Blissful Ignorance

I was checking out an Internet news site the other day and the headline story was about a massacre in the Philippines - at least 46 people dead.  As I read, I tried to imagine living in a place where that sort of thing happened.  The article was well-written and descriptive, yet I don't think I can truly fathom that life.  The same thing happens to me when I read about war and hunger.  I can empathize but I doubt that I fully understand.  I've got a lot of the facts and I can guess at some of the emotions but I know there must be so much more that I don't know.  It's like listening to an astronaut describe weightlessness - you probably need to experience it.

As we go along, we experience new things and thus our understanding grows.  Before I had children, if I saw a young couple that was expecting a baby, I thought, "I'll bet they're excited." Now, I understand that "excited" only begins to describe the multitude of emotions that swirl around that event.  And I know having children has greatly enhanced my understanding of love and devotion.  I've also had some bad experiences, horrible experiences, that have deepend my understanding of pain and loss and fear.  I know that when I read an account of a parent losing a child, it likely strikes a different chord than it does with someone who has not suffered that loss.  Each of us has our own unique experiences and understanding that makes us who we are.  I think this uniqeness is often the cause of us inadvertently hurting one another - one person's funny is another person's offensive or insensitive.

As Thanksgiving approaches, I feel a little ashamed and selfish to admit that I'm grateful that I and the people I love don't fully understand living with war or hunger.  I pray that one day all the world will be so ignorant.

Book Snob

I wish I had more time for reading.  I really enjoy reading a good book.  It's not that I don't have any time for reading - I have a little.  But for me, having a little time is almost worse than having no time.  That little bit of reading time I have is precious and I don't want to waste it.  If I'm going to spend it with a book, it had better be worth it.  If I go to the effort of finding a space where the light is right and a time when the boys are quiet, and then the book is sub par, I will be annoyed.  I can often sense early on if I'm going to like a book or not.  Even if I don't , I usually read on, hoping things improve.  Even when I've given up hope of that, I read on, grateful when it is over.  The whole process puts me in a bit of a foul mood - both while I'm reading the book, and some time afterwards.  When I had more time for reading, I didn't feel this way.  The occasional crummy book was usually offset by numerous good ones.  The reading experience, as a whole, was above average.  I don't feel like I have that luxury right now.  Every book matters and it must be superb.

This need for high quality has left me reading less and less for fear of getting a "bad" one.  I tend to choose short books, reasoning that if they're bad, at least it will be over quickly.  I've found that even if I don't like a book, I'll usually finish it.  No one wants to be a quitter, and I've forced my way through some pretty terrible stuff.  Sometimes I have an imaginary dialog with the author as I read, complaining about the parts I find objectionable.  I should point out that when I say something was terrible, I mean I found it terrible.  Others may find it to be the best piece of literature ever.  Experts may disagree with me.  I speak only from my perspective.  I've found the imaginary dialog trick to be very helpful in getting through a book I dislike.  My expectations are different when I'm critiquing.  The fact that I'm thinking about the author at all shows just how poorly the book has drawn me in.  When I'm reading a book I enjoy, I'm too immersed in the characters or the plot to care about the author.

I was browsing the Internet recently, looking for a good book.  My wife knows I like to read and a book seems like the perfect Christmas gift for me.  It's true that January in Minnesota is a great time for reading.  So, I was surfing, hoping to find a "can't-miss" selection that I could put on my list.  Along the way, I came across a book recommendation site.  The site was built on the opinions of regular readers and seemed like it might be helpful.  It had an online interview format designed to guide you to the books you would most likely enjoy.  Unfortunately, I never got beyond the first question - what type of book do you enjoy?  The options given were things like Mystery or Science Fiction or Poetry.  It gave me pause.  I wasn't certain how to answer - some serious introspection was called for.  What kind of book do I enjoy?

I left the book recommendation web site and will likely not return.  I'm sure it has its usefulness, especially if you happen to be in the mood for a specific genre - sometimes I get that way with mysteries.  For me, though, I have different criteria.  I want the characters and plot to be interesting and believable.  I want imagery so descriptive and rich that I feel like I'm there, where ever there is.  I want subtle metaphors that enrich the story, not ones that merely show me how clever the author can be.  Give me a book with even some of these things and I'll likely enjoy it, regardless of genre.

Scaredy Car

I think it's pretty common for people to attribute human characteristics to non-human things.  I believe the term is anthropomorphism.  I also think that the more you use or spend time with a non-human object, the more likely you are to start regarding it as human-ish.  I sometimes do this with our computer - mostly when it is misbehaving.  I consider the coffee maker a friend, but I regard the toaster with suspicion.  I own a small screwdriver which I swear hides when I need it most.  My world is filled with objects that think and feel.

By far, the object which seems most alive to me is my car.  This is probably because we share so much.  On cold winter mornings my family is still snuggled in their warm beds as my car and I struggle to stay warm.  I rely on this beast to get me where I need to go and usually it doesn't let me down.

I think as cars have gotten more complex and automated it's only enhanced their "aliveness".  My car is a few years old now, and age has introduced a level of randomness which at times mimics free will.  For instance, I used to think my car was a snob and held too high an opinion of itself because it was constantly locking its doors - as if everyone was going to be tempted to steal it.  This was particularly annoying on cold winter mornings when the engine was warming up and I was outside the car, scraping the windows.  After finding myself locked out of car and home one morning, I began the practice of always leaving the driver's door slightly ajar when scraping windows.  Yes, I used to think my car was a snob but I don't any more.  I think even it can see that the miles have taken their toll.  Now I think it's more likely that my car is just a coward.  It feels most secure when everything is locked up tight.  The slightest sound or movement can make it nervous.  A squirrel rustling in the grass? LOCK! The wind blowing through the leaves? LOCK! I consider it my car's fetal position and it curls up at the drop of a hat.

I must admit that my attitude toward my car has changed.  Whereas I used to get annoyed, now I feel pity.  Where I used to berate, now I console.  It troubles me somewhat that my behavior and feelings could be influenced so strongly by my assumptions of the car's motivation.  Obviously, the car is neither a snob nor a coward.  It is just a car with a quirk or two.  Still, it makes me wonder.  If I can do this with my car, how often do I misread the real humans in my life?

Introvert

I am an introvert.  I've known this about myself for quite some time but only recently have I really embraced it.  I've also been called shy and quiet.  In certain situations, I can certainly be those things as well.  At my core, though, you will find an introvert.

I used to be a little ashamed of this characteristic of my personality.  I envied the extroverts I knew, easily mingling at a party, striking up conversations with strangers.  I don't do well at parties with large numbers of people.  Even if I know the people well, the experience usually leaves me feeling completely drained.  I've tried being more of a conversationalist and I've found that I am able to do it pretty well.  It's just so darn tiring - thinking of questions, thinking of answers, listening.  That listening thing is really tough.  I think many people spend more time thinking about what they're going to say next than they do actually listening to what's being said.  I think a lot of "conversations" are just a group of people talking with no one really listening.

One thing I do enjoy about parties is watching my wife work the room.  For her, conversations come easily.  As I feel myself tiring, I can see her looking refreshed - as a couple we demonstrate the law of conservation of energy.  What I lose, she gains.  I like watching my wife because she is a good listener.  She has a natural intuition for knowing where the other person wants or needs the conversation to go.  I'm constantly amazed at the things she knows about people.  Not necessarily sensational things - sometimes just the opposite.  She knows the mundane, the ordinary, the private and personal.  There's a simple reason why people share so much with her - she cares enough to ask.

I used to envy the extroverts, but I don't anymore.  I've noticed my wife fidgeting in a quiet, mostly empty room.  I know that she prefers to not spend time alone.  For her, the telephone was one of the greatest inventions of all time - a way to continue the conversations even when you're apart.  For me, the telephone is that thing in our house that usually won't get answered if she's not home.  I cherish time alone.  At lunch, a group from the office regularly go out together.  They've given up asking me along.  I prefer to spend my lunch time alone.  It recharges me for the afternoon.

So, yes, I am an introvert and perfectly happy with it.  I figured I'd tell you this way - it saves me having to share it in a conversation.

Process

Where does one find satisfaction, in the journey or the destination?  I think when I began my career, my focus was primarily on the end product.  Sure, I followed design procedures but they were just a means to the desired end.  Getting there was what mattered.  At least, that's how I used to feel.  Somewhere along the way, I started thinking about the steps I was taking to get to my goal.  I began to study each one, looking at whether it could be improved or eliminated.  Now, I find that I am much more interested in the process than the end product.  It's the process that, if it's a good one, lives on after the product is finished.

I like processes if they are good ones.  I enjoy trying to improve and refine existing processes when it makes sense.  I have little tolerance for what I believe to be an ineffective process and I will resist following it.  I recently met someone who is a dedicated process follower.  This person places adherence to the process above achievement of the end goal.  If the process has fourteen steps and occasionally the end goal is realized after step three, it doesn't matter.  Steps four through fourteen must still be followed.  This type of inefficiency makes me cringe.

This focus on process carries over to my personal life as well.  I enjoy doing sudoku puzzles but I'm less interested in finishing the puzzle than I am in understanding the specific techniques used along the way.  I'm happy (even a little smug) when I stumble upon an approach I hadn't used before.  It is at that point that I feel the most satisfaction.  Finishing the actual puzzle often becomes a bit tedious once a few key elements are solved.

It is good to be a process lover if you have children.  I can imagine my sons grown up but I would rather not have that day come too soon.  I prefer to immerse myself in the day to day, reveling in the tiny changes and how they come about.  When I do allow myself to step back, I am always amazed at how much they have changed in a short time.  I admit this realization leaves me feeling conflicted.  I am grateful, happy and proud that they are growing and changing but I'm also keenly aware that this portion of our journey together is fleeting and I will miss it when it is over.  In reality, our relationship has been evolving and maturing since the beginning and will hopefully continue to do so even when they're adults.  In some respects, this is a process that has no end.

Strange Dream

I don't usually remember my dreams.  I have a friend who has wild, fantastic dreams which he can recall clearly.  A group of us will often listen to his retelling and then give our best shot at interpretation.  Even on those occasions when I do recall a dream, it seems rather tame when compared to my friend's visions.  I wonder sometimes if I just don't remember the wild dreams or if I don't actually have wild dreams.  I'm not overly concerned about it one way or the other, but I wonder.

I bring up this talk of dreams because recently I have been having a dream which I can recall.  At least, I can recall a portion of it.  I'm frustrated because I often awake with the same snippet.  I feel like there must be more to the story but I'm not privy to it.  The parts I remember have rich detail and I'm really curious to know more.  But I don't even know for certain that there is more.  Anyway, I thought I'd share what I have in case there are any dream interpreters out there.

I'm in the desert.  There is sand everywhere and, occasionally, a large boulder or two.  Sometimes, I'm riding a horse.  Other times, I'm walking along side a horse.  Either way, I'm moving very slowly and I'm thirsty, parched even.  I can see something in the distance ahead of me.  It's too far off to tell what it is but I assume it's another boulder.  As I approach, I began to sense movement from the shape.  Even though I am squinting in the bright sun, I can also begin to discern color - white and red.  I get close enough to make out a boy, dressed in white.  He has his back to me and is kneeling next to an overturned, weathered rowboat, half buried in the sand.  The boy has a paintbrush and is busily painting the exposed parts of the boat bright red.  I expect the boy will turn when he hears my horse but he continues to paint.  Finally, I'm passing right next to the boy, my shadow falls across him onto the boat.  Still, he ignores me.  I consider moving along, but the boat reminds me of how dry I am.  I ask him if there is water nearby.  The boy looks up at me and shakes his head.  Next, I ask him why he is painting the boat.  He tells me he is getting it ready in case it rains.  The boy is very serious as he tells me this and I get the sense that I have some control over whether it rains or not.  I also get the feeling that the rain would not be a good thing but more like a purging flood.  I nod to the boy and continue on my way.

I sure wish I knew what happened next.

My Dead Laptop

Our laptop died a couple of weeks ago.  No one in the household was particularly surprised by this occurrence, the laptop had been showing warning signs for months.  In some respects, it was almost a relief when it finally croaked - no more wondering when it was going to happen.  I quickly set it aside and purchased a small netbook as a replacement.

I bought the laptop almost exactly three years ago.  It went back to its manufacturer once as part of a recall although I'm not convinced anyone actually repaired anything on it.  Almost a year ago, it began having difficulty powering up.  I prematurely declared it dead at the time, but by trial and error I learned how to get it to start (press the power button, wait 15 seconds, hold the power button down - when the lights go out, release the power button and wait 1 full second, then press the power button again).  This trick no longer works.  I suppose there might be a new sequence that would make it start, but I'm just sick of dealing with it.

Before I bought the laptop, I spent a considerable amount of time researching.  Early on, I zeroed in on this particular model.  It had more than ample computing power, the price was high but not exorbitant and it was from a reputable manufacturer.  I was comforted by the fact that it was the same brand as our trusty desktop computer and much of our other equipment.  When I found it on sale, I made the plunge.  For me, this was a big step.  I'd always shied away from laptops before - they seem far less flexible than desktop units, where you can easily swap out faulty or outdated parts.  Still, I was willing to sacrifice flexibility for mobility.  I imagined myself, sitting at the neighborhood coffee shop, computing.

The truth is, even when the laptop worked, I rarely took it to any coffee shops.  I just don't have that kind of free time.  Plus, it was such a power hog you really needed to be near an outlet at all times.  The laptop spent most of its existence tethered to its power cord and external mouse.  It was still convenient, since a desktop computer would not have fit on the desk off the kitchen.  It was the preferred computer in the house, if only because of its location.

It turns out that, despite its brand, this particular model of laptop is infamous for its reliability problems.  These issues had not yet come to light at the time I purchased ours.  I've perused countless forums where others describe experiences similar to mine.  Someone started a petition to bring a class action suit.  I don't think I'm interested in that, I'd rather move on.  I'll lodge my protest privately by never buying that particular brand again.  I do have one last act planned for my dead laptop.  The day after I declared its demise, I came across a web site where a fellow describes how to possibly repair the problem with this laptop.  He cautions that it doesn't work for everyone and it should only be tried if you've given up all other hope.  I think I'm there.  The process involves taking the thing apart and I'm already pretty sure I won't be able to get it back together again.  Still, I think the process may prove to be cathartic, so I'll give it a shot.

Last Saturday, we were at Costco buying some groceries.  As we passed by the electronics area, I noticed a netbook on display.  I grabbed a voucher so we could pick one up at the checkout.  I think we put more thought into what kind of yogurt to buy.  So much for research.

Tubby

I have fallen off the exercise wagon.  When the weather got colder and the mornings got darker in early October, I just stopped going to the gym.  For a while, I continued to pack the gym bag and set the alarm.  An early morning workout made perfect sense as I crawled into bed around 11 o'clock.  It seemed less perfect when the alarm went off at 4:15 the next morning.  It was cold and dark outside and I was warm and sleepy.  I think I am my most creative when I am lying in bed coming up with reasons why I should go back to sleep and skip the gym - just this one time.  Sadly, once became twice and before I knew it, October was gone and I'd only been to the gym once.  That one time was near the end of the month and my level of fitness had noticeably deteriorated.  I was huffing and puffing on the treadmill, painfully aware of a new "jiggle" in my midsection.  Luckily for me, we've entered sweater season.  I'm sure no one is aware of my added girth.

Raking

I'm not a very date-focused person.  To me, each day seems new and unique from all its predecessors.  I do not automatically attach extra significance to days because they happen to be anniversaries of past events.  Even big dates, like 9/11, would probably slip past me if the media didn't remind me.  I do make an extra effort to remember certain special dates like the day I got married, or my wife's birthday.  The kids usually start talking about their birthdays about six months in advance, so there's no problem remembering them either.

Tomorrow is a significant date for our family.  It's the birthday of our first child.  I say first and not oldest, since he died as a baby and is forever fixed at that age in my mind.  My wife is the one who mentioned that his birthday was on Tuesday.  She remembers dates and events.  Even before she mentioned it, I was aware the date was near.  I was raking leaves yesterday.  Every year, when I rake the front yard, I remember back to doing the same thing a couple of days before he was born.  I remember getting home from work and thinking I should clean up the yard - one more task to get out of the way before the baby came.  My wife was still at work so I carried our cell phone with me as I worked - just in case.  We'd gotten the cell phone earlier in the fall, our first one.  Back in 1996, cell phones were not the sleek items they are now.  It was kind of like raking with a brick in my pocket.  Still, I didn't mind.  My mind was focused too far into the future to be bothered by something in the present.

As I raked yesterday, I recalled all those feelings of anticipation and joy.  Our yard has changed over the years.  We've lost and replaced a maple and added a crab apple.  We have far fewer leaves.  Still, the feeling remains.  I suppose if I allowed myself, I could dwell on the events that took place after my son's birth.  I could focus on the feelings of fear, anger and finally grief.  But, I don't allow myself to go there.  My son's life was brief but there were moments of joy and laughter and hope.  On his birthday, that's what I'll remember.  The other feelings have their own date.