Hope for the Human Race

  Hope for the Human Race

Have you seen the heroic lately?

It might have appeared, crossed your path, sat at your table, shared your space.  You may have seen it, or just as easily you may have missed it. There may not have been any fanfare or attention called to certain heroic acts occurring around you. Someone is ill; they make no remark but instead ask how you are. A person has suffered an unbearable loss, yet spends their time lifting up others. A friend has worries, still they give you their smile and set an example of cheerfulness. On reflection, I become aware of so many instances of heroism or greatness. Some acts are fleeting, and some are a glimpse of a continuum where ordinary people are doing the things they have chosen to do, and the things they feel they must do. The commitment with which they do these things makes them extraordinary acts. 

An example of this is apparent if you spend time around the world of a small child and watch those who care for them.  In its simplest context this is perhaps banal, ordinary, the stuff of life continuing as it always has. There is nothing immediately recognizable as heroic going on. But the activity you observe around children reveals much about people and their connection to others. 

With everything we are pursuing, busy adults can be prone to impatience and a failure to account for others' impulses, differences, weaknesses, and needs. We make plans, and in our individual pursuit of them we might assume we will accomplish those plans just so, starting at this time, and ending at that time. For many reasons this can't always be so. Around the daily needs of children, this kind of planning is a house of cards, collapsing, going off-schedule as a matter of course. Routines, yes. Structure, sure. You work toward providing a sense of stability.  But there is the need to let go of the idea of a predictable march of events, when you keep pace with a child. 

I see it as real maturity when someone can keep pace with a young child, meet their needs, and let go of the relentless feeling that so much more should be getting accomplished at that same moment. It is a mark of character to my mind when an adult can slow down and accept this different pace. A saying I grew up with was: "Let there be chaos in little things, so that we may have order in greater things." Recognizing what takes precedence is our challenge. Which is the greater thing? Can we tolerate necessary chaos, and see which are the little things that can be left behind? Or will we push ahead, demanding order absolutely everywhere, in spite of the folly of that demand?

We naturally expect the bond of a parent to their own child to produce this kind of maturity and impulse to care. As a society, we must also hope that we can foster this kind of maturity in the larger community. Between people who know each other, and between people who do not. Among those who have children, and those who do not. There is the "it takes a village" sentiment; I like to think that can take us a long way toward doing better. When I see the 'village' at work, it gives me hope for the human race. It's not hard to see that this kind of compassion and fellow-feeling can transfer to all kinds of encounters, not just those between adults and children. 

I'm fortunate to know family, friends, neighbors, and a life partner who seem to get this right. It's an up and down process, we find out what works by living, doing, trying, and reflecting.  I'm grateful to the heroes in my life. To watch a tired athlete climb out of a comfortable chair and work in the hot sun, making a safe space for a friend's toddlers to play. To see my sister wordlessly grab the dirty dishes and clean them because that's just what was needed at that moment. Watching someone's older child take the hand of someone else's shy younger one, make their acquaintance, and build a gentle trust with them. There is the mother who sets aside for a moment (so many moments) the pursuit of her own interests, and moves at the pace of her child that needs her. The father who sees this, and creates a window of time for the mother. The mother in turn will step in for him. Sometimes the need is exhausting.  Or frightening, when you can't figure out what they need. 

I know these aren't outright acts of heroism: they are instead the behaviors we would hope accompany all human interaction. Still, because it isn't always so, to me those who do such things create a culture of heroism.  I'm touched to know that everyone in this strange and serendipitous cast of characters that is my 'village' is capable of these and other selfless acts. 

Homeless

  Homeless

I started to notice it a few months ago.  First, a lone truck with a cab-over camper. It was parked on a dead-end city street near a giant elm tree in the middle of a cul-de-sac. Almost every time I passed the little-trafficked spot, the truck was there, especially in the evenings.  At night, lights were on in the camper.

After a while, another vehicle became a regular sight.  In the daytime, there'd be someone in a lawn chair, reading.  Towels or sheets draped over the insides of windshields and side windows for privacy.  A third vehicle soon appeared, looking lived-in as well.  

At first, it seemed it might be a concern for neighborhood security.  Should someone report them? For what? Were these urban gypsies doing any harm?  If I put myself in their shoes, I'd have thought I'd selected a location rather well. Quiet. Cool under the shade of a hundred-year old tree. A park bathroom nearby. Not a lot of cars going by to  disturb them. It took only a moment to realize these folks were homeless. Their cars are probably their last large material asset. And now their only physical shelter. 

After many months the situation started to seem ordinary on my trips through the park by bicycle. Living just a few blocks away, I feel a mild sense of ownership over the neighborhood, but I began to think that it would be nice if no-one bothered these resourceful campers. As long as they aren't disturbing anyone or endangering the area. We have several anecdotes to show that these particular campers have some civic pride. They seemed to become unofficial members of our loose neighborhood watch. One or two of them are quite polite, sharing resources and looking out for each other. A nearby homeowner observed that the casual drug deals sometimes seen at the park ceased once the campers took up residence.

One recent summer morning, I was riding back from errands, slowly weaving around the dead end past the old tree. I saw a new car parked in the area. A beautiful dog was lying on top of blankets and a sleeping bag piled on the sidewalk. A vibrant young woman was organizing a pile of clothing and some boxes. Her older sedan was overfull. I thought, What if this was my own fate? What if I am someday reduced to living out of a car? 

How did the campers learn about this spot? Did they meet each other elsewhere and share "hobo knowledge" about how to survive? Is there a tipping point coming, where too many will eventually make an unsupportable impact and ruin it for all? (Months later, for unknown reasons, there now seems to be only one car, and it's not there all the time.) 

Is this happening all around the city? I think it is.  Several homeless camps come and go along the river downtown, and around various empty lots in secluded places. Wooded bike paths out of sight from roadways are known spots. The police have done a sweep

 

or two, moving vagrant campers out at times.  There was a campaign to give bus tickets home to many of these transients in our city. At the time I wondered if there was anywhere they wanted to return to; were they still inclined to name some faraway place as their home? Did they not think of our city as their home? 

As the city grapples with the issue of the indigent or homeless, sometimes they legislate or make proclamations to try and overcome perceived side effects. Recently our city drew a line around downtown and outlawed panhandling within those bounds. It was contested in a higher court and looks like it won't hold up legally. Maybe too broad of a brush, too arbitrary a rule. Is there a better way to groom the behavior of all kinds of citizens downtown? Are we not all free to say no to a panhandler? What kind of asking campaign is legal? Is fundraising the domain of only the elite? Among other things, the rule threatened holiday bell ringers, and a dilemma emerged.

Meanwhile, historical images in black and white come to my mind. Images of early horseless carriages, overloaded with haphazardly secured objects, improbable ones; pianos and furniture. As if a new home were certain to be secured soon, with space big enough for these large material goods.  A poignant sense of hopelessness drips from the scenes. But hope is there, in their defiant sense of courage, striking out for the unknown. I'm referring to migrant photos from the Dust Bowl era, famous images captured by Dorothea Lange.  Writer John Steinbeck made stark reports on the migrant phenomenon appearing in California. He traveled around with the man responsible for trying to govern the many camps that sprang up near farm fields. The work was not enough to sustain the families, their children were not welcomed at local schools, illness and hunger was rampant. Many incurred debt just trying to buy food at local stores, sometimes owned by the same large farms they worked on. A wage may never have translated into savings. 

The homeless dynamic of those displaced after their homesteads were buried in dirt naturally would have had a fragile thread of pride, a forlorn desire to deflect the pain of stigma. Through no intention of their own, they had been wiped like dusty chalk from a chalkboard; the midwestern fields flew up in a seeming rage and made going on impossible. They clung to the possibility of finding work out west.  Large caravans 

Dust bowl era house, North Dakota   (Photo by Alex Sienkiewicz)  

traveled to California; the camps along the way made a visible event that drew attention by its sheer numbers. Though they could have been described as heroic survivors of an event of nature, they were scorned and often turned away. We only later learned that the collective effect of plowing vast areas of grassland contributed to the Dust Bowl, but a fair person would be loath to incriminate individual farmers caught up in what was the order of the day. 

At present, we seem to have a more occult homeless phenomenon, unseen by many. We don't have large caravans to observe. Instead it occurs in ones and twos, adding up to surprisingly large numbers.  It's commonly assumed that many homeless are somehow deserving or responsible for the situation they are in. Perhaps that's sometimes true. But do we feel qualified to decide which ones "chose" to live on the street?  And either way, are we right to turn to scorn? I've seen seemingly ordinary people down on their luck, trying to survive. They find a way to double up with family, or live in their car unobtrusively, keeping on the move. Staying 'under the radar.'  

I think we'd like not to think very hard about this, if only because we may be eerily reminded that our own path may only be steps away from a similar fate. We'd like to think our pure will and determination are a complete defense against ever becoming homeless. We're not at all like any of those who are homeless. Or, are we? 

If we're not called to bring every last one in out of the cold, something easier said than done, at least the graceful thing to do is to reserve judgement about their character and how they got there. 

Absolutes

Absolutes

"Never say never." My mother often said this to us. A seeming contradiction, we took it to mean we should keep our outlook free of arbitrary roadblocks, and refrain from embracing absolute limitations. If you knew my mother, you would know she is all about possibilities.

Another phrase she said frequently was, "don't put labels on people." The list of wise things mom said (and still says) to her children wasn't terribly long, but it was consistent, intelligent, and heartfelt. She taught us that labels were useless both to ourselves and to those being labeled. While a label might seem handy for categorizing someone or some group of people, it is wholly wrong in mom's view. First of all it is a limitation. Having labeled someone according to a stereotype or other unseeing metric, one would be prone to shelve further review, effectively ending the path to understanding. Describing someone by easy tags relating to their height, weight, age, race, and so on, leads nowhere if you want to know the person. For mom it is a mandate to seek the person, to assume that they have merit, that they deserve to be treated with dignity.

Mom knew that we would encounter situations where we would be led to follow the crowd, where we might emulate others who took easily to labels and categories, usually with unkind and unenlightened results. This was so anathema to the person who is my mother, she virtually campaigned against any brand of thoughtlessness our entire childhood. This she could creditably do, because she herself modeled kindness, consideration, and respect. When my siblings and I get together, it's not uncommon for us to recite some of the sayings we heard regularly in our childhood:

"don't be ugly." (meaning: don't have an 'ugly' or unkind temperament. Nothing to do with appearance.)
"be a second miler."
"put yourself in their shoes."
"find a need and fill it."
"no man is an island."
"hate what they do, don't hate them."

You will recognize most of these sayings; my mother doesn't claim to have authored them. But her parents, and especially her beloved grandmothers, tried to live according to these principles. Mom seems to have had a drive to take it a step further, making it a point to use her voice and her actions against injustice. To preempt behavior that too often is the order of the day. Whatever moral compass a young heart or mind might already have, mom took her task seriously and sought to grow and reinforce what is good and right.

Increasingly, it seems our societies have undergone a cultural laxity that discourages civil restraint, that is apathetic about speaking up for justice, that finds plenty of excuses for turning a blind eye to unkindness or worse, brutality. This should distress anyone who is paying attention. Mom is a keen observer, and pays attention to things like this.

Sometimes I find myself apologizing for comparing someone's outlook to mom's. (another favorite phrase of hers is "don't compare.") It seems somehow unfair to hold someone up to the uncanny sensibility she models. She herself is not comfortable getting attention for her humanism. Anonymous action suits her better. Kindness and fellow feeling drives her. Her outlook, however, includes a solid expectation of accountability, not just "warm fuzzies." That we should all pay active homage to this process of civility.

To be led by someone like this woman I'm speaking about, is not to feel inadequate or chastised. Instead, the pure power of her optimism and overflowing positivity makes you feel that "all things are possible," another phrase she says often. The ability to spread joy and yes, sometimes even moments of giddy silliness, is a trait mom is known for.

How fortunate we are to be her children. If I am only half the positive force for good that she has always been, that would be saying something.

Locations

Locations;
People and their Environments

When I go to places that are different from my regular environment, I tend to take in the little details. Details that have a very local translation, that make sense perhaps only in the locale where I find them. When I see such a detail, I ask myself "why does this exist?" I'm the curious sort who likes to know.

I pay great attention to culture and language. The things I see may indeed make up a culture, they may inform local customs, but I'm not thinking on that level when I notice them. These details often describe canny local responses to the physical environment. Local wisdom can have many sources, going back through time, even to different locations from the past, with migrating people bringing their wisdom with them. I'm quite fascinated by the way a physical environment bends and shapes a direct human response, in small and practical ways.




I remember the first time I picked up a glass salt shaker in a place with a humid climate. I was taken aback at what I at first thought were maggots trapped within it. But these were just grains of uncooked rice, placed in the shaker along with the salt to absorb extra moisture. A funny thing was, some of the local people I talked to didn't know why the rice was there. "We've always done that..." was the answer. Anyway, even though it may be familiar to many, I'd never seen rice in a salt shaker. This simple trick for absorbing moisture impressed me. It was right, on so many fronts. Cheap. Clean. Edible, yet helpfully too big to pour through the salt shaker's holes, and seems to really work to keep the salt from clumping in a humid climate.

If forces that shape a particular response are infrequent, and not often in the minds of the local populace, these forces can fail to exert a lasting or logical response from locals. Maybe by this I mean "hundred year" events. These fade from consciousness in spite of the stories that older people in a community may have told. We often hear about a periodically recurring force, arriving to wreak havoc on an inexplicably surprised community. Volcanoes, tsunamis, landslides, things like these. Recently in Japan these stories were lifesavers for communities that knew to seek high ground right after an earthquake. (I'm afraid people in Japan may be feeling forgotten by now. World news churns through stories relentlessly...as if events were only stories.)

Part of me (the part that forgets I am not immune to similar behavior) is somehow incredulous that any community could fail to honor those forces with due respect, as evidenced by poor choices in cooperating with those powerful forces. But human nature seems to have a short memory. The exigencies of daily living and survival, or perhaps a certain hubris from thinking one knows well enough, seem to over-ride lasting ability to learn from history.

I remember being in a beach house on the northern coast of California during an earthquake strong enough to wake our sleeping group of vacationers. I was surprised by the group's indifference to my suggestion to take our imminent bike ride in the nearby foothills, rather than along the coast.




My suggestion had nothing to do with irrational fear, and everything to do with not being ignorant of the risk. It's true I may have been the only one present who had personally seen a place that had suffered a significant tsunami. As students of history have seen, a certain healthy fatalism is at play in the best of communities. Carrying on in spite of risk, can be a factor in identifying a thriving community. It was dismaying however, to be faced with friends who light-heartedly discounted the broadcast radio warnings. Only luck in the form of seismic vagaries, an event that equaled a "miss" that day, kept our path free of trouble.

A different detail involved rows of older houses in a North American town that dated to sometime around or just before the turn of the recent century. After being around these neighborhoods, it dawned on me that these single family houses were almost universally equipped with two grand front doorways. One at sidewalk level, almost always appearing disused. The second one, seemingly the only one that saw use, a half-story above the first. These somewhat grand houses stand out because of their attractive and prominent staircases that lead from the upper doorway, straight down to the sidewalk.

Before I knew the reason for this architectural oddity, I wondered if a party of talented staircase builders had come to town, offering their services to susceptible homeowners some time after the original construction had taken place. Although attractive, the staircases and their upper entrances seemed superfluous to what I was sure had been their original designs.

The answer comes from knowing that this is a river town. A large river runs through the downtown, rising and falling to nature's beat. At yearly intervals, it overflows its banks to varying degrees, sometimes overtaking the works of man, even some designed to keep it at bay. Early native populations seemed to know and respect this, and their occupancy was largely seasonal, lacking any vulnerable structural permanence. They were said to have warned the newcomers to the area, questioning their plans to build grand structures within reach of a large and capricious river. But their advice seems to have fallen on deaf ears. It's true that hordes of of newcomers came swiftly to this river town, encumbered by visions of eastern towns and architecture. In the Gold Rush fever of the time, rapid ascension from rags to riches likely lent an extra fervor to remaking their new environment in the image of the one they'd left behind. Verbatim. Without first learning the local 'vernacular.' The way I understand it, following at least one inundation, the original entrances were abandoned, and new doorways and staircases elevated these already-built homes above the flood line.

Going from the new western world to the old world of Europe, I've noticed details in architecture that are not the stuff of brochures. In both old and more recent domestic buildings, you can find details that are interesting once you really see them. Have you ever noticed the superior and robust shutters over both old and new habitations in Europe?




I've always admired these well made covers over windows in hotels and private homes. On short acquaintance I never got the impression that crime was rampant everywhere I saw these awesome shutters. I couldn't easily assign coastal weather forces to the inland farm houses of the Veneto. I would have to investigate local wisdom for the answer to this extraordinary shutter craftsmanship. (There is, of course, the Mistral for wind in France, and the Scirocco in Italy.) Over a variety of styles, there I observed a high quality level, such as cleverly machined latches, thick wood or metal surfaces, and serious techniques of installation. It would take a lot to get past these shutters. They aren't permanently attached beside the windows in the absurd way you sometimes see in the new world, with the ridiculous trick of tacking up pairs of shutters that wouldn't be wide enough to cover the accompanying window if they were swung shut. Most all European shutters I've seen, open and close with some precision and show signs that they regularly do so. There is a large adoption of shutters like this, for houses both humble and grand.

My line of thought reached the conclusion that these shutters bear witness to the harshness of war. War not long removed from local consciousness. Sure, they'd protect against a winter storm, a vagrant or thief. But their hefty presence seemed to speak of more than that. In the end, though, I admire the craftsmanship, and the architectural honesty they bring.

After an especially destructive weather pattern in our midwestern states this spring, it occurs to me that even such robust shutters would be defenseless against something like a mile-wide tornado. As I wrap up this entry about locations, and the details of local response, I can't help but think that one compelling response, would be to locate elsewhere. Surely easier said than done. Time will tell if that does become an eventual response. But as our environment throws curves at us in places around the globe, where to go becomes interesting. I think that story's been told before.

At least in the case of soggy salt, the remedy is easy enough. Just add rice.



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Neighbors

  If you live somewhere for more than a few months, you surely will meet one or more of your neighbors. There is no assurance that you will have much in common or even want to have anything to do with your neighbors, but on a very basic level these are the people you share the world with.  

  The discrete nature of our respective yards, fences, and doorways represent a small piece of private territory that we come home to every day. For many, this transit from the larger world to home and hearth, takes place in almost complete isolation from the people just over the fence, across the street, or on the balcony above.  That may be the best strategy in a society where it isn't obvious that we want or need anything from those living adjacent. No longer a tribal arrangement, our lives allow us to imagine that we create and obtain all that we need on our own. We strike out on individual pathways. Independent of others except perhaps our immediate family and those we must traffic with in order to make our way in the world.

  I'm prompted to insert the phrase here, "No man is an island" from John Donne. But even in a tribal, clan, or team situation, refuge and sanctuary from the teeming masses is a requirement for the human soul, I believe. We need space and time for reflection, unchallenged by grasping demands. From neighbors, from anyone.

  It has been said that "good fences make good neighbors." Surely because some are prone to abuse the unwritten rules of sanctuary that we want to enjoy. Either by imposing on neighbors with unwanted (even if well-meaning) attention, or by engaging in uncivil behavior that spills past the boundaries of one's own walls. Because at least at first you don't know the caliber of person living next to you, it can seem wise to avoid all engagement.

  For me, the relationship of neighbor is a non-committal one, defined slowly over time. We've made no compact, though we recognize each other's need to castle within our respective keeps. But what kind of world agrees to shutter eyes entirely to the humanity that is a stone's throw away, in favor of distant arenas for showing fellow-feeling?  Still, it seems prudent to look for lasting friendships outside of our neighborhoods. Instead, seeking friends within the pathways we carve while pursuing interests, devotions, avocations, and family obligations. Nevertheless, there are times when neighbors grow to occupy a higher status than mere neighbor. At a minimum, we hope that our neighbors have some civic sense, if only to look out for each other's security or at least to respect each other's boundaries. It is a bonus, then, when a sympathy between neighbors appears.

  I think of occasions growing up, watching my parents and their interaction with our neighbors. There often was at least one neighbor with a propensity to cause friction. In the mix may have been one neighbor who never engaged the rest, even denying eye contact. In contrast, there were the neighbors who knocked on our door and invited us to their garden for home-made strawberry ice cream. We had the elderly lady on the corner who waved her gilt hairbrush in agitation at the young kids riding bikes and scooters over her lawn. The large family on the corner, with a sweet black Labrador Retriever, whelping puppies in their basement, causing neighborhood kids to yearn for one of their very own. I remember the quirky family that dressed up in Renaissance garb, members of the Society for Creative Anachronism. I never knew exactly what that was, but lately suspect I might qualify for entry somehow.

  Today in our neighborhood, there is a moving trailer packed and ready to carry away the temporal belongings of a dear young couple and their baby. Vicariously, I'm aware of the sense of adventure and the courage to face change that they are embracing. Moving is exciting, tiring, daunting, and somehow liberating. It's a chance to cast your lot with a whole new cast of characters. Including those characters who'll be your new neighbors.

  If I'm asked to vouch for them, I'll tell the 'hood they're going to that you can't ask for better. Who wouldn't want the young man who was compelled to sit on our porch, with borrowed book and tepid cup of coffee for cover, in order to keep an eye on an escalating fracas taking place across the street. A young woman's safety seemed threatened, and this good neighbor wanted to be discreet. Yet he refused to ignore the threat as if it had nothing to do with him. His wife, a writer, grew up around here, went to school a block away. She is unafraid to declare her community obligations, and respectfully encourages us to follow our own, whatever they may be.

  Somehow I don't think the sense of community this couple has relies just on familiarity and a sense of local ownership. I know they will carry it with them into unfamiliar territory. Their baby girl stands to grow up to be a decent neighbor in her own right. And so much more.

  The neighborhood here will miss them.

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