The courage of one's convictions

"...Last, but by no means least, courage—moral courage, the courage of one's convictions, the courage to see things through. The world is in a constant conspiracy against the brave. It's the age-old struggle--the roar of the crowd on one side and the voice of your conscience on the other."  (Douglas MacArthur)  [maybe not a good example as he was reportedly a weenie and a mama's boy]



"It is curious—curious that physical courage should be so common in the world, and moral courage so rare." (Mark Twain)



In Washington state, we have a case that will be argued by the U.S. Supreme Court regarding whether or not signers of petitions to put initiatives and referendums on the ballot can be released to the public.  It all started when a group of citizens collected signatures to put on the ballot a vote granting same-sex couples the rights and benefits of marriage.  The state legislature had previously passed such a law and the signature collectors hoped that putting the issue to a vote would undermine it and cause it to fail.  Another group of people claimed that they would seek out the signers and publish their names.  The signers were afraid and unhappy about this.  They don't want their neighbors and friends know about their prejudices.  Now the Supreme Court must intervene.


We've become a society of back-seat grumblers and rabble-rousers.  It's all good to hide in a  crowd of grousers--safety in numbers and all that; but to set yourself apart, as an individual, as the neighbor who walks his dog every day, as that guy who wears rabbit slippers to pick up his mail, as the lady who plants flowers at the roundabout, no, we don't want anything to disrupt that identity.  We want to hate with impunity. 


It seems to me that if you are afraid of letting your beliefs to be known, that if you don't have the courage of your convictions, that it's time to take a serious look at your beliefs.  It may be that your "convictions" are at odds with what you know deep down to be right and just and true.  If signing a petition makes you afraid to be identified, then perhaps that inner voice is telling you there's something wrong with your values.

More tenderness, please

"The finest qualities of our nature, like the bloom on fruits, can be preserved only by the most delicate handling--yet we do not treat ourselves nor one another thus tenderly."  Henry David Thoreau

There is such beauty in the statements of classical philosophers.  I find I need to re-read some of these occasionally to engage my mind and rid myself of the cranky busy-ness of life.  We're bombarded from every direction with noise, and "clanging gongs" that say nothing and inspire even less.  Rare is the TV show that invokes anything but anxiety--anything from endless news shows with their ever-present, scrolling Breaking News, to the eye-glazing boredom of the competition shows, to the frankly puzzling reality shows.  The movie channels, when they aren't showing cable movie dropouts, or straight-to-video dreck, are worthwhile, but even those can hypnotize one into a stupor that is hardly relaxing.

Driving to and from work is also often a miserable endeavor.  My commute isn't bad compared to some, but still I must dodge interstate tractor trailers, pokey drivers and speed demons who race up behind me and spatter rock chips against my windshield.  And then there's the inevitable unsecured load, flapping in the breeze.  The rickety trailer, piled high, Beverly Hillbilly style, with papers, soda cans, peculiar black things and various other flopsam flying off the back.  I usually accelerate to 80 to pass the jerk, hoping a police officer will understand my excuse if I happen to jet past a speed trap.

And in the news, everywhere, people are screaming at each other, stabbing the air, foaming in apoplectic fits.  It simply isn't necessary--it doesn't emphasize a point, it's tiresome pure and simple, and denotes nothing but ignorance and last gasp effort.  Uncouth.  I remember when that was a word.  But now, it's considered uncouth to point out uncouthness.  Grace and poise, while always effective, are rarely practiced and are considered quaint, like an antique flower vase.  Grace and poise don't get you a reality show.  Tenderness gets you even less.

But, oh, I think tenderness can give you so much more.  Tenderness with oneself and others can free the mind, and quiet it.  You feel open to discovery, to introspection and to charity.  Life can be more than a frantic jumping through pre-conceived hoops.

On the other hand, when faced with non-tenderness from any source, whether by cyberbullies or garden variety bullies, nothing beats the good old adage, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names can never hurt me."  Learn it, live it, own it and it can go a long way to save you grief, and possibly even your life.

Seek Happiness

"If there were in the world today any large number of people who desired their own happiness more than they desired the unhappiness of others, we could have paradise in a few years." (Bertrand Russell, British author, mathematician, philosopher)

On first read, it sounds selfish and wrong. But the more I thought about it, the more I liked it and realized that most of the horrible things that have happened throughout history have resulted from someone wishing the unhappiness of others, more than anything else. Hitler wanted Jews dead, Confederates wanted slaves worked to death, Bush wanted Saddam dead, the KKK wanted blacks dead and a certain faction of people want gays, if not dead, at least removed from society. Terrorists wish evil on all non-Muslims. It goes on and on. All of this hatred is probably driven by an innate unhappiness with ones' own life.

I wonder how history might have changed if, say, Hitler (a renowned vegetarian) nibbled a nice medium-rare tenderloin steak once in awhile and had daily hour-long body massages. Maybe if someone tickled his moustache, bought him a friendly golden doodle, and enjoined him in a lively game of Parcheesi, Germany might be seen as the love capital of the world.

Just this week in the news is the story of Steven Hatfill, the man who was dogged by the FBI in 2002, for being associated with the anthrax attacks after 9/11/01, despite the lack of any evidence whatsoever. He was finally exonerated, and awarded a multi-million dollar settlement, but not before suffering years of being followed, hassled, harassed, ticketed, searched, etc. (This week he agreed to speak to the media for the first time.) It seems likely that the FBI most certainly wanted his (or some scapegoat's) unhappiness, more than they wanted to find the truth. Parenthetically, no one knows the truth behind the whole anthrax debacle. The subsequent suspect, Bruce Ivins committed suicide. That, too, probably made the FBI happy.

On a personal level, I know I behave better when I'm happy. After a good night's sleep, a healthy, hearty breakfast and a brisk walk on a woodsy trail, I feel like I could conquer all the world's ills. I may do nothing more than donate a few magazines to the senior center, or not cuss out some dodo-head at the roundabout (well, that might be a stretch), but at least I'm not plotting the annihilation of some innocent people.

The world is no longer mens' private toilet

Sad story, really, for the principals involved, but us women can hardly stifle our giggles at the local incident where some poor schmuck takes a leak outside and gets electrocuted. Apparently he accidentally pee'd on a live wire and that was all the contact needed to fry him. Vivid images of Warner Brothers' cartoons swirl at the thought. Now, us women can secretly smirk as our men can no longer confidently relieve themselves wherever and whenever. Will this one be the Last Pee? Will our beloved erupt in a flash burn of urinary proportions? We will all hold our breaths from now on. And maybe he will learn to hold his bladder until he reaches a public restroom. Maybe this will mark the beginning of something unique and wonderful: long lines at mens restrooms.

It's so wonderful to hear about the good things the CIA is doing for us. They have always been so open and honest, so trustworthy. And efficient! The agency epitomizes efficiency. Now, in its latest missive, we are told that Al-Qaeda still aims to use weapons of mass destruction against the U.S. How reassuring it is to know that the top intelligence agency in the world is still keeping tabs on that dastardly group.

I guess my only question to the CIA is, uh, isn't it YOUR JOB to make sure Al-Qaeda doesn't succeed? And perhaps a little more stealth is in order. That's what we pay you those big bucks for. Quit pestering us with your cheesy threats and do your bloody job.

And speaking of blood, my husband, Uncle PC, had a little bout with skin cancer on his nose and had surgery for it a couple weeks ago, called Moh's surgery. He's doing fine, they cleared the margins of cancer and grafted some tissue from his ear area, without making him hideous. But he does have a fascinating small, round, black scabby thing on his nose which is supposed to clear up....after 2-3 months. He usually keeps a little bandage over it, for meeting clients and whatnot, but I get to see him au natural. Frankly, I love looking at the scab, I've never seen anything so ugly, so multi-textured, so...UGLY. It's worse than what I imagined a chancre would look like. I want to touch it, but we can't until tomorrow.

It's the little things that keep life lively. Even the CIA, with its dour doom & gloom, can't douse that.

Why most of us are poor, except for the really really rich

All of the pieces of the puzzle are slowly coming together as I read bits and pieces here and there attempting to explain why we are all poor now. The simplistic (and incorrect) answer is that too many people bought houses that they could not afford. So, dang it, they deserve to be strung up and crucified; therefore they should be happy to be alive and scraping cheese off the sidewalk for their evening meal. But why do the rest of us have to suffer for their failings, we bought a sensible mortgage and are making proper payments.

O.K., this is where is gets confusing. And deliberately so. If you keep the real explanation as complicated as possible, and muddle peoples' minds with elaborate nonsensical banking terms, their brains will explode in confusion and they will keep chattering about those dang people who bought houses that they could not afford.

Basically, what happened was banks started making up ways to use our money to get more money from really really rich people. They starting bundling mortgages in groups and issuing "insurance" policies to speculators (the really really rich people) who would pay a small premium. Basically, the speculators were betting that the mortgages would fail. The banks wanted more and more mortgages for bundling so they could keep getting those small premiums, so they didn't care about buyer qualifications. The banks thought the really really rich people were suckers and kept stashing all those small premiums in their pockets. Meanwhile the speculators hired experts who determined that there was no way the real estate market could sustain all those mortgages and predicted the bubble would burst. When all the mortgages started failing, the banks had to divvy up MILLIONS to pay the speculators, who then became really, really, REALLY rich people. The banks basically stole our money to pay off a make-believe debt (and then got bailed out by us AGAIN through the government!!), a debt that provided nothing to us, the banks' investors.

I had to stop now, because I can sense eyes glazing over. That's the beauty of this whole business. No one understands it. The banks were bookies. Sea Biscuit in the fifth. All perfectly sanctioned by the government.

O.K., you can go back to American Idol, now. I think I'll do the Daily Jumble, myself.

Snippets

Happy New Year! Everyone is nattering about what to call the last decade. There's a big push for "the Naughts", however I've never heard a soul actually use the term. I wager that the years 2000-2009 will simply be referred as the O's. As in Oh Sh*t. As in the aggregate IQ of most of the members of the last administration. As in the expression on all our faces on 9/11. As in the $ amount in our bank accounts. As in the wondrous day of Prez O's inauguration. Despite the fact that he's becoming a Bush with better window dresssing, 1/20/09 was truly a magical day.

So, let's hear it for the O's!!! And move on to something new, please.

I lived for 12-1/2 wonderful years in Seattle. As a homeowner, I've been relegated to turn eastward, to the City that Shan't Be Named (and, no, it's not Bellevue), also fondly known as the Outer Limits, or OL, for its affordability. Drat those million dollar homes in Seattle--and whoever is foreclosing on all of them. No one's buying them that I can see.

However, my husband and I head to Seattle every chance we get for sun (hush, don't spread the word). We went there yesterday to visit University Village, which is practically its own city now. The last time I was there, back in 1991 or so, it consisted only of a grocery store and some sort of pub/restaurant. I played on a company softball team and that was our apres-game spot.

My first visit to the U-Village was during the blizzard of 1990. I was stranded at work in Kirkland, with no bus in sight for hours, and started walking home. Home was on 85th in Seattle. I was fearless, and never one to sit around waiting. I made it to 520 and a car filled with wonderful Montessori teachers stopped to give me a ride across the bridge. They couldn't take me as far as 85th, but dropped me off at the University Village. I had been living in Seattle for 6 months and might as well have been on the moon, but I asked them for general directions (go right until you hit Aurora, or something) and headed on my way. Luckily I was dressed warmly, with added warmth from the heat of my indignation. How dare they not have buses running, what's with this stupid town that shuts down in snow? And what's with all this fake politeness, anyway--I had moved here from Pennsylvania, that has a veritable phalanx of snowplows at the ready, and Philadelphia, which is not known for politeness of any sort, but at least it's real--I had plenty of time to ruminate and boy did I ever. I scoffed at every hapless soul I saw waiting at a bus stop. Loser!

I finally made it home, stamped off the snow and became a person again. A person who had a neat adventure during the blizzard of 1990.