The net is changing, many argue, not just how we live, or behave, but how we think.  It’s rewiring our brains, making us shallow, superficial, constantly distracted, unable to focus, to think, to dig deep.  It’s making us drive off the road, walk into light poles, fall off our bicycles and stumble over curbs.  It’s controlling us, it’s an insidious force taking over our minds, our hearts, our children, even our relationships.

Damn, it’s even ruining dinner (no talk, no eating, just surreptitious checking of one’s smart phone under the table linens).

And that, of course, is the last straw.

Down with the net!  Down with digital forms of so-called talk!  Let’s all write letters again!  (Say what?  When did average, everyday, hard-working Americans ever write scads of letters?)

Hold on, you say, let’s back up here.  Where is all this vitriolic digital scribbling coming from?

Here are four sources of my thoughts on the matter.  I’m sure you can come up with countless others.

The esteemed Christian Science Monitor (a news source I respect) ran several articles this summer debating (and largely decrying) the effect of the net on our lives.  (See,  http://www.csmonitor.com/Innovation/Tech/2010/0724/Are-iPads-smartphones-and-the-Mobile-Web-rewiring-the-way-we-think)

And, tech authority Wired.com ran this opinion piece recently (which I happen to agree with) on dwindling phone calling:  http://m.wired.com/magazine/2010/07/st_thompson_deadphone/

And, here on WordPress.com, a thoughtful blogger, frustrated over the level of responsiveness she has encountered to her emails and such (I can relate),  just ran this popular post:  http://agatha82.wordpress.com/2010/08/06/whatever-happened-to-two-way-conversations/

Then, finally, there is Claude.  Claude (‘not his real name’) is a relative, a close one.  As I have many relatives, his anonymity is protected (well, sort of).  But, when you hear what Claude said to me about my sending to him a link to my blog post on our recent trip abroad, you–blog readers and internet appreciators–will, I hope, understand my upset.

Some of you might recall this post on Rome, La Dolce Vita–Italian Sojourn.  (See, http://pamelanmartin.wordpress.com/2010/06/07/la-dolce-vita-italian-sojourn/)

Despite it taking many hours to create, and being lovingly constructed, well-crafted, informative, and, I hope, fun, Claude refuses to look at it.

Why?

Because, he doesn’t want to be ‘directed to some website’, sent ‘elsewhere’ if you will, to view family photos.  He wants the photos sent directly to him, as an attachment or in email jpg files.  Or, impliedly, in print form.  It’s too impersonal otherwise.

Impersonal?

Now, mind you, Claude and I do talk on the phone, email, exchange gifts and letters, and visit one another (despite living hundreds of miles apart).  So there is personal contact–a lot.  And, I have never received one photo in the mail from this person.  I have received, via email, four jpg files.

I don’t know about you, but I have happy memories of my grandparents, laden with photo slides, sitting my family down on Sunday afternoons, and subjecting us–in a family group–to what then felt like interminable slideshows of their most recent trip.  Can you imagine me complaining that I wanted to hear about the trip alone, personally, one on one, and objecting to be treated as a mere ‘member’ of the family?

This is how I’m hearing Claude’s complaints.

What is impersonal?  Sending news of one’s trip via a blog?  Or the recipient refusing to read it because the blog was sent to others besides him?

Is this ridiculous, or what?

Have we really come to this place, where we are blessed–like kids in a candy store–with a digital cornucopia of new ways to share, talk, message, and communicate with one another (while keeping the older forms as well) and yet so many of us are complaining.

It’s too impersonal.  Too distracting.  Too superficial.

As if that isn’t our responsibility.  As if the computer, or the cell phone, the smart phone, the IM button, the text function is somehow inexorably willing our hands to move, our minds to cease thinking, and turning us into robots.

In the words of my really smart (and educated and kind) father: nitwits!

Communication, digital or not, is communication.  The medium is NOT the message:  the message is the message.

And what we do with the medium is our choice and responsibility.

(For more on thinker and writer Marshall McLuhan, see, http://www.marshallmcluhan.com/main.html, and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marshall_McLuhan)

Many thinkers throughout history, even Socrates (so I’ve read), decried new forms of information and communication technology.  But it is all, in the end, just talk, just communication.  What matters is whether it’s meaningful.

Not what form, or what technology, it arrives in.

Do our brains operate, or ‘look’, differently when we use different technologies?  It’d be very strange if they did not.

Should we worry about this?  No.  This is what one’s brain is designed, and has evolved, to do:  to keep adapting to what is before it, and to, in turn, be both changed by what is outside it, and to change what is outside it.

I’d like to make several proposals.

The first is that we relax, at least a bit.  We are in the midst of rapid-fire communication technological change.  Not since the turn of the last century, has the pace of change felt so overwhelming.  People, organizations, and corporations–all are reacting differently to to the fire-storm of change we are riding,  Some–like Claude–are backing off, retreating from what is happening.  Others, like the proverbial kids in candy stores, are happily playing with all of it, firing off missives in any and all forms, and then wondering ‘why they are not hearing back’.   But, most of us, like myself, lie somewhere in between:  exploring, testing, trying it out, but taking our time.

Next, I believe that many of us are well beyond our capacity to respond to the stream of information and messages coming our way.  This is not a new problem:  every new device in history has triggered outcries of ‘it’s too distracting!’  With time, we’ll become better at triaging our messages (both received and sent).

But for the time being, we need to not take personally failures to receive replies from others to our sent messages, and to realize that, for many of us, our ability to send information outstrips our ability to respond intelligently to that which we receive.

Most important, I think we must take seriously our personal responsibility.  Sure, each new technology lends itself to, or encourages, certain behaviors.  This has been true since man discovered the first tool (a rock to dig with?).

But, just as a caveman couldn’t blame the rock for ‘making him’ throw it–despite rocks being deliciously throwable–so we should not keep blaming our computers, phones, and the net for the kooky stuff we’re doing with them.

I’ll be writing about writing, writers, the so-called ‘writer’s life’ (what IS that, anyway?), words, words, words.   (Which as you might know I have been doing all along on wellcraftedtoo, but commingled with many other topics.)

And also have decided to post some of my own fiction writing (excerpts of stories) and an occasional essay.

Just posted “Bangladesh–A Daughter’s Journey”, an essay I wrote about L’s adventurous travels a year ago, and their effect on me.

Hope you take a look at my new blog, The World Of Dew, and enjoy it.  And PLEASE feel free to comment on both the blog, and my writing!

Here’s the address:  www.pamelanmartin.wordpress.com

Who and what determines what we remember and what we don’t?  What falls to the side, into the slush, to melt and drain away?  And what remains with us, until the day we die?

For those of you who might not know, it’s Women’s History Month.  And I–your faithful writer–am a woman. Which means I’m a member of the gender that makes up more than one-half of this green globe’s population. A population whose achievements are forgotten at rates that appear to far outstrip the rates at which we forget the achievements of men.

Now, before I go any further, I want to mention that I am aware (how could I not be coming from the History Department of the University Of Wisconsin-Madison?) that the histories of many peoples, races, groups, and classes, are  also lost at higher rates than the histories of, shall we say–oh, why be diplomatic?–rich white males.  But today I’m focusing on women.  Who, interestingly, also belong to all those other  ’neglected groups’, thereby rapidly escalating the complexity of this topic.

Those who study human memory (and this fascinating discipline’s growth has been huge in recent years) tell us that one key factor determines what we remember, and that is saliency.

What is saliency?  Saliency, as any dictionary will tell you, is the state of being salient.  And salient is perhaps best understood by looking at its synonyms:  conspicuous, prominent, noticeable, readily observed, remarkable, arresting, consequential, and so on.

Consequential.

Ah, we are getting somewhere.  That which is of consequence is that which possesses meaning, weight, and value.  So we remember, in so far as we are able (are there limits as to how much our brains can hold?) that which is meaningful, helpful, and valuable to recall.  We recall, in other words, what matters to us.

If you’re still with me (and thank you if you are!) you are probably feeling frustrated.  How does this help us understand what history we remember, and what we don’t?  More specifically, how does this help us understand why so much so-called ‘women’s history’ is forgotten?

Well, dear reader, the answer to that seems now quite simple, and depressing.  Women’s achievements are forgotten at rates higher than men’s because the acts, events, and achievements of women are not valued as highly.

Ouch.

Well, we knew that, right?

I mean, what’s been going on with the Women’s Movement(s) of the last couple centuries, if not a helluva lot of cage rattling, protesting, and changing of that sorry fact (and many others)??

So, now that we’ve addressed our bewilderment at how readily women’s achievements are forgotten, let’s move on to remembering some of them.  To that end, here is a link to an article about the awarding yesterday of Congressional Gold Medals to the surviving members of the Women’s Air Force Service Pilots:  http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20100310/ap_on_go_co/us_female_world_war_ii_pilots;_ylt=Ajw44tIJFB3B.CfYAkuYm

And, a bit more about these fascinating women pilots:  http://www.wingsacrossamerica.us/wasp/

I have heard the story of these forgotten pilots a number of times.  News began to emerge about them, due to the efforts of feminists writers, as early as the late 70′s.  But what I find especially intriguing now about their story is when and why they began to demand that their accomplishments be given their due.

One of the former pilots stated in an interview broadcast yesterday on NPR that it wasn’t until the mid-70′s– when the Air Force began to recruit women pilots and asserted that, for the first time in history, women would be allowed to fly–that the former pilots said, no more.  It was one thing, evidently, to be passed over, neglected, forgotten.

It was something very different, however, to sit by and tolerate complete misstatements of fact being made about one’s own personal history!  It was at this point, apparently, that a number of these former pilots decided that their stories should be told, and given recognition.

And for this I am grateful!  What a lovely addition to my understanding of the WWII years, and of the people–of all groups–who fought so hard, and in so many ways, to secure the safety of this country, and others.

Here it is:

Birches

When I see birches bend to the left and right

Across the lines of straighter darker trees

I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.

But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay

As ice-storms do.  Often you must have seen them

Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning

After a rain.  They click upon themselves

As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored

As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.

Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells

Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust–

Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away

You’d think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.

They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,

And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed

So low for long, they never right themselves:

You may see their trunks arching in the woods

Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground

LIke girls on hands and knees that throw their hair

Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.

But I was going to say when Truth broke in

With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm

I should prefer to have some boy bend them

As he went out and in to fetch the cows–

Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,

Whose only play was what he found himself,

Summer or winter, and could play alone.

One by one he subdued his father’s trees

By riding them down over and over again

Until he took the stiffness out of them.

And not one but hung limp, not one was left

For him to conquer.  He learned all there was

To learn about not launching out too soon

And so not carry the tree away

Clear to the ground.  He always kept his poise

To the top branches, climbing carefully

With the same pains you use to fill a cup

Up to the brim, and even above the brim.

Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,

Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.

So was I once myself a swinger of birches.

And so I dreamed of going back to be.

It’s when I’m weary of considerations,

And life is too much like a pathless wood

Where your face burns and tickles with cobwebs

Broken across it, and one eye is weeping

From a twig’s having lashed across it open.

I’d like to get away from earth awhile

And then come back to it and begin over.

May no fate willfully misunderstand me

And half grant what I wish and snatch me away

Not to return.  Earth’s the right place for love:

I don’t know where it’s likely to go better,

I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree,

And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk

Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,

But dipped its top and set me down again.

That would be good both going and coming back.

One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

—Robert Frost, 1916

The dominant image, of course, is that of a boy climbing ‘carefully’ to the top branches of a birch tree, and–somehow (and how many ways there are to interpret this!)–’launching’ himself from the tree’s top and landing ‘to the ground’.  And the line, ‘Earth’s the right place for love: I don’t know where it’s likely to go better’ is often quoted, isolated from all the rest of the rather dense, heavy poem.

But what I like about this poem is both the image of the ice-storm (so apt for us today, with our rapidly dropping temperatures, and rain turning to racing snow cystals):

“Often you must have seen them

Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning

After a rain.  They click upon themselves

As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored

As the stir cracks and crazes the enamel.

Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells

Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust–

Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away

You’d think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.”

And also the marvelous lines (much darker than the ones about earth being right for love):

It’s when I’m weary of considerations,

And life is too much like a pathless wood…

I’d like to get away from earth awhile

And then come back to it and begin over…

One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.’

Indeed.

“How you get a rude and reckless?

Don’t you be so crude and a feckless

You bin drinkin’ brew for breakfast,

Rudie can’t fail.

So we reply,

I know that my life make you nervous

But I can’t live my life in service

Like the doctor that was was born for a purpose

Rudie can’t…“

Don’t know where you live (or work) but here, in the frosty upper Midwest, the gloom lies thicker than the blanket of snow on icy ground.  We haven’t seen the sun–any sun–for more than a week, and that ain’t–no matter how many damn vitamin D tablets you swallow every morning–easy.

So this morning, I slipped The Clash’s now classic and great London Calling CD on my player and guess what?

Endorphins!  Didn’t even know for sure I had any left.  (Not estrogen, silly, endorphin!  Who needs estrogen??)

I highly recommend if you’re suffering from, as I and just about everyone else I know up here is, acute winter blues, that you play this CD, at top volume, and watch your energy rise.

If through some inexplicable but easily remedied oversight you do not possess this CD, go out and get it–now.

The 30th Anniversary Edition has just been released!

Lost In The Supermarket–

“I’m all lost in the supermarket,

can no longer shop happily,

came in here for a special purpose,

Guaranteed Personality!

I wasn’t born so much as I fell out,

nobody seemed to notice me,

we had a hedge back home in the suburbs,

over which I never could see.

I heard the people who lived on the ceiling

scream and fight most scarily,

hearing that noise was my first ever feeling,

that’s how it’s been all around me…”

Oh, my.

With lyrics like that, half the battle is won, no?

There’s a lot of great music that can lift one’s moods (as JM would say, nothing beats James Brown).  But for me there’s something about The Clash–the music, the mood, the message–that just never fails.  And perhaps the era, the time that it all brings back…

London Calling, The Clash, 1979, Sony Music Entertainment

London Calling, The Clash, 2009, Sony Music Entertainment

Woke up thinking about some of the things you shared yesterday about friendships, and the frustration you’ve been experiencing.

Friendship!  How important these relationships are, yet how little we know about them.  Marriage has been extensively studied, as have, of course, the bonds between parents and children.  But friendship, despite being key to our sense of well-being, connection, belonging, and just plain fun, has been sorely neglected.  Even workplace relationships have received more attention.

Some of that neglect, however, is being remedied.  More writing–both anecdotal and research-based–is coming out as people appreciate more the role that having friends plays in all aspects of our health, well-being, and everyday joie de vivre.

I dug out this morning an article I clipped some time ago on friendship.  What I like about it is its advice on ways to feed a friendship.  I can relate to each suggestion.  It’s really a sort of a ‘Do’s and Don’ts’ of friendships, the Don’ts being implied.

Well, I looked it over this morning–this holy grail of how to foster friendship–and guess what?  I don’t have any friendships that come close to fulfilling this list.  Or, putting it another way, none of my friendships, new or old, come close to fulfilling these ideals all–or even most–of the time.

My friendships reflect more the ‘Abe Lincoln principles’ of friendship (loosely extrapolated from Lincoln’s famous saying).

That is, all of my friendships fulfill some of these expectations some of the time; some of my friendships fulfill all of them, but only some of the time, but none of my friendships fulfill all of them all of the time.

And you know what?  I think that’s really normal.

Here’s the list:

How To Feed A Friendship (source:  The Friendship Crisis by Marla Paul):

Pay attention.  Keeps tabs on significant events in another’s life and ask how they’re doing.

Stay in touch.  Know the minutiae of your friend’s life.

Make a date.  Even if you have no time for dinner, take a walk, get your nails done or watch the basketball game together.

Celebrate.  Cheer each other’s victories, a new house, a job promotion or the completion of a 5K walk.

Dole out compliments.  Be the person who makes a supportive comment…People like to be with those who make them feel good.

Show up.  Whether it’s a baby’s first birthday…a mom’s funeral…, friends share significant events.

Remember birthdays.  No matter what age or how much they protest, people like to be remembered on their birthdays.

Ignore imperfections.  Accept others’ faults–they’re always late, they talk too much–and work around it.

Listen well.  The art of listening is key to a solid relationship.

Respond promptly.  Try to respond to phone calls and emails within a day or two.  Lengthy delays…can bruise a friendship.

This is a great list; don’t get me wrong.  It’s certainly stuff that I try to give, and do give, to my friendships, and that I love getting in return.  But, truth be told, my friends and I break these rules–a lot.

Is it true that when we follow them, we stoke the flames of our relationship?  Absolutely.

But is it also true that I can easily list any number of times this or that friend neglected one, two, or more of these?  Sadly, yes.

And yet still count that person one of my friends?  Well, yes!

So, do these suggestions really belong in that dusty drawer that holds other similar recitations?  In The How To Keep Your Marriage Alive, Ten Ways To Raise A Resilient Kid, Learn To Listen Well filing cabinet of well-meaning, insightful, but largely forgotten advice?

I’m going to go out on a limb here and say, yes, I think so.

Oh okay, go ahead and give these attentions to your friendships.  Your friends will appreciate them, I’m sure.

But you will also find that doing these things is, oddly and interestingly, not enough to make, maintain, or keep a friendship, and that not doing a good deal on this list will not necessarily end, or even damage, a friendship!

(Of the four friends I am in significant contact with this week, not one of them regularly remembers my birthday, only one was at a parent’s funeral, one has been slow to respond to me lately, and that with one–the oldest friendship of the group–our contact has recently been renewed after a lengthy hiatus.)

So, how can these friendships be so ‘flawed’, yet these women be my friends?

I’m going to go on another limb and assert that friendship bears more resemblance to marriage than we typically acknowledge.  That friendship, like marriage, can be strengthened (or weakened) by paying (or not) attention, acknowledgement, deference, and respect to the relationship.

But that doing all that–alone–won’t make or break the relationship.  That friendship, like marriage, also operates on a level that is mysterious, ‘chemical‘ if you will, and seemingly inexplicable.

The most helpful comments I’ve read on marriage are those of Seattle-based researcher, John Gottman.  Gottman has written a series of  books on marriage, based on insights gleaned from decades of video taping thousands of married couples in conversation and argument.

A couple crucial ideas I’ve taken from Gottman is that longevity in a marriage is more a function of what works well in it than the presence of conflict and what isn’t working.  That a marriage can withstand, even flourish, in the presence of conflict, if two key factors are present: strong and reliable pleasure in one another’s company, eg friendship, compatibility, shared values, and acceptance, and if conflict does not escalate into contempt.

Marriage, in other words, can withstand a lot–fighting, yelling, arguing, conflict, outright hostility (to some degree)–but it won’t last if one partner experiences the other as contemptuous (certainly not if this happens often, or without sincere contrition).  And a marriage is more likely to weather conflict if it contains strong bonds of affection, friendship, acceptance, and pleasure in one another’s company.

Makes sense, doesn’t it?

Not on the surface–superficially, we recoil from the idea that we can love another, yet fight tooth and nail.  That we can feel that the other is our ‘best friend‘, yet get into tremendous conflict with this person.  But if we are honest, I think most of us will say, yes, that really is what ‘family‘ is about.

What’s this got to do with friendship?

Well, I think much of the same forces are at work in friendship.  I believe that we ‘choose‘ our friends according to deep, unmet needs for ‘completion’–but that’s another topic (and something along the lines of Harville Hendrix’s work).

And I believe that what really keeps our friendships going is two-fold: deep pleasure in one another’s company that we are reluctant to give up and want to maintain, and a high tolerance for flaws (or what is called ‘ignoring imperfections’ in the list above).

And that this pleasure in one another can withstand considerable neglect, even conflict, if one does not experience that neglect as contemptuous.  If that happens, then all is lost–or soon to be, because the sense that another is treating one contemptuously is a ‘flaw’ that simply cannot, and should not, be accepted.

When I look back at the relationships I have deliberately ended (as opposed to let lie fallow)–and there are not many–they ended because the other person wasn’t treating me and our relationship just neglectfully, or too casually, or sloppily (all that is irritating, even hurtful, but can be forgiven), but I felt that my friend was treating me poorly,  contemptuously.

The death-knell to friendship, to marriage, to all relationships!

So what’s all this got to do with you?

This topic has been coming up for you, and I hope you can relax a bit with it.  You possess in abundance all the ‘right stuff’ for great relationships–friendships and otherwise–trust that you have much to offer.  Remember that developing deep friendships takes time, especially as one gets older and relationships–and life–becomes more complex. Be patient!

Above all, respect your instincts:  accept and enjoy the good in all the various comaraderies that come your way, but do question behavior that causes you confusion or pain.  And don’t–ever–put up with contempt.  Let go of and leave any relationship that feels nasty, that makes you feel one-down, disrespected, unsafe, or inferior.

Then move on.

There are, after all, 6 billion people on this planet.

That’s a lot of potential friends!

Photophobia, be gone!  You are no match for the growing light of a January afternoon (and a dusty mirror!)

My new Facebook site profile photo.  Ain’t it glam??

The face of fatigue, anticipation, and yearnings for sunnier climes across the sea.

And this is where it all begins–still, in this day of CAD and all–in her mind, at least.  A very remarkable mind!

Bit disappointed in the museum.  Oh, that’s really not fair to say; after all, we didn’t even see the current ‘big’ exhibit on Lincoln, which, in retrospect, we should have focussed on, and would have been a more balanced way to assess the museum.  Instead we took in the two MLK presentations (below), and then just wandered about poking in and out of various permanent exhibits.

What frustrated me  is two-fold.  First, having come out of the UW Madison campus and having enjoyed, explored, and studied in its impressive and sometimes overwhelming Wisconsin Historical Society, I was expecting ‘more’ out of the CHM.

And also, I love Chicago history, feel closely connected to it given my family’s history, and know that the CHM contains extensive archives of Chicago photos, documents, and artifacts of all kinds. So I was expecting and wanting to see more of those archives.

Or if not actually see them, then, at least, sense them…but somehow the CHM felt too much like ‘history lite’ for my taste…

This is a history museum, people, bring it on!

Give us here, at least, the dates, the maps, diagrams, and timelines.  The photos, letters, manuscripts, documents.  Why did Karen and I look at several displays relating to the Columbian Expo of l893, and have to ask a docent, where exactly was the Expo?  (I always want to place it in what is today the ‘museum campus’, around the Field, but, no, it was south of downtown, in what is today Hyde Park (or Kenmore).

See, I should know that, after just being there!

We history-buffs are, in America, such an odd and small lot of isolated souls.  Lurking about exhibits, films, photos, and buildings, always wanting more information, and asking annoying questions, like ‘What is this?’, and ‘When did this happen?’, ‘Why?’, and ‘How?’.

And even more annoying, such as ‘What else is known about this?’, or, most annoying, ‘Why ISN’T more known about this?’!

So one would think that in a historical museum, we should be in our element, surrounded by a delicious onslaught of dates, timelines, factoids, and trivia.  But, no!

What I experienced in the CHM was a sense of history lite, history diluted.  And I know that the CHM is not ‘lite’!

As for the presentations…Well, something of the same.  The Chicago Chamber Choir presented a lovely selection of gospel tunes, and a moving spoken and sung tribute to King.

But the Choir membership is with one or two exceptions non-African American. How odd is that, and on MLK day?

The recreation of King’s I Have A Dream speech was well done, by an African American (forgot his name), but both Karen and I thought that his delivery was rushed.

That is a minor complaint, however, given how impassioned and sincere his words were!

I will return to the CHM, and give it another chance.  Hate to sound negative, but I do love this city, and have tall expectations for it!

Very inspiring words from a inspiring person that, although they might be often quoted, deserve rereading.

Here is Nelson Mandela writing in 1994:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.

Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens

us.  We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant,

gorgeous, talented and fabulous?

Actually, who are you not?

You are a child of God.  Your playing small doesn’t

serve the world.

There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that

other people won’t feel insecure around you.

We were born to make manifest the glory of God

that is within us.

It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone.

And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously

give other people permission to do the

same.

As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence

automatically liberates others.

–Nelson Mandela

1994

‘Nuf said, here’s the photo, view it and weep–

I have been to this place (a lovely spring-fed lake in Wisconsin) many times, but never seem to have enough time here. Time to sit, stare, marvel at the beauty, feel the sun on my shoulders, listen to the gentle lake water lapping at the shore.  

Time to take it all in.

Next year!