Arm pits and Adaptability

If you have read one or more of my posts, you probably have come to the conclusion that I am not a person that likes crowds. It's true. While I enjoy parties, big cities, and 75% off sales on occasion, I don't gravitate toward them. Most of my life has been spent in wide open spaces less than or equal to ten minutes from something that has stayed relatively the same for thousands of years like a mountain, forest, or river.

Today, and, presumably every day for the next several weeks, I commuted to work by shoving my way through several blocks of people, squeezed onto the tube next to at least seven arm pits, and continued through narrow stairways to my final destination.

It was a long day. But I guess, as I have mentioned before, human beings are fairly adaptable creatures. Stubborn, but adaptable. I remained calm through my almost two hours of transportation adventures today, because it's the way it is. There is no way around it.

It's got its perks too, like the endless people-watching opportunities, and the gratitude I feel when I find fresh air again.

No Way Out

I love Agatha Christie novels. I don't regard them as great literature, but her plots are intriguing and entertaining, and they offer me an escape from 2010 America to 1924 Britain. This particular conversation stood out to me today.

"Has it ever struck you," Porter said, "that civilisation's damned dangerous?"

"Dangerous?" Such a revolutionary remark shocked Mr. Satterthwaite to the core.

"Yes. There are no safety valves, you see."

Perhaps that is what I've been looking for—a safety valve. Unlike Mr. Porter, I think they exist. I've spent the summer wanting to escape through a safety valve in the form of a sunny, muddy, moderately-paced river. But right now I'm flowing through a narrow tube at high pressure right into London. Yes—London. And there's no way out. Not that I want one, I think.

Ebbing and Flowing

There has been no breaking news in my life lately. My plants are growing as expected, my apartment is clean, my stuff is organized. I attend various social events and occasionally meet new people. I read and paint and work.

I kind of think that everyone goes through periods of their life where they simply bob up and down with the ebb and flow of the tide. At one point or another, they probably feel like consistency is more difficult than tribulation.

I've experienced some pretty turbulant (literal) waters. As a river guide, I got to see some pretty decent rapids. The rush of successfuly rowing through those waves is incredible. But for all of the time I've spent in water, I am not a strong swimmer. Last summer, this particular weakness caused my nose to break as it collided with the ocean floor in Maracas Bay, Trinidad. I'm not familiar with ocean currents, so when a large wave came I got worked. In fact I feel fortunate that a broken nose is the only injury I sustained from that incident.

Conclusion: While the little ups and downs of every day life can become monotonous, I think they're important--they allow the rush of great victories to sink in, and the broken noses of failure to heal.

Word of the Day: Undulatoriness

"The grand and majestic have always somewhat of the undulatoriness of the sphere. It is the secret of majesty in the rolling gait of the elephant, and of all grace in action and in art. Always the line of beauty is a curve."

--Henry David Thoreau, "The Service"

For Real

There is a large empty lot behind my apartment barracaded by temporary chain-link fences. I assume someone started building there and then ran out of money. It's grown over with weeds and were it not for the carefully planned and fairly well-kept apartment complexes around it, it could be taken as a set of an end-of-the world film.

Anyway, as I was walking home tonight, I saw what I thought was a bird flying above it. As I got closer, it turned out to be a radio controlled toy airplane. The scene seemed very dramatic--the sun setting on what could be a war zone infiltrated by the buzz of this toy whose real-life counterpart would belong in a real-life war.

The situation and this way I happened to percieve it made me think about the contexts in which real and fake overlap. As children, we play to practice for real events later in life. Even as adults, we sometimes give life to inanimate objects for sentimental or other reasons. Then of course there are movies, books, and websites that give us virtual access to real things that we may or may not actually encounter later.

When I first arrived in the Caribbean and we went to the beach, I remarked that it was so unreal I couldn't appreciate it. If I had never seen pictures or movies depicting a tropical lanscape, perhaps my reaction would have been different. But I don't know, because we live in a world where virtual versions of nearly every experience exist.

Is there value in both the actual and artificial? Of course. So I think the question is where is the line? What things are okay to experience virtually and which ones do we need to live through for real? As a note to the universe, I'm fine continuing to appreciate the buzz of toy airplanes in a pretend war zone.

Like Water over Sharp Rocks

From Rock Series, acrylic and mixed media, 2008

I had a rock collection growing up. I kept it in a tin can under the stairs in our basement. None of my finds were geologically significant, though I thought they were. The most valuable rocks were the polished ones. Most of my polished rocks came from various souvenir stores--the stuff-as-many-as-you-can-into-a-little-black-bag kind. One of them I found in the creek behind our house. While it is very likely that this particular rock came from a souvenir stash upstream, I chose to believe it had been polished the hard way, over thousands of years, molecule by molecule.

For some reason, the rock I found in the creek meant more. It had the same surface quality as the others, but as in most aspects of life, there seems to be value in doing things the slow way.

Today I heard someone use the phrase "like water over sharp rocks" in describing changes that had taken place in her friend's life. I like that. Like water over sharp rocks, atoms of hydrogen over atoms of carbon, your rough edges and mine are being refined. Over time we will become the best versions of ourselves--still individual, unique, identifiable--but able to shine with a raidance only achieved by years of almost indiscernable changes.

By the way, my chamomile plants sprouted. As of the last ten minutes, there is no apparent growth.

Inability to Wait

For a class assignment last fall, I was supposed to grow a plant. It failed. Twice. So now that it's spring and I have some extra time, I decided to try again in an effort redeem my honor as a gardener and also to have something to do. I planted some seeds last saturday--chamomile and green beans. And they still haven't grown. I know the germination period is 6-8 days, but I thought nature would make an exception for me. I keep peeking out the window, trying not to let anyone know that I'm actually expecting anything from the containers of dirt on the porch. I check the soil moisture a few times each day and make sure it's getting the maximum amount of sunlight possible. But I still have to wait. And apparently I'm not very good at it.