Day 266, December 7, 2020

 Love and Strength

Today's soundtrack:VSOP 2 (Herbie Hancock, Wynton Marsalis, Branford Marsalis, Ron Carter, Tony Williams), Switzerland, 1983

First snow in Montague.

Sometimes a fire just burns out. It is strange when that happens, and in the morning you open the wood stove and there is the last 1/3 of a log that is all charred, and yet it retains structural integrity and lives to burn another day. It is odd that something can resist to the degree that it does not burn. It is a testament to a particular log's existence, or perhaps its tenacity for this world, or perhaps the strength of its memories.

There are people like that, I suppose. My grandfather lived to the startling age of 104. I think my mother said that he eventually just decided it was time to go, but up until the end, he was in relatively good health, and aside from a bruise on his shin that wouldn't seem to go away and a propensity for very long story telling, and his supernatural ability to nap almost anywhere, he was a healthy man. He had a life force. 

This morning I wrote about someone, who dwells on becoming food for the fishes, or carrion for the birds at the hand of a pirate or gun slinger (that's not really what the poem was about, it was more about what Bob Pura used to relay from his father's deathbed about spending more time with loved ones and eating more ice cream), and so there was a slight pall over the start of my day, even if the poem was really about the sunlight gleaming off the dishtowel clean glasses sitting on a bar counter. 

And then, at a late lunch, I continued my slow paging through the National Geographic issue focused on the pandemic. Inside are dispatches from various parts of the world, and they are as much testaments to the people left alive as they are tributes to the seminal figures in each location that have been lost. It is a nice ritual respite from computer and phone screens, to read a paper magazine while eating a peanut butter and honey sandwich. 

My extended family lost a member this past week. So, I suppose mortality has been on my mind. The living and the dying. How some of us survive, and others, succumb to other things, ailments of the stomach, accidental carbon monoxide poisoning, accidents, all the things that make this a dangerous world. And, of course, depression. 

The more we know about one another, the even greater absences we discover about our knowledge. We are, each as inscrutable as that log left in the wood stove at the end of the night. Nobody knows what troubles us, what keeps us awake late, or what rouses us before dawn in the morning. But, I suppose we can only know what we know. The people we think we know, exist as much as those parts of those same people that we do now know, or know only in part. To think, if I only knew how earnest that log's attachment to the physical world was, perhaps I would not have so blithely thrown it on the fire last night. 

But, I suppose it is this unknowing that also makes for such beautiful things. What would life be if it were not surprising? All the things people do who survive, who are still alive. 

It is so amazing to listen to Ron Carter... to watch all of these musicians, a truly incredible performance. It is so wonderful to watch and realize, nearly every one of them is still alive and not only created this performance, but many, countless other magical moments (sadly, Tony Williams did not survive). It is a hopeful thing to recognize this human capacity. Not that we are all world class jazz musicians, but there is the possibility of witnessing such moments, and participating in our mere mortal versions, whether that is on a bass, or wielding a pen, or something else. There are moments where we connect with other people, or other people witness something, a great presentation at a conference, a particularly good class, and it is a point in time that gives life meaning. 

It think, perhaps, for the man walking the plank, or standing a set of paces away from the gun fighter, or the man polishing glasses on the counter of a saloon, we all have to remember to recognize those moments of connection and beauty, those 1/16th notes that mark the experience of living. It is not enough that they happen, we need to also recognize and appreciate them. Because, why not? Why not create a life full of meaning? Even in isolation, a we are surrounded by beautiful things. 

Sending you love and strength,

Leo

This ornament looks suspiciously like COVID-19.

From Our Friends:

From the Five College Center for East Asian Studies:

Human and Physical Geography of East Asia Virtual seminar

Our traditional face-to-face introductory seminar is going online for spring 2021. This seminar is for K-12 classroom teachers who have never participated in a multi-week introductory seminar. 60-90 minute sessions plus recorded sessions on your own. Facilitated by Arlene Kowal. Feb-Apr. 2021. Open to New England teachers ONLY. Register here.

Asia for Educators (AFE) NCTA New Graphic Novel Book Groups for 2020-2021. Participation is free and Professional Development credit is available.

Grass by Keum Suk Gendry-Kim. Apr. 7-May 11, 2021. The term "comfort women" is widely used to refer to the victims of Japanese military sexual slavery. "Grass" is a powerful antiwar graphic novel, telling the life story of a Korean girl named Okseon Lee who was forced into sexual slavery for the Japanese Imperial Army during the Second World War ― a disputed chapter in twentieth-century Asian history. Beginning in Lee’s childhood, "Grass" shows the lead-up to the war from a child’s vulnerable perspective, detailing how one person experienced the Japanese occupation and the widespread suffering it entailed for ordinary Koreans. 4 Sessions; 8 PD Hours. Moderator: Karen Kane. Register Here.

From the National Suicide Prevention Hotline:

We can all help prevent suicide. The Lifeline provides 24/7, free and confidential support for people in distress, prevention and crisis resources for you or your loved ones, and best practices for professionals. 1-800-273-TALK (8255)