Year's End

The end is the beginning. Suddenly I discover a new perception of Time and Being. Being is Time and repetition of cycles is an illusion. The circle as a symbol of infinity is a fiction, because the "circle" is constantly moving, revolving and evolving through time and space. Our dimensional worlds are like cylinders and filaments in never-ending change or vibration. It might well be that consciousness is the collision of membranes oscillating and making parallel universes as they go along, appearing and reappearing in a vast infinitude of realities and universes.

Time Loss

All this time since the last entry...lost.

Why?

My inertia compounds the loss. Time looming large is more daunting than an empty page, an empty canvas, an empty space inviting, enticing... Time is the very stuff of existence, the essence of Being, more palpable than space. Being stuck in Time is like disappearing into a blackhole. That is where I have been... past the Event Horizon... into the jowls of the Time Grinder.

My Browser was set to open on this blog. Every time I opened it, this black hole of Jet Lag came up as a grim reminder of my stalled condition. It should have been Time Lag because my paralysis extended way beyond the conventions of travel disadvantages from point to point on our globe.

So now I open a new era. Somehow I have gone through an evolution from early enthusiasm, through the trying times of working through patches with no inspiration, to the recognition of my limits and a growing vision. Maybe this era will be open new insights and energies. I know I have lost the few readers I may have had, so now I write to the empty space, the empty page, the emptiness of an existential ennui that smiles as it advances for the kill.

Jet Lag

In my travels I have experienced what I thought was jet lag, a kind of sluggishness and fatigue that is somewhat annoying and is over in a few days. When I heard others who travel more than I complain of jet lag, I assumed they were speaking of this minor nuisance and I wondered about the basis of their difficulty.

However, the jet lag I experienced this time after returning from Korea was totally disabling, a major impediment to routine functioning. This was not something that I could ignore, since my energy was totally drained and I was thoroughly disoriented. Each day I would manage to get out of bed and get through the morning routine, but when I tried to leave the apartment, I would feel as though someone had hit me with a sledge hammer as I was trying to walk while dragging a three hundred pound weight. Each day I would try to return to work, I would be beaten back by a ruthless fatigue that resembled a drug-induced state. I would lay delirious in bed, voices on the radio blending with my fantasies in some bizarre narrative of intrigue and deception. Somehow I would find myself back in Korea in some back street pursuing some vague adventure that left me helpless and alone...descending into unconsciousness.

One friend advised me to "stay with the sun" and I thought he merely meant to adjust my sleeping habits to the local daylight hours. But I have since learned that the remedy is to absorb as much sunlight as possible as it creates a chemical response that counteracts the jet lag and enables you to adjust quickly. Alas! I learned this too late since I am now in the final stages of recovery. Yet, I have a new respect for those world travelers who seem to thrive in the changing zones of time and days perhaps creating a new species equipped for time travel.

Namsadang

When I travel, I always think there will be more free time than actually materializes. I thought I would have time for long, leisurely blogging about my visit to Korea. I have many notes and many thoughts, few of which have made it through my fingers to this Blog. It's okay. Right now I am trying to relish the moments and the people. Some of these experiences will eventually make their way to words, but others may slumber for another time.

One discovery that I cherish is Namsadang and the newly sculpted figures in Anseong that celebrate this entertainment and art genre. Apparently the film The King and the Clown (Wang-eui Nam-ja) is narrated through the context of Namsadang, so I look forward to seeing that film which apparently has had lasting impact on Koreans. It seems clear that effotrs such this are awakening many to the rich heritage and past of a country that is distinctively different from its Asian neighbors despite some obvious practices they share through interaction over centuries.

Namsadang (Namsadang Nori) represents a traveling group of entertainers much in the spirit of Commedia dell'arte that flourished as a traveling troupe of acrobats, dancers, and actors in Italy in the 1500s. The sculpted figures at Anseong convey the spontaneity and energy of this practice that has as its primary aim to entertain, and through the invention and imagination of its makers has risen to the status of a national art. These figures were installed this past July, so they have been a public fixture for about a month. They make an exciting contribution to Anseong and performance heritage of Namsadang.

Itaewon: Pul Hyanggi and the Grand Hyatt Terrace

Finally, Sang-chuel Choe and I made contact and arranged to get together on this day of Korean Independence. I had already had met for lunch with Professor Doo-jin Han, and with Youngju and Han went to the new National Museum of Korea, so the day had been rather full. Youngju shared some time as I waited for Sang-chuel in the lounge of the Seoul Plaza. (The day had brought one minor disaster: I lost my camera in a taxi without much hope of recovering it.)

As we waited in the lounge, Youngju pointed out a match-making date in progress, which I learned is a very common event in hotel lounges. Korea is filled with such elegant and fanciful lounges, so it seems a great ritual for seeking and finding the mate of your dreams.

Sang-chuel finally fought his way through the notorious Seoul traffic jams arriving slightly after 7 p.m. He drove to a restaurant just beside the Itaewon area, Pul Hyanggi, which he explained means the scent or fragrance of grasses. This was a traditional Korean restaurant and I am not sure exactly what Sang-chuel ordered, but the food kept coming for an hour and twenty minutes with delectable dishes I had never seen or tasted before. It was a fest for royalty and a truly unforgettable experience. The woman dressed in traditional Korean fashion who served as our host orchestrated the meal with grace and devotion, making each dish resonate with its own special meaning and aura.

Sang-chuel telephoned Insook and arranged for her to meet us at the Grand Hyatt Hotel in nearby (very nearby) Itaewon, a cosmopolitan, upscale district appealing to international travelers and Koreans seeking a more multicultural setting. We drove along the main street of Itaewon and I felt as though we were in another country. I had read about this thriving Itaewon section in the Korean Airline's magazine, Morning Calm, and in this brief sojourn it more than lived up to the promise of the article.

The Grand Hyatt was a blast. The moment you entered, you felt like you had entered a different world. It was pulsing with energy. The lounge was filled with young people bent on romance and celebration, aided and abetted by a piano player who pulled the essence of Korean dreamy pop from the ivories with an appropriate rubato spirit of wanderlust.

We went to Sang-chuel's favorite Hyatt hangout, The Terrace. I can only say that the view from the terrace was spectacular, a panoramic view of Seoul and the Han river. We looked south from Mount Namsan across the river to the new city, and I thought I had a sense of where COEX and Chungang University might be located in that distant view. While we waited for Insook a waiter walked around the restaurant with a sign that had little bells ringing. Sang- chuel explained it was another meeting of strangers hoping to meet their dreammate.

Insook joined us shortly and we invested some calories in the desserts and coffee. I had the Mango Cup which totally destroyed any hope I had of trying to stay within range of my diet. But what the heck...it's Korea, after all.

Jumping into the Seoul Scene

Sunday, Seoul time was an exhilarating trek through the streets and by-ways of a city bigger than New York that felt somehow more intimate and open. Maybe it was just the charm of my guide, Jungmin (later joined by another charming guide) and her shrewd maneuvering. However, nothing can be done to avoid the traffic jams of Seoul which are growing more and more severe even as I am typing this paragraph. It is one of those things that everyone complains about, but somehow seem to accept as a modern condition of city life. With 44 million people who own at least one car, driving is a challenge and you usually are trying to flee the city and the congestion for points south and the endless shores that outline the peninsula.

We went through some fashionable shopping malls to watch people and the gleaming and timely products, and ended up at Tani for lunch, a fusion eatery designed as an upscale but cozy retreat where conversation and idleness reign. It was difficult to disengage from this quiet oasis, but we were seeking to be in the streets and mingle with people and Korean Culture. It was extremely hot and humid, but nevertheless we headed for a landmark, Myeong Dong Catholic Cathedral, which was about 200 meters away. Our path led us through the street of youth, Myeong Dong, a boulevard without cars, inhabited by thousands of teenagers (and younger) with many shops and carts designed to lure them into sales, but they seemed especially savvy and out for other adventures. Walking this street gave new meaning to the phrase "strolling the boulevard..."

Eventually we came to the church, which because it was Sunday was filled with worshippers and tourists like myself. I took a few pictures but was fiercely attacked and admonished by a girl of about 15 years, who was supported by some man who appeared to be in charge of the back of the church. They were intent in herding people to the sides of the church where no one could see, while keeping the center of the sanctuary vacant.

Our real destination for the day was a martial arts musical show called Jumping that had been running for some time and became extremely popular after being acclaimed by a festival in Edinburgh. As it happened, we were to see the last performance of this show in the Cecil Theatre (a typical off-Broadway style space) before it began a national tour.

Upon leaving the church, we grabbed a taxi, and discovered that the driver did not have the slightest idea how to get to the theatre, even though it is a well-known destination and quite famous because of the hit shows that have played there. It was at this point, Jungmin pulled out her phone and called someone for directions, and then handed the phone to the driver, who despite this assistance seemed very reluctant to accept the directions.

Even though we inched our way through traffic, we made it to the theatre much too early and were told about a nearby cafeteria where we might spend some time and find some refreshment. But the cafeteria was closed for Sunday, so we wandered a long the street and stumbled upon a true national treasure that had been named by an international group of architects as the most impressive and beautiful building in Seoul, the Seoul Anglican Church.
This was an extraordinary discovery, and although the sanctuary was closed, a very kind gentleman unlocked the doors and gave us a personal tour. The architecture is Anglican gothic mixed with Korean, the only such structure of its kind. Even as I write this in the plaza of the Seoul Plaza Hotel, I am looking at this idyllic structure with the deep earthern orange roofs and light brown stone that sits in the center of the city, out of the way but also deeply in the midst of the life of Seoul. Begun in 1924, the church took more than 70 years to complete, and saw Seoul survive some of its most tempestuous times.

After leaving the church, we discovered a gallery maintained by one of Korea's largest newspapers, Chosan. In the gallery we found a very tasteful snackbar where we tried a beverage Clearly Canadian and a mango frappe. This turned out to be a great spot to talk politics, and I discovered that Korea's president is not well thought of (to say the least).

We then headed for the Cecil Theatre and watched a wonderful display of energy and imagination called Jumping, and by the time the show was over the whole place was jumping. A highlight of the event was after the show when the entire cast lined up to give autographs and pose for pictures. Jungmin collected all the autographs as I served as the historian/researcher.

You might think that would be the finish of a wonder-filled day, but we were joined by Youngju and headed for the Samsung Tower and a restaurant/bar known as Top Cloud. There we had impressive French Cuisine and shared ice cream and cake to finish the meal. The manager of the restaurant and our waiter were rather smitten by my guides, so we were treated to a tour and pictures before we finally left and called it a day.

An American in Seoul

Coming into Seoul from Anseong, I felt the energy of a city tuned to the present but steeped in the rich heritage and tradition of a past that stretches into the remote past and included regions that extended out as far as Manchuria.

As we approached City Hall, we could see the building decorated in anticipation of the upcoming national holiday on Tuesday, August 15th of Kwangbok-jol, Korean Liberation and the establishment of the first Korean government in 1948. The building was completely covered with materials replicating the Korean flag Tae-kuk with intense red, white, and blue with the black characters framing the central red and blue yin and yang symbol. Workers were busily constructing a stage to the side of the building.

Fortunately my hotel room looks out over this scene from the 20th floor where I look northward to the mountains that surround Seoul. As I look on the grounds before me, I see the great lawn in front of the City Hall Building. In the states, this area would be sealed off with a "Keep Off the Grass" sign, but here in Seoul families are enjoying the lawn, strolling and sitting, with children running and playing.

To my left as I look at the circular grounds below is a square with about 64 water fountains that shoot out various patterns as children run into the square to be doused with water. They are having such fun. What a great idea!

The stage has been comleted and chairs set for musicians. In front of the soundstage is a circular stage, which will likely be for speakers, performers, dancers, and whatever will comprise the official celebration.

From the intense activity, I wonder if there will be some event today, Sunday, in anticipation of the Tuesday holiday. I have just finished breakfast and will be going out in the city with some adventure ahead. Last night I went to the Korean Traditional Theatre with a friend. We had been led to believe that the top performer of Pansori, An Sook Sun, would perform that night, but as it turned out, it was her students, who were fine, but still growing. We watched the Pansori for about an hour. It is an epic work that is deeply ingrained in the Korean Psyche. The entire performance is usually about four hours.

JFK-KAL-KOREA

I am sitting here, half a world away from my destination: Seoul, Korea. I am in the Korean Airlines Lounge looking across to the waterway that skirts the runway at JFK. In Korea it is half past midnight, August 5th. Here is it is not yet noon, August 4th, Eastern Daylight Time. I will go through an enormous afternoon in which Friday will morph into Saturday and I will step off the plane around 5 p.m. Saturday, fully convinced that I have taken a long summer's day into evening.

This is the miracle of travel, a phenomenon that makes us aware of the relativity of Time. Even on our little blue marble planet we experience time warping through space, the delay of Time filtered through the array of Space, slipping into dimensions of consciousness not fully comprehended, too easily dismissed as "jet lag."

My taxi to JFK was through a different time warp. The driver was pure Indian, with full Indian regalia, and he was intent on avoiding the bottleneck where the LIE joins the Cross Island Expressway. This took him on a journey past LaGuardia Airport, and I thought for a moment that I must have muttered the wrong airport as I recovered from the trauma of lifting and loading my extremely heavy bag into the trunk. Given the high humdity, there was a mess of fluids dripping from me and hitting the cold air conditioning of the cab like a miniature weatherfront.

"Are we going to JFK?" I managed, but the driver was silent, and in my weakened immune state, I began to imagine I was being abducted. Such moments are heady fantasies since it requires an audacious leap of faith that you are someone worthy of abduction... a boost to the old self-esteem...

I looked at all of the familiar ramp exits of LaGuardia and was thoroughly convinced I would never make it to Korea.

"Are you going to JFK?" I repeated, with somewhat more authority than before.

The driver glanced back at me and nodded.

There was surprisingly little traffic as we literally flew along the Van Wyck, usually the nemesis of every driver attempting to reach JFK by automobile.

And now, here I sit, listening to the distant roar of jets coming in and out of JFK, sipping some coffee courtesy of KAL and beginning the first Blog of my journey to the East, which amazingly takes me to the north and west to a world of serene mountains, robust people, beautiful lakes, and a city that never stops, but literally stretches out to the mountains all around in a pose of foreverness.

My friends in Korea are mostly asleep by now. I won't sleep for a whole day, because I can never sleep when I travel, but my psyche will pretend that it is just one long, beautiful day stretched out in the twilight of summer, and we can blame my drowsiness on the heat and the humidity.

Pershing Square

Walking along 42nd street, looking for some place to land around Grand Central Station. Discouraged by the cold store fronts of fast food chains designed to force you through their calorie-ridden food fare at a break-neck pace. Tired. Feeling the sultry air of a city summer morning. Sunday. Lazy and lax.

There under the viaduct of Park Avenue, tucked away like a pre-war mirage, Pershing Square beckoned, calling me like a black and white movie, full of intrigue and mystery.

I crossed the street, somewhat wary. Pershing Square seemed both out-of-place and strangely familiar. I had the eerie feeling that if I walked through the door, I would enter the world of Bogart and Bergman. I half expected that Peter Lorre would greet me with his fiendish smile and hand me a menu as he escorts me to an out of the way table surrounded by characters from Casablanca. Lorre leans over to me, shielding his face with the menu, and whispers that he can get me out of here to a safe place, for a price.

I push through the fantasy and enter Pershing Square. It is a large space, the front inhabited by cane-backed chairs and tables set for a continental-style breakfast. Looking past this vesitbule, I find a huge restaurant with a sumptious bar to the right. Somehow I have tumbled into a wonderland of the forties. It is quiet, as though waiting for something, for someone. For me, maybe. Mostly empty. A few people give me the once over as I am taken to a prominent table across from the bar.

Almost mysteriously, coffee is poured and water placed to the side, setting the stage for the waiter, an Eastern European from Hungary or Romania, looking like a young Peter Lorre. He regards me suspiciously, asking me if I am ready to order. I order eggs over easy with sausage. He takes the menu from me and asks "you mean instead of bacon?" I nod. "That's right, sausages." He gives a look of approval as though I had successfully said the right code word and disappears.

I pour the cream into the coffee and slowly stir as I look around the dining room. It has a confortable feeling, in spite of its size, and although there about twenty-five people, the restaurant seems strikingly empty. There is a man at the bar, watching some soccer game, some world "football" fare, while the bartender moves about his business. Both men appear to glance over at me, noting my presence while pretending to ignore me.

More quickly than I had expected, the food arrives, the waiter whisking the plate from behind me to the table in an almost frantic gesture while he half whispers urgently, "...careful...the plate is very hot!" He gives a glance and disappears.

I try to understand the meaning of this and begin to carve up the sausages. The plate IS very hot, and I figure this is a common practice of the restaurant to ensure that the food arrives at the table piping hot. The breakfast is excellent, laid out as extravagant fare, a separate dish of strawberry jam and a slab of butter, and an endless supply of coffee.

Suddenly I am struck by the intense silence of the room, punctuated by murmurs and laughter from several tables. No background music!

I look around. I am disappointed that there is no piano near the bar. It is too quiet. Pershing Square is the epitome of another time, a time gone by, and I want to lean over and whisper to the piano player, "Play it again, Sam, for old time's sake, play it again."

Marking Time

Music has always meant so much to me because of its immediacy, a felt connection with Time that vividly etches a streaming existence --- a metaphor of melody unfolding from the silence in a declaration of being. Music is Being.

I suspect it is this quality of immediacy that gives music its special niche in contemporary life. Music made in the moment makes us feel our authentic selves. Even recorded music provides a window of connection with our primal beat, our pulse shaped as the musical evocation of Now. Music is Now.

Music and dance are inseparable. Moving to music has become the social norm, mutual connection to the beat is a form of greeting and acceptance. The essence of musical movement is shaped moment to moment, and correctness is the hipness of Now. Ringtones are the new musical mantras, and dance is the tribal gesture of life. Music is Dance. Music is Life.

In the frightening zero state of ourselves, we are compelled to make music to cover the silence of non-existence. Music marks Time, reminding us that we Are. Music is Time.

The Troubador

Sitting there in Silver Spurs with steaming coffee, a trunk and guitar to the right, the Troubador took a sip and looked straight at me. I recognized the songster surrounded by everything defining a musical identity. In a five-foot square of space, all of the Troubador's belongings sat neatly tucked away alongside the small square black table. A wardrobe trunk, a guitar case and satchel, all black, carved out a space in the diner like a moveable office or studio, the top of the trunk holding the business of the day. On the table with the coffee, lay a gleaming white laptop. and on the laptop lay a mobil phone, silent but poised for action.

The Troubador smiled and moved to the music playing in the background, grooving with the mood, the tempo, and zeitgeist of the moment, perfectly content and comfortable as though this space was a permanent haven. Thoughts surfaced like music rippling through the diner in counterpoint to the countless conversations of customers at nearby tables.

The phone rang and the Troubador flipped open the phone and quietly streamed a phrase, the patterns connecting with sounds defining the perimeter, music flowing in and out of the moment. It was though everything the Troubador touched turned to music. A stranded song maker, caught in the routine of a Monday morning, shaping time with the rhythm of ideas bursting from the imagination.

The food came...eggs over easy with sausage, homefries, and toast. Without missing a beat, the Troubador incorporated the breakfast into the routine, even this was a musical texture weaving a web around the space, a place for music as presence, as sounding silently in the immediacy of awareness, torso dancing in place to the tune of a different drummer.

Putting down the phone, the Troubador connected with the music in the background, arms waving to the beat. I looked at the Troubador and saw a child of the future bursting through all impediments to become a singing poet of a new age. I looked at her, a youngling barely eighteen, long black flowing hair, intense dark eyes, music pulsing through her like sonic circulation.

She looked at me, and for an instant, we recognized each other, troubadors passing through time to different refrains and distant destinations.

Morphing into There

There is nothing new under the sun" was a mantra that my mother often used, usually an assurance that comforted her that there was nothing really to worry about. Like many truisms, the surface glistens with the self evident "truth", but underneath are the shadows of reality looming ever larger. Actually, there is nothing old under the sun. Time and Space are dimensions of change, and we are in the midst of such transformations. Even growing older is a newness of sorts.

So I come to realize that age itself is an agent of Time just as our body is an agent of Space. My perception is an awareness of morphing, for as Time and Space move through us, we are changing into some newness that we do not yet recognize. I don't mean this in the biblical sense of "For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face:", but rather in a more cosmic sense, fashioned from the debris of the space/time eruption sometimes called the "big bang" ---just another foolish notion from our limited understanding that something must have started things.

I experience this in a phenomenon akin to phasing in sound. My phase cycle is changing, expanding. I am becoming more and more out of phase with what one might perceive as the present (actually it is just a sense of the present that specific people inhabit). There is a subtle likeness between phases of being and orbits of spheres. In my expansion, my phase, my orbit is elongating into unknown regions, eliciting entirely new awareness, briefly, but soon, more and more. Mostly I am here, but I am gradually morphing into there.

I like to think of the "mansion with many rooms" as actually the universe with many dimensions, which may exist as intersecting and parallel universes. But maybe this kind of thought is just another manifestation of morphing into the thereness of myself.

Kill Memory

I just finished reading Kill Memory, a novel by William Herrick. The title attracted me because the problem of reality and memory has always been a theme in the context of my own thinking, which was why Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind has been one of my favorite films. The title is from a Russian poet:

. . . Kill Memory . . .'' (the title comes from the Russian poet Anna Akhmatova - ''So much to do today: / kill memory, kill pain, / turn heart into a stone'')

The novel deals with Elizabeth, in her 70s, and not growing old gracefully. She is tormented by her memories. The novel begins with "Elizabeth was not crazy, she was old." Thus we enter her world where her memories range from her lovers, and perhaps one true love she betrayed for the war, to the atrocities she performed in the name of a cause that was the revolution of the masses, that was itself betrayed.

The book is taut, economical, and well written. We glide effortlessly between her meaningless rituals of the present and her memories of the past that ultimately become too much to bear. It is a stream of consciousness narrative that is treated effectively by an experienced and accomplished author, who has been described by some as an American Orwell.

Even though we intimately share Elizabeth's thoughts, it is difficult to become emotionally involved with her plight. Herrick has been careful to provide an objective distance so that we can consider her life intelligently and understand the issues from an intellectual perspective.

Often I am attracted to a title such as Kill Memory as I project what I might create in the context of such a provocative depiction. Might memories be so full of rich experiences and emotions that they torment us as we grow old because they are becoming more and more distant and are ultimately facing extinction? Or might the killing of memory be an involuntary act in which the past crumbles in the onslaught of time and human frailty? Or maybe we have a character who battles the ravages of Time on a quest to Save Memory, to resurrect moments that continue to exist even as constellations still radiate their light from the remote and vivid past of the big bang.

Think Coffee

Just when I thought there was a conspiracy to rid the Village of its best coffee retreats (Space Untitled became a polyglot, music blaring, product showcase, and Coffee Cuisine surrendered to Leo's Place which then went out of business), Think Coffee quietly appears, almost like an afterthought, an "oh, by-the-way" place that makes its predecessors seem childish and awkward.

I'm not talking about a Starbucks kind of place which has become such a formula that you can almost measure the smiles and hospitality, or the first genuine coffee houses in the Village like Caffe Reggio and Cafe Figaro. I'm talking about the new-style, Internet-savvy hangout where coffee, conversation, and connectivity are all part of the same process.

Perhaps there is nothing suspicious about Think Coffee inconspicuously appearing across the street from the Courant Institute of Mathematics where physicists and mathematicians have been working on String Theory as it has evolved to M Theory with the discovery and validation of the 11th Dimension. Perhaps... and yet...

My own discovery of the place was through a colleague who was openly hostile to the thought of Starbucks. We were meeting for coffee and conversation. It was raining, and we were about to settle for Starbucks a half a block away, when she remarked that there was a new coffee shop "over there" and waved her arm in a south easterly direction. I followed her hand and surmised the street she meant. I remarked "I think you must be hallucinating because I know that street very well and there's nothing there but a Gristedes and a few closed storefronts. She insisted, "Well it's there. It's narrow in the front, but then opens into a huge space in the back."

So we struck out in the rain, and as we reached the corner of the next block and looked south, there was the simple, unassuming marquee proclaiming "Think Coffee." We made a run for it, using the marvelous trees in front of Courant as umbrellas (I am from Texas and she is from Colorado, so neither of us have any respect for carrying umbrellas---but that's another blog).

Inside, it was just as she described except that everywhere I looked I saw people sitting with their laptops and coffee, and others engaged in deep conversation. Suddenly I knew I was home. In fact, I am writing this blog from Think Coffee and enjoying my iced coffee at a table tucked away in the back. Tonight there is a free showing of a film and animation, so it looks like I've found the reason I was headed for New York City so many years ago...

Yet, I am somewhat certain that this Think Coffee is actually a portal to the eleventh dimension that the folks from Courant use as a front for their comings and goings as they journey through that fantastical new universe. You can see someone peering from behind a laptop, and then surreptitiously slip away for a while, disappearing unceremoniously, and returning later with a look of mysterious satisfaction. That is, of course, how they are coming up with such exciting visuals for those specials on the Science Channel.

Happy Birthday, Margaret

Today is my Mother's birthday. I honor this day along with my Father's birthday, December 18th. Of course, one honors one's parents, but in our case we were like fellow travelers in life, intent to discover and make meaning of our lives. They were always introducing me to new things, long after I had left home, and I was also sharing books, films, poems, and ideas.

I have blogged about my Mother's visit to New York. It was the last time that I spent significant time with her.

She grew up in the wilds of Missouri and Oklahoma. Her father was struck by lightning when she was about two. It was a large family, as her mother continued to have children with her second husband. I don't really know how many children were in the family, but there were at least ten, maybe more than a dozen. There were so many children that my mother would forage for food and sleep under the stars. There simply was no room and no resources in the home. As it turned out, she was raised mostly by neighbors who lived several doors down from the family.

Growing up she lived somewhat wild and untamed . Schools at that time put all ages in one room, but Mother could not be corralled and confined. Instead she would climb on top of the school house and stomp on the roof. When they searched for her, she would spend the night in a cistern in water up to her neck.

She often wondered how she ever survived that time. Living with my Father, she had a volatile temper, but he knew how to calm her. But she and I had many violent clashes. However, after I left home, she mellowed, and traveled a lot with my Father. They built a get away home in the Ozark Mountains which became my destination every summer. With his influence she read philosophy and books expressing religious ideas. Her thinking had always revealed a deep curiosity and wonder of life. Now this part of her matured and deepened. I still have a few books of hers where she wrote comments and questions in the margins.

Somehow she had been able to emerge into the fullness of herself...into a thinker and reader who celebrated life, I remember her commenting one time shortly after my Father had passed away, "It took me a lifetime to grow up..."

So I celebrate this day... knowing that somehow she is continuing her journey of growing into the fullness of her being.