Path to a Delightful Nowhere

It was mid-October, and one day before a storm was to roll in. I decided that this might be my last good opportunity to capture Fall colors this season, so I made the trek up the local canyon to do some work in the early morning light. I made some satisfying captures at the intended place, and then drove back. I couldn’t help but stop periodically, as I saw scenes worthy of feeding to my camera.

At one stop, I walked around and found a trail that led into a grove of aspens. I hesitated for a moment; I was overly cognizant of the time, and my life is over-sheduled. Casting aside my other responsibilities, I walked down that path for a short while before I saw yet another path branch off to the left. I quickly glanced down that path while walking, and then had to stop and take the unplanned turn. A few feet further, my tripod legs stretched out to meet the ground (seemingly on their own). My lens pretty much aimed itself, too. Three aligned exposures and some software “developing” later, I ended up with this. I could hear no signs of humanity and, except for the little path before me (and some names carved in nearby aspen trunks), I felt delight at having found nowhere.

Needless Guilt

It has been exactly one month since I last wrote a blog entry. I’m feeling guilty because I really didn’t intend to let it go so long between entries, and because I used to write every week for me previous blogs.

In the spirit of looking for excuses, I could hand out the usual — not enough time, too many long hours with work, had a head cold, too busy taking pictures, nothing profound to say or share, etc. In the end, none of these quite explain it. Basically, I just didn’t make it an high enough priority. Since I actually never promised any update frequency, I shouldn’t feel any guilt here, but I had higher expectations than I published.

Comfort Soup

A few days ago, a dear friend showed up at our door with a batch of soup she had just made. That was such a nice thing to do, and it beautifully solved the dilemma of what to do about dinner that night. This afternoon we arrived at the home of my wife’s mother. Earlier in the day, a dear friend of hers showed up with a big batch of soup she felt inspired to make for us, and that fed a large group of us with soup to spare.

The soups were comforting because they provided dinners when needed, but they were also comforting at a deeper level. So many times when a friend or neighbor experiences a death in their family, I have a desire to do something to help, but don’t know quite what to do and often end up doing little or nothing. This week I have learned that it doesn’t matter so much what you do, but that you do something — whether that means bringing soup, or a casserole, or flowers, or a card, or a hug. Just knowing that people care, that they’re aware, that they’re concerned, and that they’re wanting to cry a little with you — that is tremendously comforting. We’ve also received cards, flowers, e-mails, phone calls, and neighbors dropping by to see if there is anything they can do. All of these gestures are greatly appreciated, and serve as a reminder that we are surrounded by friends and loved ones and we will get through this together much better than we ever could alone. That realization is a very soothing comfort soup.

A Tribute to Eric

Eric Millward, in the company of many family members, peacefully passed on from this life on the afternoon of Monday, 15 September, 2008. He was just 44. We sensed that his time to leave was near, but we were surprised by how near it was.

The emotions that accompany such an event tend to come in waves. At times the sadness is overwhelming; at other times, it feels like everything will be okay. Those waves soften in intensity as time goes on, yet the desire to do something helpful and meaningful grows. Other than comforting my wife (who must now say goodbye to a beloved brother) and trying to hold down the fort, I have felt pretty useless. Then, last night, I was struck with an idea: create a web site where friends and family can share thoughts, feelings, and memories of Eric. This I could do, and so I have.

http://ericmillward.blogspot.com has been established as just such a place. I hope it will become a place where people will go to learn more about the father, brother, son, uncle, and friend who has passed from our realm; a place where tears, smiles, and laughs can happen within as little as one sentence; a place where comfort and solace can be given and received. The very first post on that blog sets the stage for loved ones to participate.

Stopped Short of Canceling My Netflix Subscription

For the last several months, I’ve been looking for places in the household budget where we can trim expenses. Considering how little time we normally have to watch movies, I thought of canceling our Netflix subscription. I’ve been sitting on the fence about this issue for a few months, but today I decided to keep it a while longer. Why? Because of movies like “Bella”.

We watched “Bella” this weekend and were so very moved by the story, the writing, the character development, and the acting. It was a great reminder to me of how good cinema can be. Sure, I still enjoy a good action movie now and then, but this is in a different league with a different audience and a different goal. And, my tastes have changed; in the last few years, the movies which have been most impactful and have given us the most valuable experiences have come from somewhere other than Hollywood, and are not typically found at our neighborhood video store.

Over the years that we’ve had Netflix, we’ve struck and mined several veins of gold. As an example, there is a set of Chinese films that were deeply moving: “King of Masks”, “Not One Less”, “To Live”, “The Road Home”, “Together”, and “Shadow Magic” — beautiful stories! We chanced upon one of them, and were led to the others through trailers on that and subsequent movies. Recently we saw “Peck on the Cheek” (to which we also give high marks) which had a trailer for “Bella”.

To be fair, Netlix isn’t the only way to gain access to such movies. There are competing postal-based movie programs, and direct download now is on the rise (and “Bella” is available through iTunes). Right now, the cost and convenience of Netflix is still holding the sweet spot for me, so I think we’ll continue with this program for a while longer.

If you find yourself disenfranchised by what’s coming out of Hollywood and what’s available at your local video rental store, take heart — there’s a lot more out there that’s worth watching.

Rock Flour: Primary Steps in Geology

(This is kind of long, but hopefully worth it.)

It has been many years since I last saw it, so I don’t know if it is still there, but there was a cinder-block wall separating two home properties — 7260 (Jimmy Anderson’s house) and 7266 (my house) on West 90th Street, in the community of Westchester (properly in the city of Los Angeles), California. (If you go there and see it, let me know.)

The top of the wall had a slight crown to it (which we, in parts, rendered nearly flat again). Jimmy and I were about 4 years old at the time. We had other things we liked to do, but this was one thing we did often — much to the chagrin of our parents, who thought there must be something better that we could do with our time.

It was on the workbench of this wall that we learned (and relearned) important lessons in geology — particularly, that some things are harder than other things (rocks mostly, but not entirely).

Now, before I go on to explain this, I know you’re already feeling quite impressed that we were such astute devotées of geology at such a tender age. Yes, it’s true, but it’s not quite as impressive as it may seem initially. Read on.

We had larger rocks (the crushers/grinders — these were prized possessions whose useful life spanned many sessions) and then we had a multitude (seemingly endless supply) of smaller rocks (the crushees/grindees). We were tool-users. We used the larger rocks to smash and crush the smaller rocks (usually, though sometimes our fingers, too — more lessons learned). Sure, there are textbooks full of knowledge in the form of words, numbers, charts, tables, graphs — all describing hardness scales and ranking various substances relative to each other. But where’s the thrill (risk, exhilaration) in that? Sometimes (especially to a 4-year-old), book-learning only goes so far and you just have to get your hands dirty and experience the reality first-hand. I dare say the lessons learned in this mode stayed with us longer. We learned the concept of entropy (the tendency for things to go from a state of order to a state of disorder) well before we learned the word.

We developed a preference for the whiter (almost translucent) rocks as crushees (as I think back at it, I believe these were of some quartz-like composition). There was an uncommon satisfaction that came from the sound, feeling, and appearance of these crushees as we wielded our larger rocks on them. (I wish the English language were rich enough to have onomatopoeia for the sounds we heard. The word “thud” is only the crudest approximation and “Shrempfszzz”, while considerably closer, is not actually a word.) On the first blow, typically, the crushee would break into 2 or 3 pieces, then we would isolate one of these pieces and deliver more focused blows. Eventually, the rocks would be reduced to sand with our primitive banging movements. Not content to leave them in such a state, we would then apply those same crushers (but with greater deft) in a grinding movement (not unlike how we later learned that the Native Americans would grind maize into flour), and really work that dust into finer and finer flour. When we felt like we could make no more discernible difference to the state of these rocks (or would otherwise get bored with the current batch), we would use our hands to brush the rock flour onto either side of the wall, effectively clearing a spot for the processing of the next crushee. And, it was as a result of this last act that I incurred some of the gentle wrath of my father.

You see, the rocks were not uniformly reduced to flour. Some larger bits remained (we weren’t pros at this). And, from our occasional failed attempts at crushing darker rocks (which were often much less yielding to our powerful blows), we had still larger pieces of debris that got brushed off the wall. Brushing onto Jimmy’s side of the wall caused no problems — it was just sand there anyway. Brushing to my side, though, was a different story.

We had a grass lawn that went right up to that wall. Weekly, my Dad would mow that lawn with his power mower. When the mower encountered the debris, the larger pieces were transformed into wicked projectiles, with potential to wreak havoc with the nearby windows, wood fence, plants, and (of course) Dad’s legs. I never saw first-hand the destruction caused by my habit, and I don’t know that it ever materialized, but the potential was effectively communicated to me, and I haven’t forgotten the lesson in all of these years.

Now I have my own lawn, and I have children old enough to do the mowing. There are no rock walls adjoining my property, and no rock flour (coarsely ground or otherwise) in the vicinity. But there are other things (larger rocks, bricks and pieces thereof, and sprinkler heads) which present similar hazards while mowing. The sounds of the a mower blade hitting one of these things has a profoundly strong association for me (again, where’s the onomatopoeia?). I’ve heard it plenty of times, but I still wince whenever I hear it. The immediate “wicked projectile” danger is always near the top of my thoughts when I hear this sound, but the more menacing thought (which lags by only a couple of seconds) is the prospect of having to suffer the cost in time and money to replace a sprinkler head.

We’re often motivated by carrots and sticks. Although the sticks (or stones, as the case may be) have changed somewhat, there remains great motivation to not hear that wince-inducing sound when the lawn gets mowed. Because of the imprinting experience of my childhood, I’ve probably erred too far on the side of caution, and have precluded my children’s opportunity for such profoundly educational experimentations in geology. Somehow, I think they’re compensating in other (yet to be discovered) ways.

The Wisdom of Dropping Classes Early

Back in the day when I was a freshman at college, I did not have nearly the wisdom that I have today. There are many facets to that wisdom, but one particularly timely facet is the wisdom of dropping classes early.

I was living away from home for the first time. I was 700 miles away from any friends and family. I was among the first in my circle of friends, family, and other acquaintances to be in this situation. I was proud and over-confident. I was under-discplined. I was a nearly ideal recipe for scholastic disaster.

I took 19 credit hours (units). Some of those were lab classes, which took much more time than their credit-hour count would indicate. I was treading water for a couple of weeks before I realized I was in over my head. My GPA plummeted to roughly one-third of what I was used to, and those grades were very evenly distributed across all 19 credit hours. I think every class got retaken in subsequent semesters.

There were many mistakes made, but I could have saved a few classes (and enjoyed them and done really well in them) if I had had the wisdom to drop some of the classes early. Instead, I tried to save them all and ended up losing them all. I had the mistaken impression that I had to finish my degree in 4 years. Keeping that heavy load through the end of the semester was done partly because of that mistaken impression. I didn’t finish in 4 years, and I managed to survive the experience quite well. Another mistaken impression was that dropping a class was the worst failure; clearly, I proved to myself that sticking with all my classes to a bitter end was a worse failure.

I once had a boss who would often say, “Bad news ages poorly”. In his context, he wanted to be told early if there was a problem. Applied to my schooling, this saying meant that I needed to tell myself early that the heavy load was not working. I didn’t. Bad things got worse. In somewhat of a gambler’s mentality, I also rationalized that I had put so much effort into a class that it would all be wasted if I dropped the class; that flawed rationale only reinforced itself as I got deeper into the semester.

As a parent, you always hope that your children can learn from your mistakes and not have to make such mistakes for themselves. I had that hope for this facet of wisdom, and it was fulfilled this weekend for one of my children. My daughter, after 4 days of college, realized she was in over her head. She took early and corrective action. I don’t think her choice made the semester easy — there is still a lot of effort that will be required (a good dose of which she put in this weekend) — but it did make it possible. There is no shame or failure here, only a display of wisdom — and far more of it than I had at her age. Already, this is proving to be a great college experience!