Scary Times

Happy Halloween! The dark forces will prowl the streets in the disguises of little children dressed in costumes and begging for candy. And if you believe that, you are in big trouble.

And happy voting. On second thought, that doesn't sound right, given the climate of these midterm elections.

The world does not need any more political commentary, including mine. All I hope for every one of us is that we don't confuse Halloween's dark forces with the realities of what we are voting for.

See you at the voting booths - and leave your candy at home. I understand an overdose does weird thing to children and the adults who care for them.

Check It Out In MinnPost!

If MinnPost.com isn't a part of your regular online reading, You might consider adding it to your regular routine. It describes itself as: "a nonprofit journalism enterprise that publishes MinnPost.com. Our mission is to provide high-quality journalism for news-intense people who care about Minnesota."

If that is not enough incentive to whet your curiosity, call up the site and click on Community Voices. My article is today's (October 25) featured reading. Bill Moyers is one of my heroes and I still miss his Friday night Journal on TPT (public television). In this election frenzy, I have wondered who he might have interviewed. With the airwaves awash with political commentary, some of it good and some of it verging on grounds for libel, I suspect he would have invited some thoughtful voices for us to consider.

I'd like to think and hope that all of this vocal election expression is part of a process that leads us somewhere. Some years in the future we will have the advantage of a long view. I suspect we will see more than the Great Recession and political polarization. We are going somewhere new - into uncharted territory without GPS and reservations at our favorite campgrounds.

I remember a colleague years ago who had become very vocal about the prospects of nuclear war.  I asked her why, since the rest of her life had been focused on advocacy for children's mental health issues. She said if nuclear war happens, no other issue matters.

I wonder what would happen if our culture could leave behind all the rhetoric and the distortions. What would we name as what really matters?

Pelicans and Sparrows!

Two of my poems were published recently in Kingfisher, the newsletter of the Minneapolis Chapter of the National Audubon Society.

I had been driving along I-694 in Fridley and caught sight of a large flock of large, white and black birds. Paying attention to my driving . . . I exited and pulled to the side of the road and found the flock again.

They were flying in formation. White Pelicans, sailing and flapping in unison. I had seen pelicans before but never in an urban area. Then I thought . . . hey . . . Moore Lake is near by. Perhaps they stopped temporarily in their migration south.

What an incredible sight it was! Here is the poem:

Pelecanus erythrorhychos

Black-tipped whites set sail

glide, flap, turn – in unison

Silent symphony

∞

White-throated Sparrows are certainly staying around a long time this fall. Usually they slip through quickly on their migration south. Not so this year. But, I’m not complaining.

Their fall traveling songs are nothing like their spring clear whistles that sound like the words “Old Sam, Peabody, Peabody, Peabody.”

They aren’t too bad as vocalists even in the fall. After all, they are the national bird of Canada!

Fall Mumblers  

  Muffled mumbles –     

    inside the forest’s edge.

       White-throated Sparrows 

are passing through.  

Almost reluctantly,    

a full, clear, whistled 

 signature-call sounds.

Just once.

     Then, back to mumbling.

Saving the best

for spring.

The Cranes are Congregating

Sandhill cranes are fiercely territorial. Every year when they reach their nesting site, they drive out every other creature from a broad area around their nest. But in the fall, something triggers their migratory instincts and they gather together in large flocks in spent cornfields. There they fatten up for the long flight southward. Just as in the spring, they congregate along a sixty mile stretch of Nebraska's Platte River on their way north. True snowbirds!

Several days ago we went to Crex Meadows Wildlife Area in Wisconsin, near the St Croix River. In farmers' fields south of the refuge, the cranes were gathering. We watched them - and they watched us. Small groups would rise up in the air, a picture of grace par excellence. I think there is nothing more beautiful than the sight and sound of them, churrrring to each other as though they live year-long in large flocks.

Wheeling overhead, they practice for the journey. The first-year chicks have become adolescents, still "living at home" with their parents. They are trying out their wings to go somewhere they have never seen, trusting their two protective parents will guide them across the miles.

Their migration remains a mystery although research has given some tentative explanations. A combination of cues passed on from generation to generation guides them south in the autumn - and north into the Canadian and Siberian tundra in the spring. This year, the lingering warmth of one of the warmest Octobers ever has meant the cranes are late to migrate. As are the geese - "late to come down," as one local man put it.

How like us are the migrating birds. We live by regular patterns in our lives, scarcely aware of cues that guide us through the days and the months. Sometimes abrupt changes remind us of those cues, such as shift-work or jet lag that disrupt our body rhythms. Or people in our lives behave unpredictably.

And we like our weather patterns to be regular. How many times this past month, have I heard people remark about the glorious autumn we have had - and then follow it with either the we-will-pay-for-it-later comment or say something about their fears of climate change.

I'm not a migratory being. My travel is more erratic and the cues come from schedules of conferences or available experiences. At the same time, as the last leaves swirl down from the trees and the light softens, I respond to old rituals. Washing windows. Cleaning out closets. Making sure evergreens and shrubs get thoroughly watered in preparation for below-freezing temperatures.

Perhaps that is why when the sandhill cranes fly overheard, constantly calling to each other, I am stirred in the deepest part of my soul.

Banfill-Locke Juried Art Show

Stop by Banfill-Locke Center for the Arts in Fridley for a look at the wonderful annual art show. Lots of really great stuff. It will be up through November 5th (open Tuesday through Saturdays).
And Elizabeth got an honorable mention on one of her photos - one of her favorites. Come and see.

And Clem entered three images of his own, a first for him! One he calls his mystery shot, because neither of us have any idea what it is, other than that it was taken somewhere in the North Atlantic.

For the show, he matted it upside down - as if that matters - and in Clem-fashion called it "Titled." Any guess as to what it is?

And he got an amazing shot of sheep being herded by sheep dogs, taken from inside a bus through the window in the Orkney Islands. Elizabeth is jealous because none of her "window shots" ever turn out.

Why Have I Become a News-Junkie?

How did happen? My addiction to the latest news.

True, I have read Time magazine off and on since I was in graduate school. And the daily newspaper has been part of a daily ritual, which began in the "olden days" before the instant-news of the Internet.

This summer a trip to a writers conference in Santa Fe provided an opportunity to explore remote places in Colorado and Utah with my cameras. It was then that I realized I had an addiction - to the news when I could not pull up the online news or watch TV news. Later in the summer we traveled across the north Atlantic where we were sometimes "out of satellite range." When Hurricane Earl watch began, we were dependent on the ship for news of its progress north along the coast - and knew nothing about anything else in the world, including Earl's path along the eastern seaboad.

Since then, I have been paying attention to this addiction of mine. Sure, I could set limits - and the problem would go away. But it would be a missed opportunity to learn something about myself.

As a writer, I spend a lot of time before a computer screen. Access to news updates is easy. Am I simply an awe-struck older person for whom the phenomena of global connection is something new? Perhaps news gazing has become just too easy.

Am I somehow deluded in believing that if I know what is going on in this chaotic world, I can make better decisions for my life? And feel a little more in control?

Is news-addiction just an expanded version of people-watching, one of my favorite sports? As an inveterate listener to other people's conversations, I am fascinated about what makes people and relationships tick. Perhaps the news is another form of observing people.

As I have thought further, I believe a major contributor to my addiction to the news has to do with my legacy to my grand-children. Beg pardon, you say!

Yes, part of what I have to give my grandchildren is my hard earned wisdom. Before I had children, I lacked perspective about the culture in which I lived. I grew up in a small community where what was happening around the world had little impact (or so I thought). When I parented  my children, I was busy with the day-to-day aspects of being involved in their lives and my involvment in my profession.

Now I look across our three generations, while trying to make sense out of who I have become and how did the culture in which I lived have an influence. And how does what is happening in the EU, Asia, Africa, or South America continue to shape and form not only me, but the global community?

Global community - a concept that did not exist in my childhood. What happened in my small prairie hometown had little to do "with the price of tea in China." Today what happens in China affects all of us deeply. For example, watch the story unfold with this year's Peace prize winner. Nixon had it right about the "domino effect." But his mind could never have imagined today's world - nor could any one's mind at the time of his presidency.

News-junkie? The question goes beyond the "what has my generation wrought?" The angst about what kind of tattered world have "we" created and  are now handing over to the young adult generation. The coming to terms with what I have done to make a difference - and the limits on my ability to make a difference. Legacy is not something passive, a done-deal. It is alive and fluid as I reflect about the news as a mirror.

Chile Triumphs

Along with people all around the globe, we watched the first miner in Chile step from the rescue capsule - via live feed. And watched the last rescue worker step into the capsule in the underground chamber where the 33 miners had lived for over two months. Such is the present world, where we can be present and be here simultaneously.

From travel in Chile, I know the country as remarkably resilient. Since Pinochet's reign of terror ended, it has become one of the most stable countries in South America. Occasionally, I go to places where I say: "I could live here!" Chile is one of those places. The natural beauty of its southern tip is breath-taking beyond description. Its people are warm and welcoming.- determined to keep their hard-earned democracy functioning. And they learn from its mistakes.

Stable economically and politically that is! The tectonic Nazca Plate under the Pacific is constantly moving eastward under South America's continental plate, making Chile highly earthquake-prone. Every day a quake occurs somewhere in Chile. However, those quakes are rarely felt because they occur so far down in the earth. Most Chileans just shrug their shoulders regarding any risk.

Not so the massive earthquake that struck Chile last February. A month later, Sebastian Pinera was inaugurated as president, while aftershocks still shook Valparaiso's congressional building. He certainly has had his work cut out for him. Two major disasters within five months.

The rescue of the 33 miners has given the rest of the world a model to use when catastrophe strikes. The government took charge immediately and began to develop a plan if the miners were found to be alive under mega-tons of rock. They were not hesitant to call upon expertise from around the world. There was no energy wasted by finger-pointing about blame. All of the attention went toward safely rescuing these men.

Of course the saga is not over. The mine was considered unsafe before its collapse - and adequate government regulations for safety were not in place. Chile's mining industry and the technical details of the rescue will be examined under the world's microscopic eyes. And questions will be debated about the rapid mobilization of the country's military, both with this man-made mining disaster and the natural disaster when the earth erupted with such force last February.
The triumphant rescue was not perfect. However, the world has gotten a flavor of what Chile is about - this long pencil-thin strip of land once so isolated from the world. Last February, I wanted a bottle of wine from Chile to celebrate Valentine's Day and our travels there. The twenty-something woman in the liquor store said she thought they had some Chilean wine and led us over to a section of European wines.

We laughed after we left - with a bottle of wine from Chile that we found on another shelf. Thank goodness our clerk was not an aspiring travel agent!

The "Silent Generation"

Wait a minute! As I raised my voice in objection.

Reading the paper this morning, I learned that I was born into the "Silent Generation." Somehow I missed this little categorization of my generation. I certainly have never been known as "silent."

Nor were a lot of my peers. We were the ones marching for civil rights and protesting the war in Vietnam. Women in my generation were the ones who challenged the traditional roles assigned to us. We were experimenting with art forms and forms of literary expressions.

Ours was the generation that brought African American soul music of rhythm and blues into the mainstream. The Beatles and rock music changed forever the American musical culture. The course of American poetry was altered by the Beat Generation's poetry that helped birth today's predominant free verse style of poetry-making.

I would hardly call Martin Luther King Jr, Gloria Steinem, Robert Kennedy, Elvis, Paul Wellstone, Jim Morrison, John McCain, Jimmy Hendrix, Noam Chomsky, Adrienne Rich, Daniel Ellsberg, Ralph Nader, George Will, Dave Brubeck, Allen Ginsberg,Bob Woodward, Paul Newman, Ellen Goodman, Jasper Johns,  Bob Dylan, Joan Didion, Sandra Day OConner, bell hooks, or Ray Charles silent people. And these are just Americans. There is a much longer list of people around the world, born during 1925-1945 who have not been silent.

A bit of research was in order. I learned that the term, "Silent Generation," was coined in a Time magazine article in 1951. This "silent" generation were those of us born between 1925-1945, the time of the Great Depression and WWII. The article characterized us as "grave and fatalistic, conventional, possessing confused morals, expecting disappointment." William Manchester described the members of our generation as "withdrawn, cautious, unimaginative, indifferent, unadventurous and silent. "

Pardon me?

Another name for this generation are the Traditionalists whose traits include being hard working, loyal, submissive, tech-challenged people who "value traditional morals, safety and security as well as conformity, commitment and consistency."

Makes me want to crawl under the bed, stuff a rag in my mouth, and hide.

On the other hand, well-done sociological research needs to look at the whole picture. Certainly my cohorts include people who value not causing trouble. They work hard and contribute to their communities without drawing attention to themselves. But another whole bunch of us worked just as hard calling attention to the injustices around us. We avidly pursued new forms of expression in literature, music, and art. All of us have changed the face of American culture forever.

The just-announced 2010 Nobel prize winner for Literature was Peruvian Mario Vargas Llosa - born in 1936. His interests are wide-ranging. He is no isolated writer working in seclusion to create meaningful streams of words. He says: "literature is an expression of life and you cannot eradicate politics from life even if you think politics is in many ways a disgusting, a dirty activity, it's a fact of our life."

Why not re-label my generation born between 1925-1945 "The Vibrant Generation?" And honor the wide range of us, from rabble-rousers to creative innovators and hardworking contributors who have dramatically changed our culture.

Secrets: So Zip Your Mouth

Butterflies must be on my mind lately, as I savor these last wonderful warm days.

Secrets: So Zip Your Mouth

The Swallow-tail told me his mother told him
that before he was born, his parents would
flutter about and land on
some kind of poop on forest service roads
just west of Lake 22 in northern Minnesota and that
cars would stop and people would marvel at the scenc.

            But his mother didn't tell him why.

The Swallow-tail told me that when he
emerged from his chrysalis, he couldn't
drink or talk because
the two sides of his tongue hadn't yet
been zipped together and that
even worse -
his wings were all deflated and crumpled.

            But the butterfly didn't tell me why.

I so wanted to tell the Swallow-tail
that I could identify with his "tongue-thing" and
not being able to fly, but -
for the life of me, I couldn't  figure out
where his ears were.

            So I told him anyway.

That when I was in first grade,
I never said a word. I talked OK at home
but never in school.
A while ago,
before I was almost seventy, for safe-keeping
my mother gave me my end-of-the-year
first grade report card.
Inside, my teacher Daisy Rose
had wirtten a comment.
"Clemens said his first word today."

I figure the Swallow-tail will keep
his mouth shut and tongue zipped
about my secret.

            Because now I have voice and can fly  .

Gone

I am not sure such glorious October days are best named Indian summer or autumn. The crystal clear blue skies make it easy to forget our troubled world. These last days invite us to play outside  us, rather than tend to the usual list of things that need doing  before the snow comes. This is the time when we Minnesota folks indulge in a bit of denial - as if summer could go on forever. It is the garden that knows its summertime days are over and trees dress in glorious reds, oranges and yellows.

GONE

Butterflies are
more beautiful this fall
maybe it's emergence from
a summer of great overcast
smoggy skies
ominous clouds

but now
after mind-clearing rains
the skies have cleared
at least to the eyes
butterflies dart, flutter, glide
shine in the sun

one swalltail briefly lingers
on patches of
the last phlox by the pond
earlier it searched out
newly emerged profusions of
pink resurrection lilies

then the animated patch of yellow
makes a brief circle survey of
the flower garden before
its vertical ascent

greeting the still blue sky

The Lives of Seniors?

Earlier this week, I read in the business section of the paper about the upsurge in building senior communities. Nice, given the housing crisis the last couple of years. Someday, those communities might be an attractive option for the two of us. Even if it means no more watching for our daffodils to poke their heads up in the spring and gardening in the summer sun.

There was one line in the article that caught my eye - or might I say, raised my eyebrows. It was how such communities offered a better life for seniors than "living in single family dwellings and watching TV." I kid you not. Watching TV? What a description of seniors living in their own homes?

I imagine what the writer of the article meant is that for seniors who have limited mobility, living in a communal settings does create more options. But that's not was printed. Not all seniors living in community settings or living in their own homes have limited mobility. And it denigrates the ingenuity of aging seniors to find ways to live busy and active lives. After all, older folks do have friends and family . . .

It was the patronizing attitude toward older adults that set my teeth on edge. Most seniors that I know complain more of too much activity in their lives rather than a generalized boredom resolved only by watching TV.

This embedded value in our culture says a person is only of worth if they are working to pay the rent. As though the only purpose in life to earn money. If you aren't, you are second class and written off. That includes stay-at-home Moms (or Dads), people who manage to support themselves on part-time income, the unemployed, couples who simplify their lives so that one income is sufficient, and anyone with non-earned income (which includes many seniors). And many of my writer friends in committed relationships, whose life-partner brings home the bucks to help their beloved birth a dream. After all, making a living as a writer does fall in the rare event category.

Yes, there are couch potatoes of all ages who absorb too many hours of TV - or computer games (and  yes seniors do play computer games and engage in social networking sites). There are a far greater number people past the senior cut-off age of 55 (or 50, according to AARP) who spent their time doing all kinds of interesting - and productive - things with their time. They take writing classes at the Loft and art classes at Banfill-Locke, volunteer their time and accumulated wisdom, love their families and friends, mentor their grandchildren, teach English as a second or third language, start new businesses or progessions, lobby at the Legislature . . . The list goes on and on.

Yesterday, I began reading a book written by a local artist:, Lucy Rose Fischer, titled I'm New at Being Old. The book is delightful. And just as interesting is her bio at the back of the book. She was an award-winning PhD research scientist, who  asked herself as she approached 60, "how old do I have to be to follow my dream?" Now she is an artists whose work has been in more than 50 exhibits.

Now, what was that about watching TV?