The Sidewalk Song

While out walking one autumn afternoon, I noticed that the sidewalk had changed color. In front of a certain house, it was a strikingly rich, even, dark pewter-grey. Then I saw three small golden leaves that had fallen onto one section of sidewalk. The pattern of their placement and the angle of their stems seemed to suggest musical notes.

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I laughed to think that I had strolled into some cosmic musical score. The next section or 'bar' of sidewalk held three 'notes' as well. Smiling at the novelty, I closed my eyes to see if I could hear this music. I was astounded at the surrounding symphony; car engines, wind rushing through trees, birds singing, horns honking, insects buzzing and barking dogs.

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Why hadn't I heard it before? Or had I? Would I be able to hear it again? Had I uncovered the 'Music of the Spheres,' or was it just a serendipitous gestalt experience? Surely the great works of classical music are an inherent resonance of this ongoing score. I would even dare to speculate that all music has descended directly from the pulse of this stirring, eternal, primal aria.

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I was able to repeat the experience by temporarily dropping the filtration process of perception that enables us to survive and function in our complex world. The music was always different, always delightful and always there. Our own hearts keep time with it. Do we learn to hear the song, or do we learn to tune it out?

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It's still there; everywhere. I dare you to take a walk, alone, and listen, really listen to everything all at once. Watch, as every thing you see joins the dance. But please don't get hit by a car or anything. Stay out of the percussion section.

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It's A Big One Too!

If your head hurts when you eat ice cream, it can only mean one thing: YOU HAVE A BRAIN CAVITY! I advise against telling your dentist. Lord only knows what he'd fill it with. k

Just Wondering...

I was traveling down a residential street as a passenger in a car and I noticed something peculiar. Something dark was hovering in my peripheral field, just outside the window. I looked and saw a bird without visible wings that seemed to just hanging there in the air!

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I read once in a physics book that absolute movement is totally imperceivable. So...if a given set is moving in the same direction, at the same time and at the same speed; you wouldn't see it move or you simply wouldn't see it?

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The bird was probably traveling in approximately the same direction and approximately the same speed at approximately the same time (what ever that is) which would explain why it appeared to be hovering.

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Why could I not see the birds wings? I understand persistence of vision, 24 frames per second and all that, but its wings were imperceivable. Obviously, the wings were moving faster than the bird, the car or me. How fast does something have to move in order to be imperceivable (and how long has the government kept this classified)?

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I doubt that the bird's wings were moving faster than the speed of light. So, why is it that I can see light but I couldn't see the bird's wings? When I consider the factors; speed, direction, time and even size my only conclusion is more questions. Like: are there commercial applications?

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I'm no math whiz, probably for the same reason that I do not suffer from an imagination deficit. There are sound waves we can't hear and light waves we can't see. I wonder what other things are whizzing around out there just out side our windows, even within our grasp, that we can't see? Ouch!

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P.S. Aren't you glad I wasn't driving?

Pizza anyone?

Why do some college students look like they got up in the morning, rolled around on the floor and what ever stuck to them is what they wore?

DNA Dreams

I realize, of course, that telling people about dreams like the two I'm about to relate isn't likely to win me any friends. But the interesting thing about that is we still have dreams after our friends are all long gone.

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The first dream was just silly. I dreamt that someone injected DNA into little polymer clay creatures so that they came to life. They were truly 'animated.' All these evil little clay-mates (claymeres) were running around trying to rule and/or destroy the world. You could easily squash them like bugs, but it was still a little disturbing...

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The second dream was a direct result of having read Matt Ridley's book "Nature via Nurture." (I'd underline the title, but I don't do html [yes, of course I do windows]) Anyway, Matt Ridley was saying that certain experiences can actually turn on or turn off the expression of certain genes.

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So I fell asleep with my face in this book and dreamt about a world-wide DNA census. Based on this census, five people were chosen from each nation and/or ethnicity on earth. These people were then capsulized. (don't ask me what that means--it was a dream.) But as they lay inert in their capsules, they began to change so that their DNA reverted back to its original (like, dawn of creation) state.

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I wouldn't be at all surprised if there were already a SciFi novel with the same sort of plot, so please don't ruin my strange lovely dream by telling me about it. I don't read fiction so I'm certainly not going to start writing it. If there's not, forget it. This dated blog is as good as a copy-right.

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Bring Out Your Dead or Use Your Calculator

A January 20th 2006, UPI report about a survey done by the Washington-based Pew Charitable Trusts for the American Institutes for research said 20 percent of students graduating from college with 4-year degrees and 30 percent graduating with 2-year degrees are unable to do fundamental computations.

That’s not surprising in light of a December 5th 2005 Reuters report by Maggie Fox, their Health and Science Correspondent. The report stated that,"US Health and Human Services has projected that in a pandemic 92 million Americans will become sick, as many as 2 million will die and 40 percent of workers could be out at any one time."

The same report went on to mention that roughly half of all confirmed H5N1 avian influenza cases have been fatal. It also reported that, "scientists say the virus is only a few steps away from mutating into a form that could easily spread from person to person...that could kill tens of millions."

Well, our friends at Health and Human Services aren't doing too well with fundamental computations. If 92 million Americans get H5N1 and if it does not increase or decrease in virulence, we should expect not 2 million, but 45-50 million fatalities. According to the World Health Organization's very conservative figures, mortality rates in many Asian nations exceed 70 percent.

I'm not sure how HHS arrived at its projection of 92 million Americans effected by a pandemic but if it happens to be H5N1, the actual fatalities could look more like 64 million. I would be more confident in our government’s ability to manage a pandemic if I knew that those responsible for public health were doing the math correctly and then telling the truth about it.

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Adah, Ralph, Mike and Paul after they moved to town.

Today is Adah's Birthday

She was born the middle child of a large Irish Catholic family; eight brothers, two sisters, thirteen plates at the table. Adah's family subsisted, in the 1930's, on a farm in the midwest. In a field next to the house was a bull so dangerous that none of the men would cross the field alone. Even then, they carried pitch forks to dissuade the beast.

All of the children had been warned roundly and regularly to stay out of that field and away from the bull. But then the wee little ones, five years old and under, thought to tame the bull.

Maybe they fed him flowers through the fence and patted his muzzle or sang songs to him. Whether by ignorance, daring or the charm of innocence, they not only crept into the field with him but they began to ride the bull's tail.

Two and three of them at a time would grab hold of his tail and pull their feet up off the ground. Then the beast would sport them in circles as they laughed.

It all came to a tragic end one day when the mailman spied them and drove up the lane to tell their mother. They were all whipped soundly and then had to look for adventure elsewhere.

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There was always a good race. If you could get someone to run. Paul was tall, straight and fast; a natural runner. Chasing Adah was a regular event. But she had a strategy. Just as she could feel his breath on the back of her neck, she'd stop and stick her elbow out. Knocked the wind out of him everytime.

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The chicken man was a regular visitor to their farm. He would buy eggs and chickens from their mother. He had a long, crook-like tool that he would trip and catch the chickens with. Then there was vague, important, grown-up talk about shipping the chickens and so forth.

Adah and Paul were playing 'chicken man' one day. They'd gone upstairs and found a couple of coat hangers, unbending them until they were suitable for tripping chickens. The fun and frenzy of catching chickens was over all too quickly. They looked at each other wondering what to do next, "Let's ship our chickens!"

They headed for the outhouse holding their chickens upside-down by the feet like the chicken man did. The outhouse was a two seater because it served such a large family and no one wants to go out alone at night. Adah stuck her chicken down the first hole. "I shipped my chicken now you ship yours."

Just as Paul threw his chicken into the murky darkness, Adah laughed and pulled her chicken back up into the light of day. Paul went running to tell that she hadn't shipped her chicken and got a spanking for shipping his.

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Remembering Dusty...

In memory of Dusty McGowan

For there is hope of a tree

If it be cut down, that it will sprout again,

And that its tender shoot will not cease.

Though its root may grow old in the earth,

And its stump may die in the ground,

Yet at the scent of water it will bud

And bring forth branches...

Job 14:7-9

BillyBrock

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Billy came home so drunk one night that his normally steel-grey eyes had turned bright green and were crossed. He was congenial and giggling as I guided him toward the bed. I propped him against the edge of the bed and wrestled his boots off, but I could tell that I was losing him fast. I let go of him for just a second to reach for something on the dresser, and Wham! He hit the floor like thunder. Just as quick he jumped up, all wild-eyed, and hollered, "Who hit me?"

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Wine is a mocker, strong drink is a brawler, and whoever is lead astray by it is not wise. (Proverbs 20:1 NKJV)

Indigo Outdicome

I used to joke about Civilization entering a new Dark Age
But it's not funny any more.
It's not just a matter of Slang and bad copy.
Language is fragmenting, Crumbling & disintegrating.
Every age has a prevailing Communication medium
That influences the way we Think and interact;
Cave painting
Hieroglyphics
Oration
Literature
Film
Photon
?


Does the impulse to byte
Induce the flow of fragmented,
Telegraphic thought and communication?

Will the superego become obsolete
As information crashes past reason, too fast for reflection?

May the standard that you raise
And struggle (as I do) to sustain today
Be the strength and salvation of your synapses tomorrow.

Stranger Grace

Do you remember past skirmishes of border wars between dreams and reality? Dreams too real to be dismissed as subconscious doodling or debris; realities too strange and elusive to be sensual or concrete. We've all been there.
Such was the case when I read a biography of Sojourner Truth. She was an escaped slave who was very active and influential in the American abolitionist movement of the 1800's. She was also a Christian.

Tall, dark, thin and muscular, she possessed a formidable mind and spirit. She chose a name with the same eloquence that a lyricist might pluck a harp. It was not uncommon for a former slave to adopt their master's surname. Though she served a number of people, this woman considered Truth to be her only true Master, true home and ultimate destination.
The common name she chose for herself expressed her identity, purpose, philosophy and coping style; Sojourner. Her name was her mission statement. She was the quintessential 'temp worker'--just passin' through. Passing through trouble, passing through sorrow and passing through oppression. She considered herself, like father Abraham, a stranger in a strange land.

I wanted to learn more about her because she had something I want; constant communion with God. She developed a deep, intimate relationship with her Maker because her one response was to run to Him. He presided over her every thought. She included Him in every conversation. Consequently, this uneducated woman became uncommonly wise. This humble ex-slave became inexplicably bold and confident.
I began to wonder what it would be like to be Sojourner Truth, not then but now. Since the word 'sojourn' is considered archaic and archaicisms are more frowned upon that left-overs, I would be called Stranger: Stranger Truth.

I tried to picture the name on my driver's licence. What would the police say, should I be pulled over? "Ms. Truth, do you know why I stopped you?" Maybe they would just call me Stranger. "O.K. Stranger, I'm going to issue you a warning. But get that tail light fixed immediately." Can you imagine your friends and family calling you Stranger?
When my husband came home, I told him I was considering changing my name. We've been married for sixteen years, but he still considers me a wild ride. You'd think once a guy came home to a missing porch, me with blue hair or a call from the local mosque asking to speak with his wife, he'd be ready for anything. I still manage to catch him by surprise.

As usual, I had some 'splainin' to do. My son looked on as I filled my husband's ear with Stranger Truth. I expounded upon how truly strange Truth is to this world of ours. In fact, not all of us even recognize Truth when it comes our way. Maybe because we've encountered too much quasi-truth. They say that bank tellers can easily recognize counterfeit dollars only because they're so familiar with the real thing.
My son was about ten or eleven at the time. Stranger Truth ambled through his young mind as he lay sleeping. He had two dreams. In the first dream, some soldiers with guns entered a dwelling and demanded that the people there, of which he was one, denounce Christ. He recounted how one boy was so frightened that he complied with the soldier's request. They shot everyone anyway and torched the place.
His dad and I were with him in the second dream. We had joined a meeting in someone's home. Again, soldiers with guns came in. This time a woman came in with them. She wore a purple suit dress and had fair hair, but her face was oddly fierce. Her name was Grace: Stranger Grace.
Amid the resulting commotion and confusion, he perceived that her behavior was fierce as well. She had great authority, even over the soldiers. One by one, we were put to the test. As we prepared to die, it seemed that we would receive no help from Stranger Grace. In fact, is was she who asked the fateful question. But after we confessed Christ, Stranger Grace and the soldiers led us out, up a path and through a gate. Our car was waiting on the highway.
Stranger Truth taught my son that Grace often enters with adversity and that we don't easily recognize Grace but she always make herself known to the faithful in the end:

Now salvation, and strength, and the kingdom of our God, and the power of His Christ have come, for the accuser of our brethren, who accused them before our God day and night, has been cast down. And they overcame him by the blood of the Lamb and the word of their testimony, and they loved not their lives unto the death. (Revelation 12:10-11)

The Lord's Loufa

I had a beautiful garden last spring, full of flowers, herbs and fruit. Then things in my life started going terribly, horribly wrong. I wasn’t prepared. I reacted badly.

As things went daily from bad to worse, I became increasingly distracted from my garden by the devastation in my closest relationships. The garden did well for a while on its own. Then gradually drought and neglect took their toll and the garden fell fallow.

Late in the summer I noticed that a strange vine had sprung up. It had these bright, disturbingly perky, yellow flowers. It grew rampant all over the garden, running amok from one bed to the next. I thought maybe it was a mutant zucchini.

The frost came. Then snow. By Christmas the garden was utterly forgotten. But seed catalogs came in the mail. As tempting as they were, I tried not to look, to consider; definitely not to allow the tiniest dream to moisten and germinate. I would permit no scheme to take root.

January 2nd was such a teasingly spring-like day; so kissed by balmy breezes that I took courage and ventured down to those long-neglected beds. There were strange, dark fruits lying about everywhere. I poked one. It was firm and resilient.

Investigating further, I realized that it was a loufa gourd; the kind some brave folks shower with. I thought about Jonah’s gourd:

And the Lord God prepared a plant and made it come up over Jonah, that it might be shade for his head and deliver him from his misery. So Jonah was very grateful for the plant.

Then came the worm, the devastation, the anger.

God asked Jonah, “Is it right for you to be angry about the plant?” And he said “It is right for me to be angry, even to the death!”

But the Lord said, “You have had pity on the plant for which you have not labored, nor made it grow, which came up in a night and perished in a night...should I not pity?...” (Jonah 4:6-11)

Should I not pity? Lord, you sent me these loufa gourds and as far as I know they’re only good for scrubbing. “Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow...create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me. " (Psalm 51:7 & 10)