Judiciously we live . . .

Today, we can communicate in one or more modes at any moment we choose: while waiting in the airport, I can log on and send emails, chat, or instant message; while enjoying a meadow in the mountains, I can dial my friend; while sitting in a meeting, I can hand-write a note to my sister. And while I make sure the spaghetti doesn't boil over, I can video conference with my brother.

Of course, there's regular face-to-face communication too. And that can happen most anywhere, as well.

The problem--as I see it--isn't so much that each mode is available, as it is that their collective presence can (and does) overwhelm the personal communication system; in other words, we can easily get into the habit of talking talking talking and in the process lose real, meaningful communication. As the number of words we speak, type, or key in increases, the net value often dramatically decreases.

In a graduate seminar, I rarely spoke. I figured that if someone else articulated a similar point, I didn't really need to take up the time repeating that point just for the sake of hearing my voice. But this one day, I had something different to say, and so I said it. Afterward, a fellow student asked me why everyone listened to me, when they never listened to him. I didn't think before I spoke; I just blurted out, "It's because I rarely speak."

One advantage to not flooding the universe with our words is that people will be more apt to listen when we do speak. But another advantage is that if we're not hitting reply every other second or ping-ponging messages, then it's likely that we're taking more time to live, and living includes taking action, thinking, meditating, and finding meaning. If we simplify by not using every available communication device at every moment, we might discover that when we do type the email, chat for a few minutes online, talk to our friend in the kitchen, or share an experience over the phone that we are focusing in on what matters most: our love for the person we're talking to, our dreams and aspirations, how we're overcoming the stumbling blocks, what we are doing to help our friends/family, etc.

When I have my advanced students write a 10 - 12 page research paper, they panic. They want to pick broad topics to ensure that they will be able to fill the 12 page-space with words. When I consult with my students, I tell them that their topics could inform a dissertation, a book, or volumes of books, and that they need to focus their topics further. But they're so worried about filling up the space.

I think sometimes we do the same thing with life. We reach for our cell phone because it fills up space. We type words--even words that we have no real connection to--because it's something to do. We send out an email that we've had a bad morning and that we didn't get any sleep, because we can.

But wouldn't it be glorious if we--if I--didn't attempt to fill space with just any words. What if we were more selective in the messages we sent or the conversations we spoke? What if we went for a walk and really enjoyed the fall colors without once reaching for--or thinking about reaching for--our phones? Maybe later on in the day, after other things had happened and we'd thought about other topics--maybe then we would sit down at our desk and write a card (because hand-writing something once in a while is a good idea), and maybe we would not only describe those fall leaves from earlier in the day, but we'd mention some things we'd been thinking about, and acknowledge how much we are grateful for the person we are writing to.

In that card--or phone call or face-to-face conversation--there would be more of value and focus, I think, than if we'd sent off fragments throughout the entire day.

I'm not anti-texting, anti-IMing, anti-email. I think that each mode is useful. But maybe it's time to simplify and be more judicious in how and how often we use words. The experience will make our lives richer, deeper, more focused, and more meaningful.

At least, that's what I believe.

-OeK


Perhaps the more judicious our correspondence, the more excellently we will live.

Gift bags . . .

Gift bags are more ubiquitous than wrapping paper, and for good reason, all you have to do with a gift sack is insert the gift(s) and maybe some tissue paper, whereas wrapping paper requires a flat surface, scissors, tape, and a bit of patience, time, and pride in your work to get the gift bundled neatly up. (I, for one, prefer that the edges of the paper are folded under for a crisper look.)

So, for the giver, gift bags are convenient, time-saving, and satisfying. But for the receiver, it's not always such a positive experience, and it's often even embarrassing. Here's why: when someone receives a gift in a gift bag, that person can't be sure if the one gift she's removed from the sack is the only gift or if there are more hidden in the caves and crevices created by the tissue paper. Even when the tissue paper is removed, sometimes the bottom flap of the gift sack looks like an envelope, and if the receiver tries to remove it, it provides an awkward moment for both giver and receiver. Wrapping paper, on the other hand, is straight forward. When the paper is removed, the present is sitting there for all to see.

My advice when using gift sacks is two-fold:

1. If you are the giver of the gift(s) in the gift sack, don't require that the sack is opened in your presence. In other words, drop the gift off. But don't watch the receiver open the gift. This way, the receiver can rummage through the empty sack without experiencing humiliation.

2. If you are the receiver of the gift(s) in a gift sack and the giver is watching you open the gift, flip the sack on the side and slide out all of the contents, tissue and all. Then, proceed to unwrap the insides much like you would open a wrapping paper gift.

And if you don't want to worry about the above methodology, just relax. It's okay if you look a little greedy because you're digging through a present-less sack. It's okay if you didn't buy your friend five little side gifts to go along with the one main gift. It's all okay. Really.

Things that make me smile . . .

1. little silver skull buttons, one positioned on each arm about 3 inches from the shirt's elbow so that when you bend your arm the little guy looks up at you. (The shirt is a happy shirt--a plaid of reds and whites with cool domed white buttons--and it's made happier by the skulls.)

2. fake chrome dragon stuck to the back of my car. A just-because-I-saw-it-and-it-made-me-want-it-even-though-it-makes-no-sense purchase.

3. Halloween-colored peanut butter M&Ms. They could inspire a party. I hope they inspire many parties somewhere out there in the universe.

4. unexpected, bizarre happenings. A while back, I boiled some eggs, and like usual, one of the eggs decided to leak. Only you couldn't tell which egg it was, because the egg wasn't really attached to it, there was just a hole. When I cracked the egg, it was almost completely hollowed out, the white part forming the shape of a tumbler. I might have to break down and post a picture of this, because I'm having a hard time explaining it through words.

Tainted colors . . .

I've had several arguments about the color of things:

Years ago
Olive: The stripe in your shirt is green.
Tree-hugger: No it isn't, it's gray!
Olive: Green.
Tree-hugger: It's gray!

This year
Olive: Your shirt is lavender.
Betty: No, it's pink.
Olive: It's not pink at all; it's purplish.

Today
Olive: What color is that?
Amb: It's blue.
Olive: It's blue? Are you sure it isn't purple?
Amb: It's blue.
Olive: I see it as purple. Maybe I am color challenged . . . but don't let Tree-hugger know that.


Today, while talking to Amb, I came up with my theory of color. We have three primary pigment colors--blue, red, and yellow--and when any one of those primary colors gets tainted by another primary color, I see it as becoming a secondary color: purple, orange, or green. Most people that I've met, I now realize, are more generous about how long they'll let a color be called by its primary name. For me, once blue has a hint of red in it, it's purple (or purplish); once yellow has a drop of blue in it, it's green (sure it's a light green, maybe a lemon-lime green with the emphasis on the lemon part, but it's still green).

I learned once that some people see more colors due to the number of cones in their eyes. I used to tease Tree-hugger that I could see more color, that I physically had more capacity. Now, I wonder if it's more a philosophical difference--a way of seeing the world--that makes me see color the way that I do.

But hey, wouldn't it be great if I turned out to be a tetrachromat? I think I'd like that very much.

Same . . . Different . . .

Today, I attempted to take the bus to work. However, the platform was empty: I was alone at the stop and it was quite obvious that I had missed the bus. A young man came over, figured he had missed the bus too, called bus information, and then informed me that the next bus wouldn't come again for another hour. (They had changed the times of the routes.)

I stood there trying to figure out what to do. I didn't need to be to work for a while, but I didn't really want to sit and wait for a bus. And I could tell that this guy was a little nervous about having missed the bus. So, that's when I decided to offer him a ride. He accepted. And on the walk to my car, he asked me if I had a parking pass for the university that he attended, his assumption was that I was a student too.

It seems pretty strange, I think, that someone would mistake me for a college student, until you look at the facts: 1) I look younger than older (my head isn't completely gray); 2) I was standing at an express stop that many students use; 3) I look somewhat like people who go to college look. In other words, this stranger surveyed me and the situation--subconsciously, I'm guessing--and concluded that I was more the same than different, and therefore I must be a fellow student at his same school.

I think we do this a lot. If someone appears to match up with us in some ways, we mentally classify them as THE SAME and then we ascribe a lot of our own attributes, experiences, and activities to the person. If someone appears quite different from us--like they have a tattoo covering half their face--we label them as DIFFERENT and we figure we're incompatible. I think we tend to trust THE SAME people (that's what let's us offer rides to strangers) and we are wary of THE DIFFERENT people.

It's sort of funny, though, the way we think we can pin ourselves--what we think, how we feel, our experience, our perspective, our philosophy, our school affiliation--on people we barely know and on good friends, too. Why must similarity equal SAMENESS? And how can it possibly equal that ever anyway?

I'm too tired to explore this more, but it's interesting, right? I think so.

I heard a killing at 5:00 am this morning . . .

At first, it sounded like small children--small girls--whimpering. It sounded like whips beating through the air.

I sat up in bed. Strained against the darkness. Was someone being hurt, outside?

The sounds sharpened. A chipmunk chirped too quickly, bleated out in distress. And the rhythmic beats continued--whirr, whirr, whirr.

I flipped on my bed stand light, hoping to disperse the animals. And their sounds.

The bird--it had to be a bird, most likely a hawk, because of its powerful wings--screeched in victory. The chipmunk shrieked out its terror.

And then the killing outside my bedroom window ended.

I went back to sleep, my light left on.

Nature is frightening. And cruel.

The size and shape of a miracle . . .

Is a miracle the rains of heaven being started or stopped? Is it the great waters being parted or crossed? Is it the friend who comes over, after your tears have run dry, and sits and talks to you about anything?

Is a miracle a realization, a shift in perspective, a way that we didn't before see? Is it a door, a window, a crack, a portal of perspective? Is it an implement offered to us without our knowing what tool to ask for (or even that there is a tool to ask for)?

If so, then I, Olive, have witnessed many miracles.

And, the interesting thing about miracles is that before they happen, one must reach, reach, and reach, by working as hard as she can. The miracle takes us the rest of the way, even when we don't really know which way-what way-this or that way we are going.