synch-ro-ni-zing

do I have to increase?

As time marches on, the expectation is out there that our output needs to increase. We're expected to do more in our jobs for one thing, and often with fewer resources. Departments across the university here are expected to increase programs, offer new and inventive courses, expand offerings - even when funding has been cut and keeps getting cut year after year. It's not too bad for me specifically, because I have such a large student case load (1,000 English advisees) no one expects me to do much beyond advising.

I understand wanting to keep discovery alive, and especially at a Research One university that is important. But does new necessarily also mean more?

In the media we're assaulted by images pulling us to buy bigger, better and more (or smaller, better and more nowadays, if you're talking about vehicles). Obviously it's their job to convince us to buy something new, so that makes sense in a nonsensical way.

Don't get me wrong, I want things to change - get greener, more peaceful, more equitable. But the idea of evolution seems to get conflated with productivity and accomplishments. Evolving is good, I like it, I need to evolve. Well, I'm evolving whether I like it or not. But the pressure to become a better person according to someone else's standard, or to learn a new skill, to read 10 more books, or get better at photography, or get a poem published . . . I feel a constant push, from somewhere, where is that Somewhere? Is this a Western phenom? If so, no doubt it is wedging itself into the rest of the Westernizing world.

Every job I've ever applied for, I hear the resume gurus in my head chanting "List accomplishments, show how you increased productivity, how you improved your workplace, etc."

Is this just a natural outcome of survival of the fittest? Are we compelled to 'survive' - meaning not just eating, drinking, sleeping, and not getting hit by a bus, but getting better so we beat someone else out of the survival game? I mean, does my survival necessitate someone else's demise?

Does workplace fervor carry over into our everyday mentality? I remember reading recently that Thoreau spent half his days at Walden sitting in a chair in the doorway looking outside across his little porch. Do you, like me, see that from two sets of eyes? First eyes: it would be heaven! Second eyes: but I couldn't do that because I wouldn't be DOing anything!

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art-felt impact

In March of last year I posted about the brutal and senseless beating death of a local arts hero, Robert Busby, by his handyman, who then took his own life. Robert owned and operated the Creole Gallery where artists, musicians like my son Peter, and poetry readers like me, perform. Beyond accessibility to the arts Robert provided, he also touched people personally with kindness and generosity. Peter will never forget the warm welcome with wine his band received from Robert in his loft apartment above the gallery before their show.

Just the other day, a year and a half after Robert's murder, Henrique Bertulani found the strength to leave a comment on that post about his friend Robert.

Henrique was an Anthropology student at MSU who participated in shows and galleries that Robert promoted. He was especially touched by Robert's brutal death because his own grandfather, a taxi driver, was killed in a similar violent manner in Cuiabá, Brazil, just when Henrique and his family moved from there to Michigan. "The eerie resemblance of their deaths and appearance, broke my heart in such a way that like his family I feel the loss as one of my own."

I went over to MSU's National Superconducting Cyclotron Labratory (we just call it the Cyclotron) to take this photo of Henrique's mural, below, painted when he was an art student here. There is a lot of security in the Cyclotron because of its work with nuclear isotopes, and my camera and I had to be escorted to the atrium where Henrique's mural is. When I told my escort I had heard from the artist, she was very interested. So I asked her, "Oh, do you know Henrique?" "Well, his father worked here," she said. His father is Carlos A. Bertulani, Nuclear Astrophysicist.

I am struck how we leave our mark on the world. When someone takes another person's life, obviously the impact is astonishing, and not just to the person killed. But consider the impact of a fresh and open heart, such as Robert's. And consider the lasting impact of art that fills an atrium on my campus with color and light, painted by Henrique Bertulani who resides far away on another continent, in Rio de Janeiro.

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the sun is always shining, somewhere

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excellence

This photo is from a local newspaper article from last year showing Don using his amplification system, which saves his voice and throat from having to project all the time. You know how it can be, talking above 26 3rd graders.

I want to congratulate my favorite teacher for winning a 'Commitment to Excellence' award granted to teachers in his school district.

These awards are given annually to honor educators who demonstrate commitment and innovation, and who embody the qualities of excellence. He will receive a significant cash gift to use as he wishes in his classroom. Feel free to offer suggestions for spending the money. (I'm thinking turtle ice cream sundaes for the year, or little disposable cameras.)

Even more valuable than the cash, here are a few excerpts from the letters supporting his nomination:

'. . . a child in Mr. M.'s care is guaranteed to leave school each day feeling good about him or herself.'

"quoting Barry Lopez: 'If stories come to you, care for them. And learn to give them away where they are needed. Sometimes a person needs a story more than food to stay alive.' Don feeds children's brains, hearts and souls with his stories."

'Don knows every student at Cornell and not just by name.'

'Mr. M. could make fun and learning out of anything! Long-division was a piece of cake! All I had to remember was "Dumb Monkeys Steal Bananas," which was a tool to remember "Divide Multiply Subtract Bring-down." Just that phrase helped me through fifth to seventh grade, and in years to come. . . . What I loved about Mr. M. was that he really accepted me for who I was, and made me feel special and stand out from the other students. He finds what is special about them and makes them feel proud. He even builds this into the learning environment.'

'until Tony met Mr. M., he was bored at school.'

'It's not fair, Mom, everyone should get to have Mr. M. for at least one year.'

'Two years ago, my son Ryan was in second grade. Daily, I would drop him off at school and the tears would begin to flow. There were days when he would be so upset, that he made himself sick. A then-undiagnosed learning disorder and a general anxiety towards school made his life miserable. As a parent it broke my heart when he would turn to wave at me from the front school doors with tears in his eyes. This may sound strange, but I was at the point that I didn't care if he was learning, I just wanted to do anything to make him feel comfortable at school. In third grade . . . a miracle happened. Ryan was placed into the loving hands of Don M. When he came home from school the very first day, he repeated a funny story that Don told. I was cautiously optimisitc that Ryan was finally on the right track. Gradually, my son wanted to go to school to hear more stories. His morning tears were gone and he began to catch up scholastically with his peers. Don made him feel comfortable. He treated him with kindness and nurtured his lack of self confidence. It was the perfect learning environment for him. At the end of the year he was a changed young man. If you met my son today, you might never know about the issues he faced in his early education.'

'Mr. M. doesn't believe in trouble.'
'Through having his students read a historical novel [A Time for Andrew], Don brought back the old game of marbles to Cornell School. . . . Everyone knows what a marble is. A small glass ball with a distinctive colorful design inside. What everyone doesn't know is how the game of marbles has entwined its way through the halls of Cornell thanks to Mr. M.'s leadership. Beyond his classroom talents, Don has taken his teaching skills onto the playground. Students from all grades now have a tradition of playing marbles at recess time. Without knowing it, they have learned many social and interpersonal skills they couldn't possibly acquire inside the school walls. They have learned how to be gracious winners and hopeful losers. They have learned they do have the ability to talk and be friends with someone they don't know. They have learned that everyone has good days and bad days. His innovative teaching skills have taken a centuries-old game and turned it into something magical at Cornell. Children of all academic and athletic abilities have formed friendships they otherwise wouldn't have because Mr. M. took the time to teach them the game of marbles. Somehow, through this simple game, Mr. M. has opened a door for each child.'

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cosmos 1 2 3

Compositae, C. bipinnatus, growing in the meadow behind the barn

Cosmos was grown by Spanish priests in Mexican mission gardens; Greek for harmony or ordered universe, 'cosmos' was the name given because of its evenly placed petals.
Hey, rauf and Loring, my sources tell me these flowers attract faeries to your garden.
Did you know there are birth flowers the way there are birthstones? Cosmos is October's birth flower. You can see the rest here.
I like cosmos. My father-in-law does not. They can look unkempt and ratty if you let them grow chaotically in your yard. I think they look best wild in a field.

I don't drink them often, but if I am going to choose an alcoholic drink, it will most likely be a cosmo (Cosmopolitan). 4 parts Citron Vodka, 2 parts Cointreau or Triple Sec, 2 parts cranberry juice, 1 part fresh lime juice. The Cosmopolitan is on the list of official cocktails of the International Bartenders Association for the World Cocktail Competition. (Um, that's a blackberry garnish, not a turd, Don.) I will probably ask for one of these tonight when we go to Harper's to hear Peter's band. He will be leaving in two weeks for 3 months on a cruise ship, entertaining with his other band while it cruises up and down the Eastern Seaboard, from NYC, to Newfoundland, to the Caribbean.

I also like the humongous tree Don and I named 'Cosmo' when we first passed it on our drive to town from the farm. I shot this pic of Cosmo in April when there was ice covering every twig, and the sky was ominous. I greet Cosmo every drive to and from work. He (not she this time) is a strong character in the world of Meridian Road.

For my 50th birthday two years ago Don posted a little cardboard sign on Cosmo for me to see on my drive home. (Click on the photo below to see the sign; it says: HAPPY 50 RUTH!)

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gift from Ireland

Last week on the Hill of Tara in County Meath, Ireland, Inge returned to the churchyard where a couple dozen beech trees line a stone wall (the cluster of trees in the upper right of the postcard, above). Rising above the ancient seat of Celtic kings and neolithic tombs 5000 years old, these living beings lift their arms to the sun, surrounded by views down into half of Ireland's counties.

At the foot of one special beech tree Inge found a square stone - once a brick, I think (in the photo, below), to bring to me. This is the first summer in four years I didn't get to touch this goddess among trees that I first met in 2005. But thanks to Inge, now I can hold a piece of worn brick - symbol of human constructs - from her shade.

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yin yang shoes

Taoists say: Nothing is created without opposing forces, or something like that.

These are both pairs of Paris shoes. Oh, look at that,

'p-a-i-r-s' and 'P-a-r-i-s' have the same letters.

The black pair I bought in Paris in 2003 when Don and I celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary. The trekkers I bought for Paris in 2006 when I stomped around with my camera for a week alone to celebrate my 50th birthday.

I like the flirty appeal of pointy toes and high heels, and I like the comfort of round toes and arch supported flat ones. Big cities pull me in, and so do mountains. The cool feel of smooth white sheets in a hotel is a luxury I love, but I also relish the warm flannel of a sleeping bag in a tent. Dressing up fancy for the symphony is something to look forward to, but let me wear my thick ugly soft grey robe on the couch with my laptop every morning. I appreciate fashion for its beauty, but I hate it for its consumerism and planned obsolescence. I live to communicate with people, but I also love to be alone with my thoughts, books, a pen and a notebook. Don and I get a big kick out of chickens, but Sherwood Anderson's narrator in 'The Egg' would have liked to kick them.

I'm learning to tolerate my own discrepancies, and those of others, and also how their opinions might conflict with my own. I'm trying to balance skepticism with open-mindedness. I want to recognize that I am a sometimes chaotic mess of contrary opinions and perspectives, and so is almost everyone else. I resist fitting into categories. I no longer want to fix everything, or to find self worth in what I accomplish or in how people view me. I'm learning to be suspicious of my biases, and not treat them as good or bad, right or wrong.

Tolerance is one thing, and it's good I think. Yet it sounds pretty passive. What if these tensions and opposing forces actually create something new and better? Maybe allowing them to co-exist is the first step. Looking for ways to carve out new territory from there is maybe the next.

Please don't ask me what this means for two pair of Paris shoes. I haven't got a clue. Maybe you do.

Anyway, I do know one new thing that's been created out of seemingly opposing forces. I used to write poetry. When the photography bug bit me, poetry took a back seat, I had no energy for it. I'd open my notebook and sit staring out the window, but nothing would come - except photos that wanted to be taken. So my notebook sat in a pile under the camera bag. Suddenly last month it occurred to me (after going to the county fair and taking pictures) that the photographs themselves could be prompts for writing. Voila! The two 'opposing' forces came together like magic.

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waiting for eggs

Don’s quail have long been producing eggs. I posted this photo in May right after this first speckled quail egg was laid. The chickens growing in the coop since spring, however, are not yet of egg-bearing maturity. The white chicken eggs in this photo we bought at a store. Don's chicken eggs will be tan, brown, green and blue.

Don expects his chickens to begin laying in the next few weeks. He has placed a golf ball in a nest box to give the hens the idea where their eggs 'belong.' Um, eggs don't really belong in a nest box conveniently for the chicken farmer and farmette to gather them. They belong in a field nest somewhere. But if we say they belong there, then those hens ought to pay attention to the golf ball.

So the other day we got to talking about eggs being single cell organisms, and how amazing that is. An ostrich egg is the largest single cell organism at 4.5 inches x 7 inches, and weighing 3 lbs. (11.5 centimeters x almost 18 centimeters, and weighing nearly 1.4 kilos). This painted egg from ukrainianegg.com is an ostrich egg.

While we wait for our chickens to lay eggs, did you know:

oology is the study or collection of eggs; isn't it cool that it looks like it has 3 eggs in it?

oviparous animals are ones that lay eggs - hey, it's another 'o' egg word (like oeuf in French); I think we could maybe change 'egg' to 'ogg'

the bee hummingbird has the smallest bird egg, around the size of a small pea: o

tiny pores in bird egg shells allow the embryo to breathe

October 10, 2008 is WORLD EGG DAY ; mark your calendar!

Sunday’s Zaman says, "According to the 'Executive Guide to World Poultry Trends,' Mexico led the world in 2005 with per capita annual egg consumption of 344. Then comes Japan with 330 eggs consumed per head annually."

My mom used to call one of my brothers 'Egghead' though I don't know why. Egghead is a term for a brainiac. I never thought of that brother as particularly intellectual.

Oh dear, there is too much information about eggs, this could go on forever. Kind of like when a single cell is joined by another and starts to multiply.

I leave you with a link to a wonderful short story (segment actually) called 'The Egg' by Sherwood Anderson. It's worth taking a little time to read it. Ah, the complexities of eggs and their effects on people, in spite of their single cell status.

Here is an excerpt of Anderson's story, linked above. Don, take heed!

One unversed in such matters can have no notion of the many and tragic things that can happen to a chicken. It is born out of an egg, lives for a few weeks as a tiny fluffy thing such as you will see pictured on Easter cards, then becomes hideously naked, eats quantities of corn and meal bought by the sweat of your father's brow, gets diseases called pip, cholera, and other names, stands looking with stupid eyes at the sun, becomes sick and dies. A few hens and now and then a rooster, intended to serve God's mysterious ends, struggle through to maturity. The hens lay eggs out of which come other chickens and the dreadful cycle is thus made complete. It is all unbelievably complex. Most philosophers must have been raised on chicken farms. One hopes for so much from a chicken and is so dreadfully disillusioned. Small chickens, just setting out on the journey of life, look so bright and alert and they are in fact so dreadfully stupid. They are so much like people they mix one up in one's judgments of life. If disease does not kill them they wait until your expectations are thoroughly aroused and then walk under the wheels of a wagon--to go squashed and dead back to their maker. Vermin infest their youth, and fortunes must be spent for
curative powders. In later life I have seen how a literature has been built up on the subject of fortunes to be made out of the raising of chickens. It is intended to be read by the gods who have just eaten of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. It is a hopeful literature and declares that much may be done by simple ambitious people who own a few hens. Do not be led astray by it. It was not written for you. Go hunt for gold on the frozen hills of Alaska, put your faith in the honesty of a politician, believe if you will that the world is daily growing better and that good will triumph over evil, but do not read and believe the literature that is written concerning the hen. It was not written for you.

(above image used under the Wiki commons agreement)