"Good morning beautiful:)! How r u?" greeted me via text message this morning when I arrived at my office. Funny thing, I have no idea who the sender is. It came from a number unknown to me and my know-it-all iPhone. Just a number.
I started to text back "sorry, wrong number," but it occurred to me that it would be more fun to play with this one. So I tap away, "Uglier every day. I suspect you have the wrong number because no one has accused me of being beautiful in years, but it was fun for a moment, thanks!"
It was fun for a moment, someone shot cupids arrow at their lover and it bounced off the cloud and hit me right in the ass. It's been a long time since anything like cupid's arrow hit me. Don't get me wrong, I love my wife of 26 years...we have a terrific mature marriage, but there was something fresh in this misfired text message that reminded me of feelings I had long ago.
"I'm sorry, someone should tell u ur beautiful every day:)!"
What a response. I was stopped in my tracks. My smart aleck reply to a errant message generated a pearl. A simple, young, naive pearl. Life is full of surprises, and I'm usually busy trying to script all the moments. Today I was reminded that sometimes gems come out of accidents.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
real reincarnation
The sun was shining brightly as I rode away from home on this cool, crisp morning, off to be me in my current life. It’s a good thing the sun was there to buoy my spirits, my morning got off to a disjointed start that dented my mood and set me on a pessimistic course. But my current life is good. Most days it makes me happy and keeps me fulfilled. So my green Surly bike steered my mood back on track and took me to a lively committee meeting for a non-profit organization that I love. By the time I left the meeting and rode toward my office, I was feeling lucky to be mentored by the great people on the Friendship Ark Homes board. Little did I know that an e-mail last night from my major professor of 25 years ago was leading me to a collision with a previous life.
Carol invited me to a seminar on campus. An old friend that attended graduate school with me was in town to give the "Ramsey Lecture" at ISU. We worked in the same lab doing neuroscience in the early 90's. I defended my dissertation not long after Joel started in the lab and I went off to a postdoctoral position while he finished his degrees. He is very humble, but a rock star in the science world. I knew it would be fun to see him so I scurried away from my work at the office and snuck into the back of the lecture hall where he was speaking. The talk had not started and Joel was sitting near the front scanning the large crowd that turned out for his lecture. When I caught Joel’s eye he jumped up and said he was happy that someone was attending his seminar who had less hair than him. He hasn’t changed. Our friendship was rekindled instantly.
Joel's talk was terrific. 25 years ago he was one of the smartest guys I ever met and nothing has dimmed. Joel is brilliant.
Every day I ponder for at least a moment or two, what my life would be like if I had continued in science. Today, I got to see what it might have looked like if 20 short years ago I had the guts to stick with science. Instead, I'm reincarnated, once a scientist, now using science as a businessman. When people are nearly killed in an accident or their neighbor gets shot to death you hear them on the news say "That hits really close to home." Like, I never thought that could happen and it reminds me that I'm just one address number away from death. So can something good hit really close to home? Like, I was one address number away from something great! How do I process that?
Carol invited me to a seminar on campus. An old friend that attended graduate school with me was in town to give the "Ramsey Lecture" at ISU. We worked in the same lab doing neuroscience in the early 90's. I defended my dissertation not long after Joel started in the lab and I went off to a postdoctoral position while he finished his degrees. He is very humble, but a rock star in the science world. I knew it would be fun to see him so I scurried away from my work at the office and snuck into the back of the lecture hall where he was speaking. The talk had not started and Joel was sitting near the front scanning the large crowd that turned out for his lecture. When I caught Joel’s eye he jumped up and said he was happy that someone was attending his seminar who had less hair than him. He hasn’t changed. Our friendship was rekindled instantly.
Joel's talk was terrific. 25 years ago he was one of the smartest guys I ever met and nothing has dimmed. Joel is brilliant.
Every day I ponder for at least a moment or two, what my life would be like if I had continued in science. Today, I got to see what it might have looked like if 20 short years ago I had the guts to stick with science. Instead, I'm reincarnated, once a scientist, now using science as a businessman. When people are nearly killed in an accident or their neighbor gets shot to death you hear them on the news say "That hits really close to home." Like, I never thought that could happen and it reminds me that I'm just one address number away from death. So can something good hit really close to home? Like, I was one address number away from something great! How do I process that?
I would have never touched the heights of science that Joel has reached. I'm simply not as smart as Joel. He is a great scientist with a brilliant and prolific career. For a moment during his seminar today I wanted to be looking into a mirror. Because in that moment it felt like I was wearing hand-me-down underwear instead of the dignified shorts that were meant for me. But when I returned to my office and dug into my work, I realized that I like my reincarnated life, and these hand-me-down briefs fit pretty well.
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
riding in the rain
The clouds arrived and opened today. Not like a spring thunderstorm where the big drops hit the ground so hard that they make the sound of a steak frying. This was all day rain. The kind that soaks into everything remotely absorbent and drums the remaining leaves off the trees so they form a slick, shiny mat on the ground.
Since I ride my bike to work nearly every day, and I live in the midwest, I have to contend with all weather conditions. It's not that bad if you are ok with minor discomforts and inconveniences. I actually revel in the sensory feast that riding throughout the year feeds me. But people who rely on cars for transportation are bewildered by bicycles plying anything other than a sunny summer day. Bikes are recreational...not for serious transportation. "What do you do when it rains?" they ask. "I get wet," I tell them. I'm not sure when mankind became so removed from the outdoors that getting wet was considered an emergency, but apparently it's at least an accident if it doesn't happen to you in your own shower or a properly maintained swimming pool.
To add to the drama, today is an election day and our polling place was near my route home. I entered carrying a good 7 miles worth of rain on my person. Other than being tweaked by a "nice day for a bike ride" the polling officials took my dripping in stride and I filled out the form and quickly received my ballot. It's an off, off year, so there is not much to vote for. I arranged myself so that I could mark the ballot using the official felt tipped pen without inadvertently turning by ballot into a Winslow Homer watercolor and successfully navigated my way to the machine that scans the ballots. There the lady "manning" the ballot machine attempted to give me an "I voted" sticker. She abandoned her effort when she realized that there was no way to make it stick to a guy covered in 5 gallons of rain water and instead said "oh, is it still raining out there?" For a moment I thought...you need to talk to the guy who suggested it was a nice day for bike ride, but I just said, "Yes."
So I ride away in the rain, my I voted sticker still on the roll waiting for next November and the polling folks wondering what kind of offense to society I must have committed to be banished to a bike. And me, wondering what kind of society banishes people to riding around in tin cans so afraid of getting wet that they don't know what fall rain feels like anymore.
Since I ride my bike to work nearly every day, and I live in the midwest, I have to contend with all weather conditions. It's not that bad if you are ok with minor discomforts and inconveniences. I actually revel in the sensory feast that riding throughout the year feeds me. But people who rely on cars for transportation are bewildered by bicycles plying anything other than a sunny summer day. Bikes are recreational...not for serious transportation. "What do you do when it rains?" they ask. "I get wet," I tell them. I'm not sure when mankind became so removed from the outdoors that getting wet was considered an emergency, but apparently it's at least an accident if it doesn't happen to you in your own shower or a properly maintained swimming pool.
To add to the drama, today is an election day and our polling place was near my route home. I entered carrying a good 7 miles worth of rain on my person. Other than being tweaked by a "nice day for a bike ride" the polling officials took my dripping in stride and I filled out the form and quickly received my ballot. It's an off, off year, so there is not much to vote for. I arranged myself so that I could mark the ballot using the official felt tipped pen without inadvertently turning by ballot into a Winslow Homer watercolor and successfully navigated my way to the machine that scans the ballots. There the lady "manning" the ballot machine attempted to give me an "I voted" sticker. She abandoned her effort when she realized that there was no way to make it stick to a guy covered in 5 gallons of rain water and instead said "oh, is it still raining out there?" For a moment I thought...you need to talk to the guy who suggested it was a nice day for bike ride, but I just said, "Yes."
So I ride away in the rain, my I voted sticker still on the roll waiting for next November and the polling folks wondering what kind of offense to society I must have committed to be banished to a bike. And me, wondering what kind of society banishes people to riding around in tin cans so afraid of getting wet that they don't know what fall rain feels like anymore.
flying south
On this morning's ride into work, my friend noticed a flock of Canadian geese flying over. They were headed south, efficiently cutting through the air in a V formation like Tour de France riders at the front of the peloton. My friend said something like, "I don't think any longer about why geese fly south in the winter. I know it is because the ones that didn't are not around anymore."
Right. He escaped the mechanistic details of why in favor of something simple that exists on the other side of that complexity.
We live in a world of elimination. Everything is tried and most is discarded. Many attempts at success are just too much of a stretch for nature to allow. The process of elimination is a universal law. Gorges are carved by rivers, geese fly south because the ones who didn’t died, and CBS cancels sitcoms because they don't get ratings. In the face of the overwhelming probability of elimination, an opportunity to spend a little time in the limelight of our sun is rare, but if you are here it seems like effortless certainty.
Right. He escaped the mechanistic details of why in favor of something simple that exists on the other side of that complexity.
We live in a world of elimination. Everything is tried and most is discarded. Many attempts at success are just too much of a stretch for nature to allow. The process of elimination is a universal law. Gorges are carved by rivers, geese fly south because the ones who didn’t died, and CBS cancels sitcoms because they don't get ratings. In the face of the overwhelming probability of elimination, an opportunity to spend a little time in the limelight of our sun is rare, but if you are here it seems like effortless certainty.
Monday, November 4, 2013
why hand-me-down underwear?
I am the youngest kid in a series of cousins and siblings in a family that is frugal in the use of everything from leftover food to winter apparel. Like squirrels store nuts, the women in my house religiously warehouse goods for the next user. Take a look in the fridge and you see a warehouse of morsels sealed in high-end polyethylene. Tupperware. And mom even knows the name of each culinary sarcophagus. "Get me the ham in the square-round." What? These are some serious keepers I was born into.
So at a holiday reunion all the cousins are in town and someone breaks out the hand-me-down clothes bags. The youngest gets the biggest bag and the enthusiasm is contagious. People that lovingly store small pieces of meatloaf are overwhelmed with glee at the prospect of 4th generation usage of a sweater decorated with cows. I glance up on the wall to see a tacky collage of pictures and notice both older cousins and my older sister smiling back wearing that sweater. Wow. Is this real. The pressure of publicly emptying the bag with spectators saying "try this on honey" and "oh, isn't that adorable" is something akin to a reality TV wedding dress fitting.
Then I see it. Even at seven years old my face starts to sweat. At the bottom of the trash bag bound wardrobe a social line is crossed so extremely, that at seven I suddenly have a deeper understanding of the words intimate apparel than a Victoria's Secret model.
Hand-me-down underwear.
"It's been washed sweetie" an aunt replies to the panic on my face. Like that somehow nullifies the fact that it's been in previous contact with three ani, two of which don't even reside in the same state. The awkwardness is monumental. Images flash through my mind of people rummaging through used underwear bins at the salvation army store, happy to have found a pair of intact knickers. Am I ungrateful? I look at the faces goading me into thinking this is great...I get "seasoned" underwear. Then reason kicks in and I fake a smile then sneak the bag down the hall where one-by-one I flush each and every pair down the toilet. Even if I have to go commando for the rest of the year, I need my personal...space.
So at a holiday reunion all the cousins are in town and someone breaks out the hand-me-down clothes bags. The youngest gets the biggest bag and the enthusiasm is contagious. People that lovingly store small pieces of meatloaf are overwhelmed with glee at the prospect of 4th generation usage of a sweater decorated with cows. I glance up on the wall to see a tacky collage of pictures and notice both older cousins and my older sister smiling back wearing that sweater. Wow. Is this real. The pressure of publicly emptying the bag with spectators saying "try this on honey" and "oh, isn't that adorable" is something akin to a reality TV wedding dress fitting.
Then I see it. Even at seven years old my face starts to sweat. At the bottom of the trash bag bound wardrobe a social line is crossed so extremely, that at seven I suddenly have a deeper understanding of the words intimate apparel than a Victoria's Secret model.
Hand-me-down underwear.
"It's been washed sweetie" an aunt replies to the panic on my face. Like that somehow nullifies the fact that it's been in previous contact with three ani, two of which don't even reside in the same state. The awkwardness is monumental. Images flash through my mind of people rummaging through used underwear bins at the salvation army store, happy to have found a pair of intact knickers. Am I ungrateful? I look at the faces goading me into thinking this is great...I get "seasoned" underwear. Then reason kicks in and I fake a smile then sneak the bag down the hall where one-by-one I flush each and every pair down the toilet. Even if I have to go commando for the rest of the year, I need my personal...space.
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