Out of the Zone

One of the most noteworthy things about this new phase of life is discovering how much I must force myself out of my comfort zone. I've always done this to an extent, but I could always count on paid employment to do the rest, especially my last gig.

Now I must make myself do the hard things. What are these "hard things"? Don't laugh. Driving home on narrow country roads in the dark so that I can be with a bunch of people I work with but almost never see. (See yesterday's post.) Practicing finger exercises and learning new piano pieces s-l-o-w-l-y because otherwise I won't learn them at all. Taking tough classes. Making new friends. Forging new trails. 

The key word here is new. It's not always easy but it's almost always worth it. 

"Not So Different"

As part of our readings for the course I'm taking this semester, we're learning about animal behavior to enlighten our view of human behavior. The basic point is that we are more like bonobos and dolphins and many other animals than we might care to admit. 

Many species mourn their lost loved ones, from the chimp Flint grieving his mother Flo, as described by Jane Goodall, to reports of elephants crying from the loss of a parent or child. 

Animals have an innate sense of justice, proved by studies in which primates refuse to solve a puzzle to earn a grape because the same treat is not being offered to their cage-mate. Vampire bats will feed each other even if it means giving up 20 to 30 percent of their own calories. Yes, there is an element of reciprocity in this. They do it, in part, because it might ensure their survival on a bad hunting night. But not all of this behavior can be explained away as quid pro quo. 

A basic question Nathan Lents asks in his book Not So Different: Finding Human Nature in Animals is why must we prove animals have these emotions — rather than prove they do not?

(Photo of bonobos courtesy Wikipedia) 

Proud to be ... Bipedal

In class last night we talked about our earliest ancestors, about Australopithecus, Homo Erectus and the whole gang, the distant relatives on our ever-so-shaggy family tree.

A key trait, of course, is bipedalism, walking on two legs. In Maps of Time, David Christian talks about the hazards of this posture, especially for women, who had to bear children with large heads that required turning as they passed through the birth canal. 

For this, they needed help. Thus did a physical trait engender cooperation, social behavior, the collective efforts of women helping women during childbirth. And later on, the collective efforts of raising young humans, who are far more helpless at birth than most mammals. 

We don't walk on two legs because we're human. We're human, in part, because we walk on two legs.

(One of my favorite toddlers shows off her stride.)

Back to Practicing

When I bought the new piano last year, I told myself I would play whatever I wanted. No agendas.  No "practicing." I only wanted to hear the sound of the instrument, which makes any kind of playing pleasant to the ear, even the rusty renditions of pieces I once played with ease. 

But I've reached the point in this renaissance (can I call it that? I think so) where something more is required, some sort of foundation for the playing that is to follow. 

That something is Hannon. Yes, Hannon, much reviled in my youth but now revealed for what he/it actually is: the means to an end. The stronger and more nimble my fingers, the better I can master the Brahms' intermezzos and  Chopin nocturnes and Bach fugues I'm trying to play. 

At this point I begin to understand the purpose of those dreaded assignments of my youth, the scales and the Hannon and the other exercises I avoided whenever possible, teacher notes scribbled on the yellowing pages, usually the words "slow down." Can it be that I'm now inflicting these exercises on myself? 

As a matter of fact, I am. I know that practice won't make perfect. But it will make better. 

Semester's End

I've always been a student at heart, and now I'm one in practice again—reading, writing, researching. Wait, that sounds like what I've been doing my entire career. But it was different, of course, When I was a freelance journalist, I read, researched and wrote about the topics I needed to sell an article. When I was an alumni magazine editor, I wrote about what I thought would appeal to my readers. And when I worked at Winrock, I wrote about topics that would explain and showcase the organization.

Now I'm studying and learning about topics purely because they're interesting to me. These last few weeks, plunging into and through the final paper, I've been absorbed in a big topic that I can only scratch the surface of.

But how good it's felt to scratch that surface. Stacking books around the desk, dipping into one and then another. And then there's all the online research: I realized weeks into the semester that I didn't just have to rely on Google Scholar. I had an entire research library with all its subscriptions and databases at my disposal. Which means that, in addition to the books and papers you see above, there are many more bookmarked pages or open tabs on the laptop that is almost buried amidst the clutter.

Our final papers are due today. I sent mine off Tuesday mid-afternoon, then took a long walk on a Reston trail to celebrate. It's just a start. But it feels good to be a student again.

En Peu de Francais

With a new French-speaking grandson, I find myself dredging up phrases from ancient history — a high school class in French I. Today's is "il fait du vent" ... it's windy.

But how much more trippingly does "Il fait du vent" fall off the tongue? Pretty trippingly, I'd say. 

Apparently, I could also phrase it as "Il y a du vent," but I'll stick with what I learned years ago. Which is way too little to converse with a bright 11-year-old.  

Once again, I'm struck by the paucity of foreign language study in the U.S. -- or at least my language study!

(I met these children on a trip to Benin in 2015.) 

The Lesson of Hummingbirds

Here is the lesson hummingbirds bring to humans, at least this human. Not just their impossible splendor, their swift jabbing attacks at the feeder like knights at sword fights flashing silver, a miracle of motion that makes me appreciate my own movements, no matter how sluggish.

And not just their seemingly impossible, near-perpetual flight, though seeing it makes me think, no matter how much I've done in a day, it's never enough. 

It's not even their way of pirouetting in front of me, as if to say thank-you, which speaks to me of gratitude whether they intend it to or not.

The lesson hummingbirds bring to me every year, from late April through late September, is, to use the movie's hackneyed phrase ... "if you build it, they will come." Because, at least in this part of the world—and in many others from what I understand—all you have to do to see these glorious creatures is to fill a feeder with nectar and hang it it up outside. So simple, so obvious, like so many truths right there in front of me if only I would pay attention. 

 

Million Dollar Baby

As a proud English major I was delighted to read yesterday of a study that finds a liberal arts education provides a $1 million median return on investment 40 years after enrollment.

It doesn't surprise me, though. I've always believed that learning how to think, analyze and write is just as important as learning how to build a resume.

But I also agree with one of the educators interviewed for an article reporting on the study — that education is not about earnings potential or return on investment. Education is its own reward.

I'm grateful that my English major has "paid off," that I've been able to earn a living with it as a teacher, writer and editor. But most of all I'm grateful that I've been able to keep learning through the years. That's the greatest gift of all.

Wearing Purple

This morning on Metro I realized I was wearing a purple jacket, holding a phone with a purple cover and wearing glasses with a purple frame.

It's just a coincidence, I told myself. I'm not turning into one of those old women who wears purple. Not that there's anything wrong with the color. But I'd rather not wait till I'm old to wear it — and, more to the point, I'd rather not wait till I'm old to be a free spirit.

Yes, there's something to be said for how years lessen the esteem with which we hold the opinions of others. Maybe that's because we've seen more foolishness. But I hope it's because we're more tolerant of ourselves and others, that we've grown in compassion as well as nerve. If that's what frees us ... then bring it on.

Honorary Degree

I didn't place much importance on the commencements of my youth. I completed the requirements, I graduated.  These were launching pads not retrospectives.

But watching these ceremonies as a mother, aunt and sister is altogether different.  Now I tear up at "Pomp and Circumstance," get goose bumps from an academic procession. It's clearer to me now that these are true endings and beginnings, the kind of clear line life seldom hands us.

It's also clear that for many, a degree is not a given. And for every smiling graduate there is someone who will not walk across a stage this year, someone who may never have worn a gown, hood or mortar board. Their reasons for not doing so are legion, and may have nothing to do with intelligence or drive. For like their robed compatriots, they too have completed difficult assignments.

So this post is for them, an honorary degree of sorts. Maybe there will be no diploma this year, but there was learning and effort and sacrifice. To the great, un-graduated multitudes, I offer my humble, heartfelt congratulations.

Eating Crow

Yesterday, for the first time in several years, I took a yoga class. Yoga is one of those activities I am theoretically for — until it comes time to actually do it.

I knew I was in trouble when I couldn't do the first pose — sitting cross-legged on the floor. My knees don't like that anymore. I quickly adapted a faux cross-legged position, one that put my legs farther out in the floor than the other students gathered in a circle around the instructor, John. And it went rather steadily downhill from there. When it came time to learn the crow or Bakasana position —balancing on arms with bent knees — I had to laugh.

I had taken a class with John before and remember it as challenging but fun. This time it was only challenging. Which raises the question, who has changed — John or me?

Both, I'd say. This was a more advanced class and John was subbing for it. But I've been ossifying, too, hardening into position. One hour of yoga didn't do much to dispel muscle stiffness, but it did help me see how much I need to strengthen and stretch. And this morning — ouch! — it's an easy lesson to remember!

(Crow position courtesy yogaoutfitters.com.)

Perpetual Student

Last night I went to a high school "electives fair" and chatted with teachers about psychology, marketing, journalism and more. Celia had visited the fair earlier and emerged with her own favorites (philosophy!). The number of offerings and the sophistication of the classes is further proof that high school is not what it used to be.

My high school electives included orchestra and a semester of typing (the latter a most essential, useful class). I had to wait to college to study philosophy, psychology and journalism. Who's to say which is the better model.

All I know is that wandering around the cafeteria, picking up class descriptions and reading syllabuses made me want to go back to school — not high school, but college. Nothing jump-starts a brain better than a reading list and a looming final.