Just Musing

This week I was summoned for jury duty.  The case itself wasn’t especially interesting—possession of .02 gram of cocaine in a seedy lounge where the prostitutes hang around out back and a body was found about a month ago.  The cop had one story, the defendant had another, but regardless, a parcel containing a controlled substance was found on the floor.

Though the crime wasn’t the stuff of TV drama, I found the process fascinating.  The control of information was constant, and it was one of the few places I have ever been where the subtext was consistently as loud as what was actually said.  I might as well have had two people speaking to me at once.

The day began with questioning of the jury panel–they call it Voir Dire–but  in this case there was as much teaching as questioning.  Like those “Guess-the-Magic-Word” classes we all remember, nothing was completely straightforward.  Simple explanations were followed by a question to see if you were paying attention:   “The law says that you must prove three things to convict.  Now if only two of those things are proved, how will you have to vote, guilty or not guilty?”   There were questions with extra information included so we would learn things that might move our sympathies:   “Does anyone know the defendent?  Do you know his friends or family sitting over there?  Does anyone know his three children?”  (Ahh, so he’s a father, not just a bad person.)  There were questions with a moral lesson attached:  “Drugs are a serious problem in our community.  Do you have any problem convicting someone who is in possession of an amount smaller than one gram?”

Then came the trial.  During a trial every question is “going somewhere.”  Everyone is trying to steer the bus with their words, and as I sat on the jury I felt I was watching to see where we would all be taken.  Sometimes there were surprises.  Sometimes the person who seemed to be driving lost control for a minute and the testimony took a turn and we wound up in an entirely unexpected section of town, so to speak.  You couldn’t listen without dissecting the spin.  No one could be trusted.  Everyone had an agenda.  “Why are you asking this question, in this way, at this time?  Why are you answering in this way?  What are you not saying and why?  What does it all mean?”

But if the process was fascinating it was also exhausting.  The endless parsing of communication was wearisome.  It played with your mind.  It was irritating.  We ended with a hung jury after a long day.

What a great relief to return to my normal everyday life:  to ask a simple question and have it answered without wondering what was not being said.    I’m glad we have this system of justice, but it is surely a strange way to look for truth.

There was one other thing that made the day a bit surreal.  The local courthouse is a beautiful historical building, over a hundred years old and decorated with eagles, the Greek and Roman goddesses of justice,  and America’s Lady Liberty. Nothing unexpected there, but on the third floor the courtroom door pulls are all Tiki gods—just like the ones you would find on a Polynesian restaurant or Tiki bar.  Try as I might, I just can’t figure that out, but there has to be a story.   Maybe someday I’ll get a chance to ask the judge.

This summer my daughter conquered her fear of roller coasters.  Two friends each grabbed hold of a cold, sweaty hand, and together the three of them walked onto the Steel Eel and rode it—twice.  It was terrifying.  It was exhilarating.  But after that her life was changed.  Several weeks later she went to another theme park and spent the entire day riding the rides.  And she loved it.

Now I have to admit, I hate roller coasters.  In fact, I pretty much hate any ride that involves a drop or the sensation of falling.  You may call it flying, but to me it always seems like falling—and that is Bad.   It’s a trick of mind that I can’t accomplish.  You have to believe in coasters to enjoy them. You have to believe that that the design is sound, that the technology will not fail, that the maintenance guy really did his job, and that the operator is paying attention.  If you cannot believe, then the ride becomes a nerve-wracking rush of possible failures narrowly averted by sheer good fortune or the grace of God.  You’re falling not flying, no matter what people tell you.   And when it comes to coasters, I simply can’t believe that it will be all right, much less an occasion for fun.

Sometimes I imagine that change feels this way to people who are afraid.  I thought about this while reading a recent review of Richard Holmes’ The Age of Wonder in Time Magazine. Lev Grossman, the reviewer, recounts this anecdote from the book:

The world’s first manned balloon flight took place on Nov. 21, 1783, in Paris. The balloon was blue and gold and 70 ft. (about 20 m) tall. It had no basket. You rode on a kind of circular balcony that hung around the balloon’s neck like a collar. This meant that there had to be two passengers, for balance, and they had to stay on opposite sides of the balloon at all times.  The two men in question were Jean-François Pilâtre de Rozier, a young doctor who was exactly as dashing as he sounds, and the Marquis d’Arlandes, an army major….

They couldn’t see each other because the balloon was between them, so they had to yell back and forth. As the giant aircraft careened wildly over the roofs of Paris and the two men frantically shoveled straw into the fire that kept it flying, the marquis became more and more hysterical. “We must land now!” he yelled. “We must land now!” Pilâtre stayed icy calm. “Look, d’Arlandes,” he said. “Here we are above Paris. There’s no possible danger for you. Are you taking this all in?” But the marquis couldn’t take it in. When a gust of wind jostled the balcony, he screamed, “What are you doing! Stop dancing!”

Eventually, after 27 minutes aloft, they landed safely. D’Arlandes — according to his own account — threw himself out onto the grass. Pilâtre just stood there. “We had enough fuel to fly for an hour,” he said sadly.

“What are you doing! Stop dancing!”   I can understand how, when change is jostling you from side to side and everything seems to be rushing at you faster than you can possibly comprehend or control, a person might feel just like I do on a roller coaster:  falling, not flying.   Not having fun.  And a bit angry at the people who seem to think this is no big deal.

Navigating change probably also takes a kind of faith—in technology, in history, in the other people who are trying to get you on board,  in your own abilities to learn and cope.  Faith in the good things that change can bring.  Faith that ultimately it will be okay—maybe even fun.

Belief is a tricky thing to manage.  You can’t convince someone of the logic of faith.  You can’t make yourself believe.  Sometimes you’re not even sure exactly what to believe in.  You may look objectively at whatever evidence is present, but in the end you just have to jump in.  Maybe find a friend to take you by the hand.

“Here we are above Paris…. Are you taking this all in?“

An outbreak of swine flu at summer camp reminds us of our mortality.  You should tell your friends how much they mean to you when the opportunity arises, because you never know when one of you may be suddenly stricken, and taken away, and someone else will be packing up your stuff.

The other day as I was listening to NPR, I learned of the death of Edwin Schneidman, a pioneer in the study of suicide and founder of one of the nation’s first suicide prevention centers.  Working at a time when the study of suicide was shunned, Schneidman believed that two simple questions — “Where do you hurt?” and “How may I help you?” – could begin to diffuse the impulse to self-destruction.

For me, Schneidman’s insight demonstrates a simple, but enormously powerful truth:   a question is a mysterious thing.  A question is a turn of language indicating an empty space, something unknown and desired.  It reaches out of the self to touch another person or thing—to unlock a door of isolation and pain, to see the past, to explore the present, to search for God.   Questions direct our inquiry, leading us forward like pathways through the underbrush.  Questions inspire us, provoke us, prod us to action.  They are tools, they are weapons, they are instruments of love.  Questions can make us believe that someone wants to know.

People think a great deal about how to phrase questions to facilitate the smooth and effective exchange of information.  How can we learn what we really want to know?  How can we get someone else to say what they really want to tell us?  How do we ask a good question?  A precise question?  An open-ended question?   A pointed question?

But the real mystery is the question itself.   Where does the question come from?  How does it work?  And can it bridge the space from me to you?

If you travel around Texas, you’ll likely see signs reminding you to “Drive Friendly” (it’s The Texas Way).  And for the most part, people here do drive friendly.  I haven’t had anyone honk at me or make rude gestures in my direction since we moved, but land o’ Goshen, these folks drive impatient!   If Texans had made an appearance In Dante’s Inferno they’d be driving subcompacts with no air conditioning and waiting in long lines. This is the only place I’ve ever been where someone facing you across the intersection and turning left as you turn right will routinely make their turn at the same time you do.  (“There’s two lanes, why shouldn’t we go at the same time?”)   It’s also the only place I’ve ever seen anyone in the second position of a left turn lane make their turn without waiting for the first car in line to go.  Stuff like this will take you by surprise, but you can get used to it.

Folks in Texas will push you.  Even in the grocery store, if you don’t put that order divider down on the conveyer belt the instant after you pull your last item out of the cart, you will find an arm reaching clear across your groceries and deep into your personal space to grab that little bar and plop it down between you.  Now they’re friendly here, so they may apologize afterwards–but seriously friend, why are you takin’ so long?

I don’t know why Texans are like this.  On the face of it, they seem a lot more laid back than the Northern Virginians I grew up with.  Maybe it’s because of all that horsepower available at the tap of a foot in a Ford F-250.   Or maybe it’s because they’ve got so much distance to travel getting from one place to another in the Lone Star State—they’re just trying to make some time.  Or perhaps it’s a remnant in the collective memory of those cattle drives to Abilene—a voice deep within cryin’ “Get along little dogie!”

Whatever the reason, when you come to visit (and we hope you will) you’ll know what to expect.   Maintain your speed, keep checking your rearview mirror, and always remember to Drive Friendly.

So much of what we do in the kids’ library biz is “push.”  “Check out this great book!”  “Come to this great program!”  “Use these great resources we have available!”  We’ve got posters and displays (so many words!), and, while pushing literacy and library use is what it’s all about, I’ve been thinking lately that maybe we need a little balance.  Maybe we need more white space on the page.

I suppose the question I’m asking is “What sort of cognitive activities do we want to encourage and provide space for?”  Curiosity?  Contemplation?  Synthesis?  We support a lot of information-seeking behaviors, but I’m wondering:  Could the library provide a place for children to learn on their own?  Discover something new?  Be alone with their own minds for just a bit?

I imagine a space children would have to choose to enter, separate from the stacks.  There they might color quietly, or read, or look at prints of famous art on the wall or famous places-maybe with plants or some fresh flowers now and again-maybe a sculpture.  It wouldn’t be a museum or a classroom or a quiet study room or a Borders.  It would be an interesting relaxing space.  No computers.  No displays (although maybe some books and magazines just sort of ‘lying around’ in case you felt like picking one up).  It would look a little different the next time you came in.  Familiar, comfortable, hospitable, quietly stimulating.

A Discovery Place.  A Comfy Corner.  A Thotful Spot.

Today I came across a toy that sparked my imagination—without my even touching it.  It’s the Bilibo, a brightly-colored shell described as “a companion for children.“  Here’s some of the copy off their web site:

“Relying on the child’s imagination and passion for playing, an object was created with no specific function nor a single way to be used.  Bilibo encourages the children to become inventors themselves, to become active and creative instead of simply consuming ready-made ideas.”

I watched the video of children playing with the Bilibo and found myself wishing,  “I wish I could play like that.”  Not that I wanted a toy necessarily, but wouldn’t it be great to come across something that would free your brain in this way?   I can’t say that there are no prompts for creativity in daily life.  There are lots:  a computer?  a little black dress?  a lump of clay?  a refrigerator full of odds and ends?  If you’re looking for prompts, the world is full of them.

But…when I see the children at play in this video I remember how much fun it was to ask the question “What can you do with this?” and then just explore.  Somehow that question gets lost in the adult world.  When confronted with an unknown object we more often ask, “What is this for?” or  “How do you use this?” and those are very different questions from “What can you do with this?”  They are tool questions, not toy questions.  And while you can ask both kinds of questions of the same object, it seems to me that tool questions presuppose that someone else will supply the answer.   When you ask “What can you do with this?” it’s up to you and the object to find the answer–maybe many answers.

I like figuring things out.  I like learning how to use a new tool, although I admit, sometimes the endless march of grownup tasks to master can get a bit wearisome.  Maybe when that happens I need to bring some different questions to mind.  Think more like an explorer or an inventor.  Maybe I need to see the play that’s latent in the world around me.

Sunday evening: black sacks of yard waste piled at neighboring curbs, trophies of the weekend’s work.

Count to see who has the most.

I like to watch people work.  I like to see how they make things.  I like to see their hands molding and cutting and shaping.  I like to see their minds made manifest through their actions.  I like to see a new thing created, a broken thing repaired. I like to see a process unfold.

I want to know, “How did you do that?”  “What chords did you play?”  “What spices did you use?”  “How do you work that thing?” And while I always have questions, it’s not entirely about the “how-to.”  For me, watching people work can be like following a skier down the slope: you feel the doing; you lean as they take the curve.  At other times, it’s like watching a great conductor give shape to thought and sound—it’s a way in.

There is marvelous pleasure to be had in watching people do something well.  You get to know them a bit.  Lately I’ve been peeking in on my friend Elizabeth Seaver’s artistic processes over at her blog.  Elizabeth is always turning things over.  Reworking them.  Trying new media.  Mixing things up.  I hope you’ll take a look; click around a bit.  Watch her work.

When I was a child growing up in Northern Virginia, the Vietnam war occupied a sizable piece of my emotional real estate.  I remember the boy at my school whose father didn’t come home from the war.  I remember seeing the casualty counts on the evening news.  I remember the pictures in Life magazine.  I remember vividly the bewilderment and anxiety I felt over campus riots and the Kent State shootings—events that seemed especially close because my mother had attended Kent State and that made it a real place.  I couldn’t really understand it all, but I remember feeling that everyone should be doing something to make the chaos stop.

At some point someone, my mother I believe, gave me a necklace of Lorraine Schneider’s poster “War is not healthy for children and other living things.”  The poster was the logo for the group Another Mother for Peace, which in 1967 sent Mother’s Day cards to President Lyndon B. Johnson and the members of Congress urging them to talk peace.  The image caught on and was soon found on jewelry, posters, badges, and bumper stickers, although it never became as popular as the ubiquitous peace symbol.  I didn’t have a lot of peace symbols up in my room or decorating my notebooks, but I did like Schneider’s design.

I wore the necklace often. Its message that “war is not healthy for children” made me feel safer—it validated my anti-war sentiments, and it gave me a way to speak out though I was never an anti-war activist.  I was too young, and maybe too nice to march in the streets, but my necklace expressed both the fear that I felt as a child, and the protest that my teen self longed to make.   I wasn’t trying to rebel against the Establishment or bring down the Government.  I just wanted the grownups in charge to come to their senses.

I’ve kept the necklace ever since.  A lot of other big pendants and funky necklaces have long since passed out of my jewelry collection (even given the cyclical nature of fashion, I just couldn’t be that person any more), but I’ve held on to that big gold rectangle.  And when my own daughter started asking me if she could borrow it (since unfortunately, war is also cyclical), I did what any mother would do these days—I started searching the web so I could buy her one of her own.  Turns out that Schneider’s daughter, Carol, and another child of the original AMP founders have revitalized the group.  They’re a non-profit, non-partisan organization dedicated to educating citizens to take an active role for peace.  If you’re of a mind, you can visit them here.

It’s hard to explain why this particular peace message is as important to me as it is.  It could have been just another slogan from the 60s and 70s—another bumper sticker to post and move on.  But somehow it became something else; it became part of me.  And it pleases me that my daughter chose this piece out of the crazy jumble in my jewelry box.  A mom is always hoping to pass along a few bits to her kids: be kind, pick up after yourself, be curious about the world and other people, remember you are beautiful and you are loved.  And don’t be afraid to be a friend of peace.