft classification 1H. But I never heard from the draft board again, so I let it pass. I assumed that it meant that if the Vietcong managed to establish a beach head in Cleveland, and set Lake Erie on fire (look it up, it has happened before - the fire, not the Vietcong) I was to be held in reserve with other 1Hs to serve as hostages. Seriously, an incredible set of snafus from “very highly placed voices from above.”
And that’s not the only example. Set the WayBack machine to around 2001. This time the highly placed voice from above came from the doctor who informed me that I had multiple myeloma and only a handful of months to live. Get your affairs in order. Well, he got the multiple myeloma part right, but missed the other variable in the equation by a few decimal places. Latest data shows me still cancer free, knock on wood - and a thankful knock on the doors of the docs who provided the excellent care I have received both in Raleigh and here in Burr Ridge.
But I hope you can see why when “highly placed authoritative voices” intone, “I can handle this. We’ve got it under control.” My inclination is to respond, “I may be old, but I’m not stupid. Let’s get some other voices into the conversation.”
And then there is “money talk.” I probably could include this in “negative noise,” but it feels like it should get its own category - a decision no doubt influenced by the unbelievable amount of “money talk” I had to endure recently to secure a home equity line of credit which a great deal of money talk convinced us was “the best strategy” surrounding the sale of our former home in Raleigh.
To clarify, I have friends, family members, trusted advisors who love to talk money. Several have made livings far beyond the scope of mine, by talking and doing “money things.” Their eyes light up, voices move to either semi-conspiratorial, or “on high-ish” as they talk about “return on investments” and possible impacts of shifts in the prime. However, since the only obvious shifts in the prime that seem to have touched me, have touched me on the palate where there is significant difference between “choice” and “prime.” My eyes glaze over. I desperately search for diversion on TV, like last year’s cricket finals from Australia - a sport whose rules are as incomprehensible to me as “money talk.” But there is actual movement.
It is, I guess, an attitude drawn from personal experience. Money talk, is like phone calls after 10:00 PM. It has never brought me anything pleasant.
And, all right one final one that at first blush it may seem trivial. I suspect that my iPhone is short-changing my “walkabout-steps.” What, you may well ask, are “walkabout steps?” The notion springs from a ritual in Australian aboriginal culture. In this form of “walkabout” a young man - I could find no parallel reference for young aboriginal females, which might speak well of them. Anyhow, the guys on “walkabout” seem to literally wander about the Australian Outback for an unspecified period of time, until they return having somehow transitioned into adults.
That is not the kind of walkabout-steps I am talking about. Although my “walkabout-steps” are also age related, they are gender non-specific.
I am talking about the steps that pile up as we “walk about” wondering - well, wondering about a plethora of issues. First, the pragmatic wondering; I wonder where I put my phone, my keys, my coffee, my book, my coat, my walking shoes, my hiking sticks - regular stuff, which ironically, often results in wondering just what was it I was looking for. Why am I here in the garage?
And then there is secondary wandering which induces another level of wondering. Perhaps you find yourself in your study, where you went to look for your iPad, and you find yourself confronted by a painting or a piece of sculpture, maybe even one you created yourself, and you remember the person or place that inspired you to create or collect the work, and you wonder about the current condition of that person or place. The whole “I wonder who’s kissing her now?” “Operator, can you help me place this call?” phenomenon. And then you think, “What am I doing in the study?” And you go back to the kitchen, wondering why your FindMy app never makes your iPad chime.
And finally there is tertiary wandering which can often occur outside the home - maybe even during an intentionally planned walking event! And as you stroll about you find yourself wondering about the world that surrounds you. How did people walk around with twins before dual strollers? Why do people with dual strollers bring them to grocery stores with single stroller aisles? Are golf courses more environmentally damaging than parks? Why don’t public parks let you play golf in them? Can you take a dual stroller stroller onto a golf course? Would there be an additional green fee? Why? Unless the kids in the strollers played? You know with those little plastic clubs? Are there any golf courses designed for kids to play with those little plastic clubs? And what happened to all the miniature golf courses? Where you try to putt your ball into the mouth of a plastic alligator or rotating windmill? And if they want you to “ask for assistance with items on higher shelves,” why do they put stuff up there? And finally, what am I doing at the grocery store? Ah, the list. Where did I put the list? Yeah, laugh now, but just wait. Well, the point is that all this wondering has to generate an incredible amount of wandering. Yet, my iPhone tells me “You walked fewer steps today than yesterday.” Bull. No wonder Steve Jobs died. Lying piece of junk!
Sometimes Distilling Harmony means siding with Pollyanna and overlooking those things that irritate us in order to Foster Harmony, which in turn allows us to Enable Beauty. Yeah, that’s the story to which I will stick, or words to that effect. Better stop now as it is almost New Years with new mountains to climb. May yours be exceptional for the scenery and not for the demands of the climbing.
