Friday, February 29, 2008

Microclimates of the Self

Alrighty then – Let’s just call an end to this winter, dontcha think?  This week’s snow— theatrically fluffy though it is, and frosting our window sills as picturesquely as a Thomas Kinkade painting— has put most of us over the edge. In the mornings, when the radio announcer scrolls through the school delays and cancellations, you can hear echoing through the neighborhood the parental howl of “Nooooooo!” And even the kids pray for the school bus to come, now that the tally of make-up days is munching into their summer vacation.

I pondered this relentless winter on a recent morning drive, heading toward Chicago on the toll road.  There was just enough glare through the gray Indiana perma-cloud that I could see a striking contrast in the vegetation on the deep cuts in the hillsides.  One side of the road glowed early morning gold, the frost completely burned off, while the other side lay in deep blue shadow, still furred with the night’s ice crystals. It struck me, hard, what a difference a few feet makes, between warmth and chill – and between flourishing, or not.

Maybe because I’ve also been staving off the gray gloom of Seasonal Affective Disorder with splashy seed catalogues, I’ve been obsessing lately about this question of what makes plants – and people – thrive, and what makes us shrivel.  Sometimes the smallest changes – moving a few feet from shadow into the sun—can make all the difference. Fellow gardeners have taught me to map out the microclimates of my yard, since planting a peony a few paces one way or another can herald a June of wild fuchsia blooms or one of barren stems, leaves curled like empty palms.

As with plants, sometimes it only takes a bit of a nudge one direction or another, to make people thrive, too – a move away from a toxic friendship, for example, or toward the beneficial sunbeam of another’s personality or talents. Folks like me dream about the structure of our summer gardens, considering how best to companion-plant some peas with beans, but not with onions or gladiolas (which antagonize the legumes).  I wonder if we’re as careful, though, with our own companionship, taking note of people who leach our soil and curl our leaves – bringing out our worst tendencies to gossip or engage in cruelty or self-destruction— versus those whose proximity make us bloom.  Author Bill McKibben says we need to cultivate what he calls a “romance of limits” to focus on the health of our local surroundings, rather than fetishizing expansionism – more stuff, more MySpace friends!  The notion of cultivating a “romance of limits” for our own emotional health is just as evocative.

When I arrived in Chicago after that cold morning drive, I met a beloved college friend for a weekend of walking, dining well, and emotional catch-up. We took a break for hot tea that afternoon, and as we gathered our mittens and scarves she said cheerfully, “Well, let’s tarry forth!” I have hung onto that wonderfully malapropped phrased—half-way between “sallying forth” and “tarrying.” The idea of “tarrying forth” – of lingering while adventuring together, captures just what I long for from the best companionship, which allows us to hang close in the warmth and comfort of the familiar, and also to grow and change.

Of course, people are not plants – and a good thing, too, since we need not wait for a bird to dine and rudely deposit our seeds elsewhere, or for a gardener or benefactor breeze to carry us to a more congenial location. We can replant ourselves, and weed our own plots.  While we’re dreaming of spring, there’s plenty of cultivation to do.  And here we are – in a leap year – with the gift of an extra day.  Shake off the chill, and dig in.

Broadcast by April Lidinsky on February 29, 2008
Customs & Rituals • Family & Friends • Health • Home & Garden • Nature & Outdoors • Permalink • Printer Friendly

Friday, February 22, 2008

The Love that Dare Not Speak Its Name

The other day I was taking out the garbage and I noticed the seal of our fine city on the trash can.  I looked a bit closer and I noticed that the word “peace” was part of our seal. This is just plain wrong.  I mean everyone knows that “peace” is just another commie plot to make us weak against our enemies.  With a bit of research I found out that this “peace” sign is an aftermath of the founding of South Bend in 1865, and thus the word “peace” refers to the end of the Civil War.  But that’s too much history for my tastes.  We need a new seal to show our strength against our new enemies.  We need a seal that tells everyone how amazing it is to live here.  Enough with all of this endless small talk on the glories of living in a little city in the Midwest.  I want to walk into any bar in America and announce: I’m from South Bend, you got a problem with that?  As luck would have it I think I’ve finally found what I was looking for, and it was right below me.  Namely, we need to christen our city as having the best potholes in America.  I defy anyone, anywhere, to find a city with such a stupendous array of potholes.  This winter, in particular, they have been almost other-worldly in size, depth, and variety.  Who needs to get a telescope and look at moon craters when you can simply walk outside your front door and see one up close and personal?

As I understand it, there are a number of reasons why we have such an embarrassment of riches when it comes to potholes.  First, it’s the weather.  We live in some kind of a climate zone where we get extremes of hot and cold, and thus we get lots of snow, and ice, and then rain.  The constant freezing and melting gets water into the cracks of the pavement, and presto, you’ve got a monster pothole that can turn its deadly charm upon us drivers in a way no WMD could.  As explanations go, I guess this makes sense, but I still feel that if we were on Midwest time we wouldn’t have this weather explanation as a sad excuse.  But I digress.

Now I know that I’m not alone in my awe of potholes.  I heard a story about this German guy who was so taken with our potholes that he took photos of them and sent them back to friends and family in Deutschland to give them an idea of what riches await them in the New World.  I guess these poor folks have never seen a pothole on their Autobahn.  Yes, they may able to drive their Porsches 200 mph on their pristine highways, but I bet they couldn’t handle the mean streets of Edison or Ireland given the potholes on them.  Germans are such wimps.

Anyway, I continued to do some research into why we have such great potholes and then I gave into the darkness.  I am here to announce that I love potholes.  I love the way they look, the way they entice us, the way they make us drive like crazy drunks in order to avoid them.  I love each and every one of them.  I love them in a way that I know is just plain wrong, and yet I can’t help myself.  We all have needs.  We all have desires.  And I am here to declare that potholes are the true love that dare not speak its name.

My confession leads me to want others to join me in my quest in getting potholes on our city seal.  Come out of the closet, you pothole lovers you!  I want you to celebrate this forbidden love and make this a part of who we are.  Surely, you too have had your car swallowed by one of these beauties at some point.  And when you looked at your bent rims and wrecked tires wouldn’t you prefer that your hatred was tinged with love and awe?  I also believe that if we sanctify our potholes, by putting one of them on our city seal, they may even declare a truce with us and our cars.  It’s simple: we acknowledge their godly powers, and that we are their humble servants, and they in turn will not hurt us, nay will even protect us from other demonic forces that lurk in Michiana.  So listen up, good citizens.  Send me some photos of your favorite potholes.  I’ll choose the best one and pass it on to the Mayor’s office.  I repeat: only when we come to love the potholes in our midst will we have peace and tranquility on this earthly plane.

Broadcast by Jonathan Nashel on February 22, 2008
Community • Nature & Outdoors • Permalink • Printer Friendly

Friday, February 15, 2008

The Morning after Valentine’s Day

A decidedly unsappy teen I know reminded me that St. Valentine’s martyrdom involved plucking out the poor fellow’s heart.  This is fitting because some years a ripped-out heart is exactly what Valentine’s Day feels like. Other times the holiday, like a raw oyster, goes down easily once you get started. And then there are those few golden springs when the Fates smile upon you and you are in love.  In those years, V-Day is a Hallmark fantasy of pressed doilies and big red hearts bulging with chocolates and Cupids fluttering by.  It’s enough to make all of your friends quite sick.

And they have every right to be.  Pollsters report that 17% of new lovers believe that pet names like Babycakes or Ca-cute-ums are uplifting to anyone forced to overhear them. An informant tells me that an alarming 26.2% of crushed-out sixth grade boys think a swift knuckle to the ribs makes a good opening move.  Of course some people simply abstain.  As many as 14% of adults chose to skip V-Day this year because, and I quote, “I am just so grateful to be free of that clown.” End quote.  Another 21% say they messed up their last romance but they’re more than ready to try again, please. A happy 6% have figured out how to go on slowly and imperfectly weaving that special someone deeper and irretrievably deeper into their hearts for years after the first blush of romance.  Watch out for these folks – they have trouble with decorum in elevators and on dusky summer evenings in their own back yard.  Now the statistics may not add up to 100% due to rounding, but you get the picture.  Valentine’s Day is one heck of a mixed blessing.

And there could be someone listening right now whose beloved passed away last year, for whom yesterday brought an unconquerable surge of memory and loss. The stakes are high for anyone who takes a chance on love. Thirty-five years into their marriage, one person I know visited her husband in the hospital every day for eleven months before she could bring him back home at last. She would lean close to his hospital bed and hold her finger over the breathing tube in his throat for a few seconds so he could speak.  Imagine!

And here we are, the morning after Valentine’s Day.  The gold-foil box of chocolates is nearly empty, an inch of champagne is flattening in the glass.  Today is like any other day. We nurture the spark and try to keep ourselves alive. But how?

I take a clue from the best thirty seconds of my wedding nineteen years ago.  Halfway through the ceremony one of us – nobody can remember which one – leaned in a little closer to the other.  Just by chance, we had crossed the invisible line beyond which two cannot go without a kiss.  Laughter and applause rose throughout the hall and our friend the minister noted happily that we weren’t following the printed program.  A few minutes later, on schedule and on cue, we kissed again, twice for one price.  Imagine.

Whether you’re with a friend or a new beau or you’re the longest of couples, burn the doilies today and toss the chocolates in the trash. Lean in to listen, lean in to say what you mean, lean in to take care when care needs to be taken.  That’s what we promise to do in weddings and what we know we should do for our friends. Up close, you can know and be known.  If you want to feel alive, lean in.

Broadcast by Ken Smith on February 15, 2008
Customs & Rituals • Family & Friends • Women & Men • Permalink • Printer Friendly
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A random selection from more than 300 Michiana Chronicles -- refresh the browser to see another set:

Joe Chaney -- More essays by Joe

Louise Collins -- More essays by Louise

April Lidinsky -- Microclimates of the Self / More essays by April

Jonathan Nashel -- The Love that Dare Not Speak Its Name / More essays by Jonathan

Jeff Nixa -- Chair Massage / More essays by Jeff

Ken Smith -- The Morning after Valentine’s Day / More essays by Ken

Jeanette Saddler Taylor -- Patrick Henry in the Marching Band / More essays by Jeanette