In Praise of Gentleness

Fight fiercely Harvard!

Fight, fight, fight.

Impress them with our prowess, do.

Fight Fiercely Harvard, Tom Lehrer, 1960

It is, I admit, a strange way to start a post on the virtue of gentleness. But my inclination to rise to the defense of gentility beats most strongly when the world is least gentle. Starting this post, as I am, moments after President Biden has declared his intention not to pursue a second term, I decided to search for examples of quotes from individuals with legitimate intellectual credentials that echoed Trump, the Republican nominee’s simplistic exhortation "Fight, fight, fight!"

It was a difficult search once I eliminated the ritualistic chats of fans at athletic venues - never widely cited for thoughtful commentary. Equally problematic was finding specific references to, or with whom, Trump was encouraging this confrontational conflict. While references to various perceived miscreants abounded, it pretty much came down to anyone who didn't follow Trump's wide-ranging litany of evildoers who stole the last election from him.

Finally I stumbled upon Tom Lehrer, a Harvard educated mathematican, who taught math and theater at the University of California at Santa Cruz in the 60s and 70s, and penned the delightful Fight, Fiercely, Harvard. My fear is that if heard by Trump supporters with band-aids on their ears, they would fail to realize that Lehrer was best know for satire. . .

Several days have now passed and Kamala Harris appears to be the presumptive Democratic nominee. I see that as good news as she certainly aligns comfortably with my view of the world and advocates policies that would move the nation in that direction. So I will pull the lever, well, actually fill in the circle, for her come November. The bad news is that various voices within the party champion her by hailing her as a "warrior."

So there you have it, a Republican nominee whose sweeping view of the complex issues facing the nation and the world can be condensed in his mantra, "Fight! Fight! Fight!", opposed by the Democratic nominee some in the party would seek to paint as a "worthy combatant" - a "Warrior." Certainly I cannot be alone in finding this antagonistic, aggressive framing of our national political environment depressing.

Which brings me, albeit tardily, to the intended focus of this post: praising gentleness. There is a relatively simple reason why such a seemingly praiseworthy notion as gentleness needs championing. And that is because its far more common antagonists; anger, hostility, confrontation and violence, are so much easier. Ask any parent whose three-year old decided to see if the cell phone could "swim" in the toilet, or maybe see if you could flush it like they had learned "big boys and girls" did. See how easy anger is? 

And taking the easy route with anger, hostility, confrontation and violence seems to be an affliction that humanity just cannot shake. It follows us from swimming cell phones to playground squabbles to "Harvard fighting fiercely" to first-person-shooter video games to drone "warfare-at-a-distance" to old-fashioned bloodshed in the streets. All because it is easier than gentleness.

And we know it is wrong. If you read any of the foundational texts of the world's great religions and philosophical tomes, you will discover that all but a distorted few argue eloquently for gentleness, compassion, and loving kindness. Unfortunately, that has not prevented a seemingly endless parade of "pious souls" from using those same texts to make the streets run red with blood in the name of some deity, demigod, king or emperor. All because shedding blood in anger or fervor is easier than pursuing the gentleness advocated in a more compassionate reading of those saints, prophets and philosophers.

Gentleness is difficult, but is actually capable of existing beyond the covers of the writings of those prophets and philosophers inclined to friendly persuasion. I am a product of my time and culture so when I consider real-life individuals who have been able to manifest gentleness in a predominantly violent world my list (in no particular order) reflects that upbringing: Dr. King, Ghandi, Mother Theresa, Nelson Mandela - and in a very personal cluster - my mother and older brother Jim, both sadly deceased these many years, but neither of whom can I now recall ever having raised their voice, let alone an implement, in anger toward another individual. Those other, more well-known, names belonged to people who met all the indignity and anger the world could hurl at them and turned it away with a gentle, forgiving, humanity seemingly passing all understanding.

So there are real-life models for gentleness. Your particular cluster of such individuals may overlap with parts of mine, but will no doubt extend to other worthy souls of whom I am ignorant. We need to pay attention to those models. Learn from those examples. That exercise can, in itself, be difficult and frustrating as we often run into aspects of ourselves it has been easier to ignore. Anger has been a particular bete noire for me, I still struggle with it. And occasionally I also fail to fully appreciate the unintended hurt caused by my words or actions. But as a wise person (the source and precise citation escape me at the moment) once said, "Knowing you have a problem is the first step in solving it."

So I meditate, listen to gentle music from pleasant times, draw and - I tell myself - keep taking baby steps to a more gentle me.

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In a lovely bit of serendipity, shortly after finishing this post I came across this article in New Scientist. The title is self-explanatory.

https://www.newscientist.com/article/mg25233625-000-survival-of-the-friendliest-why-homo-sapiens-outlived-other-humans/

We Are Such Stuff

 We are such stuff as dreams are made on,

And our little life is rounded

With a sleep.

The Tempest, William Shakespeare.

Being of an age when sleep is an erratic visitor, I tend to focus more on the dreams than the actual sleeping part. And they are strange critters, aren’t they? These dreams of ours.

If popular music is any indication, dreams are the inevitable partner of romance - of love requited and un. “When I want you, all I have to do is dream.” “When I close my eyes, I dream. And when I dream, all I ever dream about is you.” “Dream lover, until then, I go to sleep and dream again, Until all my lovers dreams come true.” Etc, etc, etc, etc. Add your favorites, :-)!

Ah, well, no offense to any of my romantic interests, from the little black-haired Irish girl who lived across the street from Jefferson Elementary, she of my earliest classroom memories, to my dear better half here with me in Burr Ridge to, as Julio and Willie put it, “all the girls I’ve loved before,” I don’t have those dreams.

Let me clarify - I think my dreams are as thematically diverse as anyone’s. The very strange thing is that when I dream - and on those rare fleeting occasions when I can remember any of the details of the dream - I dream in the presence of strangers. Although able to interact with, and converse with, the other actors in these insubstantial dramas, I am the only identifiable entity in my dreams. Upon waking, in those, fleeting recollected moments when I can recall anything about the dream, ain’t nobody I know there, ‘cept me.

I realize that this is somewhat unusual. My wife can recall, and retell, her dreams - cast and plotline - with the length and clarity of War and Peace. And the players are all real people who share her live in some way. Not I. I hang out with strangers.

One episode of an favorite old TV show, Nothern Exposure, (which I recently binge viewed in it's entirety) proposed a possible explanation. In the episode Chris and Bernard - a bi-racial pair of brothers - discover that they are having each other's dreams. Interesting notion, especially in light of my fondness for the "many worlds" interpretation of quantum mechanics. Maybe I am dreaming of the lives I am living in those other existences? How about that Professor Freud? Huh? Wadda ya think!? Stranger things have happened, right? Although none spring to mind at the moment. . 

Yet, I am pulled back, at least partially, into more realistic realms by the fact that I can recall a couple of specific dream types:

Type one: Where Is the Room?

This dream is obviously drawn from my academic life. The setting is a large convention venue. Lots of hallways, elevators, meeting rooms, sociality suites. I am supposed to be presenting a paper but cannot find the room. I am late. I am lost. I rush frantically about until rescued by the relative sanity bestowed by the breaking of the rosy fingered dawn - as some poem we had to translate in Classical Greek 101 at Kalamazoo College put it, and I awake.

Type two: Doesn't the Addams Family Live Here?

This type is similar to, but still different from, type one. I am trapped in a large spooky, gothic kind of mansion. It isn't a frightening environment as much as it is a frustrating one. I need to do something, but I don't know what or where. So I rush about never discovering what it is I seek nor where it might be located until, again, I am rescued by the rosy fingered dawn.

In both types of dreams I encounter the usual cast of familiar strangers who offer well-intentioned, but meaningless advice. My first non-dream response upon waking from either a type one or a type two dream is: "Whoa! That was weird!" And then the dream disappears.

Naturally, shortly after writing this post, the black swan that proves the exception came winging her way into my dreamscape:

My best and oldest friend accompanied me throughout the dream. We are playing golf at night on a lighted par three course, similar to, but eventually different from, one we frequented while attending high school in Springfield, Ohio.

The round started normally enough. My friend hit a lovely drive off into the lights, perhaps even onto the green. Things then got a bit strange when I attempted to tee off. The tee box turned to sand. Not golf course sand - beach sand, deep fluffy sand which would not hold a tee. Every time I placed the ball upon the tee and stood up to tee off the tee would disappear into the sand and the ball would roll away.

We finished the hole. I do not recall how. But we set off to find the second tee. Signs led us to the door of a large decrepit old mansion. We entered and found ourselves in the throes of a type two dream - hauling our golf clubs around while wandering fruitlessly about seeking the second tee. Cue the rosy fingered dawn. "Whoa! That was weird!"

Weird on several levels. First, there was a person from real life in the dream. Previously, at most, as the dream faded I might think, "Hey, that might have been .  .  ." Usually someone from at least long ago and perhaps far away.

Second, the whole athletic thing - golf and the semi-sentient golf course winding its way through some Addam's Family Mansion.

Third, and strangest of all, I remember it - at least all the salient parts.

However, given the strangeness and weirdness of my night time dreaming, I should point out that that particular cloud does have an afternoon delight silver lining: naps! I take them most days - and when I do, I do not dream. Or if I do I am blissfully unaware of the phenomenon, and awake not weird.

Well, the clock has crept past midnight and the tornado warnings have been recalled. Time to wrap this one up!

Sweet dreams!

L’Image Aumentare: Memories of Irises

 An interesting part of the conceit of this image can be found in the checkerboard patterned pieces. The idea was to not allow a colored square to touch another colored square - side-to-side or at the corners. The idea came to me after I had made some headway on the section at the upper left, so there are some exceptions there. The other two should follow the conceit, so see if you can find any flaws..

Otherwise, the image is a traditional L’Image Aumentare based on a cluster of irises photographed on a morning walk through the neighborhood.

Here is the original image:

And the initial cartoon:

And the final L’Image Aumentare 

 

Fleeting Serenity

Chaos seems to be the order of the day this 4th of July, here in the USA. Wildfires out west, Torrential rains along the Gulf coast and Florida, flooded fields in the heartland, and the far more mild irritation of “not-since-1803!” dual cicada emergence here in greater Chicagoland. Sweltering everywhere else putting psyches on edge. Politics past understanding. The new normal? I dunno. Hope not.

It all does argue for grabbing a bit of serenity wherever you can find it, right?  

Try this. Wait until dusk. Find a swath of greenery somewhere. Backyards, parks, gardens, golf courses. All good. Trees, bushes, also a plus. Now, take a seat, chair, blanket, top of a cooler - doesn’t matter. 

The idea next is to sort of “unfocus.” Look all around you, but don’t really look directly at anything - kind of a zenlike awareness. Patience, grasshopper. Waiting is. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. . .

Then ZAP! There it is! Or was it over there? Zoom! Again! Another one - but fading now. 

Fireflies. Lightening bugs. Call them what you will. 

Silent and magic, they claim the evening like tiny fairies fleeting hither and yon with blinking green and golden satchels, almost neon. They are there, then not. Gone again, only to reappear over there, or maybe there. 

For the barefoot young they invite chase. Mad flip-flop scampers over wet grass, hands swiping, or softly extended, seeking to quietly intercept the illusive prey. Then, POP! Into the Mason jar. Screw down the lid. Punch some holes in the top. Add some well-intended - but meaningless - blades of grass for seeming sustenance. Tiny romances interrupted, destined for a darkened summer bedroom to cast their fanciful, frustrated, glimmers of soft summer lights against a midnight wall.

For those of us in long pants, sleeves, socks and shoes - sporting the slightly sweet scent of Deep Woods Off - the soothing pulses stir different responses. It touches on the transcendent, linking memory, tonight, and the still masked tomorrows in a serene patchwork of the present moment.

The object of many meditative practices is to calm the mind, to step outside the hurly-burly drumbeat of contemporary life. To slow the heartbeat. To find the soothing waters of tranquility. Somehow these miniature, rhythmic, wing-borne silent pulses illuminate summer’s path to that sacred spot.