Fine. So they make me hyperventilate. Still.

On Wednesdays I'm writing about other people's work. So far I've touched on poetry and painting, today it's music. One band in particular.

I grew up listening to classical, jazz and folk music. When Elvis died I didn't know who he was, but I could tell you if a symphony was by Mahler and which one it was within a few bars. I was a nerd. When I was ten I met Esther, who thought all this classical stuff was great, but couldn't believe I'd never heard of The Beatles. She played some of their records for me, showed me who was who (Paul was the cute one, John was the one with glasses, Ringo was the one with the big nose (sorry Ringo, we were 10) and George was the one with the eyes. I've never gotten over those eyes) and my world has never been the same. Just like it's never been the same for millions of other people.

Their music got me through every turbulent moment of my adolescence, even though they broke up years before. They sang to me, talked to me, comforted me. I can still quote most of their movies line-for-line. Sure, there were other musicians who helped me along (a CD of my stories to the first person who can name the singer of this line: I'm not a prophet or a stone age man, just a mortal with potential of a superman.) but I always came back to the boys.

I'm sure most of you know all about this and have your own Beatles love stories, your own little smiles as you think of what they meant to you. Or some other musician who played the same kind of role in your life. I'd love to hear those stories.

Let me tell you about one recent Beatles moment that still makes me grin.

I've known that Paul McCartney toured, but never wanted to pay the exorbitant prices he was asking for tickets. This year I finally broke down. Maybe it had something to do with George dying a few years ago, knowing half the Beatles are gone. Maybe it had to do with issues of my own mortality. Maybe it had to do with knowing that Paul and Ringo are much closer to my parents in age than they are to me and thinking will I have another chance to see a Beatle?

35,000 other people made the same decision. It was the best sign-along I've ever been to and one of the very best concerts. We all knew all the words to every Beatles song (at least 75% was Beatles material), many of us were playing air guitar, everyone - from the five year olds to the 85+ year olds - was dancing. No one cared if they looked foolish, everyone was happy. It was as though we each were having our own, personal relationship with Sir Paul (as we were) at the same time that we were with 34,999 of our best friends.

And I realized that's what the Beatles did and are still doing, almost 40 years after they broke up. They bring us together. They remind us of the potential of a shared dream and that we all have at least this music in common, even if our personal experiences of the music are different.

Music is powerful, it shapes us and inspires us. Neuroscience has established the music effects our brains on a grand scale (classical music especially so) and, in this case, the music of the Beatles kept me from going crazy when I was a kid. And now? The Beatles remind me of who I was and that I am the product of all my years. My current favorite Beatles song is In My Life with its love and nostalgia and sense of we have all felt this. We have all been here.

I'm still a proud nerd; I still love classical, jazz and folk. I also love a wide range of modern music in all different kinds of genres. And I will always turn up the volume on the radio when I hear the Beatles and start singing along. Care to join me?

(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer

Action vs inaction

Two anecdotes.

1. Late last week I was at the gym, swimming laps. While I was resting in-between sets I overheard a man in the hot tub say to the other men in the hot tub, "Hey! I've got a rabbi joke for you!" It was a variant of this joke or this one, only he clearly had no idea how Judaism works, because he ended the joke with the Rabbi talking to St. Peter at the pearly gates.

I began to fume, but decided to be polite and swim a few more laps to cool down. When I finished and was again resting, the guy said to a few new arrivals in the hot tub, "Hey, I've got a rabbi joke!" and told it again. I looked at the other men in the hot tub. Some were laughing (it is a funny joke) while others looked put off.

This is a gym with a multicultural population. Black and white people, asian people, latino people, middle eastern people and many different faiths. It's in a neighborhood that at one time had 4, count 'em, 4 synagogues. I bet he wouldn't have told jokes about women while I was there. Who knows what religion those other men were? We don't have to wear stars anymore.

I had enough. When I got out of the pool I sat in the hot tub for awhile (things got quiet once I settled in, I think having a woman there changed the dynamic) then, before I left I approached the jokester and quietly said, "Two things. It's a good joke. I've heard it with a minister, rabbi, iman and Jerry Falwell. And just so you know? Jews don't meet St. Peter at the pearly gates. We have an an express line." I walked away without looking back.

2. A couple of days later I was at an amusement park with my sweetie and a friend. At the house of mirrors we saw a little girl crying her head off. At first I thought she'd just gotten scared, but upon looking again I saw she was bleeding. A lot. She had clearly been running inside the maze and slammed into a wall. Blood was pouring out of her nose, was all over her hand and her shirt.

Her parents were no where around. There were two slightly older girls with her who looked as though they were about to burst into tears; they clearly didn't know what to do.

The amusement park attendant was just standing there. Other adults nearby were watching. No one was doing anything to help this screaming kid who kept trying using her bare hands to try to stop her nose from bleeding.

I asked my sweetheart for tissues (he always has some) and gave them to her. She knew exactly what to do, this clearly wasn't her first nose bleed. I told her she was going to be fine, told the two girls (her cousins, as it turned out) to call her parents. They said they tried but no one answered. I suggested they try again and sent our friend to get water so we could wash off the girl's hand, as she was clearly upset by seeing the blood on her palm.

She calmed down. The cousins calmed down. The other unrelated adults stood and watched or wandered away. A park EMT finally showed up and helped her just as her mother arrived, so we left. There was nothing else to do other than find a bathroom, wash my hands and enjoy the rest of the day. Which we did.

* * *

In neither of these cases was I being heroic nor doing anything that I consider out of the ordinary. I was acting in situations where I believe action is warranted. And that's what I ultimately find upsetting - I wasn't the first person there, it's likely I wasn't the first person to be distressed by what was happening, yet I was the first person to do anything.

It doesn't take much in the way of courage to act in these small ways. You can safely and easily make a difference in the world by quietly letting a bigot know it's not okay (ever hear of Stetson Kennedy and frown power? He is one of my heroes) or offering comfort to a child.

When we stand up in a civilized manner for what we believe is right, when we intervene to help the weak, we are making an impacting in that moment and modeling behavior that may inspire others to stand up for what they believe in. The current tone of incivility in American discourse serves only to make me more determined to act with kindness and integrity when I have the opportunity.

I don't know if the man who told the joke at the pool learned anything or will tell that joke again. I do know that I could have embarrassed him by chastising him loudly or embarrassed myself by yelling. I hope he will consider where he is and who might be listening before he tells it again.

I don't know if the park personnel will consider trying to comfort the next screaming child, at least offering her a napkin so she isn't covered in blood, nor do I know if other adults might consider being kind to children other than their own. I do know in that moment she needed someone to tell her she would be okay. I hope her older cousins consider being kind when they have the opportunity.

I also know I could not have remained inactive in either of those circumstances. Perhaps that makes me a busy-body. I've certainly been accused of that and worse. But overall? I'd rather act and risk offending, taking a chance that I might effect change, than choose to do nothing and let the world slide further into inaction, incivility and apathy.

(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer

Three things I like about Mondays

1. It's a chance to reset. Just like most working people with a standard North American schedule (M-F, 9-5ish) I love weekends. They give me a chance to recuperate from the week, catch up on the things I didn't get done and play a little. This weekend I rode roller-coasters for my play. But Mondays give me a scheduled opportunity to take a deep breath (try it. Right now. I'll wait.... There, wasn't that nice?), look at the week and start again. I can see what I didn't accomplish, decide what's important enough to take another shot at and what I don't really need to bother with. It's an opportunity to pare down to the essential and let go of the chaff.
2. It's a chance to goof off. Because Mondays are the Moon's Day, as I mentioned last Monday, I inevitably spend some time daydreaming. I love daydreaming. I also try to amuse myself on Mondays, to start the week out right. This site takes random quotes from twitter and, well... you just have to see it. If that doesn't amuse you add a link that does in the comments!
3. And it's a chance to remember that things could be much worse. I have a home, ample food and friendship, an abundance of gifts. Sure I have aches and pains, my own small tragedies, but it could be very different. On Mondays I try to take a moment to remember that this is another week with another opportunity to make a difference in the world. Here. You can too.

Have a good Monday. Life is a gift.

(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer

Sundays are for sharing. Science edition.

As you know, on Sundays I'm sharing a few of the links that I enjoy. While I'm not a scientist, nor do I play one on tv, I enjoy good science writing and the way it makes me stretch my mind.

Mindhacks is a link aggregator that explores the newest research about the mind and brain. It never fails to fascinate.

ScienCentral is a video production company that creates science content for a wide variety of venues. Their videos are accessible online and cover a huge range of topics including Why Naps Make Us More Creative and Climate Change in Hawaii.

Meanwhile, the Public Library of Science is an open publishing venue for scientific research. Imagine is scientists were encouraged to share their work instead of hoarding their results for the next grant? What kind of innovation would that foster?

Enjoy!

(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer

Seeing the world

I don't particularly like having my photo taken, but I enjoy seeing the world through the camera's eye. Here are a few of the photos I've taken in the last year or so. Some are available as notecards through zazzle along with some other things I've designed.









All images and text (c) 2009 Laura S. Packer

The observed world, part 2

Today is September 11th. You know that already. Eight years ago today, just like everyone else, I watched the world change. Sometimes I imagine what the world would be like if someone had said, "Stop. What are you doing?" just a bit sooner. Would things be any different? I don't know.

The observed world, in the last 24 hours. Two moments.

1. At about 8:45am EST this morning I was coming off of an exit ramp from the highway. I noticed a flag at half-mast and thought, "Why is that flag - oh." At the bottom of the hill was an older man wearing a military uniform, standing with his hat over his heart.
2. Last night around 5:30pm I was in line at the grocery store. The man behind me had a bag of tomatoes, another of potatoes and a dozen eggs. I smiled at him and mentioned it looked like a great dinner. He said, "We're breaking our fast soon. You know, for Ramadan." I wished him a happy Ramadan and we talked about the merits of spiritual fasting. I told him I'm Jewish and have fasted for a day as needed, but nothing like what he's doing. And he smiled, told me God smiles at all of us, and invited me to come break fast with his community.

The world has changed. In some ways I believe it has changed for the better. May this day and may all days bring us a greater chance for peace.

(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer

Creation stories

Let there be light...

When the world was created, whether through a cosmic explosion out of nothingness, through the word of God, or through some other incomprehensible event, all of the matter that ever was and ever will be was born

My parents met at a party. My mother was invited by the bald man on the bus, my father went with a friend...

Our own creation, out of this ancient material reformed into flesh and mind, is no less miraculous than the creation of the universe.

In the beginning there was only darkness. Suddenly a small bearded man, the One Who Lives Above, appeared rubbing his eyes as if just awakened. The man, the Creator, rubbed his hands together and there appeared a little girl, Girl-Without-Parents. The creator rubbed his face with his hands and there stood the Sun-God. Again Creator rubbed his sweaty brow and from his hands dropped Small-boy.

Creation stories are a deep and powerful part of our psyche. Regardless of whether they have spiritual significance for you, the stories of our beginnings, collective or singular, help us understand who we are and where we come from. That's their job, it's what they do.

My mother was in labor for almost 24 hours when I finally decided to come into the world. I was a breach baby, presenting the world with my bottom first, which may explain a thing or two.

When we explore our own, personal creation story we can learn things about ourselves we might never have known. We may discover unexpected paths and avenues. We may find out that we are not who we expected to be.

When we explore the creations stories of the world we find ourselves hidden in the gods.

* * *

I have come to believe that exploring the act of mythic creation, both personal and global, helps feed our entire creative being. I wrote yesterday that there would be a contest today; I'm sorry, but I am rescinding the offer for today, I'll give you one later in the week. I instead would invite you to write or draw a piece of your own creation story. If you feel as though you don't have a creation story, here are some starting points:

• How did your parents meet?
• What was the weather like when you were born?
• Did anything dangerous happen to you as a child? How did you survive?
• What was a defining moment, when was a time when you really knew who you were?
• How did you meet your mate?

When exploring any of these topics, feel free to expand upon it. Make it mythic. It wasn't drizzling the night you were born; a rare, inland hurricane was lashing the land. You may have met your mate in high school, but you battled for their affection against wicked enemies. You get the picture.

I'd love to hear or see anything you come up with. These don't have to be long stories, it's a chance for you to explore your own mythical past. Don't we all deserve a creative once-upon-a-time?

(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer

What the eye sees

I grew up in Philadephia and was lucky enough to have parents who took me to the Philadelphia Art Museum on a regular basis. I was exposed to a lot of art at a young age and, quite wonderfully, my parents didn't censor what I looked at. If I had questions they did their best to answer them. I remember giggling at nudes when I was quite young; my mother enjoys telling stories about this.

My parents gave me permission to love art. I still do. While I am not a visual artist (though I dabble in collage and assemblage) the right painting or sculpture can make me cry. Maybe it's somehow related to the mechanics of vision, the light reflecting off of the object irritating my optic nerve, but somehow? I doubt it. You know the truth.

For your viewing pleasure, a few pieces of art I love that have moved me to create.

Andrew Wyeth's work always suggests action beyond the frame. His paintings have influenced my writing and storytelling. I've written about his work at greater length here.

Love in the Afternoon, 1992

Omen, 1997

As much as Wyeth has influenced my narrative, I've discovered I have a knack for some real, physical art as well, influenced by the work of Joseph Cornell. A rabid collector and assembler, Cornell created small, unexpected worlds that bear close examination. I love his work and the sense of mystery and possibility that pervade his every piece. I think my earlier of love of Marcel Duchamp (thank you, Philadelphia Art Museum) primed me for Cornell.

Bebe Marie, early 1940s

Pharmacy, 1943

The Pink Palace, 1948

How can I not love this stuff? The implied narrative, whimsy and whiff of danger are irresistible.

When I'm feeling brave enough I'll post photos of some of my assemblage and collage pieces. In the meantime, tune in tomorrow for musings on creativity and another contest.

(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer

And it's time, time, time...

Well, my September post-a-day challenge has been going on for a week now. The structure (as you may have figured out if you've been following along) is:

Tuesdays - a ramble, the kind of post I've done all along in this blog
Wednesdays - other people's work, something I find inspirational
Thursdays - thoughts on creativity
Fridays - the observed world
Saturdays - an original piece of my work beyond the usual boundaries of this blog
Sundays - sharing. Links I love
Mondays - tips, pointers, suggestions and links to make the start of the week a little easier

I'd love to know what you think of this so far. All of that being said, let's move onto the ramble.

* * *

There's a song called Time by Tom Waits, one of my favorite musicians, on his album Rain Dogs. Like many of his songs, it's wistful and poetic and obscure and fills my heart with a longing for a broken down life that I probably would never really want. For the chorus Mr. Waits moans, "And it's time time time/ and it's time time time/ And it's time time time that you love /And it's time time time."

He's right, we do love time. As much as we curse it, long for it, waste it and kill it, most of all we love it. Time is what we have and our most precious commodity. I think about time a lot, especially about how time flexes and changes according to our needs.

I'll leave the science of time to physicists and its ethics to philosophers. I'd like to examine wonderfully flexible personal time, with four different examples of thinking about it discussed in order of increasing abstraction.

1. Time as a measure of distance and ease. When we travel someplace we are rarely asked, "How many miles is it?" as an estimation of the distance. While that may be more factual - I traveled 350 miles - it's far less useful. We are asked, "How far is it?" and reply, "Oh, it's easy, about six hours." What we're really answering is "How long did it take you get there?" I know, this is obvious.
   
   But this six hours is variable. I don't think 350 miles is too far to travel to visit a friend. It's close enough that I can drive down for a weekend every couple of months. However, if the friend were instead the love-of-my-life then this six hours would be interminable, the time-as-distance becomes far longer and more painful. If the traffic had been bad and it took me ten hours to drive then the same 350 miles would have been a much longer road to travel and I would reconsider flying, which would take four hours, cost more and be less comfortable than riding in my own car. I'd be less likely to see my friend as often; the currency of time wouldn't make it worth it.
   
   A hundred years ago that same 350 miles would have made a weekend trip all but impossible, while two hundred years ago it would have been a perilous journey of several days; the currency of time would require an extended visit.
   
   Time, distance and the economy they create are woven together in our vocabulary and thought.
   
   
2. Bodily time. Ask a five year old how old she is and she may very well tell you she's "five-and-a-half." Ask a 95 year old how old she is and it's unlikely she'll mention the half year. The six months of the -and-a-half is a significant portion of the five year old's life. She's likely to have a much-sharper recollection of everything that's happened to her in that last six months than the 95 year old, not necessarily because of age-related memory issues, but because she has so much less, in general, to remember. Her sense of time is immediate, while the older person's sense stretches out over a longer span.
   
   We retain that sense of time in our bodies, learning how to tell how much time has passed by how we feel. As someone who hasn't worn a watch in many years, I usually have a pretty good sense of time, because my body knows about how long an hour is, or about when 3:30 might be. I also know I am feeling the cumulative passage of time in my life by a greater accumulation of aches and pains. Bodily time.
   
   We mark time by the changes in our bodies, some clearly marked (the onset of adolescence) and others less so. I saw my mother recently after a gap of several months. After she hugged me she began to stroke my hair; I thought she was trying to tidy it. She was instead startled by how much gray I now have. I hadn't noticed the change because it's been gradual, but to my mother this was a dramatic shift in bodily time, reminding her of the passage of time as we both age.
   
   
3. Before and after. There are instances that define us, a single moment that has such a powerful effect we are never the same. It's as though the brief experience that may last one minute or five or maybe an hour colors everything else. It becomes the dot on our timeline that creates before and after. Think about it.
   
   In one moment your whole life changes. I know I have those moments.
   
   - Before I knew had cancer (one sentence). After I was a survivor (one bike ride).
   - Before I told my first story in a performance venue. Afterward, eight minutes later, when I knew this was what I was born to do.
   - Before I found myself stepping between my lover and the assailant, offering calm words to defuse the situation (one second). After, when I realized both how fiercely I love (no one hurts someone I love) and how deeply I believe in alternatives to violence.
   
   These moments are so brief and so clear. They help us know who we are, but they take so little time, for all that those few minutes have more than their seconds worth of value. What are your before and afters?
   
   
4. Books. This is perhaps the most abstract and most curious instance of personal time on this list. Everytime I read a book, especially fiction, I am reminded that books are physical representations of at least four kinds of time co-existing in one moment, in one physical object.
   - The author and editor devoted considerable time to create the narrative bound in my hand. This time has already happened but is now physically represented by the book;
   - The narrative described within these pages has its own sense of time, whether it's a single night (A Christmas Carol), a lifetime (Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All) generations that see the creation and collapse of a culture (Cloud Atlas) or an epic (The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings);
   - I, as the reader, will spend my own time experiencing this narrative. That amount of time will vary depending on how long I take to read it and whether or not I'm enjoying it ("The time flew by!" or "It took me forever to read.");
   - and lastly, the book itself exists as a physical object moving through time as well as space. Old books have their own stories to tell by their type, their binding, their smell, annotations or objects left by previous readers. Time becomes a physical presence in the book itself.
   

These example of personal time barely scratch the surface; Alan Lightman explored many variants of time in Einstein's Dreams, so if you're interested in playing around with these ideas more you may want to check it out. I'd be interested in your experiences of personal time, how you measure the seasons or your life or any other places where time becomes particularly intimate.

It is, of course, time that we love. Not time the abstract concept, but what we do with it. The people we share it with and the experiences that create us.

Tomorrow I'll be looking at two artists I find particularly inspirational. I promise, the post will be nowhere near as wordy as this one! In the meantime, thank you for your time.

(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer

Monday, Monday...

I know Mondays can be hard. I often find the beginning of the week hits me like a brick wall I wasn't expecting, even though I had every reason and every reasonable expectation to assume that yes, Monday was going to happen. Honestly, it's not as though the kinds of things that happen to me on Mondays are so terrible, just that it's the shift from weekend life back into the more regulated and scheduled work-week that I find so challenging.

On Mondays throughout September I'd like to try to lighten the Monday load a little, soften the blow just a touch and maybe offer a tool to make the week seem a tad less overwhelming.

Here goes.

Remember. Monday is, quite literally, the Moon's Day. There is a reason you are still dreamy and drifty on Monday, you're still half in the realm of starlight and hidden answers. According to the old nursery rhyme, "Monday's child is fair of face," so today you are especially lovely (yes, I know I'm distorting the meaning of the rhyme, but work with me here). And Monday won't last forever. It's only one day.

To pass the time. Part of my challenge with Mondays is regaining focus. To help myself come to wherever and whenever I need to be, I often write lists. So here is your Monday challenge:
Write a list of three things you'd like to accomplish by the end of the day. Only one can be practical, the others have to be joyful, silly, or otherwise intended to help remind you that this is only one more day in your life. Because that's what it is - a day in your life. How cool is that? Feel free to post your list as a comment to give yourself a little bit of accountability, then send me an email for follow-up.

Here's my list:

• Drive home from the house of stories with minimal whining (the one practical thing).
• Take at least three pictures while on the drive.
• Once home, lie down in the backyard and admire the sky. Or the rain. Or the stars. For at least five minutes. Afterwards write down a few of the wonders I saw today.
  

Don't take yourself too seriously. Laugh a little. Here's a site that reliably makes me chuckle. Please note, this isn't for kids. Old Jews Telling Jokes.

Have a wonderful day. The Moon and I are both rooting for you.

(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer