The results of my year long experiment as a tosher

Growing up, I embarked on a number of interesting collection quests. After becoming an environmentalist in elementary school, I organized "litter patrols"with my friends next door around the neighborhood, seeing who could collect the most rubbish by the end of the afternoon. Later in Middle School I spent lunch and swim meets digging through garbage bins, looking for cans, bottles, and plastic to put in the recycling bin (and for good measure I cut the plastic rings in which the six-pack soda bottles came). This behavior stopped just before high school, but so potent must the memory have been that when senior year rolled around my classmates voted me "most environmental" in the yearbook, the one distinction I earned in that publication.

In addition to the environment, I've also loved coins for many years; the old ones for their history, the foreign ones for their exotic designs, and the new ones for their value. About the time I started doing litter hunts and garbage bin dives, I also started collecting coins when they appeared in my path. The old and foreign ones I put to the side for periodic viewing, but the new ones went into an old fanny-pack which I called the "college fund." It seemed only natural that an environmentalist interested in sustainable energy and living practices would also take an interest in sustainable finances. And it was during those long litter hunts and treks through the garbage that I started finding coins in plenty. Thus a new habit was born.

The old "college fund" topped out at about $80, which I suppose isn't too shabby. I stopped consciously collecting while in college, though a jar in the bedroom somehow filled with coins during those years. And after graduation when a real job could not be found, I thought well, what the heck right, I'll run around the neighborhood and pick up coins I spot on the way.

Thus the "running salary" was born, and from May 2011 until December 31st of the same year I netted in this way $10.87. Not too bad for fresh air and exercise. This spurred the idea for an experiment, the very experiment about which this post is written: if motivated and focused, how much could one find in the course of an entire year? The idea is not without antecedent. The Smithsonian Magazine ran a piece on London's Toshers in the 1800s, fellows of surprisingly ruddy health who secretly entered the London sewer system in search of coins and junk for sale. We probably wouldn't know about these curious fellows were it not for the sociologist-before-sociology Henry Mayhew (1812-1887), a social reformer who detailed the ways of life of many fringe groups in London for his 1851 study London Labour and the London Poor.  I learned of the Toshers rather late in the course of the experiment, but immediately I felt a bond with their adventurous profession.

In any case, one year later and the results of the experiment are in. In 2012 I found 59 Quarters, 117 Dimes, 44 Nickels, and 459 Pennies, for a total of 679 coins, or $33.24. In 366 days I averaged 1.85 coins per day, $2.77/month, with an 8.7% chance of finding a Quarter, 17.2% of a Dime, 6.5%  for a Nickel, and 68% for a Penny. In addition I found $15.00 in paper bills, but I spent those on train fare so they aren't counted here.

On the whole I would say the experiment was a most interesting and enjoyable experience. I passed many hours outside, roving about the neighborhood, through parks, and down lanes in search of fresh air, curious sights, and of course new coins. Along the way I lost 5 pounds, went over a year without getting sick (until the last few days, go figure), reacquired a love for drawing and photography, and developed a deeper appreciation for the local area and its interesting places. So really the experiment was not only about finding coins, but also those habits and interests which develop through experience. The true value of this past year's experiment went far beyond the dollars and cents; indeed, it seemed to make me happier, healthier, and in an adventurous spirit, and that is perhaps the most interesting finding of all.

In the mean time, I plan to invest this and last years' findings into the bank, putting the interest toward charitable donations to the classical radio station, the orchestra, and the Mid-Atlantic Spinal Cord Injury Fund for my friend. It's a great feeling to find money doing something you love, and it's likewise when you can give it to a good cause. Something to remember as I embark on another year of collecting.

Happy New Year friends :)

The Essential Blue Mountain: 2012

New Years' is often a time for looking forward, with resolutions and hopes aplenty for the coming year. But the days preceding it are frequently used for the opposite purpose; to look back, and rehash how we've arrived at the present. With Christmas now behind us, it seemed like a good time to go back and sift through the past year's posts and list those I think were quality.

Before I do, however, I'd first like to list the "memorials" from the past year:

Caballo Blanco (1954-2012)
Neil A. Armstrong (1930-2012)
Lindsay Budnick (1989-2012)

...and now, 12 posts (in no particular order) from 2012:

1.) Creative Problem Solving: its two forms

2.) Challenge or Opportunity

3.) The Problem with Rewards and Punishments

4.) Hydration and Exercise

5.) 7 Stimulating Books

6.) On how one should ask a girl out

7.) Marine Corps Marathon Adventure

8.) Positive emotions improve academic performance

9.) Practicing without haste

10.) Walking the walk

11.) Moderation

12.) How this blog got its name

There are a few others I thought could make the list, but there you have it: the essential Blue Mountain of 2012. I hope you've all had a wonderful year, and best wishes for the year to come. Many thanks to you all for your love and support.

-JC

Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas friends, from the Blue Mountain :)
Peace and Love,

JC

"Life isn't about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself." A reflection

The Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw once said, "Life isn't about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself." I find it a curious thought, particularly given the propensity of folks my age to go about "finding" themselves in all manner of activities, occupations, and adventures. Goodness knows, I've had the notion myself frequently enough. But Mr. Shaw's quote strikes a note with me that does seem to carry weight, and so a reflection on "finding" and "creating" in this context seems warranted.

First on finding. To find is to discover, be it a thing, a person, a place, or a station in life. It can also involve abstractions, such as finding a rumor to be true, a description to be false, or an unexpected occurrence to be suitable or unsuitable to one's disposition. Finding can be active (searching), or passive (unexpected discovery). Both can happen to those involved in the business of "finding," or anyone for that matter. As Isaac Asimov once said, "The most exciting phrase to hear in science, the one that heralds new discoveries, is not 'Eureka!' but 'That's funny...'"

It would seem then that the common parlance "to find one's self" involves a search, active and passive, to discover the things for which a person is capable of doing and being. So we go off on an adventure, or put ourselves in unusual circumstances to see what qualities and interests come to the fore.

Now on creating. To create is to cause or be a cause of a thing to be made. It involves production, often of something unique and related to the "creator." As with "finding" there does appear to be active and passive forms of "creating," such as writing a story in the former, and unintentionally wreaking havoc with it in the latter. We create with intention as well as by accident, sowing seeds by design as well as by ignorance.

In either case, creating anything seems to have an effect upon the creator, in sometimes large and small ways; that as creators it would seem, we mold and are molded by our creations.

To summarize, to "find" one's self seems to involve a search for some quality from within by employing novel situations to bring out underlying capacity which normally remains latent. To "create" one's self seems to involve a process by which making things changes aspects of who we are. Both processes appear to work by intention as well as accident, and involve transformation through experience. "Becoming" might therefore be imagined as both an act of will and reaction to circumstances.

Of course this could all be plate of bull-cookies.

But I think Shaw's quote points to an essential question related to how we might live our lives: do we become who we are by reacting to the world, or by acts of will and intent? Was Tom "Stonewall" Jackson correct when he penciled into his book of maxims, "You may be whatever you resolve to be?" In short, do we make ourselves, or do we find ourselves?

To this I can't offer a definite answer, but sometimes metaphor helps. For whatever else it is, life does also seem to be a kind of adventure. We make "goals" and plan "expeditions," (as any good adventurer does), but history suggests improvisation is almost always necessary at some point. We teach ourselves the languages, customs, and geography of the lands through which we intend to travel, but through the intervention of the unexpected and unforeseen we discover things about our self we never quite imagined; that we are a little stronger, a little more patient, and a little more courageous than ordinary life would lead us to believe. In short, we can make ourselves ("resolve to be") excellent adventurers, but adventuring also has a way of doing that, for better and worse. So I wonder then whether life is not just about finding ourselves, or  making ourselves, but having the wisdom to know which the times and season requires.

Happy Thursday, friends :)

My greatest sympathies to those of Newtown, Connecticut

My greatest sympathies go out to the people of Newtown, Connecticut, who today experienced a tragedy for which words are inadequate to describe.

In the coming days we will know more I hope, establishing the facts--as we must--so that proper justice can be done; to those who perpetrated this unspeakable act, and to the greater issues involved.

What more can be said? I am without words friends, struck dumb by the moment and its weight. I hope we might put aside our differences for now, and give thought to those innocent, defenseless people in Newtown, Connecticut who today suffered grievously at the hands of some moved by the lesser angels of their nature.
Let us come together now, you and I and all the grieving of the world.
Stay strong, friends.

JC

How this blog got its name

Lately a few people have asked me why the blog is called "The Blue Mountain?" What does it mean, they ask, and what has it got to do with the blog? There is a tale to it I suppose, which, to borrow a line of Bill Bowerman's from the film Without Limits, "Like Plato in his tale of the world's creation, I won't say absolutely this is the truth, but...it is a likely story."

In most respects the blog has always been called "The Blue Mountain." It began with a German rendering of the name (die blauen Berg, which is incorrect, and should be Der blaue Berg), and became English after I found most readers confused by the title.

Outside my own imaginings, I believe I encountered the term "Blue Mountain" years ago when reading about Zen Buddhism. Many centuries ago the zen master Tozan wrote:

"The blue mountain is the father of the white cloud. The white cloud is the son of the blue mountain. All day long they depend on each other, without being dependent on each other. The white cloud is always the white cloud. The blue mountain is always the blue mountain."

To this day I still don't know what those lines mean, but they've always struck me as simple, interesting, and somehow expressive of human understanding at its limits.

Generalities aside, another likely source of the name comes from what can only be described as a great recurring myth from my younger days. It involved an imagined society of little people who used to occupy my thoughts, hours of play outside, and a corner of my backyard. For many years I thought of them as great warriors, renowned for their strength and martial exploits. They fought many wars among their rivals, and never lost. In celebration they dug an enormous pit (a small hole by the patio) and within placed a rare stone (quartz from the local stream) as a monument of excellence.Their exploits became my myth, and making up ("discovering" as I called it at the time) their history became a great source of pleasure and thought.

In fifth grade, however, things took an abrupt turn. Hurricane Floyd was on the way, and I worried the pit would become a lake, and from there overflow and drown all the people of my imagined civilization. This great catastrophe-in-waiting was "revealed" to the little people by an elder who spent all his time watching the clouds, and could therefore tell of coming storms. The warning proved a wake-up call to the warrior culture, who decided in the moment to become a nation of builders rather than soldiers. Appointing Guillaume as "Master Builder," the little people constructed a dome over the pit they had previously dug, and after covering it with moss and insuring its strength, took shelter within from the hurricane.

The dome saved the people, and thereafter they called it "the magic Mountain," which is also the title of a Weimar-era bildungsroman ("novel of education, or formation" in German) by Thomas Mann. Called "the Mountain" for short (and because Guillaume and the subsequent builders didn't believe in magic), the place became a great library and place of learning, thought, and research. Later when Guillaume fell through the ice while constructing the Ice Canal (winter of sixth grade), the Mountain became a mausoleum of the great builders (a work completed by Guillaume's successor, Pierre).

Soon preoccupation with the dead replaced interest in learning, and the magic Mountain lost its library and became a tomb only; called the "Mountain of Tears" by some, and the "Blue (sad) Mountain" by others. This happened at the conclusion of the Builder Epoch (the reigns of Master Builders Guillaume, Pierre, and François), and marked the end of the mountain people in my backyard, for some time after the death of Master Builder François my dad unknowingly stepped on the Mountain, crushing the dome and leaving a ruin in its place. The exposed pit soon filled with water, and in time became indistinguishable from the surrounding soil. Naturally the people fled from so calamitous a disaster and ended the Builder Epoch. It also marks the start of the long epic of the Prince Alain and the sword called Bering (a tale for another day perhaps).

In any case, the name "Blue Mountain" appears to have been a part of my thoughts for most of my life, with different connotations prevailing at different times. It has at times suggested history, legend, creativity, philosophy, and the life and death of peoples and people, which somehow seems fitting for a blog with no central purpose, open to the sky. Of course I didn't think of all these things when I sat at a computer in the Ursinus library two years ago puzzling over what to name the new blog I was creating. But for those interested, the above is my attempt at answering that question of "Why the Blue Mountain?"

Happy Thursday, friends :)

On breaking routine

I ended the "Facebook fast" Thursday afternoon, feeling good about the experience. Periodically deactivating it seems to help me focus, and remember positive reasons for why it's useful. Chiefly it helps me stay in touch friends who are now scattered across the country (and in some cases, the world). Sometimes the sheer volume of the site is overwhelming, and I just want to get away from it all for a few days, which is perhaps more like a holiday than a fast, but either works I suppose.

Curiously, deactivating Facebook forced me to forego the habit of checking it, or posting stories, quotes, or music I find on my "walks" through life and the Internet. This was difficult, but a bit exhilarating too because it forced me to think about things a bit differently, and as a result follow thoughts I hadn't before due to habit.

Does routine put our mind to sleep? It's possible, but I can imagine under some circumstances this could prove beneficial. For example, a pre-race routine might help a runner from over-thinking the coming race. Routine may also provide a sense of security for someone performing a complex task, such as catching multiple trains in succession. At first it might be hard to judge how fast one would need to walk to ensure making each train, but in time the routine might inspire confidence in the commuter that they'll make it without difficulty.

On the other hand routine can dull our sense of the familiar, and constrict our sense of the possible in any given moment. For instance, before I go to bed at night I brush my teeth and read a book until midnight. Just as easily I could listen to music, or perform some kind of physical exercise, mediation, or recite vocabulary terms of a foreign language. I could even do nothing at all, and just go to sleep. In short I could do any number of things, but instead I brush teeth and read. I see nothing wrong with that per say, but I wonder if changing things up from time to time might freshen my perspective, and may engender a greater appreciation of the acts I do just before bed.

Perhaps it would even make me more resilient (gasp!). In his Principles of Psychology (1890), William James implores us to, "...do every day or two something for no other reason than that you would rather not do it." This can be hard advice to follow, but I suspect there's value in it. Discomfort--given the right measure and context--seems to encourage resiliency; it compels us to engage with change and the unfamiliar in ways we haven't done so before. In this way discomfort has utility, in that it forces us to wake up, take notice, and use our capacities (however limited) to make sense of novel tasks and situations.

Obviously some situations prove too stressful, and the utility is therefore lost. But breaking routine, or doing "something for no other reason than that [we] would rather not do it," may help us handle life's more stressful moments with greater poise and grace, which is precisely how Hemingway defined courage ("grace under fire"). It's not to say that occasionally discomforting ourselves will make us brave and resilient. But it does seem a way of keeping our perspective fresh, and routines fluid and adaptable rather than rigid and breakable, which if Lao Tzu is to be believed is a good thing, for, "The hard and stiff will be broken.
The soft and supple will prevail" (Tao Te Ching, Chapter 76). Something to ponder maybe.

Happy Saturday, friends :)

Facebook Fast

Dear friends,

I've decided to take a little break from the Facebook, but I should be back soon. I felt better the last time I took a "Facebook fast," and suspect it might do me some good to try it again. We shall see.

Happy Monday!

JC

Walking the walk

In an essay, "On the Pleasure of Painting," William Hazlitt contemplates the question of "...whether the artist, or the mere man of taste and natural sensibility, receives most pleasure from the contemplation of works of art" (Table Talk, 17). In so many words, Hazlitt argues that artists understand art in a different way from those who don't practice it:

"Natural sensibility alone, without the entire application of the mind to that one object, will not enable the possessor to sympathize with all the degrees of beauty and power in the conceptions of a Titian or a Correggio; but it is he only who does this, who follows them into all their force and matchless grace, that does or can feel their full value. Knowledge is pleasure as well as power. No one but the artist who has studied nature and contended with the difficulties of art can be aware of the beauties, or [be] intoxicated with a passion for painting" (Table Talk, 17-18).

Hazlitt seems to suggest that--on some level--our ability to appreciate art depends upon our experience in actually making it. Painters can appreciate the skill of a particular effect, or the innovative nature of a new technique, because they are themselves deeply engrossed in the physical act of creation. To those outside the  painting class, no amount of acquired taste or natural sensibility can make up for this lack of physical experience.

While I don't think Hazlitt's description fits all painters, I suspect his observation contains an element of truth. In fact, I think Hazlitt's notion proves true across almost any field of performance; that those who practice it see things differently than those who merely observe.

Music is a good example. The conductor of the orchestra with which I used to play was also a composer, and he would frequently point out nuances in the music he found interesting or which he wanted the rest of us to notice and bear in mind while playing. While also a performer, this conductor's experience as a composer seemed to allow him to think about the music in a different way--in short, as a fellow composer rather than simply a performing monkey. The relation between the conductor and the original composer became a kind of dialogue between two like, creative minds.

Sport also provides insight in this regard. When I watch a sport which I've never played, I find it difficult to know what is "quality" except by comparing it to how one person or side is doing against the other. Everything looks so effortless, and in some respect, easy too. How hard could it really be to score in handball, or do a vault in gymnastics? On the other hand, in watching sports which I've practiced a lot, I feel a much greater appreciation of how easy the athletes make such difficult and complex tasks look. I watch Michael Phelps swim the 200m-Fly, or Galen Rupp run the 10km, and am blown away by how easy they make it seem. Yet having trained for many years and raced both events, I realize how challenging it is to perform in the manner these "experts" of their craft do.

To return to music, the same is true with performance. When I listen to a recording of a bassoon concerto, it amazes me how rich and easy the performer makes the piece seem. Surely I could do that, right? Yet when I make a recording of myself playing the same piece, the difference in craft and skill becomes evident. Good intonation--which the professional wields like second nature--is in my own rendition wobbly and suspect. When I try to phrase a line of music, I find that it lacks the potency of my professional counter-part. What seemed easy just in listening turns out to be far more difficult to realize in practice.

From these examples, I begin to see how experience causes us to see those tasks in different ways, both in our own practice as well as that of others. We have a different sense of what is quality when we've labored and practiced the task ourselves. It's not to say that we can't appreciated those things we've never tried (such as handball, gymnastics, or equestrian for me); it just means that practice seems to give us a new sense of appreciation for excellence in a craft when we see it. If nothing else, perhaps we should be cautious in judging the capacities and abilities of others when we have not walked in their shoes, and practiced their craft.

Happy Saturday, friends :)

Reflections from a snowy walk

An icy rain transformed slowly into great puffs of snow this morning as I began the 4km trek to school. The steady patter of rain lessened, with fat flakes of snow falling silently to ground with a hush, like the footsteps of a ninja. The patter continued  in the forest to my left, a thousand drops of moisture falling upon a bed of dried and crinkly leaves.

Within the swirl of white, I could but hardly see a quarter mile in any direction. The wide soybean fields--now harvested and frizzy with leftover chaff--disappeared into a haze of white and gray. The scene reminded me of the tales of Emil Zatopek, the Czech distance runner who apparently did 20-mile long runs through the snow in army boots; or Paavo Nurmi, who spent his winters on brisk long walks through the frozen, Finnish countryside. Then again New Balance 860s are not army boots, and Pennsylvania in November is not Finland in February. 

One must be careful when moving over newly-fallen snow; the stuff is wet, slippery, and capable of rendering worn-out trainers a poorly-designed set of skis. Due caution is advised.

Heading back to the car from school (another 4km), I noticed the boot-prints of a man and his dog. I'm pretty sure it's a man at least, because I've seen a man on several occasions walking his dog through the meadow where I found the aforementioned prints. He's not a tall fellow, yet in comparing his prints to mine I noticed he has a longer stride than me. This is not surprising actually, as almost everyone does. I don't know why it is, but relative to the length of my legs my stride is rather short. As a result I'm frequently passed by walkers in the park, even when I feel I'm setting a good pace. The thing is, as Daniels (1998) tells us, speed in walking and running is a function of stride length and stride frequency; in combination the variables produce a specific speed. For example, a long stride with a low frequency can yield the same speed as a short stride with a high frequency. Daniels advocates the latter because for most people a shorter stride is more efficient, but several times in the park I've come across walkers (including very old women) who not only match my stride-frequency, but come motoring by with a much longer stride. My dad is like this too, and I can rarely keep up with him without jogging. Seeing my prints in the snow  next to those of others only reminded me of how short my stride actually is.

Finally, I remembered today how much I love watching snow fall. It's like a cross between falling leaves and rain. What's more, while the flakes fall at random they end up covering everywhere in a near-uniform, snowy coat. The same can't be said of logs, which tend to collect the most snow on the top and the least along the sides, like a Marine haircut. I had a haircut like that once. In both cases the resulting symmetry is somehow pleasing.

A snowy trek can be cold and uncomfortable, but also a time of thoughts and strange ruminations. I think sailors used to say that about the sea, but then I don't know.  Colors can look different, and familiar places, novel. Footprints show where other things has passed, be it a person, a squirrel, or some other creature. The crunch of snow underfoot leaves an impression which one can trace, like a long-forgotten letter through the snowy fields of time. Perhaps time is like snow, on which we all leave our marks. Perhaps learning history is like taking a walk in snow-clad fields. It's a thought anyway.

Happy Tuesday, friends :)

A reflection on "What should children read?"

I found an interesting piece today in the New York Times, entitled, "What Should Children Read?" Written by Sara Mosle, the work discusses some possible implications of the soon-to-be-enacted "Common Core State Standards," a collection of language arts and mathematics benchmarks which most public school students will need to meet following the 2014 implementation date. Of the many changes involved, the one of interest in this piece centers on the shift toward the greater nonfiction reading.

To give a sense of what that entails, Mosle gives two examples: under the new standards, fourth graders would spend 50% of their reading time with "historical documents, scientific tracts, maps, and other 'informational texts'--like recipes and train schedules." By 12th grade, the nonfiction titles would take up 70% of in-class reading time.

The essential idea behind these reforms appears to focus on making education more practical and real-to-life. As cited in the piece, president of the College Board (and contributor/ promoter of the Common Core) David Coleman says, "'It is rare in a working environment...that someone says, "Johnson, I need a market analysis by Friday afternoon but before that I need a compelling account of your childhood."'" Viewed in this way, the desired shift in the Common Core is away from self-expression and toward technical competency.

To a point that sounds at least somewhat merit-worthy; technical competence is important in any field. And with comprehension of technical literature becoming evermore important as STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering, Mathematics) fields produce a greater percentage of gainful employment opportunities in the US, a heightened emphasis on nonfiction in that vein could be warranted.

On the other hand, as Mosle points out, "nonfiction is seldom literary, and certainly not literature." There is, however, value in reading it, and her answer to the question what should children read? "isn't more nonfiction but better nonfiction, especially that which provides good models for students' writing." The most useful kind she believes is "narrative nonfiction," or "writing that tells a factual story, sometimes even a personal one, but also makes an argument and conveys information in vivid, effective ways." Characteristic of this writing form is "intense reporting, immersion in a subject, dialogue and telling details."

"Narrative nonfiction" sounds like a kind of journalism, blending the literary qualities of exposition, character analysis, and story-telling with facts and real events. It's a genre bringing together essential qualities of fiction and nonfiction, providing both information and "models" for students to consider as they write their own works.

So what should children read? Frankly I'm uncertain. On the one hand, reading more nonfiction could be beneficial for young people, particularly  primary documents and those one frequently encounters later in life (train schedules, spreadsheets, and the like). A little practice with such things in school could help more timid souls gain some familiarity with them before the demands of adulthood occupy much of their energy and time. One might compare it to the way schools (at least my old school) used to teach students how to sew, swim, drive an automobile, and make minor repairs around the house. These are practical skills to have, even in our own time. Yet more and more it seems the instruction of them is being left to others while focus shifts toward standards and standardized tests. That's not to say the older system was perfect or better than what we have today; it just illustrates how schoolwork in another age was made more practical and real-to-life.

On the other hand, too great an emphasis on nonfiction could for many pervert the act of reading into something one does simply for information or to perform a specific task. This may work for some (and I know several people for whom this is reading's sole purpose), but will it help the majority become habitual life-long readers? That I think is an important question whenever considering reading in school; what makes reading pleasant, useful, and habitual? Indeed, I suspect the habit of reading--no matter what the text involved--is more important than form it takes. One of the things I loved about Samuel Smiles' 19th century book Self Help was the way reading played so fundamental a role in the self-education of the artists, inventors, and craftsmen whose lives he described. Many of them had little formal education (unlike most children in the US today), but reading became the route by which they acquired the raw materials for their subsequent personal growth. For Smiles, the lesson to draw from the example of all these successful people was the efficacy of will, perseverance and character. But I would argue they also demonstrate the potency of reading, and how both technical knowledge and literary culture helped these successful people grow into new, more aware human beings. Reading was not only a luxury, but also a rich source of experience, feeling, and knowledge of what others had done before. It was history, legend, example, how-to, and a source of "conversation" with intelligent human beings not in their immediate vicinity. In short, reading seems to have expanded their intellectual, emotional, and moral horizons, a widening of view which might not have occurred if they'd never acquired the habit.

So while I agree with much of what Mosle writes, and on one level what the Common Core seeks to accomplish, I suspect we can only encourage and help young people find texts which "speak" to them. Just a thought, of course.

Happy Friday, friends :)

A writing habit

For many years growing up I had a vague desire to be a "writer," whatever that means. Off and on I tried my hand at it, writing stories or essays outside the regular school regimen but without much consistency or, frankly, satisfaction. The years came and went, and the act of writing never really became the source of joy I imagined it might.

Toward the end of my undergraduate years I did a lot of writing (by my old standards, that is), almost exclusively academic papers. I didn't really enjoy writing most of them, but the act of doing so had the beneficial side-effect of giving me practice and inspiration. About the same time I started this blog, and a few months later (16 months from today) began an experiment which made me feel like joy as a "writer" at last.

The "experiment" sought to test a new approach for encouraging consistent writing practice. It involved writing at least a full page of text in a notebook everyday. The text could be about anything, so long as it was hand-written and a page in length. The idea was to make writing a regular part of living, a habit you might say. To help things along, I decided against any standards for that writing, other than the manner in which it was written and the length; that way I wouldn't feel bad if it seemed I was writing drivel. Beside, drivel is okay: if you don't write anything, you don't even produce drivel.

Anyhow, I frequently wrote about the weather, the events of the day, or thoughts which came to mind. Later I relaxed the one-page standard to allow for "bad" writing days, as well as "good" ones when I felt like writing 2 pages or more. These days I sometimes write in the book more than once each day, which helps me capture thoughts in the moment rather than trying to recall everything in the "twilight mind" I often experience before bed. The idea came to me from reading the diary entries which make up large portions of Bram Stoker's "Dracula."

As you can see to make the habit stick for me the act had to be consistent, even if not consistently good. Furthermore it also needed a high tolerance for "drivel," which I'm finding is a bit like sand through which one can search to find the little golden nuggets which come in our more eloquent moments (referring to his own experience with such nuggets, Isaac Asimov described it as "writing over my head").

Finally, establishing and keeping my little writing habit required flexibility and rigidity. The terms are antonyms (opposites) of course, but I find in practice they both have their place; sometimes we must bend, and sometimes we mustn't. Judging how and when is not easy or prescribable, but sometimes experience has a power of suggestion all its own. Consider, from the above example the one-page standard length proved personally useful in establishing the writing habit, but over time forced me to string things out too much on bad days and constrain myself unnecessarily on good ones. Why do either if a simple relaxing of the one-page rule could satisfy the issues surrounding both? In this respect, keeping the habit demonstrated the virtue of rigidity; relaxing the required length, the virtue of flexibility.

The writing habit has become one of my favorites, and rarely does a day pass when it doesn't bring me at least a little joy. The resulting collection of words is not professional or perfect, but it is my own, and for me that's what counts. I suspect everyone has that unique blend of experience, practice, and knowledge which collectively make up one's "voice," or the way one organizes thoughts and presents it to others. But too frequently perhaps we are discouraged by who-knows-what from giving sufficient exercise to make it fit and a healthy extension of ourselves. I find joy in this simple habit, and perhaps you will too.

Happy Tuesday, friends :)

A reflection on David Bornstein's column "The Rise of the Social Entrepreneur"

On Tuesday David Bornstein wrote a column in the New York Times entitled "The Rise of the Social Entrepreneur," in which he discusses "a key innovation" explaining why "in the field of social change, we're getting smarter." He describes this "innovation" as "the recognition of the role played by entrepreneurs in advancing positive social changes."

Not to confuse the term "entrepreneur" in the typical, businessperson sense, Mr. Bornstein emphasizes the "social" half of the term, suggesting that the success of social entrepreneurs " isn’t in the way they build ventures to deliver products or services, but in the way they connect people in new configurations and, in so doing, help people work together more effectively, influencing their career or life pathways."

Of this emerging movement--parallel and crossed with divisive and "misleading" political ideologies which force us to "choose between government and business" to solve anything--Mr. Bornstein points out "how much creative problem-solving is emerging from citizens scattered far and wide who are taking it upon themselves to fix things and who, in many cases, are outperforming traditional organizations or making systems work better."

I found this piece heartening on several levels. For one, I am glad to hear people are getting on with the business of building a smarter, more-just society despite the hand-wringing and governmental grid-lock these days in our nation's capital. Political football can be an exciting and passionate game, but games and partisanship will not satisfy the needs and aspirations our society today appears to have. In that light, thank goodness for those who didn't get the "politics-is-polar-nothing-is-happening" memo, and are getting to work on the thousand-and-one jobs which need doing.

On another level, I'm heartened by this piece because it suggests a "change-making potential" in all of us; that it isn't just about getting elected or becoming a high-level intellectual anymore, but that with increasing connectivity and a willingness to reach out to others, social entrepreneurs innovate by employing the talents, training, and experiences of potentially everyone. Increasingly it seems, the problems of our time are being solved, reviewed, and refined not by a few, but by the contributions and reflections of potentially millions and billions. There's a power there that, for better or worse, can hardly be ignored.

Toward the end of the first half of his column Mr. Bornstein writes, "because of the pace of change and the information revolution, more people are aware that institutions — especially governments and businesses — are failing to address big problems in the environment, the economy and education." Where in the past it might have taken decades or even centuries for enough people with the right mix of experience, leisure-time, and expertise to notice problems and take action, today it would appear this process of digesting historical narrative into problems and their causes is speeding up. On the one hand I think this is a positive development, because it may allow more time for societies to weigh facts and decide on an easier, more gradual remedy to the issue than in less time might have been possible (the issue of climate-change comes to mind here).

On the other hand, reducing our frame of reference in time may mean we notice problems without fully understanding the cause-and-effect relationships involved. Better science can help, and open forums of discussion and argument may improve efforts to isolate those relationships. But I wonder if the tendency to respond vigorously to any perceived "problem" may not by its pace and energy cause more harm to others than good.  This may be the danger of increasing social entrepreneurship, since the problems they seek to solve are frequently quite complex (hence why traditional governments and businesses have difficulty approaching them, let alone solving them), as such, difficult to handle. There is a danger to letting some problems linger past the point of no return; yet there is also a danger of striking at one before it is fully understood. So in the end I'm quite encouraged by the emerging social entrepreneur movement, but I suspect we'll need a due sense of caution as we approach the numerous issues of our time.

Happy Thursday, friends :)

No Expectations

I don't expect much from this post, say what you will. My purpose in writing it isn't a serious one, though I wouldn't characterize it as trivial either. Indeed I compose it with a very distinct idea in mind, namely one of utter indistinction. I have no expectations for it, but that is the point; sometimes, it seems, expectations get in the way.

Are expectations always in the way? I suspect not. Consider that in an earlier post, we describe a study which demonstrates how expectations have a small but potentially decisive effect on performance in sports like running, cycling, etc. A conscious expectation of what we can do seems to influence how hard our subconscious mind (a "Central Governor" if you will) is willing to let our body go (up to a point). So at times expectations have their value.

Sometimes, however, perhaps they don't. Consider, if I expect a test to be easy, don't study much, and instead it turns out to be impossible, I'm liable to do poorly. From another side, if I have a solo to perform and have a nervous break-down, it's likely I'll freeze up and make a mess of the show.

In both cases an expectation got in the way of doing the task in a wholesome, natural way. Needless to say it also prevented me from performing at capacity; call it "potential" if you like. The stimulation for action proved either too weak (ex: the test) or too strong (the solo) to let our talent and industry have a fair go at the challenge. In other words, our minds got in the way of our ability.

I don't think telling a person to ignore expectations will help them do it for long. I know it doesn't help me much. Words can motivate sure (call it a "giddi-up), but they can't make habits of thought or action. No, what I think helps more is practice; which is to say doing things without any serious expectation in mind (that's how I wrote this post, say what you will).

Perhaps you'll find it liberating? That's often the case for me, since assuming no expectations means I can let things be precisely what they are, neither more or less. One doesn't need to fight to make circumstances fit an optimistic or pessimistic model, because your model becomes whatever is on hand; as Teddy Roosevelt once said, "Do what you can, with what you have, where you are." Trying it this way means you can give new ideas a go because the object is whatever results. And you know what that means?

You can shoot for the moon, and still be happy if you miss. How about that.

Happy Sunday, friends :)

"The North Wind and the Sun"

Over the last several days the weather has proved at times both windy and cold, and sunny and warm. To this I might ascribe the sudden remembrance of a story I haven't heard in nearly 20 years, which goes something like this:

"The North Wind and the Sun were disputing which was the stronger, when a traveler came along wrapped in a warm cloak.They agreed that the one who first succeeded in making the traveler take his cloak off should be considered stronger than the other. Then the North Wind blew as hard as he could, but the more he blew the more closely did the traveler fold his cloak around him;and at last the North Wind gave up the attempt. Then the Sun shined out warmly, and immediately the traveler took off his cloak. And so the North Wind was obliged to confess that the Sun was the stronger of the two" (source).

I did not know it at the time, but the tale is one of Aesop's Fables, a collection of stories compiled by the ancient Greek slave Aesop sometime around 600 BCE. A moral tale at its root, the story of the North Wind and the Sun provides an illuminating analogy of the power a gentle and kind approach toward others in life can have. 

As a youngster I liked it, and as young man I like it still. Gentleness overcomes what blowhards and brute force could not. Isn't that something? A story to remember I think.

Happy Saturday, friends :)

a reflection

On nearly every Tuesday and Thursday morning since mid-July, I've driven to a large park called Tyler to make my way cross country to the community college, located on a bluff overlooking the forest and river which runs through it. This semester I'm studying statistics, which has so far proven both interesting and at times a serious mental workout. This is accompanied by a pleasant physical workout, since the route to and from the college covers anywhere from 7-10km, up-hill both ways (no joke).

This past week I made the trek twice over the 7km route. The previous week had seen all classes cancelled, so this was the first time I'd seen the park since Hurricane Sandy (and now winter-storm Athena) had paid a visit. What I found proved surprising, despite expecting serious storm damage.

The park authorities did well in that the paved trails were unobstructed, and more-or-less clean of debris. On the other hand, the horse-trails proved the opposite. My typical 7km route follows one such trail along ridge overlooking a narrow stream. Almost at once I came upon the fallen wreck of a giant Beech tree, its massive trunk all clad in smooth, silver bark, like the skin of an elephant maybe. Navigating the tangle of branches proved more difficult than it at first appeared, particularly with my pack laden with a notebook, calculator, and refreshments. It is a curious thing that so often an obstacle that looks easy enough from afar to leap proves more difficult when near at hand. This is the opposite of many "mental" obstacles, which typically become easier once you've had a chance to get acquainted. Consider, perhaps, the proverb that "a job once started is half complete." There might be something to that, and indeed once started navigating a tangle of branches does usually get one through. But I have proven myself foolish again and again by underestimating an obstacle across my path, which might suggest we overestimate instead and perhaps be surprised; or maybe we ought simply to suspend judgment until the obstacle is cleared. Epoche.

The Beech-tree labyrinth proved but the first of several along the way, some more tangled and twisted than others. Later I leaped over a young fallen maple, detoured about the hulking limbs of an old Sycamore, and crunched through a sea of dried and ghostly oak leaves and their accompanying bramble of branches. Upon reaching a sharp cliff overlooking the stream the horse trail follows, I beheld the shocking sight in the valley below of no less than 40 enormous trees scatted here and there among the rocks and craggy banks of the narrow brook. I felt in that moment as if I'd stumbled upon the remnants of a massacre; that in some strange way an Ent battle had somehow raged over this spot, leaving nothing but woody corpses with leafy crowns waving a farewell salute in the wind. Somehow a monument seemed appropriate, but how does one memorialize such devastation? How does one capture the shock of emerging suddenly upon a place of indiscriminate slaughter? Can naught be done but to gape and go thoughtlessly numb?

It is strange how sometimes our thoughts leap about when stimulated just so. A tangle of trees is after all not unlike a pile of firewood, yet within the narrow confines of a rocky valley they become suddenly like the bodies of people, the last vestiges of a battle or some cruel massacre of innocents. Perhaps I have seen too many old photographs of Civil War battlefields, but the image is hard to shake.

A similar scene appeared on the route back, this time while passing through a wide stretch of evergreens. Unlike the scene in the valley, this felt more like the devastation of a forest than the memory of a battle. So many trees had fallen over or been viciously torn to pieces, leaving branches everywhere and spiky stumps oozing with sap. A gentle breeze wafted over the trail the scent of pine and needle, a lovely fragrance were it not accompanied by so destructive a sight.

Typically I enjoy my journey to and from the community college, but this past week's adventure proved a bit dreary and sad. While a perfectly natural process, the death of so many trees is hard to bear. They are like friends, even if "friend" is not the proper word for a tree. They've kept me company, and so often in the months I have made this trek compelled me to smile too. So perhaps they are like friends. And as with people friends, it is sad to see them go.

Some thoughts after Sandy (the hurricane, of course)

This morning I took a walk, one of several since Hurricane Sandy blew through our area on Monday. The weather proved quite chilly, with a blustery wind blowing out of the north or northwest (I only know general directions from star-watching). As I set out the sky showed more clouds than blue, forming long parallel bands which looked a bit like luminous icing under a late-morning sun. A number of trees, having lost their leaves by now, crackled and snapped in the wind.

Even now, the clean-up from the hurricane continues. Our neighborhood received much rain, though I suspect the wind proved the more destructive element (at least in this immediate vicinity) this go around. I was struck that, for every 10 fallen trees I observed along my way, at least 9 of them were some form of evergreen. I haven't a clue why this is, but one hypothesis might involve the way evergreens catch and hold the wind in their upper branches. 

Consider: The force of a lever (if I remember the physics aright...a dubious proposition) is equal to the ratio of the distance between the applied force and the fulcrum, or the point on which a lever pivots, such that the further away from the fulcrum a force is applied the higher the resulting (and opposite) force will be. With an evergreen tree, the point at which the most force might be applied is at its top, since that is the point furthest from the fulcrum, which from observation appears to be somewhere about its roots. So my hypothesis contends that if the evergreen tree somehow catches and holds the wind without letting it blow through its branches (as other trees seemed to do during the storm), it might be said that the resulting lever could (and did) prove strong enough to pry up those trees from the ground. As mentioned this is what I observed almost universally so far as fallen evergreens were concerned: they did not snap in the middle or at some other point, but fell over completely intact from their roots. We might contrast this to the way deciduous trees fell over, which primarily involved a snap or break of a major branch in the middle or some other among the periphery. In no cases did I find a non-evergreen fall over complete intact from the roots. Of course I could also have it all wrong.

 

I hoped that the temperature would get warmer as today's walk continued, but alas the opposite seemed to happen. The cloud bands mentioned earlier seemed to smudge together after about an hour, resulting in less sunlight and perhaps more wind. In the forest, the stands of Tulip Poplars by the stream were completely bare of leaves, and the water in an adjacent pond proved dark and rippled from the wind. For a time I observed a dead poplar tree, whose bark seemed to have sheared off in long pieces like the skin of a shedding snake. I found a great deal of bark along the trail leading from the stream up to the top of a ridge in fact, but do not know if it was there before or after the storm passed through. A right mystery it is.

Since the wind seemed to get worse by the minute, I turned for home after that. The journey back proved uneventful, except for a rusty saw I found lying haphazardly on a curb. It didn't bite me, thankfully. 

I'm hopeful that everyone is recovering from the storm in good order. On the other hand, it is gratifying to see and read about people and institutions doing so much to keep the business of society going. Disasters are, well, disastrous. But they also tend to bring out, for better and worse, the extraordinary in those involved. Sometimes that involves things like looting, but other times it involves gallant rescues and charitable actions. For a brief moment at least life becomes less about getting our's so much as getting everyone through in one piece. Priorities change, and frequently whatever measure of liberality we possess comes finds its way to the fore. What a curious creature we humans are.

Happy Saturday, friends :)

A Marine Corps Marathon Adventure

A strong gust of wind blew down the Potomac as I went to ground for the fourth time trying to cross the Route 1 bridge toward the Pentagon under a steel-gray sky. In the river below, police boats patrolled back and forth, to ensure the security of the bridge I guess. About 25 minutes before I'd passed the 20 Mile mark, but I still couldn't see the sign for Mile 21. With legs propped against a concrete barrier, I rubbed my calves vigorously in hopes of coaxing them through the final 10km of the 2012 Marine Corps Marathon. For the last hour, those same muscles felt as though they were embedded with broken glass, each step a wince-worthy moment which in the end brought me to tears, the 21 mile mark, and the notice of marine on the Crystal City side of the water. Within 5 minutes a golf-cart was summoned, and tucked into the front seat with blanket to keep back the wind, I sat as a fireman cleared a way through the mass of runners toward the medical tent a few kilometers down the road. 5.2 miles from the finish, my 2012 Marine Corps Marathon was over.

24 hours before, I sat in the back seat of my dad's Prius, watching the landscape go by as we covered the 166 miles to Jatin's house in Germantown, a suburb of D.C. We left the house on Saturday at about 9:45 in the morning, under the same gray sky we'd had the past week. I hoped the sun would appear during our travels, and in this regard at least I wasn't disappointed.

Some time ago my friend Cj made the claim that the state of Maryland is covered with swamps. In truth, while I saw a number of swamp-like environments passing through Delaware (and in some of the estuaries around Baltimore), the same could not be said for the rest of Maryland proper, at least of those portions which I observed. In fact, one of the striking things about the coastal areas of Maryland  was the brilliant foliage of the woodland and hill-country along the highway. At one point while cresting a hill, we observed a wide panorama of hills and lowland woods completely bathed in so many shades of red, orange, yellow, and gold. Coupled with the first sunshine I'd seen in days, the effect proved nothing short of spectacular.

Another thing I noticed was the way election signs change as one passes from one district to the next. Naturally the national and state-wide candidates  remained constant, but each new stretch of highway seemed to yield a new congressional contest. It's a minor thing perhaps, but something I hadn't noticed before.

We arrived at Jatin's house about an hour after turning west from the Baltimore harbor tunnel. My dad made the curious observation that as we moved further inland, the trees became more bare, and the brilliant colors of the coast made way for duller, "tired" looking leaves of the interior. I wondered if perhaps inland Maryland experiences the Autumn color change sooner than the coast, which would makes sense since the leaves would have been changing and falling off the trees sooner. But alas, I do not know.

The route we took to Germantown becomes very agricultural, a bit like some places around Gettysburg and Lancaster, which I've seen in other times. The ground itself becomes more hilly, and some heights I observed in the distance looked to be high enough to be called mountains in this part of the world (though some fellows out west might disagree). In any case, the one town name I remember along our route was called Damascus. Upon seeing the "Welcome to Damascus" sign, I remarked to my dad, "I wonder if the Asad family is running the marathon." To this my dad replied, "Maybe if the rebels are chasing them." Later I learned from Jatin that the high school in Damascus has long been a big rival with his old high school, Clarksburg. In fact, the Clarksburg kids have a curious way of saying "Damascus" amongst themselves, pronouncing it "Dumb-Ass-cus." Who knew?

In any case, after an exchange of pleasantries Jatin and I proceeded to navigate the DC metro system, and arrived at the DC armory by mid-afternoon. I first had to pick up my bib, which turned out to be more difficult than expected because I'd forgotten to write down my number from the e-mail. I made to ask a marine at the information table, who said, "Okay, to get your number you need to call 1-800-show-me-your-ID." Alas I didn't notice the joke, which the marine explained a moment later. I handed him my drivers' license, and had my number a minute later. Sometimes I can be pretty dense.

Housed in the armory building adjacent to the tent where I got my bib, the running expo proved an interesting place to wander. Jatin and I roved the booths, sampling whatever energy gels, bars, or beans the various booths offered. At one point we found a wall on which one could write a message for someone running in the race. It was largely full, but Jatin managed to squeeze in near the top, "Good luck, Jeff!" In an even smaller space underneath, I wrote, "Thanks :)." It was a good time.

I spent the night at Jatin's other house in Fredrick, a curious town several miles north of Germantown with a fascinating old-city full of little shops, cafes, pubs, and several highly elaborate (and old) churches. We walked the old-city for a time, looking for a cup-cake shop from which Jatin had won a dozen free cup-cakes in a recent 5k. I found the experience both exhilarating and stimulating, since old architecture almost always puts me in a thoughtful mood. We found the cup-cake shop, acquired the prize cup-cakes, and returned to Jatin's house.

We didn't sleep long that night, having to make an early start for DC the next morning. We drove into the city to a major metro hub, and took one line down to the Pentagon station, about a mile from the start of the race. I must say that coming up the stairs of the metro with the Pentagon rising to my left proved quite a way to start the morning. A little ways beyond Jatin pointed out to me the Air Force monument, and overhead we watched passenger jets taking off from nearby Ronald Reagan International. From the top of a steep rise we could see the the lines of grave markers in Arlington National Cemetery. To the right, the Potomac flowed peacefully toward the sea.

The non-wheelchair portion of the Marine Corps Marathon began at 7:55am with the firing of a howitzer. I won't lie, a howitzer shot is quite a way to start a race. It is faintly reminiscent of a Paul Short 8km race years ago which began with the firing of a shot-gun. Needless to say, the howitzer proved a bit more muscular, but that is the Marine Corps for you.

I took the early stretches of the race easy, climbing the long hills through Rosslyn with caution and care. In training I typically started a marathon session with hills to mimic this portion of the course. The pace was a bit slow all the same, but I think the preparation in this regard paid off. I repeated the exercise on the hills west of Georgetown, and had similar success.

Unfortunately, I started having problems on this second hill. On the inside, bottom portion of the second (left) toe, I began to feel a rub after about 4 miles. Strangely enough I'd never felt such a rub in training, even when using the same pair of socks on a wet run. Rubs are never good in races, particularly long ones; they usually lead to blisters, altered running form, and in some cases, injuries. I couldn't think of anything to do, so I just kept going on it.

After the Georgetown hill I felt my stride really open up, and soon I was clicking away at a happy gallop, glad to have those hills behind me. My left foot became increasingly stiff, however, though for the next few miles I managed to ignore it. Everything else was going well, and soon we entered the parts of DC I'd always read about in books.

At about mile 14 things began to fall apart. My stiff foot forced me to run only on the left side of the road, so as to limit the amount it had to pronate on each step. I could feel a mighty blister growing, and increasingly I had to run on the outside of the foot. My gallop slowed first to a trot, and around mile 16 a walk. At this point the "broken-glass-in-the-feet-and-calves" feeling began, and when I ran into my parents I walked off the course and admitted that I probably couldn't go on. My dad insisted I just try and finish, even if only at a walk, but I really didn't want to take another step. After a minute or two of sitting on the curb, however, I felt a little revived and rose to continue--as my dad put it, even if only at a walk.

So up I went past the Washington Monument, through the National Mall, and past the Smithsonian museums and the Capitol building, clicking away at about 15-minute/mile pace. At times I walked and at times I jogged, trying to cover the distance and end what had become an increasingly tortuous experience. By now my left foot was really in a bad way, and my right foot began to follow suit. Under my breath I muttered obsessively, "You're okay, you're okay," in rhythm every four strides.

I clicked the "split" button on my watch as I passed the 20 mile mark, a point only a few hundred meters short of the Jefferson Memorial. By now I closed my eyes most of the time, trying to imagine being somewhere else. The Route 1 bridge appeared with its bright, concrete road-bed and terribly long span. The crossing afforded little protection from the wind, which soon had me shivering and seemed to put an even sharper edge on the metaphorical broken glass in my muscles. Four times along that span I stopped and tried to nurse those suffering sinews. Eventually I realized my socks were rather tight, and when I removed them the pain subsided a little. The blister on my left foot was about the size of a chick-pea. A few steps later everything hurt as before, and having finally arrived at the far end of the bridge I told the marine there on station that I'd had enough.

There's really no getting around it; I'm disappointed I couldn't make it to the finish line today. Going in I thought the final stretch might be run through the opening salvos from Hurricane Sandy, but it turned out the weather held just fine. Aside from a little wind, conditions were about perfect for a good race, and I felt ready to take advantage. It didn't happen though, and that is disappointing.

Yet I believe that much can be learned from failure, even if they are lessons dearly bought. I learned that by drinking a little less I could avoid the problems (possibly hyponatremia) which caused me to slow in the latter third of last year's race. I also learned that one should avoid rubs on the foot if at all possible. And finally, I learned that the socks I'd been using constrict my feet too much during long races, and should probably be substitutes from something looser. These are good things to know, and in time I'll probably realize others. The point is, I'll be a little better prepared next time, and that's the idea really. So while I'm upset about dropping out, the experience proved both worthwhile and illuminating. Next time, we'll do better.

Special thanks to my parents for helping me with logistics and coming to watch the race; to Jatin and his family for having me; and to everyone else who supported me through the training. Also, my apologies to Mr. Seth (who ran a 6 minute PR today--go Seth!) for not getting the chance to meet again. We shall do so the next time.

Happy Sunday, friends :)

A brief response to "Varsity Teams and Athletes Overvalued at Ursinus"

An opinion piece from my old college's student newspaper made waves today. Entitled, "Varsity Teams and Athletes Overvalued at Ursinus," its author Mr. John Parry seeks to characterize Ursinus as "a school for jocks, by jocks," where "student athletes must take responsibility," and, with regard to the importance of varsity sports, "the culture at the top must also change."

As a former student-athlete of the college, I am not so much offended as disappointed by Mr. Parry's broad generalizations regarding athletes and athletics at the school. A liberal education--such as that found at Ursinus--offers many things, but perhaps none is as important today as a humble appreciation of the world's complex and ever-changing nature. Generalizations may help us to make sense of that complexity, but they are no substitute for a thorough grounding in individual cases.

I suppose that my disappointment stems from the fact that as an Ursinus student I feel Mr. Parry should know better than to generalize a large (as he cites, 34% of enrolled students) and diverse portion of the student body, particularly when he admits to having no experience of the challenges with which that large, diverse group must daily contend. And while I do not know Mr. Parry or the circumstances under which he labors, as a student (and now alumni) I know many student-athletes at Ursinus who not only have higher GPAs than him (3.7+), but who also serve(d) the college as leaders of organizations, RA's, EMS personnel, Grizzly columnists, Greek Officers, Student Government officers, or who worked jobs at the Myrin library, Admissions, Wismer, Campus Safety, and yes, the Floyd Lewis Bakes athletics facility. A number of student-athletes also undertake independent and/or honors research, such as I did as a senior in 2010-11. Such pursuits are challenging by themselves, but particularly so when accompanied by the demands of athletic, academic, and other community duties.

I do not mean to personally attack Mr. Parry here, but I do not understand why he would chose to unfavorably label so many members of the Ursinus community simply because they play varsity sports. Many of them are certainly as hard-working and dedicated as him, and decidedly not "in the bottom third of the class" despite the time they spend each day away from academics. Furthermore as a Division III institution Ursinus athletes do not receive scholarships for their services, only the satisfaction of representing their school around the region (and, in the case of that 3.6 average GPA field hockey team, the country), and the experience of working alongside others toward a common goal. I should think given the divisive political environment we currently face that cooperative experiences would be encouraged.

Student-athletes and college varsity athletics are not perfect; in general, too many college athletes are overtrained, suffer major injuries, or fail to strike a wholesome balance between sport and studies. Yet to argue that varsity athletics at Ursinus is "overvalued" simply by virtue of the fact that 34% of the student body participates in it; that 1/4 of the school newspaper is dedicated to covering it; or that nearly as many people follow 'Ursinus Athletics' on Twitter as 'Ursinus College' is just ridiculous. Student-athletes have contributed so much to make Ursinus the inspiring, stimulating, and diverse place it is. I can only hope that future classes will  continue to benefit from the presence of so many dedicated, driven, and vibrant individuals as Ursinus athletics has had the pleasure of helping grow not only as athletes, but also as people.

On Samuel Smiles' "Self-Help"

Sometimes our interests lead us to interesting people, and/or the books they write. As a runner who likes reading, I've had the pleasuring of "meeting" all sorts of characters through their books, including Arthur Lydiard, Percy Cerutty, and Timothy Noakes to name a few. Their "company" is almost always highly stimulating, and seems to waken within me a kind of restless, adventuring energy, even if I don't agree with all the ideas they espouse. Indeed, I find it is not only what a book says, but also what it means to me that defines a work's value. That may sound a bit cheesy and "new age," but we'd probably be fools to underestimate the potency of emotions a book or idea inspires.

With that in mind, I'd like to discuss a work I've recently started reading entitled "Self-Help" (1859), by the nineteenth century Scottish author Samuel Smiles.

My first "meeting" with Mr. Smiles dates back almost two years ago, when an excerpt from "Self-Help" appeared in a reader for a class on European intellectual history. I found it mildly ironic that an author espousing so much confidence in positive and "can-do" attitudes should be named "Smiles." Despite the wry jokes I and my classmates made at his expense, Mr. Smiles' captured my attention fully and didn't let it go until the excerpt finished. It began like this: 

"'Heaven helps those who help themselves,' is a well-worn maxim, embodying in a small compass the results of vast human experience. The spirit of self-help is the root of all 
genuine growth in the individual; and, exhibited in the lives of many, it constitutes the true source of national vigor and strength. Help from without is often enfeebling in its effects, but help from within invariably invigorates. Whatever is done for men or classes, to a certain extent takes away the stimulus and necessity of doing for themselves; and where men are subjected to over-guidance and over-government, the inevitable tendency is to render them comparatively helpless" (Samuel Smiles, Self-Help [1859] in Franklin Le van Baumer, Main Currents in Western Thought, 4th Edition, 512).

The opening paragraph felt like jumping into a cold pool; it snapped my senses awake, and recalled my mind from its wondering. All the authors mentioned above tend to have that effect on me in their work. Like Lydiard, Cerutty, and Noakes, Smiles got me thinking, which seems to me a good thing. 

Just in this opening paragraph, Smiles touches a number of themes we've examined on this blog before: on learning optimism, changing society without the government, and growing through discomfort toward resilience. The basic idea here seems to be that people accomplish far more when the things which motivate them comes from within rather than without; that we tend to become helpless when not left to figure out our own problems. As we concluded in the post "From discomfort to resilience," there appears to be a point at which a little support from without can go a long way in helping someone learn from difficult situations; that we grow when we learn to help ourselves, but a little support can make the lesson more wholesome and less traumatizing. 

In a later passage Smiles goes on to say: 

"Daily experience shows that it is energetic individualism which produces the most powerful effects upon the life and action of others, and really constitutes the best practical education. Schools, academies, and colleges, give but the merest beginnings of culture in comparison with it. Far more influential is the life-education daily given in our homes, in the streets, behind counters, in workshops, at the loom and plough, in counting-houses and manufactories, and in the busy haunts of men. This is that finishing instruction as members of society, which Schiller designated the 'education of the human race,' consisting in action, conduct, self-culture, self-control, -all that tends to discipline a man truly, and fit him for the proper performance of the duties and business of life,-a kind of education not to be learnt in books or acquired by any amount of mere literacy training" (Source).


The main idea from this passage centers on the value of "life education," which is to say the education we get outside school, by doing complex things while living in a complex world. I've grown rather sympathetic to this idea in recent years, if for no other reason than I've had to teach myself a lot of new things simply by doing them, messing up, and doing better the next time. Blogging is one example of an activity which I found (and still find!) challenging, but which through practice, trial-and-error, and a  little patience has become an activity which I very much like to do, even as I recognize that it is a practice and process without end. We learn many things in school, but we learn many from our experiences and failures in life. As Mr. Smiles says elsewhere, "It is a mistake to suppose that men succeed through success; they much oftener succeed through failures. Precept, study, advice, and example could never have taught them so well as failure has done."

In the end, I like "Self-Help" because it describes a mechanism by which we tend grow as people; that is, by learning how to help ourselves overcome difficult situations, thereby becoming more independent. It seems to capture a sense of how some types of difficult situations leave us personally stronger, much like a strenuous workout leaves a body stronger. Yet as a body which is always worked but never rested does not not become stronger, so I suspect that a person left to always fend for themselves may not  grow as person, but instead collapse under the strain of an unsupported burden. So at times a little support is good as we learn, grow, and by experience come to help ourselves. 

Happy Friday, friends :)

Moderation

In his essay, "Of Moderation, " the sixteenth century writer Michel de Montaigne begins by saying:

"As if we had an infectious touch, we, by our manner of handling, corrupt things that in themselves are laudable and good: we may grasp virtue so that it becomes vicious, if we embrace it too stringently and with too violent a desire."

I find this a curious line. After all, if Socrates is right when he says that "Virtue does not come from wealth, but wealth, and every other good thing men have, comes from virtue," is it then possible to pursue a virtuous course so vigorously as to render it unvirtuous?

Experience may offer some clues. When I am hungry for example I find much pleasure in eating, particularly foods for which at the time my pallet craves. If I eat nothing the desire for food typically grows until it is not only unpleasant, but also threatening to life. Yet when my appetite is sated it is plainly torturous to eat more, even food which at another time might inspire pure delight. The same appears true for thirst. While running my first marathon last year I made sure to drink at every aid station, which so happened to appear at the start of every mile. By mile 9 I felt terribly bloated, and could not bring myself to drink another sip. By mile 15 I could no longer continue running, a condition which continued another 2 hours without drinking, after which I felt well enough to race once more. Yet in a training run earlier that summer, during which I became fatigued and had to walk the long way back to the house, I became so thirsty that I could think of little else beyond a glass of pleasantly chilled and exquisitely fresh water.

 As such one might conclude that food and drink--like virtue--are good when delivered in the right form, at the right time, and in the right amount; both scarcity and excess somehow miss the mark of nourishment and happiness, or as Montaigne describes later in his essay, "The archer that shoots over, misses as much as he that falls short, and 'tis equally troublesome to my sight, to look up at a great light, and to look down into a dark abyss."

Yet as plain as the value of moderation seems to be, it is not the easiest way for most of us to act. I do not know why this is, but it is true for many (myself included). Sometimes we eat more than our bodies tell us is required. Sometimes we exercise intensely, despite the pain we feel in our muscles. And sometimes we pursue goals which our rational minds have long ago decided cost more to achieve than the expected benefit to be gained.

I suspect it is also true that, of the many messages, ideologies, and sayings we daily hear, many compel us away from moderation. Growing up, I remember hearing one story about diligent ants and a lazy grasshopper. It went something like this:

Once upon a time there was a colony of diligent ants, and a lone, lazy grasshopper living by a pond. That year summer proved particularly beautiful, and the land was fat with food. The grasshopper revelled in the easy living, and spent his days eating and enjoying the sunshine. On the other hand, the ants spent the summer in back-breaking labor, gathering food, repairing the colony, and generally ignoring the sun and the weather. Their purpose in preparing for winter was singular--relentless you might say--and nothing would distract them from that purpose.

Finally winter did arrive, and the ants settled down to a cozy, comfortable position. The grasshopper, on the other hand, found himself without food, shelter, or warmth of any kind. Now he bemoaned his lack of diligence during the time of plenty, and only survived by asking charity of the ants, who provided him with food and a warm place to sleep. From that winter forward, the grasshopper declared he would too would be diligent when summer came again.

I've long found that story interesting, though also a bit odd. Yes the grasshopper probably would have benefited by working a bit more during the summer, but unlike the ants he enjoyed life in a nice place while he could. And for all their efforts, the ants seemed to miss something about that warm and wonderful summer. That they made out well in the end does not mean they did not lose something too. One wonders if the ants and the grasshopper might have been happier had the former worked a little less and the latter worked a little more. But then who are we to judge how anthropomorphic animals live their lives?

On the other hand, the grasshopper's lazy ways did leave him hungry and cold when the air got cold. Sure, he had a great summer full of plenty and good times, but when winter came he found himself in a bad position. Say what you will about the ants and their hard-nose ways, but at least they were ready and comfortable winter came, and on top of that had enough to spare some for their less-prepared neighbor.

So we see that by observing both sides of the story, advantages and disadvantages can be derived from each. Which is the "better" course would almost certainly depend on your perspective and what you value. Yet since the course followed by the ants and that followed by the grasshopper are extremes in diligence and laziness, it seems possible that a healthy measure of each may result in a mixture of favorable outcomes from each side. One might characterize such a course as "moderate."

It can be difficult to follow such a course, for it requires an appreciation of the advantages and disadvantages derived from various possible actions. We may go this way and enjoy this benefit, or go that way and enjoy another. Sometimes we wish we could go one way and enjoy the full benefits of the other possibilities, yet most of the time this does not seem feasible. Instead it would seem we must judge how much of one good we are willing to give up in order to enjoy some portion of another good, such that we may end up enjoying many small pleasures, but rarely anything grandiose or transcendent; or to put it like an old music teacher once put it to me, "You'll only get good at music by committing to that, and maybe one another thing. But if you do music, sports, and say schoolwork, the most likely outcome is you'll be mediocre at everything, and great at nothing." This was curious advice, and it took many years before I began to see how a plethora of commitments can leave a person spread thin.I think it is something to remember perhaps as we figure out what exactly we want to do with the life we've been given.

So it seems we have a rather muddled conclusion, perhaps best encapsulated in the old saying "All things in moderation...including moderation." Something to think about maybe.

Happy Sunday, friends :)



p.s. Happy Birthday to my friend, DK

Friendship

Mahatma Gandhi once said "Where there is love there is life." In a similar vein perhaps, it may also be true that where there are people there are also friends.

Of friends, there seem to be many different kinds: close friends, distant friends; romantic friends, drinking friends; school friends, home friends; work friends, facebook friends; family friends, and friends of friends. The list could probably go on, but by now you probably get the picture that friends can come in all variety of forms.

Sometimes one friend can fall into multiple categories of friendship, either consecutively or simultaneously. For example in college I observed on numerous occasions school and/or drinking friends becoming romantic friends by way of inebriation and impaired judgment. Sometimes this even led them to become facebook friends, though only if their recollection and/or other drinking friends alerted them to the interaction they may or may not have consciously experienced. Romantic friendship can also lead to close friendship, sometimes for a season and other times a deal longer. So by the end of a particularly "busy" weekend, two school and/or drinking friends may end up becoming romantic friends, facebook friends, and close friends all in the blink of a not-exactly-lazy-but-not-exactly-swift blink of an eye.

Frequently I hear people describe friendship as a kind of hierarchy, from low to high (as in "held in high esteem," not "high as a kite," though both might be true), and from close to distant. Close friends may be those with whom one spends a lot of time, or whose company one particular enjoys. Distant friends might be more like acquaintance or people one sees regularly, but with which one does not typically seek out interaction.

Close and distant friends seem to interact in different ways. For example, the types of conversations one might have with a close friend are probably different from those one might have with an acquaintance; close friends tend to know each other better, and may reveal a different "self" in conversation than two people who may or may not know each other's names. It may also be true that close friends act in different ways toward one another. I recall one notable incident in college during which a fellow walked up to a table in Wismer (the school cafeteria), and greeted another fellow with an elaborate handshake, and a few words which I probably should not repeat. In any case, the friend at the table had around him some other friends which the first fellow evidently did not know. At the conclusion of a brief introduction, the friend at the table said, "Yeah, me and [the first fellow's name] go back like rockin' chairs." At this point, the first fellow seems to have become a friend of a friend to the others at the table.

Finally there is sometimes difficulty when one kind of friendship becomes another. A close friend with whom one falls out over time due to distance or a change in schedule may still be close, but the relationship is less clear than when it was regularly renewed. Romantic partners who break-up may still wish to be friends, but might find the change from partner status to "just friend" a difficult bridge to cross. Indeed, how does one step back from being a close type of romantic friend to one that is not nearly as close? It seems to me a hard question, and the resulting difficulty might make such changes hard to manage. How frequently does one see ex's become good friends after they break-up? It happens sure, but why so rarely?

Is it because some types of close relationships are somehow different from others? Can a person "love" another without "liking" them too?  I don't know, but it might be true. Plenty of relationships begin without a close friendship proceeding it, and end without the development of any replacement friendship beyond "undesirable acquaintance." Perhaps more than any other, romantic relationships seem to be some of the hardest from which to adapt to a new type of friendship. Is that because they are the "closest" type of friendship? There may be something to that, but other types of friendships can be just as close, and they seem to hold up better than romantic friendships for whatever reason.

Does that mean that close, non-romantic friendships are superior to romantic friendships? I don't think that is necessarily so, but romantic relationships do seem to require different things for maintenance. For instance, many would probably agree that with romantic friendships, you can and should only maintain one at a time. This is not true of close, non-romantic friendships; those you can have as many as you like. I like this aspect of close, non-romantic friendships, because you never who will come along in your life who just meshes so harmoniously with your thoughts and feelings. In such cases, one is free to accept another's friendship with open arms, the way I should like to greet everyone I meet in life.

In the case of romantic friendships, one is not typically permitted to welcome others into that circle when it is already occupied by another. As such, romantic relationships are indeed close, so close that perhaps there simply isn't space for another. That is constricting from one point of view, but perhaps it is also uplifting. Imagine sharing a connection that by its nature cannot be shared with any other. That is quite a friendship to have, or indeed to lose. No wonder so many people feel upset when their romantic relationship falls through. And perhaps it is also no wonder that such relationships so rarely become a different kind of friendship later.

Friendship is a curious subject, and one which words are, frankly, ill-equipped to describe. I've been fortunate to have wonderful friendships of all degrees and forms in my life, and it seems I'm always amazed when I meet them again somewhere under the sun. They help me in so many ways, and I hope I might learn by their example and reciprocate. For better or worse, we are all partners on our journey through life.

So Happy Sunday, friends, and thank you for everything :)

Training Update XI (MCM): Final Workout

14 days, 15 hours to go...

Well friends we're just a touch over two weeks from the start of the Marine Corps Marathon, and today I did my final workout of the season. From now until the race, the emphasis in training will shift toward maintaining the fitness we've achieved, staying healthy, and getting adequate rest. In old-time parlance one might say "the hay is in the barn," and now it's mostly a matter of taking it easy and staying relaxed.

For many athletes (myself included), this can be one of the most difficult phases of preparing for a race. You aren't training the same way as earlier in the season, and the elevated energy-levels which typically accompany a pull-back in training can be paralleled by a kind of restless, nervous energy which drives one to constantly wonder how much fitness you're losing by training less. I'm thankful this form of restlessness isn't remorseless in my own mind, but I would be fibbing if I said it wasn't there.

Today's workout took place in three phases; one in the morning, one in the early afternoon, and one sandwiched in-between. The morning effort involved a brisk walk/run lasting 68 minutes under a brilliant clear (but COLD) morning sky. This phase went quite well, though at times I felt rather stiff, perhaps due to the cold. I was hoping to go longer, but a unremitting need to use the bathroom forced me home a bit earlier than expected. Sometimes that happens, so no worries. With this phase I sought to loosen the muscles in my legs, but also to get them tired. I also hoped to depleted my carbohydrates stores, for reasons we'll discuss more fully below.

Following the morning effort, I spent the next few hours doing various physical and non-physical activities; eating a little breakfast, raking some pine-needles, throwing around the medicine ball, and vacuuming the bedroom. The purpose of this phase involved the recovery of some (but not all) of the body fuel I burned earlier in the day, as well as taking care of needed household business on the first Saturday I've had off in over a year (a dusty room needs cleaning, marathon or not).

The third phase involved a strong 30 minutes effort of straight running. At first I was a bit leery of trying this, since historically I've usually tanked pretty hard when running later in the day on low amounts of fuel. This type of work seemed essential for the marathon, however, so to get over the initial trouble I went real easy the first 5 minutes, just easing into the effort and trying not to do too much. This proved a good strategy, because soon I got warm and started flying over the roads, pleasantly surprising myself in the process.

Yet it didn't materialize from thin air. About two weeks ago I spent all day at work, carrying heavy loads and remaining on my feet close to 7 hours. It's been hard to do any kind of training after a day like that, but back in the summer I'd managed some and did well if I took it easy. Last week I took about an hour to rest when I got home, then taking a few swigs of pomegranate juice, hopped on the treadmill and ran 36 minutes at a strong pace. The effort surprised me then too, but seemed to suggest that whatever training I'd been doing was having the desired result; that despite running low on carbohydrates and having tired muscles, I could still put in a good training effort at the end of the day.

This is a good sign, because the purpose of all these training efforts (including today's) is not simply to wear a body out, but to specifically adapt it and the mind to continue running strong even when tired and deprived of carbohydrate for fuel. In my experience this is very important for the marathon, since the final third of the race is almost always run under these types of conditions. During my first marathon it was just before the start of this 'final third' that I began struggling. Whether this was due to hyponatremia (salt dissolution), hypoglycemia (carbohydrate depletion), or a sheer lack of endurance remains unclear to me, but I suspect it was a combination of factors known and unknown. So in preparing for this race I've looked to address the three I suspect; hyponatremia by drinking less and measuring dehydration after workouts; endurance by running more than last year; and hypoglycemia by doing workouts like today's, which involve carbohydrate depletion and thereby a greater reliance on fat-stores as an energy source at faster paces.

Only time will tell if these measures prove sufficient to carry me through the race in good order. I feel happy with the training, but know it is light by most athletes' standards. My work and school commitments demand a lot, and what's left must be divided still further. Managing this division in a balanced way is the ever-present challenge of anyone aspiring to achievement in a field other than that which they study or do professionally (and even then, trade-offs must still surely be made). In the end I've really enjoyed these last several months of training, and that will be true regardless of what happens on the roads of Washington D.C. and Arlington in 2 weeks' time. It's been a journey and a process, to what end I do not yet know. It's been good though; that much is clear.

Happy Saturday, friends :)