Tag Archives: Philosophy

Look at Your Child

Parents:  How often do you stop and really look at your child?

“What do you mean?” I hear you ask.   “I’m looking at them ALL THE TIME.    Gotta.   They’d shave the cat with a Brillo pad, spray paint the dog bright pink, and completely disassemble the DVD player in a few minutes if I didn’t.”

One of the big problems with being a parent is that far too often we — myself included — get stuck deep into our, “parenting mode”, and although we’re looking AT our children, we’re not really looking at them.   We’re actually looking past them — we’re watching their behavior, checking for signs of distress, eyeing out potential hazards, or trying desperately to stay one step ahead of their crafty little minds and anticipate what next thing they will find amusing that you certainly will not.

Other times, when we know are kids are in a safe place, we have a tendency to tune them out.    How many times have you said, “That’s wonderful, dear,” as you glaze off at the TV program you’re watching and Junior is trying to show you his crayon drawing for the 14th time?    Guilty!   And hey, I get it; kids can’t — and shouldn’t — get 100% of our concentration 100% of the time.   They’ll manage and survive fine if we don’t coo wildly over every single thing they do or jump to their every whim.

The problem comes when we fail to come back out of our parenting or zone-out mode and recognize what is truly in front of us — and how amazing, wonderful, and unique it is.    And what a privilege we have been given at getting to be so involved in it.

Keston was playing on my lap the other night and he was in a mood to be a bit snuggly and close so we were sitting face-to-face as he talked to me and played with my face and beard.    At first I found myself gazing past him as I talked to my wife and checked out the TV and so forth, and then suddenly, I stopped.

My eyes — and more importantly, my mind — switched focus to concentrate on him.    Looking deep into those eyes like I used to all the time when he was first born, noting the expressions and thoughts behind those liquid windows.    He was suddenly quiet and gazed right back at me, a curious expression on his face as he tried to figure out what I was doing.  My eyes played over the delicate features of his face, eyelashes, cheeks, nose, noting all the while the perfection and beauty in each of them.    All at the same time, feeling and allowing myself to recognize and savor the emotions of connection and happiness and protectiveness and pride that swelled up inside of me when I really stopped to look.

The cliché about kids growing up too fast is all too real, raw, and frightening once you become a parent.   He’s only three and already I look back on pictures from his earlier years and go, “Was he THAT small?  He looked like THAT!?  I don’t remember!”   I don’t want to be one of those parents that suddenly gets a clearing of their vision about the time their child turns 14 and goes, “Who are you, where did you come from, and are you going to do your laundry anytime soon??”

So, I’m going to try my hardest to stop and look more.   To savor what I can and capture as much as I am able.   To parent when I must, but to avoid the trap of familiarity.   To really look.

I hope I never fail to see him.

 

The Simplicity of a Hay Bale

Hay bales are not particularly sophisticated devices.    A bunch of mostly-dried plant material, scooped up and compressed into a brick, and tied up with some rough twine.     There are probably few items in the world that are less inspired or impressive.     However, despite its simplistic nature, it’s changed little over time because it gets the job done.  The bales get stacked, the animals get fed, and everyone’s happy (except, maybe, the hay itself).

Sometimes simplicity is the best solution in the long run.

haybaleI come from a long line of very down-to-earth farmers on both sides of the family.   I was born and raised riding across fields, hearing the squeal of pigs and lowing of cows in the near distance, and the various smells of the seasons drifting across the farm (some of them more pungent than others, of course).   While I didn’t choose the profession for myself, it still runs in my blood as a vocation that involves good, honest hard work, feeling independent and productive, and good people.

The farmers in my family are a resourceful bunch.   That is not to say that they are stingy or tight; if equipment is broken and truly needs replacement, something shiny will be soon to follow, much to the heartburn of their banker.    But they have never been adverse to using baling twine, fence wire, duct tape, or a few well-placed bolts and screws to bring the foundering building or machine back into usable service.

Last night I helped my father to unload 3 racks (~300 bales) worth of hay into his barn by means of a chain-driven conveyor that ran from the rack to the haymow.      This we do to prevent having to toss (yes, toss) all of these upward into the gaping door, a process I am rather unfond of, especially when I’m helping to do it.     About halfway into the first rack the damned thing up and broke, the chain flailing as the motor tried to move it without a top sprocket  to rotate around.    I lept from the rack and yanked apart the cord and extension and then waited as Dad gave it a look.tool_clipart_hammer_2

The conveyor is old — color: rust;  brand:  unknown;  volume:  loud;  default sound effect:  squeal.     But it works very well when it doesn’t break, so we had a vested interest in fixing it.   Plus, my ability to toss 80 pound bales over my head is severely wanting of late.

Dad hammered.   And he hummed.   And he pried, bent, shifted, wrenched, jammed, jimmied, fiddled, screwed and swore for about 10 minutes as he cajoled the sprocket back into the conveyor and back into commission.    A few tests, a few tweaks as we ran, and it’s practically as good as new, and all for the cost of some elbow grease and good old fashioned practicality.    We unloaded all three racks with no other problems except the fact that we were both covered in hay bits and desperately needed a good shower.

Sometimes the simple solution really is the best one.

The God Puzzle

Black Woman Thinks posted this quote from Epicurus today which I both love and dislike as it shows so much narrowness in our definitions of ${DEITY} and how it works.

“Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able? Then he is not omnipotent.

Is he able, but not willing? Then he is malevolent.

Is he both able and willing? Then whence cometh evil?

Is he neither able nor willing? Then why call him God?“

My response is thus:

God is the watchmaker; we are simply a cog in the works as is everything. To have evil present and not mitigated is not malevolent, it is simply allowing the watch to tick as it must, for without evil, the watch cannot run.

On this Monday, when much evil can and will be present in all sorts of forms, what is your response to this puzzle, dear reader?

Brick by Brick

Growing up, I was of the understanding that there were many things that just, “were”.   Some of these were physical things, and they behaved in ways I expected;  science worked in prescribed, mathematical formulas, combining two elements into a new compound, letting me peer into a microscope, and assuring that slamming my bike into a curb would result in another Spiderman band-aid.  Things in the physical world, at least, seemed pretty solid and concrete.

Psychologically, it was stable and steady-as-she-goes sailing, as traditions were defined one way, emotions another, interactions with humans were expected to go this particular way, relationships worked like that, romance and love were best done like Example X.

This was also the case in the mental world with my understandings and faith.      Faith, in similar ways, was a concrete, true thing — Jesus loved me, the Bible was flawless, the earth was about 6,000 years old or so, and Samson beat the living tar out of a thousand men with the jawbone of an ass.   The mental and faith aspects of my youth were pretty solid, unchanging, and concrete as well as the physical.

And then…I grew up.

The concrete facade of childhood starts to develop cracks when you get into the higher grades of school and your education starts to turn from the scheme of, “memorize this, recite that” and into more abstract thought — “what do you think about love?   Why do you think the character in the book committed that crime?   Explain a hug to someone who has never had one before.”    You start to notice that there are variations, exceptions, in how you perceive and understand the world and your mind starts to supplement your knowledge with new branches of ideas attached to the old, a new addition on a creaky old house.

large_waveThen you graduate from high school and onto college and the landscape shifts in a major way again — now everyone is intensely interested in what you think, mostly so they can pick it apart and find the flaws in your belief.    Logic, persuasion, argument, and debate wreak at the knowledge you carry in your head, the waves crashing against the house you’ve built, but you realize it’s made of sand — fluff that falls apart at the first splash of water, the particles unable to hold together under the onslaught of evidence.

Frantically, you try to bolster it up — you build braces, reinforcements, new rules and exceptions to fortify the existing structure.   After all, this is what you’ve known your whole life — we must save it, SAVE IT!   Hurry, hurry — your mind reeling and your eyes blurring from the battles you wage all around you.   You nail on more and more slabs of justification, trying desperately to tie this to that like it was before, but the cracks are there and growing, and time is limited for your sand house, and one day it becomes too much — your fingers slip and a wall breaks and the roof teeters and you scream and — it all falls apart into NOTHING.

And there is silence.    And the drip of water.    And a weeping soul.

From the wreckage, the flotsam and jetsam of childhood understanding and thought, emerges a single brick set upon the ground.     It is a long time coming and hard fought.   Then another appears next to it.    You sit and study the bricks for a long time, estimating, calculating, questioning.   At some point you mix the mortar of logic, of perception, of understanding.     Care and patience go into this recipe, along with deliberation and calculating — you do not want to get this wrong.   At long last the mixture is complete and you cement the two bricks together, shaping things to match neatly, evenly, solidly.

The building is slow and the process is labor and mind intensive.   Every brick comes slowly; the mortar even slower.   Sometimes entire sections have to be torn down and replaced, brick by brick, from the bottom.    Months, sometimes years pass between additional pieces, the wall weathering the storms and problems but biding its time.    The architect shows up from time to time simply to look, to examine, to calculate.   He smiles, he frowns, he thinks.    And sometimes that’s all that happens.

And sometimes a new brick appears.

bricksThis, then, is the most important lesson that you may ever learn in this brief existence of life.    The ideas and concepts taught to you as a child are useful as a child, but they don’t have much of an analogue in the real world.   There is very little, if anything, that can be said to be wholly true, right, or correct without exception, and a mature and seasoned outlook is one that keeps few of these concepts as unchanging and solidified.    Even the strongest of walls may be toppled, the greatest of beliefs shattered into the void.

It was one of the hardest things I have ever had to learn and come to terms with and yet, as I look around at others, their lives, and their understandings, I wish it for those that cannot see the shakiness of their own houses and the imminent dangers that exist if a large wave were to crash into it, toppling all they know.   I know that this is how everything works together, yet I cannot force their hand or their minds…I can only suggest, show, and hope that along the way, something sticks.   It is all I can do.   It is why I write this blog and the things inside of it — not just for myself, but perhaps for those still struggling to hold together the shack of youthful thought, hoping they can rise again and find the security and solace in doing so.

I think, I ponder, I question, I muse and along the way, I can see the haze of a new brick coming into existence.    It is one in a million in a structure of a thousand years, and I’m just getting started.

MODimage2 This entry is Round 3 of the Blog-Off for Babies, a contest between bloggers to benefit the March of Dimes. Click on the logo at the left to see all the participants and read more about this contest.

How We Don’t Say Hello

It amazes me how often we toss out casual utterances in the name of supposed social graces, when in reality, everyone knows it’s a farce.   “Hey,” I mutter to a coworker as we pass in the hallway, two ships in the daylight, captains concentrated on a task other than navigating the socially-charged waters.    “Hrmph,” comes the reply.    “How’s it goin’?”  I utter to the next one, even though we both know that I don’t expect there to be a real answer to it.    A nod is all I receive, and on we go, neither of us miffed by the experience but at the same time, wondering why we have to indulge at all.

I find this phenomenon most prevalent at work, where I know most of the people I cross paths with in the course of my day.   Of course, I’m working (in theory), so I’m not in the mood, the mindset, or the time frame to stop and have an involved chat and find out, really, how s/he is. But, at the same time, I feel like a complete twibber to walk past a person and not say…well, something, anything, rather than silence or some sort of avoidance.

The real wretch of the experience is the eye contact.    There are such varying degrees to which you can take it, but for a proper transaction to take place, you have to somehow subtly agree on the duration and intensity of your stare.    Remember — we’re not being verbal here, so it’s Body Language 101  for the win — if you’re lucky.     Do you lock eyes intensely or out-of-focus casually?   Do you try to be coy and give a twinkle or a sordid wink?  In my experience, the ladies in the office seem fairly receptive to a smiling glance whereas the men don’t take a wink to be a sign of cordiality, no matter how much joy I put into it.

Naturally, there are always the Violators, the ones who will go against the grain of what you are trying to accomplish with your brief acknowledgment.    They come in one of three forms, none of which will make your day any faster or accomplish anything but encouraging one of the parties to scamper off behind a trash can, weeping:

The Weirdo: Exchanging a look for too little of time will earn you a bashful title, as if you’re constantly turning away early on the eye-to-eye exchange, you look like the submissive sort.    This might be an acceptable situation to be in, say, a relationship (if you’re into that sort of thing), but passing in the hall you look like you might cry.     On the other end of this spectrum is the creepy guy that stares a little TOO long, way past the time you’ve defined with your body language as the, “casual glance period”, making everyone feel like something bad just happened or the salsa from lunch is about to repeat on you.    Or, as some women experience it, the guy that meets your eyes and then swiftly glances downwards at other vistas, if only to emphasize the fact that he’s noticed your eyes but not nearly as much as your boobs.

The Quirk: Second on the Violators list is the non-conventional person who answers a comment or a question with something meant to be quirky or unusual but comes off as being strange or odd.    “How’s it goin’?” someone might ask my boss.   “Livin’ the dream!” he replies, confident that he’s being unique — which he is, but it sets people aside when they hear it, much as if he had answered the question in some ribald fashion, like, “It’s going INTO MY PANTS!”      Nobody likes the clever ones.

The Conversationalist: Last but certainly not least troublesome of Violators is the Conversationalist.    One comment to this person as you pass in the hallway and you are STUCK — 15, 30, 50, 90 minutes later, your coffee cold, feet sore, and your brain fried into a small puddle of gasping protoplasm, you are released to go back to your cubicle and have a good cry, now knowing more about the love life of the Conversationalist than even Maury Povich would be able to extract.   These folks do nothing but interrupt the salmon on the way up the river.

Despite all these hazards that must be navigated, to say nothing of the standard act of meeting in the hallway, we still feel the need to do something as we pass on our way to the next location.     A nod, a slight wave, a finger-gun, a salute, a fist-bump, an eye-roll — we feel the need to somehow convey to each other that we see them and they’re there, but really — we’re just trying to work, ya know?

So, folks — how’s it goin’?