My brother is 15 years older than I am; he moved away when I was young. I knew the name of the town he lived in, and the state, but not much else about his home. I was in 8th grade when Mt. St. Helens erupted. The next time my brother came to visit, he brought me a jar of ash that looked and felt like gray flour.
"Were you close to the eruption?" I worried. "It's in a whole different state," he told me. "I was a long ways away."
When I got older, I found out that he'd fudged that answer a bit; while truthful, it was sugar coated. That other state was just across the river, and while he was out of the line of sight for Mt. St. Helens, he was close enough that ash fell like rain over his home, his car, his town. Plus, the day before the eruption, he'd been inside the blast zone. Almost as distressing, from his home - from pretty much his whole town - he was in sight of two more dormant volcanoes.
"Doesn't that make you nervous? How do you sleep at night?" I fretted. I adore my brother, and wondered why he chose to live somewhere so "dangerous."
At that point, he hit me with some significant wisdom. He shrugged, and said, "It's always something." And do you know what? It is.
Recently, Kilauea, on the Big Island of Hawaii, went from a picturesque, photogenic window into an active volcano to a destructive one, with huge lava flows ruining houses and roads, causing evacuations, emitting toxic gasses. In the online news coverage, there were comments from people saying things like, "Why do they even allow anyone to live there?" The implication was that the government should stop people from living anywhere that there might be danger, to themselves or to their property.
I can't believe that anyone would think that people should be controlled that tightly. Think about it; if people can't live anywhere that there might be a disaster, we have to abandon vast areas. Can't live near volcanoes; they might erupt. So, pretty much any island is now off limits, as is the Pacific Northwest portion of the United States, where my brother lives. A significant portion of the world's mountains are dormant or extinct volcanoes. Yellowstone National Park is part of a "super volcano" - let's empty out Montana, Idaho, Wyoming.
And speaking of the Pacific, you can't live withing 30 miles or so of the ocean, if you're being careful. Tsunamis can come almost without warning, and wipe out whole cities. You can't live near the Atlantic, or the Gulf of Mexico, either - hurricanes!
You can't live in the Midwest - Tornado Alley! You can't live in most of the American Southwest - drought could kill you, as can creatures that bite and sting. Don't go near the Sierras - earthquakes! The San Andreas Fault! And how many of the huge cities of the Southwest can exist without air conditioning and imported water?
And floods - man, you can hardly get away from flood zones, if the right circumstances arise. Here where I am, in the high mountain desert, even a sprinkling rain can cause devastating flash floods.
We don't have a monopoly on floods. Right now, there's severe flooding a couple thousand miles away from me, in Maryland.
Gracious, I live in a place where earthquakes, floods and drought are frequent occourrences. Every summer, someone dies of exposure in the desert; every winter, someone freezes to death on the mountains. How do I manage?
Of course, I can't go many other places, either. Between insect borne illness, carnivorous animals, sandstorms, monsoons, extreme cold, extreme heat, scarcity of water, scarcity of crops, viruses, bacteria, fungus, and the crime and homicide rate of large cities, it's hard to find a risk free spot anywhere on the planet. We'd all be crowded into a few square miles, even if we could avoid those obvious risks, and that brings risks of another kind.
That's the point, of course. Even if we try to eliminate the obvious risks, something else will get us. And none of us will live forever, anyway.
It truly is always something.
Don't let it get to you.
Wednesday, May 30, 2018
Friday, May 11, 2018
Bookish
More than once, I've served as one of the leaders in the nursery at church, spending just over two hours every Sunday with children ages 18 months to 3 years. We're supposed to have play time, story time, snack time, singing time, activity (coloring, etc.) time, clean up time, and a "waiting for parents" activity like blowing bubbles for the kids to chase.
It's busy. It can be loud. It's definitely high maintenance - someone usually wants held, there's frequent crying and/or hitting, dirty diapers and/or trips to go potty down the hall in the restroom. The kids are adorable, but it's a lot of work.
Consequently, I like anything that makes the job easier. For instance, the children are more likely to listen to their scripture story and answer questions like, "Who created animals?" if they're also eating a snack, so I deliver the lesson during snack time.
Easygoing kids also make my life so much easier. I love all the nursery kids, but I appreciate the sunny, cooperative ones a wee bit more.
One day, we had a visitor, a two year old who was visiting her grandparents, members of our congregation. During play time, she got a stack of board books, and sat by herself, quietly paging through a book, then setting it down to choose another one.
I watched her, thinking two things: 1. It's so nice to have a happy, self contained child in class. No crying, screaming, shoving, hitting, taking toys, needing all the adults' attention - a child like that is very nice to have in class. 2. She reminded me of myself and my own children, who spent hours with books, from the time that they sat up by themselves.
Just as I was thinking how happy it made me to see such a happy, self contained child, the other leader looked at her, frowned and sighed, and said, "It always makes me so sad to see children like that."
Sad? Children "like that"? Was there something that I didn't know about? Was she sick? Was there something going on with her family, something I didn't know about - illness, job loss, some other kind of loss?
I asked, "Like what?"
"Children who don't mix with the other children, children who sit by themselves instead of joining in. It's so sad."
Wow.
OK, if this was an older child, one who wanted desperately to join in but was too frightened, or who'd been deliberately rejected, yes, that would be sad. I don't think that two year olds are capable of that kind of thinking, though. They do what they want to do, regardless of how the other toddlers feel about it. She was doing what made her happy, and what made her happy was to be by herself with a stack of books.
The idea of someone deliberately choosing to separate from noise and rowdiness to read is so ordinary, so expected, to me, that I forget that it might not look that way to everyone.
The nursery incident reminded me of a time when my husband and I stopped by my mother's house. We were still dating; it was a time when he didn't know my mother that well yet, apparently.
We came by Mom's house (going in the back door without knocking, because in my parents' day, family and good friends went to the back door; only strangers and salespeople went to the front door). I don't remember why we went by, just that it only took about 15 minutes. Mom was sitting in her favorite chair reading when we came in. She rested the book on her lap while we talked to her, then began reading again as we left. This was a completely ordinary interaction with my mother, and, frankly, with me.
It unnerved my husband. "What's wrong with your mom?"
"Nothing."
"Something has to be."
"You just saw Mom! She's fine!" I mean, she wasn't weeping, or sneezing, or coughing, or in a cast, or bruised, or giving any other indication that there was cause for concern. She hadn't been gruff or angry; she was cheerful and pleasant. I could not imagine where he'd gotten the very odd idea that something was wrong.
He was sure that something was wrong. As time went on, and the encounter was now days in the past, he seemed to be getting more and more upset, as I continued to assure him that nothing was wrong. I was completely at a loss to figure out what had him tied in knots.
Finally, he verbalized it (his communication skills are not fantastic). "If my mother was sitting alone in a silent house, something would be really wrong!" She'd either be very angry, or very sad, he said. Plus, she'd expect her loved ones to know, or find out, why, and take steps to fix it. Plus, he was sure that breezing in and out in a few minutes was more offensive than never stopping by, and the fact that Mom hadn't jumped out of her chair to offer to make us something to eat had to be a bad sign.
Whoa, there; cool your jets. "None of that is true of my mother."
"Of course it is. That's how people are."
Au contraire. I assured him that alone in a silent house was my mother's normal state of being, that she was happy as a clam, and she hated to play hostess; short visits were good. Plus, given the fact that we'd come by unannounced, expecting her to drop her book and entertain and feed us, especially for an extended period of time, would have been very rude, and made her miserable.
He was convinced, for quite a while, that I was just too self absorbed to know what my mother wanted; when he finally conceded that I was right about this, he still found it to be "very abnormal." (Which is funny, because that's exactly what I thought of his interpretation.)
Of course, having had children together, we're also occasionally baffling to, and baffled by, our children.
Our teenage daughter once took a book to a church dance, and sat over in the corner or out in the foyer reading during the dance. She thought that, if people really liked her, they'd notice that she was missing, come hunt her down, make her put away the book, and insist that she dance with them. The fact that everyone had left her alone to read her book had her in tears, convinced that nobody liked her.
Oh, dear.
"Honey, reading a book at a social occasion is the clearest possible way of saying, 'Go away and leave me alone. I don't want to be here.' If you want to spend time with people, you have to put the book away and join in, on your own!"
She was convinced, as children are, that I had to be wrong. "No! That's not what it says!"
"Yes, it does. Any time I step away from a party or event to read, it's because I want to be alone. I'd be furious if someone came along and insisted that I go back."
"That's because you're an alien!"
I repeated that yes, pulling out a book in a social situation was the equivalent of holding a sign that said, "Go away." We talked about the fact that it's a really bad idea to set up tests to try to determine if people like you ("If they like me, they will do this..."). It's a bad idea to expect that people who like you (or people who don't) can read your mind. A person who will try to tell you what to do and how to behave, making you stop what you're doing to do what they want you to do, is a controlling, unsympathetic person, and you should never wish for one or more of those in your life.
"If you want to dance, dance! By yourself, with your friends, ask a guy to dance. Don't put it all on other people. Talk to them, and more importantly, listen to them. Do not hide out and hope that they'll hunt you down. And if you don't want to dance, don't go to a dance! Stay home."
She was sure that I was wrong about this. After hearing the same basic thing from at least 4 other people, she conceded that I might be right, but still thought it was "weird."
Oh, dear. Human interaction: what's "sad" is that what one person hates is exactly what another person craves.
I will not feel loved if you get between me and my book.
It's busy. It can be loud. It's definitely high maintenance - someone usually wants held, there's frequent crying and/or hitting, dirty diapers and/or trips to go potty down the hall in the restroom. The kids are adorable, but it's a lot of work.
Consequently, I like anything that makes the job easier. For instance, the children are more likely to listen to their scripture story and answer questions like, "Who created animals?" if they're also eating a snack, so I deliver the lesson during snack time.
Easygoing kids also make my life so much easier. I love all the nursery kids, but I appreciate the sunny, cooperative ones a wee bit more.
One day, we had a visitor, a two year old who was visiting her grandparents, members of our congregation. During play time, she got a stack of board books, and sat by herself, quietly paging through a book, then setting it down to choose another one.
I watched her, thinking two things: 1. It's so nice to have a happy, self contained child in class. No crying, screaming, shoving, hitting, taking toys, needing all the adults' attention - a child like that is very nice to have in class. 2. She reminded me of myself and my own children, who spent hours with books, from the time that they sat up by themselves.
Just as I was thinking how happy it made me to see such a happy, self contained child, the other leader looked at her, frowned and sighed, and said, "It always makes me so sad to see children like that."
Sad? Children "like that"? Was there something that I didn't know about? Was she sick? Was there something going on with her family, something I didn't know about - illness, job loss, some other kind of loss?
I asked, "Like what?"
"Children who don't mix with the other children, children who sit by themselves instead of joining in. It's so sad."
Wow.
OK, if this was an older child, one who wanted desperately to join in but was too frightened, or who'd been deliberately rejected, yes, that would be sad. I don't think that two year olds are capable of that kind of thinking, though. They do what they want to do, regardless of how the other toddlers feel about it. She was doing what made her happy, and what made her happy was to be by herself with a stack of books.
The idea of someone deliberately choosing to separate from noise and rowdiness to read is so ordinary, so expected, to me, that I forget that it might not look that way to everyone.
The nursery incident reminded me of a time when my husband and I stopped by my mother's house. We were still dating; it was a time when he didn't know my mother that well yet, apparently.
We came by Mom's house (going in the back door without knocking, because in my parents' day, family and good friends went to the back door; only strangers and salespeople went to the front door). I don't remember why we went by, just that it only took about 15 minutes. Mom was sitting in her favorite chair reading when we came in. She rested the book on her lap while we talked to her, then began reading again as we left. This was a completely ordinary interaction with my mother, and, frankly, with me.
It unnerved my husband. "What's wrong with your mom?"
"Nothing."
"Something has to be."
"You just saw Mom! She's fine!" I mean, she wasn't weeping, or sneezing, or coughing, or in a cast, or bruised, or giving any other indication that there was cause for concern. She hadn't been gruff or angry; she was cheerful and pleasant. I could not imagine where he'd gotten the very odd idea that something was wrong.
He was sure that something was wrong. As time went on, and the encounter was now days in the past, he seemed to be getting more and more upset, as I continued to assure him that nothing was wrong. I was completely at a loss to figure out what had him tied in knots.
Finally, he verbalized it (his communication skills are not fantastic). "If my mother was sitting alone in a silent house, something would be really wrong!" She'd either be very angry, or very sad, he said. Plus, she'd expect her loved ones to know, or find out, why, and take steps to fix it. Plus, he was sure that breezing in and out in a few minutes was more offensive than never stopping by, and the fact that Mom hadn't jumped out of her chair to offer to make us something to eat had to be a bad sign.
Whoa, there; cool your jets. "None of that is true of my mother."
"Of course it is. That's how people are."
Au contraire. I assured him that alone in a silent house was my mother's normal state of being, that she was happy as a clam, and she hated to play hostess; short visits were good. Plus, given the fact that we'd come by unannounced, expecting her to drop her book and entertain and feed us, especially for an extended period of time, would have been very rude, and made her miserable.
He was convinced, for quite a while, that I was just too self absorbed to know what my mother wanted; when he finally conceded that I was right about this, he still found it to be "very abnormal." (Which is funny, because that's exactly what I thought of his interpretation.)
Of course, having had children together, we're also occasionally baffling to, and baffled by, our children.
Our teenage daughter once took a book to a church dance, and sat over in the corner or out in the foyer reading during the dance. She thought that, if people really liked her, they'd notice that she was missing, come hunt her down, make her put away the book, and insist that she dance with them. The fact that everyone had left her alone to read her book had her in tears, convinced that nobody liked her.
Oh, dear.
"Honey, reading a book at a social occasion is the clearest possible way of saying, 'Go away and leave me alone. I don't want to be here.' If you want to spend time with people, you have to put the book away and join in, on your own!"
She was convinced, as children are, that I had to be wrong. "No! That's not what it says!"
"Yes, it does. Any time I step away from a party or event to read, it's because I want to be alone. I'd be furious if someone came along and insisted that I go back."
"That's because you're an alien!"
I repeated that yes, pulling out a book in a social situation was the equivalent of holding a sign that said, "Go away." We talked about the fact that it's a really bad idea to set up tests to try to determine if people like you ("If they like me, they will do this..."). It's a bad idea to expect that people who like you (or people who don't) can read your mind. A person who will try to tell you what to do and how to behave, making you stop what you're doing to do what they want you to do, is a controlling, unsympathetic person, and you should never wish for one or more of those in your life.
"If you want to dance, dance! By yourself, with your friends, ask a guy to dance. Don't put it all on other people. Talk to them, and more importantly, listen to them. Do not hide out and hope that they'll hunt you down. And if you don't want to dance, don't go to a dance! Stay home."
She was sure that I was wrong about this. After hearing the same basic thing from at least 4 other people, she conceded that I might be right, but still thought it was "weird."
Oh, dear. Human interaction: what's "sad" is that what one person hates is exactly what another person craves.
I will not feel loved if you get between me and my book.
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