The End of a Matter

A verse in the Bible declares that the end of a matter is more beautiful than its beginning.  For quite a while, I have known that my project of blogging would conclude after six months rather than the initial goal of a year.  The six months are now complete from April 15, 2010, to October 15, 2010—but my regular readers will know that I have cheated a little, especially recently, to artificially reset the posting dates of a few entries.  My decision is based on a need to re-channel my energy toward more pressing concerns—most obviously, to becoming healthier and to continue steady work on my book manuscript.  The demands of work also press insistently, so much so that finding the 20 minutes daily that this blog requires is sometimes pretty hard.  But blogging has been a lot of fun.  Not only that, I have been able through Century Hypothesis to clarify some of my own shortcut beliefs and practices that help me from day to day.  I hope these have been entertaining to readers, mostly family, though I am quite certain that I did not gain 100% agreement.  I'm much more confident of 100% love and, I hope, respect—which is what I really want.  So, what is the title Century Hypothesis about?  It's a point of view about human potential, about what you and I can accomplish.  We too often wrongly assume that a high level of achievement, goodness, or character requires an investment of time and effort that's beyond us.  But the number 100, such a round and beautiful number, is within reach.  A modest and conceivable number of 100 tries can take us quite far.  This is post 184 of Century Hypothesis, for example—substantial but not heroic.  To invest 100 times in anything is not asking too much.  The path from try #1 to #100 is long but achievable.  As of this final post, I still hold the Century Hypothesis as tenable: that a century (100) of tries is within every person's grasp, and that the hindsight view can be breathtaking.

Ice Maker

In 1978, the year we got married, some high-end refrigerators were equipped with automatic ice makers, but we didn't have one.  For the first 32 years of marriage we had to fill plastic trays, stack them in the freezer, and flex the ice out whenever we wanted an extra cold drink.  Those ice trays deteriorated over the years, though, which had consequences.  When you filled the trays, the water leaked through the cracks in the plastic ridges separating the cube wells.  That was okay when you filled the trays but it left a drip trail when you carried the trays back to the freezer.  All this means that today was a game changer.  We moved our old refrigerator out to the garage and replaced it with a stainless-steel Kitchenaid we bought from a neighbor.  The appliance guys hooked it up to the water spigot on the wall behind.  Just a few minutes later we heard a strange new sound sequence—grinding followed by a mini-crash of ice.  Now is that cool or what?

Emotional Thermodynamics

With cars, energy flow is a pretty simple matter.  Generally, the more you drive the car the more energy it consumes.  This basic model is complicated a little by hybrid vehicles.  With a hybrid's capacity for charging a large storage battery, a car can actually have more stored energy after it descends a hill.  Still, the basic model holds: when you drive a car it usually consumes more and more energy.  Humans are different, especially when you consider emotional energy.  On personality factors, people differ on whether they are introverts or extraverts.  Extraverts prefer being around people and find the presence of others to be energizing.  Energy flow works oppositely for introverts: Being around other people may provide pleasure but it involves a net energy loss.  Of course, the specific people whose company we keep influence the direction of energy flow—some drain energy away, so much so that several hours can deplete reserves and set us up for a nice long nap.  Other people are restorative; their company yields a net energy gain; we feel stronger and healthier as a consequence of time together.  Not just people, but also activities and places can pull energy away or add it back.  I doubt that physicists will ever try to construct a theory of emotional dynamics; no doubt it's the job of psychologists anyway.  But even without a general theory of emotional energy, it's probably a good idea to try to understand our own personal laws of thermodynamics.

Columbus Day

Even a quick scan of Wikipedia shows that Columbus Day is widely controversial.  It's been renamed "Indigenous People's Day" in some parts of South America, for example.  The status of Columbus Day is a little ambiguous as a national holiday in the U.S., and it's not even recognized in every state.  The reasons are pretty clear: An honest appraisal of the acts of Columbus and other European explorers that were presented as heroic in my school history books are wrong or at least seriously incomplete.  Columbus, Cortez, and others were exploiters who often acted with reckless cruelty to an extent that seems hard to imagine.  A second reason is that the character of Columbus himself seems to be anything but heroic—he must have been brave and visionary, but was apparently an unrestrained and egotistical self-promoter.  I admit that historical revisionism makes me dizzy.  Part of the reason for the vertigo is that when the old propaganda is replaced by a new version of the truth, there is an obvious basis for questioning the new view.  Is what's new really true, or is it likewise tainted with subjectivity that serves the agenda of a replacement ideology?  When the ideological winds shift, aren't we tempted to entertain radical relativism—that it's all a matter of interpretation?  Such a leap must be incorrect, but the flow of ideas seems to sweep us toward such conclusions.  Finding a solid basis for interpreting history takes hard work.  Giving up on myths and accepting new views hedged by uncertainty is unsettling, but it's all in the service of critical thinking, of growing up, and of becoming more honestly educated.

Magnificent Monocots

When I took botany at UC Davis I learned the difference between monocots and dicots.  Now it's been some time, but what I remember is that dicots have two "seed leaves" when they sprout.  More significant, dicots develop the capacity for secondary growth, which allows for the widening of tree trunks.  Monocots, such as grasses, have a single seed leaf when they sprout and don't have the capacity for secondary growth.  This means that they can grow taller but not wider; all their growth is at the end.  Monocots and dicots therefore look different.  What's funny, though, is that monocots can grow really big in one well-known instance, palm trees.  When you look at the profile of a palm tree, it usually has a distinctive grasslike quality with a long and slender trunk.  Palm trees normally don't grow wide—well, some do, actually, which means that the defining quality of "no secondary growth" isn't strictly true.  (Here, I'm trying to fake that I'm a botanist.)  Anyway, palm trees are botanically special because phylogenetically they are pretty different from most other trees.  They're special aesthetically, too.  Their long thin trunks and spray of top fronds are emblematic of a tropical paradise.  In their many varieties, palm trees grace Fiji and Southern California, though not so much our old Bay Area stomping grounds.  That's okay, the Bay Area has its own lovely flora.  But I'm glad that so many specimens of those fancy monocots line the boulevards of the Southland.

Oil Painting

How can a rectangle with two "legs" signify oil painting?  It can.  We capped off a nice weekend with Bob and Kiely by playing Pictionary.  I drew for Stephanie, my teammate, and on the basis of the most rudimentary sketch she was able to get oil painting immediately.  That such great accuracy of communication can come from such inadequate clues makes me think that something else is going on—that maybe our brains are synchronized by electromagnetic waves or other signals not yet discovered by science.  We did pretty well with other sketches, too: blob, train track, and forty winks.  Kiely wasn't surprised at our good Pictionary performance this evening; to her it seemed natural that 30 plus years of marriage should pay off in this way.  I'm sure we gain skill in reading each other.  Sometimes I worry that I wear my thoughts and feelings on my sleeve while at work, but feedback tells me that this is not the case most of the time.  People tune in who know us well.  For me, that's unquestionably my wife and daughters who can read me with scary accuracy.  Can't I keep a secret?  Sometimes I think that they know what I'm thinking before I do.  Amy and Hilly, especially, think that's pretty funny.  It is funny, I admit, but it worries me, too.

The LJC Seminar

Last Thursday, my friend Sam Wineburg was recognized as the new Margaret Jacks Professor of Education at Stanford.  Sam and I discussed his speech prior to the event and yesterday sent me a copy.  In the speech he recalls the key events of his graduate experience at Stanford—or rather the key professors who transformed (and my) thinking.  One experience involved the recruitment of a retired and renowned professor of educational psychology, Lee J. Cronbach, to meet with six of us Ph.D. students weekly to discuss works of Dewey, Montessouri, Froebel, and Rousseau.  Sam's point is that the Cronbach seminar, though not part of our formal program of study, was incredibly formative.  I don't think we really knew it at the time.  In fact, the larger significance of the Cronbach seminar is that as we move through life we may have only a dim sense of the people and events that will ultimately form our biographical milestones.  The classic example is misjudging the events in our child's life, seeing their importance only in retrospect.  I believe and hope that most of us have wised up to the fleeting nature of life, and to the danger of treating daily things as mundane throwaways.  Wisdom must mean, in part, the ability to see the significance of people and events in the moment so that we can be alert and participate fully.

$300 a Plate

We're going to a fancy ("fonn-see") dinner tonight.  It's a fundraiser for the MIND Research Institute, a local nonprofit that produces a large array of computer-based games that teach students fundamental math concepts, such as ratios, proportionality, and basic number functions.  The software, called ST Math, is in about 75 schools in Orange County and several hundred schools around the country.  Annually, they hold an "awards dinner" that raises several hundred thousand dollars in an evening, as well as recognizes teachers and students who advance the MIND mission.  I have been affiliated with MIND for more than 10 years and am lead investigator in a multi-million dollar grant that has MIND as subcontractor, and so Stephanie and I have been attending the awards dinner for many years.  Our tickets are normally comped, which is the only way we could attend.  This year, though, UCI has ante upped the standard $300 for four seats.  Comedian Brian Regan likes to comment on the absurdity of such fund raising events. He is is quite sure no dinner is worth $300 or $1000 or $3000.  If he did attend, then out of principle he would have to send his dinner back to the kitchen for an upgrade.  His explanation to the wait staff: "Oh, don't get me wrong, it's good.  It's just not that good!"

Caught in the Web

The multimedia/hyperlinked system known as the worldwide web is called a web for a reason: Everything is connected to everything.  Because knowledge can be accessed in multiple modes and instantaneously, the experience of navigating the web is not unlike searching our own long-term memories.  "What is that person's name?"  "When did that even occur?"  When is the next solar eclipse?"  You can go on forever.  If we think we actually know the answer we can scan our long-term memories as human beings have done for millennia.  But if we think that the answer is "out there" in cyberspace we can scan the collective world-wide memory of the internet.  The resources of the web can turbocharge long-term memory, acting as a prosthetic to amplify its power as a telescope or microscope can amplify what eyeballs can do on their own, or as a backhoe can magnify the earth-moving capability of a man.  But does "web" connote only connectedness?  Other webs—non-metaphorical ones—function not only to relay information but also to trap and hold prey.  A spider becomes aware of a trapped insect by means of vibrations transmitted through the strands of its web, but this would be irrelevant if the web were not super-sticky and seductive, producing unwarranted complacency until it's too late.  The meanings of web are pretty distinct: communications relay and deadly trap.  But the electronic web we know and love obviously refers to the first meaning, right?  Right?

People Say Stuff

It happened this evening that a few words came out of someone's mouth that, once aired, changed things in a pretty significant way.  Words are sometimes said without a plan in a moment of emotional lightness followed by a giggle.  Even when shocked, we adults are practiced at cringing internally, careful not to grimace, show obvious surprise, intake air sharply, or lock eyes at the wrong time.  "Everything's cool" is what we want to communicate in body language, though everyone knows something just clicked over into un-coolness.  The  casual words uncorked can never be siphoned back into the bottle of a mere idea.  They are now in the public space, consumed.  Words have consequences, though in the moments just after they are spoken it's often radically unclear where they will take things.  That's part of the horror or fun of it, depending on your perspective.  It's best not to worry; things will probably work out.  But those unanticipated words . . . they do have a jarring effect.  I suppose it's in the nature of being human that, at any time, someone will say something in someone's presence that perhaps would have best been thought, not broadcast.  But people, being human and all, say stuff.

Ten Years at CHOC

Today, Stephanie was honored along with a goodly number of employees for longevity of service to CHOC Children's Hospital.  She was recognized with a nice luncheon with nurses and other staff whose tenure at CHOC ranged from 30 years to 5.  I told Steph I was proud that she had affiliated with such a good organization for a decade.  She said she was glad, too, remarking that CHOC is a good place to work, though imperfect as any organization inevitably is.  Still, to be part of an institution that prizes excellence and to contribute to its mission is an honor.  I've written enough about my connection to UCI for readers to know that I feel privileged to be on the faculty—though the specific experiences of any one day, be they bureaucratic red tape or a frustrating run-in, can make me fantasize about lying in a hammock long-term with a cool drink in hand.  But today is about my spouse: Hats off to Stephanie Rider Martinez, R.N.  On many mornings, just before she drives off to work, I often call out, "Make the babies healthier."  She typically answers, "I'll try."  She has, she does, and she will.

Coral Reef

The first time I saw a coral reef up close was during a business trip to Miami Beach, circa 1988.  After presenting my paper at a conference, Stephanie and I drove down to the Florida Keys.  On Key Largo is John Pennekamp State Park, which is significant exactly because it has sections of tropical coral and associated fish life.  On a whim, we signed up for a snorkeling trip, which involved taking a boat several miles offshore to a shallow stretch of coral.  The reef site is subtropical, just two degrees above the Tropic of Cancer, but close enough to the equator to host barracuda, parrotfish, and Nemo-like clownfish. One good sign: The dive guys found a wetsuit that could accommodate Stephanie's girth, which was augmented by in-utero Amy who was exploring her own aquatic environment at the time.  The thing to note about this snorkeling trip it that it had absolutely no precedent in our experience. The beauty of the tropical reef was fully breathtaking, displaying an intensity of color and a variety of pulsating life that neither of us had ever experienced.  Since this snorkeling trip, all members of our family have learned to scuba dive in Fiji, which boasts world class tropical reefs.  I have often wondered what percentage of the human population has been given a glimpse of the incredible beauty of a coral reef.  I have to believe it's far less than one percent.  The estimate is vaguely sad.  This grand earth offers beauty in many forms, but few compare to the splendorous life that teems around tropical coral.

Concentration and Repetition

Al Attles was coach of the Golden State Warriors back in the 60s and 70s.  In those days, the Warriors used to practice down at the San Bruno Rec Center, where I spent much of my sweaty youth on weekends and in the summer.  One day, I suppose as community payback, Coach Attles held a small workshop on free throw shooting.  The Warriors demonstrated their unbelievable accuracy at the free throw line while their coach enunciated two principles, concentration and repetition.  The repetition idea was pretty easy; it was about mechanical consistency in reproducing the same sequence of muscle articulation. Basically, what players needed to do was to minimize variation from shot to shot; as long as the mechanics were consistent, the muscles, nerves, and brain could get the job done.  The underhand granny shot by Rick Barry was a great example of the principle because its mechanics were totally different than the way 99 percent of other players shot free throws.  Concentration was the Al Attles principle of keeping the mind focused.  It meant not just trying the make the ball go in, but something more definite, such as getting the ball to strike the rim on the center of its back arc.  Concentration and repetition have stuck with me all these years.  I learned them all just a block away from my home, but these two ideas have traveled with me over many, many miles.

Get On The Bus!

As every good cognitive psychologist knows, heuristics are rules of thumb that provide guidance when you don't know what to do—that is, when you are engaged in problem solving.  Good heuristics don't always lead to the best decision, but they can tilt the odds in your favor.  One of my heuristics is (ready?): "Get on the bus."  It's not exactly original.  I read similar advice from some author some time ago in some book.  His version was "Get on the airplane."  By this he meant that on those occasions when he wavered about whether or not to go on a trip, whenever he decided to go he found that the destination yielded surprising experiences—experiences that caused him to think, learn, and grow.  I can affirm that insight.  My version is worded slightly differently because it incorporates a line from the 60s-era Saturday morning show, The Banana Splits.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8zw0P8jAGlA&feature=related
Fleegle, Bingo, Drooper, and Snorky like to yell (inexplicably), "Hold the bus!", which I am also quite fond of saying.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tI1zHc3P1GA
Okay, bottom line: Travel expands our ideas and perspectives so, if at all possible, get on the bus!  Wavering?  Go for it!

The New Heart Disease

I like the phrase, "Cancer is the new heart disease," which I heard just a week ago from James Lajiness.  The reason I like the phrase, or maybe the rallying cry, is that I perceive a shift in media attention to research on fighting and curing cancer.  For decades, a lot of research funding and public support has gone to finding the causes and cures of heart disease.  Deservedly so: Heart disease was widely known to be the most common cause of premature death.  A combination of pharmaceutical developments, surgical treatments, and public education campaigns around the benefits of exercise and nutrition seems to have done a lot a good in extending life.  Yet I know from personal experience and from seeing the devastation among people I love that cancer is a terrible foe worthy of every fight we can put up.  The scientific community, Mr. Lajiness among them, will make great advances against cancer during the next 10 to 15 years, I firmly believe.  The thought makes me happy.  The disease is tough, though, because it uses genetic fancy dancing like antibiotic resistant bacteria (which Mr. Bob James can tell you about).  So a word to those brilliant young chemists down at Scripps: Gentleman, keep the hood vacuum turned on and the bunsen burner glowing hot . . . but don't forget the lady-folk.

Newsboys

In early summer, the Newsboys album Born Again opened at number four on the Billboard 200, and I understand why.  The band exudes amazing energy, sincerity, and solid musicality.  Tonight our church was the venue for a really fantastic concert, one that encouraged me when when I needed uplifting.  We had great seats; at just a few rows back we could see the facial expressions of the band as they performed.  The evening was at times raucous and at other times reverent, and often an exquisite mixture of the two.  We sat up close with our friends Tom and Nancy Asnon following dinner at Islands (their kind and unexpected treat).  What a fine evening.  I knew it would be good; I just didn't know how good.

Laughing Under the Maneaba

In 1995, I spent one of the most unusual nights of my life during a trip to the remote Kiribati Islands of the Pacific.  Kiribati (pronounced something like "kiddie-boss") is the Micronesian "corruption" of the old colonial name Gilbert and Ellis Islands.  I was on the Tarawa atoll, which is a vast ring of coral that encloses an enormous lagoon.  The islands of the atoll are so shallow that the highest point is no more than a few feet above sea level.  A very large wave—say driven by a cyclone or a real tsunami—could wash across all land, which I believe happens from time to time.  Tarawa, one of the main islands on the atoll chain enclosing the lagoon, was the site of one of the most horrific battles of World War II.  William Manchester vividly describes US marines being cut down by the Japanese as they tried to wade ashore holding their weapons high.  But I was the only American around when the people of Kiribati hosted me one evening after I presented inservice training for government workers on program evaluation.  After work, they gathered under an open-sided shelter, a maneaba, where they drank (beer I think) and told stories, or I should say jokes, which were mostly PG-13 or R, and that in mixed company.  But what I noticed most was the steadfast group resolve to laugh long and hard into the night in the middle of the vast Pacific.  We laughed together under the maneaba as the wind swished the palm trees in the inky air and the warm waters of the lagoon splashed gently on the inner shore.

A Capable Collection

There is something incredibly energizing about a group of doctoral students who commit their energies to a common project.  In my 18 years at UCI, I've never before experienced such intense collective energy as I have this year.  We have just matriculated our fourth cohort of Ph.D. students into our department's program.  Now, when I call a meeting, something like ten folks join in, including a mixture of doctoral students, professors, and other education staff.  It's incredibly exciting stuff.  Down through the centuries, no doubt harking back to Plato's Academy in Athens, collections of bright minds gather to think good thoughts—ideally, more than that, to make a difference in the world!  When we were at Cambridge a year ago, the University was celebrating its 800th anniversary.  They knew how to keep a good thing going.  I am very fortunate to work at what's regarded as a research university committed to training the next generation of scholars.  It's funny, in a way, that I came to UCI though no specific plan.  But I am very grateful to have landed here.

Scorcher

The day was not only hot, it was a record breaker.  When Steph told me that LA had reached record temperatures, I was pretty sure that the record was for September 27.  With record-keeping going back to 1877, that would be impressive enough.  But records were smashed not just for the calendar day, but for all time.  LA reached 113 degrees, which was hotter than the Inland Empire (Riverside, etc.).  Why should LA be hotter with its closer proximity to the ocean?  I speculated that it might have to do with all the concrete in LA, but maybe it was just that the air conditioners were pumping the inside hot air to the outdoors.  In any case, Irvine was hot, too.  In fact, a major power outage hit several hundred homes in University Hills, but not ours.  Strange that the power failure followed a major upgrade of electrical relay systems this summer all over Uni Hills.  On a hot, hot day, a little irony is kinda cool.

On the Ring Mall

After an evening potluck with the Mariners prayer team, Stephanie and returned to a hot home.  It's almost October, and the temperature inside our house was 79 degrees when I flipped on AC.  What better to do on  hot night than to go for a walk?—which was Steph's idea but I went too.  We strolled the wide circular pathway that forms the basic structure of UCI's campus—a 60's-era rejection of the classic quad in favor a different organizing principle.  It's the campus Ring Mall, exactly one mile in length.  I walked more slowly than I think Stephanie would have, but she spent her excess energy doing arm circles and maybe a few cartwheels (I can't remember).  I talked most of the time, but not to her.  I had my mom on the cell phone and we caught up as we often do on Sundays, speaking of good things and things needing prayer.  We hung up when we were three-quarters around the Ring Mall.  It was a good conversation on a good walk on a good night. On this warm Sunday evening, I feel more peace than perhaps circumstances might warrant.  I feel more hope and joy, too.  Such things defy explanation, but it's possible to accept them anyway, like gifts unearned.  They are pure grace.

A Fine Saturday

As Saturdays go, this one was fine.  My main events: (a) writing at Peet's for an hour or so, (b) reading at home, (c) roast beef sandwich with chip and salsa, (d) exercise at the ARC (e) sweep, mow, and rake the backyard, (e) evening service at Mariners (f) dinner and dessert with Steph, Amy, and James.   This agenda leaves out many interesting particulars, but it does give the layout of a very good day.  Now, as I type, I can hear the popping of the Disneyland fireworks over in Anaheim, which tells me it's around 9:45—time to settle in with my Clive Cussler novel for as long as I can keep my eyes open.

Already But Not Yet

When Jesus preached the Kingdom of Heaven, he was very clear that the Kingdom was near.  The nearness of God's Kingdom is a topic that, to me, is about as interesting as any element of Christian doctrine.  The idea seems to be pursued now with a lot of enthusiasm by theologians and lay people alike.  As I understand the concept, God's Kingdom is anywhere His Kingship is honored.  When goodness overtakes evil, when kindness conquers cruelty, when health wins out over disease, then the King reigns.  In ways that are hard to reduce to rules, we see the Kingdom advancing in our experience, and when that happens, then in one sense Heaven has begun to appear among us.  It is a foretaste, an appetizer, of what will someday be complete and unbroken.  God's Kingdom is already, but not yet—present and coming at that same time.  This is quite different from the view that draws a hard line between the present world and the next.  I love to think of God's Kingdom advancing now in our own experience.  I wish I knew how to advance if further, faster, and with more power.  Maybe we plead for more when we say, Maranatha!  Come Lord Jesus!  It's not only a longing for a cataclysmic and final return, but a radical advancement of the Kingdom today and right now.  We certainly need it.

Smiling

Another Los Banos High student, Richie, taught me to smile wantonly.  Richie sure knew how to smile—it was part of him, a habit.  Maybe we should all smile more.  It can be risky, though: The smile might not be returned or it might be misinterpreted.  What I learned from Richie is that it's worth the risk, and if a smile is not returned it's easy enough to move on.  Smiling runs counter to cool detachment.  Those who try to project "cool" believe, or just want to communicate, "I don't need you."  Cool detachment has a family resemblance to arrogance, and maybe to self-protection.  Yet even the cooly detached sometimes smile back, and quickly.  Human perception is amazingly fast at detecting and responding to smiles.  Try to notice how fast another person can detect and return a smile—I'm sure it's far less than a second.  Smiling is such a simple and beneficial practice, but it has few masters.  That's too bad, because an easy smile can really spread the joy liberally.  There is yet another benefit to smiling, and this one is counterintuitive.  Psychologists have learned that artificially making any facial expression can produce the counterpart emotion.  Frown long enough, and you will begin to feel sad or angry.  Keep smiling and soon you'll figure out why.

Eye Contact

A long time ago, when I was a science teacher, I learned something important about group communication.  Lori was a student in my physics class.  She had an amazing capacity for paying attention—or at least it looked like she was paying attention.  She had a way of maintaining eye contact that told me that even if other students were off task or bored, at least one student was constantly tuned in.  This left quite an impression.  It wasn't as if Lori's expression was particularly one of enjoyment or fascination.  It was just the predictable return of focused gaze that told me she was tuned in.  At the time I found this to be surprisingly reassuring, and I have since come to believe that it is so for other speakers or instructors.  What makes this doubly important is that so many people are really poor at maintaining eye contact, especially in a group setting.  Check it out sometime.  At a meeting of more than just a few people, look around the room and notice how many people are looking anywhere but at the speaker.  Most!  I have also noticed that when I give the speaker my attention by maintaining eye contact, I often find the person speaking directly at me.  Sometimes the direct address can become so disquieting that I need to look away.  All these experiences tell me that effective listening is not just a one-on-one communication skill.  In larger groups, try giving the speaker your attention as signaled by steady eye contact and see how it changes things.

Micro-Forks

I made a decision tonight.  It wasn't very significant, really, but it was a difficult call just the same.  I had a clear idea of what I wanted to do, but the wise and prudent thing to do was different.  It's not always this way, thankfully.  Sometimes the thing we want to do is perfectly fine.  Tonight, though, my wish and my "better judgment" were distinct.  I went with "better judgment" this time (but I don't always).  Now I'm happy about the choice.  It seems to me that we face these tiny dilemmas often—several times a day, maybe.  Perhaps we confront forks in the road—maybe mini-forks or even micro-forks—hundreds of times a day, passing through most with little awareness.  They add up, though.  I have a friend, Rodger, who over breakfast years ago philosophized that each of us necessarily makes good decisions and bad decisions every day  He said the key thing was not to fear making a bad decision, but to strive to make more good decisions than bad ones.  I believe it.  Big decisions often loom large in our own stories, the mental autobiographies that we write and rewrite for our own consumption.  No doubt some decisions are biggies.  But what may have cumulative greater force in our lives is the sum of the thousands and thousands of little decisions.  They have more power than we know to make us who we are.

Edge of Chaos

People differ quite a bit in how much order they need in their lives.  Along a continuum from neat/tidy/planned/predictable to scruffy/jumbled/improvised/random, most of us can locate a personal comfort zone.  Order is good; at a certain level it conveys safety and security.  But a case can be made for keeping life a little chaotic.  To see why, think about two extremes: (1) total order, such as you could simulate by stacking 1000 sugar cubes 10 rows wide, 10 columns deep, and 10 levels high, and (2), total randomness, as you could arrange by dissolving those 1000 cubes in a big pot of hot water.  Neither extreme is particularly interesting because neither shows much complexity—not, say, like gluing those 1000 cubes into the form of a space shuttle or the Lincoln Memorial.  The biological processes supporting life itself also exhibit orderliness and fluidity—or, rather, find a sweet spot that has elements of both.  Perhaps all beautiful things steer clear of both excessive structure and randomness.  As we go about living, working, planning, praying, and relating to our fellow human beings, perhaps we need to change it up a little, rejecting both mindless ruts and dissipating the day with empty pursuits.  Life might be most exciting, most affirmed, when we test the edges.

540 Miles

We've done the straight shot from Tahoe to Irvine, or the reverse, a couple of times.  It makes for a long day.  This is not too impressive, though, compared to the feats of our friends Wayne and Karen Brown.  They give presentations on marine biology—sharks, manatees, and coral reefs—at schools and libraries all over the country.  A nonstop drive from Irvine to Chicago, or from Oklahoma City back home, is no biggie.  Okay, we are wimps.  We rolled into the driveway at around 10 pm and unpacked.  Now all the food is put away, the washing machine is going, and the newspapers are cleared from our front porch.  Though this vacation was outstanding, I have to say it's good to be home.  Isn't that a great pairing?  Good to go away; good to be back.  Wishing all a wonderful week—maybe with a pleasant surprise thrown in.  Watch for it.

A Bump in the Road

Today I took on my most ambitious activity this week—a mountain bike ride with a former UCI student, Dianna Townsend, now a professor at the University of Nevada, Reno.  Stephanie had demurred from riding to allow her broken toe to heal completely.  Stephanie and I met Dianna, her husband Tyler, and their three-month-old son, Wyatt, at the summit of the Mt. Rose Highway around 10 this morning.  Dianna and I took off for a 14 mile trek on the impossibly scenic Tahoe Rim Trail.  Meanwhile, Tyler loaded Wyatt into a front pack and, with his two dogs, set to hiking.  Stephanie, camera in hand, explored the summit area and later drove down to Incline to have a look around.  We agreed to meet up three hours later at a trailhead south of Incline.  Much of the Tahoe Rim Trail had been "technical," requiring careful tracking between boulders and down natural rock steps.  We were on the downhill easy stretch when my front tire caught something and I went over my handlebars, landing on my bike helmet.  Within a fraction of a second my right shoulder and left knee caught some pretty good friction with the trail.  Thankfully, there were no broken or dislocated bones.  Within a few minutes we met Tyler, Wyatt, and Stephanie who were parked and waiting.  Dianna and I were tired and dusty, and I had some pretty impressive scrapes to mingle with the dust and sweat.  Loading up our gear, we caravanned into town for tacos and pulled pork sandwiches.  It was, all in all, a mighty fine day.

Entering a New Space

Before I woke up this morning, Stephanie had taken 115 pictures on her camera.  Not that I got up especially late; she was already down on the lake shore before the sun peeked above Tahoe's eastern ridge.  I viewed the pictures after breakfast.  They were beautiful.  Every bit of nature that makes the North Shore spectacularly picturesque was evident—the deep blue lake, of course, but also tree silhouettes framing the rising sun, birds perched on rocks, and swirly patterns in the sand.  Stephanie got her camera only a few years ago, but since that time that little box of digital technology has given her a way to latch onto moments of inspiration.  When she sees beauty in nature or among people, she wants to capture it in pixels, organize it, view it again, and then share it with others.  The camera, a relatively modest investment, was a portal into a "new space" of possibilities.  I like the idea of entering a new space.  Like the doorway C.S. Lewis describes in The Last Battle, it allows entry into a vastness seemingly bigger on the inside than the outside.  Did Carlos Santana feel that way when he picked up a guitar for the first time?  Reputedly, Einstein's fascination with the meaning of time began when his uncle gave him a watch at the tender age of five.  What objects, experiences, or people can give us access to new spaces wherein lies discovery and expression that cannot be imagined beforehand?

Gamblin' Away the Paycheck

I guess it was time for a little excitement.  This afternoon we drove east from Tahoe Vista to the Nevada State Line, skirted the Cal-Neva Lodge, and headed to where the serious gamblers go.  That's right: The Hyatt Resort in Incline Village.  We made it past the "21 and over" notice without hassle (boy, was that a relief) and got to work.  Every serious gambler has a game plan.  Ours was to put $10 of our hard-earned cash on the line, and no more.  This was a precaution against gambling addiction, mortgage payment defaults, and asking Hilly to sit out Duke next semester.  But here's my question: Why do they have to make those slot machines so complicated?  After some initial bewilderment, I withdrew $10 from my wallet and inserted the bill into the money muncher.  Taking turns, Stephanie and I wagered 25 cents on each handle pull, and upped the ante to a whopping 50 cents whenever we felt especially reckless.  At first, Steph had the hot hand and brought us well into the black.  Man, we were up over $13 at one point.  Then our credit edged downward. Then I had lucky pull, which helped, but after our last hand pull we were down to $9.75.  True to plan, we cashed out. They say you can't beat the house, and now I know it's true from firsthand experience.  I was genuinely chagrined that I walked away 25 cents poorer.  Could it be we were too cautious?  Maybe next time we will march directly into the high limit loft.

from O.E. "hal"

I've long been fascinated by similarities among the words heal, hale, health, whole, and holy.  The are similar for a reason: All can be traced to the Old English word hal.  The medieval meanings of hal are various: free from infirmity; uninjured; being whole, sound, and well.  The common ground is a state of being marked by perfect wholeness.  Note that there is a presence and an absence.  Absent is dysfunction and disease.  Clear enough, but it's important not to miss the presence.  Any person or thing with hal has nothing missing—it is full, complete, and in a state of perfect health.  Etymology is fantastically illuminating especially concerning the word holy.  What image is conjured when we think of a holy person?  We probably imagine someone who seeks to be free of sin—pure, though perhaps not very interesting.  Holiness implies a lack of sin, yes, but it is so much more.  True holiness, I believe, indicates a fullness of being, vitality, and strength.  We are never meant to be shriveled and pale critters—not like Gollum's "good twin."  The holiest person is the most complete human being imaginable—full of life and love, as well as a love of life.  The model has been perfected only once in history.  For all others, the measure of each person's potential lies in how far their development extends into that perfect ideal.  It's a beautiful image and someday it will be reality.  In the meantime, dear readers, my sincerest wish is this—that you will all go to hal . . . I mean, toward hal.

The Economics of Discipline

Last night I channel surfed for half an hour before heading off to bed.  One show caught my attention briefly.  Here's the premise.  Three teenage kids are auditioning to appear in a reality TV show.  One of the kids, in truth an actor, brags that he's been drinking all morning and that the vitamin water he's now sipping is spiked. Interactions among the three kids are monitored by a hidden camera and shown to their mothers in a separate room.  Now a network official walks in and tells the group that they need to drive to another building for the audition.  She then hands the keys to the guy who has supposedly been drinking all morning.  The key question is whether the other two will actually get into the car with the "inebriated" guy and let him drive.  That's exactly what they do. When the car arrives at the interview site, the mothers, flummoxed and aghast, confront their children.  Why, they want to know, did they get in the car?  But there was no good answer.  As the episode draws to a close, the host offers advice to parents: First, tell your children never to ride in a car with a driver who has been drinking.  Second, be clear about the consequences, such as revoking driving privileges, should they ever do so.  The advice makes a certain amount of sense, yet I believe is flawed in one respect.  Spelling out clear consequences for bad behavior sets up an economy than can undermine its purpose.  Behavior A can be traded for Consequence B multiplied by the Chances of Getting Caught C.  My view as a parent is that bad behavior should not be weighed against such a calculus—not that there shouldn't be consequences for doing wrong things.  But in the context of loving relationships, the legal model is a poor one.  The response to bad choices should not be cooly objective, but rather subjective because it hurts those we love.  The prospect of disappointing loving parents, even making them angry, is authentic and personal.  If this stance is nurtured from a young age, I believe it can be the most effective deterrent to misguided, foolish, and immoral behavior.

Relax, Then Really Lax

I almost forgot how to relax.  The urge to be productive can be so programmed, so hard-wired, that to escape its grip requires some determination.  That is, you need to try really hard not to try.  The hippies were on to this in the late 60's.  Their parents were hyper-productive in the two decades following World War I.  There was a payoff, for sure.  Business was thriving, the stock market had a tremendous bull run, and the U.S. put a man on the moon.  If not for Vietnam, the flower children might have been willing to put up with all the fuss and get greedy.  They knew something was wrong, though, and found alternatives.  Timothy Leary suggested LSD might be worth a try; the Maharishi believed that Hindu-based meditation was the way to go.  Therapy was also big.  Some psychologists promoted simpler measures.  Progressive relaxation entailed sequentially tensing and relaxing muscles from the toes the head, which in turn quieted the mind.  Guided imagery worked oppositely: Practitioners closed their eyes and imagined a walk through the forest or on the seashore.  A relaxed mind produced a relaxed body.  Similarly, meditation can be practiced as a relaxation technique, but it can also serve as a powerful means to access the spiritual realm.  At the moment, I'm just trying to get lazy and am having some success.  It's now about 4 pm and so far today I have accomplished two things: (1) I went for a walk, and (2) I took a nap.  Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think the week is off to a fabulous start.

Jewel of the Sierra

That's what John Muir called it.  Once you see Lake Tahoe, and not just see but hear and smell this alpine wonderland, you will not argue.  This afternoon my best friend and I headed east on I-80, crested the Sierra Nevada Range on Donner Pass, and descended into the Tahoe Basin.  Stephanie says that Big Bear is a poor substitute for Tahoe, and I won't argue with her either.  Big Bear does have altitude, trees, and a ski resort, but all its amenities are Lilliputian compared to what lies 500 miles north.  Lake Tahoe is blue, clean, and deep.  I can remember as a kid looking down from a power boat to see submerged logs beneath the lake's cold and crystalline waters.  In my teenage years, Tahoe was ground zero for fun.  I learned to ski at Squaw Valley on the annual ski trips organized by St. Robert's.  In the summers, I learned to water ski on north shore's Crystal Bay.  Desolation Wilderness, just west of the lake, was where I backpacked with high school friends.  On that trek, the forests were so dry that open fires were prohibited, which meant we had to eat our hamburger meat raw.  Aside from all the fantastic possibilities for recreation that Tahoe presents, it's really the multi-sensory natural beauty that brings me the most pleasure.  As I write from our little one bedroom retreat a hundred feet or so from the water's edge, I feel a relaxed anticipation of the coming week.  In the 1800s, John Muir knew the Sierra Nevada mountains better than anyone.  I know why he had a special regard for this place.

Going Big on the Bay

A few months ago, my brother, Paul, suggested a family gathering that combined a cruise on the San Francisco Bay and dinner on Pier 39.  Today was the day.  Around 3 pm my mother and most of her brood converged on 390 Palomar.  Reps from three generations, 17 in all, piled into cars and headed up 280 toward the Embarcadero.  Fisherman's Wharf was sunny, warm, and lively.  At 5 o'clock we were aboard a two-deck boat from the Red & White fleet as it launched into the rolling waves.  Within five minutes we were enshrouded in fog.  Our boat sounded foghorns repeatedly as it headed toward the Golden Gate Bridge.  En route, at least a dozen kite boarders carved the cold choppy waters at boat speed, a fast 20 knots or so.  Many approached our boat to have an audience, and then launched high into the air before landing and skimming off again.  A few threw in 360s while airborne.  The audacious spectacle of the kite boarders contrasted with the post-cruise ambience of our bayside restaurant.  We were warm and comfortable as we enjoyed our soup, salmon, and cheesecake, but our two long dining tables were not exactly quiescent.  My family's irrepressible enthusiasm inevitably produced its own signature spectacle.  We, too, know how to go big.

The San Bruno Fire

Last night around 6:30, a huge explosion rocked a neighborhood in San Bruno.  The explosion left an enormous crater and sent flames roaring eighty feet into the air.  Apparently caused by a rupture in a high-pressure gas pipeline, the fire quickly spread to homes in the Crestmoor neighborhood.  As of this morning, more than 50 homes have been consumed and another two hundred have been damaged.  Although my mother's current home is a few miles away in lower San Bruno, we were relieved to hear that she was visiting my sister, Janet, last night.  As details rolled in from the news stations, I realized that the fire's epicenter was almost exactly where my family lived in the 1960s.  I rode my bicycle and played with friends on every street mentioned by reporters: Glenview, Claremont, Earl, and our own street, Vermont Way.  I now know that most of my old neighborhood went up in flames in what appears to be one of the worst suburban fires in California history.  How do I make sense of that?  Often, but not always, disasters are local—pinpoints on a map—and distant.  The chance of a pin landing on a personally significant spot are minuscule.  Yet that's where the pin landed last night.  I don't know whether my childhood home is still standing.  My mother, having seen the camera feed on TV and recognizing houses, doubts it.  In 1969, we moved from Vermont Way to Palomar Court, a move that probably spared our family horrible loss.  But other families within those familiar blocks of Crestmoor are suffering tremendously, and so my thankfulness is weighed against sadness for their nightmarish ordeal.

Mr. Wood

On my way to Santa Monica this morning, I turned off the 405 and followed Manhattan Beach Boulevard almost all the way to the pier.  A few blocks from the ocean is a restaurant called The Kettle.  This is where I met my friend for breakfast.  As we do every month or two, Scott Wood and I met over coffee and omelets (I went for eggs Benedict this morning) and picked up the thread in our ongoing conversation about every topic we take as important.  We call this our symposium.  Scott and I have been at this for about twelve years, but our relationship extends back much further.  I first met Scott Wood forty years ago almost to the day.  He wasn't "Scott" back then, but rather "Mr. Wood."  You see, Scott was my freshman English teacher at SI—spelled out, it's Saint Ignatius College Preparatory, then an all-boys school in the Sunset District of San Francisco.  I tell Scott that he supported me during the two most difficult times of my life.  The first was in January of my freshman year when my father died unexpectedly.  Scott took me under his wing—to Warriors games, events at the Cow Palace, Berkeley football.  We enjoyed everyday things, too: shopping, eating, doing errands.  Several time a week he drove me from SI to my home to San Bruno, 15 miles away.  Scott was again by my side (as were many others I love) through the terrible events of 2003.  Scott's generosity is inexplicable; I honestly don't get it.  I can only be grateful for such an amazing presence in my life.  I am grateful for Scott Wood—my teacher, mentor, and friend.

Second Draft

I'm making my way through the second draft of my book manuscript, adding text while I try to improve what I've already written.  I like this stage.  The first draft entails blasting out words with not too much concern for their form or coherence.  The initial draft is probably the most difficult because it requires creating something from nothing.  Almost everyone has experienced writer's block, the feeling of not knowing where to begin and the fear that there's not really anything to say.  Every writer must face the ominous empty page.  Truth be told, it hangs momentarily over me even in composing my daily blog entries.  Yet the writer must plunge ahead boldly, and maybe a little recklessly, trusting that something meaningful will emerge.  The second draft is different because the raw (sometimes very raw) material is already there in black and white.  Now the game is refinement.  Through additions, deletions, transitions, and substitutions, a piece of text gains coherence.  But two drafts, at least for me, is never enough.  Even my blog entries require about four iterations—and even when I post I know they are not error-free.  Multiple drafts are essential, but I think I love the second draft the most.  When I edit, it reminds me of combing out the knots in my daughters' freshly shampooed hair.  If I keep combing, the hair will will eventually flow and shine; likewise, through editing, the text transforms toward its aesthetic ideal.  Eventually, it gives me pleasure.  It can also evoke a little surprise, as in: "Oh, so that's what I mean."

Apart No Longer

Air Pacific flight 810 landed at 2:30 this afternoon.  By the time Stephanie got through customs it was close to 3:30.  I had been monitoring the ramp leading to the international arrivals lounge for a long while when I finally saw flight attendants who were identifiable as Fijian.  Stephanie was not far behind.  To see her again made my world right again.  We do quite well when I travel for periods of three or four days, but two weeks apart produces quite different effects.  First, we miss each other in a big way.  A second difference is harder to describe.  When we are finally reunited, it feels a bit unreal.  The closest comparison is the sensation of returning to your elementary school as an adult.  It's instantly familiar, but there is a slight feeling of surprise that the real thing actually matches the memory.  The third difference is that being apart for two weeks creates a backlog of information that needs to be shared. It's like what happens when a printer gets unplugged partway through printing a long document.  When the plug is reconnected, it has to process all the unprinted pages before it resets.  We talked nonstop from LAX to Irvine, but I estimate we are about 10% through the backlog.  It's now Tuesday evening; on Friday we plan to drive up to Turlock, a six-hour trek.  I predict that by the time we park the CRV on Rothbury Court the information backlog will be cleared and the familiar will again seem real.  The one element that ought to be retained is my deep appreciation for being together again.

Love is a Vector

On my radio this morning, I heard the Burt Bacharach tune, "What the World Needs Now is Love, Sweet Love."  I agree.  But am I curmudgeonly if the song bugs me just a little?  The song evokes an image: A group of people standing in a circle, holding hands, their faces aglow with affection and broad smiles.  To me, that image works for about 30 seconds and then gets boring.  Acceptance, affection, and mutual admiration are good, but they are starting points.  Serious love—love with traction—goes somewhere.  It has a point; it meets a need; it pursues grand ideas. In geometry we learned the difference between a point and a vector.  A point has position only.  A vector has an origin, but it extends from that origin in a line that terminates in an arrow.  The arrow indicates continuity without end.  If we love, then we travel well together through life.  Love, therefore, is a vector.  Can that be captured in a happy song?  I doubt it.  "Love is a Vector" probably would not work as a song title.  I'm sure Burt Bacharach would never compose it, and if he did the DJs would never play it.

Hooray for Social Media

IT-based social media—texting, Facebook, Twitter—present the exciting possibility of greater interpersonal connectedness.  This is quite a shift from from the olden days when we worried about the futures of isolated teens hunched over their desktops.  We wondered: Would Gen X-ers becoming pale-skinned zombies whose best friends were machines?  Then along came Facebook and its kin, full of possibilities for connecting and reconnecting with families and friends not only through messaging, but also photos and newsfeeds.  Not to say that it's all good.  Each tech advance presents its own dark scenarios.  The current favorite is the mutually parasitic cyborg of adolescent and smartphone.  Parents might wish she would give her thumbs a rest and re-enter the real world of face-to-face communication.  But on the whole the affordances of social media are to the good.  A remarkably strong correlate of happiness is social connectedness; conversely, depressed people often feel deep isolation.  I don't believe that Facebook is an answer to threats of loneliness, but even if it adds only incrementally to a sense that we have a place in the world, I have to believe that is a good thing—and even more so if it facilitates communication with long-lost friends.  Through such reconnections, we can feel our own biographical depth and continuity, which adds further value to a sense of identity and belonging in a world where feelings of anonymity and aloneness are all too common.

A Three Day Weekend

In theory, weekends are for relaxing. In practice, many of us many of us rely on weekends for catching up on things left undone: Shopping, opening stacks of mail, paying bills, and attending to the perpetual need for domestic maintenance. (Okay, I admit that we often toss in some fun, too.) But isn't it just a tad deflating when Sunday night rolls around and our to-do list is only a little shorter? It's even worse when this realization crosses with the looming prospect of Monday morning. Maybe the whole scene is tainted with foolishness and misplaced priorities. The devotion of weekend hours to getting things done treats with mild contempt the principle of the Sabbath, a day of rest. Whatever the answer, I am grateful for three-day weekends, like this one, even if my reasons are about personal convenience rather than the official meanings of the holidays. With three consecutive open days, it's possible to combine work, play, and rest into a tasty salad. This weekend, I am enjoying my Labor Day salad, with the prospect of Stephanie's return on Tuesday adding a nice dressing. Economists and business leaders have studied the possibility of retooling the standard 5-day work week into a 4-day model. I don't know if that makes economic sense, but I wouldn't mind a few more three-day weekends in the calendar. The British recognize "bank holidays," whatever they are, as non-work days. Could we start with a few of those?

Combatting Insomnia

When I was a kid, I don't remember ever waking up in the middle of the night, not even because of nightmares. Yet as an adult, I sometimes wake up in the dark and see some distressingly small number on my alarm clock. Stephanie's strategy is to avoid looking at the clock altogether, which is smart. Knowing that it's 2 am makes things worse, because then I worry, "What if I can't go back to sleep?" Waking up may be a nuisance, but being unable to fall back asleep is a problem, especially if it's chronic. By experience I know that if I get only five or six hours of sleep, my energy and mood are down during the following day, and the effects accumulate as sleep debt builds up. I'm excited, though, because I'm trying a new strategy for dealing with unwanted wake-ups in the wee hours. Using a military motif, it goes something like this: Separate your mind and your body into two "selves." Your mind is the sergeant and your body is the private. Because your mind is in charge, it can tell your tired body that it will generously allow X hours of sleep. It's now up to the private what to do what he wants with the allotted sleep time. He can use it to sleep or to stay up and play cards, listen to music, or just think about stuff. The smart choice is to calm down and relax, which is the natural segue to Snoozeville. I realize that my strategy has some internal contradictions, but I'm giving it a go just the same. For two night's running, it seems to be working. I will continue the experiment and report back. Sweet dreams, all.

Please Stop Talking

I have a bad attitude. I get impatient with speakers who hold forth interminably about nothing, when the number of interesting ideas per minute verges on zero. Sad to say, but I have this reaction most often in church or in church-related events, but sometimes during academic talks. It drives me nuts when people who lead an event spew forth a string of poorly-connected ideas, generously larded with cliches and platitudes, and adorned with bunny trails. At some point I have to scream (not audibly). It's worse in smaller groups. Social conventions require eye contact, a pleasant facial expression, and an occasional nod. In church, I try to cope by leaning forward and putting my face in my hands, as if warding off a bad headache. It looks like I'm praying, but my posture really displays a lack of spirituality. Stephanie is never fooled. Her radar can detect my frustration instantly, and she gently reassures me with a pat on the knee or back, for which I'm grateful. When kids say the darndest things, it's cute, as Art Linkletter showed us on TV years ago. Not cute in adults! Readers of this blog need not worry; to a person, this is not about you. The subject of this rant is, you know, other people. At least I think so. Alternatively it's a confession to flaws in my own character. When Steph comes home, I'm sure she will tell me the truth. I just hope she will be gentle.

A Five Course Meal in Parallel

There is something that feels right about the sequential nature of a five-course meal. It's so orderly, and a nice if-then contingency is built in: first appetizer, then salad or soup, then main course, and so on. When Americans dine, the same if-then logic still applies, but in coarse form. Victuals are usually ingested in parallel with the exception of dessert which, if included, follows the dutiful consumption of what's good for you, including vegetables. To eat dessert, we must deserve our dessert. Parents and grandparents agree on that one. Do we make life choices by the same sequence—first what's necessary and, only then, what's enjoyable? Too often, yes. I'm a fan of the Puritan work ethic, but not at the expense of the fun stuff. The trouble with adhering to an unbridled work ethic is we run the risk of postponing pleasure indefinitely. Even worse, we can forget how to have fun. This is real, folks. People all around us place their noses to the grindstone for so long that when they look up they have no idea what else is out there. This helps to explain retirement or empty-nest angst, when middle-agers or retirees don't know what to do with their disposable time or income. A final point: joyful recreation often entails skill building, which is off-putting when arthritis looms along with anxieties about learning new tricks. Do not postpone dessert; instead, bring on all five courses. Now.

Dragon Tattoo

Today I finished reading "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo," by Swedish author Stieg Larsson. Larsson died in 2004, one year before the publication of the book, and so never knew that the novel and its successors would receive such wide acclaim. The novel is a fictional crime thriller that is a full-on page turner and, to my eyes, well written in its English translation. Most of the characters are oddball to varying degrees, and some are verifiable psychopaths who commit terrible atrocities. I will not recommend the book to Stephanie: Without doubt, the ratio of ugliness to uplift exceeds her threshold—but what a story. To me, Larsson's book is yet another example of how a novel can artfully weave a broad array of human experience and consciousness: Good and evil, family history and biography, downfalls and triumphs. Some writers say that novels are read primarily for enjoyment, and that may be true. Perhaps for this very reason, some people steer away from fiction—enjoyment is an insufficient reason to invest the time. But good stories, especially those that explore character and entail complex plots, do much more than provide enjoyment. They open a window into human nature and prompt the reader reflect back on his or her own life—its meaning and possibilities. A good novel entertains, but with equal force it also educates.

Spin The Flywheel

I've only scanned the bestseller Good to Great, by Jim Collins. The book was highly recommended by Jimmy Kim, so I had to pay attention to the book's central point at least. As a basis for writing the book, Collins and his research team investigated blue chip companies that experienced huge success over a period of ten years or so. Those companies were contrasted with similar others that that did not do as well, whose market share or profits remained flat or declined. The transition from good to great was not explained by any secret, but rather a somewhat obvious and pedestrian process. Successful companies exhibited continuity—they concentrated on their market niche (electronics, pharmaceuticals, retail, or whatever), but over time they incrementally achieved greater quality and efficiency. These companies "stuck to the knitting," but with a commitment to continuous improvement. Collins's metaphor was not knitting, though, but a flywheel. It's the massive rotating disk that preserves angular momentum in some machines. The flywheel represents what companies do well, and the speed and energy represents how well they do it. The most successful companies did not adopt some revolutionary concept or strategy, but imparted energy to their particular flywheel steadily—day after day, year after year. Though dramatic moments make for good storytelling, there is power in the flywheel metaphor. What I don't know is whether Collins ever considered that the flywheel metaphor applies more broadly to individuals, families, and communities. I am very certain that it does.

I Cook

Man, those pans were flyin'. Last night I enjoyed a nice home-prepared dinner, all pulled together in a jiffy. It was tasty and nutritious; not exactly gourmet but quite pleasurably edible. Before going to Fiji, Stephanie bought some marinated ahi tuna which I pan fried, four minutes on a side. At the same time I boiled water, tossed in some char-grilled corn, and reset the heat to simmer. Next, a salad, which warranted a separate bowl. I tore up two large leaves of lettuce and added a handful of cherry tomatoes and sliced red onion. After I turned the fish, I drained the corn and added a little butter. Corn done. Fish done. Now I dressed the salad with balsamic vinegar and olive oil, and set the table. I decided that the ahi would be nicely paired with a glass of pinot noir, which is light in tannins so it's not overpowering (besides, the bottle happened to be open already). All this came together in about a 15 minute time span. If only Stephanie and my daughters could have seen—it was a class performance. I even used a cloth napkin. Lacking a dinner companion, opened a novel and read with interest while I dined. Not a bad evening. I had outdone myself, by myself and for myself—and what's wrong with a little pride in personal culinary panache?

Firing On One Cylinder

I'm doing okay—just okay. Stephanie is in Fiji. I'm at home. When the internet and my Mac shake hands, I have real-time access to the South Pacific via Skype video. Steph and I trade e-mail for updates and even make decisions and discuss plans. Something's off, though. One sign: I don't bother to open the house blinds. What's the point? And although I don't think of myself as a sloppy person, I am less careful with dishes and clothes. I am not ready to entertain. So, there is minor domestic deterioration. But here I am, maintaining my writing rhythm, blogging, exercising, going to work, going to church, cooking, and eating. I even took out a steak yesterday to defrost. Yeah, the elements are there. My ennui or loneliness (if that's what I feel) is not generic but rather specific to a person. Part of the problem is that I have felt a little sick for the past couple of days. It's Saturday morning now, I feel much better, and I'm raring to go. My ambitions are high: clean the backyard, catch up on paperwork, work out, invite my friend Russ to Saturday service and to post-service BBQ at Mariners. There is a plan, probably overly ambitious. Yet a gloom hovers over South County, and it's emblematic. Bill Withers made the point soulfully, "Ain't no sunshine when she's gone."

Not a Bucket List

A bucket list is a synonym for things you want to do before you kick the bucket or things to do before you die. The concept is lightly morbid, but overall a pretty good idea. The bucket list concept assumes (rightly) that much of life is humdrum, routine, and occasionally drudgery. It's a simple fact, not a bad thing. "Living the dream" day after day is mainly an immature fantasy or mirage. Concluding this does not mean that our life experience can't be studded with amazing, wonderful experiences, or lived against a backdrop of loving relationships. Many of us want a few peak experiences mixed in with our workaday existence. How can a life be lived toward this end? It helps to know yourself, your aspirations, your dreams. This can take the form of a bucket life, which generally implies fairly passive, short-term experiences—traveling to Machu Picchu, skydiving, lunch at Chez Panisse. There is nothing wrong with such goals, but experiences are different from achievements—running a marathon, getting an advanced degree, sending your kids to college. Bucket lists are okay as far as they go, but pale when compared to achievements. Both bring pleasure and satisfaction, but the satisfactions that accompany achievements are fuller and richer, and can they reverberate with good feelings for the long term.

Signature Needed Now

What happens when you need someone's signature without delay, but that person is 5000 miles away in the middle of South Pacific? It's a problem, but less so now than ever before. Stephanie landed in Nadi yesterday, joining Lindy and the kiddles. Over Skype video, I laughed to see 80% of the crew on Steph's lap at once. Fun stuff, but I also had to tell Stephanie that I needed her signature on a document right away. It's part of our recent financial fancy dancing—all to the good, but timing is crucial. The financial folks had us sign about 500 documents before the trip to Fiji, but they forgot one! Ahhh! And, of course, they needed an original signature. So, how can that be accomplished? Well, first you go electronic by sending the unsigned form as an e-mail attachment. E-mail travels 1000x faster than Air Pacific, at least. Not a problem. Next print and sign. Now for the return leg, which entails a thin but still tangible object. We were fortunate that Lind and crew are staying just a couple of miles from Nadi Airport and there is a FedEx office at the airport. Total transit time for ink and paper: 48 hours, perhaps 96. Even so, the feasibility of rapid business transactions over great distances is remarkable—which of course is why commerce is increasingly global. Now, if we could only get teleportation up and running. Kirk to Scotty: Energize.

I Am Safe (I Hope)

In spite of its impressive circuitry to support higher-order thinking, the human brain retains wiring that links elemental emotional responses to everyday stimuli. Like Pavlov's dogs, we often react to people, objects, and events with raw emotion: fear and dread on the negative side, relaxation and delight on the positive. A key feature of Pavlov's theory—called classical conditioning—is that such connections are automatic, bypassing our faculties of logic altogether. If we feel good or bad about a person, place, or thing, we can't help it. It's the product of our experience, built up over time. Now consider: How do people react to you? What involuntary emotions do you provoke? An unfortunate response to a parent, boss, or police officer is dreadful anticipation of reprimand followed by negative feelings. It's the expected message, "You are doing something wrong—again." One challenge for every person in authority is to establish a track record with other people such that the sight of you implies emotional safety rather than threat. Too often, parent=reprimand and boss=stress. It's worth every effort to neutralize those knee jerk reactions, those unbidden negative feelings. I want my presence to imply, at least 99% of the time, safety.

Cleared for Takeoff

Steph and I will leave for LAX in four hours. She's booked on a flight to Nadi, which is scheduled to depart at 11:30 pm. International trips are exciting. When you land, everything looks, tastes, and smells different—architecture, advertisements, clothing, posture, food, accents, plumbing, plants, and animals. The totality of the shift is at once both stimulating and disorienting. The Air Pacific flight will chase the sun and cross the International Date Line, putting Stephanie on the ground early the next morning but two calendar days later. Lindy and the Stice crew will be waiting, minus Kris who is attending a conference in Bali (one must be dutiful). I predict that Steph's arrival will set off a twelve-day contest for her attention among five ecstatic whippersnappers, including baby Jenah. Though I like to joke that my wife periodically needs her own separate vacation ("time apart") in the South Pacific, in truth she is going to Fiji to help, to love, and to enjoy—in no particular order. The traveler is packing as I type. I, in turn, have been given a brush-up lesson on how to sort the laundry and receive it clean and dry at the end of the process. The larder is stocked. We stopped by Trader Joe's this morning to bag some marinated ahi tuna (frozen) and other easy fixin's to keep this faux bachelor sustained for two weeks. We are go flight!

All Things Well

One of the most amazing verses in the New Testament is Mark 7:37. The verses just preceding describe how Jesus healed a deaf man. Those who witnessed the healing proclaimed of Jesus, "He has done all things well." I see the various strands of Christendom as selectively emphasizing one or another event in the life of Christ. For some, it's the Incarnation; for others, the Passion and the Cross; and for still others, the Resurrection and Pentecost. Each event is so profound that none of us can fully comprehend its depths. But Mark 7:37, I believe, summarizes the earthly life of Jesus. The statement is amazing because when describing the goodness of his life, it is not bound to one aspect or another—he heals well, or he teaches well, or he loves well. Goodness reached the full span of a lived life. Its quality—yes, its perfection—was entire. He has done all things well. This teaches us something about what Jesus accomplished on our behalf: He left a model that each of us must strive to emulate, but without any hope of reaching its fullness, at least this side of heaven. But the span is what's so sobering: All things. Our spirituality cannot be squeezed down to prayer or charitable acts or even moral purity. It extends to every corner, every pocket, and every shadow. Its sweep is total.

1984

Just moments ago, Amy and James stopped by for a brief visit before jetting off for lunch down in Mission Viejo. They attended a Chargers game last night—Amy's birthday present to James. I told James that I've attended only a single pro football game in my life—the 1984 Super Bowl. Two titans, Joe Montana and Dan Marino, threw for the 49ers and Dolphins, respectively. The game, played at Stanford Stadium, was sponsored by a creative young company down in Silicon Valley, Apple Computer. As a grad student, I had the opportunity with Stephanie to serve on the event staff. Starting in the second quarter, we were allowed to watch the game from seats that were just below the press box but close to mid-field. The game was thrilling: The 49ers triumphed, 38 to 16, to the exuberant approval of the crowd. Even the half-time show was epic. It featured a now-classic commercial showing row upon row of robotic males being lectured by a ghoulish Big Brother figure on an enormous grayscale video screen. As Big Brother droned on, a female athlete appeared at the base of the center aisle, carrying a huge sledgehammer. Glowing with light, she ran at full speed to toward the monitor, swung the massive hammer like an Olympian, and launched it toward the screen. As the hammer crashed into the screen, it annihilated the menacing visage of Big Brother with a bright flash, thunderous boom, and roaring wind. Then a voice-over announced the imminent arrival of the Macintosh, and assured listeners that 1984 would be nothing like "1984."

Creation or Evolution or ?

This morning, at a depth of 40 feet, Wayne pointed out an unimpressive plant-like object attached to a rock. Later, he said it was a tunicate. Though they look like seaweed, tunicates are actually chordates, primitive animals that spend part of their life cycle as free-swimming larvae. As chordates, tunicates are related to vertebrates, the taxonomic subphylum that includes fish, snakes, dogs, cats, and—anything with a bony spine. The biosphere encompasses an unfathomable array of critters that do not mesh well with our everyday concepts of "plant" and "animal." These organisms look a lot like the transitional forms studied by evolutionary biologists. The fossil record contains many other life forms that do not go down easily for strict creationists—those who see the natural world as the instantaneous masterpiece of an omnipotent Creator. Why would God create life forms that look transitional? To me, the diversity of life past and present implies in rather clear terms that significant change occurred over a very long time span. Yet I cannot see, or maybe cannot accept, that the marvelously articulated world of nature arose strictly through chance events. As I type on my laptop at Peet's listening to classical music, I can't comprehend how this scenario could bootstrap upward—from plasma to Peet's—through nothing more than time plus chance plus physics. My undergraduate courses in genetics and molecular biology made such claims seem less credible. The worlds of nature interlock at a scale a million times smaller than a Swiss watch—and extend to an ecosystem a million times larger. Must I choose between evolution and creation? Are these competing models of origins, as normally understood, the only two possibilities?

Physics, Wild and Weird

Physics students learn that when waves cross and their peaks align, their amplitudes add to produce a super-high crest. At the "Wedge," set at the entrance to Newport Harbor, body surfers have capitalized on the effect for decades. Incoming waves strike the outer wall of the north jetty at a 45 degree angle, and then reflect back toward the shore. When the reflected waves meet the incoming waves massive crests are formed. Here's another bit of physics. Subnuclear particles—quarks, strings, or neutrinos—can in theory coincide to form a mint-condition Cadillac in the middle of the Mojave. Sure, it's unlikely in the extreme, but not impossible. My life exemplifies both principles: Recent events, impressive alone, together produce crests of significance that are epic. It's life as body surfing . . . at the Wedge. That's wild; here's weird. While getting ready for bed last night, I filled my water cup and drank. The water felt funny. After hesitating for a heartbeat, I spat it out. In my sink a dark brown spider skittered in fright. How does a spider get inside a stainless steel drinking cup and then in my mouth? Crawl? Fall? Materialize? I don't know. Maybe the spider knew. If so, that knowledge swirled away as the eight-legger rode the Wedge of rinse water to the dark world of drain pipes. No doubt it was a big day for him, too—wild and weird. I'm pretty sure the physics was beyond him, but I could be wrong.

Kairos and Chronos

This morning, Stephanie read aloud excerpts from a book entitled Receiving the Day. The book's author explores the meaning and significance of time--in particular how time overly structured by the clock and calendar can drain our sense that time is a gift to be enjoyed. The ancient Greeks understood that a person's view of time has real-life consequences. Chronos, they said, is clock time—quantitive, limited, and precise. Kairos is time as opportunity; its qualitative focus is on events of personal significance. Receiving the Day proposes that we fast-paced Westerners can become enslaved to the regimentation of chronos, neglecting the experiential, in-the-moment possibilities of kairos. No doubt. But are they necessarily antagonistic? The disciplined structuring of activity around chronos may be a necessary means to get to the pleasures of kairos—a play day, an evening with friends, or a vacation. Besides, Kairos may have a dark side. In excess, it might produce a laissez-faire attitude that justifies letting others do the hard work, show up on time, and meet deadlines. Time is a gift, and no doubt its better half is kairos. But chronos, too, can be our friend if we do not let it become our master.

Messing About in Boats

Amid the tumble of yesterday's to-do's, Hilly and I found a small span of time to rig a 14-foot Capri and launch into the waters of Newport Harbor. We sailed downwind for about ten minutes, then turned upwind and tacked to the end of channel. As we neared the north end, a huge party cruiser blew its thunderous horn before it left the dock—ostensibly as a warning, but I always suspect the blast is partly a discourteous display of power. Cooperating, we headed downwind again, turned into the docks, and de-rigged. The pleasant late-afternoon sail was nearly squeezed out by our time-certain commitments. In fact, when we returned to the car we jammed straight to Harbor Auto to pick up Steph's Prius before the shop closed at 6:00. By my watch we arrived at 5:59. Making time to sail was worth every effort. Being on the water for however brief a time was a needed retreat from the blur of cars, concrete, and computers. There is something almost magical about being on the water—the swish of currents, the flutter of wind. In Wind and the Willows, Ratty had it straight: "There is NOTHING—absolutely nothing—half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats."

Negative Space

Negative space is a fundamental concept in the design arts. In a sculpture, it’s the absence of the sculpted material—rock, clay, or pumpkin flesh. It's the space where the sculpted form is not. In a book, negative space includes the margins and the leading between lines of type. In all manifestations of design, whether functional or artistic, negative space is the absence that makes presence possible. But negative space is not merely an absence. It is a basic element of design. Lately, I’ve been wondering whether the concept of negative space is important in other contexts, such as relationships. You can imagine, for example, the negative space in conversations as the attentive waiting that facilitates communication. When we listen patiently, we create negative space that can be filled by what matters to the other person. By listening, we present a white canvas that the speaker can use fully and freely. When we pray, sometimes we wish for clearer or more definite answers--the voice of God. Maybe God’s seeming “silence” is a loving act of listening, an openness to the positive space of human thoughts, hopes, and concerns. Is God a Master of negative space? I believe it. [Adapted from our family Christmas blog, 2008]

World=Globe

On Saturday night, I had a very significant conversation with my fellow educational psychologist, Pat Kyllonen. Pat was a student of Stanford Professor Richard Snow about a decade before I joined Snow's research group. As we talked about APA Division 15 (Ed Psych) at APA's annual conference, Pat spoke with conviction about the great potential of the Division, and of the field, if we recognize the relevance of its research to the rest of the world, and vice versa. This is because the sophistication of research outside the U.S. is rising rapidly. We all know about the decline of American K-12 education compared to other countries. The United States dropped from best in the world in 1960 to barely in the top 20 today. The same trend is being repeated with a vengeance at the university level. While the U.S. still enjoys being top dog in research across fields, Americans risk being being overshadowed if we do not collectively respond to the emergence of Asia and Europe as centers of discovery and technology. Isolation and self-absorption no longer work. The concept of globalization is nothing new; it's simple, even obvious. Yet in our research proposals, articles, and conference proposals, we often justify our projects on the basis of American interests. This is passe. Along with many of my colleagues, I must wake up to a reality in which the relevance of research, invention, and commerce is no longer defined by dotted lines on a map. As never before, the world corresponds to the entire planet. World and globe increasingly coincide.

Life is Good?

The phrase, Life is Good began to appear on hats and shirts a few years ago. It turns out that Life is Good is a trademarked brand. This is funny, because most other brands imply the same message in their ads, but the trademark now prohibits them from saying it explicitly. No doubt those who wear Life is Good apparel do so to make a statement about their attitude or philosophy. This is not a bad idea. A person who believes that life is good probably tends to filter experience to see the goodness in life. Goodness is definitely there. On Amy's refrigerator I saw a list: "Things that make me happy." The list looked perfectly valid. Every one one of us can easily list a dozen "things" that makes us feel happy, at least temporarily. So I agree that life is good, but is life only good? No way. To believe so indicates either incredible immaturity or anxious avoidance of the truth. Life is often stained by, and sometimes awash in, frustration and pain—even unmitigated evil. To be a mature person, a real adult irrespective of age, entails the ability to see the innumerable ways in which life is beautiful—so beautiful that it can bring tears to your eyes. But it also means being sufficiently honest and brave to perceive the terrible suffering all around, and to weep. To live successfully means never to forget either truth.

Fluid Mosaic

As an undergrad bio major at UC Davis, I learned that cell membranes are composed primarily of a phospholipid bilayer—a double layer of fatty acids. The double layer gives each cell the stability of a solid and the fluidity of liquid. Embedded within the cell membrane are gateway structures that allow nutrients in and send waste products out. Blood sugar, compromised in diabetics, is controlled by an insulin-regulated gateway. Because these gateways float around in the bilayer, the overall structure is called a fluid mosaic. I really like the dualistic quality of the fluid mosaic model. The duality of stability and fluidity is, in a way, intelligent at the level of microscopic cells. It's also intelligent at the level of daily life. I tend to be overly structured in my routines and commitments. This has certain advantages: Cycling through my structural commitments—writing, exercise, and various other pursuits—adds up to progress over time. The downside is that it can lead to rigidity. Once in a while, my best friend gently reminds me that I could be a little more flexible. She's right, flexibility and fluidity are essential. Apparently, Stephanie and the common cell have formed an alliance; together, they teach me how to be more balanced—and more intelligent.

First Feelings, Then Reasons

I'm busy. Are you? Right now, the most important people in my life, those I love most, all seem to face packed and shifty agendas. Lives lived full to the brim inevitably produce oscillations of mood. This is common to humanity—feelings change within a day, a week, a year. All human souls experience the spectrum of emotions. People have different baselines though, similar to the hypothesized "set point" of weight. The idea is that if we diet and lose ten pounds, our weight very commonly rebounds to the set point that the body somehow remembers. Emotions have a set point, too, which like the weight set point varies from person to person. Some people are constitutionally happy; others tend toward the melancholy end of the scale. But even around emotional set points, feelings fluctuate. We usually think of moods as responses to life events. Unfairness, put downs, and failures make us sad or mad; friendship, success, and pleasure make us happy. The funny thing, though, is that our mood can shift without an immediate knowledge of the reasons why. We might ask ourselves, "Why do I feel sad? or "Why am I happy?" It's a funny quirk of the psyche that, very often, we feel before we know. For those who exalt rationality and downgrade emotions, there is reason to reconsider: Which is more basic to human nature?

Do the Right Thing

Finding a solid basis for moral action is difficult. Laws are one guide, yet courts and legislatures routinely make decisions that make legal behaviors illegal, and vice versa. The Prohibition is an example. Moral behavior is trickier. Standards of morality also shift over time. Every society shares a collective sense of proper behavior, but around that consensus people inevitably differ to some degree. Between cultures, too, standards of morality vary. What forces, then, construct our moral sense? Vitally important are the rules of homes, schools, and communities that strongly shape a child's sense of right and wrong. Books, especially the Scriptures, also serve as influences or even definitive standards. Some say that more is caught than taught, and so role models are important. The life and conduct of a real person presents a flesh-and-blood pattern to which we try to conform. The heuristic, "What would Jesus do?" is, for many, the ultimate metric. All these influences converge to form our internal moral compass, our conscience. Is there a standard for all? At an abstract level, yes--"Love thy neighbor" is profoundly effective as a general rule, but its expressions are wildly variable. This means that we have creative freedom in the particulars; we are not moral clones. This is not an endorsement of relativism, but a concession to our imperfect knowledge of perfect morality in the details of life. Applied to the question, "What is the right thing?" this stance implies that the expressions of good, right, and loving actions are limitless.

H & M Auto

Today, without fanfare, Hilly and I opened H & M Auto. Our specialty is roadside repairs. Sometime in the late morning, I took a call from our first customer. A young lady, new to the area, phoned in semi-desperation. She explained that she had parked her Honda Accord miles from home and it would not restart. This was not completely unexpected. That very morning, a kind young gentleman, woken from sleep by the very same lady, drove to her home and jump-started the car. Alas, the jump was no permanent fix. When the call came to H & M, Hilly and I sprung into action. We quickly diagnosed the problem as a dead battery five years overdue for failure. Clumps of green gooey power on the terminals proved the case. We secured a replacement battery, and after only 2 1/2 hours the Honda was ready to go. With a turn of a key, the car fired up with gusto. Satisfied by a job well done, Hilly and I closed business and headed home. On its very first day of business, H & M Auto was a singular success.

Jim Was Right

A few years ago, a UCI professor named Jim gave a talk on how to lead a meeting. Jim is one of those all-too-rare academics who is not only smart, he also has strong people skills--a great combination for leadership in a university or any other setting. One idea from the talk stuck with me, and it's amazingly simple: Whenever you lead a meeting, do so with a clear idea of the outcomes you want. According to this principle, a leader should not only introduce ideas, problems, and decision points. The leader should also have in mind the most desirable conclusions that will emerge from the meeting--whether or not to accept an idea, how to solve the problem, or what decision should be made. This all makes sense but for one factor: The stance hints of manipulation, or even Machiavellianism, because the leader has a hidden agenda, a personal agenda behind the public agenda. I would be skeptical about the moral rectitude of this strategy if it not were for the generosity and goodwill that Jim so consistently exhibits. He is no manipulator. So how is the tension resolved? I think it's simply that productive leadership has an end in mind. That end need not be etched in stone; effective leaders, I believe, will respond positively to the good ideas that others bring to the table. But a good leader is not clueless about how to proceed. With an end in mind, wandering is minimized. Instead of being lost in the fog, the well-led group finds a way.