Saturday in the Countryside

I'm a country boy who is now perfectly at home in the city, but one drawback of the city is that it encourages you to dwell mostly in your head. By the end of last week, I was checking my 401K balances twice a day, and was fuming about lies being spoken by political candidates. Then I suddenly awoke and realized that I had been deluded into believing that the stock market was a real thing rather than a useful fiction created by greedy people, that politics is meaningful, and I knew it was time to hit the country.

Minnesota is a fabulous place, because you are never more than a few minutes from genuine, unspoiled countryside. State Parks, National Forests and Parks, State Wildlife preserves abound in these parts —there are more than 200 in Minnesota. I live in the heart of Minneapolis, but six miles from my house is Fort Snelling State Park, where there are 20 miles of trails meandering along the Minnesota River Valley flood plain. Even in the middle of the city, you can sometimes see whitetail deer, coyotes, fox, and wild turkey.

This weekend, it was William O'Brien State Park that was my destination. O'Brien is located about 30 miles northwest of Minneapolis, on the river bluffs of the St. Croix river that forms the border of Minnesota and Wisconsin. This part of Minnesota is unique, in that it is one of the few areas of the Midwest that were not scoured by glaciers during the last ice age. As a result, it is filled with limestone bluffs of prehistoric vintage. Driving through this part of Minnesota, you are reminded of the segments of France where neanderthals created the famous cave paintings—that's how old the landscape is.

It's a little-known secret that appreciating natural landscapes is best done on cloudy, even rainy days. While sunny autumn days have more brilliant colors, the muted pallet of a rainy autumn day is artistic in a way that defies description. You see more on a misty day, where subtlety reigns.

It has been a late fall here in Minnesota, and as a result the autumn colors, even at this late date, are a mixture of many shades of green along with the yellows and reds and oranges of traditional fall. The forests here are a mixture of conifers and hardwoods, but the predominant species are birch, oak, maple and ash, which means that reds, yellows and oranges are the predominant colors. The most vibrant color now, though, comes from the grape ivy creeping up the sides of trees, and the sumac that fills the transition zones between the hardwood forests and the open prairies that cover the tops of the hills.

The woods were pretty much deserted; campgrounds were empty, and I passed only two other hikers all day long. It was ideal, because solitude is what most restores my spirit. It not really much of a hike, at least the way I would have defined it 10 or 20 years ago, because the tails are wide and smooth and well groomed, and not all that demanding. Still, when I tallied up the distances between checkpoints on the map at the end of the day, I found that I had put in a good 6 miles of strong up and down walking, punctuated by lengthy stretches spend sitting and meditating.

That night, soothing pleasantly tired legs in front of the fireplace as I ate homemade chili, I realized that the day's prescription had pretty much cured my current ailment.

For the moment, anyway, I didn't give a damn about the stock market, or about mayoral politics.

So Happy Together...

Around Christmas time, it's common for our now grown kids to hover around the house in the evenings. I'm one of those fellows who retires for the evening very early, and it's common for me to head for the bedroom when my son, his girlfriend, their dog, my college-aged daughter and one or two of her friends, and my wife to all be watching a video movie together in the family room while I head off for bed.

I do this with some deliberateness, as there is nothing so happy-making for me as the sensation of laying quietly in bed and listening to the happy chatter of this family of mine off in a nearby room. It gives me the sensation of having created something of value that now nurtures me. And it provides with a sense of connectedness that is not all that common for me.

I am by nature a pretty introverted person, a quality that probably arose in me originally out of a need to protect myself from people who could be angry and cruel. It's rather ingrained in me, and to this day I never feel quite so free as when I'm entirely alone and don't have to worry about other people needing me or being critical in some way. 

But that protective measure, though it may prevent some measure of unhappiness, also compromises my happiness, because it's quite clear that being connected to other people is crucial to the human experience of happiness. Though I often very much want to be alone, I would be quite miserable if I ever truly got my wish. 

But what a delightful thing to lay in bed with a satisfied fatigue, knowing that the shelter I've provided offers a place for my family to enjoy themselves and their friends together. The happiness I know as I fall asleep is the happiness of connectedness. 

Hard to be a Saint in the City

The world of serious vice in downtown Minneapolis contains itself, with great self-discipline, to five blocks of Hennepin Avenue from about Second street on the north side, to Seventh on the south.  During the working day, this little neighborhood neatly represents a niche between much different worlds.

A block to the west are most of the night-time music clubs, which draw in hundreds of young adults from the suburbs, looking to escape their ticky-tack world for something real. (One of our suburbs is actually called "Eden Prairie;" no wonder they're eager to eat from the tree of knowledge.)  These well-to-do child tourists might drink at the clubs, but for more serious criminal activity late at night, they'll move a over to Hennepin, if they dare.

A single block to the east from Hennepin is the ever so genteel Nicollet mall, which overwhelmingly caters to the busy folks wearing suits and business skirts. It is the world of Macy's and Nieman Marcus. The folks who shop here will do almost anything to avoid Hennepin, just steps away. Some business men, though, do slink over here later at night.

Hennepin, though, belongs to the fringe citizens of downtown, not the business and department store crowds. Though fairly civilized in the daytime, it's here that most of the gritty downtown action occurs later on at night. It's for this reason that the downtown police precinct office is located just a block away, because if there is a shooting or a major drug deal or a hooker related stabbing, it will most likely be near Hennepin sometime after 2:00 am.

It also is the major thoroughfare for the metro bus lines during the day.On days when I work late and catch a southbound bus at 6:00 or later, Hennepin Avenue in downtown Minneapolis is well along its transformation from a center for commerce to a center for the vices. You are starting to get a hint at what the avenue will look like later in the evening.

The indigenous Hennepin folks do wander about the rest of downtown during the workday, but you think of them differently when you pass them while walking at lunch. Then, you might see an occasional homeless person. Or, a fetchingly attractive young woman in jeans and carefully done hair, who you might guess is an exotic dancer. Not often, but occasionally, you might see a "lady of the evening" making her daylight errands. Unlike the exotic dancers, many of whom look like slightly needy college girls who stayed up too late the night before, the hard-core working girls wear their high heels and lots of makeup and a much harder facial expression all day long, even when running errands to Target. You will also see down-on-their-luck people, crack heads and schizophrenics pan-handling with cardboard signs printed with misspelled pleas for help in sharpie markers stolen from Target. One fellow is at least honest: "Need money for a beer," his sign says.

At six o'clock the tide begins to turn, though, as the workers head for home in the outer neighborhoods or the suburbs, and the street folks head back for Hennepin proper to reclaim their positions. By 7:00, the downtown bars have propped their doors open and the sidewalk smoking lounges are beginning to fill. The strip clubs are beginning to blare music, and sidewalk hawkers are beginning to loosen up and talk to the beat cops beginning to stroll. A few folks are beginning to enter the bars after work.

Though gritty, it is not a particularly dangerous world—at least not yet. In fact, this world has its own strange charm, for the neon signs remind you of old time Las Vegas or Atlantic City, and the tone is pretty much one of tolerance for all human frailties. Custodians sometimes hose off the streets before the night crowds assembled, and the wet concrete reflects the neon light in expressionistic murals. The late office workers at the bus stops mingle easily with drug pushers and hookers, because we all recognize one one another and no one is afraid. In the early evening, the streets still belong to both worlds, and I rather imagine the street people are quite happy to be seen as they truly are: hookers and pushers and strippers and cripples and hustlers and drunks.

At the bus stop one night, a hooker sauntered up to a beat cop leaning up against brick wall of Augie's nightclub . "Hey, Bobby," she said to the cop, clearly an long-time acquaintance. "Are the Republicans back in town, or what?" she said. "Look at all the fuckin' bankers still downtown at 7:00 on a Monday night."

She was talking about the rest of us, waiting for the bus to take us out of downtown. To the downtowners, we're all "bankers."

Einstein and Other Cool Geezers

—this essay offered by Mercurious, with no warranties that it represents views of the other Geezers, either here or anywhere —

Most rational and reasonable people today would agree that the universe operates on laws and principles of logical cause and effect. This means that whatever the current state of a phenomenon happens to be in this moment, it can only be the natural result of events that came before it, and will in turn be a natural cause of an outcome yet to come. Whatever the current situation is, it came about because of the interaction of various phenomena that came before. We generally agree that we don't live in a magical universe, but one that ultimately makes sense if we only knew enough. Every result has causes.

Every moment is a perfect one, in other words, when you consider that this moment can only be the perfectly logical outcome of preceding events. And the history of human cultural and intellectual discovery seems to bear this out: phenomena that we once once found utterly mysterious are gradually shown to have logical explanations. That's the steady progression of human understanding. Nobody thinks the Northern Lights are messages from the gods anymore; we now know it's the effect that occurs when charged particles from the sun hits gaseous molecules in the atmosphere. Note, though, that this doesn't make the Aurora any less magnificent; I, for one, prefer knowing the truth to fearing I'm seeing an evil omen from the gods.

But despite knowing in our heart of hearts that this moment right in front of us is absolutely perfect because its the natural effect of causes, it very often doesn't feel perfect at all. More often than not (and certainly more often than we like to admit), we harbor a vague dissatisfaction, if not outright unhappiness, with the human condition. We suffer, in other words, unable to dwell in the inherent perfection of all things, restlessly "pursuing happiness" that really ought to be self-evident and already present given the logic of natural cause. Even though "right now" is the only logical way things can be, we very often, and absurdly, fume against it. We tend to think if we don't like a situation, it's a wrong situation. In reality, it's the absolutely perfect result of causes.  It's our view point that must be imperfect.

Intuitively, we know that the reason we don't  recognize and dwell permanently in this inherent perfection is because we simply don't understand, because our knowledge is incomplete. The history of human culture can be read in this way: the ongoing attempt to uncover the self-existent truth that will set us free. Whether our method for this is science, or government, or art, or religious mysticism, in the final measure all cultural endeavors really seem to have this as the goal: to make sense of things in a way that free us from this dissatisfaction inherent in the human condition. Artists do it through extensive articulation of the human state, statesman do it through social structure, science does it through linear reason, mysticism does it through inner transcendence. But they all have the same goal: pursuing happiness through understanding.

Note, too, that the different disciplines may come to exactly the same conclusions, just in different ways. Ancient Buddhist mystics understood something about the fluid nature of solid matter well before physicists learned that matter wasn't solid at all, but comprised mostly of empty space that was ever-shifting. Musical artists understood harmonics long before engineers found a way to measure sound waves.

Knowing less about science and government, I'll  turn for a moment to the transcendent strategy for perceiving reality, and specifically to the variety of meditative techniques found in the various religious and mystical traditions. Whether you are a Christian speaking of "meditative prayer" or a new age proponent seeking "travel on the astral plane," just about any spiritual tradition you can point to has among its teachings some techniques for turning inward with the aim of brushing aside the veils that hide the truth. It's no different, really, from what science tries to do with its extraverted form of the quest, or what art tries to do through articulating the various aspects of human experience. They all are trying to see the truth, and thereby happily and permanently recognize the inherent perfection of the universe.

On a purely amateur but fairly serious level, I've studied a great many of these techniques, from Christian to Shamanistic, from native American to forest Buddhism; and I've practiced several techniques at various times. Eventually, I found the most affinity in some of the more esoteric Buddhist meditative practices. These techniques, for all their esoteric nature, are far less alien than the more well known yoga practices where closed eyes, special postures, and controlled breathing techniques are taught. In much of Buddhist meditation, on the contrary, there is no special breathing technique, no closed eyes required, and no special posture other than to sit quietly. Buddhist mediation, in fact, looks pretty Western.

The thrust in the more mystical Buddhist traditions is that there is nothing to accomplish at all, no technique to perfect, no goal to achieve. Meditation is an exercise in just making friends with yourself, whatever that might look like at the moment, accepting inner and outer conditions without judgement or striving. "All things as they are," is the philosophic attitude of this kind of meditation; or alternately "This, too." If there's any effort involved, it's the effort of subtraction, or relinquishment and release of the restless efforts that have been hindering your peace of mind all along. In fact, try too hard, and you'll lose the equanimity you glimpse during those sporadic moments of complete abandonment and surrender.

Practice this way routinely, and certain truths begin to peek at you, especially after you've enjoy a few weeks or months of relaxed practice.  Solid matter does, in fact, start to feel and even look soft and malleable. And "difficult" situations no longer feel like problems, but just entirely workable circumstances with their own collection of materials with which to shape new temporary realities. You become aware that inner mind states, including harsh emotional ones, are entirely without concrete reality; and since mind states are the most ephemeral of conditions, they such don't need to occupy us or command our attention. Best of all, that meditative attitude starts to infiltrate everyday life, so that the same, slightly bemused attitude you experience during meditation now becomes your outlook more and more often.

Four cools cats. Though they never met, Einstein,
Yo-Yo Ma, Lincoln, and Kalu Rinpoche
would have really dug one another. 

I'd be utterly disingenuous to suggest that I'm some sort of master of this philosophy. In many ways, I'm still wound way, way too tight, even though the springs are much more relaxed these days than in my florid youth. At best, I get glimpses of this new state occasionally, though the glimpses are vivid enough to know that it's a direction worth heading toward. I am distinctly the happier for moving a wee bit following this compass heading, and it seems to be the course I'm supposed to travel.

And I'd by no means suggest this is what everyone needs to do. One of the great things about this philosophy, in fact, is that it doesn't try to prescribe a method for any one else, but just suggests that you to pay attention to what genuinely works for you and do more of it and less of the other. And it's absolutely true that devotees of science, of art, of statesmanship, can also reach the same glimpse of truth. It's telling, for example, that the many "out there" theoretical physicists wind up talking and teaching in a manner that most closely resembles ancient mystics. It's less about the path you take, I think, than it is about the place you want to arrive. All the guys shown above would certainly agree with another pretty cool cat, a scholarly anthropologist named Joseph Campbell, who advised us to "follow your bliss."

10 Fine Nonfiction Books

In recent years, my addictive reading habits have shifted from fiction to non. This is partly because modern fiction is so wrapped up in its own style pretensions that it no longer really tells stories. With rare exception (the novels of Jeffrey Eugenides come to mind), most novels stop surprising you about half way through. So the last decade or so has had me reading much more fine non-fiction, which is actually considerably better these days than ever before. So here are ten great choices for the readers among you.

The criteria for making my list are these:  First, they are by authors who are not one-hit wonders—if you like this recommendation, you can safely grab other books they've written and be equally entertained. Second, these are works of non-fiction that actually tell stories and draw fine characterizations, the way novels once did. And finally, this list includes mostly books written over the last 10 years or so, and therefore leaves out classics such as the works of Thoreau, Mark Twain, Muir, or even John McPhee or Edward Abbey, the latter two who are among by favorites but have now entered "classic" designation in my eye. So I've limited this list to a list of more or less current good books.

In no particular order:

• All Over But the Shoutin'.  Rick Bragg is a former Pulitzer Prize winning feature article writer for the New York Times. This book on life growing up poor in the deep south is one of the most moving things you'll ever read. Bragg's voice is melodic and precise,  and fearlessly self-revealing. Technically a memoir, but really a cultural study of life for dirt-poor white people in the southern U.S.

• The Forever War, by Dexter Filbins. Filbins is another Pulitzer Prizewinner, a war correspondent for the New York Times. This collection of feature articles chronicles the gulf wars over the last two decades through heart-wrenching stories of the soldiers and civilians affected by it. Impossible to describe just how well written these pieces are. Few books have moved me this much.

• Blind Descent, by James Tabor.  This is the story of two world-class caving teams, simultaneously trying to find the deepest spot on earth in caverns located thousands of miles apart. The tales of how deep-cave explorers do their thing is more suspenseful than the best crime novel. If you have even a hint of claustrophobia, this book will make it hard to sleep.

• Spillover, by David Quammen. Normally known for his short essays on subjects of natural history, this is Quammen's full length detective story on how deadly infectious diseases throughout the world are investigated and defeated. You'll not think the same about bats after reading this. The finest book of this genre I know.

• A Short History of Nearly Everything, by Bill Bryson.  Anyone familiar with Bryson's comic travel writing will be surprised and delighted by this easily accessible introduction to the wonders of everyday science. Written not for the science buff but for everyday folks. Who knew just how eccentric Issaac Newton really was?

• Fly by Wire.  It's tough to pick just one book by William Langewische (American Ground is another obvious choice).  This book is the tale of the Airbus splash-landing in the Hudson River a couple of years ago, telling the story not only of the pilot, Capt. Sullenberger and his crew, but also the story of the entire airline industry and the politics and workings of the air safety program. Fascinating read, but best not to dive into it just before your next business trip, unless you're positive to be flying on an Airbus.

• Unbroken, by Laura Hillenbrand.  Yes, I know this is old news, as the book's been on the best-seller lists for years now.  But yes, it's every bit as good as that. The epic real-life adventure of Louis Zamperini, a juvenile delinquent turned world class runner turned POW turned spiritual convert. Here's the rare book that really deserves its run on the NYTimes best-seller lists.

•Stiff, by Mary Roach.  Somewhat like Bill Bryson, Mary Roach writes light-hearted, funny but well researched presentations of various scientific subjects. In this one, the subject is death, or more precisely, corpses. Delightfully gruesome but fascinating. Also read Mary's other one-word books:  Gulp, Boink, Spook, and also Packing for Mars. Equally great books, each of which can be read in a couple of sittings.

• Hidden America by Jeanne Marie Laskas. The subtitle of the book tells it all:  From Coal Miners to Cowboys, an Extraordinary Exploration of the Unseen People Who Make This Country Work. Imagine a smaller, more up-to-date version of Stud Terkel's Working, and you get some idea of what's at work here. In-depth interviews and profiles of folks who work at mundane and sometimes unpleasant jobs that are utterly necessary to the working of the economy.

• Homicide, by David Simon.  TV buffs among you might recognize David Simon as the creative force behind the HBO series, The Wire.  Homicide is an early book by Simon, the accounting of a year spent following a homicide unit in a notorious Baltimore precinct. Will eventually be seen as a classic.

An honorable mention:  The Unwinding, by George Packer.  This analysis of the recent collapse of the banking/finance sector of the American economy is on the short list for winning this year's National Book Award for non-fiction. Could well make my next 10-best list.

"The Boss is a Geezer"

Somewhere along the line, I became "establishment."

Inevitable, I suppose, since I'm now approaching 58 years of age, that eventually I would come to represent mainstream values and mores within the larger culture. Though I still often think of myself as representing social rebellion, this of course can't be the case from the perspective of current young adults, whose ranks I left quite awhile ago. Still, directly confronting the fact that I'm now part of the ancestral generation  has come in fits and spurts. I got a glimmer of it some years ago when realizing that my soon-to-be fully grown kids were now sharing secret jokes at the expense of their parents.  But that actually made me smile a little; I enjoyed the idea of them sharing a reality that excluded the responsible adult world, much the way we did during the 1970s.

And I remember getting another strong whiff of it on the commuter bus once, where a young woman, recognizing my middle-aged weariness, tried to give up her seat to assist my aching knees.

On Friday when I came back from a late lunchtime walk and passed through the lunchroom about 1:30,  the young 20-something office workers all fell silent and looked at each other a little nervously.  Their jovial lunchtime banter ceased for just a little while.  I am now, you see, the cat who ensures that the mice don't play too much during working hours. And it's true that I sometimes do a "bed check" both at the start of the day and the end to see who is being diligent and who is slacking off.  I smiled in amusement at their discomfort, and walked on. And I wondered if they had any clue about what I was really thinking that day, which wasn't concern for their productivity at all.

"What the hell is wrong with these kids today?" I thought to myself. "Why in the world is nobody calling in sick on a beautiful sunny Friday in October, when there's no deadline of any kind?"

Perhaps better not to let them into my head, though.

Glimpses of France

Here are three glimpses from our recent vacation to France: one in the river valley across from our hotel on the Dordogne river in the south of France; one from Monet's garden in Giverny; the last American cemetery overlooking Omaha beach on the Normandy coast.

I must say that we experienced none of the reputed French arrogance when it comes to English-speaking visitors.  We found everyone incredibly friendly and helpful, and at no time did we experience any of the snootiness we'd heard was endemic to France. A delightful trip in every way.

On an early morning walk from the hotel, this was the scene we 

spotted across the road (above). This is the Dordogne region, famed

 for the prehistoric cave art, including Lascaux, which we visited. 

Monet's garden in Giverny, still 

spectacular even at the end of the 

summer bloom

The American cemetery memorial above Omaha Beach. An extremely moving site.