Headstorm

April 27, 2015

Greetings from the wakeful,

I woke way too early this morning with one of those headstorms that plague me from time to time.  For a while I straddled the grey band that separates sleep from waking, mentally idling in the hope that sleep would strengthen its influence.

There are two trains of thought when it comes to this experience.  1. Get up and make a list, or read.  Or in some ways engage your brain so that you can clear the storm. Or do something boring that will relax the mind.  2. Don’t get up.  If you do, you’re awake, the storm rages and going back to sleep is more challenging.  I’ve found that these two techniques work half of the time, but I am never sure if I have chosen the right method at the right time.  You do the math.

Like other storms, I can usually predict when one is coming.  I went to bed with clouds forming in my subconscious, big cumulonimbus bullies, bumping bellies on the horizon where dreams usually take shape. 

I went to sleep as fast as I could.  Hurried into slumber, as if I could manage that effort, thinking I could outpace the grumbling clouds.  But eventually the clock stared me awake.  ‘Hey, did you hear that?’ it said. ‘Sounds like a storm.’

I scowled at my clock, that traitor, trying to make sense of the numbers; they were a math problem without solution.  Once I was awake the clock had nothing to offer, its job was done. The wind picked up in my head, swirling things around, a post-it-notes tempest.

Lists, lists of lists, things undone, ideas, random worries, questions.  I tried batting some aside, dealing with a few easy ones, and then clenched my eyes closed and willed sleep to come settle the storm.  According to very recent research, this is a method that has been proven to be futile 100% of the time. 

The clouds rumbled in, glowing with lightning inside, little flashes of fear meant to tell me that the sump pump is not running, or I forgot to unplug the iron.  Growling thunder, sinister and threatening, reminding me that it’s been too long since my last physical, and I needed new tires for the car.  I don’t want to get a flat on the way to the doctor’s office.

And the clouds breathed in, a deep dramatic inhale, and held it for a three count, and then let go.  And then the rain came.  Big wet drops, one after another, splashing in ever growing pools in my conscious, until I could not ignore the wetness.  And then it came in sheets of water, torrents of memories and wishes and wants, and must do’s and didn’t do’s.

The rain filled every crevice, overflowing the banks of my sleepy brain, and soon flooded my skull; roiling rivers of random recollections.

I stretched out in bed and waited for the headstorm to pass. Staring at the ceiling, listening to the waves crashing at the levies in my head.  Big plans, little problems, forgotten checklists, imagined slights, good intentions, dry cleaning, IRS letters, sore hamstring, pet ethics.  The rain pelted the floodwaters until it sounded like applause from an adoring crowd.

Not all headstorms are bad.  Often the downpour in my mind rinses away the dust and detritus that accumulates and I am able to think more clearly.  Often, in the middle of the night, my conscious mind swept clear of distractions, I am able to summon ideas of world changing significance, staggering flashes of genius, Nobel Laureate caliber cogitation. 

I woke once wondering why country music legend Loretta Lynn was nominated for US Attorney General.  Not all genius survives the storm.

I went to bed thinking that I would write about Fidel Castro this morning.  I chased him around my head for a while during the night and realized he was not ready to be written about.  He sat moping in the rain, wishing he had shaved the beard. 

At one point, laying in darkness meant to make it much easier to sleep, I thought: coffee would taste good right about now.  And that was the best decision of the day.   I swung my feet over into my morning and in minutes I could feel the storm passing.

I sat at my desk, my little circle of light, in my favorite company, and slowly pushed back the waves, divided the flood like Moses moving toward the Promised Land.  I finished my coffee and put my feet on my desk and tried to recreate any of the things that had gullywashed into my conscious a few hours before.  Almost everything had evaporated, misted off to where they belonged. 

Of course, my mind is a closed environment.  The moisture may rise and accumulate and clouds may form again, and roll into my sleep to bring new precipitation on another night.  I know that the storm will come, sometimes aggravating and frightful, other time cleansing and refreshing.  In the light of morning, dew shining on the grass, a new perspective dawns.  All things pass.  Even sleep.

Hope this finds you with a bumbershoot,

David

Boston Heroes

April 20, 2015

Greetings from where I normally write,

This hat, one of my favorites, is so light I can hardly feel it.  It absorbs sweat, keeps the sun and rain out of my eyes.  I don’t normally wear it unless I am running.

A few days ago I was in the Atlanta airport and among the teeming masses I saw a flash of color I recognized and it made me smile.  Still smiling.  It was a distinctive jacket, a little brighter than the ordinary traveler might wear, with three distinctive stripes on the sleeves.  I have one just like in my closet.

I was already aware that the Boston Marathon was coming up, but shoving through the airport, my mind on other things, I didn’t expect to see the unicorn on the back of a Boston jacket, a reminder of the event.  It made me stop what I was doing.

On this day, as George Sheehan once said, “…the heroes are out..”

There are thousands of races run every year, all over the country.  Fun runs, hundred- milers, and countless marathons.  In each of these someone is pushing themselves to be more than they were, to plumb the depths of their own will, to see glimpse what else is possible.  The Boston, like all of those other races, is a stage for heroism.

Right now as I write this, over thirty thousand runners are making their way to Hopkinton.  They are nervous, filled with energy, some laughing with friends, some focused inward.  All are filled with a ferocious anticipation.  In a few hours they will see if how they have prepared themselves matches what is asked of them.

In each of our days there are all manner of challenges.  We face them armed with experience, optimism, humor, prayer, whatever resources we have.  When it seems the circumstances demand more than what we have, we dig deeper, search for what is possible.  Often in that process we look for inspiration from others who have overcome challenges; our heroes.  Some days are harder than others to find them. 

I just put on my Boston jacket.  I don’t normally wear it. Actually, I don’t know when I last had it on but this morning I’m wearing it.  And smiling.

Yesterday I heard an interview with a woman who was running her first Boston.  She was given a bib, a spot in the race, by the BAA to acknowledge that she had been injured in the bombing two years ago.  She was not a runner, she was a spectator.  She never dreamed she would run a marathon, let alone the Boston.

And then the bomb exploded and thrust her into a different trajectory. She recovered from her injuries, and slowly, painfully, she began the journey to Hopkinton.  She is on her way there this morning, and in few hours she will line up behind the blue and gold line and take the first steps toward Boston.  Her name is Michelle. She said:

“And for me, I kind of wanted to do something I never would've done before being injured. And I - this is something I definitely never would've done. So I think symbolically for me it's important. I went through over a half dozen surgeries. And when I think about that and then look down at my legs running, it's powerful. And it's - I'm not the best runner, I'm not the strongest runner, but I just want to cross that finish line. Because also I'm an American, and I'll be damned if I'm going to be knocked down and not get back up.”

By the time most of you read this, Michelle and thirty thousand others will be running east toward Boylston Ave in downtown Boston.  There is another blue and gold line there, one that has always symbolized what is possible. For those that run across it, it is victory over pain, over struggle, over the urge to give up, to accept less than what is possible.  Now, more than ever, it is a place of courage.  It is a place of heroism.

“I have found my hero and he is me.”  George Sheehan.

I don’t normally run on Mondays, but this morning will be different.  I’ll write a few words less, and take the time instead to join my fellow runners, in spirit at least.  I will slip out of what is normal and routine and for just a few moments breathe in the same air as my heroes.

Hope this finds you not doing the normal,

David

Copyright © 2015 David Smith

Driverless Cars

April 13, 2015

Greetings from Ten and Two,

Not many years ago elevators were operated by a person.  A smartly dressed man or woman would open the door, allow you to step in the car, and then ask you ‘Floor please?’  You would state your destination and they would operate a handle, as they had been trained, and guide the metal box upward to the floor you wished.  As you got off the Operator would tell you to have a nice day.  Aww,.. quaint.

Of course, in the interest of time and efficiency, these positions have been eliminated, and now elevators zoom up and down their shafts managed by some algorithm no one can fathom, including whoever programmed the computers who manage the process now.  Waiting for an elevator, repeatedly pushing the ‘Up’ button, watching the floor numbers above the door light up in some comical random order, one might be tempted to think a practical joke is being played.  Aww, …progress.

When I first heard that there were autonomous cars being developed, I was reminded that the first generation of homeless people were all elevator operators.  Then we added whoever used to write the really good greeting cards, who have also been replaced by computers, which is how we ended up with ‘Blank Inside’ cards. 

Fifty miles from here, millions of dollars are being spent experimenting with cars that drive themselves.  The question that first popped into my head: Why?  I didn’t say that out loud because I was afraid someone would tell me, “So we can text and drive, stupid!” and I would lose all hope for humanity. 

It occurred to me that maybe the idea was to replace all the taxi drivers with computers, so that homeless elevator operators and greeting card writers would have someone new to talk to.  But that process has already begun with ‘Lyft’ and ‘Uber’, and the new upstart ‘Kidnap’.  So what is the purpose of cars that drive themselves? 

The answer, at least the one that appears most often in computer-generated PR releases, is to create cars that drive better than humans do, so that there are fewer accidents and traffic snarls.  The hope is that engineers will develop the cameras and sensing equipment, the mechanics to steer, accelerate, and brake, and the software to manage them, and then interact with every other car on the road, not to mention the errant squirrel, homeless librarians begging at busy intersections, and shovel-leaning road repair workers, who in fact are former grocery cashiers who were replaced by self-checkout kiosks.  Hence the surly countenance.

  

In spite of the hilarious previous paragraph, I believe the technology will evolve and we will one day have driverless cars.  The next question should be ‘Just because we can, should we?’

By the way, I am not some Luddite who sits in candlelight trimming my toenails with garden tools because I don’t want machines to rule the world.  But, I have reservations.  (Not ‘reservations’ like you make with your Expedia app, which replaced the travel agents who currently are greeting people at Walmart.)

The technology is already helping us.  I have been in cars with sensing equipment built in to aid the driver’s monitoring the traffic around him.  From what I can see, this is a positive development.  It is a place where what we create is enhancing our life.  But, in spite of the safety motive, every step toward replacing the human in the process has a cost. And I don’t mean jobs.

Recently I read that some software programmers have included Road Rage in the computer’s repertoire of audio responses while driving.  ‘Where were you when they were handing out driver’s licenses?’ the  monotone comgen voice snaps when another motorist cuts in front of the Google driverless car.  This made me laugh, but it also made me a little nauseous to think that a computer was also going to assume my responsibilities for an emotion.

The concept of the autonomous car is a noble one, probably.  The fact that most accidents are caused by human error seems compelling enough, that evidently we can’t be trusted with our own safety.  So perhaps computers can protect us from ourselves.  Maybe we can be saved by technology from our own aggression, bad choices, short attention span, and distracted responses in dangerous situations.  Maybe an autonomous car will prevent us from wandering around Walmart parking lot trying to remember where we parked.  Wow, how is it we ever got driver’s licenses to begin with?

There was a day when I first learned to ride my bicycle with ‘no hands’.  Teetering on two wheels, pedaling along at a wobbly five miles an hour, my hands outstretched, nervous at first, then more confident as the forward motion stabilized my steering.  Nudging the bike with subtle adjustments from my legs and torso.  Over time my balance improved, my confidence grew and I became expert at riding with no hands.  There was a time when I have ridden twenty miles or more like this, gliding along, arms relaxed, sitting comfortably, watching the landscape roll by.

And when I needed to I leaned over and grabbed the handlebars and turned or stopped.

The process was exhilarating, although slightly risky.  But I learned how to balance, how to adjust, how to respond.  In that process developed an instinct, a sense, that is still with me. It’s possible that science could develop the software and engineer the hardware to replace me riding a bike, save me from the risk and difficulty, but should I let it?

Apples and oranges, you might say. (Or Apples and Androids) Ok, I am not spending a lot of valuable hand-wringing time on this.  I expect that if there is a demand for driverless cars, they will be built.  By then we will probably all be telecommuting from our iPad at home, so the highways will be lined with empty cars zooming along at the optimum safe speed. 

The word ‘progress’ implies that an innovation supplies an improved outcome.  Autonomous cars might be progress, sort of like the autonomous elevator.  I mean, now that we have all this free time on the elevator we can chat with our fellow travelers and develop friendships and exchange ideas. 

Or we can just stand with our hands clasped in front of us and watch the numbers change on the digital readout over the door and try to remember where we parked the car.  Aww, …progress.

Hope this finds you with your eyes on the road,

David

Copyright © 2015 David Smith

Eclipse

April 6, 2015

Greetings from beneath the umbral,

When I set off on the first few steps I was grumbling a little about the frost on the ground, wondering where spring slipped away to.  Like countless other mornings, I knew the run would transform me with whatever was waiting in the morning, and all I had to be was patient.  I had no plan about where I was going to run, just let the road wander in front of me.  Within a few minutes I was warm enough to have forgotten the chill, and was carried off.

I looked down where my feet flashed in and out of view near the shoulder and watched the familiar companion stretch out in front of me.  The white line.  I tracked my steps along the inside edge, the margin of the road, and began the chase.

I looked up, no longer thinking about where I was going, my legs cruising now, following the white line’s direction.  Off in the west the full moon was bold in the inky canvas.  It had cleared the sky around it, not willing to share the space while it prepared for a dramatic presentation. 

The white line broke at the corner, and I saw it carry on to the left, urging me to come after it.  “Here, over here, follow me, this way..”  I leaned at the corner and turned into the darker lane, cloaked with trees, and the sky disappeared for a while.  I watched the line, barely visible in the dimness, speeding ahead of me, teasing me to catch up. 

I ran after it and caught the end of it at the next corner and saw it was already headed west again, an unrelenting training partner.  I paused for a moment and then set off after it.  Arms and legs working, weaving a few inches off the white line, running harder now to catch it as it unrolled ahead of me.

I turned into the open space and looked up and saw what the moon had been preparing.  On the left edge of the lunar disk a shadow formed.  I watched for a moment, smiling up at the work of art.

Running along, I glanced down again at the road and for a fraction I had this image that I was propelling the planet’s rotation.  As if with each step, my legs were pushing the globe toward sunrise.  The white line laughed.  The moon vanished again behind the trees, and I was left with my lineal challenger, romping in front of me up an incline, no sign of fatigue as it crested the hill and disappeared.  I struggled after it. 

The moon moved back into view, more demanding now, shimmering for attention.  The shadow was more distinct, a fourth of the circle clipped off in darkness.  This planet, this marble that I spun with each step along the white line, whirled into its place in the choreography.  Behind me, still out of sight, the sun contributed its part, and the drama unfolded. 

I glanced down for a moment, tight-roping along the white line, now casting just the faintest shadow of my own.  Tapping on the pavement, the only other noise in the morning beyond the few birds that were up to cheer on the moon.  The line unspooled in front of me, calling back, relentless and insistent;  Follow me.  This way.  Over this hill.  Turn right here.

And brought me to this perfect place.  For a heartbeat I was in orbit.  I was inches from the surface of the planet, gliding just above the white line, held in place between the earth and moon, for a fraction of a second my shadow eclipsing this small space I occupy over the earth.

When I look up at the night sky and see the array there, I often think of it as an adornment, hung there for me to admire, to inspire awe. Beautiful, intricate and mysterious.  It is easy for me, running gravity bound, looking for inspiration in a morning adventure, to forget what I am really seeing.

I stopped for a moment, both feet on the ground, and straddled the white line, looking up at the moon disappearing behind the earth’s shadow.  I read once that the moon is traveling at 2400 miles per hour around the earth, and we are flying at 67,000 miles per hour around the sun.  That seemed impossible, as I watched the shadow inch its way, slowly devouring the silvery white. 

I could see what was happening, sense the reality of the light and shadow, now fully aware of the players in the drama.  I felt my skin shiver with the revelation.  The eclipse allows you to understand the relationship between the planets around you and that gives you this tiny glimpse into the rest of the solar system.  And the galaxy.  And the universe. 

I stood there feeling my heart pounding, feeling the muscles in my body trembling from the effort, aware of my own breath in my ears.  The stripe at my feet mocked me to move and I answered.  I ran up the rise to my street and turned off, waved goodbye to the white line, and headed for home.  The moon slowly dipped into the rose horizon, scalloped in half by the grey shadow. 

The moon will move into some other place in the sky, show a fragment of its shape for a while until the next confluence brings back the drama.  But tomorrow the line will still be there, persistent, knowing I’ll respond, ready for it to lead me to some other adventure. 

 Hope this finds you going after it,

David

Copyright © 2015 David Smith