FISHING REDUX

We borrowed my friends' canoe this morning. Tattered but not battered the old, forest-green vessel with faded wood trim withstood  its passengers as my boyfriend shoved off.  I sat in the bow. The clear, blue lake had become hidden--the closer we got to the shoreline--by trees. Thrust onto the rippled water and the open sky, I began to breathe, genuinely breathe, like Mother Nature had slapped me on the back after being born. The mostly sunny day welcomed us until a cool ocean wind reminded me that although summer had officially begun, we were on Cape Cod. My boyfriend spoke first: "What a gift, living here. Smell that air." We've known each other long enough that we are as in sync as the wind and the water.

The temperature rose enough to tempt painted turtles from the shallows to the top of a smooth rock: two were already sunbathing when another began to make the arduous climb to join the others. Paddling (sporadically on my end to save energy) to find a strategic fishing hole, I spotted above me a large raptor. My boyfriend identified the hovering bird as an osprey which had decided to scan the lake for fish, encouraging for we had hoped to find our share. Then, in the midst of the sunless sky I saw scant then multiple numbers of smaller birds racing toward the osprey to keep it away from their nests. My body may be challenged, but my eyesight has never been sharper.

Myles and I had agreed to "catch and release" and my excitement increased as I remembered why I love the sport. I hadn't been rod/reel fishing in fresh water since I childhood. Handling the live worms or minnows had become as easy as using chopsticks. I used to go down to a nearby stream to catch trout, not much luck when using a bobber in a raging brook, and a stocked pond where I did catch some legal-sized rainbows. Later that year, I learned I'd been fishing in a pond on unmarked, private property, owned by a renowned art museum across the valley. Undaunted, I discovered other fishing holes.

Adulthood brought with it saltwater ventures across the Great Pond, or the Atlantic Ocean, which included ice-fishing in the Gulf of Finland on the Baltic Sea--common dace were the catch and release that day. Almost a decade into the future, across an even bigger "pond," the Pacific Ocean, I successfully attempted deep sea fishing, off a kelong in Malaysia. Our fishing group ate what we caught. But that's another story.

Funny how I lived as a grad student in Missoula, Montana, also renowned for the now classic book (and film), A River Runs Through It, written by Norman Maclean, and I never went fishing! Rafting, yes, and sojourns to nearby lakes to swim; however, not a nibble, other than to eat store-bought trout, cheap then, and fresh--really, genuinely fresh.

So decades later, here, on a pristine body of fresh water, I sat with a high-quality reel and fiber-glass rod, a shiny lure dangling from the tip, ready to resume my once passionate pastime. Only problem, aside from an in-grown belief--fanned by family and classmates--that I had little hand to eye coordination for most sports and casting, chronic medical issues and being slightly intimidated by the master caster sitting behind me, I literally got tangled up in knots. Myles kept saying, "feel the load of the lure," inwardly I wanted to take my oar. . .no, I refrained from launching an attack on my teacher/boyfriend and after dozens of tries, and Myles' loving encouragement, I began to find my rhythm, the "feel."  Around the same time, Myles heard deep-throated "ribbits," bull frogs, sounding for a mate. He paddled closer yet we never saw the bulbous amphibians, as if they wanted to taunt us to find them. Stay tuned for a much bigger discovery later in this blog.

We darted from spot to spot, searching for still waters as we avoided the strengthening wind and ripples, to cast for bass, large- and small-mouthed. Myles has the eyes and nose, "you can smell the bass." No catches for either one of us, though the master fisherman had a few strikes. I had hoped to have re-beginners luck. And yet, I didn't have an inner sense of justice that the experienced sportsmen at the stern hadn't caught anything. Our day had been so wondrous. I refused to let my first lesson be spoiled by the capricious nature of the elusive bass.

One of my friends who had lent us the canoe, met us in the garden as Myles and I clambered up the winding path. I asked if we could change into our swimsuits for a leisurely dip down the road. Larry suggested we swim where we fished, the lake behind us, but I vocalized what I rightly believed Myles had thought: "We'd love to, except we saw a large [common] snapping turtle swimming up from the depths to the shallows." My boyfriend then provided the weight and measures, around twenty pounds of the reptile. Larry laughed as he said he and his wife, Beth, swam regularly in the lake. Still, I was deterred. I rationalized in my head, Of course, the lake down the road had snappers, too. However, even with the practical knowledge I had of the creatures, snappers are nocturnal reptiles which are usually lethargic during the day except when their nests are threatened, having seen large holes dug in my friends' garden where female snapping turtles had attempted to lay their eggs, I stood firm.

I changed into my suit; then Myles and I left the oasis we had shared. I can't speak for my boyfriend's inner thoughts. For me, our decision had been correct not only because of that prehistoric turtle's sudden appearance. No, re-capturing the magic, the unspoken moments that morning would have been a mistake.

Déjà vu had struck me. Years trying to get my parents or friends to go fishing or picnic by a stream--with limited success--had left me spent. I had let others spoil my pastime. Today, I regained hope. Having a close one with me to share the joy helped. I had to decide, nonetheless, whether to be thwarted or encouraged by the cumbersome process of re-learning. Absorbing another memorable day on Cape Cod, returning to a simple pleasure from childhood. . .well, you can guess my choice.

A VACATION OF THE MIND

Princeton mathematician Andrew Wiles was asked during an interview in a PBS/BBC airing of "The Proof" about his process for proving Fermat's Last Theorem. Dr. Wiles replied he took long walks through the woods where he could clear the clutter from his mind, leading to remarkable revelations. Naturally, practitioners of yoga and mediation, and many therapists prescribe long walks or places to escape the noise in your head. My rebellious nature didn't immediately take to this often-made suggestion. And then after a low period, I discovered where I feel most at ease; where the non-stop, left-brain neural processing would seem to go into stasis, and my imagination, right-brain, would be given free rein. Those who have read my book or have followed my blogs may already know where I find inspiration: beaches on Cape Cod.

Even in the middle of throngs of visitors during this late spring, I set up my chair, as I wear my beach hat at Nauset Beach and decompress. No, I don't clear all the clutter from my noisy mind. Instead, I watch what I want to see and listen to what I want to hear. No day is like another. As with the crystalline sand which sifts through your fingers, each handful contains individual grains; only unique when observed closely.

The tide is out, this afternoon, at Nauset, but the harbor seals look more relaxed as they swim 200 feet from shore, as if the shallower water will provide a buffer from a roaming Great White shark. The seals swim in waves, up to six or more at a time, parallel to shore. There are more this year--repelling and aggravating ocean fishermen--and yet the rascals never cease to amuse. One line of seals travels as if it were a train, with a young seal carrying the rear, the caboose.

Farther out the flat, curved horizon--the aperture of the earth--gives me a chill. Why? Maybe because seeing the roundness of our planet reminds me how close to the edge human beings have come. As the eighty degree sun begins to increase my body temperature, a cool wind picks up and then I spot a kite. One multi-color, trapezoid, inflated drifter moves quickly along the shoreline, high in the clear, blue sky with its long tail acting as a rudder. I strain my neck to peek over other beach-goers to find the expert flier, no luck.

Zigzagging ruts carved by the outgoing tide and sand breaks have produced tidal pools. Unlike Skaket Beach's flora and fauna, Nauset's shallow waters hold stones--some ordinary and others colorful, buffed by the ocean's power. The pools are warm, the ocean colder. Brave, early seasonal swimmers are in the surf, but not too far from the shoreline. Strange seeing so few near the sun-kissed sea. Shark sightings have scared even the curious from wading in or splashing their feet.

The break is shallow, at least from where I'm sitting. Mini-pipelines shut down as fast as they start. Peering south, toward Chatham, the breakers are bigger--surfers try to catch a wave but the surf bottoms out. Only a lone skimmer, a tall, lanky teen looking for the best spot to launch his board, has my vote for a successful afternoon.

Then, I turn my attention to the voices. Spurts of conversation: "Sharks have been around for thousands. . ," "I love spinning," to "Did anyone get the Red Sox score?" I am delighted that the inquisitor doesn't have his cell phone to get the answer. A woman in the party holds a pink-cased I-phone, yet her effort produces: "No service, here." I'm thinking, Ah, Nauset, a nature lovers' paradise.

After seconds of smug glee and watching ubiquitous football tossers who almost always pick a spot where they are in danger of hitting a lounging beach-goer, I notice a couple playing paddle ball on the flat sands down the slope from my location. The two are wearing nondescript shorts and t-shirts. This picture begins my next journey. A fashion reconnoiter, you might call it.

Most men, thankfully, are in the retro-trendy long swim trunks, a relief for if I wanted to see their package I'd go to the ballet! (Balletomanes don't despair as I love the performing art and rarely pay attention to the often-padded "spectacle.") Women are wearing a variety of bikinis, a rare string here and there, along with bandeaus; whereas others have chosen tankinis and one-pieces like I have. I've decided to classify these ladies even further as: sun-worshipers and sun-avoiders. The latter numbers greatly increasing with the sun cancer burst.

The swimsuit colors don't impress me this season. Fashion designers should observe towel trends for more eye-catching designs and colors, bad and good. From faux leopard to neon pink stripes; a cobalt blue blanket with stringy fringe to understated solids. Not a repeat among the multitude. I start to believe that towel selection is like numerology or astrology, providing signs about the owner's personality. {Sorry readers I won't describe my towel.}

Quietly and suddenly, on the flats a beach buggy captures my line of vision. The U.S. Park Service driver, most likely a retired vet (the Park Service/National Seashore gives vets dibs on summer jobs) rides along with a wide smile. Unlike the original "buggies," this vehicle has a jeep-like, boxed shape, with a permanent roof, screened rear window and even a yellow siren. At least, the intrusion is peaceful.

A tell-tale sign that I'm at the right place. For, there are hundreds of visitors around me yet very little noise. Whether residents, summer snow birds or tourists, those who come to Nauset share a desire to absorb nature's canvas; to listen, to see, to feel the blessings of the sea.

LAVENDER FIELDS, FOREVER.

Meters away I spot the purplish, tight-knit wildflowers; then across the arid fields we get closer to perfect rows with imperfect sprigs, lighter in color with tinge of silver-gray supported by lime green spikes, standing strong. Like the famous Rosé wines from Provence, the lavender plant or herb gathers its unique aroma the the sun-dried earth. Its scent often found in over-perfumed soaps or lotions, very few of which approximate their source. The genus, lavandula angustifolia or English Lavender is the most prevalent, but the Provençal plant's genus species I refer to in this blog is pyrenaica. Taken from the Pyrenees, I'm assuming. I didn't realize until I researched this article that there are thirty-nine species of the genus found across the globe in mostly Mediterranean-like environs, making the herb even more enticing. 

When I decorated my bedroom, the first color I pulled from Renoir's painting, The Swing, a framed print, formerly my mother's, was lavender. Mother had grown lavender in her terrace garden, not requiring much fuss but stopping my mother in her tracks when she inhale the herbs' genuine perfume. So, I went to a nearby Home and Garden and asked for lavender. After a while they found some sprigs that were younger, fresher, and another bunch of older, aged lavender. I tied them together with a yellow ribbon and hung them on my wall, parallel to the poster but on the other side, upside down of course. Just as dried-flower enthusiasts do during a hot, dry summer.

You see I live in an apartment, so I don't have an outside door or a window that isn't bombarded by delivery truck smog. And I'm not an indoor plant fan, so the Old World sprigs give me a taste of the past, Provence, and nature's beauty. Yes, I've been to Provence, as part of a solo trip around France more than a decade ago. I stayed in Aix-en-Provence and during a tour around Cézanne country I spotted a field. The driver stopped so I could take a picture of lavender in its most famous setting. 

Later, I saw a little known film by Ridley Scott, based on the novel by (A Year in Provence) Peter Mayle called "A Good Year." (To provide context, "A Good Year," in wine parlance, refers to robust bounty producing a great wine that year.) The movie features a tongue-hanging, sexy portrayal by Russell Crowe. Okay, he looks great but his character is an ass for one third of the film until Marion Cotillard--who gives a break-out performance as a smart-mouthed waitress--tames the beast. One of the funnier, recurring moments in the story comprises newly-arriving characters finding dried lavender in flower boxes and dumping the worn purple sprigs into the trash. Unbeknown to these visitors, lavender wards off scorpions, arachnoid family fixtures in the desert-like heat of the South of France. I relay this story because it supplies a thread, albeit a tenuous one, between that member of the mint family and me. Yes, I'm a Scorpio. No, lavender hasn't scared me away. Some days I wonder, however, if the dried flowers on my wall don't complete with the Dream Catcher above my bed, peaceful dreams one night, toss and turn nightmares the next.

Next, lavender's multiple direct uses of lavender have been discussed ad infinitum. An indirect contribution, one I now bemoan, is the flower's infusion into red wine via the terroir or terrain particularly Rosé. Actually, the word-origin of lavender comes from the French, lavandre, meaning "to wash" as in permeating the soil (Thank you, Wikipedia.) And with the onset of spring, I had looked forward to indulging. Alas, between medical issues, including a newly acquired allergy to the histamines in red wine, I've had to forsake drinking the aromatic elixir, for now. Still, I have my lavender.

So when I gaze at those tied, slightly aromatic sprigs that bring a little Provence into my small bedroom, I reflect on the beginnings of lavandula; the charming movie that taught me a lesson and the lavender-infused earth that produce great wines. And, of course, my days visiting Aix-en-Provence: taking in a Renoiresque, picture-window view of a terrace garden at Le Clos Violette; drinking a superb, local red; eating langoustines and picturing those lavender fields that would help produce such a sensuous memory.

[If you'd like to travel with me to France and other places, watch my narrated, scored video at http://youtu.be/RaYwJm9Cz5I , Part One, which includes a story about my serendipitous experience with the earthy driver.]

THE SPOKEN WORD

If memory serves me biographers of William Shakespeare, at least one English professor and several movie characters all conceded that poetry was written to be heard not read. When first introduced to poetry, many like Robin William’s students in “Dead Poet’s Society,” groan when they see a thick anthology on their teacher's desk, dreading the analysis of iambic pentameter and couplets. But in an inspired English class. students, such as those in the movie, needn’t worry.

I was raised in a more oral tradition. We had often heard readings by poets from many cultures, seen Shakespeare’s plays and film adaptations long before I began studying poetry in school. You see, my mother and father didn’t go to college and had haphazard schooling. Dad did go to the American Academy for Dramatic Arts in New York City for one year, then taught English and Drama at a secondary school in upstate New York, where he would he meet and marry Mom.

Mother, the always humble intellect, wrote a Greek play in free verse when she was eleven years old (she couldn't repeat the feat and sadly the work was lost in storage after the Great Depression hit). My Mom also spoke conversational French and Italian from living in Europe before the Depression. She attended a variety of schools until thrust in the working world because of my grandmother's debts. Then Mother would often read on her own the great writers and poets, as well as attend multiple lectures in New York when she could. Years later, Mom would sing French songs and read French stories to me. Both parents were eloquent public speakers; hearing my father read bedtime stories aloud never got boring. Mom loved poetry. Dad was more reluctant. However, their enthusiasm for the spoken word never wavered.

Conversely, my early English teachers tried, unsuccessfully, to go by the book, parsing every line of Shakespeare’s works, T.S. Eliot’s The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, and Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Songs from the Portuguese, etc. When we got to Emily Dickinson, I threw in the towel, and barely passed English that term (1/6 in Junior High, a momentary blemish). What saved me from becoming a “versa-raptor”?(My term for one who dislikes poetry.) An English teacher in high school who believed in playing records, yes the vinyl ones, having his students read aloud or watching movies to give us visual and aural reinforcement of the written verse. Mr. Ingraham also wrote his semester reports adding a quote from Shakespeare particularly suited to his comments, no doubt from his head as he would recite Shakespeare's verse in class. He restored my admiration for poetry and laid the foundation for my writing. 

Later, two events reinforced that love of the spoken word. One summer day walking by St. Bartholemew’s Episcopal Church in New York, I happened to notice a sign: FREE. Jeremy Irons Reads His Favorites, at 12:00 pm. I looked at my watch, 11:45 am, and sprinted inside. Most of the pews had already been filled. I didn’t care. I took my place off-center and couldn’t believe my luck. The English actor had chosen several morsels, including lines from Pinter’s plays, Shakespeare soliloquies and D.H. Lawrence’s poetry, including “The Elephant Is Slow to Mate,” a favorite of mine. Spurred on by an adored professor from college, I had read everything D.H. Lawrence wrote. I listened to Irons' every nuance, each word as if new. In my mind, I can still hear his inflection, cadence, crisp articulation and pure joy.

I wavered from regularly reading or listening to verse for a few years until the inauguration of President Bill Clinton. Along with my mother, we watched the introductions until writer and poet, Maya Angelou, approached the podium. Not surprising, Mom knew of Angelou’s work. Angelou had achieved renown through her memoir, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.  Mom and I sat entranced: Angelou's cadence, inflection, performance, all came together. She mixed serious, societal commentary, using metaphor, and jubilant resolution. When she finished, I shook my head and watched my mother. She continued to watch the screen as Angelou was escorted back to her seat and Clinton stood up to hug the majestic lady. “Mom, wasn’t she magnificent?” I bellowed. My mother said simply: “Exquisite.” Maya Angelou had left my mother speechless, a major victory.

How fitting that an actor from a rich oral tradition and an actress, singer, poet from an equally rich oral history would have shared formative moments in my life. I’ll never forget Jeremy Irons’ lustrous voice and Maya Angelou’s proud resonance. And, where the British, historical precedent of English Literature, particularly in poetry, has waned, the American voice continues, even with the passing of one of our finest songbirds.

OVERCOMING THE INVISIBLE

It's what we can't see that could hurt us. That's my adage for today. Radiators that go bump in the night. Flapping wings of bats in the dark. Cruel schoolchildren that harass. Unspoken derogatory remarks that we know emanate from acquaintances or co-workers who avoid confrontation. From childhood to adulthood, layer upon layer of imagined terrors and snarly slights amass. In some, these imaginings cause neuroses, insecurities that may lead to therapy or constructive outlets. In others, the consequences are more severe. A dangerous mindset develops with denial, suppression of imagination, or overlooking the unknown. Sadly, even with intervention, shunning of the mentally ill by society often brings more violent responses.

Today, I'll return, briefly, to an earlier argument I've made about mental illness and gun legislation. Then, I will look at how those with chronic physical illnesses, often invisible to the untrained eye, who are dismissed as unproductive contributors to society. There is a thread that connects these two issues: an inability to recognize and give credence to the invisible.

The NRA obsessively quotes the "right to bear arms," but what they will not admit is that what they can't see could hurt them. Countries, including Canada, England and recently Australia, Indonesia and Thailand, have enacted strict gun legislation. So, why does the U.S. Congress kowtow to the NRA? For two reasons: first the historical precedents laid down in the Constitution and weighed down by Conservatism that hasn't budged from the beginning. Second, the NRA makes the argument that even with gun laws, people such as the latest mentally ill shooter in Santa Barbara, would find ways around the restrictions.

You see their argument is that no one could predict if a person will snap, and arguably, most psychiatrists would be hard-pressed to disagree. What brings depression and social anxiety to one child, elicits violent anger from another--almost always, in the case of mass shootings and serial killers, boys or men. To those NRA supporters against gun control, without knowing who the enemy is, how can you defend innocent victims from violence by allowing easy access to guns?

And to address the NRA's latest argument that potential shooters would "get around" gun laws,consider gun smugglers. The NRA doesn't appear to care who gets the arms, only that the organization enable the guns to be sold. FBI experts have said that smuggled guns from this country have often been used against American soldiers. Giving anyone access to guns only enables potential shooters to use those guns on innocent bystanders. Just as smugglers use arms against our law enforcers and soldiers.

Yes, loyal readers, I've written about mental illness and violence in America before (read my earlier post: Let's March to a Different Drummer), so I'll move on to my next point. When will geneticists begin to correct the gene that propels men, especially, to overlook what they can't see in front of them? Not only that mysteriously vanished mustard bottle or sandwich meat in the refrigerator, but markers that even trained professionals often miss because they can't immediately see the symptoms, only relying on blood tests to support their diagnoses.

Tests aren't the only answer. Looking at the entire package, the whole picture is the first step. Medicine reacts to violent attacks, as with the Boston Marathon bombings without blinking. But doctors, sometimes for many years, are unable to detect or worse give credence to diseases that aren't obviously symptomatic, such as Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (ME) a.k.a. Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (CFS). According to the CDC, Center for Disease Control:

Chronic fatigue syndrome, or CFS, is a debilitating and complex disorder characterized by profound fatigue that is not improved by bed rest and that may be worsened by physical or mental activity. Symptoms affect several body systems and may include weakness, muscle pain, impaired memory and/or mental concentration, and insomnia, which can result in reduced participation in daily activities.

For those naysayers who have already closed their minds to the illness, if you have read the books Seabiscuit or Unbroken, written by Laura Hillenbrand, or know of them from the former's film adaptation and the latter's soon-to-be released  movie, you may be surprised to learn that Hillenbrand suffers from acute CFS. If you look at her book jacket or the few publicity photos released, she appears to be a beautiful, healthy individual. How could she be ill?

Well, even doctors are quick to say, "There's nothing wrong with you," implying mental neuroses. Funny, but I recall vividly seeing an episode of "The Golden Girls," with Dorothy (the late Bea Arthur) being humiliated by so-called experts who say there is nothing wrong with her, until she finds a specialist who believes her. This episode aired in 1989. Did you know that Susan Harris, the creator of "Soap" and "The Golden Girls" has CFS? Her illness kept her from actively participating in tapings. Men who have been diagnosed include Michael Crawford, "Phantom of the Opera," and producer, David Puttnam, "Chariots of Fire."

The disease, like Parkinson's, MS, and other chronic illnesses has a continuum: from functional CFS sufferers who work a full day then collapse at night, to those who have remissions or recovery such as Cher (Yes, that "Cher"), to those who have learned to pace themselves and live with the day-to-day disruptive fatigue that sometimes severely curtails their lifestyles.

So, for you men and women out there who in your eyes refuse to see that invisible diseases exist, if you choose to watch the highly anticipated film , "Unbroken," think about its director, Angelina Jolie, and the hero, Louis Zamperini, of the story. Angelina Jolie, who when photographed always looks beautiful, has carried with her the genes for breast cancer and ovarian cancer, prompting her proactive, preventative approach to stop the latent diseases in their tracks. And, think about the PTSD that Louis Zamperini, understandably has suffered, though not immediately discovered or diagnosed until years later. Think, again, about the author, Laura Hillenbrand, who wrote the book, "Unbroken" who rarely leaves her home.

Then go back and think about gun control. Remember that child who's bullied and ignored; what he or she could become, even with all the best intentions. Don't give a loaded gun to an invisible threat. Don't assume what's visible is reality.

Moreover, to those of you who have faith in God or a higher being who support the NRA's policies or dismiss invisible chronic illnesses, you may not see your savior but in your mind, along with millions who believe, you have no doubt. That surety, faith, means you have the capacity to understand. Use that same conviction to spare the lives of  future victims, to have compassion for what you cannot see.

"DON'T SWEAT THE SMALL STUFF!"

We all have our share of words, phrases or exclamations that we’ve heard too many times, that put that bur under our saddle. For me it’s the above advice, usually given by well-meaning people who want to reduce my anxiety. However, they rarely put the irritant into context through asking for details; more importantly, these people are often unaware of the vagueness of the expression.

First, “Don’t Sweat,” could be interpreted literally, as in don’t perspire. Instead the intended meaning is: do not get upset. I’ll explore “sweat” farther in this blog. The second part or in grammatical terms, the object of the exclamation, “the small stuff,” makes even less sense. Small implies a quantifier whereas stuff is an uncountable noun. How can “stuff” be “small?” Again, arguably a matter of semantics. What is “stuff” or in its intended definition, insignificant details to one person could be significant particulars to another.

Case in point, money matters: I’ll admit that at this time, like so many in America, my budget is limited. Without divulging too many personal issues while providing a context, I'll say that paying $95.00 a year to take my trash to the dump, up from $85.00 last year, strains my finances this month, thereby curtailing my holiday weekend. I mentioned this to a counselor who quoted the above: “Don’t sweat the small stuff.” Have you ever noticed that people who dismiss, albeit constructively, your concern with that expression often are secure themselves? They have a home, a well-paying job, etc.

Now, those of you who are accountants, financial advisors, or even cost-minded individuals, I can hear you say: “She should have allotted the yearly expense in her budget.” Well, you would need to know more details in order to understand my concern. And that’s the rub. Do you want to hear the explanation? I’d bet no. Telling someone to ignore a problem without getting the back story isn’t helpful. Now, if the counselor had offered: “That is the price you pay for the opportunity to live on Cape Cod,” I would have agreed and moved on.

However, I still have more to say about, “Don’t sweat the small stuff,” so  I’ll focus on the person who offered the advice.  Humor me as I ask you to guess the sex of the counselor. . .and the answer is a woman. Should a person’s sex matter when making a statement about ignoring “small” problems? Of course not, but society has conditioned many to believe women are more detailed-oriented whereas men not as much. True, I’ve had many experiences where men have told me I’m worrying about “nothing” or, better, offer quick fix solutions. So, I did an informal poll of some friends, and they, men and women, said, “Yes,” they’ve used the expression. Thus, among my circle, “Don’t sweat the small stuff,” is unisex.

I have also kept my ears open to public use, call it a casual empirical study (Deborah Tannen, author of The Power of Talk, and noted Linguistics professor, if reading this, please remember this is a blog.) about the declaration but the results were inconclusive. Still, I’ll state the counselor’s sex didn’t make a difference in this case. And since “Don’t sweat the small stuff,” is used regularly, we can surmise, therefore, that the comment has become habitual, arguably, by this time clichéd. Another reason for me to object to its usage.

And then there is: “Don’t sweat.”  The negative contraction and auxiliary, “Don’t” is self-explanatory, but the main verb “sweat” I can’t avoid. Semantically, “sweat” is the meat of the construct. Without “sweat,” we’d be left with, “Don’t small stuff,” more useful as a negative connotation (with a comma included) than about someone who is short, in particular, vertically challenged.

Returning to “sweat,” the problem is, readers, I literally do not perspire—maybe a few beads now and then when hit with a hot flash or high humidity—a rare phenomenon, however. Of course, the speaker’s intended meaning when using “sweat” is: not to get too anxious or obsessive. Well, show me a  person, man or woman, who doesn’t have some anxiety about seemingly unimportant issues, internally or externally (including yoga and mediation enthusiasts) then I will be less critical.

Last, why am I spending precious blogging time on what I’ve concluded to be an overused, inappropriate, and semantic-challenged piece of advice? Well, that’s the irony. At this point, you may be asking yourself the same question per reading this commentary. In fact, I’ll be so bold to state you’re thinking: “Don’t sweat the small stuff!”

LIVING ORGANICALLY IN THE 21ST CENTURY: A Personal, National and Divergent Perspective

We all make assumptions. Reading the above title some would expect an article about food or composting. Naturally, for we all bring the semantics accepted in popular culture to what we read. Language usage these days changes as fast as chameleons, in a sense its organic.. In this blog, I’ll incorporate the dictionary meaning of “organic” not often used, “Forming an integral element of a whole,”(Merriam-Webster Dictionary) with another usage often heard but not listed, “organic” implying “change.”  I interpret the adjective “organic” as being an integral component of Mother Nature and following a holistic path based on  natural rhythms. Earth’s rhythms, not what man has created, nor one group or individual. Only flora and fauna, together as a whole can determine the balance of nature, for nature is organic.

For centuries, mankind has tried to overlook the organics of environment by eradicating, manipulating, exploiting and purporting the rules by which humans and animals should live. Animals have been here to serve us, to dissect so that we may learn their secrets—for example scientists continue to explore the intricacies of vertebrates and invertebrates and behold wonders— and apply those new-found discoveries to ourselves, often and arguably for humane benefits. What has tied the historical roots of the ascension of the homo sapiens to our animal kingdom is our ability to evolve behaviors, and over the eons, mutate, change physically and mentally. Have humans improved? That’s another story. My argument, today, is that if you accept these concepts then you agree animals and people have pre-determined behaviors, are an integral part of a whole, along with having an innate mechanism to adapt to the environment around them, to change. Thus, all living things are organic.

Whichever doctrine you profess, evolution or creationism, the reader cannot dismiss the key word and the organic element of this blog: change. To live organically, is to accept this principle.

Moreover, societal rules that have governed cultures must adapt to our ever-evolving environment. The more people there are, the fewer resources, and the necessity for acceptance, tolerance and living organically. Each of us brings to the world, as adults, environmental and individual experiences that like fingerprints are never the same. We all “change,” to adapt to life’s challenges, for better or worse. One small incident can have lasting affect on how one person sees the world.  

I was raised in a patriarchal household. At times I adored and feared my 6’3 father with broad shoulders and a booming voice, volcanic when angry. In contrast, he would often read me bedtime stories, sometimes of his own imagination, when home from traveling for work. Complex would be an accurate term to describe my Dad. He raised me to believe I could enter any profession, yet he’d always encourage me to believe that the princes in fairytales shouldn’t be dismissed. “Wendy, someday you will meet your prince and get married.” Conversely, my mother would say, “You shouldn’t tell her that.” Her argument wasn’t with marrying—she “prayed” I’d meet the “right” man someday—but the fairytale picture my father had painted, misleading even to her. Luckily, I learned quickly to forge my way, to experience life, to work and enjoy independence. My parents wish for me, in whatever form, however, had become entrenched. Like Bridget Jones, I envisioned marriage as the final culmination. Unlike Helen Fielding’s character in the book and film, I realized quickly not to hold my breath.

Then, one day after years of knowing one man professionally, I began a relationship. Since we’ve met, our time together has been like switchbacks. Each stepping away for fear of being hurt, then reuniting when we accepted what mattered: our love has a basis in  companionship, passion, tolerance, mutual respect and independence. That last attribute has been the hardest for me to accept. My boyfriend has already lived the dream my parents had hoped would happen for me: marrying, having children (his are grown now), as he worked in a venerable profession. Ultimately, however, his divorce, later in life, shattered that respectable bond. More so, what he faced as a child and an adult I couldn’t possibly fathom I would have survived. Losing his parents, two siblings, racial intolerance and so on. I didn’t face family loss and traumatic rifts until much later. I consider myself fortunate.

But when I met this wonderful man I brought with me conventional expectations, confusing role models, and a firm plan as to how a relationship should evolve. Some friends knew my future hopes and encouraged me to remember my life goals, reminding me what I had told them. Not, however, without stating, “Men don’t change.” And that’s my tie-in to my initial discussion. I disagree with the former declaration. I’d rephrase the statement as, “People do change. Life experiences do not.”

To reiterate, what I’ve seen in my lifetime doesn’t compare to my boyfriend’s challenges. He may have forged ahead, but the stains of trauma will never rub off completely. How can I expect him to knock down the wall he’s built in order to survive? Only as life continues, will he be able to chip away the concrete and soften his hardened edges. The wall will never go away; however, he’s made it clear he will strive to become a better person. What shaped the man I love is one part of the organic whole. We all grow, reshape, change to live with others, but ties to our past will never completely be severed. My relationship will not be dictated by what is expected, has been, but what life brings over time. I will finally live, not retreat. Accept change as it comes not force it to my will.

Organic living also means being ready to adapt to evolving cultural mores. Animals must do this or go extinct, and we humans aren’t too far away from that possibility. Our country has never been more polarized. I won’t assign blame or toot the liberal horn. I will say that those who resist the evolution of societal norms and adhere to outdated viewpoints, are keeping our nation from growing, moving forward. 

Albert Einstein’s ubiquitous quote: “The true sign of intelligence is not knowledge, but imagination,” has foretold the political quagmire which exists in Congress and among state politicians: too little imagination, lots of unsubstantiated “facts,” and an inability to move with the staggering economic and environmental challenges, not only in the U.S. but our global community. Unless, these men and women see the world for what it is now, forgetting what has been, being open to what the country could be and change, our nation will stagnate, deteriorate and die, as do all living things that are unable to evolve organically.

The line between organic and technological blurs when scientists discuss improving DNA, inserting microchips into the human brain or genetically altering cells to become stem cells, really a union of organic chemistry, genetics and micro-technology, much of which benefits people.

With that said, technology allegedly keeps humanity moving forward. I disagree. To quote Einstein again: “It has become appallingly obvious that our technology has exceeded our humanity.” I’d like to take liberties with Einstein’s chilling prediction and qualify his assertion:  Dedicated, functional technology has separated the humane from humanity. Man from nature. I’m not going to harp on the etiquette expounded by pundits everywhere—although I wholeheartedly agree with their call for cell phone/smart phone restraint. What I’m alluding to is that the gadgets and devices we use in our everyday lives dismiss our ability to adapt, other than to learn the latest versions of i-Phones or i-Pads.

What happens when the lights go out and you have no generator or cell tower?  Friends, family, loved ones have lost personal fortunes or sacrificed others’ needs so that they could buy a widescreen television, a new smart phone, or a better digital camera every year. When will it stop? A denim jacket I bought in Finland thirty years ago has lasted longer than my laptop computers, needing replacement every three years. We may have modern gadgets at our fingertips but they don’t withstand the sands of time.

More so, there are many who don’t have access to what we consider to be basic necessities, nowadays, including cell phones. Consider the people who need to escape the relentless bombardment of our modern world. Not contestants on “Survivor,” but those who, once a year, get to live closer to nature during the summer. City-folk get it, especially the poorest, e.g. children in New York’s Fresh Air Fund. These girls and boys clamor to smell flowers, climb trees, and swim in cool lakes. Most of these kids don’t take nature for granted as they are burdened the rest of the year with the endless cycles of “must haves” when they would be happiest being able to just survive. How can these children keep up with the latest advances in technology when they don’t have enough food on the table?

Whatever the age, there are also those who resist adaptation. Change frightens people. They’d rather languish than allow for or adapt to nature’s ever-changing world. More scary, however, is that people who hide their heads in the metaphorical sand will encounter catastrophic change as never before, when it will be too late to adapt. And, to live organically, means to live with constructive change, accept change of which we have no control, and not pushing the limits of change to dire consequences. Whether it be relationships, politics or technology, we must return to the building blocks of life. We are one part, in the fundamental whole that is Nature.

We must learn to reassess our viewpoints about our desire to return to the past, to regress and not allow modern developments to smother our imagination. James Lovelock, the English writer, said: “Nature favors those organisms which leave the environment in better shape for their progeny to survive.” Those organisms work with nature, change and adapt for the next generation. They live organically.