As a student of myth, I've been trained to look at everyday events through an archetypal lens. This is not the only way to understand life, but it's often useful. I've found, though, that it's one thing to gleefully deconstruct a favorite film in terms of mythic themes and another to apply the same lens to difficult events in your own life.
Take the fender-bender I was involved in last week. At the time it was happening, I was calm but very annoyed. What a nuisance, on top of other things I had to deal with! I was on my way to read and drink iced coffee at Starbucks. It was a sunny April afternoon. I was coming up to a busy intersection when I heard an ambulance approaching from the left and stopped. A couple of seconds later, I felt the impact as someone hit me pretty hard from the rear. My first reaction was simply to feel stunned -- what happened? And then I felt aggravated. I put on my caution lights and got out to talk to the other driver.
This driver was in a large Ford pick-up, for which the bumper of my little Toyota was no match. I stated the obvious, which was that he had hit me. He said I had stopped in front of him. I pointed out that I had stopped for an ambulance, to which he had no real reply. Then he asked if I wanted to just exchange insurance information or call the police. I told him I would call the police, to which he replied, "Well, call them then." He didn't ask if I was OK or seem apologetic. He smiled through the entire conversation as if we were on some kind of a lark.
I called the police and waited 45 minutes for an officer to arrive. While we were waiting, the other driver came up to my window and asked if I knew how long it would be until someone came. I told him I didn't know. He asked if I wanted to go ahead and exchange insurance information. I told him I wanted to wait for the police; a little while later, an officer arrived. After we moved our cars out of traffic, the officer took our statements and told me I could get the report online. I told him I had a bit of a headache and would probably get checked out to make sure I was OK.
Since we were in the parking lot of a hospital, I went into the emergency room there. Besides asking a lot of questions and putting me through some range of motion exercises, the staff also recommended an X-ray for my arm, which was by then slightly sore. Figuring it was better to be safe, I had the X-ray, which showed I had no fracture. I was told the headache was due to an adrenaline rush.
OK, so much for the facts. Now, as one professor I know likes to say, which gods were present?
As I got out of my car and faced the other driver, I felt competing emotions. A car crash is a violent event, and the presence of all that adrenaline proves that the body reacts to it as such. I know I was feeling a bit under attack as I got out of my car, but another voice in my head reminded me of the importance of being calm. If you had been been nearby, watching the scene unfold, you would have seen the glinting armor and flashing helmet of warlike Athena emerging from the driver's side of that small Toyota. A goddess of war, yes, but not one who relies on brute strength; she is also known for wisdom and counsel. I'm glad she was there.
What of the other driver? I wasn't in his skin, so I can't answer for his state of mind (as far as I know, he hasn't contacted his adjuster yet, so I still don't know what he was thinking). However, his smile and veneer of joking make me think of no one so much as the trickster, Hermes (minus the charm the latter sometimes exudes). There's an element of the trickster in most accidents, but some hint of gaiety in the man's face, inappropriate under the circumstance, made this impression even stronger. He was clearly at fault, and perhaps acting clownish was his defense.
Then the officer, the representative of law and order, arrived. He was strictly professional and took the reports with a seasoned efficiency that spoke of having repeated the same scene many times. He was Zeus, appearing suddenly to dispense justice, only he came in a squad car instead of descending from on high. (Modern life requires some adjustment in the details.)
Then the emergency room. Apollo is the god most associated with modern medicine, with its scientific ways and means. Apollo is skillful and efficient but perhaps a bit cold; certainly I felt I was surrounded by capable people, but if you've ever spent any time in an emergency room cubicle, you'll probably agree that it's not the warmest, fuzziest place you can imagine. It was sterile and a bit chilly. I wasn't in dire straits, so I was left on my own for most of the time, behind a curtain, with someone coming in occasionally to ask questions, take my vital signs, or perform some other function. That's probably by design, as I'm sure the emergency room staff makes it a policy to keep accident victims under observation, even if they're seemingly intact.
Asklepios, the other Greek god most associated with medicine, had a different approach; patients sought healing at overnight visits to his temple, where it was believed that he visited them in dreams. My understanding is that the rest and attention given to the patient were part of the cure. I don't know the details, but I imagine reclining on a couch, eating grapes, and listening to the dulcet tones of a flute playing softly nearby. Perhaps a massage before dinner, then a bath in the healing waters, and a pleasant night's sleep on a cushioned and draperied bed, followed by a late breakfast and consultation with the resident healer, who looked like Dr. Joe Gannon.
Actually, I did have a curtain, and I did have a chair, although I couldn't get it to recline. It takes more imagination than I can summon to transform those clinical surroundings into an Asklepion temple, and I'm very glad I didn't have to spend the night. I have a feeling there wouldn't have been any flute playing. But as glad as I am to have been able to walk out on my own steam (which is really the main thing), it would have been nice to have a little nurturing. A cup of hot tea, perhaps, or a pat on the arm. Modern medicine recognizes the emotional impact of an event such as mine, as evidenced by the instruction sheet I was given that explained the possibility of feeling depressed or anxious afterwards. But there was little in the way of any therapy for the soul, any milk of human kindness (a bit of chocolate wouldn't have been amiss, either).
Of course, there's one last player in this event, and that's the ambulance whose approach started the chain of events. You may be struck, as I was, at the irony of being put in the emergency room by stopping for an emergency vehicle. I'm sure this isn't the first time it's happened, but since it happened to me, I'm trying to make sense of the scene. Was the ambulance simply a blind agent of Fate? Was it Apollo, carrying some other unfortunate in far worse shape and in dire need of healing? Since it was the sound of the siren that made me stop, it's tempting to compare it to the Sirens who made the sailors crash on the rocks (after all, the result was similar). Possibly, it was some combination of all of these. There are usually multiple stories involved in any situation, not just the one that seems obvious.
If this had been a movie, I would have been able to dissect it with some of the intellectual precision of Apollo, but since it's real life, it's a good deal messier and not as easy to interpret. Is there a theme? Were there heroes? Were there villains? Is there something to be learned? And just where was Asklepios when I needed him? The sum of what I know: An accident happened; it was a hassle. However, I did not lose my temper, despite a trying circumstance. And that's something (thank you, Athena).
The aftermath is that I'm doing a lot of walking for the time being. Good for the soreness, good for the soul, and a bit less stressful than entering the fray of traffic just now. I wrote a book called Solved by Walking, so I guess I'm following my own advice, though I didn't have this circumstance in mind when I called it that. No matter: whatever works.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Sunday, April 7, 2013
The Mountain Is High, The Valley Is Low
We've been mourning and remembering a friend we lost this week to cancer. I had known him since the '80s; he was the partner of a long-time friend of mine. I can't remember exactly the first time I met him, but I think it was here in Lexington when my friend was visiting and brought him along. Since that long-ago day, I've had many visits with the two of them, both here and in the various places they've lived together.
We all enjoyed walking, talking, and eating, and spent a lot of hours in those pursuits when we were together. It isn't often you come across people that you feel that in tune with, and our conversations were always wide-ranging -- anything from philosophy to the right way to make an omelet to urban planning (sometimes all in the same chat). It's hard to say goodbye to someone you've hashed over the meaning of life with, especially someone as gentle and kind as Jot was.
On the day of his cremation, I came up with an impromptu memorial service to try to honor him in a manner I thought he would approve of. It started with playing the song "Everett Ruess," which I know he loved, and which could almost have been written about him: he had much in common with that other artist, dreamer, and free spirit. I went to my book shelf and found Thich Nhat Hanh's Old Path White Clouds, a life of Buddha. I decided to open it at random and read the first thing I saw, which turned out to be the Buddha's explanation of the Four Noble Truths. I kept going back and pulling other books from various traditions off the shelf, sometimes seeking out remembered passages and other times just skimming the pages for inspiration. Sacred chants, philosophical passages, poetry, music, readings from the Bible . . . by the time I'd finished, two hours had passed. I think Jot would have liked most of it.
In the midst of all the sorrow, I've been thinking about what a remarkable, irreplaceable thing a human soul is. Life and death are a great mystery to us all, but it seems to me a waste for the world to give rise to such a beautiful thing as a human spirit, only to take it back into a void. I want to believe that the spirit lives on somehow, in a way we don't completely understand, and I hope that is the case.
One of my most vivid memories of Jot is of the day he and I went for a long, long walk in San Francisco's Bernal Heights. I was big on printing out walking tours from the Internet and enlisting my friends to go along with me when I was visiting. On this particular March day, several years ago, it was just Jot and me. It was sunny and warm, almost hot; I had to roll up my sleeves as the day progressed. It was an ambitious walk, up some pretty steep hills, and the directions weren't all that easy to follow, which meant a lot of deciphering and backtracking.
Fueled by pastries and coffee, we had set off to conquer the Heights, not quite realizing how long a walk it was. It was off the beaten track, not involving any famous sights or tourist attractions, just a lot of houses, staircases, hidden paths, public gardens, and confusing streets. It was very maze-like but rather pleasant. We'd get hot and out of breath, rest a little, and then move on. There was no rush and nothing in particular we were trying to achieve other than finishing the walk. I remember seeing a small snake in a garden at the top of the hill, crossing paths with a mailman multiple times as he went on his neighborhood rounds (probably shaking his head at us), stopping often to consult the map, sweating, and, at last, admiring the view from a park at the top.
Jot took my picture up there, with the Golden Gate Bridge visible behind me, way off in the distance. It remains one of my favorite photos of myself and somehow captured what I think of as my best, true self -- smiling, adventurous, and quite present in the moment. On the way down the hill, we came across a small playground, and Jot took another picture as I was coming down the slide. I look sort of silly, but it was that kind of a day.
After a three-hour walk, we were feeling pretty pleased with ourselves. I said jokingly to Jot that since we had been to the top of the mountain, people were going to ask us what wisdom we had gained while we were up there, and we'd better think of something to say. He seemed doubtful at first, then thought about it for a minute and said, "The mountain is high, the valley is low." Then he chuckled.
Well, there's no arguing with that. And that kind of encapsulates Jot, a person who was willing to climb steep hills just for the fun of it, find joy in simple things like a modest wildflower or a meandering conversation, and then poke fun at himself at the end of the day. I didn't realize at the time what an enduring memory that day would become, but when I think back on it, how free and easy it all was, and how bright the sun was shining, I'm grateful for the impulse that led us to climb that hill just for the heck of it. And for a companion who never questioned the value of so much walking with no particular place to go.
We all enjoyed walking, talking, and eating, and spent a lot of hours in those pursuits when we were together. It isn't often you come across people that you feel that in tune with, and our conversations were always wide-ranging -- anything from philosophy to the right way to make an omelet to urban planning (sometimes all in the same chat). It's hard to say goodbye to someone you've hashed over the meaning of life with, especially someone as gentle and kind as Jot was.
On the day of his cremation, I came up with an impromptu memorial service to try to honor him in a manner I thought he would approve of. It started with playing the song "Everett Ruess," which I know he loved, and which could almost have been written about him: he had much in common with that other artist, dreamer, and free spirit. I went to my book shelf and found Thich Nhat Hanh's Old Path White Clouds, a life of Buddha. I decided to open it at random and read the first thing I saw, which turned out to be the Buddha's explanation of the Four Noble Truths. I kept going back and pulling other books from various traditions off the shelf, sometimes seeking out remembered passages and other times just skimming the pages for inspiration. Sacred chants, philosophical passages, poetry, music, readings from the Bible . . . by the time I'd finished, two hours had passed. I think Jot would have liked most of it.
In the midst of all the sorrow, I've been thinking about what a remarkable, irreplaceable thing a human soul is. Life and death are a great mystery to us all, but it seems to me a waste for the world to give rise to such a beautiful thing as a human spirit, only to take it back into a void. I want to believe that the spirit lives on somehow, in a way we don't completely understand, and I hope that is the case.
One of my most vivid memories of Jot is of the day he and I went for a long, long walk in San Francisco's Bernal Heights. I was big on printing out walking tours from the Internet and enlisting my friends to go along with me when I was visiting. On this particular March day, several years ago, it was just Jot and me. It was sunny and warm, almost hot; I had to roll up my sleeves as the day progressed. It was an ambitious walk, up some pretty steep hills, and the directions weren't all that easy to follow, which meant a lot of deciphering and backtracking.
Fueled by pastries and coffee, we had set off to conquer the Heights, not quite realizing how long a walk it was. It was off the beaten track, not involving any famous sights or tourist attractions, just a lot of houses, staircases, hidden paths, public gardens, and confusing streets. It was very maze-like but rather pleasant. We'd get hot and out of breath, rest a little, and then move on. There was no rush and nothing in particular we were trying to achieve other than finishing the walk. I remember seeing a small snake in a garden at the top of the hill, crossing paths with a mailman multiple times as he went on his neighborhood rounds (probably shaking his head at us), stopping often to consult the map, sweating, and, at last, admiring the view from a park at the top.
Jot took my picture up there, with the Golden Gate Bridge visible behind me, way off in the distance. It remains one of my favorite photos of myself and somehow captured what I think of as my best, true self -- smiling, adventurous, and quite present in the moment. On the way down the hill, we came across a small playground, and Jot took another picture as I was coming down the slide. I look sort of silly, but it was that kind of a day.
After a three-hour walk, we were feeling pretty pleased with ourselves. I said jokingly to Jot that since we had been to the top of the mountain, people were going to ask us what wisdom we had gained while we were up there, and we'd better think of something to say. He seemed doubtful at first, then thought about it for a minute and said, "The mountain is high, the valley is low." Then he chuckled.
Well, there's no arguing with that. And that kind of encapsulates Jot, a person who was willing to climb steep hills just for the fun of it, find joy in simple things like a modest wildflower or a meandering conversation, and then poke fun at himself at the end of the day. I didn't realize at the time what an enduring memory that day would become, but when I think back on it, how free and easy it all was, and how bright the sun was shining, I'm grateful for the impulse that led us to climb that hill just for the heck of it. And for a companion who never questioned the value of so much walking with no particular place to go.
Monday, April 1, 2013
Easter Mystique
Easter is usually a fairly quiet holiday for me, and this one was not an exception. It rained during the early part of the day, but I was charmed to see sunlight slanting through the kitchen blinds in the afternoon while I sat at the table. In Kentucky, you can literally see any kind of weather on Easter, from snow to near-summer conditions.
I baked some lemon cookies in the shape of eggs and have been enjoying those, but what I really wanted was an Easter basket. I suppose I could have made one, but it's really not the same thing as believing in the Easter bunny and waking to find he's left one for you on Easter morning. The funny thing is that I never even liked some of the candy in those baskets. It didn't seem to matter, though: the charm was in the belief, the magical appearance of the basket, and all the bright trappings of spring that came with the package.
The baskets we got were almost always the same. They were covered with plastic and filled with shredded plastic grass, among which were nestled one fairly sizable chocolate bunny (hollow), several chocolate-covered marshmallow bunnies, a package of jelly beans, and small chocolate eggs, individually wrapped in pastel foils. There was a mass of stubborn tape attaching the candies to each other and the basket. The chocolate bunny often had a slightly waxy taste and was too much to finish off all at once. I never liked the chocolate-covered marshmallows, but like any self-respecting kid found it hard to bypass them -- or any other kind of candy. Unlike the treasure trove that was a Halloween catch, Easter candy was usually gone in a day or so, ephemeral as the season itself.
Easter candy tended to be almost too sweet, and other than the solid chocolate eggs, wasn't that great, but somehow the whole thing was more fun than it should have been. I can still remember the way the baskets smelled, that combination of chocolate-infused plastic grass and essence of jelly beans, and the innocent joy of believing that there was such a creature as the Easter bunny. Actually, the last time I received an Easter basket, I think I had figured out where it was coming from, and so the wonder was a little less, though I still enjoyed the basket, which consisted of a plastic bucket and included a small shovel perfect for digging in the sand at the beach. (That was the only time I remember getting a Florida-themed Easter basket, on what I think was our last Easter in Florida.)
If I were going to put one together for myself, I would put in some Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs, some Mint Meltaways, a Cadbury egg or two, some gourmet chocolate bars with flavors like orange, sea salt, or raspberry, and maybe some jelly beans just for color. That would be enough sweets to nibble on for several weeks, and the candy would all be superior . . . but I still don't think it would match those Easter baskets of long ago. It's nearly impossible to reproduce certain experiences in which the mystique elevates very simple elements into something that defies explanation -- and beginner's mind has something to do with it, too.
I baked some lemon cookies in the shape of eggs and have been enjoying those, but what I really wanted was an Easter basket. I suppose I could have made one, but it's really not the same thing as believing in the Easter bunny and waking to find he's left one for you on Easter morning. The funny thing is that I never even liked some of the candy in those baskets. It didn't seem to matter, though: the charm was in the belief, the magical appearance of the basket, and all the bright trappings of spring that came with the package.
The baskets we got were almost always the same. They were covered with plastic and filled with shredded plastic grass, among which were nestled one fairly sizable chocolate bunny (hollow), several chocolate-covered marshmallow bunnies, a package of jelly beans, and small chocolate eggs, individually wrapped in pastel foils. There was a mass of stubborn tape attaching the candies to each other and the basket. The chocolate bunny often had a slightly waxy taste and was too much to finish off all at once. I never liked the chocolate-covered marshmallows, but like any self-respecting kid found it hard to bypass them -- or any other kind of candy. Unlike the treasure trove that was a Halloween catch, Easter candy was usually gone in a day or so, ephemeral as the season itself.
Easter candy tended to be almost too sweet, and other than the solid chocolate eggs, wasn't that great, but somehow the whole thing was more fun than it should have been. I can still remember the way the baskets smelled, that combination of chocolate-infused plastic grass and essence of jelly beans, and the innocent joy of believing that there was such a creature as the Easter bunny. Actually, the last time I received an Easter basket, I think I had figured out where it was coming from, and so the wonder was a little less, though I still enjoyed the basket, which consisted of a plastic bucket and included a small shovel perfect for digging in the sand at the beach. (That was the only time I remember getting a Florida-themed Easter basket, on what I think was our last Easter in Florida.)
If I were going to put one together for myself, I would put in some Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs, some Mint Meltaways, a Cadbury egg or two, some gourmet chocolate bars with flavors like orange, sea salt, or raspberry, and maybe some jelly beans just for color. That would be enough sweets to nibble on for several weeks, and the candy would all be superior . . . but I still don't think it would match those Easter baskets of long ago. It's nearly impossible to reproduce certain experiences in which the mystique elevates very simple elements into something that defies explanation -- and beginner's mind has something to do with it, too.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Cogito Ergo Sum, and Then Some
Does a novel about philosophy sound like fun? To me it does, and that's what made me first pick up a copy of Jostein Gaarder's Sophie's World years ago. It took me about a month to read it back then. I recently picked it up again and have been reading a little bit of it each day. I was curious to revisit the book in the light of my more recent studies in philosophy to see how it would strike me this time. It's as much fun as I remember, but I still find it's best taken in small doses. Long passages of the book consist of lectures on the great Western philosophers given by a professor to a 15-year-old girl. While entertaining, it's still a lot to digest.
The structure of the story is ingenious. A young woman begins getting mysterious notes from an unknown person asking her questions like "Who are you?" and "Where does the world come from?" The notes are followed by letters expounding on those questions and explaining what the great thinkers of each age have made of them. The notes and letters turn out to be the products of a professor named Alberto Knox, who has unaccountably taken an interest in Sophie's philosophical education.
At the same time, Sophie begins getting cards addressed to another 15-year-old girl named Hilde, whose father, stationed with a UN battalion in Lebanon, has for some strange reason decided to send his communications to his own daughter through Sophie. The philosophical quandaries addressed by everyone from Plato to Freud take on a life of their own as Sophie and Alberto slowly come to grips with the problems of their own existence and the nature of their own reality.
A talking dog, storybook characters met in the woods, a magic mirror, and questions about free will, God, parallel existences, and just whose story it is anyway are all mixed up in this adventure. It wouldn't work as well as it does if the author didn't have such a good sense of humor and the ability to carry off a lot of philosophizing with a light and easy touch.
One thing that's always amazed me about philosophy is the way any given philosophical stance can come across as absolutely convincing on its own terms -- until you read the next philosopher, who refutes the argument you just bought and makes just as convincing a case for his own point of view. Gaarder plays with this cumulative nature of philosophy, having Sophie fall in with the arguments of each new thinker Alberto introduces her to until the next one in line neatly overturns his predecessor. Sophie and Alberto's conversations are not unlike Socratic dialogues, although Sophie, a pretty sharp thinker herself, sometimes anticipates the weaknesses in arguments and is always willing to express her own spirited viewpoint.
One good thing about waiting so long to re-read a book like this is that you forget exactly how it ends. I remember the finale has a twist and a flourish, but I don't remember what form that takes, so I'm looking forward to the last chapter. Right now, I've got a little over a hundred pages (a sixth of the book) to go. I don't anticipate ever writing a novel about the history of philosophy, but if I did, I would hope it's as lively as this one.
The structure of the story is ingenious. A young woman begins getting mysterious notes from an unknown person asking her questions like "Who are you?" and "Where does the world come from?" The notes are followed by letters expounding on those questions and explaining what the great thinkers of each age have made of them. The notes and letters turn out to be the products of a professor named Alberto Knox, who has unaccountably taken an interest in Sophie's philosophical education.
At the same time, Sophie begins getting cards addressed to another 15-year-old girl named Hilde, whose father, stationed with a UN battalion in Lebanon, has for some strange reason decided to send his communications to his own daughter through Sophie. The philosophical quandaries addressed by everyone from Plato to Freud take on a life of their own as Sophie and Alberto slowly come to grips with the problems of their own existence and the nature of their own reality.
A talking dog, storybook characters met in the woods, a magic mirror, and questions about free will, God, parallel existences, and just whose story it is anyway are all mixed up in this adventure. It wouldn't work as well as it does if the author didn't have such a good sense of humor and the ability to carry off a lot of philosophizing with a light and easy touch.
One thing that's always amazed me about philosophy is the way any given philosophical stance can come across as absolutely convincing on its own terms -- until you read the next philosopher, who refutes the argument you just bought and makes just as convincing a case for his own point of view. Gaarder plays with this cumulative nature of philosophy, having Sophie fall in with the arguments of each new thinker Alberto introduces her to until the next one in line neatly overturns his predecessor. Sophie and Alberto's conversations are not unlike Socratic dialogues, although Sophie, a pretty sharp thinker herself, sometimes anticipates the weaknesses in arguments and is always willing to express her own spirited viewpoint.
One good thing about waiting so long to re-read a book like this is that you forget exactly how it ends. I remember the finale has a twist and a flourish, but I don't remember what form that takes, so I'm looking forward to the last chapter. Right now, I've got a little over a hundred pages (a sixth of the book) to go. I don't anticipate ever writing a novel about the history of philosophy, but if I did, I would hope it's as lively as this one.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
National Geographic and Me
Yesterday was a nice day in the neighborhood, with spring warmth in the air, buds just about to burst on every tree, and patches of dark grass poking up here and there. There's a flower or two already blooming as well. So it was kind of a shame that I had to spend several hours trying to log into my Genographic 2.0 results (sponsored by National Geographic, folks). Yes, my genealogy research has yielded some fruit.
I wrote a bad review of the Genographic 2.0 product on Friday, and yesterday I got an email that my results were ready. I don't know that there's any cause and effect there, since I'd already been told to expect my results any day. I only wish I'd waited until yesterday to write the review so I could have added that after four months and an unprecedented problem at the lab that required starting over again with my DNA, I had to face a website that just couldn't seem to accommodate a log-in request.
The "Who Am I?" section of my results included the statement, "We are all more than the sum of our parts . . ." I submit that National Geographic, with all its resources, experts, and technology, has been, in this case, somehow less than the sum of its parts, having issues with not only quality control but also customer service and web technology.
I don't care if I turn out to be descended from Zeus: it's hard to feel that it's been worth the trouble, and I don't know if I'll ever change my mind about that. I'm reminded of those psychology experiments I studied as an undergraduate, in which the subjects think the study is about one thing, while unbeknownst to them, the researchers are really after something else. You just think you're here as part of a social interaction experiment. What we're really studying is how much aggravation you'll take before getting up and walking out.
I would have preferred never feeling that I had to do this research to begin with, but when you have questions, it's best to look for answers.
Fortunately, I had the sense not to fight with the Genographic website all day long. I went for a walk and then treated myself to dinner out. When I got home, I struggled with the site for a few hours before getting in and putting the information together bit by bit, in between bouts of getting locked out. So far, there's nothing surprising. I'm in haplogroup H1m1 (same as my cousin), and my profile reads 43 percent Northern European, 36 percent Mediterranean, and 19 percent Southwest Asian. This closely matches the overall population profiles for Britain and Germany. There was no mention of Ireland in this, but they may be lumping Ireland in with Britain.
There's a lot to read on the website about the science of DNA, and I spent last night and today letting it sink in. I haven't studied genetics since high school biology, but it really is fascinating. One of the interesting facts I uncovered is that our family has Neanderthal ancestors (1.4 percent in my DNA), a not uncommon result. I have a slightly lower amount (1 percent) of Denisovan DNA. I don't know much yet about the latter, and apparently that aspect of the science is a bit tentative.
Of course, I know about the double-helix structure of DNA, the twin spirals. Some researchers take issue with attempts to relate the spiral to a labyrinth, but the forms are alike in their inexorable circular movement toward a center. Unlocking the history of my DNA has been a little like moving through a labyrinth. Ultimately, though, it's probably like that for everyone, because the branches and paths of family lines are often surprising. You don't always know what's around the bend with ancestry research.
Now that I have my DNA results, I'm looking forward to tracing more recent connections on the family tree. There are several avenues for doing this, so I'll probably end up trying more than one path. OK, now things are starting to look a bit more like a maze. Fortunately, I have a little experience with those, too.
I wrote a bad review of the Genographic 2.0 product on Friday, and yesterday I got an email that my results were ready. I don't know that there's any cause and effect there, since I'd already been told to expect my results any day. I only wish I'd waited until yesterday to write the review so I could have added that after four months and an unprecedented problem at the lab that required starting over again with my DNA, I had to face a website that just couldn't seem to accommodate a log-in request.
The "Who Am I?" section of my results included the statement, "We are all more than the sum of our parts . . ." I submit that National Geographic, with all its resources, experts, and technology, has been, in this case, somehow less than the sum of its parts, having issues with not only quality control but also customer service and web technology.
I don't care if I turn out to be descended from Zeus: it's hard to feel that it's been worth the trouble, and I don't know if I'll ever change my mind about that. I'm reminded of those psychology experiments I studied as an undergraduate, in which the subjects think the study is about one thing, while unbeknownst to them, the researchers are really after something else. You just think you're here as part of a social interaction experiment. What we're really studying is how much aggravation you'll take before getting up and walking out.
I would have preferred never feeling that I had to do this research to begin with, but when you have questions, it's best to look for answers.
Fortunately, I had the sense not to fight with the Genographic website all day long. I went for a walk and then treated myself to dinner out. When I got home, I struggled with the site for a few hours before getting in and putting the information together bit by bit, in between bouts of getting locked out. So far, there's nothing surprising. I'm in haplogroup H1m1 (same as my cousin), and my profile reads 43 percent Northern European, 36 percent Mediterranean, and 19 percent Southwest Asian. This closely matches the overall population profiles for Britain and Germany. There was no mention of Ireland in this, but they may be lumping Ireland in with Britain.
There's a lot to read on the website about the science of DNA, and I spent last night and today letting it sink in. I haven't studied genetics since high school biology, but it really is fascinating. One of the interesting facts I uncovered is that our family has Neanderthal ancestors (1.4 percent in my DNA), a not uncommon result. I have a slightly lower amount (1 percent) of Denisovan DNA. I don't know much yet about the latter, and apparently that aspect of the science is a bit tentative.
Of course, I know about the double-helix structure of DNA, the twin spirals. Some researchers take issue with attempts to relate the spiral to a labyrinth, but the forms are alike in their inexorable circular movement toward a center. Unlocking the history of my DNA has been a little like moving through a labyrinth. Ultimately, though, it's probably like that for everyone, because the branches and paths of family lines are often surprising. You don't always know what's around the bend with ancestry research.
Now that I have my DNA results, I'm looking forward to tracing more recent connections on the family tree. There are several avenues for doing this, so I'll probably end up trying more than one path. OK, now things are starting to look a bit more like a maze. Fortunately, I have a little experience with those, too.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Is This a Labyrinth I See Before Me?
Last week I got the news that I'll be presenting a paper on the labyrinth later this year. It'll be my first chance to expand on the work I did in my dissertation and show how it's relevant to society. Labyrinths seem like kind of an arcane subject until you start to wonder why you still see so many of them today. When I say "labyrinth," I'm talking about the ones you encounter in churches, parks, community centers, and other places that are variants on the medieval design and look something like this:
There's been a resurgence of interest in labyrinths over the last 20 years, which accounts for the number of new ones that have been installed all across the United States as well as in other countries. I'm interested in the history of labyrinths and mazes, how and why they reappear in different forms over time, and what meaning they have for us today (which is not necessarily the same as what they meant to people in the past).
Labyrinths go back thousands of years and didn't always look like the one pictured above. There are variants on the design even now, and what's really interesting is the fact that such an ancient symbol still fascinates people. And labyrinths are not just for looking at -- they're for walking in. They're often placed in locations associated with contemplation or meditation -- churches, hospitals, gardens, or cemeteries -- and the setting may be secular or non-secular. So what is it about this design that draws people to it?
I think the labyrinth has a double nature that says something about the dilemma we find ourselves in as a society, at least here in the United States. We're a nation that celebrates the rugged individualist, the pioneer, and the self-made man or woman, but we have come together to form a union. Our democratic processes require that we all participate to make things work, from taking turns at jury duty to turning out to vote. So there's a tension between the individual and the greater good that's never fully resolved. We hold the rights of the individual to be sacred, but we also cherish the idea of "E Pluribus Unum" ("out of many, one"). We're different from many countries that have always believed that the communal takes precedence over individual rights. That's not our way.
In thinking about the visual impact of a labyrinth, I'm struck by its resemblance to a mandala, which Jung considered a symbol of wholeness. You might argue that the maze, which represents a variety of paths and alternatives, is a more fitting symbol of the way we live now than the labyrinth, and I agree, up to a point. But when something is out of balance -- perhaps the tendency for individuals or groups to move in separate directions grows too strong -- another symbol, like the labyrinth, rises from the unconscious as an answering archetype. I think that's what's happened over the last two decades, as the country has grown more diverse and, in the case of politics, more highly polarized.
It's not as if we have to choose between the individual and the community; our society is based on the belief that they serve one another. The labyrinth integrates the opposing forces in an elegant, harmonious fashion. It has a single, highly circuitous path representing a common road that's experienced in many idiosyncratic ways. The heroic, individual path is seamless with the shared path so that there's no contradiction between them. In this way, the labyrinth suggests a way out of the conflict between individual rights and participation in a democracy. A person engaged in the pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness who remains true to something greater than himself finds he was part of the larger story all along.
There were individuals who helped popularize the labyrinth with their own enthusiasm and explorations into its meaning, but the movement wouldn't have taken hold if the labyrinth hadn't struck a chord with many people. If you're curious, it's easy to find a labyrinth to explore; there are hundreds or thousands of them in North America alone, and unless you live in a remote area, there's probably one nearby. If you're interested, the World-Wide Labyrinth Locator (a joint project of Veriditas and The Labyrinth Society) is a great resource. Just put in your city, state, postal code, or country.
And remember, it's solved by walking.
There's been a resurgence of interest in labyrinths over the last 20 years, which accounts for the number of new ones that have been installed all across the United States as well as in other countries. I'm interested in the history of labyrinths and mazes, how and why they reappear in different forms over time, and what meaning they have for us today (which is not necessarily the same as what they meant to people in the past).
Labyrinths go back thousands of years and didn't always look like the one pictured above. There are variants on the design even now, and what's really interesting is the fact that such an ancient symbol still fascinates people. And labyrinths are not just for looking at -- they're for walking in. They're often placed in locations associated with contemplation or meditation -- churches, hospitals, gardens, or cemeteries -- and the setting may be secular or non-secular. So what is it about this design that draws people to it?
I think the labyrinth has a double nature that says something about the dilemma we find ourselves in as a society, at least here in the United States. We're a nation that celebrates the rugged individualist, the pioneer, and the self-made man or woman, but we have come together to form a union. Our democratic processes require that we all participate to make things work, from taking turns at jury duty to turning out to vote. So there's a tension between the individual and the greater good that's never fully resolved. We hold the rights of the individual to be sacred, but we also cherish the idea of "E Pluribus Unum" ("out of many, one"). We're different from many countries that have always believed that the communal takes precedence over individual rights. That's not our way.
In thinking about the visual impact of a labyrinth, I'm struck by its resemblance to a mandala, which Jung considered a symbol of wholeness. You might argue that the maze, which represents a variety of paths and alternatives, is a more fitting symbol of the way we live now than the labyrinth, and I agree, up to a point. But when something is out of balance -- perhaps the tendency for individuals or groups to move in separate directions grows too strong -- another symbol, like the labyrinth, rises from the unconscious as an answering archetype. I think that's what's happened over the last two decades, as the country has grown more diverse and, in the case of politics, more highly polarized.
It's not as if we have to choose between the individual and the community; our society is based on the belief that they serve one another. The labyrinth integrates the opposing forces in an elegant, harmonious fashion. It has a single, highly circuitous path representing a common road that's experienced in many idiosyncratic ways. The heroic, individual path is seamless with the shared path so that there's no contradiction between them. In this way, the labyrinth suggests a way out of the conflict between individual rights and participation in a democracy. A person engaged in the pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness who remains true to something greater than himself finds he was part of the larger story all along.
There were individuals who helped popularize the labyrinth with their own enthusiasm and explorations into its meaning, but the movement wouldn't have taken hold if the labyrinth hadn't struck a chord with many people. If you're curious, it's easy to find a labyrinth to explore; there are hundreds or thousands of them in North America alone, and unless you live in a remote area, there's probably one nearby. If you're interested, the World-Wide Labyrinth Locator (a joint project of Veriditas and The Labyrinth Society) is a great resource. Just put in your city, state, postal code, or country.
And remember, it's solved by walking.
Friday, March 1, 2013
The New Hysteria
It used to be that going for a walk or spending a couple of hours at Starbucks was a routine undertaking. No more! The best way I know to describe it is to say that there just seem to be a lot more people -- everywhere. It's like the worst-case scenario of how overpopulation might someday force us to live.
Take yesterday, for instance: an ordinary, damp Thursday, the last day of February. I wrapped myself up in coat, hat, scarf, and gloves, and for a change of pace, took a ramble through the neighborhood instead of the park. Since it was mid-afternoon, gray and chilly, I figured I'd have the streets to myself. It's a pleasant neighborhood for walking, bounded on one side by a wooded area and filled with an eclectic group of mid-century homes. There's generally not a lot of traffic, just birds, stately trees, and quiet houses.
But what had gotten into everybody yesterday? As I cut through the hospital's back parking lot and headed up the first hill, there was a whole procession of cars climbing the rise with me. As I turned left onto the next street and descended a gentle knoll, I continued to see traffic, and it only increased the farther I went. I had to look at my watch a couple of times, wondering if I had mistaken the time. Normally, traffic picks up on these back streets at 4:30 or so, and it was well before then. I couldn't imagine what so many people were doing in such a quiet residential area in the middle of the day. It was like a full-fledged passeggiata, but with cars instead of people.
I can't count the number of times I've been walking in the Arboretum lately and had to stop and wait for someone carrying on a loud conversation to go on past. One of the pleasures of walking in the park is to enjoy the birds singing, listen to the wind in the trees, and hear yourself think -- or so it used to be. It wouldn't be so bad if people didn't seem so aggressively determined to share what they have to say. I was recently on the path behind the garden, strolling toward the bridge over the hollow place, when I heard a young woman coming up behind me yelling breathlessly into her phone, "And then, I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!" I had to step off the path, contemplate the trees, and count to thirty until she was out of sight. Another day, I had to sit on a bench and pretend to be tying my shoe while another woman, who seemed determined not to pass me no matter how slowly I walked, carried on an energetic conversation about blood thinners. I sat and soaked up the sun until she disappeared.
Then there's the local Starbucks. I've spent many hours there, studying, reading, or writing, and it used to be that you expected it to be busy only on Saturdays and Sundays. The crowd is usually a combination of regulars, students, and people from the neighborhood, which is a fairly mixed demographic. Lately, however, it has taken on more the frenzied atmosphere of a cocktail party at full tilt rather than the cafe feeling of days past, complete with ear-splitting conversation, immoderate laughter, and people who seem desperate to engage your attention. You almost have the impression that Andy Warhol is going to show up any minute. Or Truman Capote. Someone like that.
I'm not dogging myself. For a middle-aged girl, I've held up pretty well. But when I tussle my MacBook, power cord, and iced coffee into the only available seat to find myself nose to nose with a stranger looking like a slightly creepy version of Michael Fassbender in Jane Eyre, who apparently has nothing to do but send come-hither signals . . . well, I just start to wonder, that's all. You just don't meet Mr. Rochester in Starbucks (or in elevators or concert crowds either; he's a fictional character).
The next time I sat in that corner, I kept noticing a young woman in an adjacent chair, playing with her hair and staring at me. In both cases, it was just too, well, weird, and I had to get up and move.
On another occasion, I had to endure the carrying voice of a local radio personality who had apparently decided to call everyone he knew while waiting for a dinner companion. One of the rules of engagement seems to be that if someone is going to have a loud conversation, they'll have it directly across from me and make eye contact as often as possible. I notice that a number of people besides me still come into Starbucks with books and computers, and I can only surmise that they've been working mightily on their powers of concentration.
I'm not sure what's up with all these noisy, aggressive, in-your-face people, or why there seem to be so many of them. Maybe it's a form of temporary insanity. It's rather like being in a crowd of cawing, competing crows with bad manners and no concept of the indoor voice. I'm hoping the flock will suddenly take to the air and fly north for the summer . . . I believe there are plenty of wide open spaces in the Arctic. In the meantime, there are always ear plugs.
Take yesterday, for instance: an ordinary, damp Thursday, the last day of February. I wrapped myself up in coat, hat, scarf, and gloves, and for a change of pace, took a ramble through the neighborhood instead of the park. Since it was mid-afternoon, gray and chilly, I figured I'd have the streets to myself. It's a pleasant neighborhood for walking, bounded on one side by a wooded area and filled with an eclectic group of mid-century homes. There's generally not a lot of traffic, just birds, stately trees, and quiet houses.
But what had gotten into everybody yesterday? As I cut through the hospital's back parking lot and headed up the first hill, there was a whole procession of cars climbing the rise with me. As I turned left onto the next street and descended a gentle knoll, I continued to see traffic, and it only increased the farther I went. I had to look at my watch a couple of times, wondering if I had mistaken the time. Normally, traffic picks up on these back streets at 4:30 or so, and it was well before then. I couldn't imagine what so many people were doing in such a quiet residential area in the middle of the day. It was like a full-fledged passeggiata, but with cars instead of people.
I can't count the number of times I've been walking in the Arboretum lately and had to stop and wait for someone carrying on a loud conversation to go on past. One of the pleasures of walking in the park is to enjoy the birds singing, listen to the wind in the trees, and hear yourself think -- or so it used to be. It wouldn't be so bad if people didn't seem so aggressively determined to share what they have to say. I was recently on the path behind the garden, strolling toward the bridge over the hollow place, when I heard a young woman coming up behind me yelling breathlessly into her phone, "And then, I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!" I had to step off the path, contemplate the trees, and count to thirty until she was out of sight. Another day, I had to sit on a bench and pretend to be tying my shoe while another woman, who seemed determined not to pass me no matter how slowly I walked, carried on an energetic conversation about blood thinners. I sat and soaked up the sun until she disappeared.
Then there's the local Starbucks. I've spent many hours there, studying, reading, or writing, and it used to be that you expected it to be busy only on Saturdays and Sundays. The crowd is usually a combination of regulars, students, and people from the neighborhood, which is a fairly mixed demographic. Lately, however, it has taken on more the frenzied atmosphere of a cocktail party at full tilt rather than the cafe feeling of days past, complete with ear-splitting conversation, immoderate laughter, and people who seem desperate to engage your attention. You almost have the impression that Andy Warhol is going to show up any minute. Or Truman Capote. Someone like that.
I'm not dogging myself. For a middle-aged girl, I've held up pretty well. But when I tussle my MacBook, power cord, and iced coffee into the only available seat to find myself nose to nose with a stranger looking like a slightly creepy version of Michael Fassbender in Jane Eyre, who apparently has nothing to do but send come-hither signals . . . well, I just start to wonder, that's all. You just don't meet Mr. Rochester in Starbucks (or in elevators or concert crowds either; he's a fictional character).
The next time I sat in that corner, I kept noticing a young woman in an adjacent chair, playing with her hair and staring at me. In both cases, it was just too, well, weird, and I had to get up and move.
On another occasion, I had to endure the carrying voice of a local radio personality who had apparently decided to call everyone he knew while waiting for a dinner companion. One of the rules of engagement seems to be that if someone is going to have a loud conversation, they'll have it directly across from me and make eye contact as often as possible. I notice that a number of people besides me still come into Starbucks with books and computers, and I can only surmise that they've been working mightily on their powers of concentration.
I'm not sure what's up with all these noisy, aggressive, in-your-face people, or why there seem to be so many of them. Maybe it's a form of temporary insanity. It's rather like being in a crowd of cawing, competing crows with bad manners and no concept of the indoor voice. I'm hoping the flock will suddenly take to the air and fly north for the summer . . . I believe there are plenty of wide open spaces in the Arctic. In the meantime, there are always ear plugs.
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