Things I'll miss....

I have taught my last college course. I am happy. I admit that during this last semester I suffered from a bad case of "senioritis."  There were days I was just phoning it in.  Still, it was a great semester, filled with some happy memories.  

In my population issues class I have a unit on fertility. I always start the fertility section with a little "where do babies come from" lecture, before moving on to discussions of patterns and determinants of fertility, methods of  contraception, abortion, and other demographic topics.  My friends laugh when I tell them about the introductory lecture. These are college students after all. But, I assume nothing and want us all to be on the same page.

My final exam is an "answer 3 of these 5 questions" type of take home essay test. One of the 5 questions is always "Tell me about two important things you learned from this class. Give enough detail to convince me that you will remember these for longer than it takes you to write this answer."  This year I got the following answer:

 To start off, the reason I chose contraceptives over everything else we learned in class was because much of it were things I didn’t know. I have grown up as a Muslim in a traditional Islamic household. While my religion teaches us to be modest yet curious, often, culture plays a role and families, like mine, avoid talking about women’s health, especially when it’s related to intercourse and romantic relationships. While I know and understand the very general vague idea of how things work, I’ve never had a one-to-one talk or research session about any of it. So, being able to learn about it in class, even briefly felt like a big benefit and relief I didn’t know I needed.

That is what I will miss most about teaching.

 

More better

 Recently I spent time with my grandkids. I'm always fascinated to see how language develops in kids. I love hearing "Her" doesn't want any, instead of "She." Pronouns are tricky. My granddaughter is 3.5 and is still a little stumped by their use. I suppose since kids are naturally inclined to the possessive, it makes sense that it is the preferred form. 

The one I really like, though is "more better."  As adults we know that "more" can be used with countable objects and ideas, while "much" is generally used for the uncountable. More is also comparative, having more money than another, for instance. There are many other distinctions. A quick Google search will lead you to many tutorials for non-English speakers where the differences between "more" and "much" are outlined.

But, what if we think of "better" as something that could be countable. We say "more of a good thing," "more appropriate," "more useful," etc. Are good things, appropriateness, and useful countable? I think not. However, they are comparative. So, for a child it is perfectly reasonable to say that something is "more better." It is comparatively better than it was.  Better is already more, already comparative, I guess. More than what was already good. So, how do we describe when something is even better than before?  Much better.

Then we have the "much more."  I have much more thinking to do on this topic. 

 P.S.

On the topic of language, I love this bit by British comedian Michael McIntyre about odd phrases, like hanky panky....

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uJEqXJRK4Q4

Time Toxicity

 I was listening to a healthcare webinar a few days ago when the topic of "time toxicity" was introduced. For a long time the medical field focused exclusively on the physiological toxicity of treatments--mainly chemotherapy. The interest was on physical side effects, was the cure worse than the disease?  I remember when the concept of financial toxicity was introduced. A recognition by doctors that there were monetary costs associated with treatments, costs that were sometimes exorbitant. This type of toxicity came with its own set of risks and "side effects."  

Time toxicity is the recognition that medical care takes time; time to travel to offices, time to get tests done, time to meet with doctors. In the case of chronic illness, the amount of time spent managing the illness can be quite high.  Add in the time outside of direct medical care, but spent making decisions about care, researching options, and dealing with insurance and the time can increase dramatically. 

The webinar presenter encouraged medical professionals to think about time when meeting with patients. Can appointments be scheduled differently? Can care be better coordinated? 

I've been thinking about this idea. Outside of medical care, are there other areas where the concept of time toxicity could be applied? Is it really a problem that can be solved? I don't think it is unique to our US healthcare system. Is it an inherent aspect of human life--do some things just take up a lot of time?

I think I've spent more than enough time pondering these questions.

What to do?

 I am devastated each day as I read the news. I am at a loss to explain how national leaders are acting, or, often, not acting. I have personally and professionally directly benefited from many of the areas being slashed. But, more importantly, I grieve for those who don't have the resources to recover, resist, or wait. I feel helpless and hopeless.

In the past I've sometimes felt that my contributions to the world were too small. This was especially true when I saw colleagues and friends spearhead major public health initiatives, start NGOs, or hold government office. In those times, I reassured myself that we each have a role to play, a corner of the world were we do have impact. During these tumultuous times I've tried to remind myself of that thought. A few days ago I reached out to several younger scholars who work in areas particularly targeted. All of these friends are members of the LGBTQ community. Some are former students, some past or present colleagues. I wanted to let them know that I was thinking of them and working, in the small ways that I can, to protest. Each responded with gratitude, but also with fortitude. They are not giving up, they are not abandoning their work. Their  responses gave me a small glimmer of hope.

I've been talking about some of my concerns with my sons. One has recently started his own blog and sent me the link to his latest post. Maybe some of you would like to read his thoughts, too. 

https://larfenwrites.blogspot.com/

Perspective

 I engage in two organized exercise classes. One is a relatively high intensity "boot camp" type class. The other is yoga. 

At the boot camp studio there are posters around the room admonishing us to "give 110 percent," "you're stronger than you think," "play like you are in first place, train like you are in second." The overall vibe is don't try, do, don't make excuses, push, push, push.  We are encouraged to set goals, be ambitious, and always strive to improve.

I've been struck by the contrast to yoga where the instructor says things like, "let go of any expectations of what you should be able to do."  She reminds us of resting poses that "are always available to you."  We are asked to honor where we are today, what we are able to do that day.  In yoga there are no judgements, where you are is where you are. One of my favorite phrases, that I've heard more than one yoga instructor say, is to use props, like blocks, "to bring the ground to you."  The very idea that it is the ground that should be moved, not your body, gives a totally different perspective on how to approach life. 

I once heard a Jewish creation story, that I probably wrote about here years ago, that ends with the statement that you are exactly who you are meant to be. While I enjoy the challenge of building my physical strength and stamina, I prefer to live my life as a yogi.

Crumbles

 I've been going through boxes of old stuff--ticket stubs, cards, photos...and newspapers. Why do we save old newspapers? What is the point?  In today's world all the information on those pages is probably saved somewhere in a digital format, or can be preserved in a digital format.  But, to me, there is something special about holding a physical object.  Someone folded that paper and put it in a paper box, rolled it and threw it on a porch, or stacked it on a stand. How many hands might have touched those pages? What were all the decisions that went into the making of this paper--the writer, the editor, the typesetter, etc.?

Then, there is the other content. What story is juxtaposed with the one I wanted to save? The whole paper tells you something about the world. There used to be these "what was happening the day you were born" gifts you could buy. Historic events, the price of eggs, and the weather were some of the items included. (For some reason the price of eggs seems to be a universal indicator of economic conditions.) Glancing over at the paper laid out on my floor now, I see that you could buy a wringer washer for $69 in 1969.  Who was still buying wringer washers in 1969!!!!

But, newspaper is the worst medium for conservation. The paper is terrible, it yellows and becomes brittle. We usually save them folded up, compounding the problem. They are an awkward, nonstandard size. In the pile I have there are papers sized 23x18 and 25x13.

Often, we save multiple copies of the same paper. Why? Do we think that several of our descendants will want their own copies? Do we think they will be valuable and we are investing in the past? For $70 a company will try to send you a vintage newspaper from the day of your birth. You can express a preference for the newspaper, but if nothing is available, they will send you some alternatives.  Maybe I can sell these after all.

Last class day

Over my many years of teaching I've struggled with what to do on the last day of class. In semesters where there will be a "fact based" final exam, like a multiple choice test, that day can be spent in review. But in other classes, where the final is an essay, or no final at all, how do you wrap up the class? It seems a little silly to go over new material in those cases.  But, what to do instead? 

The first day is easy, review the course requirements, introduce yourself, introduce the class topic. There is a lightness and sense of excitement, on both sides. What will these students be like? How can I engage them? Who is this instructor? What kind of experience will this class be?  There are many pedagogy articles that talk about how to make the first day exciting and interesting.

The last day, even in the best of classes, there is a bit of weariness. Everyone is looking to the future and this class is the past. Students are thinking about the pile of tasks they need to complete before their last exam or project. As an instructor, I'm also thinking of what I need to do in order to clear my slate and enjoy the upcoming break. None of us really want to be in class anymore. 

Are we too old for an end of year party? Could we have cupcakes and games? Next year I'll teach my last last class. I think I'll plan a party.

The sadness of little losses

 Grief over big losses, death, divorce, loss of a job or home, is expected and natural.  Much has been written about it, how it progresses, how it is managed, and it impacts your life. Much less attention seems to be paid to the little losses, a neighbor moving away, a colleague leaving the company, a favorite hairdresser retiring. Today I learned that one of the coaches at my gym is leaving. For a year I've seen her about 3 times a week. We know only the barest outlines of each other's lives, but in other ways we are intimate friends. She has seen me sweat and struggle, encouraged me to push when I didn't want to, offered friendly encouragement and smiles. I know that in a few weeks she will be only a vague, pleasant memory. I suppose the length of that recovery will depend on how well I like her replacement! But, I'm a little sad today that our journey together has ended. 

I was tempted to pin these feeling of loss on aging, but I don't think that's fair. I think back to people who at some point were SO IMPORTANT to me--childhood and college friends, former colleagues, teammates, and teachers. Some of them I wouldn't even recognize today, or possibly even remember. Seems that over our lifetime we are forever letting go. Of course, to bring this back to some positivity, we have the possibility of endless new connections (which we will, some day, have to let go!)

Theodor Billroth

 

 

 I've been working today on a new lecture covering a brief history of medicine for my population class. Reading through overviews of medical advances I happened upon the name Theodor Billroth, a pioneer in gastric surgery--in fact, Wikipedia calls him the founding father of modern abdominal surgery. Two years ago I had a "Billroth II" reconstruction following gastric surgery!  I had no idea that Dr. Billroth first developed these procedures in the 1800s.  While I'm sure there have been advances it does make wonder, what has medicine done since then? 

I was also fascinated to learn that Billroth was a music aficionado and close friend of Brahms. Brahms even dedicated some works to him. I wonder if the surgeons play Brahms in the operating room? If not, they should.  I'll have to ask them at my next visit.

Somehow, feeling connected to someone so well-respected in history makes me feel just a little special.

"In all the spheres he sought to influence, he was guided by a belief in the unity of science and art, and by confidence in his own ability to effect change."  

 

(From Roses, Daniel F. (1989-01-01). "Review of The Surgeon's Surgeon: Theodor Billroth 1829–1894, Vol. 3". Journal of the History of Medicine and Allied Sciences. 44 (2): 251–253. doi:10.1093/jhmas/44.2.251. JSTOR 24633109.)

 

 

Yoga, 108, Equinox

 Today is the autumnal equinox. To celebrate, I met up with 15 others to perform 108 yoga sun salutations. It took us over 90 minutes, but we did them. It was hot and sweaty work, and some couldn't finish, but I did (with a few modifications here and there).

I first learned about yoga in the 1970s went I spent two weeks in rural Tennessee helping to build a community center. Part of our group were a young "hippie" couple who led those interested in yoga every afternoon. Proof:

(I'm dressed all in white. No way I could do a tree pose that high today....)

Upon my return I attended yoga classes at the local YMCA where I was definitely the youngest person there. Over the years, from time to time, I would return to the practice, but never very seriously or for very long. I dabbled in meditation, attending a weekly meditation group at the University and even going to some classes at the local Buddhist temple in Syracuse. I took some classes in Tai Chi. Clearly I was looking for something.

During Covid, one of the coaches from my gym started a Sunday morning virtual yoga class. It was perfect. I was going through some difficult times and that weekly hour spent on myself became a lifeline. The quiet focus on my body, the companionship of others, the gentleness of the moves, and the encouragement to suspend judgement, soothed my soul.  So, I was glad that when I moved I found a similarly focused instructor and group.

Why 108? Apparently 108 is  a special number in many ways. Fibonacci of math fame thought the number represented the wholeness of existence. The distance from the Sun to the Earth is approximately 108 times the Sun's diameter and the distance from the Earth to the Moon is roughly 108 times the Moon's diameter. The Sanskrit alphabet has 54 characters and each has a masculine and feminine form 54x2=108. I could go on.  Of course, I could come up with a whole host of things that DON'T add up to 108, but for today I'll suspend my cynical nature, celebrate the equality of daylight and night, and suspend judgement.

Happy Equinox!

Hard things

 In the course of my life, I, like everyone, have done some hard things. Some are emotionally taxing, some require intense concentration and mental focus, some demand courage, some brute strength. In almost all cases, afterward, I've felt a sense of accomplishment, maybe tinged with relief, but overall a feeling that I have conquered the obstacle. Tired, but stronger. Drained, but confident.

You can do hard things.

I've now come across a hard thing that, while I could do, and did do, I did not come away unscathed.

I'm back from a week-long wilderness camping and canoeing trip, a venture I've undertaken a few times before. I went into the trip confident in my abilities, excited about the experience, and looking forward to the healing powers of the forest, lakes, and skies.

Instead, I now feel defeated. The trip was hard, physically and emotionally. I'm left feeling that I'm not that strong, not that able. I can't seem to find the sense of accomplishment that should come from getting through a difficult experience, not even a sense of relief. Instead, weeks later, I still find myself brooding, wondering what I could have done differently, trying to rewrite the story in a positive way. I want to find the light.

Maybe sometimes doing a hard thing doesn't make you stronger, it just makes you tired.

Bright Ideas

 My neighborhood requires that each home have a dusk to dawn light in front of the house. (Our HOA is pretty innocuous, so I don't mind the requirement.)  Since I moved in just over a year ago, my outdoor light has been on 24/7. I realized that the sensor was no longer working and needed to be replaced, but it wasn't high on my list of priorities. But, a few days ago I got around to making the repair. I'll have to say I was a bit proud of my ability to tackle this job alone, although to be honest it entailed only unclipping a plastic coupler and plugging in one attached to the new sensor. 

I thought at the same time I would replace the light bulb and came into the house to find one of the long life bulbs I had purchased about a week ago. I remembered buying them and looked in the pantry where I keep light bulbs. No new bulbs. Hmm, maybe I put them in the cupboard with cleaning supplies. No bulbs. In the garage? No. In the linen closet? No. Under the sink? No. No. No. (I have 3 sinks). I had purchased bird seed at the same time, so maybe I put them on the sun porch. No. 

I put the old bulb back in.    

                                                     

I have two laptops. I usually keep one at my office on campus and one at home. For the summer, I brought my school laptop home. I sometimes use it at home at my dining room table if I don't feel like sitting in my home office. However, my home laptop has the Adobe Pro software and my school one does not. About a month ago I was working at the dining room on my school laptop and realized I needed to edit a .pdf document. I grabbed my other laptop, put it on the table, and completed the edit. The next day, I came home from the gym and decided to do some work. I saw my home laptop on the table, but not my school laptop. I had the mouse. I had the power cord. I did not have the laptop. I looked in my home office. No laptop. I looked in my bedroom. No laptop. I looked on the sun porch. No laptop. My sinking feeling was that it had been stolen. The dining room opens to the sun porch and I'm not always careful to lock that door. Would someone actually come in and take the laptop but not the power cord and not the second laptop? Seemed odd, but I was resigned to the loss due to my own stupidity. I sat down at the other laptop, then realized...the second laptop was under it. I had merely put one on top of the other. The school laptop is pretty slim and exactly the same dimensions.  Now, I was amazed by my own stupidity.

Today, I decided to take a hike in the 90 degree weather. I pulled out my convertible hiking pants to wear because they have lots of pockets. As I was zipping off the lower leg pieces to make shorts I thought, "Every time I put these back together I fumble to get the legs on the correct side. I should mark these pieces so that it will be easier." Impressed with my thinking I turned over one of the lower leg pieces and noticed an "R" on the zipper pull.  I picked up the other piece, an "L" on the zipper pull....Who knew?? It reminded me of the time I realized my sheets had tags for "side" and "top."  Will the world ever cease to amaze me?? Does my stupidity have no bounds?

Shaking my head, dressed for my hike, I walked back into the dining room with a smile. I glanced over to the corner where the 5 gallon bucket I had purchased at the hardware store sat. Guess what was in it? 

A box of light bulbs.

In my studies of gerontology the mantra was, don't worry if you forget where you put your keys, worry if you don't remember what they are for. Or, if you find them in the freezer.

 Luckily, the light bulbs were not in the freezer.

(I need to point out, for some readers, that I had relayed the laptop story to my niece and her daughter when they stopped for a visit. The laptops were still on the table in the exact position I had left them. Before I reached the revelation, Ruby, without a beat, pointed out that they were on top of each other. I should have called her to look for my light bulbs! The difference nearly 60 years can make...)

                                                        

Desire Paths

 The university where I teach has a very small student run newspaper. Published only once a week, it is usually four pages, two of which are sudoku puzzles and photographs. This is a tech school, so while we have some great writers, journalism is not strongly represented.  But, this week a cover story caught my eye. Grasswalkers: Illinois Institute of Technology and Desire Paths.

What is a desire path you might ask? According to Wikipedia, it is "an unplanned small trail created as a consequence of mechanical erosion."  It is a path people have made for convenience.  Think of the way we cut across a corner, or walk straight instead of following a curved sidewalk or path.

 In the 1990s the university constructed a new student center on a parcel of land that was vacant. In the design of the building the architects used the "desire paths" the students had created across the open field as the guide for the building's corridors. The result is a building that feels very confusing. The hallways seem to be at odd angles and intersect in sharp angles.  What worked for an open field doesn't seem as well-suited for a building.

And it makes sense, doesn't it?  A desire path is created to minimize travel time or maximize convenience. Once you plop a building down the old paths lose their advantage to some extent. The expectations we have for how a building corridor will function are different than those we hold for open fields.

 

(The student center is the rectangle in the middle of this plan and the orange lines show the "desire paths." Giving you an interior like the below.)

 

But, the whole thing got me thinking about desire paths. They are both rebellious and conformist at the same time. We are railing against the prescribed pathway, but doing so with everyone else. We aren't making our own unique path, we are following a crowd. A rebellious crowd, perhaps, but a crowd nonetheless. How often do we all desire the same thing?  Will there eventually be offshoots from the desire path, representing new desires?

It just so happened that at the same time I was mulling over desire paths, I came across a passage in a book I was reading (The Ten Thousand Doors of January). A young scholar was told he needed to "find a path." But he despaired over the two choices he had been offered. "But to Yule both paths were unspeakably bleak. Both of them would necessitate a narrowing of his boundless horizons, an end to his dreaming." 

Can we use desire paths outside of discussions of the built environment? What if your desire path doesn't fall along the beaten trail? 

More to come.....

   

It's been awhile....

 I think about things I might want to write, but somehow never get around to it. I think we alternate through phases of intensity and retreat. Maybe like the seasons.  I've been through a quiet winter, so maybe spring is around the corner.

I was listening to an audiobook today and a certain phrase stuck with me. This is not a direct quote, but it was something like...."there are still scars but I remind myself that means the bleeding has stopped."  I thought it was a good way to think about our scars, physical and psychological. They are there, no denying that. But we could look at them as places of healing, rather than places of hurt.

That's all for today.

Holding my breath

 

 

 

 My current medical situation requires that every three months I'm subjected to MRI scans. After a few years of this routine, I've become pretty accomplished with the procedure.  I have a favorite outfit with no metal pieces, although some techs still request that I change into a hospital gown.  I did, once, alter my bottom wear and, just as the scan was starting, realized that there was a small metal zipper on a pocket that I had completely forgotten about.  Believe me, reading about how the magnets in an MRI machine can toss a wheelchair across the room makes you VERY aware of any metal on your body as you slide into that tiny tube.  Luckily, I don't become claustrophobic, I close my eyes and try to think of anything but the fact that my body is basically in a casket. 

However, I do struggle with one aspect of the test....holding my breath.  Apparently research has shown that better images are achieved if breath is held on the exhale rather than the inhale. So a gentle female robot voice instructs me to, "breathe in, breathe out, hold your breath."  Then, HOURS later, commands that I "relax."  As if.  I'm starved for air, I'm in a tiny tube, I have an IV hooked up in one arm, an emergency button clutched tightly in one hand (but not TOO hard), and I haven't had anything to eat or drink for at least 4 hours. (I learned that this has nothing to do with the accuracy of the scan, but is to prevent you from needing to vomit while you are in there...pleasant). Sure, I'll "relax."

(Interestingly, during mammograms the instructions are "take a breath, stop breathing."   The hold is on the inhale, and the instruction is not to hold your breath but to STOP. )

In actuality, the breath holds are, at the longest, about 20 seconds. Something I could probably do without any qualms in normal situations.  At night, if I have trouble sleeping, one of my strategies is to do "box breathing."  Breathe in for a count of 4, hold for 4, exhale for 4, hold for 4, repeat. It works pretty well to distract my monkey mind and ease me into sleep. I can swim underwater a fair distance. I've warned the MRI techs that the breath holds are hard for me and they say they will try to keep them short. I know that if I fail and take a breath, the images will be distorted, making interpretation more difficult. (Although in my case, I doubt that would make much difference in the end.)  So, I do my best. I try counting, I grit my teeth, press my tongue to the roof of my mouth.  I've tried taking bigger or smaller inhales, bigger or smaller exhales, doesn't seem to help.  Being told "DO NOT BREATHE" is an admonition that makes me want to breathe even more.

Think of all the times we hold our breath, wait with bated breath, or have the wind knocked out of us (literally or figuratively).  We do it in anticipation of good and bad, happy and sad. We do it when we are scared, when we are being sneaky, when we are excited, or when we are hurt.  Breathing is life and being asked to NOT breath goes against our basest instincts. 

I'm not sure I'll ever get better at breath holding for an MRI, but I've heard that, with practice, you can improve.  I'll test that out in three months.

 I sometimes feel I spent many years holding my breath, waiting for the other shoe to fall, walking on eggshells, not daring to disturb the very delicate currents of air that circulated through my life. Only in the past 10 years or so have I felt that I could breath more easily, more freely.  I don't want to hold my breath!

Traffic and Roosters

 

 Growing up one of our favorite childhood games was "traffic." A very simple game, it involved me and my siblings riding our bikes in circles around our driveway.  We had a gas station by the front steps, a train crossing, a pedestrian crossing, and a garage in, naturally, the garage.  We would ride in circles, stopping to pick up passengers, waiting for people to cross, and getting our tires repaired. Our most memorable traffic accident involved putting my youngest brother's tricycle into the wagon, with him on top, and pulling him around...until he fell off and broke his collarbone. We had traffic lights, police, and, when feeling like a long journey we would exit the driveway and ride up and down our dead end street.

I'm just home from a few days with my grandchildren and while there spent some time playing traffic with my 4 year old grandson. He invented much the same game on the sidewalk in front of his house.  With chalk he designated the gas station, drew a traffic light, and put in a rail crossing. He would ride his bike and I served as the gas station attendant. We even got his younger sister involved, riding in her Little Tykes Cozy Coupe. It was made for playing traffic, it even has a gas cap! I wonder if children around the world play this game?  Before cars did kids play cattle drive?  or herding sheep?

I was also reminded of our strange obsession with teaching young children animal sounds.  My 1.5 year old granddaughter has the cow down pat, and is working on horses and chickens. One would think we would focus on more important vocabulary. How often in your life are you called upon to make an animal sound, other than playing or reading with young kids? So many children's books focus on farm animals. I have a satisfactory knowledge of the appropriate sounds (although there are the cluck/bawk/cheep, woof/bow wow/ ruff/arf dilemmas) and can even venture into monkeys or elephants. But what do we do with fish? giraffes? penguins? turtles? We have painted ourselves into a corner.

I don't think my grandson has ever seen a rooster, but when we play pretend games he always signifies morning and time to wake up with the sound of a rooster, "cock a doodle do," not an alarm clock. Where does that come from? I know that animal sounds differ round the world, so we don't even have a common base for what animals sound like, let alone how they are named.  Do roosters really sound different in Germany?  Kikireki? Most children in the US do not live on, or even near, a working farm. Why do we focus on animal sounds?  What makes them relatable to children?  I'm sure someone has written a doctoral thesis on this topic and I am now off to search for it. 

Redbuds

 

 

I recently moved back to my hometown area. I feel comfortable here.

In my yard I have a beautiful redbud tree (not the one above, my poor photo of my redbud is at the bottom.)  They seem to be everywhere I look.  The blooms start in April, before there are many leaves on trees, so the colors really stand out.  I've always wondered why they are called "redbuds" when the flowers are more pink or purple in color. I know we had redbuds in central NY, but it seems there are even more here. At least I notice them more.

My sister Martha died in an April many years ago and I remember my dad telling me of driving home from the funeral, looking out the car window, and seeing the woods full of redbud trees in bloom. Ever since then, he said, seeing the redbud trees in April reminded him of Martha. When my mother passed away, he had a redbud tree planted by the history museum where they had both volunteered.

One of my favorite things about the trees is how the blossoms can come right out of the trunk, not only sprouting from the branches.  It's as if the plant can't contain its excitement about the coming spring weather. It's bursting at the seams.

For me, the redbuds carry all of these stories--my sister, my mother, my father, and, now, my new home and new beginnings. I'm starting to think I might need to plant another

"HOME"

For the last 2 years I've lived with a spectacular view of Lake Michigan, but it never quite felt like home.  Some years ago I wrote about the concept of paracosms, detailed imaginary worlds often created by children that artists may also use to define their work and ground them in a particularity (think Hogwarts). I argued (although I can't find that blog post, that's what you get for not creating tags....) that the same concept applied to those of us who grew up near the Indiana Dunes. I'm not sure a week goes by that I don't see a post on social media from a friend, classmate, or relative referencing the dunes.  We are grounded in a particularity.

Now, I've moved "home," back to the Duneland community where I spent the first 18 years of my life. I haven't lived here for nearly 50 years, but it has always felt like home to me, the place where I am most comfortable, where I find the greatest peace, and where I've wanted to return. Thinking of my residential timeline it is roughly 18 years in one house, 10 years around central Indiana, 10 years in Pennsylvania, 19 in Upstate New York, and 9 in Chicago. Looked at that way, this community rivals NY for my residential longevity. 

Still, it felt odd to change my phone GPS maps app to define this new address as "home." I guess like changing a relationship status on Facebook, changing your map setting is when you know the change is really official. I'm still surrounded by boxes and discovering odd surprises in this house, some good, some not so good, but it feels like home.

BTW, even thought I grew up close to the tip of Lake Michigan, I did not learn the mnemonic for the Great Lakes (HOMES) until well into adulthood. 

The perils of living alone

 One might think that the scariest part of living alone is not having someone there in case of a fall, a heart attack, or some other medical emergency.  Who would help you if you fall and can't get up?

But, that is nothing compared to the emergency of being in the shower and realizing that the only body wash that you can use (Olay moisture ribbons, the purple kind, not the pink that you bought once when you couldn't find the purple in the store and found out that it is not the same body wash in a different color, but an inferior product) is missing.  You recently ordered a refill supply of the purple bottles off of Amazon because it is difficult to find in the store and your package of five bottles is sitting by the front door of your apartment where you dropped it as you came in with a load of mail, groceries, and packages, thinking you would open it later and put one bottle in the shower and the other four in the closet (where you were sure you already had a spare bottle, but did not).  So, you turn off the water, wrap yourself in a towel, gingerly (so you don't fall!) step out and make your way across the bathroom, through the bedroom, and down the hall to retrieve the package.  Once you are back in the bathroom you realize that the package is impenetrable and you need to take it back through the bedroom, down the hall and into the kitchen where you can slice it open with a pair of scissors (note to self, put pair of scissors in the bathroom). Now, back in the shower, you restart the water, finish your shower, and hope that Olay never discontinues the purple moisture ribbons like Pantene discontinued their Silver Expressions purple shampoo 

BUT....It's back...sort of...from Pantene website:

We've heard you, and we are bringing Pantene's Silver Expressions Purple Shampoo back!

Still on Amazon this note :  Temporarily out of stock.

 

 

 

Personification redux

Well, I've certainly found myself down a rabbit hole on this one (a metaphor?!) At Thanksgiving dinner, for some reason conversation veered to a discussion of literary devices.  My language arts teaching niece (Hi Martha!) remarked that personification was the attribution of human characteristics to non-humans.  "Wait," I said, "isn't that anthropomorphism?"  

Googling lead us to this definition of personification:  "the attribution of a personal nature or human characteristics to something nonhuman, or the representation of an abstract quality in human form."  I associate personification with the second definition, "Hitler was the personification of evil," for instance. I must have in some recess of my mind thought of the first definition, too, which is why I started my last post in that way.  Where does anthropomorphism fit in, then?

Further research lead to this explanation: 

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( https://grammarist.com/usage/personification-vs-anthropomorphism/)

 Personification and anthropomorphism are two literary devices that are somewhat similar, but with a subtle difference. 

 Personification is a literary device that ascribes human attributes to abstract ideas or inanimate objects. The attribution of human characteristics to non-human items through personification is a method of using figurative language to create imagery.

 Anthropomorphism is a literary device that ascribes human actions and attributes to animals or other objects. Anthropomorphism is used simply to make an animal or object behave as if it were a human being.

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 The most common example for personification seems to be "The sun smiled down on us."  While the most common example for anthropomorphism is Bagheera from The Jungle Book, or Mickey Mouse (the educational resources tend towards the Jungle Book, while other sources go right for Mickey or Peter Rabbit.)

Given those examples, my first description of thinking of my washing machine as being too tired to do a fifth load is probably closer to personification than anthropomorphism after all.  Perhaps if I had tried to wash that bedspread and the washing machine failed to complete the cycle, I could have said, "My washing machine said it was too tired."  (anthropomorphism) But, if I say my machine is tired then I've ascribed that human attribute to the machine. (personification)

 

 

 However, along the way I also discovered "pathetic fallacy," which seems to be personification applied to nature, specifically. 

The phrase pathetic fallacy is a literary term for the attribution of human emotion and conduct to things found in nature that are not human. It is a kind of personification that occurs in poetic descriptions, when, for example, clouds seem sullen, when leaves dance, or when rocks seem indifferent. 

 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pathetic_fallacy

 I'll end by saying that these are all considered literary devices, so perhaps I shouldn't lay claim to having used any of them!!

And, that's where Thanksgiving dinners can take you.