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.