Every time I greet Layla I break out in an involuntary smile. And almost invariably, she returns the greeting with a grin just as wide. It's become a little ritual that we share, although I'm not bothered a bit that she must do the same with others. But it is something I look forward to, and it seems to lay a foundation for our time together.
It occurred to me that Jasmine and I do the same thing. I come home and she is there to greet me, jumping around anxiously like she hasn't piddled in a week. I open the door and she jumps up while I stoop down and shake her and smile like we are long-lost friends. It's an important part of the role I play in her life.
Surely it works the same with all people. When I'm greeted with a smile I feel energized, like I have been validated. I need to smile more often,. Besides being good for others, it's kind of fun. And it's cheap entertainment.
This is a universal lesson I learned from Layla. Works on almost all of God's creatures, except I think for cats.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Partisan Politics
Today I testified before Congress in our nation’s capital. It reminded me of how silly partisan politics are. The hearing was called by a Commerce subcommittee to discuss the movie editing market, and particularly the recent federal court ruling that made companies like Clean Flicks illegal. I was invited to testify regarding the parental control industry and The Family Movie Act.
There is no pending legislation that we were debating. There were not pressing issues that needed determination. And in fact, there will likely be no action at all. Rather, the whole thing smacked of election-year grandstanding, making the Republicans look strong on family values and giving them an opportunity to kick around Hollywood, represented by a poor underling from the MPAA.
Ostensibly, we were discussing whether companies like Clean Flicks should be protected by Congress. And not surprisingly, the ayes and the nays were split by party. (Not surprisingly, because that’s how things work in Washington. If D.C. were on the ocean, even the surf would break along party lines.) Now I’m not sure why Democrats would tend to favor stronger copyright fair use laws, and Republicans lean for more lax standards in this area, but that’s the way it went. And I doubt that the Democrats on the committee have lower personal standards relative to movie content than the Republicans. I suppose it has something to do with a family value platform and the general left-wing support from Hollywood, but it makes no sense to me.
So everyone had their say and after two hours what we accomplished was mostly talk and I got on a plane and went home. My tax dollars hard at work. Must be a civil service job.
There is no pending legislation that we were debating. There were not pressing issues that needed determination. And in fact, there will likely be no action at all. Rather, the whole thing smacked of election-year grandstanding, making the Republicans look strong on family values and giving them an opportunity to kick around Hollywood, represented by a poor underling from the MPAA.
Ostensibly, we were discussing whether companies like Clean Flicks should be protected by Congress. And not surprisingly, the ayes and the nays were split by party. (Not surprisingly, because that’s how things work in Washington. If D.C. were on the ocean, even the surf would break along party lines.) Now I’m not sure why Democrats would tend to favor stronger copyright fair use laws, and Republicans lean for more lax standards in this area, but that’s the way it went. And I doubt that the Democrats on the committee have lower personal standards relative to movie content than the Republicans. I suppose it has something to do with a family value platform and the general left-wing support from Hollywood, but it makes no sense to me.
So everyone had their say and after two hours what we accomplished was mostly talk and I got on a plane and went home. My tax dollars hard at work. Must be a civil service job.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
California Driving
For a society that spends most of its waking hours in a car, Californians sure aren't very good at it. Momma taught me that practice makes perfect, but maybe Left Coasters need more theory and less practical experience. This was made clear to me over the weekend where I had the opportunity to drive from Long Beach to Santa Monica, then up Topanga Canyon, east to Tuhunga and then back to Santa Monica and the Long Beach Airport. In Southern California terms, this is a reasonable commute. To me it seemed like driving a gauntlet from Tijuana to Las Vegas.
Don't expect any courtesies from LA drivers. I think they felt inferior to their counterparts in New York, and decided they needed to be nastier to compete. They may be mellow once they arrive, but on the freeway you are fighting for a lane with the offspring of Tonya Harding and Charles Manson. If these people are smoking pot after work, it must be crystal meth with a Starbucks chaser to start the day.
Maybe they all knew I was from out of town. Maybe next time I should drive a Mercedes to blend in, or better yet, get a pimped out rental car. I'll check with Hertz.
Don't expect any courtesies from LA drivers. I think they felt inferior to their counterparts in New York, and decided they needed to be nastier to compete. They may be mellow once they arrive, but on the freeway you are fighting for a lane with the offspring of Tonya Harding and Charles Manson. If these people are smoking pot after work, it must be crystal meth with a Starbucks chaser to start the day.
Maybe they all knew I was from out of town. Maybe next time I should drive a Mercedes to blend in, or better yet, get a pimped out rental car. I'll check with Hertz.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Not My Conspiracy
This weekend I was in Los Angeles for business and stayed overnight with Luke, Desi and Mairin. I really enjoy spending time with them and feel completely relaxed in their presence. We told stories, looked at photographs, acted silly at times and at others shared our thoughts on the important things in life.
As the evening wore on past midnight, Luke and I talked about what has become his favorite subjejct--conspiracy theories. If you've never been initiated in this world, your first reaction typically is that they are all wacko (the theorists and the theories!) and you can't believe anyone you actually know could be swallowed up in it. And I suppose that Luke, like his friends and cohorts, is accustomed to encountering thick walls of skepticism.
My reaction wasn't much different, and despite giving Luke virtually no encouragement, he left me with a handful of DVD's to take home. I told him I would watch them because I respect his opinion, and so I have, starting with theories that the Sept. 11th attacks were an inside job, a "false flag" covert operation conducted by our govenment to galvanize public support for the erosion of personal liberties and build resolve for future military action. Watching the DVD's has caused me to think more deeply on the possibility of such a conspiracy.
Surprisingly, the presenters make a very compelling case. In fact, they raised enough inconsistencies and unanswered questions to make me wonder whether something so unthinkable could really happen. And of course everything was presented with facts and supporting science and summed up with undeniable conclusions that indeed something very nefarious had taken place. I can see how intelligent people become converted.
But it has been my experience in life that we often choose what we will believe. And once a world view is adopted, it is only natural to filter virtually everything through those beliefs, finding support and substantiation in random and diverse snippets of information. It happens with politics. It happens with religion. And it certainly happens with conspiracy theories.
I have known a few people attracted to this field. One finds commonalities--they are typically intelligent, well-read, passionate and zealous. But almost without exception, over time they become manically focussed in their pursuit of evidence and secret information. And even if I grant some substance to the theories, I have never seen their efforts result in social or political progress. But I have watched as the obsession begins to rule their lives, leading to no good.
So I won't be joining the ranks of zealots suspicious of the government, the media and those that have the power and the resources to pull upon mighty strings that dictate world events. I won't join them because their notions are ridiculous, because really they are not. I won't join them because I can't take the ridicule--for I have made myself ridiculous enough on occasion to be able to bear the brunt of it in public. But rather, I won't become involved in the pursuit of hidden plots and machinations because it's not how I choose to live my life.
Having said all that, I fully expect that someday, somewhere, someone is going to uncover an awful government conspiracy that will save this great country. Yes, and I suppose that I will then be humbled, grateful and apologetic. But until then, how many more good people will go to their graves angry, suspicious and unfulfilled, having missed so many of the blessings that life has to offer in their single-minded quest for justification of their single-minded quest?
As the evening wore on past midnight, Luke and I talked about what has become his favorite subjejct--conspiracy theories. If you've never been initiated in this world, your first reaction typically is that they are all wacko (the theorists and the theories!) and you can't believe anyone you actually know could be swallowed up in it. And I suppose that Luke, like his friends and cohorts, is accustomed to encountering thick walls of skepticism.
My reaction wasn't much different, and despite giving Luke virtually no encouragement, he left me with a handful of DVD's to take home. I told him I would watch them because I respect his opinion, and so I have, starting with theories that the Sept. 11th attacks were an inside job, a "false flag" covert operation conducted by our govenment to galvanize public support for the erosion of personal liberties and build resolve for future military action. Watching the DVD's has caused me to think more deeply on the possibility of such a conspiracy.
Surprisingly, the presenters make a very compelling case. In fact, they raised enough inconsistencies and unanswered questions to make me wonder whether something so unthinkable could really happen. And of course everything was presented with facts and supporting science and summed up with undeniable conclusions that indeed something very nefarious had taken place. I can see how intelligent people become converted.
But it has been my experience in life that we often choose what we will believe. And once a world view is adopted, it is only natural to filter virtually everything through those beliefs, finding support and substantiation in random and diverse snippets of information. It happens with politics. It happens with religion. And it certainly happens with conspiracy theories.
I have known a few people attracted to this field. One finds commonalities--they are typically intelligent, well-read, passionate and zealous. But almost without exception, over time they become manically focussed in their pursuit of evidence and secret information. And even if I grant some substance to the theories, I have never seen their efforts result in social or political progress. But I have watched as the obsession begins to rule their lives, leading to no good.
So I won't be joining the ranks of zealots suspicious of the government, the media and those that have the power and the resources to pull upon mighty strings that dictate world events. I won't join them because their notions are ridiculous, because really they are not. I won't join them because I can't take the ridicule--for I have made myself ridiculous enough on occasion to be able to bear the brunt of it in public. But rather, I won't become involved in the pursuit of hidden plots and machinations because it's not how I choose to live my life.
Having said all that, I fully expect that someday, somewhere, someone is going to uncover an awful government conspiracy that will save this great country. Yes, and I suppose that I will then be humbled, grateful and apologetic. But until then, how many more good people will go to their graves angry, suspicious and unfulfilled, having missed so many of the blessings that life has to offer in their single-minded quest for justification of their single-minded quest?
Thursday, September 14, 2006
What Dreams May Come
Last night I dreamt that I was driving along a two-lane highway late at night. The dome light in my car was on, but my headlights weren't working. The road was very dark and I literally couldn't see a thing. I was very nervous, but not panicked, although for some strange reason I never slowed down. (Perhaps it didn't occur to me, or maybe I simply couldn't.) I marvelled that I had not hit anything, that somehow my blind steering managed to keep me on the highway. At any moment I knew I could lose the road and barrel into the woods.
I suppose this was a bad dream, but it didn't feel like the nightmares I had occasionally as a child, where I was being chased by some frightening creature and woke up with a voiceless scream. Perhaps this is how nightmares evolve to meet the fears of our middle age, when we are less troubled by things that go bump in the night, and more so by the unknown road that lies ahead.
Long before Joseph foresaw seven lean years people were looking for signs in dreams. And maybe that happens, although it seems like an unreliable courier for an important life message, since I forget most of mine minutes after awakening. I think it is more likely that our dreams are a reflection of our subconscious fears, doubts and silent aspirations. Dreams are parables, drawing on our life's experiences to symbolically illustrate points what we already know, but can't quite articulate in our waking moments. Dreams are ideas trying to emerge, but must sometimes dress in the day's experiences to get past our subconscious security. There is a kernel of truth in dreams, and sometimes an entire meal to digest.
Some years ago I decided to write down a description of my dreams as soon as I awoke. My experiment never led to anything profound, except that I remembered them longer and more vividly. My dreams moved from soon-forgotten rumblings to indelible memories, some cryptic and some meaningful enough to shed light on the darkened highways of my wakefulness.
I suppose this was a bad dream, but it didn't feel like the nightmares I had occasionally as a child, where I was being chased by some frightening creature and woke up with a voiceless scream. Perhaps this is how nightmares evolve to meet the fears of our middle age, when we are less troubled by things that go bump in the night, and more so by the unknown road that lies ahead.
Long before Joseph foresaw seven lean years people were looking for signs in dreams. And maybe that happens, although it seems like an unreliable courier for an important life message, since I forget most of mine minutes after awakening. I think it is more likely that our dreams are a reflection of our subconscious fears, doubts and silent aspirations. Dreams are parables, drawing on our life's experiences to symbolically illustrate points what we already know, but can't quite articulate in our waking moments. Dreams are ideas trying to emerge, but must sometimes dress in the day's experiences to get past our subconscious security. There is a kernel of truth in dreams, and sometimes an entire meal to digest.
Some years ago I decided to write down a description of my dreams as soon as I awoke. My experiment never led to anything profound, except that I remembered them longer and more vividly. My dreams moved from soon-forgotten rumblings to indelible memories, some cryptic and some meaningful enough to shed light on the darkened highways of my wakefulness.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Remembering 9-11
For most of my life, the tragic moment that haunted our nation was the assassination of President Kennedy. It was a truism that everyone could remember exactly where they were when they heard the news on November 22nd, 1963. I vividly recall the little four-room school I attended in rural Poplar, Wisconsin. I had just finished lunch when at the top of the stairs one of the older kids told us the president had been killed. I recall sitting for hours in front of the black & white television watching the news unfold, including graphic memories of seeing Jack Ruby shoot Lee Harvey Oswald.
Now some 40 years later this generation has its own shared tragedy, and the rest of us have a second one to calibrate our lives to. I am sure all Americans remember the precise details of where and how they learned of the Sept. 11th attacks. I was on a flight bound for Oakland when they occured. The pilots and flight attendants hadn't said a thing, and perhaps they didn't know. But arriving in the airport, I immediately noticed that things weren't normal. Large groups were gathered around the televisions. And looking at the monitors, I saw all the departing and arriving flights were cancelled.
So I asked the first person I saw what was going on. A black woman in her 50's, she looked at me and said: "Terrorists have attacked the World Trade Centers and bombed the Pentagon." She declared this matter-of-factly, without emotion, but nevertheless with a familiarity that struck me as deeply as her words. Thousands of travelers were milling around bewildered and lost, most of us far from home and strangely disoriented. Like me, many were planning to conduct business, but suddenly all bets were off. I did attend one meeting that afternoon, which was almost surreal, but then even the wheels of commerce shut down, as if by mutual affirmation.
We are now left to contemplate how our world has changed. When I was a young child we used to have air raid drills in school. When the siren went off we would kneel down under our desks and put our heads to the ground until it stopped. In retrospect it seems silly, as if somehow our desks could protect us. But the drills managed to leave a profoundly oppressive cloud of nuclear-era uneasiness looming over my generation, reminding us all the time that the world was not a safe place; that we had enemies with the means and the desire to catch us unawares.
After a while we all forgot about the danger of attacks. Even while the Cold War was in full swing we began to believe that there wasn't much likelihood of nuclear war. We found collective comfort in the intellectuallly conceived principle that Mutually Assured Destruction (MAD) was a sufficiently unpalatable deterrent. And for a while we all breathed easy. Now I realize that most of us have been guilty of taking the past few decades for granted, as we went about our ways with little thought to bad guys that might be plotting our destruction. But since the events of 9-11 the fear has returned, and every time we read the newspaper or go to the airport we are reminded that we once again live in a not-so-brave new world. This isn't likely to go away soon, and so we we must get used to the notion that while the end may not be in sight, it could be lurking in any of the dark alleys of our future.
I wish I could do better for my grandchildren, as I would like to see them laugh without care and sleep without concern. The world can be a pretty wonderful place to live. (As Robert Frost said, "I can think of no better.") I'd rather not have to worry about its darker side.
Now some 40 years later this generation has its own shared tragedy, and the rest of us have a second one to calibrate our lives to. I am sure all Americans remember the precise details of where and how they learned of the Sept. 11th attacks. I was on a flight bound for Oakland when they occured. The pilots and flight attendants hadn't said a thing, and perhaps they didn't know. But arriving in the airport, I immediately noticed that things weren't normal. Large groups were gathered around the televisions. And looking at the monitors, I saw all the departing and arriving flights were cancelled.
So I asked the first person I saw what was going on. A black woman in her 50's, she looked at me and said: "Terrorists have attacked the World Trade Centers and bombed the Pentagon." She declared this matter-of-factly, without emotion, but nevertheless with a familiarity that struck me as deeply as her words. Thousands of travelers were milling around bewildered and lost, most of us far from home and strangely disoriented. Like me, many were planning to conduct business, but suddenly all bets were off. I did attend one meeting that afternoon, which was almost surreal, but then even the wheels of commerce shut down, as if by mutual affirmation.
We are now left to contemplate how our world has changed. When I was a young child we used to have air raid drills in school. When the siren went off we would kneel down under our desks and put our heads to the ground until it stopped. In retrospect it seems silly, as if somehow our desks could protect us. But the drills managed to leave a profoundly oppressive cloud of nuclear-era uneasiness looming over my generation, reminding us all the time that the world was not a safe place; that we had enemies with the means and the desire to catch us unawares.
After a while we all forgot about the danger of attacks. Even while the Cold War was in full swing we began to believe that there wasn't much likelihood of nuclear war. We found collective comfort in the intellectuallly conceived principle that Mutually Assured Destruction (MAD) was a sufficiently unpalatable deterrent. And for a while we all breathed easy. Now I realize that most of us have been guilty of taking the past few decades for granted, as we went about our ways with little thought to bad guys that might be plotting our destruction. But since the events of 9-11 the fear has returned, and every time we read the newspaper or go to the airport we are reminded that we once again live in a not-so-brave new world. This isn't likely to go away soon, and so we we must get used to the notion that while the end may not be in sight, it could be lurking in any of the dark alleys of our future.
I wish I could do better for my grandchildren, as I would like to see them laugh without care and sleep without concern. The world can be a pretty wonderful place to live. (As Robert Frost said, "I can think of no better.") I'd rather not have to worry about its darker side.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Football Saturdays
College football attracts fans of all ages, sizes and varieties. Of course there are plenty of students, most arriving with wild exuberance, some having painted their faces and many half in the can by game time (not at BYU, of course). And there are alumni with their friends or their spouses, or their children and grandchildren, all dressed in school colors and having established their own rituals for the Saturday games. There are fans that know the game extremely well, and others that go only occasionally, when someone offers them a ticket.
It's a fascinating environment, with instant cameraderie and a shared sense of purpose. When your team wins there is such a positive vibe rifting through the stadium that even the disinterested observer feels euphoric. And when they lose, we commiserate. But always there is a sense that there will be another game to play, even if we must wait until next year.
Angelica and I bought season tickets to BYU this year and I think I'm going to like it. Well, I hate the drive and the traffic, but really like being at the games. Today the Cougars destroyed Tulsa 49-24 and a good time was had by all. I met an older gentleman whose family has season tickets next to ours and by the 3rd quarter we were high-fiving good plays and kibitzing like old friends.
This was quite a contrast with Friday night when Sam and I went to the Bees game. It was the play-offs, but the stands were only about a third full. And while we all root for the home team, the players change so frequently that it's hard to have much emotion over it. Basically, it's just fun to be out on a fine summer night and enjoy the relaxed pace of a minor-league baseball game.
I think I could grow old being a college football fan. But I'll need to get a blue shirt.
It's a fascinating environment, with instant cameraderie and a shared sense of purpose. When your team wins there is such a positive vibe rifting through the stadium that even the disinterested observer feels euphoric. And when they lose, we commiserate. But always there is a sense that there will be another game to play, even if we must wait until next year.
Angelica and I bought season tickets to BYU this year and I think I'm going to like it. Well, I hate the drive and the traffic, but really like being at the games. Today the Cougars destroyed Tulsa 49-24 and a good time was had by all. I met an older gentleman whose family has season tickets next to ours and by the 3rd quarter we were high-fiving good plays and kibitzing like old friends.
This was quite a contrast with Friday night when Sam and I went to the Bees game. It was the play-offs, but the stands were only about a third full. And while we all root for the home team, the players change so frequently that it's hard to have much emotion over it. Basically, it's just fun to be out on a fine summer night and enjoy the relaxed pace of a minor-league baseball game.
I think I could grow old being a college football fan. But I'll need to get a blue shirt.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Water
One of the beautiful aspects of movies is the extraordinary variety available to the adventurous viewer. I enjoy a great action flick as much as anyone, but it's the lesser-known films that generally have a greater impact on my world view. And while I often approach these with some trepidation, more often than not I discover a work that was well worth my time.
Water is just such a movie. The third in a trilogy written and directed by Deepa Mehta, Water is a moving story about an outcast settlement of Indian widows in the late 1930's, as British colonialism was waning and Gandhi's influence on the rise. Oppressed by traditional Hindu beliefs which leave only doleful and heartbreaking options for widows, Mehta's story unfolds through the fate of three women. At the center is Chuyia (Sarala), a young girl who was married to an older man that she does not remember. Her father painfully leaves her at the widow's temple, driven by law, culture and religion. There she befriends Kalyani (Lisa Ray), a beautiful, spiritual young woman, also married as a young child, and now forced to prostitution to financially support the temple; and Shakantula Didi, a bitter and strong-willed woman who struggles with the conflicts of her faith and her conscience.
Mehta has so much to say--about history, Gandhi, religion, culture, woman and widows, in particular. (For many widows in India things have change surprisingly little, which prompts the speculation about widows everywhere, including those closer to home.) She makes her points emotively, through a deliberately-paced and visually beautiful movie, powerful characters and remarkable performances by a talented cast. Shot on location in India (it's in Hindi with subtitles), the movie faced violent opposition from Hindu traditionalists. Fortunately for all of us, Mehta persevered. Water is a tragic story filled with compassion, humor and hope, and one that I will never forget.
Water is just such a movie. The third in a trilogy written and directed by Deepa Mehta, Water is a moving story about an outcast settlement of Indian widows in the late 1930's, as British colonialism was waning and Gandhi's influence on the rise. Oppressed by traditional Hindu beliefs which leave only doleful and heartbreaking options for widows, Mehta's story unfolds through the fate of three women. At the center is Chuyia (Sarala), a young girl who was married to an older man that she does not remember. Her father painfully leaves her at the widow's temple, driven by law, culture and religion. There she befriends Kalyani (Lisa Ray), a beautiful, spiritual young woman, also married as a young child, and now forced to prostitution to financially support the temple; and Shakantula Didi, a bitter and strong-willed woman who struggles with the conflicts of her faith and her conscience.
Mehta has so much to say--about history, Gandhi, religion, culture, woman and widows, in particular. (For many widows in India things have change surprisingly little, which prompts the speculation about widows everywhere, including those closer to home.) She makes her points emotively, through a deliberately-paced and visually beautiful movie, powerful characters and remarkable performances by a talented cast. Shot on location in India (it's in Hindi with subtitles), the movie faced violent opposition from Hindu traditionalists. Fortunately for all of us, Mehta persevered. Water is a tragic story filled with compassion, humor and hope, and one that I will never forget.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Of Manly Deeds
It was Labor Day yesterday, and Rebecca and I took advantage of the opportunity to hike up Mt. Olympus. We have done it before, and the last time I recall thinking we should have gotten an earlier start. Yesterday I was wishing the same thing, as the mid-morning sun began creeping over the ridge and stealing the precious west-side shade. It is a beautiful climb with a nice pay-off at the end, and perhaps better in the spring when the river is flowing.
But Olympus is also a grueling and relentless hike, climbing nearly 5000 vertical feet in about three miles. After a series of steady switchbacks on the bottom third, the trail heads straight up. A lot of people give up and turn back, sometimes at the river. Some stop at the saddle, which is a nice place to picnic. But the real crown is to clambor up the rocks to the summit, where on a clear day you can see Idaho and Wyoming to the north, and Utah Lake to the south.
Just as I was taking in the panoramic views and exulting in having endured to the end I saw a family beginning their descent, with a three-year-old boy and a seven-year-old girl each making the hike. Uh ... so much for being a manly man.
I have learned through my years on this earth that whenever you let your ego soar it is only a matter of time before it crash lands.
But Olympus is also a grueling and relentless hike, climbing nearly 5000 vertical feet in about three miles. After a series of steady switchbacks on the bottom third, the trail heads straight up. A lot of people give up and turn back, sometimes at the river. Some stop at the saddle, which is a nice place to picnic. But the real crown is to clambor up the rocks to the summit, where on a clear day you can see Idaho and Wyoming to the north, and Utah Lake to the south.
Just as I was taking in the panoramic views and exulting in having endured to the end I saw a family beginning their descent, with a three-year-old boy and a seven-year-old girl each making the hike. Uh ... so much for being a manly man.
I have learned through my years on this earth that whenever you let your ego soar it is only a matter of time before it crash lands.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Moral Dilemmas
I suppose that everyone wonders about everyday things, and I'm no exception. But sometimes my ponderings breach the moral realm, and I find myself troubled by questions that I cannot satisfactorily answer. Yet these are questions I find myself asking virtually every day of my life. A few examples:
Is it better for the environment to discard a tissue in the toilet or a waste basket? That is, should I have a water treatment facility address the issue, or a public landfill?
While on the subject of the environment, is it really better to recyle? Has anyone factored in waste and transportation and sorting facilities and the cost of remanufacturing? I must admit to an aversion to throwing away cans, bottles or paper, but when I recycle, I do wonder if we all haven't been duped by a feel-good environmental campaign.
And for that matter, at the grocery store: Paper or plastic? Should I further plunder the world's limited supply of petroleum to save a tree, or vice versa?
But my agonizing isn't limited to environmental issues. Some questions are clearly more profound. I wonder, is it moral to read Sports Illustrated when there are so many better things I could be doing with my time? To watch movies? To read the newspaper?
And I wonder, is it right that I should live in such relative comfort, when so much of the world's population is starving? Should I sell all I have and give to the poor? Should I be a voluntary peasant?
It goes on and on. Every day. Countless decisions. And I can't seem to dismiss the moral implications of these everyday actions.
So many things for me to wonder.
Is it better for the environment to discard a tissue in the toilet or a waste basket? That is, should I have a water treatment facility address the issue, or a public landfill?
While on the subject of the environment, is it really better to recyle? Has anyone factored in waste and transportation and sorting facilities and the cost of remanufacturing? I must admit to an aversion to throwing away cans, bottles or paper, but when I recycle, I do wonder if we all haven't been duped by a feel-good environmental campaign.
And for that matter, at the grocery store: Paper or plastic? Should I further plunder the world's limited supply of petroleum to save a tree, or vice versa?
But my agonizing isn't limited to environmental issues. Some questions are clearly more profound. I wonder, is it moral to read Sports Illustrated when there are so many better things I could be doing with my time? To watch movies? To read the newspaper?
And I wonder, is it right that I should live in such relative comfort, when so much of the world's population is starving? Should I sell all I have and give to the poor? Should I be a voluntary peasant?
It goes on and on. Every day. Countless decisions. And I can't seem to dismiss the moral implications of these everyday actions.
So many things for me to wonder.
Herding Sheep
September 2, 2006
We stayed in Midway Friday night with Merritt and Stacie, and Saturday we went to the sheep dog competition at Soldier's Hollow. This event attracts top sheep dogs (and their human trainers and traveling companions) from all over the world. Each dog--all border collies--is given about 15 minutes to move a small herd of five sheep through a series of gates and obstacles, and ultimately into a pen. The dog is directed by a trainer, who must remain near a post and communicates by calls and whistles. The dog must not bark or touch the sheep, and so motivates the herd through primal instinct, intimidation and emotional IQ. It's an unusual competition, and I'm glad that I went, although I doubt I shall ever see another.
One image lingers: One dog could not get the sheep to even begin. The trainer blew and blew on his whistle and called and called but neither the dog nor the sheep seemed interested in participating in the planned events. I will always remember the trainer, standing gamely at his post near the spectators, feeling I suppose like I do in a dream when I realize I have worn only my underwear to school.
We stayed in Midway Friday night with Merritt and Stacie, and Saturday we went to the sheep dog competition at Soldier's Hollow. This event attracts top sheep dogs (and their human trainers and traveling companions) from all over the world. Each dog--all border collies--is given about 15 minutes to move a small herd of five sheep through a series of gates and obstacles, and ultimately into a pen. The dog is directed by a trainer, who must remain near a post and communicates by calls and whistles. The dog must not bark or touch the sheep, and so motivates the herd through primal instinct, intimidation and emotional IQ. It's an unusual competition, and I'm glad that I went, although I doubt I shall ever see another.
One image lingers: One dog could not get the sheep to even begin. The trainer blew and blew on his whistle and called and called but neither the dog nor the sheep seemed interested in participating in the planned events. I will always remember the trainer, standing gamely at his post near the spectators, feeling I suppose like I do in a dream when I realize I have worn only my underwear to school.
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