A Ticket to Space?

The Pacific Ocean Viewed From Outer Space, a photo by BlatantWorld.com on Flickr.

“What’s the most you’d pay for a ticket to visit space?” you ask.

“About a buck-thirty, maybe a buck-seventy-four … but no more,” I say.  No need to buy a ticket; I visit space every day, wherever I am.  I like my space.  I like some public spaces.  And I LOVE fresh air space, especially that of the mountains where there are chill streams flowing with power and thunder or trickling and gurgling among pebbles and boulders.

Another space I enjoy as often as possible is the space where my bicycle takes me as I stroke the pedals with a firm, circular cadence. That space includes the whistling of wind in my ears, the rush of wind through my helmet and the rush of blood and oxygen through my brain, my muscles, heart and lungs singing with elation even as they sometimes cry out in momentary pain on a challenging climb.

Or there are the big spaces and tee-ninecy spaces where my camera lens takes me. I sometimes have to squeeze and squinch to get in there, or hang over a barrier, or climb up onto a precarious ledge, or backpack for miles to camp and wait for just the right light conditions.  But once I’ve ‘clumb’ up there and snagged the shot — the space, that is — on my SD card for transport to my computer and the world, I have no need to even think about outer space. That’s for another photographer — and more power to her/him.

My own space is fine … terra firma.  Love it.  Outer space is intriguing, especially from the standpoint of stars, novas, supernovas, and all the other systems of planets, etc. I enjoy photos taken in outer space, photos from the Hubbell telescope and other traveling tools of science and exploration.

But my heart is in my own space, and that tiny bit of space has more miracles of adventure, beauty, enjoyment and love than I can exhaust in this lifetime.

Carpe diem. Vita brevis!

© April 24, 2012, by Michael E. Stubblefield.  All rights to my original work are reserved.

Talking Trees

An answer to a Plinky Prompt: “How do you spend the majority of your online time?”

This (below) is the right image for my answer. I like trees. Not a tree hugger in the political sense, but I’m always inspired by trees. I respect them, admire them, appreciate their complex beauty that’s all wrapped up in apparent “simplicity.” Particularly the older ones in their endless variations (and I think it’s always been that way for me; even when I was still wet behind the ears, I listened intently to my great-grandmother, my grandmothers, my great-uncles, my parents). What’s that about?

Controlling IT Costs; Enterprise Architecture (EA) strategy, a shared lexicon, and enforced change

Writing. Whether researching, responding to email, posting or commenting on social media, 90% of my online time is consumed with writing. I am crafting sentences, phrases, snippets, or other combinations of letters, words, paragraphs and punctuation to communicate with my fellow human beings. Some of them, the humans, are like the aged trees. Maybe I am, too. It’s in weathering, and storms. The stories thus born are often more current, more relevant, than the media “news” that’s cranked out ad nauseum day after day.

Trees inspire me — often, to write. I photograph them, too — frequently – the ones that I find special in one way or another, and have accumulated a considerable ”tree” collection. With time, I’ve come to note that it’s never, or rarely, the young saplings that attract me. Hope for them, wish them well and trust that they’ll be properly watered and fed, protected and pruned. But they’re not the ones that “grab” me. The older ones always commandeer my undistracted observation, the ones that have been twisted and shaped by assailing winds, captured and then released by storms, wounded or nurtured by passing humans, stunted and spurred by alternating deprivation and abundance.

It’s in their stories. Stories that I get to imagine, if not to hear — to weave a thread at a time, to discern through focused study, observation, palpitation, or listening. Trees are unique in that respect. They “hold still” for you. And if you listen and observe long enough, they’ll tell their stories. They’re compulsive. Subtle but clear — IF you’re listening. It’s in their nature to talk — to “write”  – the chronicle of their existence. Their gentleness or toughness, their true nature, may be disguised in the camouflaged exterior of all they’ve seen, endured, dealt out, accepted, and synthesized into their grain, knots, limbs, healed-over pruning cuts, storm-broken limbs, and other scar tissue that gives them their unique character. Character that the worker of fine woods — the craftsman — values most.

Maybe trees are more adept than homo sapiens at communication.

Carpe diem.  Vita brevis!

© May 10, 2011, by Michael E. Stubblefield.  All rights to my original work reserved.  Photo courtesy of Plinky.com.

Eat, Sweat, Engage … and Relax, Baby!

An Answer to the Plinky Prompt, “What do you do to stay healthy?”

“A bicycle does get you there and more…. And there is always the thin edge of danger to keep you alert and comfortably apprehensive.  Dogs become dogs again and snap at your raincoat; potholes become personal.  And getting there is all the fun.”  ~Bill Emerson, “On Bicycling,” Saturday Evening Post, 29 July 1967

“Healthy” is at least a three-ring circus (maybe more) for me. Circuses are fun, entertaining, and beneficial if taken in moderation. Moderation, I readily admit, is defined relative to the activity undertaken and the actor who’s undertaking it (the “undertakee”).  “Undertakee’s” age may be one of several relevant factors.  So here’s how I look at staying healthy.

Road cycling race in Hilversum

Physical health, mental health, and emotional health are indispensable members of a team, a team that lubes the running gears of a synchronous, synergistic and vibrant organism — my body — for maximum enjoyment and productivity. In my opinion, there is no team star; to neglect any one of the team members is a sure recipe for disaster, sooner or later.  And the team manager is courage, without which the team will never take the field.

The only “special diet” that interests me is the one that includes a well-proportioned intake of plenty of fresh vegetables & fruits (complex carbohydrates), whole grains, proteins and healthy fats, with a significant percentage of the fruits and veggies ingested in raw form. Raw juices with no pulp removed and no sugar added may be part of that mix. The sugars I eat (okay, I confess to the rare Snicker bar, Almond Joy, pastry and holiday pie) are raw honey, maple syrup (on Saturday pancakes or waffle) and all-fruit, no-sugar-added jellies with breakfast. Oh, and did I mention pure drinking water — lots of it? These days, I’m trying to drink 96 ounces per day.  The rule of thumb is that your intake should roughly equal, in ounces, half your body weight, so I overdo it a bit for my 170 lbs. For kicks, I drink a double shot of espresso every morning with breakfast — just to keep things moving. And a little red wine with the evening meal is not required, … nor frowned upon.

For me, the main ingredient of a workable physical exercise plan is and always has been sweat — and lots of it! I like to sweat when I’m working out; I know it’s one indicator that I’m accomplishing my goal through a consistent and sustained expenditure of energy under a stress load. If I work out right, hard enough and long enough, I’ll be sweating, and when I do, all my body’s systems — organs, muscles, endocrine system, skin, etc. – flush themselves of toxins. So I’m cleaning inside and improving/maintaining my cardio-vascular health. My favorite physical workout is a strenuous bicycle ride, riding rolling hills, doing hill climbs, or going all out on the flats. I love the singing of my tires, the wind and sun in my face, and the awareness that I’m working lots of muscles to the max! When other friendly cyclists are along, it’s even better.

This is also one of the surest ways to support optimum mental and emotional health, because as I rev up my physical motors, I increase blood circulation throughout my body, and especially my brain. This makes for better all-round vitality, and I know of no other way to achieve that. But good mental and emotional health also require other inputs and conditioning of a far less physical nature. I read much, I try to learn something every day, I engage in robust conversation with people of all ages and “stripes,” listening and sharing. I attempt to stay grounded or centered on who I am and what I want to be — both to myself and to others. And although I struggle in the process, I do my best to get adequate rest and downtime. Sometimes I listen to music or read; I often do creative writing, sketching or some other “release” activity to stay balanced and in touch with the rhythms of my life.

Remember when, in 1985 at the Washington Press Club’s “Salute to Congress” black-tie dinner, Washington Redskins player John Riggins told U.S. Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O’Connor, ”Loosen up, Sandy baby. You’re too tight,” and then took a 45-minute nap on the floor during VP George Bush’s speech?  He was on to something, notwithstanding his public drunkenness and inappropriate familiarity/disrespect toward Sandra Day O’Connor.  Atrocious public conduct [Note: Riggins was arrested for his misconduct], but still apt for making my point that too much seriousness and uptight attitude toward life are not healthy.  We all need rest and relaxation – downtime – even a justice of the U.S. Supreme Court.  No one is immune to the need for good health habits.

I’m happier when my health is good, when I live like this.  And everyone around me is happier because I’m not as likely to be a grump. Go for it!

Carpe diem. Vita brevis!

©  May 9, 2011, by Michael E. Stubblefield. All rights to my original work are reserved.  Photo courtesy of Plinky.com.

One Child’s Wisdom

Don’t look at me all bug-eyed, as though you disbelieve!  The Boogeyman has been around a long time, and everybody knows it, even adults.  Kids, especially little kids, can tell you all about him — what he looks like, where he lurks and lies in wait, what he does when he gets you.  Adults can’t, though — or won’t.  We’re too sophisticated to believe in childish stories.  A boogeyman?  Nah!  But you can research the topic on the Internet if you want; there’s been a movie or two about him, and surely hundreds of stories over the generations by the likes of Stephen King and a host of others.  The Grimm Brothers’ Children’s and Household Tales were often about this grim character of folklore, in one form and name or another.  Not only has he survived, but he has thrived at the unwitting hand of humankind’s nurture.  Like you (I’ll bet) and millions of others, I remember being afraid to enter a dark room, get out of bed at night, or go outside in the dark because “the Boogeyman” might get me.  That was common knowledge.  All my school friends could, wide-eyed and gulping, confirm his existence based on independent experience, even if not an eyewitness report.

As I was growing up and battling the fear of such a specter, I was sure that he had many forms, that he was an omnipresent, evanescent creature with chameleon powers so that he avoided detection by his victims until it was too late and he had you.  He clearly had “the upper hand” — ALL the hands!  Enough to snare you, stifle your cries for help, smother you near to death, and use you for his nefarious purposes, purposes never apprehended by his young prey.  To be sure, we didn’t think then in fifty-cent words like “omnipresent” or “evanescent” or even “chameleon.”  But the unmitigated truth of the Boogeyman’s existence was without doubt.

Then Yann Martel came along and spoke in the profoundly simple-yet-vivid voice of a young, bewildered, shipwrecked Indian boy, Piscine Molitor Patel (“Pi”), to address — no, to call out! — the Boogeyman.  It’s an ancient story reborn.  But the Boogeyman doesn’t really exist!  Or does he?

Here’s how Pi puts it:

I must say a word about fear.  It is life’s only true opponent.  Only fear can defeat life.  It is a clever, treacherous adversary, how well I know.  It has no decency, respects no law or convention, shows no mercy.  It goes for your weakest spot, which it finds with unerring ease.  It begins in your mind, always.  One moment you are feeling calm, self-possessed, happy.  Then fear, disguised in the garb of mild-mannered doubt, slips into your mind like a spy.  Doubt meets disbelief and disbelief tries to push it out.  But disbelief is a poorly armed foot soldier.  Doubt does away with it with little trouble.  You become anxious.  Reason comes to do battle for you.  You are reassured.  Reason is fully equipped with the latest weapons technology.  But, to your amazement, despite superior tactics and a number of undeniable victories, reason is laid low.  You feel yourself weakening, wavering.  Your anxiety becomes dread.

Fear next turns fully to your body, which is already aware that something terribly wrong is going on.  Already your lungs have flown away like a bird and your guts have slithered away like a snake.  Now your tongue drops dead like an opossum, while your jaw begins to gallop on the spot.  Your ears go deaf.  Your muscles begin to shiver as if they had malaria and your knees to shake as though they were dancing.  Your heart strains too hard, while your sphincter relaxes too much.  And so with the rest of your body.  Every part of you, in the manner most suited to it, falls apart.  Only your eyes work well.  They always pay proper attention to fear.

Quickly you make rash decisions.  You dismiss your last allies: hope and trust.  There, you’ve defeated yourself.  Fear, which is but an impression, has triumphed over you.

The matter is difficult to put into words.  For fear, real fear, such as shakes you to your foundation, such as you feel when you are brought face to face with your mortal end, nestles in your memory like a gangrene; it seeks to rot everything, even the words with which to speak of it.  So you must fight hard to express it.  You must fight hard to shine the light of words upon it.  Because if you don’t, if your fear becomes a wordless darkness that you avoid, perhaps even manage to forget, you open yourself to further attacks of fear because you never truly fought the opponent who defeated you.

~ Y. Martel, Life of Pi, Harcourt, Inc., 2001, p. 161-62 (underlining and bold emphasis added).

I believe Pi  — or Martel — nailed it, spot-on.  Does his description sound familiar to you?  And have not many sages, masters, prophets, teachers and divines down through the ages left a wealth of recorded wisdom on this very topic, spoken in other words and many languages?  Where else might we find that wisdom, those thoughts and principles verified so eloquently by the poor, shipwrecked Pi as he faced his Bengal tiger?

Carpe diem.  Vita brevis.

© April 30, 2011, by Michael E. Stubblefield.  All rights reserved.

German Engineering Superiority: Really?

A Humorous Look at Self-Awarded ‘Saxon Superiority’

In the world of pop culture there’s an apparent, if unspoken, belief that German automotive products are superior to those of any other nation. If you don’ t believe it, just look at the numbers of Volkswagens, BMWs, and Mercedes-Benz cars on the road.  Long touted for their superior engineering skills (überlegenen deutschen Maschinenbau), the Saxons have, with great audacity and consistency, maximized and marketed that image to the gullible masses for over six decades.  And judging by the “entry fees” on German cars, the profit margins surely have been equally heartening to the perps, who have, no doubt, laughed up their corporate sleeves all the way to das Deutsch Bank.

Who knows the seminal point of this marketing myth? Perhaps it inadvertently arose from Hitler’s almost-successful (but grossly evil) “precision” at engineering a massive takeover of the western world and “purifying” it to his sick expectations.  His tanks, armies and generals claimed, as did the German nation in general, to be without peer — at least until they met the Russians on the cold plains outside Moscow and the Allies on the beaches of Normandy and the hedgerows of France, Belgium and Holland.

But it’s time to turn from that sick chapter in human history and debunk the myth of “superior German engineering.”  Bare minimum, the term should at least be converted to the more precise description of “superior marketing hype.” Start with the moniker “Volkswagen” – “the peoples’ auto.”  That’s a folksy, encouraging name with a trustworthy ring to it, arguably much moreso than “Touareg” or “Tiguan,” a couple of VW’s current models.  VW has also been described in fairly recent ads as simply “Driven.”  I owned a Volkswagen in the ‘60s and found that it was driven, … far too often, to the shop for required mechanical repairs.  Here are a couple of vintage ads from that time:

Notice the manufacturer’s clever descriptions, … with both of which I wholeheartedly agree:  “Lemon” and “Volkswagen doesn’t do it again.” But I inserted no personal opinion in either of those ads – just removed a bit of text beneath the word “Lemon” in the first one so that we could focus on the operative, one-word descriptive assigned by the manufacturer.  Apt, in my opinion.  That VW was a “lemon” because it required (as in, specified in the owner’s manual) that the engine’s four valves be adjusted every 3,000 miles – a job not to be lightly tackled by the average car owner under his shade tree, especially in winter. Off to the shop we go, where mechanics trained by German engineers often could NOT, in my practical experience, make accurate valve adjustments, even with proper German tools. Hello burned valves!  Hello pricey little valve job!  Hello, parts profits for VW!  I’ve never looked back at the Volkswagen line since then.

Next, let’s visit the vaunted BMW – the “Ultimate Driving Machine,” I believe it has affectionately been called. It was also ballyhooed in older ads as “sedan of the year for five years in a row.”  A comparison with my experience is, however, instructive.  I own a 1997 Ford Expedition with about 180,000 miles on it. Bought it as the second owner when it had 24,000 on the odometer and was two years out of the chute.  Since, I’ve had the spark plugs replaced once, bought tires every 50,000 miles just to keep good rubber on the road, and have had the PCV valve, brakes, and a set of front shocks replaced once. Replaced the battery and, of course, have had regular service to nurture the drivetrain with clean oil, filters, and other fluids. Oh, and the 6-disc CD changer (thoughtfully installed at the factory in the console between the driver’s and front passenger’s seat – novel idea!) finally quit working last fall after having been played mercilessly for 178,000 miles of pleasureful, musical driving. This big “gas hawg,” which often hauls a mountain of cycling or camping gear, gets about 18 mpg on the road at 75 mph, 15 or so around town, depending upon the stop-and-go. No VW economy on this one, but I don’t feel particularly ozone-layer-destructive, since I now put about 4,000 miles a year on it. And this truck offers great road visibility so that I can see and avoid traffic snarls and oncoming text messengers before they broadside me at an intersection.  Pretty handy, especially since auto accidents annually claim the lives of about 60 times more people than U.S. military troops killed in the entire war in Iraq. (Why is no one staging a protest?!)  Not to mention physical comfort.  Not luxury, but comfort.

Roll in the Beamer 528i, please Vana, and let’s take a look!  My wife’s car is NEWER than my Ford and has a third FEWER miles.  But it’s engineered to last and provide driving euphoria, right?  (I won’t digress here about the seats being so low that I struggle to haul my skinny butt out of one, to exit the car, what with my knees higher off the ground than said butt!)  Starting in the passenger compartment, the CD changer had expired before we bought the car used, so the previous owner (widely known as a fastidious engineer type who’s religious about maintenance protocols) had installed a Pioneer after-market CD player – in the trunk!  Where the original was – how handy!  I can just see a dad driving his teen daughter to a sleepover in his fine BMW and she objects strenuously to his boring music. “OK, sweetie, just hop out – in the rain – and change the CDs. I’ll pop open the trunk.”  Eyeroll.  “Dad!!!”  Big sigh.

Well, the after-market CD changer not only died soon after we purchased the beast, but it wrought sporadic (aka unpredictable) and sudden, rapid exhaustion of the car’s battery at the most inconvenient times and inaccessible places — a peculiar idiosyncracy that no mechanic seemed able to ferret out with the most sophisticated computer diagnostics.  But I can tell you that accessing a “down” car and hooking up jumper cables in a tight, multi-floor, pay-in and pay-out parking garage is not my idea of fun.  Not even if it’s to rescue Mama.  After several iterations of this exercise – not the kind that improves cardio-vascular functioning – I was told I should “probably remove the after-market CD changer because we’ve heard that BMWs and Audis have sometimes manifested this issue.”  Don’t you just love techie talk?!  Not to mention that the Beamer’s fuel mileage is no better than my Ford’s although it’s half the size and half as comfortable.

“We” have owned the BMW for just over a year.  We’ve replaced the alternator twice, almost all the exterior light bulbs and a handsome little sensor (as in, $680 US) of some sort that resides in a wheel well (only slightly less convenient than the trunk-installed CD changer) to enable and regulate, among other things, some of the instrument panel functions AND the anti-lock brake system – hence, not an optional fix. And our BMW is back in the shop today after being towed because, as my wife and I motored home at 35 mph on a busy city street, this German “ultimate driving machine” suddenly started wailing like a banshee.  Nearby pedestrians and other motorists must have incurred whiplash injuries from straining to see what in hell was happening and how soon they were gonna die!  I wonder when a plaintiff’s lawyer in going to call me seeking recompense for his clients’ damages, pain and suffering.

A phone call just told me the repairs to the brake system will run just over $1,600.  I love this BMW, this engineering marvel!

Well, the good news is, there is more German precision engineering to be had out there — at a considerably higher entry fee, of course (MSRP: $366,000 + Destination Fee: $2,750 for the 2010 Mercedes Maybach).  Mercedes-Benz’s recent ads say it so eloquently, so simply: “Something more.”  What?  The price?  Afraid to find out – and suspecting I already know the answer (since today’s tow truck operator said he hauls “far more Mercedes than BMWs”) –  I look sideways at the highbrow Mercedes.  Think I’ll be staying with my old Ford.  If I trade up, it’s to Japanese technology.  German superior engineering?  Nein danke!  Nicht!

Carpe diem. Vita brevis!

© Michael Stubblefield, Jan. 13, 2011.  All rights reserved.

No Dogs Allowed

Exclusions abound in this world.  Consider the dog, a creature often excluded from the affairs of man.  They wait, tied outside, while their owners buy coffee, sit and read books, shop, etc.  Dogs are often associated in speech with disrespect (whether accurately or not) , as in “I’ve been working like a dog,” “He treats me like a dog,” or “The world is going to the dogs.”  Even though they enjoy a great deal more affection and attention from owners these days, they are still creatures of comparatively low station – perhaps moreso because they often cower before humans – that are only occasionally honored for utilitarian value. This is so even though some of the dogs I’ve seen do credit to their masters.  As Mark Twain said, “If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous, he will not bite you. This is the principal difference between a dog and a man.” Judging by the sign at right, dogs may be smarter, too!

Speaking of dogs — have you ever had someone say, “We can talk about that if you’ll agree not to get emotional” (or more precisely, “all” emotional)?  Talk about an exclusionary structure!  Emotions are the dogs of human discourse.  “You can come in, but don’t bring that dog (your emotions)!”  Think about how many times that restriction is applied to the affairs of everyday life.  About the only place “getting all emotional” receives any respect is in the shrink’s office.  Oh, and in the sports arena.

Consider whether perhaps there’s some reparation and repatriation due the outcast of human conversation known as emotions.

* * *

I reconnected with an old friend the other day, one I hadn’t heard from in several years.  As is often the case, distance and life’s circumstances had broken the bond of commonality.  In earlier times, our friendship involved frequent and serious discussions held in good faith about a lot of life’s issues – politics, economics, education, children, church and religion in general, science, etc., — and often they went on for hours in generally healthy directions, incorporated a great deal of agreement or concurrence, involved sporadic rabbit trails, and sometimes got really earnest.  To my recollection, there was never anger, even in the midst of disagreement.  But now I wonder.

Our recent resumption of dialog began with random possibilities for conversation when the following add-on suddenly lurched to the top: “… that is, if we promise to discuss it without emotion ….”  His comment hung like the poised blade of a guillotine, ready to terminate our exchange. I restrained the immediate impulse to ask, “Why did you say that? Is there something more you wish to say, or is this merely an arbitrary prohibition?”  More to the point: “What is wrong with emotions?”

But his statement seemed determined – his underlying implication being that “emotions” have no valid place in human discourse.  That’s often the case with conversation, isn’t it?  People want to banish or exclude emotion and will often describe third parties as “too emotional,” especially when they disagree.  Emotional expression, other than saying something acceptably funny, is often the conversational equivalent of disclosing a deadly disease, as hilariously lampooned in Gary Larson’s The Far Side cartoon entitled “Canine Faux Pas.”  Larson’s cartoon shows a bunch of upright dogs at a party, all with drinks in their hands and — all but one — shocked looks on their faces, when the one shouts to another over the noise of the party, something like, “My vet told me today I have worms!”  A sure turn-off, the canine equivalent of HIV.

In human conversations, the “emotional” tag  is inextricably tied to “reaction,” and that perception strengthens with every repetition like a snowball gaining mass as it rolls downhill.  We want to kick emotions out the door as quickly as possible.  Reactions are seldom welcome, unless in response to a physical emergency, at which point they are not only welcomed but encouraged.  Otherwise, though, you can check ‘em at the door because they are second-class citizens, the stuff of unsophisticated harshness, raw, unpolished society, the “lower classes.”  Even when someone asks you for your reaction, as in “What’s your reaction to today’s news that …?”  If you give them something they weren’t expecting, you may get blamed with “overreacting” or “getting all emotional” even if your response was measured and calm.  Why?  Is it, perhaps, because we fear that we’ll be touched by the emotion, don’t know how to cope with it appropriately, or will be unable to defend against it?

What responses fall within the definition of “emotional”? And what emotions, if any, are acceptable in culture?  Easy ones come to mind.  While it’s perfectly acceptable to cry at a wedding or funeral, an award ceremony, or upon receipt of sad news, it’s far less acceptable to cry when someone makes a snide remark to you, when your boss or spouse is unnecessarily blunt.  Likewise, it’s perfectly acceptable to yell things, even stupid things, at a sporting event, but not so where a disagreement arises, even though both are expressions of emotions and may convey no more than the speaker’s passion on a certain issue. One just “should not yell” when in conversation; the unspoken assumption is that one must be contained at all times.

But passions [here, not to be confused with a romantic or sexual context] and emotions are sometimes not so easily identified or separated, and neither should be dismissed out of hand as being inherently disqualified.  After all, we want our employees, board members, players and coaches, students, et al., to be passionate about our team, our products and services, our organization, our accomplishments, etc., but when it comes to passionate expressions in the discussion, it’s usually “Katy, bar the door!”  Why are we so eternally ill-at-ease with another’s emotions and passions? Are the two related?  Can one be distinguished from the other in the midst of conversation, and if so, how?  Are we reasonable in expecting others to abide by the arbitrary fiat that an emotional or passionate tone is not allowed into civilized conversation?  Can one have her/his say without being preempted or prohibited for bringing an important human element to the conversation, that of emotion or passion?  Don’t we all come packaged or hard-wired with emotions that, to varying degrees and according to our personalities, convey something important about who we are, how we feel, and what we stand for?

Some of the most articulate and memorable quotes down through history have been passionate, emotional statements. Look at Patrick Henry’s “Give me liberty or give me death!”; Nathan Hale’s “I regret that I have but one life to give for my country!”; Abraham Lincoln’s immortal Gettysburg Address, about two minutes in length.  All are laced with raw emotion formed in the crucible of war or the contemplation of it, all three statements issued by sane men and calculated to instill courage in the listener, or at least express the urgency of the moment.  When Admiral Farragut yelled “Damn the torpedoes! Full speed ahead!” as his fleet momentarily flinched in the face of mortal danger upon sailing into Mobile Bay in 1864, he issued a stirring call to action.  Would you remember it – more important, would his men have appropriately acted – had he calmly said, “You know, I’ve been thinking that perhaps we should not worry so much about the torpedoes and just keep forging ahead”?  Of course not!  Totally inane, and insane, bereft of any power.

Our ability to communicate – whether expressed in words, gestures, art or music – often embodies the need to express powerful, eloquent and important messages that can penetrate the very essence of the moment.  Emotions and passion are able to cut through the fog and get down to reality, reducing much fumbling verbiage to a few concise words or phrases that pierce the veil.  We need not fear, and ought not forbid, expressions of emotion and passion when used within reasonable constraints and amenable circumstances.  Once we overcome the knee-jerk wish to suppress them, we often are able to learn, to hear, to feel, to respond and even to sympathize or empathize with the feelings of urgency, hurt, anger, despair, jubilation, inspiration, admonition, or encouragement we hear.  Instead of denying the privilege, we should embrace and extend openness to the expression of raw emotion — one of the great gifts of human creativity.

Carpe diem. Vita brevis!

©  September, 2010, by Michael E. Stubblefield.  All rights reserved.

Library Cat

My cat loves a good book.  And it’s little difference to him whether it’s a gripping biography or an entertaining novel.  He’s an intellectual, and the act of reading is what matters to Walter.  Well, honestly, I am immediately compelled to amend that last statement.  The act of reading, for Walter, plays a close second fiddle to the requirement that I be in a supine position as the reading unfolds. 

He watches patiently from his haunches on the floor below, golden eyes blinking methodically as I extend my legs the length of the couch, pull the afghan into place to fend off the night chill, and reach back to fluff the pillows that will cradle my head.  As I settle into the first paragraph of this evening’s imaginary journey of light, he springs onto my tummy, pokes his head under the book held in place by my flexed arms to gain entrance to the reading chamber, and at once begins to knead with his front paws just below my solar plexus, his eyelids dropping to half-mast as though he’s falling into some magical ecstasy with his internal dynamo revving up to full purr.  This book is going to be great!

With one hand, and really focused on the book, I deftly push him toward my legs. They are crossed at the ankles and he seems to love that reclining spot that allows him to fully extend his long, lean body and rest his chin on folded forelegs just behind the hill of my knees.  But tonight, his love of the book is unrequited by such offerings, and he’s at once back up between me and the book, now lying down on his side, staring intently into my eyes with his, then rolling over on my chest and extending his forepaws to touch my neck, my chin, my cheeks to insist that I devote full attention to his loving need.  His purr motor continues to rev and recede rhythmically, like the incoming and outflowing tide, only much quicker.  As his forepaws reach to touch, he spreads the five digits of his toes and dew-claws in succession, first one, then the other, rolling the toes under in the same synchrony.

Incrementally, I’m forced to relinquish my reading efforts and pay total attention to Walter as he looks deep into my soul with those penetrating, golden cat eyes that hint of chartreuse and look at once fierce and soft.  It’s clear to me that this relationship is not really about the book – the one that I’ve gotten up in the middle of the night to continue, the compelling autobiography.  This relationship is about … this relationship.  Walter-cat loves me and wants to be with me.  Who said cats are narcissists?!

Carpe diem.  Vita brevis!

© August, 2010, by Michael Stubblefield.  All rights reserved.