Losing My Sport

  Pedaling my one-speed town bike along a nearby strip of urban parkland, I recently flashed back to a park from my childhood. I remembered  that my best friend and I never walked when we came to the park's curving swath of glorious grass. Instead, we sprinted. It was always a race from start to finish, feet flying, elbows pumping. We tried to beat each other, no holding back. Our young muscles were so ready to launch, we couldn't help it. We were runners. At the end we'd break into a walk, catch our breath and continue to College Avenue.

  This had little to do with organized sport, it was simply pure physical expression. We took it for granted, sure of our corporeal potential, playing games to test our limits. Climbing, running, skating, leaping, somer-saulting. My siblings and neighborhood friends would replicate the Presidential Fitness test; setting up our own 50-yard dash, etc. Being strong was an important aspect of my identity. I studied Judo and enjoyed my strength and agility. When running, I imagined I was a long-distance messenger carrying an important dispatch, the urgency of the idea helped me add miles.

  Bicycling soon became my gateway to being physical and exploring. It started with riding to the library on my brother's bike. In high school it freed me from waiting for the bus. I got a Raleigh with Campagnolo components, started reading books on cycle racing, and keeping a mileage log. I still ran some, working up to the half-marathon distance. My first real pair of running shoes had the iconic yellow swoosh and waffle patterned soles. The day I got them, I fell asleep that night with them still on my feet.

  With a cycling federation license I began bicycle racing. I'd spent a year saving up enough money to buy an Italian racing bike in my exact size. (I eventually made a career in the bicycle industry.) After so long training alone, I discovered the powerful feeling of training and competing in a group. Riding in close proximity to scores of other athletes, practically touching elbows, cornering at high speed, holding on during tough climbs, going all out in highest gear to win a sprint. Getting up early to go on long training rides no matter the weather. Riding distances of 60 miles or more in early season endurance rides. Being accountable to teammates, having teammates to rely on. Coping with flat tires or mechanicals. I was a flat-fix champ, beating the stopwatch in order to quickly get rolling.

  During training and racing we used the magic of drafting: taking brief turns at the front against the wind, then tucking into place behind a teammate, eating up the miles, keeping a high rate of speed. An amazing cooperation that has to be experienced to truly understand. A motivated group of riders using this technique attains a higher speed than any one rider can maintain alone. A group carries you above your self-described limits. Loathe to let others down, you match your effort to the wheels around you, even if it hurts; you let the paceline define what you can do. It is huge the way this elevates your performance. There are limits; if you get "dropped," you're left to fight the wind alone.

  The years of high-level cycling were something I assumed I'd do forever. I've been able to see and do so much thanks to cycling. I told someone recently that I'd always pictured myself being a grey-haired but still ambitious cyclist, climbing the paved road up Colorado's 14,000 ft. Mt. Evans or some such, well into my later years. That may not have been entirely realistic but I intended to try.

  After over a decade of racing, including a couple of silver State Championship medals and a trip to the Women's World Cycling Trials, the endless routine of training, working, eating and sleeping left me restless for change. I retired from racing and started riding just for fun. This was freeing, but an adjustment. I missed the camaraderie and the rigor of training with others, but I felt glad to stay home on weekends and do something as banal as mow the lawn. No more long drives crammed in a van, arriving to a windy course in the dark, lining up to use the porta-potties before start time. Athletes know that sport is more than just competing; there is a great deal of meaning just in the mindful preparation, the practice of skills and long periods of physical movement. I looked forward to continuing that aspect.

  A few times during the last year or so of competition, I was hit by bouts of fatigue or ill-feeling. Odd because my training, nutrition, and recovery schedules were on target, the way they had been those (too few) times I'd sprinted away from some of the fastest women cyclists in the country on my better outings. These events didn't seem like much at the time. Then the winter after retiring, I was doing some cross-country skiing with friends. I started to feel shaky and had to stop. I wondered if I had hypothermia. It wasn't terribly cold, but we decided that was probably it. I went home and took a hot bath, shaking with full-body muscle tremors. It would be a long time before I knew the cause. 

  The episodes eventually increased. Off and on I did rides of reasonable distance with decent capability, riding for enjoyment with other former racers. Sometimes I'd be an instigator, I was always known as a good sprinter. Other times I'd start out, only to have to turn around after a couple of miles, go home, and lie down. This eroded my confidence.  I searched for reasons; maybe I was coming down with something. Maybe I'd eaten the wrong thing.  
  Increasingly severe symptoms took me to the ER.  I never was found to have much other than an odd EKG (but not classically worrying cardiac signs) and low levels of potassium.  ER visits started happening several times a year, with less dramatic episodes of weakness in between. Doctors told me they could find nothing specifically wrong. I went without a diagnosis for a long 7 years, making the most of my energy when I could, and feeling compromised the rest of the time. In the interim I was tested for many things but the cause remained a mystery.  Finally, a doctor in a new town decided that my recurring low potassium needed further study. This led to a nephrologist's diagnosis of a rare kidney defect, which was causing me to dump essential bicarbonate and vital potassium. My body was going into acidosis, my electrolytes were off, causing arrythmias. My kidneys were trying to compensate for the defect but became progressively less able to cope. 

  It was a relief to finally get a diagnosis and to start treatment, which is lifelong. Though mostly effective I still chase feeling well, versus occasional but less severe malaise. But I don't dwell on the lost time. I decided to write this just to name the elephant that has been in the room for so long. The greatest adjustment has been trying to regain an identity as a strong, active person. Part of me hoped treatment would reset things to "normal," I'd hoped I would be taking on real physical adventures again. Some days, I do alright. I ride my mountain bike more often than my racing bike. I twist the throttle on motorcycle rides to get the feeling of speed back without exhausting myself. But active efforts often dig a hole for the following days; a day of physical work or focused exercise can mean days of down time. On outside appearance I may seem ok. I wonder when I turn down invitations from others to ride or do an adventure, if it appears as a lack of commitment or willingness to try.  Not liking to make excuses, I usually just let people think that's the case. It's not the same as feeling a lack of fitness. A healthy person doesn't experience this systemic flaw I'd wish on no one.

  Surrounded by athletic friends and family, I have learned to mostly be the facilitator, instead of the athlete.  I drive the shuttle car, maintain the bikes, wax the skis, repair the boats, screw studs into running shoes for winter. I capture their adventures as photographer. I do shorter distances and turn around early. I don't talk a lot about sport tactics or training regimens anymore.

  But I did have some glory days. I'm grateful I had many years of pursuing a sport. I'd made sport and being physically strong a big part of who I am, or used to be. In the end, I think of myself as very fortunate. I find it hard to take myself or my condition too seriously. There are so many worse things that people go through.  And while I may have lost riding as a sport, cycling is a lifestyle. That's something I'll never lose.

-all photos author's-

Specialization

Specialization

What’s your area of expertise?  Likely you have a job or a pursuit that you’ve spent a great deal of time honing. Most of us eventually focus on something in our lives that gives us a relatively high level of proficiency.  How many in the crowd regret not broadening their pursuits? Or, conversely, regret not having time to delve even deeper into one true interest, whatever it may be? To recognize that 100% expertise is always a bit beyond our grasp, and learning is without end. 

I think about specialization when I ponder our rat-race method of choosing a profession, taking it on, and spending years at it. When we divide our time into narrow chutes of performance, this allows us to reach a specific understanding of one part of complex issues. Such as:

• a branch of medicine or other science
• a wealth of literary knowledge 
• the finer points of, say,  blacksmithing 
• everything about 1957 Chevy automobiles, cars in general
• the development of a steady hand, an artistic style (and a portfolio)
• human development; raising a family
• physical prowess at a sport
• talent & expertise with a musical instrument

You name it, we can find so much detail in nearly any avocation or subject, enough to consume us and leave little time for other things. Devotees of one may argue their subject’s merit over anyone else’s subject, sure that theirs is the most difficult or worthy or interesting.  

Time is the driver of this tendency to specialize. Not having time enough. Individual interest draws one, where it leaves another cold. We wouldn’t follow each other into every possible pursuit even if we had time--our natures and drives vary in a wonderful way, making each of us unique.  We do seem to have strong suits, different talents, that are unevenly distributed. Makes for a more interesting village. 

Sequoiandendron Gigantea

But I suppose that many of us would be broader and expand more on our interests if we lived as long as a Sequoia tree. (2,000-3,000 years.) The ticking clock and the frailty to come instead can make us hunker down at something, and not much more. Yet, when we let our curiousity wander, aren’t most of us able to imagine many more things we would entertain? Things we’d make time for, if we had a second life to live?  Or perhaps we’d bring specialization to new heights, and become expert at one thing to an unheard-of degree. 

This ability to conceive of more speaks of hidden potential and of some unknown development that we aren’t able to achieve before time runs out. Leading us to be satisfied with less, or at least see that what we do accomplish is enough. Perhaps it’s better for our psyche to be topical or casual with many things, while being detailed and expert with a prime pursuit. 

Meanwhile, I seem to be prone to pursuing all trades, and being master of very few. 

Carpe Diem

Carpe Diem

There are things in life that make our sense of time more acute. If we live for today as sages suggest, we can't stop to rue the things we may not accomplish today, much less things we won't get done tomorrow. We won't stretch the hours given. Priorities, though, can change. We may be given new mandates by forces and circumstances encountered in our lives. The turns in the road may or may not be welcome, but they become our course.

If ambitious, you may take stock regularly to see if you are where you intended to be from the start. If you are instead whimsical, you may simply reflect on what has passed and carry on to see what tomorrow brings. Either approach provokes me to think about those tomorrows: meeting big goals, or simply arising to a new day, requires an appreciation for each new day. Take notice. While you still can. Carpe Diem, that is.

I've had a recent journey of observation down the path that awaits many in the latter part of life. Beyond frailty, illness, loss of independence, and outliving ones' peers, there is the cruel possibility of suffering the decline of ones' mental faculties. In caring for an elderly family member, I saw this firsthand.

You might assume that someone suffering cognitive decline is perhaps unaware of the fraying edges of their mind, exactly due to that altered grey matter. If this were completely true, it might be comforting; it might mean that a person doesn't have to be present, or accountable for their descent into becoming mentally 'damaged goods.' I think we'd like it to be true, we'd like to escape the embarrassment and loss that awaits.

What I observed instead, was a see-saw between complete inability to see in themselves their deficit, contrasted with other moments of very canny cover dialogue or irritated behavior when the frayed edges cropped up, and they knew it. Over weeks, months, and years, the person in my care coped with the difficulties that grew and encroached on their identity and the capabilities that had made them who they were.

The inability to reason, remember, focus, or complete a task, completely changes the order in ones' life. The idea of order becomes mostly foreign. Strangely enough, the personality I was working with had always had a very rigid routine, and this was a benefit in coping with the surprises and difficulties of their cognitive lapses. When you can no longer plan what comes next, but your habits have never been too spontaneous, for a long period it's possible to fall back on a well-worn pattern. It requires less thought to just do what you've always done. And in this case, that worked for a while, for most things. But eventually they were virtually "at sea" as to knowing how or what to do to get through a simple day. They had to be led through the dance, which became less vital and more banal every day. Even with efforts to enliven and enrich each moment, the ability to tap into life was deadened.

Something we may not account for in the waning years of our lives is the tenacious strength of our assumptions about what we can still do. We acquire our catalogue of knowledge, our practiced capabilities and talents, and assume they are ours for life. It is difficult to accept that we will inevitably lose some of them. Our patterns will be many decades long in the making. How do we imagine we will abandon those patterns? Is there a date-certain? Will we anticipate and delegate away the fabric of our lives with aplomb when we must? We know that we won't, not so easily. Our identity is made from this fabric, we value ourselves largely through our capabilities. And we cling to the notion that we are as we were before, even if nothing supports that notion.

There are the logistics of replacing our failing patterns with new approaches, a new prop, accepting some help. This goes against the grain, especially for a creature of habit. An "early adopter" might embrace new adaptive ways of doing things, but that still pre-supposes they'd know when it was time to adopt a new method. It may lead to abandoning activities altogether when we can't do them anymore. Driving a car is an iconic example. In our case there was that period of a few dodgy driving episodes, even after a lifetime that had included very skillful driving of difficult and exotic cars. Fortunately for my charge, there was a sudden loss of interest in driving, and we never had to have an actual intervention.

Other losses were harder to accept. It's too depressing to list all of them, but cooking, walking, hearing, creating, and being at all motivated were among the casualties. There is a real old-age dynamic of being "too tired to bother" that no amount of vitamins, care, or inspiration can fully offset. When arthritis dulls your hands, frailty robs you of surety in movement, and lost cognition shutters your awareness of all but the instant you are in, the world shrinks immeasurably.

My philosophy has always been one of living fully, appreciating things along the way, and not wasting opportunities to pursue meaningful things. The journey alongside someone who was approaching, and then arrived at the end of their road, was meaningful, but draining and confining as well. It was an impertinent mirror of what lies ahead. For someone decades younger, it seems too soon to become so familiar with that path.

And so, I purposely release my mind and thoughts from the excruciating details of life's finality. I discard the wearying role that went with supporting another in that stage of life. And I go outside, and smell the roses. I suggest you do, too.

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.

Twin Lakes

August in Colorado is one of the best times to get up to a higher altitude. The hot temperatures on the front range and lower valleys feel too warm to a Coloradan, even if it isn't as humid as the midwest states, or as blazing hot as nearby desert states. Record temperatures this year make that more true than ever. Going from 6,000 feet in elevation to over 9,000 feet for a getaway, is worth a ten degree drop or more in temperature.



On the way to Independance Pass, highway 82 rolls past a tiny town, hardly recognizable as such. Two lakes in view are joined by a narrow neck, like an hourglass, and collect the snowmelt from surrounding peaks, with some that are over 4,600 meters high. (Mt. Elbert, the highest in Colorado, measures some 14,400 feet by the latest geological surveys.) The town of Twin Lakes rests there, mostly unchanged from its early days in the late 1800's.

A couple of dozen buildings are clustered along a few dirt streets, many boarded up but still showing the care builders used in their construction. A charming white clapboard schoolhouse sits at the end of dirt lane, the imagined voices of long-ago schoolchildren seem hard to hear now. A couple of lodgings are open, a general store, an art gallery, and a gas pump that seems to work. Historic buildings are marked with for sale signs.



The few locals seem to know how to divide their lives between this place and jobs elsewhere that keep them solvent. Most know how to do more than one job, whether it's maintaining summer lodgings, cooking for a weekend barbecue concession, or helping park an empty sheriff's car along the highway to slow down lead-footed drivers. There is no thronging crowd, no lighted intersection, no real restaurant anymore. One log-sided hotel is empty, though it was open as recently as 12 months ago. Seems there are a succession of brave or foolhardy attempts to make a go of it in this place that only sees traffic for some five months of the year. But you can find a few tiny cabins to rent, even a collection of rooms in an attractive and well cared for lodge.




The most excitement seen here lately was the brief appearance of a professional bicycle race, with seasoned European pros tackling the high altitude terrain of Colorado.


It seems fitting that this dignified yet quirky little town only has a small purchase on this grand piece of landscape. The mountains around have endured even longer, the town fits in perspective rather well somehow.


-photos by the author

Location:Colorado

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.



- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Japan

The Nihon no Kokki, the flag of Japan, has been tragically dragged well below half-staff, if not dragged out to sea, by March 11, 2011's incomprehensible devastation. The 8.9 magnitude earthquake and following tsunami has wiped so much of the landscape aside, like the grotesque arm of a very unfunny Godzilla. That iconic monster from Japan's pop culture library probably came to be partly from the very real and vivid forces of nature that Japan for so long has known too well. Typhoons, earthquakes, tsunamis.

   As a child watching that monster, I was torn between comic disbelief at its jerky stop-action movements, and a gut level fear of the idea that such a terror could roam a landscape. Arcing power lines, toppling buildings, crumbling mountains, even wielding atomic breath and radiation. Yet when the show ended, the world away from the television was still right side up; the terror was only a product of theatrics and imagination. One could wish this were so this week-- that the science-fiction, now fact, could be made unreal.

  I've long had an admiration for Japan's people and culture.  I've never been there, but I grew up on Pacific islands with asian classmates, many of whom were straddling two worlds of language and culture. When I would leave school for the afternoon, it meant a couple of hours of recreation before tackling some modest homework.  For many of my friends, however, it meant even more school hours, where they learned the language of their parents and preserved genteel customs and rituals of a rich civilization. Being around the Japanese culture meant opportunities to enjoy different foods, elaborate tea ceremonies, meeting elegant elders who bowed graciously and had a humility rarely seen. I was exposed to various high arts; from woodworking, to paper and printmaking, the cultivation of bonsai, raising esteemed carp or "koi," and the succinct art of Haiku poetry. The physical grace and discipline of Judo martial arts. These things are  just a very small part of their artful civilization.

  The disciplined resilience of the Japanese is astounding, without dispute. Their technological prowess and rich contributions to modern engineering are made more admirable by the commitment to employ such tools to protect and enhance the quality of life for the people, even if at a high economic cost. A cost that many modern societies would refuse to accept. It has made a difference in the degree of survival, but cruelly, nothing in man's technological toolbox could entirely mitigate such a destructive force as we've just seen.

   I'm proud to display Japan's flag, though I'm decidedly not a nationalist. I'm someone who is uneasy at seeing gratuitous displays of national symbols. Symbolism for me speaks more loudly when we remember that we can gather our identities and motivations under something like a flag, yet we do well to do it respectfully, and to cultivate tolerance amidst a sea of nationalistic symbols. Driving around with your country's flag billowing from your truck, is no guarantee of your patriotism. That I display the flag of my own country from my porch during the summer, is also no guarantee. It may sound cliché, but around the world, we are all one. We may not be the same, but a common bond unites us all, whether we fully understand that or not. Today I display Japan's flag for its symbolism of the people now under assault from the trembling earth and the swallowing sea.

  The news coverage is heartbreaking, mesmerizing, chilling.  An older 'Oma,' was seen crying in view of a journalist's camera, "Japan good people. Japan polite people..." --as if to question why or how such a terrible thing could befall the populace of her country.  The adage, "there but for the grace of god, go I," has to loom large for any feeling observer. This is where we can feel our commonality, our ties to one another.  It is heartening to see the global sympathy and efforts to help from far away strangers. The feeling of helplessness and dismay can only be allayed by trying to help.