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 :)