Sunday, November 28, 2010

I greeted the sun at Higgins Beach in Scarborough, sitting in my car. If I'd remembered to pack gloves I might have gotten out and walked the wet sand as the pink glow on the horizon dimmed with the first glimpse of fiery orange in the distance above the leafless trees. Two people walked and talked as their dogs sniffed, scampered and returned to the sides of their owners, bundled head to foot in the chill air. The edges of the waves sparkled in red before they crested. Far out in the open water the hulk of a tanker making for port moved slowly.

Soon I'll be home again, this afternoon. Tomorrow I'll watch the sun rise over Head Harbor Island.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

A bit of news - a professor has decided to have a digital camera implanted in his head so he can film his classes. Try to imagine it - he's calling it 'the third eye.' A common enough phrase, in certain circles. A camera in one's head. What does he teach? What happens to imagination? To memory? What can be so important? Where will the camera be implanted? Forehead, presumably. The question posed by the reporter: How will he charge it?

Seems to me that we all carry a camera in our head and it is called a brain. Within our brains we have tremendous capacity for recording sights, sounds, smells, images of infinite variety. We do need to recharge it with food and sleep and, with all due fortune, it lasts a lifetime; and it comes free of charge when we're born.

There's so much more to be said - another time.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Time to write again here in blog-world, 'cause in my own world I'm writing and need to air out my brain with the things that niggle and get in the way.
There's an ad for grief on the radio - a woman's voice, soft, concerned, dripping with come take my hand, I'll help you. Why? Drugs are the point of the ad. If you're approaching the holidays with grief for a loved one who has died, if your grief gets in the way of your living, if your loved one died six months ago, then call, get drugs and talk therapy. Six months? What is that in a life? What if the loved one who died was a child? A wife? A husband? A mother? And, whoa, after six months you're still grieving.
Here's another scenario: What if you're newly married, or dating, or newly engaged, or have a splendid job, or have moved to your dream spot and you're incredibly happy, and that happiness is 'getting in the way of your living'? Maybe you forget to eat regularly, or exercise, maybe you're not sleeping well, 'cause you're happy. Do you need drugs and talk therapy?
Isn't grief as much a part of the human experience as happiness? Who says six months is too long to grieve? What does 'getting in the way of living' mean? What about indifference? Or is that called 'depression'?
I don't think six months of grieving is extraordinary, or unnatural. Our particular culture doesn't respect grief. Like so many things that are innately human, our fix-it culture considers it an illness, to be treated with drugs and therapy.
Okay, enough . . . for now . . .