WigDawgs WigBlog

"Uncle" EDSEL

2009-03-17T08:09:00.000-07:00

LELAND EDSEL MOORE - July 25, 1924 – March 4, 2009

Leland Edsel Moore was called home to be with the Lord on March 4, 2009 at the age of 84 years. He was born in Wooster, Arkansas on July 25, 1924 and was preceded in death by his parents Oscar Leland and Bina Ford Moore and his only brother, Joe Moore. Edsel was a current resident of Placerville, having moved here the year before his passing. He first lived in El Dorado Hills at Sterling Ranch and most recently at Gold Country Retirement Community in Placerville.

Edsel leaves to mourn his passing a daughter and son-in-law, Ed and Karen Good, of Pleasant Valley, CA. and three grandchildren: Eric Edsel Glenn and wife Margie of Phoenix, AZ; Jody Michelle Leavell and husband Phillip of Hamilton, MT; and Cody Dale Glenn and his wife Shannah of Rocklin, CA. He leaves his first son-in-law Chuck Glenn of Forsythe, MT. and four precious great grandchildren: Alex, Kaylee and David Glenn of Phoenix, AZ. and Elijah Glenn of Rocklin, CA. He will be sorely missed by his one sweet sister, Valta Faye Burnett and two nieces Judy Lehman and husband Abe and Sheri Burnett, all of Conway, AR.

After Pearl Harbor, at the age of seventeen, Edsel joined the Navy and served as a radio-gunner on aircraft carriers in the Atlantic during World War II where he flew Avengers and Wildcats. He survived the sinking of the U.S.S. Block Island and came home on survivor’s leave to marry his one and only true love Barbara June Blower, his wife of 51 years until the Lord called her home in 1995.

Edsel was a district manager for Dolly Madison Cakes and an avid golfer. He served for many years as a deacon for the 1st Baptist Church of Pico, CA. He retired from Interstate Brands Corporation after 31 years. After retirement, along with his grandson Eric, he began a successful food brokerage business, Glenmoor Brokerage of Phoenix, AZ. He was a lifetime member of the U.S.S. Card and U.S.S. Block Island Associations.

He would like to be remembered as a Christian man who loved God, family and country. He had family devotions daily and believed in the power of prayer.

A celebration of his life will be held on March 20 at 3:00 PM in Mesa, AZ at Mountain View Memorial Gardens with military honors where he will be laid to rest by his dear wife, Barbara. Memorials may be made in memory of Edsel Moore to Gideon’s International or Marshall Foundation, P. O. Box 1996, Placerville, CA.

Reflections on Cheese

2009-03-14T14:43:00.000-07:00

I sat on “The Cheese” in Washington Park this morning. I did an ample share of my growing up in a house directly across the street and in this neighborhood. It is almost hard to remember when my neighborhood was defined within these several city blocks. Back then, I distinguished between one area of town and another. Now I slip between zones superficially aware not of how big this place is, but of how proportional - part claustrophobic, part comforting - an optional itch under memories prying fingers. The whole town of Eugene now seems like one cozy denizen from another era, a place I can go, or not.

Last night I spent at my sister’s place. She and her husband went to Portland to celebrate their 22 years together. Before the kids woke this morning and went for coffee. I took Laura’s dog, Josie, with me. Josie loves car rides. I considered taking her to the dog park but her back leg is on the mend so she is pretty much three-legged right now. Instead we headed over to Washington Park, to the Cheese!

Josie ranged with a spry three-legged skip, nose to the ground tail swung high in the air, two ends of a tight-rope-walkers pole correcting her momentary loss of balance. I approached the Cheese and circled. After a couple of circumnavigation, a emotional megatransect or two, and poking my head in and out of the holes, I climbed up. Atop I sat down and enjoyed my hot coffee and the cool morning - pounded pewter skies, bud bare trees, green grass, coffee vapor and water present in the air but not yet organized enough amass and fall as drops. Memories, like the air this morning, drift invisible as odorless vapor in every direction. I inhale deliberately.

In one direction sits my childhood house. In another a house where my brother Steve kissed his wife for the first time. Below, in the belly of the Cheese, a physical sense of the hours I spent reading, hiding, playing, meeting friends, and dreaming. And around the edges the 800 meter loop where I trained with my Mom to run the 10K Butte to Butte.

In every direction there are memories, in every action and thought we build and shape more.

Steve’s son, my nephew Taylor, used to love to say “Cheese”. He didn’t say it with a big grin like someone was taking his picture, or in any obvious cheesy way. That isn’t his style. Instead he delivered “Cheese” without expressed emotion and often in response to what the adults around him considered serious conversation. I always chuckled. Sometimes his “Cheese” would be insistent. The more you wanted a serious response, the more resolutely but with whimsical melancholy he would reply “Cheese”. Taylor’s “Cheese” was disarming and funny and provided amazing way to put into perspective almost any situation or moment. Of course, to all this analysis he would probably respond, “Cheese”.

Back at Laura’s house I browse over the camera phone pictures I took of the Cheese. Isabel wakes up and almost immediately starts brewing up pancakes. She takes my order, (one Mickey Mouse head pancake and two snowman pancakes please) and I invite her over to look at the Cheese. Isabel says the Cheese used to be scary. It comes out in one long breath… “I love the Cheese but it used to scare me when you are little and you go with your mother who is chaperoning your older brothers elementary school outing and stand next to the Cheese and see all the older kids climbing and sliding down and worming their way around the holes you look up at it and it is huge and it is scary...and what is it anyway?! It has holes in it like that one kind of cheese but it’s yellow.'

Isabel goes on tell me she thinks the Cheese also looks like giant pencil shavings. She’s right. It does. It also looks like a beached whale carcass. A jet engine. Something from the imagination of Tolkien or Lewis or Seuss. And it look likes cheese too.

In reality the Cheese is a concrete structure; a cross between playground toy and 1960’s or 1970’s modern sculpture piece. It was out of place then and it is even more out of place now. Insurance would make this sort of playground toy impossible today. It is too big, too slick, to hard, too freeform and too odd. All those things of course, make it perfect.

I don’t ever recall ever being scared of the Cheese. But I’ve had some memories that have seemed overwhelming at certain times. As if I was living in those memories not simply remembering those things in the present. Memories, like an itch, are constant. Remembering, like itching, is optional. And extremely malleable. What can one day seem a memory of insurmountable size can be a playtoy the next. We view every memory from the present and so in one sense they are not memories at all, simply things we choose to remember in the present. Or as Taylor may say, “Cheese”.

For more on the Cheese see, http://wikimapia.org/6634244/The-Cheese or http://wikimapia.org/6634235/Washington-Park. I’ve posted my photo album at, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3JOdAiHnoZI

A 5th Year Senior

2009-02-12T14:03:00.000-08:00

Happy birthday Abe Lincoln. Happy Birthday Facebook. That’s right Honest Abe turns 200 today, and Facebook recently turned 5. Abe began the work of emancipation that still continues, and Facebook - like any 5th year senior - is finally moving into the real world. Facebook is being emancipated, growing up, racing towards greater adoption, unexpected uses and commercialization.

I don’t bemoan or applaud this. I simply observe it, learn and adapt.

Less and less I hear young people loudly exclaiming, “it’s just so weird having my parents on Facebook”. Of course most don’t remember how much answering machines at first irked us in 1980’s, and then the annoyance we felt with cell phones in the 90’s as they went from rare to ubiquitous. Most do remember when texting was only for kids…and now even parents do it. Imagine that! Parents’ texting…how odd... how dare they! Technology generally becomes more inclusive, less isolating as it becomes more widely adopted. Some lament change, others begrudgingly learn it, and still others never adopt it. For most - from early adopters to eventual mainstream users - they just adapt to it.

Facebook is making a fast and massive demographic shift as it enters its sixth year and emancipates so many, including those who were or are trapped on their version of modern day digital Ivory Towers. Demographics over just the last six-months illustrate this mainstreaming…

• The 35-54 year old demo is growing fastest, with a 276.4% growth rate in over the approximate 6 months.
• The 55+ demographic has a 194.3% growth rate
• The 25-34 year population on Facebook is doubling every 6 months
• There are 27,912,480 users 21+, representing 66.3% of all users
• Miami is the fastest growing metropolitan area (88.5%) and Atlanta (6.4%) is the slowest
• There are more females (55.7%) than males (42.2%) on Facebook - 2.2% are of unknown gender.
• Six month ago the college crowd of 18-24 year olds constituted (53.8%) of all users. Today, in just six months, that number is (40.8%).

Obviously the wisest will transition Facebook into the multi-purpose communication tool it is. They won't emtionalize it or stagnate their thinking about it. In most cases it was probably never what they percieved it as anyway. More than two years ago a Facebook employee said to me, "Facebook is the new Internet". His implication was that he never really surfs the traditional Internet anymore. Most of what he needs and wants, from movie times to where everyone is partying tonight to travel advice, he finds on Facebook (or social networks like it). He wasn't a college student but understood Facebook in ways few others did.

Three or four years ago I advised political movements, music groups, non-profits, and others regarding the use of Facebook as a tool for communication, community building and social action. I wouldn’t have recommended a traditional company have a Facebook page or Facebook group at that time. Today I would.

And I’d advise us all to embrace the technology as it shifts and mainstreams. Recently, while doing research on a related topic for a client, I stumbled upon this article, 10 Privacy Settings Every Facebook User Should Know.

As Facebook progresses and accelerates we need to adapt with it, just as we did with answering machines, cell phones and texting. As Facebook mainstreams largely accidental early adopters are learning that Facebook isn’t an exclusive college-bound community. Change is being pushed by newcomers who are morphing and changing it into a tool that serves not just photosharing and relationship status, but business, community building, political campaigns, local, regional and international cultural and artistic endeavors, and much much more.

Facebook may have started on college campuses but from its home in the heart of the Silicon Valley it has always thought of itself as something much bigger. After five glorious years on campus Facebook is graduating into the commercial, professional, artistic, and political and real world. In the real world actions have consequences, thoughtfulness and hardwork rewards, and tools a variety of applications from the mundane to the moving. Facebook (as an organization) has no desire to remain in the 18-24 demographic any more than a 5th year senior wants to spend one more hour in the back row of a statistics lecture hall. Facebook, and society, is pushing its early birds out of the nest and into the larger world. Fly birdies fly!!!

As with all technology and revolutions of thought and culture we can evolve with it or we can calcify, stagnate, wall-build and heel-drag. This goes for early adopters of Facebook as well as those are only adopting it now. We can decide for exclusivity of one group of people and not another or we can do as Abe Lincoln suggested and “disenthrall ourselves” from our old ways of thinking and being.

Articles like the one I link to above give newbie’s and old vets of Facebook methods to reconfigure and fiddleto effectively enrich, expand and even protect our privacy and our lives in a changing world. Facebook has the myriad of layered tools for each of us to subtly shape a real world that reflects who we are without exclusion, embarrassment or exposure and yet with respect to others.

First, of course, we’ll need to take a deep breath and extinguish the flames of our tired enthralled selves and thinking and see a new reality in the clearing air.

Mirror Mirror on the Wall…

2009-01-19T15:59:00.000-08:00

Okay if you still have not gotten it, it's time.

I’m going to give you a heads up for Obama’s Inaugural speech tomorrow. It is a speech he has been giving since he began his campaign, since he spoke at the 2004 DNC, and since he was a community organizer in Chicago. Back in the early days of the Obama campaign as I talked with those close to me they repeatedly acknowledged his vaulting rhetoric but admitted that they didn’t “get” what he was going to do, didn't get the of the “plan”, couldn't figure out what they needed to do.

As diligently and as softly as I could I kept turning them a mirror and asking them to ask this question,

Mirror Mirror on the Wall…how do I get involved?

Even before I got involved with the this movement my nephew Taylor encouraged me towards Obama's book. Taylor was absorbed in it one Christmas as we sailed the Caribbean. I remember my sister Eileen phoning me after Barack's 2004 DNC speech. She thought he would be President…someday. Granted, 2009 seemed a bit quick for her, and others. For some it still does. Personally, I thought the timing was perfect, his arrival on the consciousness of our America, long overdue.

In 2006 I greeted and spent a quiet moment with the then Senator Obama out in front of the National Academy of Engineering before I escorted him into a crowded event co-sponsored by the National Center for Women and Information Technology. He was to me then, as he seems now. He greeted me with outstretched hand, smile and apologies about being late due to a delayed vote in the Senate. I did similarly with hand, smile and a short Indonesian greeting, which loosely translated means, “no problem, no problem”. To this he responded to this with even a bigger smile. A connection made, we chatted briefly about Java and then I escorted the Senator into the crowded hall. I disappeared into the curtains of those who pulled and pushed in around him.

Obama has provided us what great leaders do; a vision noble and wide enough for each of us to define for our own capabilities, community and relationships. He has granted us with a uniquely colorful and American narrative at a moment where it appeared that America had started to look pretty much like everybody else, like any other Nation. He has shown us that we can stand up and be noticed and that our Union, for all the talk of its decline, is still unique and improbably enlightened. We has (we have) renewed the faith many had lost in the American ideal, if not America itself.

Critical to this is always to remember is that he will not define this for each of us. Just as Bush never had the power to define us either. That is our job as full participants in our republic. He may say it is time to be responsible with our finances; it’ll be up to you to figure out honestly what that means. He may ask us to be our brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, friends and even our enemy’s keeper. It’ll be up to us to define what that means locally, regionally, nationally, and internationally. He may ask us to serve; it’ll be up to you to answer how.

Obama’s campaign and his soon to be Presidency, specifically, it isn’t about him, the plan, or the line-item veto. It never was. It is about you and me addressing in our own ways the long list of real issues that have caused our country pain and disharmony. Personal responsibility, education, thoughtfulness, equality.

Mirror Mirror on the wall how do I get involved?

When I looked in the mirror I found some pretty typical ways to get involved; money, time, phone calls, talking (persistently) to those close to me, pounding the pavement…grunt work of a political campaign. Other answers - as is often the case when we ask interesting questions - were decidedly less typical and they’ll probably continue to be.

Earlier today I donated a food and volunteered my time at Eugene Mission. I did this to honor Martin Luther King Jr. Day, my community my country and the repeated and continued call from President Elect Obama. On Tuesday morning I’m going to watch the Inauguration with my Mom.

I received my official printed Inaugural Invitation a week or so ago. It was a nice expected and exciting honor. I suppose they are not that tough to get but I’ll treasure that I got it all the same. I started on a journey of Service long before I knew about Barack, long long before Barack was Barack the candidate or Barack the President Elect. It'll continue long after he is Barack Obama, ex-President of the United State of America. Maybe that is why from his first words I felt like I got it and grokked his meaning completely, and in grand a subtle detail.

Of course part of me would love to be among the throngs observing the history up-close. But we are not called to observe, we are called to participate and so I’ll be were I can do the most good on November 20, 2009 participating in the fabric of a historical day in ways as obvious and personal as they are mysterious and universal.

Washington DC is where Barack needs to be. His Service continues there. Mine continues here.

On January 21 if you still don’t “get it” and are not sure what to do, find a minor and ask the question, how should I get involved? Then find some way to get involved and you’ll be in a long line of Americans who made this country one of, The Fairest Of Them All.

Signs

2009-01-17T13:40:00.000-08:00

"What you have to decide is what
kind of person you are? Are you
the type who believes in miracles
and looks for signs or are you the
kind who believes, things just
happen by chance?" (Grahmn, - played by Mel Gibson - “Signs”)

I watched "Signs" last night. It has a great relationship between Uncle Merrill (played by Joaquin Phoenix), the niece, nephew and the father (Grahmn) so I called it research. In reality, I just really like the movie and well...it was about all I could think of to do on a Friday night in Eugene. The quote above, really, is the gist of the entire film, a man (Grahmn in this case) and his journey to reconcile the inconsistencies with his well-ordered connections and Signs.

This drama takes place in a farmhouse during an alien invasion. That is my kind of movie.

Although I like the movie “Signs”, in as far as it goes it is pretty much Hollywood. I’m not talking about the happy ending and the neat circle it ultimately draws. It is Tinsel Town because it asks the wrong question. Grahmn’s question to Uncle Merrill misses the point in favor of a question that will deliver a neat answer, allow our hero find resolution. I get the dramatic and instinctual reason for this. We thirst for categorization and knee-jerk for neatness and structure that fits our assumptions and desires. It makes sense we would ask questions that would allow those answers.

The truth is we are not of one type or another. There aren’t two types of people. There is only one type of person, be you of the “miracle” type or the “happen by chance” type.

The brain is a connection machine. The brain is a “Signs” spotlight on a dark stage. Need more proof? You’re reading this. You are putting together written letters in an orderly and learned fashion, forming sentences and structure into complete thoughts. This, of course, is determinant on whether I’ve done my job correctly or not.

Making connections is one of the hallmarks of the human brain. It is what are minds are trained to do be you atheist, religious fanatic or child. What we choose to connect and point to as “Signs” oozes out of our being. It dictates our actions, and determines the rigidity or fluidity of our thinking, judgments, actions, imagination, creativity and responses. Humans make connections.

We structure our world according to the connections we draw, to the signs we see and choose to give relevance. I think most brains at some point solidify around a model of sign recognition. We might call that getting old. I’m inclined to believe it isn’t necessarily a strictly age related thing though. We also have the ability to peer around the corner of these assumptions and conclusions and make even bigger connections, see how connection are related to connections large and small. And yes, even make the connection that there are no connections at all. I don't call that chance I call that enlightenment. Contrary to popular belief it is the Buddhist not the Atheist or Scientist who finally and deliberately does this last one...connects to the disconnected and having made that connection, connects with it by purposefully disconnecting and seeing no signs. And that is their Sign.

Ommmmm shanti shanti Ommmm.....next stop Nirvana Vana...Vana Vana White turn another letter for me, buy a vowel and complete the phrase!!!!

We all see “Signs” be they in the firmament or the tea leaves, in a holy book or lifetime of books, through doctrine or superstition, in a beaker of intoxicating primordial soup or a stein of emotion numbing fermentation, in a bank account or via delusion of our own account, through foundations of family or the idle flirtations of friends and lovers.

The question most interesting to make and watch and write about isn’t whether we make connections or not, but which ones we’ve chosen or forfeited to our connection making machine.

What sort of connections (Signs) do you make? What sort do I make? Are we making new connections, expanding the web of possibilities or have we hardened our connection points and found contentedness there? Does it matter? Are our connections convoluted, linear, proof driven, addictive, hunch-like, hints, chaotic, clever, blunt, random, infrequent, funny, trivial, depressing, serious or idle? Does it matter? Everybody is making some connection, seeing some sign.

I’m seeing this right, right?

THE ELEPHANT IN THE ROOM (OR, THE DWARF IN THE CLOSET)

A few years ago I spent two nights in a small second story room (really more like a closet) above the narrow cobbled streets of Beaune, France. I was there with my brother Scott, his wife Anne, and their two daughters, Addie and Lyndsey. The house we stayed in is just few blocks from the colorful Hospices de Beaune at the center of town. As wine center for Burgundy, Beaune is riddled and rooted with an ancient labyrinth of caves and cellars. Like a rooftop garden, Beune’s heavy cobbles, stone homes and shops sit suspended above this underworld. Ground and fortification for us, roof and ceiling for ageless viticulture verities under foot, beyond our senses, and perhaps outside the grasp of our acknowledgement and our connections.

On my first night in my bedroom closet of Beaune I was awoken by a Dwarf at the foot of my bed. In truth, he may have been a Troll, Gnome or Gremlin. It definitely wasn’t an elf. I know elves. It was dark and I was disoriented. I’m pretty used to little people in one form or another so I wasn’t too startled. Regardless, this diminutive night visitor was pretty determined to have me follow him. He repeatedly stepped from behind a wall with his palm facing the ground cupping his fingers in a motion that beckoned, “follow me”.

After some time and desperate whispering on my part I pulled up the covers and banished him to his Beaune underworld. The next morning at breakfast we sat on the patio eating hot croissants with butter and jam. I sipped hot coffee and slowly started to recount the happenings in the closet bedroom. By the time me and my family returned to our lodgings after a long day of doing touristy things the dwarf had grown in shape and form and humor. The house in heart of Beaune had become haunted. In the darkness we all giggled ourselves to sleep.

The Dwarf followed us on to Paris, and from time to time over the years appears unexpectedly. Not unexpectedly. That isn’t right. The brain is a connection machine. And I’ve given my brain the liberty (among other liberties) the OK to see dwarfs, trolls, gnomes and gremlins. He has appeared again of late, peaking out from corners with embered eyes, darting between bushes and dreams, palm down fingers cupping…”Follow me”.

Swing Away.

The Australian Job

2009-01-16T09:59:00.000-08:00

from: Ann
to: Eric
date: Fri, Jan 16, 2009 at 4:12 AM
subject: This Job is for YOU

No kidding, Eric. Check it out!
http://news.yahoo.com/s/afp/20090113/od_afp/lifestyleaustraliatourismoffbeat_20090113032028
How are you!?! Pls. don't respond using a text message.. :-)
Ann

---

Ann knows me pretty well. I trust her. Granted, she is in Duluth, MN. The low today is -18, warming up to a balmy high of +4 later today. The lake effect is probably whipping the wind off the water pushing the temperatures down into the sub-teens and twenties. What kind of job could Ann be suggesting while holed up in her home at 4:12 am in the morning, cabin fever closing in, summer a fading memory, spring a distant first dance? Stay indoors Ann. Hunker down and hang on.

But it isn’t in Ann’s nature to hunker. Nor mine.

Ann’s eyes are often cast to the horizon. She feels a wind blowing and turns into it (unless that wind is adopting cell phone technology which she is completely resistant to) to take its measure and feel its force. She may be in the depths of winter but you would never know that she is feeling any chilling effects from it. I like that about Ann. It resonates with me.

Case in point, I was up early and out for a run this morning as well. 5:00 am, 32 degrees. Outside the corner streetlight refracted heavily against a thick fog casting a beam halfway to the ground before dispersing. I ran through the dark muslin-drawn streets with a low-beam visibility, a shortened cautious gait, but encouraged a quick slip into a hazy vertigo run-trance. I pounded out the time disappearing beneath the haze streetlight to streetlight.

Perfect job eh? One thing I noted for sure before I ever clicked on the link, if it’s the “job for ME”, it better be in a perfect location. That was answered as soon as the first image loaded. I admit that the location looks perfect. Of course I understand that that is made true only in juxtaposition to where I am now, foggy Eugene. Or from where Ann is now, sub-zero Duluth. I know from experience island life (living Island life not visiting Island life) isn’t easy nor is it simple. But on that count a “perfect job”, a job of ME wouldn’t be a match if it wasn’t an adventure, full of challenges and riddled with things to learn, interesting quirks, and ample opportunities for creativity.

So after gazing longingly at the azure waters of Hamilton Island, Australia I dug a bit deep. And got intrigued. It sounds great, blogging, adventuring, interacting with media and people, lots and lots of outdoor physical activity, and stewardship of a great piece of natural beauty. Finally it hit on the last and most important of all perfect job criteria…a perfect start date!

All good things,
Wig

Momma's Boy

2009-01-08T16:58:00.000-08:00

About 22 years ago I left Eugene, my hometown. Shortly after I departed I heard through the familial grapevine that someone somewhere had said something to the effect, “He’s a Momma’s boy. He’ll be back in less than 6 months”. I didn’t come back in six months, or six years, or sixteen but I am back now. And although timing and the sentiment were way off back then, the words were correct. I’ve come back to Eugene for one reason, for my Mom.

I am a Momma’s boy.

That said, no one really returns home for just one reason. You may think you have the reason neatly packaged and defined. You pack your bags and begin the journey home confident in your stated reason. But you soon find soon after arriving and settling that it is impossible to truly return to a place you grew up and left without, on returning, seeing connections and circles, completeness and unfinished business of your life.

After traveling through 50+ countries and now back home to Eugene I've found that what holds true for our most far-flung adventures…

“Once a journey is designed, equipped, and put in process, a new factor enters and takes over. A trip, a safari, an exploration, is an entity, different from all other journeys. It has personality, temperament, individuality, and uniqueness. A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us. Only when this is recognized can the blown-in-the-glass bum relax and go along with it. Only then do the frustrations fall away. In this a journey is like a marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it.” –John Steinbeck, Travels With Charley, (1962)

…holds equally true for our journey’s home.

I’ve also observed coming home meets with a variety of opinions from those around you - family, friends and peers. Some laud you and thank you, others scorn you or even go so far as to ignore the significance of your returning home journey. Finally, others accept you and check in periodically to see how this journey is going. One person called me a Mensch! These later groups (and I’m lucky to have quite a few in it) understands at some vague but tangible level that a “coming home” journey is part of the a full arc that will meaningfully add to the story of ones life. When I told these groups why I was moving back to Eugene, they put down their books, iphones and to-do lists; stopped what they were doing and listened closely. And then they inquired deeper. With the door opened I found a place to express all the other unspoken reasons, concerns, hopes and so much more.

I never really imagined coming home to Eugene 22 years ago. Whenever I’ve been back here to visit in those intervening two-plus decades I’ve always been eager to return to the halcyon skies, energy and diversity of my beloved California. Recently I had dinner with an old and dear friend of mine. We were in a bookstore poking around the travel section. She asked, “if you could be anywhere right now where would it be?” I don’t think I hesitated when I said, “right where I am, in Oregon with my Mom”.

We don’t get to escape who we are at our core. We can embrace and surrender to it and then shape it, mold it, build on it and morph it in unexpected ways. But we never escape that essential seed. I’m a Momma’s boy. I always have been. This used to be a point of some chiding both externally and within my own self-talk about this label. I spent time trying to escape it and control it. I was wrong to resist. I was wrong to see it as limiting, bad, or disgraceful. Later I just decided to define it for myself, make it part of my journey, and see where it led.

Recently, to boot, I’ve come to realize I’m in substantially good company. It seems like everywhere I look I see Men being okay with being a Momma’s Boy. Men’s men, tough men, artistic men, empowered fully realized men, and yes... even Presidential and Vice Presidential Men. That’s right, I’ve read the numerous stories of Barack Obama and Joe Biden and it is beyond dispute that they are both Momma’s Boys too. Just like me, and probably, if you are a man enough to embrace it, just like you too.

Time to Man Up and say the words, I'm Momma’s Boy!

Running the Time

2009-01-04T11:22:00.000-08:00

I really did not want to run this morning. Both my motivation and the temperature outside were below freezing. When I peered out the window at about 7:30 the sky was pewter-blue and pink, every blade of grass a shard of brittle white crystal. There were 15 reasons not to run. And 15 reasons more I felt like I could justify to not walk out the door. There was only one immediate reason to go. In my legs was the ache from my 2.5-hour bike ride the day before. And that, odd as this may sound, was the one good reason to get out the door and slowly and deliberately run easy for 30 minutes.

So I pushed aside the self-chatter (even the kind that told me active recovery was good but that my legs would also mend with good old fashioned recovery… meaning brewing up some Sunday morning tea, stretching out with a book or the morning paper) and headed out the door. Once outside I immediately started my watch and moved slowly down Portland St. Slow, easy, methodical, waking up.

My mind jittered from here to there. It was cold and crunchy like the air and the ground and the grass and my head darted about which way to run. I’m in Eugene. I know every running loop imaginable and after a couple of decades away there is lots of places to run and nooks to explore in my head and on the roads and trials. But my head was too tired for all this. So I just turned right three blocks later, shuffled three more blocks and entered on to the one mile Amazon Trail loop.

As expected the bark dust trial was frozen solid, but it would serve its purpose. This morning, as with many, I’d decided to simply run the time.

There is a component of running that is pure and unadulterated joy, and meditation and imagination. I often say that running, for me, is more of a mental exercise than a physical one (writing, I contend, is more a physical exercise than mental - but more on my logic there another time). I also call running my, moving meditation. That is true too. Still, there is also a much larger part that is simply and utterly and unabashedly routine, decision and submission. You do, in the words of the Nike advertising department's insightful tag-line, Just Do It.

Doing the time or “running the time” is Just Do It. No frills, no bells, no destination, just the time, the movement and the surrender to it. This morning was one of those mornings. No big thoughts, no adventure run, no goal, no immediate reward. Just the time on a well rutted frozen 1-mile loop, ran round and round until the time is up. A Spin coach named Loray coined it being “bigger than the boredom”. She used to suggest that this was what people needed to be when she heard complaining that the workout was boring, or even worse that people had quit the class or exercise because it was boring. She didn’t have any sympathy because she understood, exercise is work.

Be bigger than the boredom

Do the time

Just do it

Run the time

Running is one of the anvils in which I’ve structured my life. Not because I am good at it (I’m ok) or fast (I’m medium fast) but because of the lessons it has continued to teach me. In this example, it taught me years ago that often (most days actually), you simply have to do the time, like a convict walking the yard without hope of an early release. You don’t get to be entertained, amused, interested, part of something bigger, or connected. You, lucky you, just get to give yourself over to the time and free yourself to submit to it.

Run the time.
Wig

Hang Time

2009-01-03T06:20:00.000-08:00

In his 18 minute (for which he only had 15 minutes of content) 2004 speech at TED Ze Frank made the case for the importance of using low-level interactions to build community. I think he just likes to play.

On further consideration I realized that his play, and mine too, are typically how I’ve experienced communities grow. Well, at least fun and interesting communities that I want to be a part of. But even the serious and highly intellectual or driven communities I’ve had a stake in over the years have had a sense of shared mission, direction and presence to them that made each interaction natural, open and casual. I’ve never experienced a community built by the strength the orator from the pulpit without the low-level interactions that support and nourish the meaningful and intimate connections. The best part of Church isn’t the sermon; it is the coffee and donuts afterwards.

My most important relationships are not defined by the seriousness and depth of the conversations (though sometimes those absolutely have to take place) but by the ease of the time we spend together doing mundane and normal things.

This year over the holiday’s I was in Sun Valley, Idaho with my family in Idaho; my brother Scott, his wife Anne, and their two daughters, Addie and Lyndsey. In addition to the typically busy holiday season we all experience they run a restaurant. Christmas is their busiest time of year by many fold. Add to the holiday schedule and the early morning and late nights of work, a record amount of snow and you have all the makings for near chaos.

But of course, it wasn’t. What it did was allow for was a multitude of low-level interactions. Over the holiday’s we cooked, we cleaned, we prepared for parties, we prepped, we shoveled, we rushed around finishing our shopping, watched movies, skied, scraped windows, went to yoga, woke up over pots of coffee and tea, pushed snow stranded cars, walked old dogs, and of course opened presents on Christmas morning. This last one might be the ultimate low-level activity that engenders goodwill, ease and a sense of community without ever actually engaging in any significant conversation. I just slotted myself into any activity that happened to be presented or took the initiative in any activity that I was directed to.

On preparing to leave Sun Valley my brother who had worked more than anyone during that time and had had less time to engage in this low-level activity made the comment that he wished he wouldn’t have had to work so much, and that I could stay longer so we could…”just hang out more”. What he wanted wasn’t more quality time together, but more hang time.

Yesterday I came down pretty hard on Twitter. Today I reconsider. I do this often. Twitter - for some…but for others I still insist you need to see a shrink or in the words of William Shatner to a mock-convention of Trekkies on SNL need to “Get a life!” - constitutes one of those low-level activities.

I suppose at this level it is no different than sharing and tagging photos, voting in random internet polls, virally spreading around a funny video from YouTube, doing a puzzle on the dining room table, sharing applications on Facebook, bumping into each other while cooking, long drives, listening to music, or any other of the infinite ways we grout the tiles of our relationships.

Boldly Go

2009-01-02T09:20:00.000-08:00

It is such a treat to have packages waiting for you when you arrive home. I had one neatly wrapped on my doorstep the other day, (Jan 30, 2008) when I returned from my holiday travels. Inside was a present from my friend Karen. I opened it eagerly as Karen had mentioned she had found the perfect gift for me.

Turns out it was a perfect gift. Inside was a boxed Collector Series Pez collection featuring the entire cast of the original Star Trek. That’s right, I’m a Trek fan. More importantly, I’m a science fiction fan. Growing up and to this day nothing gets me quite as star struck as the next episode of BattleStar Galactica or Farscape or Firefly reruns. I delight in the writing of Frank Herbert, Philip K. Dick, Orson Scott Card, Isaac Asimov, Arthur C. Clark, JRR Tolkien, CS Lewis, Jasper Fforde and many others that throughout my life have taken my imagination along with theirs to other worlds and infinite possibilities and ways of seeing and feeling.

Yes, I’m a geek. Though I’ve never been to a Star Trek conference or dressed in Trek Drag as Sulu, Kirk or Spock, I’m still a geek. I’m totally digging on my collector’s series PEZ collection and I’m not going to let anyone tell me it isn’t the coolest thing ever.

In fact, I might even Twitter about it later, or maybe even right now. Really, I might tweet each and every time I pop Kirks head and tongue another Pez from under his chin. I might tweet and chirp exactly where I am and what I’m thinking, be it “illogical” or “fascinating” (in 140 characters or less of course) every time Spock cricks his neck back like he is finally the victim of one of his infamous Vulcan neck pinches and tell the whole world, or any of those unfortunate enough to be following me, just what is rambling through my brain.

Our lives are full of our quirks and idiosyncrasies, loves, passions and idle observations. I’ve got mine. You’ve got yours. What I’m trying to figure out today and on many days as the stream of personal but completely inane information about others caroms into my phone like birds into glass building, is do I feel it necessary to inflict others with me in this way. I like getting tweets from time to time, I even tweet from time to time, I find sometimes tweeting is really useful. But I keep asking when particular tweets come fast and furious, what it the point? What is going on that the trivial or the fantastic is only real if it is tweeted and recorded.

I’m a Trek fan, a sci-fi fan and a geek. Geek with a small “g” I guess. If I was a Geek with a big G I suppose I’d attend the conferences and embrace the technology regardless of whether I knew it to have any redeeming value or not. I like to watch and observe how technology (real or imagined) is impacting the world in which we live or will potentially live. That probably makes me a small g geek, or a geek pretender. I’m a geek in that I like to dip into those worlds but not a Geek in that I like to live in those worlds. If I were a big “G” I’d probably use technology because it was cool and clever, even it if was also (for the majority of its applications) a useless waste of time that didn’t enrich my life or the lives of others. I’d use it even if I knew somewhere deep down inside that each time I twirped and tweeted and chirped and squawked I wasn’t getting any closer to actually singing.

An old friend of mine once made the statement, “Just because we can create it doesn’t mean we should”. 2009 is here. We get to, like the crew of the Star Ship Enterprise, “Boldly Go where no one has gone before”. Let’s just make sure we ask the question, just because we can does it mean we should?

2009, For Here.

2009-01-01T11:04:00.000-08:00

Perhaps I’m just fearful of committing to any significant New Years resolution. Or maybe I'm unwilling or unable to decide on any really big and greatly significant things to do. I’ve been at odds lately (like about the last 20 some-odd years) of biting off more than I can chew. Whatever the reason, this year I’ve decided to make a resolution about something insignificant, something small, something habitual but actually rather meaningless.

My New Years Resolution for 2009 is simple. In 2009 I’m abandoning the “to-go” cup. I live in a mobile world and one of the security blankets of that mobility it is the disposable paper coffee cup and the important partnering plastic lid. I’m an expert at nursing a “to-go” cup of coffee for a couple of hours and can find a way to take that cup with me where ever I go, in the car, walking, shopping, even on my bike. I move and it moves with me, warm and sippy, rich and comforting. Meetings go faster when I stroll in with my coffee. On long early morning drives my “to-go” cup is not only my friend but also my motivation for an early start. And let’s not forget, “to-go” coffee is one of best props in real-life or in Hollywood, just ask Brad Pitt.

So, for 2009 I’ll be taking my coffee, not "to-go", but For Here. In Italy, for example, this is normal. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a disposable cup there, not to mention someone actually walking with one. There, one orders an espresso or latte and sits or stands and consumes it on site often in the company of others, with the paper, or simply people watching. In Indonesia it is actually considered rude to walk and move while consuming food or drink. You would never find a well-mannered Javanese strolling down the road with a cup of Starbucks or a Big Gulp. We are all about grab and go, consuming on the way. We distinguish ourselves from the old cultures of places like Morocco, Viet Nam, China, Eygpt, Jordon, etc... by the simple act of taking it "to-go" and drinking and eating on route. And seemingly without end.

I admit I’m going to miss that cup of coffee in the car while I’m driving. But it is a little thing and manageable. In 2009 I’m going to force myself to loiter for 5, 10 or 15 minutes and drink my coffee wherever I’m at. Then I’m going to move into the next segments of my day empty-handed, more deliberate, less beholden to our constantly "to-go" and thoughtlessly consuming society. In 2009 I resolve to ditch the paper cup and plastic lid and take it, For Here.

On a high shelf of my sister’s coffee shop in Chattanooga, TN is 12 ounce paper to-go cup framed in a glass case. On it are my words written to her and her partner at the start of their business. It basically says, “Think outside the cup”. That was my message to them at the time as they launched their endeavor and ruminated about the culture and traditions of coffee, coffee houses, and gathering spots around the globe.

This year, 2009, for me is not the year of the cup, or the year of thinking outside the cup. It is not about taking it "to-go". 2009 is the year of abandoning the paper cup, to coffee served in hot porcelain, to stillness, and to doing things -small and large - one at a time and deliberately.

I’ll take my 2009, For Here.

For Now

2008-11-19T14:20:00.000-08:00

My sister Eileen sent me the poem below late in October and I've been carrying it with me as I've moved North.

For Now

October, October
Month of color and leaves
Month of cool mornings, and darkening eves
Down through the ages, a month of
new rest
Look back on fond memories
Ahead, winter’s zest.

Oh for the campfire, and brilliant walk,
the dying flowers and more.
Oh, for a new October
and the Battlefield’s floor

Peace comes October
Day’s waning power
Descends to cover and comfort and
cower
hot summer ways, long summer daze.

Leaf by leaf
the old world dies
Step by step we shed our lies
Slowly, sweetly drifting down
Swirling softly to the ground

Light’s cast is golden
when October comes, quiet and
angled at those inner drums

Apples and pumpkins,
Football and mums
Mix with autumn’s hope for a final
sum

Don’t leave October no matter the cause
your beauty is thrilling and
gives needed pause

Old things must pass that new may come
Quiet! Tired heart. Rest
your journey has begun.

In Honor Of My Friend, Anita Borg

2008-09-17T16:59:00.000-07:00

Anita Borg (1949-2003) was my friend. She was also a grass roots community organizer, ahead of her time and not afraid of being revolutionary. In person, or while building one of the first online communities years before the potential of internet was widely understood, Anita, like Barack, was a visionary. Anita understood how to lead and how to inspire. Anita "got" that real movements take the participation of all sorts of people, diverse groups, and wide ranging life experiences.

I was fortunate to work with Anita and more importantly, be her close friend. I was perhaps (with the exception of her husband, mother and sister) her closest confidant during her final three years of life. It was a time when some of her most important work and vision came clearly into focus. Aside from her family, no one had more exposure to her or her dreams and aspirations for Women, for Men, and for a more equitable world. It inspired me then as it does today.

WHAT COULD BE...
At the time Anita's political preference ran towards Bill Bradley. She was also during this time appointed by President Bill Clinton to serve on his Commission for the Advancement of Women and Minorities in Math, Science, Engineering and Technology (CAWMSET). She and I had many lively and spirited discussions about the troubles of the day and about the possibilities for the future. Anita had a unique ability to be firmly grounded in the facts and figures without being stuck in them. Conversations invariably turned to "what could be". And through a combination of collaboration and shaking things up a plan get things done.

Just before her illness she was selected by the CAWMSET committee to be their national spokesperson. It was an honor she was never able to fulfill. But you can be sure, if she had been able she would have spoke loudly and forcefully for CHANGE.

Anita got it then, and she would get it today.

Today, I'm confident she would be out advocating for the visionary change offered by Barack Obama and his grassroots campaign to shake up our system. In doing so I'm also sure she would mobilize her Systers (and brothers) far and wide to get involved and speak and ACT!

I'm committed, along with Barack Obama and millions of others, to changing the political process by building a campaign founded on a broad base of support from everyday and extraordinary Americans (that's all of us!). I know this is something Anita would have embraced wholeheartedly. Women and Men across America are showing their support for Barack Obama and helping to build a grassroots movement of unprecedented strength. I encourage you to get involved today.

To honor my friend Anita and all the great women I've been blessed to have as part of my life, I've set my own personal fund-raising effort through the Obama campaign. I encourage you to donate today.

All good things,
Eric Mason

“This isn’t a women’s organization it’s an organization that will make the world a better place for EVERYONE when women and diverse populations are equally represented, engage in, design and fulfill the promise of technology” Anita Borg, 1999

Less Taught, More Reminded

2008-08-12T15:41:00.000-07:00

“People need to be reminded more often than they need to be instructed.”

Samuel Johnson

I was struck again by the genius of Samuel Johnson's this last week when I received a package of stuff my mother had been holding on to for years. In this box of stuff I found old report cards complete with teacher comments all the way back to 1st grade. It is humbling being reminded. Reminded that I socialized a bit too much in class, that my ideas were often new and creative but needed better foundations and study. There in faded ink was documentation of where I was weak and needed to concentrate academically and where I was strong and needed to work doubly hard to realize those natural potentials.

One of my report cards from a 7th grade class, Religions of the East, taught by Aaron Kaufman is attached to this blog. I was stunned when I read it. I had completely forgotten about this class and in particular the yoga and meditation portion that had, obviously, struck a cord in me right along with my curiosity about new places, things, people, cultures, tastes, thoughts and ways of living. It was particularly fun to read based on my previous blog, NoMaste, where I was pretty sure I’d never really ever done Yoga before. I was wrong.

Over the years I’ve morphed this Samuel Johnson quote into my own version, “we should be less taught and more reminded”. I say it to myself often and mutter it to others too, from time to time. I know there is lots and lots to learn. I’m learning more all the time and learning more about how much I don’t know almost continually. New skills, new tidbits of information and facts, technologies, fashions, lingo and languages, handshakes, tax laws, trends that need to be kept up on and grasped. The volume of new information we can process and be instructed in is immense.

I’ll admit it. It is a challenge to keep up. From time to time (several times a day typically) I unscrew the bolts at the base of my occipital lobe and dump the thinking brains pile of information and instruction out the back. Refreshed, and with some mental space to stretch I continue through my day.

This is what has always resonated with me about this quote (and so many of the saucy Sam Johnson insights and wit) since I fell in love with Johnson both as a towering figure of intellectual greatness and wit as well as the literary lion that he was. What we need to know we already know. We just need to be reminded of it from time to time, or if you believe what he says, more often than we need any new instruction. This is contrary to a world that increasingly values how many new and trendy facts, stories and figures we can sample into your head.

It depends on how far you want to go back but everyone is born with the spark of curiosity without judgment. A reminder to be curious far outweighs any instruction of a new tool. Or in Samuel Johnson’s words “Curiosity is one of the permanent and certain characteristics of a vigorous mind”. Worth remembering. As are things like empathy, hard work, respect for others, patience, not holding grudges, honesty, diligence, kindness to strangers (even though we are instructed against our initial instincts to not trust them), appreciation, politeness, and a solid list of other things that we already know but might forget, choose to forget, or are at least finding it harder and harder to remember.

Being often reminded really is the best instruction.

“…the courtesy of a return phone call”

2008-08-11T19:47:00.001-07:00

I bought new software online this weekend. I downloaded the new tool and installed it. During the transaction and shortly thereafter three emails arrived. One confirmed my purchase, another provided me information in setting up this new online collaborative tool, and a third was customer support and information. I tagged and archived all three.

This morning I got a call from the customer service department of this company in Portland, Oregon. I didn’t pick up and it went to my voicemail. It was a pretty standard thank you for purchasing. He rattled off an overview of online tutorials, and then crescendo-ed with this, “Eric, if you could please give me the courtesy of a return phone call. Thank you and I look forward to your call.”

Whao fella! That’s a game changer, not polite but irritating. It’s provocative. It’s manipulative. It’s possibly even sinister.

Yes, I was off put by this closing request. It shifted the transaction from all about my happiness and well being into a request for an overreaching relationship. Or at the very least the subtle planting of the idea that if I don’t return the customer service persons phone call I wasn’t returning his courtesy, and as such being rude. I’m not generally rude. I step in it from time to time but I don’t purposefully trod towards it. Yet, here I was at 8:00 am on Monday morning faced with returning the phone call or labeling myself disrespectful and discourteous. How rude!

Did I enter into this level of contract when I submitted my credit card information and pressed, “submit” over the weekend? I’m delighted to have the new tool. It is going to be very useful and effective. I’m sure the time will come when I have some questions and I’ll refer to the emails that were sent. I also appreciated the phone call up to the last part. But then it all changed. I’m going to wait a couple days and see what happens. I hope he doesn’t call again copping some jilted attitude like I stood him up after a hopeful first date.

But who knows? Maybe I should give him another chance. Perhaps it was just his over-animated but flawlessly scripted delivery that ruffled me. We wander through our days meeting all sorts of people. Why was this one - where I never even spoke to the person - troubling me?

There are a wide variety of behaviors and interactions accepted but very few that are truly elegant and thoughtful. I did laundry today, and as a counter point to the morning voice message, discovered one of this higher order. As I sat on the bench in front of the laundry mat an old man limping with his cane approached. He offered me his free hand and we shook. He then asked if he could occupy the empty planks on the other side of the bench. I smiled and said, “of course, absolutely”. I’d sort of set up my office there on the bench in the sun, so I hurriedly shuffled some papers and made room for his repose. He looked appreciative, let out a slight groan as he reclined, sighed once and then sat quietly.

He sat. I sat. I worked. He sat. After a bit and with a delicacy and poise of the finest hummingbird he smiled and ever so tenderly turned towards me. He politely asked me if he could have any extra change I had for a beer. I broke into a crocodile smile and repeated, “of course, absolutely”. The sun was beating down, it was near quitting time for the day, and I was thinking the same thing. I gave him money and he left his shirt so I knew he would be coming back. A few minutes later he returned brown bag in hand. I heard rustle of the bag and then crack and sizzle of his can. I smiled and he laughed. I put away my work and we continued to sit in the sun talking and making jokes, lamenting the state of things and generally hanging out. Later he used my phone to make a call and then I left to continue my day blessed by his truth, honesty and courtesy of his delivery.

All good things,
Wig

Ps. Oh, and if you read this and consider yourself a polite person or a person with any sort of Courtly sense of chivalric code of manners you should really post a fun, lighthearted, witty but totally meaningful response.

Fighting Holes

2008-07-28T11:25:00.000-07:00

In my adult life I’ve always created living spaces that were sanctuaries. There is a peace and harmony to the places I inhabit. Sometimes they are elaborate with walls and running water while other times I’m just circling three times like and old dog and plopping myself down to sleep on a floor as a guest or in some new place in the world.

You enter one the homes I’ve created for myself and you get an immediate idea of who lives there; who I am. These spaces have been critical to my health and well being allowing me to isolate myself so that I can reemerge back into an interactive world. I give the impression of being an extrovert when I am out in that world but in truth it is within my peaceful sanctuaries – internal and physical - that I recharge and not out in social spaces typical of true extroverts.

As an athlete this sanctuary building worked well. Long days exposed to the elements in the saddle, swimming and running found me longing for the quiet and solitude of my home in San Carlos and later in Redwood City. As I travel around the world shaping small spaces into mini-sanctuaries allows me to fully engage when I’m out on the street and within new cultures. When I worked in an office leaving that public space for the peace and quiet of my home was essential for my mental health too.

Like most patterns we adopt they come with consequences we expect and provide us with what we need. Then sometimes something unexpected happens or evolves.

Four years ago I moved into one bedroom cottage in Palo Alto’s College Terrace neighborhood. At the time, on that first night I lay on the carpet with my sleeping bag, a bag of clothes, and my three gold fish, Gimpy, Jan and Hannibal in the 3-gallon fish bowl on the floor beside me. I breathed a sigh of unbelievable relief and fell fast asleep. It was my first restful night of sleep in six months. The next day I started digging in and began to build a space of quiet, peace and stillness.

I’d found good ground and dug a foxhole. I was hiding. And I hid well. I was safe and sound so I kept hiding. I adorned my foxhole with a bed, a couch, a TV, a bookshelf, a table and chairs…a desk. I unpacked my bags and expanded my wardrobe to the limits of my closet. I bought dishes and hung pictures. I rearranged furniture, purchased rugs, gathered nick-knacks and memories. Outside I cleaned the flower beds removing stumps, rocks and weeds. I planted, I composted, I replanted. I added soil and built more beds. I bought patio furniture, and umbrella, a gas barbeque. I cooked meals and filled the house with amazing flavors, friends and fun.

Around a year or so ago when the foxhole was at its most elaborate with high walls and many adornments my restful nights of sleep started to evaporate. Rest, once the hallmark of a sanctuary I built, became less and less frequent. I dug deeper in an effort to remedy the situation. There is no concrete reason I can put my finger on that started this process. There is no hard cause nor person or event to blame for why these events began. After years of building places where I recharge I’d over-engineered and found the limits of this model, for me. My foxhole, my sanctuary, had lost its once heralded ability to rejuvinate and replenish. But why?

From A Foxhole to A Fighting Hole:
Many years ago when I was a boy I was out in our yard around this time of the year. I had brought out my tub of army men, tanks, cowboys, indians, dinosaurs and other assorted figurines. I dug into the dirt building cities, walls, encampments, ditches, bunkers and tunnels. My dad came along and asked me what I was doing. He didn’t pay much mind to my epic storyline that included a Dinosaur, Cowboy and Indian coalition opposing the all-green Army and Marines until I mentioned the later were digging foxholes.

He reminded me that a foxhole is dug for hiding or at best for defending. A foxhole, he said, is where you go to die. We, and by this he meant Marines and by some extension me, build fighting holes. In the winters when we would have snowball fights my Dad always built very effective fighting holes. A fighting hole is a place where you advance from, a platform in the form of a divot that you move forward from. A fighting hole may be a sanctuary, it may provide rest, but it is also strategic, innovative, empowering, outward looking and feeling. A Fighting Hole is never dug with the desire to simply hide, to cower, or to surrender.

My home had become a foxhole adorned for my burial. It had all the comforts, but no forward motion nor any of the fire of life. I honestly thought I was building as I’d done in the past a sanctuary and in honoring my father, a Fighting Hole. I now realize I wasn’t. So I’ve abandoned that deathtrap advancing from it with the lessons learned; never dig foxholes, always build fighting holes…and never bet on a dinosaur, cowboy and Indian coalition.

Moving forward I’ve discovered some good short-term happy fighting holes from Idaho, to Oregon, from Tahoe to Mexico and now back in Palo Alto. Foxholes are the destination. Fighting holes are simply stops along the way. Within them we get rest, food, love, comfort, and a time and space to prepare ourselves for the next battle. But there is no room for constriction or retreat in fighting holes and though they give rest they are not for growing lazy or loosing site of the goal or the moment.

There is a place we’re going and there are places we stop along the way, Fighting Holes.

Arranged Marriages

2008-06-25T10:27:00.000-07:00

I called my sister Laura this morning. Tomorrow is her birthday. She was in the receptionist office waiting for an appointment. We didn’t have much time to talk. So with limited moments we quickly wondered how much we would shrink as we got older. She claims to be shrinking already and hopes to one day hit her ideal height or 5’ 7”. She is currently 6’2”...and a bit. She has a long way to go before she is old or short.

We also had just enough time to discuss Bok Choy. Because honestly, isn't there is always enough time to talk about food.

A while ago her family joined a food co-op. Every week or so they get a bunch of vegetables from the local farmers. It is a great system. Just before I left there a week ago Laura sent one of her boys down to pick up the box of goodies. There piled on the counter was an amazing harvest of local Willamette Valley produce. It looked like allot but really it was leafy, buoyant and for her family of five a decent amount of food.

One thing I particularly like about this co-op system is that it forces you to eat things that are not familiar. The local farmers in the co-op give you what is in season, abundant and fresh. They in essence provide you with an arranged marriage of food not based on what you think you need, but instead based on what they know to be good for you. Farmer knows best.

Sometimes the season is such that the arrangement is easy and familiar; carrots, potatoes, tomatoes... bacon. And sometimes it is less so. This morning Laura and I got to talk about Bok Choy. Bok Choy (Chinese Cabbage) arrived in her co-op delivery last week. She prepared it and successfully served it to her family. We were kicking around different ways to prepare it. I came home and with Bok Choy on my mind did a quick search. Here is few of what I found,

Crispy Seawead Bok Choy
Quick Asian Bok Choy
Betty Rocker’s Chicken Bok Choy and Shitake Mushroom Stir Fry with Brown Rice
Wikipedia
Eureka, Bok Choy, When Do Chefs Create
(this one isn't really a recipe but an article about the creative process of chefs that features Bok Choy)

So here is to my Sister, unshrinking, youthful, and awash in Bok Choy!

All good things,
Wig

Cousins in Arms

2008-06-19T12:37:00.000-07:00

It is no secret to anyone who knows me or is around me for long that my family is the most important part of my life. Mom, Dad, Brothers, Sisters, their husbands, and wives, and all their children. This month, daughters of my two older brothers will be in different parts of Asia doing some amazing work. Scott and Anne's two daughters, Lyndsey and Adelaide (Addie) landed first, and Steve and Teri's daughter, Hayley, touches down later this month.

These three Cousins in Arms are amazing young women, doing amazing work, and defining unique and interesting paths full of conviction and dedication. To be sure, these are three wildly different women. And I've got four other nephews and nieces forging dynamic paths for themselves too. But in that these three all found themselves in Asia, working with, empowering and helping children less fortunate then themselves speaks to commonality of spirit which is inspiring whether seen individually or together.

Lyndsey, 17:
16 years old. What were you doing? I was running 70-95 miles a week and cutting my teeth on the muddy trails of Eugene, Oregon. As tough and defining as that was for my young life it pales in comparison to what Lyndsey courageously took on last year. She applied for and won the opportunity to pack her bags and move to to Khon Kean, Thailand as part of a Rotary exchange program. It wasn’t an easy year. In fact, I think it’d be safe to say it was brutal. She was learning a new language, immersing herself real Thai culture, all the while dealing with being a 16-year-old girl. Personally, I can’t imagine. But I saw some of it and through it amazed at her ability to keep taking steps through the process. She made great strides to grow up and live in another culture at the same time. Brutal. And admirable.

She also got to head up to Pattaya and see her cousin, Hayley. The time in Pattaya and other things she saw and experienced inspired her Senior Class project when she returned home last year. Then, in a life of brave things, Lyndsey did the bravest. That’s right, she took her parents to Thailand this June. Her return trip culminated with the delivery of $4090.00 to the Pattaya Orphanage raised from her Senior project, and a reinvigorated love and appreciation (Returning to a Land of Smiles) for the place that helped shape her from a 16 year old girl into a young woman.

Adelaide, 20:
Cerebral, artistic, wildly creative and smart Addie spent the year before last in Italy before heading to her first year of college at Western Washington University. She is studying, among about 32 other things, women’s studies and was led to a program called the Little Sisters Fund. Earlier this year she embarked on a letter writing, fund and awareness raising campaign to raise restricted money to specifically support this organization and as many young women there as possible. This accomplished (she raised over $5,000) she dug into her own pocket and bought a plane ticket and headed to Nepal for the summer to volunteer with the Little Sister Fund and the Ama Ghar Orphanage. Her work will give her untold insight and knowledge, and her blog and updates continue to build awareness and funds in support of this important work.

Hayley, 21:
Steve’s daughter Hayley spent 9 + months in Thailand last year volunteering her time, brilliant energy, giving spirit and endless care and defense to those less fortunate. It is clear that Hayley truly found a home in Thailand. And she found it right smack dab in the middle of the dark underbelly of the sex trade at the Pattaya Orphanage. As was pointed out to me when I was there “this is one of the few orphanages in the world where little boys outnumber little girls because in this culture, in this particular place, a women (or a girl) is worth much more than man.” And Hayley’s work continues through her education, relationships, connections and time. She’ll return to Pattaya, Thailand this month, roll up her sleeves, smile from ear to ear, and get to work.

All Good Things,
Wig

The False First Class

2008-06-18T10:22:00.000-07:00

"...we are rapidly returning to those days when only rich folks will be able to fly."
It appears we may be on a direct flight back to the good old days of air travel. Dress codes, linen, attendants in heals and funny hats, assigned seating, glamour, travel for the rich, travel only for the few.

Oddly, I know some who might actually welcome this development. I’ve heard them loudly derail the demise of the airline industry, the cattle calls of Southwest airline, the unassigned seating, the superheated food, and charges for beverages on domestic flights. Travel for the middle class, travel for the common, travel for the masses.

The loudest and most consistent cry for the “good old days” seem to be coming from a group I call the False First Class. I also know them as the Point Rich, or the Miles Bankers, or even the Curtain Chasers, but they are also know in the industry simply as the Business Traveler. This group amasses bundles and bundles miles and/or points and with them awards that allow purchases or upgrades (with points or miles or a nominal fee) to the occasional or even frequent keys to first class airlines seats, and the corresponding service it affords.

Unfortunately, it also purchases them; more times than not, a corresponding attitude that belies the real reason that they are even sitting in first class. Not because they are wealthy, first class, nor would or could ever actually pay a first class fare. They are there because they’ve been granted access as a perk for traveling so much, because they are decidedly middle class, decidedly workers, and decidedly not first class. These miles are work miles. These points tell the story of their commonness not their opulence, style, education or sophistication. They may actually tell an opposite story not dissimilar to one told by the big flashy car about the homuncular driver.

I have friends only slightly more well off (possibly less educated, marginally less sophisticated, and absolutely NOT of a higher class) than me who claim, “I never travel coach”. That seems like a lot of pressure to put on yourself and an even greater loss of opportunity. I’ve met some the most interesting, scrappy, close to the earth travelers in coach. Traveling in the cheap seats I’ve met numerous doctors, lawyers, artists, researchers, students, teachers kids, moms, dads and entrepreneurs and even Nobel laureates and rock stars! All this from the lowly back seats.

Of course, it is human nature that to have tasted and flirted or even become comfortable in a first class world to naturally chaff and nash under the request or even the suggestion that we then settle back and weasel and squirm our way into seat 37F. So, I don’t blame my false first class friends for their attitude. Misplaced as it might be.

You see I’ve been fortunate enough to be one of the False First Classers. And let me tell you, it’s grand. Oh my god! Paaaaleasseee…..When I’m in coach I deliberately board last. But when I’m in first class I get on as soon as I can. I just love it. I particularly love watching coach passengers roll on by, head cast down, while I have a sip of my pre-flight sparking vino, and laugh with a gay nonchalance. Like all this is normal. Yes, I could get used to this. I like this. I do this very very well. Yes, I deserve this; this is the only way I’ll ever travel.

NOT.

I’m grateful false first classer. I don’t have many delusions. A couple perhaps, but hell…I’m grateful. Period. End of story. I’m grateful even if I’m flying is seat 37F, crammed against a window outbound from Hong Kong and the woman next to me just vomited all over me. Vomit isn’t fun, but flight is awesome. What flight allows is extraordinary whether I’m cramped in coach, feeling good with a bulkhead seat, or spread out and hammered in first class. It’s just transportation. Jeez. Get over it.

Sometimes my false first class friends look down the long arc of their nose in disbelief when I look far too comfortable in my coach class seat, or heaven forbid, and even desire it. They’ve found themselves, quite accidentally in most cases, in a new world and loath the thought of my ratty ol road trip, a bumpy crowded bus ride, a clattering train, or squatting along a dusty street for a meal and living as close to the earth and to people as I can.

Having sat in countless airline seats and on countless airlines I can speak from experience, Class is defined by much more than by where you are seated. I’ve been ridiculed and even judged at times by an unwillingness and deliberate refusal to ride in the narrowly defined and often highly oppressive and pressurized first class, or first world, seat. And besides, it should be glaringly obvious to anyone, if I’ve been able to make it into first class the number of times I have there is something screwed up in the system.

And this is dirty little secret of first class airline travel, and too, of the False First Class. On any given flight and estimated 80-90 percent of the first class passengers reclining in their wide-body seats are there on points, not money. Put another way, only one or two seats in a common first class section are occupied by actual first class passengers. The rest are the False First Class.

Isn’t this what really started the airline industry on its descent from the lofty and glamorous “good old days”.

What my false first class friends don’t want to hear is that the same economics that superficially fabricated them into first class are the exact same trends that created Southwest, Jet Blue, discount fares, awards, package deals, and every other perk, cheap seat and cheap plastic and cheap electronic gadget in our society. Southwest didn't single handedly kill first class or the airline industry. In truth they followed the lead of United, Delta and American. When they and other airlines moved the curtain and allowed coach travelers into the first class world they, indeed, heralded the end of the golden age of flight. The same exact same trends that created the budget airlines also pushed aside the curtain and perhaps momentarily, built a False First Class.

There was a time when the curtain between first and coach classes was actually a wall. Now it is simply a tattered rag worn thin by the countless meritless masses who like a frantic Wizard of Oz struggle and posture to maintain a smoky façade of grandeur and intimidation while exclaiming “pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.” That is a delusion of a falsely purchased aristocracy and a constructed separation that dehumanizes everyone involved.

So if you are one of these curtain chargers, I’ve been one, and you bemoan the state of an airline industry for the masses, you’re on a plane with only one wing. And you’re copping an attitude you have not earned and embracing a class world you don’t actually reside in. You may visit there at 30 thousand feet but back on the ground chances are you drive a car similar to mine, struggle with unexpected expenses, sweat over your work, and just like the rest of us squirm through a life that is generally “coach-class” but that from time to time finagles the system into a higher class.

I don’t begrudge anyone for playing up. So long, that is, as they don’t do it on the backs of others or think that the difference between themselves and those huddled behind them is any more significant than a seat number. Class, in this instance, isn’t defined by where you’re seated. If things continue we may indeed return to the good old days of flight where only the truly rich and glamorous fly. But I, as a humble False First Classer, will be careful what I wish for.

I’m off to laundry mat.

All good things,
Wig

The United People of America?

2008-06-04T08:22:00.000-07:00

We don’t live in this country, the United People of America. We live in this one, The United States of America. It’s a representative democracy and a republic and not a straight democracy. It is not a perfect Union. It was forged to keep 13 original colonies (soon to be states) together as one country. A country of United States. It was constructed and evolved to be a balance between States Rights and local rule with all those benefits, and Federal Rights and the needs and restrictions needed for a large, centralized but often distant national government.

Like a family, we live in a dysfunctional system. Our family of United States has a history that isn’t perfect but generally finds a way to work. Sometimes it takes a level of subtly and patience to understand your family. It takes an appreciation of the dynamics of local and state rule coupled together with understanding of history and the trade-offs you make to keep the Union together. I often hear educated people rail against the Electoral College and our representative democracy. Typically, their arguments centralize on some imperfection in the system that doesn’t suit them and ignores the larger historical context and as such a reasoned and reasonable discussion about our United States.

Here is some basic US history I like to remember, expand upon and appreciate before I start my discussion about our system, or tell anyone else that they should emulate our system.

Long ago in a Nation not so far way…

…George Washington and the boys get together and purposefully write in several anti-democratic provisions into the U.S. Constitution. Namely the following,

• Slavery is institutionalized.
• Senators are appointed by state legislatures.
• Supreme Court is to be appointed.
• President will be elected by the Electoral College.

Only the House of Representatives were directly elected.

Moreover, back in the old days, States Rights were paramount and people were left to make many local decisions on their own. We still really like this to this day. However, back then in most States only white men who owned property could vote. I don’t own property. Back then I wouldn’t have been a voter. That, and much more, was the America that was.

Hence, the first federal government that met in 1789 was a republic with only the thin muslin veil of democratic representation over it. But we’ve evolved and the major steps toward democracy can be marked by (among other events local, national and international) amendments to the U.S. Constitution.

1. The Bill of Rights.
Guaranteed limits to the power of the federal government.

2. 13th Amendment.
Abolished slavery.

3. 14th Amendment.
Effectively extended the vote to all adult male citizens, including ex-slaves. Male Suffrage.

4. 15th Amendment.
Explicitly gave the right to vote to former slaves.

5. 19th Amendment.
Female Suffrage.

6. 17th Amendment .
U.S. Senate will be elected directly by the voters, rather than being appointed by the state legislatures.

So there it is, our imperfect Union. It is a representative democracy. It is an evolving, seething, pulsating group of United States. It balances imperfectly the rights of people to rule themselves locally within their State with the needs of a Federal Government and a Union (a family) of represented States.

Practically speaking, without this imperfect Union a sparsely populated Dakota or a Montana wouldn’t matter on a national level. Ultimately decisions for those people would be made by an overly powerful, overly disconnected central government. Majority would rule and people in populous areas like California and New York would dictate decision –straight national democratic decisions- for the sovereign people of Dakota. As it is, these United States, each have local, regional, and State Governments. Each one is unique, each one has their voice heard when they represent themselves along side their 50 brothers and sisters.

History is jagged arching line; a tacking boat that when seen from a great enough distance, becomes a straight line. It shows that we, as a group of United States, are striving to stay on a trajectory towards ever increasing Justice.

All Good Things,

Wig

Regifting Part 2

2008-06-01T11:45:00.000-07:00

Last week the US Government sent me two gifts. They were mine, or rights of mine, to begin so I think of them, really, as regifts.

Uncle Sam’s first regift was my tax rebate. It appeared as an automatic deposit to my checking account. Living in one of the most expensive places on earth a few hundred dollars is almost (I emphasis “almost”) easy to overlook. Obviously, it would’ve been tougher to miss if they’d sent me a real check. Harder to miss but no more significant. As a nation and as a regift it is rather meaningless, a cheap plastic gift, purchased last minute, wrapped hastily and soon forgotten.

The second regift arrived the next day. And it did arrive in the mail. This is the third time the US Government has regifted this to me. And made me pay for the regift too. But this regift, like the money I made, paid and then got back, was mine to begin with. The Right to move freely as one’s obligations and finances permit is part of our heritage, history, and I hope part of our future too.

Unlike the rebate regift, however, this regift is priceless. I always know where it is, I’ve never misplaced it, and it has never…ever…ever failed to provide me delight, education, and appreciation. It never ever gets set aside to gather dust like a forgotten toy.

This gift is my United States Passport. Like a moment of epiphany or a Christian born-again moment, its arrival reverberated deeply within in me. I opened it in the driveway and thumbed again and again through its 54 blank pages like a pilgrim with a holy text. The pages flung open and worlds, people, smells, dreams, possibilities, lessons, cultures, and perspectives revealed themselves upon those paper gateways.

A passport is the gift of the world. The eyes that look back at those eyes that have for so long looked to these shores as a place of hope, opportunity and inspiration. You don’t even have to travel to feel the effect. Just possessing one is an acknowledgement of a place beyond our borders, the places we’ve come from and the places increasingly playing a part in our lives. Owning a passport is acknowledgement that our mighty ocean walls do not separate us from the world but conduct us to it.

Yet, sadly, only 20-25% of our populations possess a passport. That is 75-80% of our population, the population of the self-proclaimed superpower, without the ability or desire to embrace one of our great strengths, the willingness to go. We claim to be the world’s policeman but our police force – our populous that votes for our leaders – have never walked a beat or gathered evidence to discern the good guys from the bad guys. We’ve taken the desk job, grown heavy, disconnected and soft.

Our country doesn’t need a rebate, a gas tax holiday or another preemptive war. We need a mental, emotional realignment. We need some humility and some cool water splashed on our faces. We had this chance on 911. But we were led to go shopping, become fearful, atrophy and retreat. Even as our arrogance advanced, our minds closed, our bellies expanded, our debt grew, and our troops bogged down under a misguided policy. And for perhaps the first time people across the ocean began looking at these shores with distrust, fear and concern.

Now years later instead of being energy independent, lean, increasingly educated, open and inspired we complain about gas and milk and the encroachment of the world.

Regifting Ourselves to the World

Instead of a rebate how about awarding every single US citizen a passport and a 600-1200 dollar ticket to a foreign country. Imagine if, instead of an influx of $300-600 purchases of products made in China we had legions of Americans heading out to Mexico and Canada. Or, for the wild and crazy even hopping a plane to Western Europe, Australia or New Zealand. And for some even venturing as far as Asia, India, South America, Israel, the Middle East and Africa.

Imagine the wealth our regifted populace give to the world adn would bring back to our shores. Not necessarily in dollars but in perspective, in openness, creativity, and yes…even a renewed productivity. Imagine America, passport and rebate rich, moving again with a new, soaring, (but kind) Manifest Destiny shaped this time to go...learn, see, spend, respect, explore and invest.

Admittedly, (as a traveler and world citizen) it is scary to also imagine having 80 percent of our population taking their first doddling infant step out into the world. But I believe in Americans and more importantly I believe in people. And in the power of travel, sometimes abruptly, to change the way a person sees the world and their place in it. I believe, by-in-large, that our population would return home determined to save more, invest more, read more, learn more, understand more, think more, and weigh less.

The world has come to these shores. You came to these shores. I came to these shores. We all came in one-way or another and offered our gifts to make this country. We mostly came because of the hope and opportunity this country offered. Now it is time to regift ourselves back to the world. Not via troops, nor guns, nor even financial aid…but though you and me and all of us, with smiles, handshakes, humility, firmness in our convictions, and transparency in our cooperation. The world is ready for our friendship and leadership, but not for our power. The world will welcome our unexpected return, the regift of us.

All Good Things,
Wig

The Way She Showed Us

2008-04-06T19:10:00.000-07:00

I’m not overly fond of death. But I don’t fear it either. I understand our partnership with it. I don’t see it as an enemy but an ally. As I've shared in this blog before, I believe “life is lived most fully in close proximity to death”. For me that is an eternal truth, without exception. It is a true for me today as it was when I first uttered it. Anyone who doesn’t know this hasn’t been close to death, is in denial, is too busy to notice, or simply hasn’t lived.

Of course, we've all been close to death. It is close now. We cuddle up with it everyday if we agree to slow down, be present, see and listen for it.

Spring: 

For me it has been a Spring of particular color- and introspection too.They always are I suppose but this one has stood out. Winter releases its death and life gets its vibrant rebirth. It is closeness with death we get annually. I’m back north in Sun Valley, Idaho. In California, where I just left, Spring is in full flower. Here, She is giving way glacially as sheets of deep snow painfully retreat inch by inch day by day.

A couple of days ago my brothers 13 year old golden retriever developed a vestibular infection. I didn’t know this at the time of course. She was suddenly unable to walk and looked like she was having a stroke or something. I pretty much thought she was dyeing. I’ve seen animals die. And this seem similar enough to what I've seen many time before. What amazed me was Olivia’s wagging tail. She just kept wagging that tail of hers. She wouldn’t eat and she wouldn’t drink but she would stop wagging either. She couldn’t walk but she tried and tried and looked at me hopeful and with her tail wagging happily. Olivia didn’t die. But day after day I wagged my head in disbelieve at her attitude in spite of all that was happening to her.

Five years ago today my friend and former boss, Anita Borg, passed away. I spent the day with the recovering Olivia, still tippy and still wobbly, but also still wagging and working happily. In the morning we labored up on the hard crusted snow bank out in front of the house. Olivia dug with her front paws and ate snow. I plopped down with my coffee and watched a light snow magically appear out of a nearly completely blue sky.

And I thought about my friend Anita and her courage, vision, compassion, dreams, and unwavering spirit to stand for what she knew to be right and true. Later in the morning I got a surprise call from Fran Allen who, like me on this day, was feeling “the hole in our worlds” Anita’s loss had created in our lives. Fran, like me, was feeling the proximity of death, and doing it as I've always known her to do it, without fear or regret, and living fully with courage, bravery, laughter and lightness.

Just like Anita showed us.

All good good things,
Eric

“Gringo Day”

2008-02-01T14:24:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow is Gringo Day in La Manzanilla. Of course, everyday is gringo day for me. It’s difficult to escape. Sure my skin grows pinker, redder and then darker and my hair more sun torn and flaxen. But once a gringo always a...well you get it. Anyway as of tomorrow, Gringo Day, I’ve been here a week. I told someone on the beach today I arrived three or four days ago. It’s been a week. And time keeps slowing down, elongating...slipping.

They call this ‘the great sand suck”.

I’m here being gringo in La Manzanilla as the grateful guest of Gustavo “Angel” Caballero and John Fraticelli who granted me their beautiful home, Casa Piedra Del Mar, http://www.casa-piedradelmar.com/.   Casa Piedra Del Mar (Stones from the Ocean for all you gringos) sits on the hills above the southern most tip of the village of La Manzanilla. I’ve got the best sunsets in town above a crescent shaped bay of the Costa Alegre sweeping north and then nodding west into the sea. With all the grandeur and perspective I should be able to keep an eye on the sand suck vortex below but I’ve had no such luck. Its even more pervasive than sand, that gritty find every nook, cranny, and orifice on your body substance. Sand Suck is in the air, in the dusty streets, in the breeze, music, taco stands, and absolute blessed normalcy of the place. This perch hasn’t made it better, it has made it happily worse.

From everything I’ve heard from locals and expats the one and single iron-glad criteria of Gringo Day is to pay the 18 dollar U.S. cover for a small bit of food and all the beer you can drink. This appears to be the only requirement to register, as and become, a full-fledged gringo, be you canadian, german, austrian, dutch, or from the united states. You pay...you drink, you gringo. I checked my pesos earlier today to be sure I’ll have enough for cover charge.

In another hour our two I’ll slip slip off the hill to the Fiesta and parade which kicks off both Gringo Day tomorrow and fours days of the Rodeo starting the following day. From everything I’ve heard, read and seen La Manzanilla has about 1000-2000 residence. I have not met everyone but faces have already started to look oddly familiar, and mine to them as well. The fisherman at the cooperative, the old man at the base of the hill who sits outside his tiny store, morning, noon and night, and even the rusty old hang dog down the street. He barked wildly at me on day one but now ignores me motionless more like a cold blooded reptile than a canine. Sand Suck got that ol dawg long time ago.

So tonight, lots of new faces as the community congregates for music, procession and revelry.

All good things,
Wig

The Gold Mine

2008-01-04T09:39:00.000-08:00

Sun Valley, Idaho was built on silver mining. Then later, in the 1930’s, 40’s and 50’s on skiing and the glitz and glamour of hollywood movie stars, writers, and the elite. This is a valley of black diamond ski runs, massive estates, boutique shopping, celebrity sightings, fine dining, golf, fly fishing, hunting, guided tours, cycling, and hiking. All of these done with the casual ease and glow that only money, lots and lots of money, can engender.

Sun Valley includes the town and resort of Sun Valley, the older town of Ketchum downstream towards Bald Mountain and south winding along the Big Wood River through the valley to the town of Hailey and Bellevue. During the last presidential election a commentator said about Idaho “It doesn’t get much redder than that”. Sun Valley, on the contrary, with its money, sophistication and isolation from the rest of the State is a vein of blue in this very red land. On September 11, 2005 the Dalai Lama visited Wood River High School in Hailey and gave a speech on understanding and friendship. That is the sort of crowd Sun Valley draws.

Just behind all that blue and alpine glow is a distinguishable group of people (most of whom are also blue in their political leanings) who run the stores, serve the food, operate the lifts, groom the trails, lead the tours, and in many cases truly access deep into the valleys and peaks of this area. They are the working-blue and they rub elbows with the tourists, the estate owners, and the trust-funders. When their more asset rich brethren evacuate their estates, vacate their condo’s or resort rooms and head back to the coasts and big cities the working-blue remain during the transition period between tourist seasons known as “slack”.

One the most unique places in the Valley is the Gold Mine. The Gold Mine isn’t swank or posh. The Gold Mine is a Thrift Store, a Salvation Army, Sun Valley style. The Gold Mine only accepts donations, no selling or consignments. All all proceeds from The Gold Mine help fund the Ketchum community library located one block away. The unique demographic and activities of the valley - from skate skiing and fly fishing to black tie events and monster estate building - means you can find almost anything at the Gold Mine. If you can’t find it at the Gold Mine you don’t need it.

I went prospecting at the Gold Mine yesterday. The front of the store is full of racks of donated designer label clothing for men, women and children. I squeezed through the cluttered front of the house to the rear where the scene is repeated but with ski clothing, helmets, shelves of boots, poles, books, tennis rackets, scattered electronic equipment, golf clubs, tapes and dvd’s. If you can’t find it at the Gold Mine you don’t need it.

In the very back of the house is tangled lawless snarl of used ski’s. Poking around this corral of possibilities I found what I was looking for. After thirty minutes I struck gold with a pair of year old 193 cm Rossignal FreeRide double X’s complete with Look bindings for 25 bucks.

During my ski shopping I was joined by, among others, two middle aged women clad in full-length fur coats. If this were any other Salvation Army style thrift store you would expect ladies in fur coats to be accompanied by the shopping cart they live out of. Not here. These women had obviously payed full price for their fashionable hides. And now they were scavenging for an old pair of skis mixing it up with me.

A Certain Uncertainty

2008-01-01T20:16:00.000-08:00

I cracked the spine of my 2008 Moleskin pocket calendar for the first time this morning. We’ve all crossed over from one year to the next. The Time Square ball has dropped, the numerous countdowns of bests and worsts are recorded, the noise makers are silent and the granted revelry kisses from the stroke of midnight are memory. Welcome to day one, morning one, 2008.

My pocket day calendar will accompany me throughout the year just as my previous calendars followed me through 2007, 2006, 2005, 2004... I use my calendars to record more than just appointments. I jot down thoughts for later writing, I note new words, capture quotes or interesting conversations I happen to overhear, register my hours of sleep, exercise, due dates, books read, birthday’s and shopping lists. My pocket calendars become the annotated capsule of my year.

In years past I bought my pocket calendar a month or two before each New Year. I did the same this year. Different from previous years, however, I didn’t open my 2008 version until this morning, day one, 2008. In previous years I opened them as a bought them and diligently got all my important dates for the upcoming year marked and included. This takes time and I’ve always set aside a morning to update all the important and critical information well before the big ball dropped marking the cross over from the old year to the new.

For the last decade I’ve crossed over this annual New Year bridge with irons in the fire. I’ve often hopped this yearly fence with elaborate to-do lists, deadlines and commitments. As a result I haven’t given the actual crossing much more thought than...”lets party” or “I’m staying in tonight because I’m on deadline” as noted in my new pocket calendar. All those events and deadlines following me from one year to the next has made them mesh and fold into one another with a certain certainty.

This year, like few others in my history, is distinctly different. This year, it seems, I’m carrying less of this certainty of events, deadlines and commitments over the threshold of one year and into the next. Rent, insurance...and that’s it. This was made clear to me this morning in the basement room of my brothers home in Sun Valley, Idaho when I opened my 2007 calendar for the last time and my 2008 calendar for the first time. I transfered one or two pass-codes and viola! I was finished.

As I look out at the day, weeks, and months of the year ahead nothing is set. Nothing is set and everything is possible.

Starting my year with this certain uncertainty is a little unnerving. But that is only because it has been so long since I’ve allowed myself to live authentically in this space. As such this certain uncertainty is also overwhelmingly satisfying. I find that unlike other years I’m not bound to think or act within a constrained set of parameters. Instead of spoiling over what needs to be done and how to get most effectively from point A in 2007 to point B in 2008 my thoughts are opening to possibilities not possible within tyranny of hard schedules that bound my thinking for such a long time.

At one level I’ve carried less from one year to the next. At another I’m wheeling in much much more. I find this level of uncertainty allows me to think back and coalesce whole swaths of my life experience in very tangible ways. It is a whole life I’m taking into 2008 not simply the top ten list from 2007 or the list carry-overs from 2007 I’ve got scheduled for the months ahead.

I sat at the Ketchum Grill bar last night on New Year’s Eve with my sister-in-law, Ann. She asked me what I was looking forward to in 2008. I thought about travel, work, commitments represented as items on a spread sheet, expectations tied to a pay check or a status report, production calendars, and to-do lists. With a sort of odd surprising delight I told her, nothing. I’m not looking forward to anything in 2008. This Certain Uncertainty felt wildly liberating. I donned a festive party hat and gave a “toot” on a New Years party horn!

And why not. The certainty of a list of events pre-registered in my calendar hasn’t gotten where I want to go and hasn’t provided any of the certainty that truly enriches my life. Certainty of events hasn’t ever pointed to or defined how a year in the life of Eric Mason actually panned out. Certainty of a crowded calendar chronicled the deadlines but there was less and less life held within those accomplishment each year. Certainty never told me what my year would look like or how fruitful a year I’d have. The years stacked up. The certainty of events along with the increasingly insurmountable and complex set of to-do lists became the navigational compass, the point, the end.

This year I’m starting differently. I’m carrying nothing into 08; no appointments, no to-do lists, no spreadsheets, no job, no fear, no regrets over what wasn’t accomplished in my 2007 book. The job will come as it is intended. The appointments will come as they always do. I’m going to avoid making a to-do list as long as possible. I want to let the uncertainty of each day unfold guided not by the deadline but the thoughtful process. The rest will fall into place. Of that I am certain.