Calacirian

The LightFamily’s favorite magazine is National Geographic.  We all like it and read it/browse it for different reasons.  LightBoy loves the articles about space and the ocean.  LightGirl and LightHusband love the photography and the articles about far away places.  Me, I love the articles about different cultures and people.  So we all get something from this treasure each month.  They get stored in a basket in our “reading room.”  Does your home have a “reading room?”  You know the one … with a “special” white “throne”.  Yeah … that one.

So this morning I wandered into the “reading” room and found an article in the December 2009 issue of NatGeo (as it is sometimes called these days) about one of the last hunter-gatherer societies to survive in these modern times.  There are only about 6,000 people in this tribe which makes it’s home in northern Tanzania in Africa.  And an expanding population is now encroaching upon it’s formerly uninhabitable territory.  The days of being just hunter-gatherers are probably numbered, but the article is quite good.  The author lived amongst the people with a particular camp for two weeks and does a remarkable job of giving a fly on the wall view of their life (including a baboon hunt with only his pocket knife).

I recommend this article to you if you like learning about other people groups and other cultures. It really is fascinating and the author writes it quite well.  But I was struck by his description of the way in which the Hadza live.  Specifically, by their lack of worry.  This is mentioned several times in the article, but strikingly here:

Dirt roads are now carved into the edges of the Hadza bush. A paved road is within a four-day walk. From many high points there is decent cell phone reception. Most Hadza, including Onwas, have learned to speak some Swahili, in order to communicate with other groups. I was asked by a few of the younger Hadza hunters if I could give them a gun, to make it easier to harvest game. Onwas himself, though he’s scarcely ventured beyond the periphery of the bush, senses that profound changes are coming. This does not appear to bother him. Onwas, as he repeatedly told me, doesn’t worry about the future. He doesn’t worry about anything. No Hadza I met, in fact, seemed prone to worry. It was a mind-set that astounded me, for the Hadza, to my way of thinking, have very legitimate worries. Will I eat tomorrow? Will something eat me tomorrow? Yet they live a remarkably present-tense existence.

This may be one reason farming has never appealed to the Hadza—growing crops requires planning; seeds are sown now for plants that won’t be edible for months. Domestic animals must be fed and protected long before they’re ready to butcher. To a Hadza, this makes no sense. Why grow food or rear animals when it’s being done for you, naturally, in the bush? When they want berries, they walk to a berry shrub. When they desire baobab fruit, they visit a baobab tree. Honey waits for them in wild hives. And they keep their meat in the biggest storehouse in the world—their land. All that’s required is a bit of stalking and a well-shot arrow. (emphasis added)

And I remembered Jesus’ words to us in Luke 12:

²²Then Jesus said to his disciples: “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat; or about your body, what you will wear. ²³Life is more than food, and the body more than clothes. ²⁴Consider the ravens: They do not sow or reap, they have no storeroom or barn; yet God feeds them. And how much more valuable you are than birds! ²⁵Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life? ²⁶Since you cannot do this very little thing, why do you worry about the rest?

²⁷“Consider how the lilies grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you, not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. ²⁸If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today, and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, how much more will he clothe you, O you of little faith! ²⁹And do not set your heart on what you will eat or drink; do not worry about it. ³⁰For the pagan world runs after all such things, and your Father knows that you need them. ³¹But seek his kingdom, and these things will be given to you as well.

³²“Do not be afraid, little flock, for your Father has been pleased to give you the kingdom. ³³Sell your possessions and give to the poor. Provide purses for yourselves that will not wear out, a treasure in heaven that will not be exhausted, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys. ³⁴For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

So was Jesus recommending that we turn back the clock even then (the year ~30 CE) to become hunter-gatherers?  I don’t think so.  It may seem somewhat idyllic to us now, because we did not take stock of the unintended consequences of our modern conveniences.  But turning back to what was is impossible, first of all.  But maybe there are lessons to be learned?

So the next words from Jesus after telling us not to worry, are … but you need to worry.  That it’s a tension to be managed.  A balancing act … that going over the edge either one way or the other is not good and not what He wants from any of us.  He wants us to be watching, yet reclining, relaxed and worry-free.

³⁵“Be dressed ready for service and keep your lamps burning, ³⁶like men waiting for their master to return from a wedding banquet, so that when he comes and knocks they can immediately open the door for him. ³⁷It will be good for those servants whose master finds them watching when he comes. I tell you the truth, he will dress himself to serve, will have them recline at the table and will come and wait on them. ³⁸It will be good for those servants whose master finds them ready, even if he comes in the second or third watch of the night. ³⁹But understand this: If the owner of the house had known at what hour the thief was coming, he would not have let his house be broken into. ⁴⁰You also must be ready, because the Son of Man will come at an hour when you do not expect him.”

⁴¹Peter asked, “Lord, are you telling this parable to us, or to everyone?”

⁴²The Lord answered, “Who then is the faithful and wise manager, whom the master puts in charge of his servants to give them their food allowance at the proper time? ⁴³It will be good for that servant whom the master finds doing so when he returns. ⁴⁴I tell you the truth, he will put him in charge of all his possessions. ⁴⁵But suppose the servant says to himself, ‘My master is taking a long time in coming,’ and he then begins to beat the menservants and maidservants and to eat and drink and get drunk. ⁴⁶The master of that servant will come on a day when he does not expect him and at an hour he is not aware of. He will cut him to pieces and assign him a place with the unbelievers.

⁴⁷“That servant who knows his master’s will and does not get ready or does not do what his master wants will be beaten with many blows. ⁴⁸But the one who does not know and does things deserving punishment will be beaten with few blows. From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded; and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much more will be asked.

The Hadza

They grow no food, raise no livestock, and live without rules or calendars. They are living a hunter-gatherer existence that is little changed from 10,000 years ago. What do
they know that we’ve forgotten?

The Hadza tend to be gregarious people, and Onwas readily agreed. He said I’d be the first foreigner ever to live in his camp. He promised to send his son to a particular tree at the edge of the bush to meet me when I was scheduled to arrive, in three weeks.

Sure enough, three weeks later, when my interpreter and I arrived by Land Rover in the bush, there was Onwas’s son Ngaola waiting for us. Apparently, Onwas had noted the stages of the moon, and when he felt enough time had passed, he sent his son to the tree. I asked Ngaola if he’d waited a long time for me. “No,” he said. “Only a few days.”

Hmmm … So, I wonder what do they know that we seem to have forgotten?

One of my most fun memories growing up was of watching my father line up with his siblings to have their photo taken.  They’d line up by age, which in their family meant that the group was bookended by women, turn to either the right or left and have a profile photo taken.  It was fondly known in my family as “The Naylor Nose photo.”  My father and his four siblings were all endowed with fairly regal, even aquiline, noses.  Some more resplendent than others.  They were proud of this bit of their heritage from their own dad.  Though I don’t remember that my grandfather’s nose was anything in particular.   It was simply a way that the next generation had of reminding themselves of who they were.

That generation is aging now.  The eldest among them turned 90 August 6, 2009.  And as of last August they will no longer all be together on this earthly plane anymore.  My oldest uncle passed away after a long battle with emphysema.  He was 87 and retired from a career as a pilot in the Air Force among other things.  He flew in WWII, the Korean War and Vietnam.  When he got out, he built seawalls in Florida.  He took my brothers on a two month long camping trip across country to Alaska one summer.   And he taught my children how to do “smooth five” so they could give a high five to the elderly without breaking an arm or spraining a wrist.

My aunts and uncles are members of the “Greatest Generation,” my parents are members of the Silent Generation, my cousins are Boomers, my brothers & I and my cousins children are all Gen X-ers.  My children are Millenials and I’m not sure what generation my cousins’ grandchildren belong to; maybe it doesn’t have a name yet.  We are a microcosm of trendy generations.

Photo by Derek Redmond and Paul Campbell, licensed under GNU Free Documentation License

The above photo is very familiar to me.  Though it may not be to you.  I was 8 during the summer of 1969 and becoming more aware of the world around me.  I lived in Vermont.  I had friends who were old enough to know alot about Woodstock and if they didn’t go, they had posters of the event in their bedrooms.  I have cousins who may or may not have gone, but certainly lived close enough to have considered the journey.  It was, rather famously, the Summer of Love.  Or was it?

There’s a lot mythology that’s grown up around that famous summer in the forty years and several months since.  The gathering was peaceful (and generally it was) about the rain, etc.  But what I remember most about it was the ruin.  I remember seeing these photos and (being a child on a farm/in farm country) wondering how that mess would ever get cleaned up.  It turned out that it never did.

The young people who came in droves to that farm in Woodstock, NY for several magical days in August of 1969 left as quickly and as miraculously as they’d arrived.  Coming empty handed, they left empty handed.  And the fields were covered in trash and mud and clothes and shoes and excrement and waste.  The once working farm was in ruins, never to be worked again.

I wonder though.  Looking back it seems as if that one weekend was a snapshot of world that was to come.  There was chaos.  There loud music.  There were some drugs.  There were people getting along.  There were people coming and going.  There were increasing security concerns.  It was the first concert where a promoter decided to try and repeat it.  Above all though, the generation who staged it, held it, attended it in droves and then left that field and town in ruins showed the world their care-less attitude about … really everything but themselves.  The so-called “Me” generation of the 70’s and excesses of the 80’s should have come as no surprise to anyone after seeing what these people did as young adults at Woodstock.

We really should not be surprised that now in their late 50’s and early 60’s they are very concerned about health care and retirement income for themselves … but they’re damn sure not going to give a rip about the rest of us or how we’re going to either get it or pay for it four generations into the future.  You can rest assured of one thing though … someone else will come along and clean up their mess.  Someone else always has.  I know … because I’ve been trailing this selfish generation with a shovel and a broom my whole life.

I signed up some time ago to receive the e-mail posting of the Washington Post’s opinion page.  So every weekday morning I get an e-mail with a tickler about that day’s opinion pieces.  I don’t always read them, but sometimes …

This morning I read through them and saw this:

I need (but have no desire) to read the piece.  Some years ago I could tolerate Krauthammer and sometimes even agreed with him.  I don’t know if it’s age or what, but he has gotten more and more regressive as time has gone on.  Maybe it’s the confluence of our culture and his age.  But he gets more and more shrill as time goes on.  But the question posed struck me.  The Krauthammer of years passed would have gone to the mat for our and others civil rights.  He would have been protective of the U.S. reputation abroad.  He might even have stood firm on the idea that the Geneva Convention has protections worth caring about.

So … here’s my answer to that question.  We are and should be more worried about the Miranda rights of any perpetrator, because … once the gloves are off, it is difficult to put them back on again.  Who is to say how the definition of “terrorist” might change over the years?  At this point, we seem to have a clear idea that a terrorist is someone “other” … a person who does not belong to our culture.  But what happens when the government decides that anyone speaking out against a sitting president is a “terrorist” or might have terrorist affiliations?  I know that sounds silly and well, we have the First Amendment.  Or do we?  If Miranda rights do not apply to everyone within our borders, including “terrorists” … then they can be suspended for us too.  It really is an all or nothing deal … if those rights do not apply to everyone, then they can at some point be suspended for anyone.

What happens when they come for you?  Don’t you want to have those protections?  I know I do.  The Miranda rights do force our justice system to work harder in order to successfully prosecute a case against an offender and we find people who are innocent sitting on death row.  It is not infallible so the ordinary citizen (including suspected terrorists) needs to have as many protections against the almost overwhelming power of the state as they possibly can.

Wow … it’s been two months since the last post.  If you’ve come around lately you’ll see a new look here.  I’ve been doing some housekeeping, and finally upgraded my WordPress from 2.3 to 2.9 … a task that’s been on my list since August.  Of 2008!

So I’m working on this space.  It’s not finished yet, but it’s good enough for now.

Some things that have happened in the last two months that are noteworthy -

Our beloved Sam died very unexpectedly one late October afternoon.  He’d had some gum surgery about 10 days prior and the wound did not seem to be healing quite right.  When I took him to the vet at about 3 that afternoon, he was lethargic and his abdomen was distended.  The vet ran a test or two, took some x-rays, and came back with a diagnosis of hemangiosarcoma (also often called the silent killer).  The only thing our vet had difficulty determining was the size of the tumor and how much it had invaded Sam’s system.  He could only accurately make that determination with surgery.  So, after a very emotional and troubled two hours, Sam went into surgery.  BlazingEwe and her three LambChildren were with all four of us.  The vet came out within 20 minutes (teary-eyed and barely able to speak) and told us the devastating news; Sam would not survive the surgery.

We are still recovering from that.

For Thanksgiving LightHusband’s parents came to visit for about 8 days.  We were very busy during that time and it ended with LightGirl excelling as her team’s goalie at a nearby tournament.  Two days later she was sick and couldn’t eat.  She had severe stomach pain, nausea, dizziness.  We began the process of attempting to discover what the source was.  Ultrasounds, endoscopy, C/T scans all came back normal and/or unremarkable.  Nothing was wrong … physically.  So we’ve made some lifestyle changes and that seems to help.  She finally went back to the rink after a month long absence right after Christmas.  It was a hard pull, but I think we’re on the upswing.

In the midst of LightGirl’s mysterious illness, LightBoy had H1N1 flu.  And there was one day when LightHusband thought he was getting ill as well.  I threatened to run away and that seemed to cure whatever ailed him.  LightBoy is still coughing, but is back to his normal, slightly ornery self.

Christmas was the usual blur and New Year’s hit like a train.  LightGirl turned sixteen this January 1.  So we had to have a party.  A largish party that was amazingly fun and there were lots of young folks there with their sparkly faces and snappy wit. 

So … Happy 2010 to all and I’ll end with this prayer:
May there always be work for your hands to do.
May your purse always hold a coin or two.
May the sun always shine upon your window pane.
May a rainbow be certain to follow each rain.
May the hand of a friend always be near to you and
May God fill your heart with gladness to cheer you.

Or why I’ve changed my comment policy after 4 years.

Since the last election cycle I’ve picked up a couple of readers from the right side of the spectrum.  At first, I was glad because I enjoy a little political sparring every now and again.  And having been a member of my highschool debate team, I enjoy logical riposte with the best of them.  It can be fun … and funny.  But these folks weren’t in it for fun … or profit.   Nor do the rules of ordinary logic appear to apply to them.  I’m not certain what rules they do follow, but I can’t find logic in any of what they write.

I’ve tried over and over and over again to be polite.  I’ve tried ignoring the snark.  I’ve tried engaging with these commenters using the logic, grace and dignity that I am accustomed to.  None of which has helped anything.  It has only served to further inflame their sensibilities and incur greater ridicule heaped upon me.  So I’ve discovered that in an attempt to not censor them,  I’ve been censoring myself in a pathetic attempt to avoid confrontation.  I’m not going to do that anymore.

From now on, all comments will be moderated.

I will delete out of hand any comments which are intended to engender fear and/or use fear to manipulate the reader.

I will delete out of hand any comments which do not respect the dignity and grace of other readers (to include but is not limited to … me).

I will delete out of hand any comments which violate the rules of logic – see this.

So, I’m done.  I’m going to write and post as I see fit.  If you want to comment, you’re going to have to abide by some rules.  The first one  … Jesus rules here – Love God, Love yourself, love your neighbor … no fear.  Those are Jesus rules.

And mostly I’m sick of guns!!

I have a 12 yo son.  Lately (as in for the past year) it seems as though the only game he and his friends can play is war of some form or another.  They play it on video games.  They play it with nerf guns.  They play it with air soft guns.  He plays it in his head all by himself.  He and his dad watch WWII movies or Vietnam movies.  They talk battle tactics.

I’m sick of living in a culture that is permeated with war and news of war.  Of living in a society where bomb blasts and mourning top the daily headlines.  And soldiering (killing) is glorified.

Literally … it’s making me sick.

I understand why it’s happening … I’m just sick of it.

UPDATE – I had to put my beloved dog of 8 years to sleep very unexpectedly this afternoon.  The comment thread is now closed.

I’m sitting in the rink on an early, early Saturday morning once again, having driven here with a quiet but not sullen pre-teen next to me.  He was eating a bagel.  The pouring rain and inky, black pre-dawn required most of my concentration, but in the quiet times I’ve had recently I’ve been thinking about anger.  More specifically, how we treat anger and gender.  I had a couple of instances recently that brought it to my attention, one is personal and the other happened to a friend.

First, the friend:  Makeesha writes about her anger here – “I have never felt this much anger – ever – and I don’t know what to do with it. I know anger is a secondary emotion and I can identify the primary emotions but I still feel angry and I still don’t know how to stop feeling angry.”  Go read her whole post so you know what’s driving her anger … I’ve only copied the part that’s pertinent to what I’m writing about here.

I had a recent incident with LightGirl’s hockey team in which I had an inappropriate outburst at her new (male) teammates for treating her poorly.  She has a couple of guys on the team who are making life miserable for a lot of kids, but they are using her gender to make life miserable for her and that is steaming me up.  I lost my temper after a recent practice and … well … let’s just leave the details out of it, but the boys in question just laughed.  And, to be fair, I bet I was pretty funny looking.  We talked it through with her coach and it’s being worked out.  But that’s not the point of all this.

I began to specifically think about women and anger.  I don’t think women are supposed to be angry in our culture.  We’re considered either funny or unacceptable in some way when we get angry.  When men get angry, they are frightening and taken seriously. Women are … something else.

The other thing that I’ve been tossing around both in my mind and in conversation (with LightGirl) is the idea that we should “stop feeling” anger (as Mak puts it).  That anger is an emotion to get rid of.  What if it’s an emotion that is to signal that something is wrong (which it is) and it is to give us energy to change that wrong or walk through the wrong (if we can’t change it)?  I wonder a lot about our culture’s desire to ameliorate negative emotions so that we don’t feel sadness or anger or pain for too long.

Which brings me to a quote I heard on a new drama on NBC called “Mercy.“  The main character is being convinced against her will to get marital and PTSD counseling by some friends.  They are giving her all the standard advice about why she should talk about her feelings and her response?  “I like my feelings all pushed down and compressed.  That way they pop out at random and inappropriate moments.”   This is not the way we should live, but it’s the way most of us do live despite all that we know about how to be emotionally healthy individuals or communities.  No one likes to see a sad face or someone with angry eyebrows, so we put on masks for the outside world.  Women in particular are very good at this … and we’re expected to be.  We’re expected to smooth the waters for the family, for any given mixed gender group we are a part of, and when we do not the labels that are attached to us are not complimentary.  To say the least.

So I have not come to any conclusions; I still have questions and wonderings about what role anger should play in our lives.  Should we embrace it?  Sit with it longer and see what it will tell us about ourselves and what we need to do?  Without allowing it to control us (that is).  Do you see things differently than I?  Are women treated the same as men in anger?  Or are they treated differently?  What are your thoughts about all of this?  I’d love to hear them …

I still remember the moment when I first realized that I had a choice about whether or not I could finish high school and get a college degree.

I was about twenty-five years old, living on my own in Washington, DC with bachelors degree in political science and international studies.  I was musing about whether or not to continue on in graduate studies of some sort and it struck me like a lightening bolt … wow.  Education was entirely my choice.  It really was a choice and it was mine to make.  That had never been part of my paradigm before.  Never.  I had always known since I was tiny that I would grow up, finish high school and go to college.  It’s just what people in my family did.  The only question to be answered was, “In what should I get my degree?”

I spent a good deal of time agonizing over that.  I was going to (at various times) study oceanography, be a nurse, be an anthropologist (find the missing link), be an international lawyer, and a variety of other things too numerous to even remember.  When I was in ninth grade my earth science teacher was an amazing fellow who LOVED rocks and was so enthusiastic about them that I still remember most of what I learned in that class.  I still remember how rivers age and what an oxbow is and where glaciers form and what the different kinds of rocks are.  We measured beach erosion by going to the ocean and measuring a beach over the course of 24 hours.  I had amazing teachers and I knew I was in that adventure for the long haul.  So were my brothers.

I can still remember the agonizing phone conversations when my youngest brother was near to graduating from community college.  My parents thought that he might not want to go on to a four year degree and did not want to pressure him into it, but they didn’t want to close that door unnecessarily either.  He, on the other hand, kind of wanted to go and didn’t want to tell them because he didn’t want to add an unnecessary financial burden to their plate.  I had to respect the confidentiality of both parties and yet get them to talk to each other honestly so that they could hear each other because I knew he’d end up where he needed to be.  And he did end up going to a great four year college and got his bachelors degree in Automotive Engineering Technology (designing cars).

My parents understood what I was just beginning to realize.  Education is a choice.  It’s an important choice, but it is a choice.   It’s one that we don’t always appreciate when we’re young.

When I was in elementary and high school the technology did not exist for the President of the US to speak all of the nation’s children at the same time.  The best he might have done would have been a radio address and that just wasn’t done unless it was for emergency purposes back in my time.  The President only addressed adults back then.  Adults talked to adults and (as my grandfather was fond of reminding me) children were seen but not heard.  So I wonder how I would have heard the message that President Obama is going to give the nation’s children in about half an hour.  I think at the time, I would have heard blah blah blah … sort of like all the adults on a Charlie Brown special.  Who wouldn’t stay in school and work hard?  Duh …

Now, though, I’ve lived a little and I know better.  There are a lot of children who live on the crisp edge of the envelope between poverty and riches.  They live teetering between hope and despair.  They live mostly without any good role models of how to do something day in and day out (like get up over and over and over again every morning to go to work).  They don’t have the privilege of living with people who will praise them their good grades or even know when they get them.  Sometimes this is because the parents are working 3 jobs, sometimes it’s because the parents are absent.  Whatever the reason, these children are desperate for a role model who will tell them to keep going.  That it’s cool to stay in school.  And these children are all over.  Yes, most of them are in the projects, but some are in the burbs.  And they all deserve to hear from the Role Model in Chief … regardless of his or her political party, telling them to stick with it.  That they’ll be okay if they just try a little bit harder every day.  This is a good thing.  And I know that the LightKids and I are going to be watching right along with everyone else.

In his own words the Blind Beggar, Rick Meigs is going home!!

Tuesday, August 11, 2009 11:54 AM, PDT

This is Rick sending greetings! Will be going home Thursday and hope to be online more. I’m using a computer at the rehab. center and doing this with left hand, so I’ll keep this short.

Rick Meigs

Two months to the day after his near-death accident, Rick is going home.  He spent weeks in a ICU in Boise, ID.  Two more weeks in a regular ward in a Portland, OR hospital.  Then a little more than a week at nursing home center in Portland and has been in the Rehab center since August 1.

Rick, his wife Fran and sons will continue to need prayer for his continued healing.  That he will continue to be able to carry on his business and that their re-adjustment process will go well.  Most of all that they will be able to lean into the process and rest, just as if they were floating away on Aslan’s breath.