WORLD SERIES

Reflection is like shit, it just happens. The older you get, the more you have to reflect upon and even if you don’t go there it will come back around and there you are. On my early morning swims you might think it would get tedious, back and forth, up and down the lanes. I touch the wall with one hand, catch an extra breath in the turn and go the other way. I am generally aware that the water is deeper at one end than the other, changing the mechanics of my turn but it’s a redundant, repetitious exercise. Still, there is nothing boring about it. The mind, at least the one I have, goes into default mode during  autopilot. I pay attention to stroke mechanics and notice changes in the fit/feel of goggles and ear plugs but that only lasts so long. On autopilot, very quickly, something will come to mind that I hadn’t prearranged. Then I let that new thought unreel itself, begging new questions and testing old understandings. By the end of the swim I will have reflected on a dozen experiences or ideas that I hadn’t prepared for. 

This morning, with air bubbling out of my nose, I realized that I didn’t know who won the baseball game last night. It's the last week of October, the only baseball is the World Series and the Kansas City Royals are American League Champions. They beat the New York Mets in 14 innings on Tuesday and were ahead last night when I went to bed. But I’d have to finish my swim before I could find out for sure. I do love baseball; it’s the first game I learned to play. I’m really not much of a sports fan anymore, must have spent that enthusiasm in an earlier life. I keep track of who wins but not compelled to watch them play. 

Swimming on autopilot and I’m thinking about baseball, but that’s how it works. Then another realization, I skew off in a new direction. When I was playing baseball that’s what it was all about, playing the game. You want to win but win or lose, you still want to play. I’d be disappointed when we lost but never unreconcilable. Tomorrow will be a new day and we can play again. I’m out of sync with my peers who live or die with wins or losses, whatever the game. After all, that’s why they keep score isn’t it? I think it goes deeper than that. Those people who fill stadiums in their home colors, immersed in that culture, there must be a need to identify with something greater than they are, to identify with others who mirror the same enthusiasm, loyal to a glorious or bitter end. It’s a tribal kind of thing where you can become a small part of something grand that doesn’t really need you. I don’t object to that principle but I was an average player who kept playing because somebody kept giving me a uniform. Since I was good enough to turn a double play and to hit a hanging curve, I’ve never been a good spectator. If I can’t play, I can read the box score later. 

I have friends who meet on a roof-top bar on Wednesday evenings, smoke cigars and sip whiskey at the end of happy hour. It’s a pretty heady group where conversations go wide and deep. Last night we were all wearing jackets, sitting under a propane heater with the baseball game on the big screen. We weren’t watching the game but then, we weren’t ignoring it either. With a runner on 1st, the Mets batter nailed a hard shot that might have gone through into left field but the Royal’s player smothered it, kept it in front of his body. The predicament was pure. In order to turn the double play, three fielders would have to perform with absolute perfection. Bam-bam-bam; the way the ball moved glove to glove it looked like special effects from a George Lucas movie. Instead of having runners in scoring position, the Mets were set down with no damage done. It’s true, to see the very best do their best, you have to watch big leaguers and I marvel at their skills. Still, I was just a spectator. I had no skin in the game. That was them and it was perfect. I was just me, on a rooftop, jawing with friends. 

I think it’s a throw back to Rome, the coliseum and gladiators. Spectators got to go thumbs up or down, whether or not the victorious gladiator should slay or spare his foe. Their influence gave them connection to the outcome. When sports fans talk about their team they use the pronoun “We” as if their names were in the program. Crowd noise has become the ‘thumbs down’ in an effort to intimidate or complicate communication by the other team. It’s understood. Home teams have come to count on it and I hate it. Professional sport is not sport; they've made a lucrative business out of a kid's game. Our sports heroes are businessmen and the game is serious business. 

It only takes a few seconds for me to process all this rationale as I move closer to the wall, glance at the clock and decide which stroke I want to use on the next lap. I like it when the Royals win but it has little to do with identity. The only team loyalty I recognize is to the University of Michigan. Even then I don’t watch and I don’t fret when they lose. In college, both baseball and football, our coaches played down winning. The message we kept hearing was that winning will take care of itself; that what you need to be focused on is preparation. In my experience the day after was a new day, win or lose.  What was worse than losing was not getting to play. That’s what I took with me from the pool today. 

BOYS & THEIR BOATS

I have photographer friends who plan their photo shoots with surgical precision. I don’t do that. I have a plan, sort of like Christopher Columbus had a plan. I set out in a general direction with something in mind but I often end up somewhere else, in discovery mode. A few days ago I went up the coast to Sleeping Bear National Lake Shore, one of my favorite places to trip the shutter button. I did well enough but ended the day back where I had begun, in Grand Haven, MI. Sunset pictures with the lighthouse and breakwater in the frame are always new and interesting. Some painters paint the same landscape again and again but none of the paintings look alike. Photographs are like that; you can get redundant images but sometimes the photo reveals an undiscovered element. I took lots of frames that were repetitious for the most part but sooner or later you find a pearl. Changing angles, aperture and focal length, I zoomed in and out, shifted framing from vertical to horizontal but anybody who wasn’t inside my head with me would just see the same lighthouse in every frame. In the end, I look for a few particular shots that please me most and delete the rest. I knew I had some good photos to work with and was walking back to the parking lot. The river channel is walled on both sides with a sidewalk and railing at the top. Normally the lake/river level is about 8’ below the top but that day swells were washing over the walkway. I hadn’t thought about it but it was a no-brainer, there would be wind advisories and small craft warnings. It’s mid October; the ‘Gales of November’ are still weeks away but the day’s bluster and blow were a warning of what’s to come. 

The sun was down but the wind was still howling. Cradling my camera in one arm, looking down, I heard the unmistakable, deep throated burble of a big, marine engine, idling it’s way through the channel. I looked up and there it was, too close for the big lens on my camera but no time to do anything but find the boat and press the shutter. By the time I pulled the camera down and looked for myself the boat was passing me by, easing it’s way out into the big lake. I found it again in the view finder and took another frame. What made the moment special was the way it made me feel. The photos are what they are and they’re not bad but the feeling was one that doesn’t come around very often. 

First of all, the boat is special. It’s the U.S. Coast Guard 47’ Motor Life Boat. It is expensive to build and expensive to operate. They don’t send them out on everyday duty. There is a 25’ boat that does just about the same duty, in light seas, for a fraction of the cost. The 47’ has capabilities that make young men forget to breathe and emit guttural sounds that they are unaware of. I think it’s safe to say, every young C.G. recruit comes aboard with the desire to someday, crew aboard the 47-footer in heavy sea. The boat is designed to operate in hurricane conditions, notably on the coast of Oregon and Washington. But the Great Lakes have their ‘Gales of November’ and anyone who takes them for granted may join the many shipwrecks at the bottom of Michigan and Superior. In the event the 47’ boat goes upside down, nothing stops, nobody panics. The boat rights itself in under 10 seconds and the mission continues. 

Second, the boat was so close I could see the crew, perched on the upper bridge; nobody wants to bee down and in. My eyes aren’t good enough to read facial cues but body language was loud and clear. They were excited. They don’t leave this boat moored at a dock. When not in use it rests in a dry dock sitting on the pier, under a hoist that can ease it into the water on short notice. Its aluminum decking is polished and every system has redundant features that guarantee continuous function, even when something breaks. The man in the captain’s chair looked lean and fit, probably a Chief Petty Officer. The others were leaning on framework or hanging onto hand holds and you could feel their excitement. This was probably a shakedown cruise, preparation and rehearsal for the real thing. November will soon be upon us and tales of storms on the Great Lakes don’t need to be exaggerated to boggle the mind. I trust the night’s cruise was a test, not only for the boat but the crew as well. They were prepared and they were excited, I could feel it as surely as if I were on the boat with them. I remember, clear as crystal, sitting by the open door, climbing out above 12,000 ft, nearing the exit point, making eye contact with my fellow jumpers, not bothering to conceal the grin and unspoken excitement. In just a few minutes we would tumble out of a perfectly good airplane, miles above the earth below and free fall for over two miles before opening our parachutes. The recipe calls for good equipment, thorough preparation, pure skill, self confidence and trust in your cohorts. The flash in the eyes and the toothy grin require no other provocation. 

I don’t think it has anything to do with gender. I know women who stretch the envelope with skill and risk, with purpose and preparation so the fact that there were no women on board is irrelevant. But in this case it was boys and their toys. I spent a few minutes not having to look back at them as they disappeared beyond the breaking waves. I identify personally, my excitement for them and their quest was almost equal to theirs. I love the Coast Guard, have for a very long time. It is the only service whose ultimate purpose is absolutely noble, to rescue and preserve life rather than to neutralize or destroy the enemy. I drove by the Coast Guard dock the next day and the 47’ boat was high and dry in its sling. When they came back in they had to be tired and ready for a break but I'd bet the grins were still in place.

I WAS THERE

When our sun turns red and swells up like a clown's nose, after the oceans have boiled away and our atmosphere has outgassed, leaving earth breathless and void; whatever it is that we have done here won’t matter much. I understand that true believers and holding out for immortality but I’m a skeptic, content here in the moment. Yesterday I drove in the dark just to be in a particular high meadow for sunrise with camera in hand, soaked shoes and socks on my feet and at least an idea of where and what I wanted to do. The light is never what you expect so you improvise. Discovery is part of the process; when, what you stumble over isn’t what you were looking for but it delights you in a simple revelation. If you get one great photo in a day, it’s a good day. My morning had been good.

The forecast called for rain in the afternoon and it was raining. The drive back down the lakeshore would be an easy three hour trip and I thought about all the possible detours I could take, just to change the scenery. In Frankfort, Michigan I noticed the wind had come up with whitecaps spilling over the breakwater. As an afterthought I reasoned, I could get back to Grand Haven in time for sunset photos so I got back on the freeway and set the cruise control. When I arrived there were several photographers with their tripods already set up in the sand. The wind was whistling out of the west at 30-35 mph and 10 ft. swells were pushing up the river channel. There was still the better part of an hour to kill before sunset but there was plenty of action to work with. Digital photography allows for as many frames as you care to review. The cost of film and dark room is no longer a limiting factor.

A dozen surfers were working the waves on the south side of the pier. Lake Michigan water temperature should be around 50 degrees in mid October and the thought of jumping in, wet suit or not, gave me the He-Be-Jeebies. Two or three times a minute a big wave would dead-center the pier head, sending a wall of water up and over the top of the lighthouse. I started taking photos. Holding the camera steady wasn’t a problem but standing still in the wind was. As the sun sank lower the light changed, settings changed and the same view offered a new look. As the gold hues faded and the sun sank below the horizon, the sky went blue again and the bronze reflection coming off the side of the pier gave way to silver. I kept shooting, around 300 frames in twenty minutes. 

When that day does come and earth sighs its last sigh, the fact that I took photos on the pier at Grand Haven won’t mean anything. The fact that sunset after sunset people are drawn from all over the world to that beach won’t mean anything. But it means a lot to me in the present; I was there. I was there with the wind in my face, keeping water off my lens, and timing, getting the timing right. Whatever it is that gives us pure joy in the moment will have been the reality and I was part of it. Regardless of whether or not it gets written, the history of this earth will include a footnote that I was there at Grand Haven Lighthouse, taking photographs and it was awesome. 

WIESEL

“I write as much to understand as to be understood.” This quote is a favorite, going there to weigh ideas. It’s like assembling a jigsaw puzzle; you can’t perceive the whole of Denali or Grand Canyon in little pieces. It requires a construct that has been debugged, one that has continuity. What I take from Elie Wiesel’s observation is; sometimes I have to discover what it is that I’m about and writing is an humble means of exploring the animal. 

All I can bring to a conversation is what I draw from inherited DNA and from what I have acquired. That’s it; that’s all there is. Since we are all unique in both heredity and experience, it’s no wonder we have different views on so many issues. Then, our culture has a way of pounding square pegs into round holes so that we conform without thinking at all. There is a lot of that going on with a 24/7 media barage of polarized politics and fundamentalist religion. 

When I was in graduate school I had to take a no-brain education class that lost its way and became a very good philosophy class. We took on the idea of ‘Thought’.  What does it require to think? The professor made the distinction between thinking and remembering. He suggested; thought requires we consider old meanings in new or different context to come up with modified or new meaning or, use new information to formulate new understanding. In either case, if you’re not after something new or different, it’s just remembering. If all we do is reinforce old correlations and old meanings we ignore the possibility for change and that’s not thinking. Neil deGrasse Tyson suggests five simple rules for getting at the truth.

1. Question Authority; great start, straight from Buddha. For certain, question the good judgment of your leaders and of long established tradition.
2. Think For Yourself; Question yourself (think vs. remember) The fact that you want to believe something should send up a red flag. Believing doesn’t make it so and we are vulnerable to what makes us comfortable.
3. Observe, Experiment and Analyze Evidence; It’s not an ideology; it's a process.
4. Follow The Evidence; when the evidence conflicts with what you want to believe, stay with the evidence; the other option is blind leading blind. Popular opinion is a leaky boat without a rudder.
5. Remember - You Could Be Wrong; quest for truth doesn’t end with the last fact.  When you learn more or better, you change accordingly. Truth is a moving target, as much in the way you get there as it is an answer.

I have friends on both sides of popular issues who believe they are thinkers but are in fact culturally programmed rememberers. They take comfort in sound bites that were crafted by lackeys, in closed meetings, paid for by leaders, who see leadership as a mandate to do as they please. When you are out of sync with both sides in a mainstream debate you feel lonely. I am stuck on an issue nobody else considers an issue. It is so fundamentally ingrained into western culture that it never, ever comes into question. The sanctity of human life is both a moral conviction and a cultural premiss that elevates human beings to something slightly less than God.  In that rarefied air, the value of any and all human life is intrinsically sacred, precious, requiring a high degree of dignity. From experience I understand how cultural pressure would have us believe it. Along with sentient, self awareness comes a self obsessed ego, vanity, conceit and selfishness. The sanctity clause goes a long way to soften the guilt of human hubris. It plays straight into Deist religion, appealing to the same self absorbed mentality. We are so special because of who we are and our sophisticated attributes that everything else in creation can be subordinated. Whatever we want to do with or to anything, we are so near God-like that we are justified. That stretch is too much right now for me to get my head around. 

The minute you step back, and you do have to step back,  to consider the alternative, it scares you to death. We are animals. We are animals with uniquely evolved features, skills and mind. We have been able to fashion for ourselves in just a few thousand years a world that not only favors human sovereignty but discriminates systematically against anything that appears to be an inconvenience. In the short span of our species line we are at the two year-old stage, just learned how exercise our own selfish whims. We have developed a pecking order among ourselves that waxes righteous principles on one hand and practices genocide on the other. Buried somewhere in the human, collective conscience is a need to feel justified in what we do. At the root of all religion is the principle of, ‘Do unto others . . .’ But jealous, angry Gods conveniently leave wiggle room to do whatever you must to satisfy your appetite. We are animals and we value human life only as long as it suits our immediate need. The idea of sanctity, if rescinded, would not diminish humanity. It would elevate all life, from whales and elephants who demonstrate human behaviors too complex to be dismissed, to algae, even bacteria. Life is shaped by a magical, natural process. Energy and matter combine in systems that not only metabolize raw materials but use them to replicate themselves. The Bible gets the ‘Begat’ part correctly. 

So, what does this mean to me? I am human and I can’t change that, even if I wanted to. I see too many flaws and inconsistencies in the ‘Sanctity of Life’ model to believe in the ‘God-Religion’ construct but I understand why everybody else does. I’ll keep questioning myself, keep looking for new, better information. But this life is way-too short and I’m way-too far along on its journey to expect much. So I’ll go with the wind that blows ‘Do unto others . . .’  and I’ll hold onto the collective conscience that favors cooperation to competition. This life is the only one I’ll ever know and most of it is spent. What I have left I want to feel good about after all, I am human. 

'PLACE IN TIME'

Back in the early 90’s I helped supervise an 8th grade field trip to Mount Washington Cemetery in Independence, Missouri. We were recording dates, epitaphs, family names, etc. for a social studies project. Tucked away near the front entrance was a memorial and head stone for James Bridger. I recognized the name; the 19th Century mountain man but knew little more. Curiosity moved me to read his biography, a great read, full of facts, details, a large part of western history. His story spans a period roughly from the Louisiana Purchase to several years after Custer’s defeat at the Little Bighorn. Born in Virginia, as a youth he had been indentured by his father to a blacksmith in St. Louis. The 17 year-old saw no future in St. Louis and stole away with a hundred other volunteers on General Wm. Ashley’s Upper Missouri Expedition. It was 1822; other fur companies were working the Missouri and its head waters and Ashley wanted part of the action. His, Rocky Mountain Fur Company, often referred to as ‘Ashley’s 100’  was a grand adventure. Besides Jim Bridger, other volunteers on that expedition who achieved fame as mountain men were Hugh Glass and Jedediah Smith. Bridger was able to prevail for over 40 years in the Rocky Mountain wilds as America moved west. Trapper, explorer, guide, scout, trader, businessman, his accomplishments are legend. There were many like him, who turned their backs on civilization in favor of a solitary life, physical hardship and constant danger. But it was Bridger who literally watched it all unfold and returned to tell his story. 

Joseph Campbell died in the 1980’s but still gets the nod when it comes to myth and mythology. His book, ‘Hero With A Thousand Faces’ details the hero’s journey, the making of a hero. In ancient pre-history the hero was usually a warrior who goes out to fight the dragon or the enemy. That ‘Going Out’ may take many years to complete. In the process the warrior experiences perilous encounters and returns a changed man. In the end, the hero is revered more so for his wisdom, leadership and life changing influence on his people than for the winning. Campbell’s model is just that, a model, not the rule. Heroes have no gender requirement and the journey may be internal, intellectual, emotional or psychological rather than physical. It’s all about the ‘Going Out’, the ‘Journey’ and the ‘Coming Back’ a different person, experienced and revered. If this is the measure of a Hero, then I submit that Jim Bridger is a hero of the highest order. 

On a road trip in 2007 I stopped in the little town of Fort Bridger, Wyoming. When JB returned to Missouri in the mid 1860’s, Ft. Bridger was refitted as a military post. A small town sprang up around it that still exists. The army fort is the basis for a state park. Besides the old army buildings, a short walk to the edge of Little Black’s Fork, a replica of the old trading post has been rebuilt on the same spot where Jim Bridger traded with the indians, where pilgrims stopped for supplies, repairs and advice. I spent several hours there. Nothing remained of the original structure except enough evidence of old footings to be sure the new version occupied the same space. But the cross-log construction, mud chinking and sod roof are convincing. One building houses the trading post and the blacksmith forge; the other was Bridger’s living quarters and storage space. 

There is something about ‘Place’ in ‘Time’ that allows us to touch the past. Wherever I may be, in that moment, everything that happens there belongs to my experience. It is my Place in Time. But time is made up of fluid moments that pass so quickly the only way you remember one is by what happened in that split second. Place on the other hand is concrete, fixed so you can return to it later and recall what happened there, imagine what certainly took place in someone else's time. First Nation’s people who still honor the ‘Old Way’, have their own sacred places, some from the history of their ancestors and some from their own personal journey. Even though you can’t restore the moment, a sacred ‘Place’ can rekindle old flames. It works for me all the time. Just a few weeks ago I sat in the sand at Red Wall Cavern in Grand Canyon. John Wesley Powell, 145 years earlier, the one-armed Civil War veteran explored Grand Canyon in a wooden oar boat, not knowing what lay ahead. He did it right there under the same canyon walls, the same stretch of water, stopping at the same beach where I sat. It is a special place both in Powell’s experience and in mine. Across time we felt the same sense of awe for Red Wall Cavern and I loved it. Two weeks ago I stopped again at Fort Bridger. I stood at the bellows of the forge and imagined him repairing broken wagon wheels. I passed through the gate where a Mormon party passed, sent there by Brigham Young to murder Bridger. But he had been warned and was not to be found. 

I would not want to live his life, exciting as it was; who would want to wade icy streams, fight off wild animals and go without a tooth brush for a lifetime? But I do try to identify with his adapting to conditions as they change. He was a renowned storyteller and I connect with that. We, JB and I, have shared the ‘Place’ connection three times and each time I’ve come away a little richer. If I need a Hero, I don’t need to look any farther.