Notes from a walk to school...

"Apples, Peaches, Pears and Grapes" [1879-1880] by Paul Cezanne

I’m relaxing tonight, partly because I’m beginning to understand an important fact about life. I grew up with the idea that the nature of reality was what might be called “many-ness”, but now I see that it’s much closer to “one-ness”. From my earliest memory, it was impressed upon me (by family, friends, the media, and the overall culture) that life consists of many different people, many different situations, and many different ideas, all of which are struggling with each other. Life, as I learned it growing up, was a tug-of-war between the myriad elements. My job, I grew to believe, was to protect myself from harm and try to win as many of the daily contests as possible. Now, however, in my 7^th decade of trying to figure things out, I’m slowly understanding that the many-ness approach to reality is simply wrong. Instead of being many, the Universe is just one. It’s not a confused collection of disparate material entities, but rather a single, unified, and harmonious expression of itself. The entire Universe, I see now, is as unified as a single cell. As in a cell, everything that happens in the Universe happens for the good of itself. What this means for me, happily, is that I may as well give up struggling and worrying, because there’s no other person or other thing that’s out to hurt “me”. In fact, there’s no “other”, period, and no separate “me”. There’s just the one united and eternally successful Universe, of which I and everyone and all of our so-called problems are a part. We’re all part of a single grand enterprise called Life (of which death is just another part), as closely knit with each other as the molecules in a cell. This realization, to me, calls for a lot more relaxing than struggling.

John Constable, Wivenhoe Park, Essex, 1816 (detail)

Yesterday I had a wonderful ride to school early in the morning. The air was cheerfully cool and the morning light was lovely all along the way. I especially recall a bright line of light on the river as I passed some docks and boats, and, when I stopped for a drink along Route 1, I noticed some tall grass standing up straight in the light. I watched for a moment, and saw that the grass stems were nearly motionless unless cars passed, and then they swayed softly, just a bit, and then were still once more.

Some random sketches...

Jean-Baptiste Camille Corot (1796-1875), "Ville-d'Avray"

As another school year gets underway, I’m thinking, again, of what an astonishingly complex and miraculous enterprise this teaching business is. When I think of teaching, I think of the Grand Canyon, or of an endless and beautiful ocean, or of the vastness of outer space. To me, teaching is an utter and magnificent mystery. When a teacher and students come together to learn, only miracles can happen – miracles as great as the changing seasons or the limitless spinning stars. I am in awe of the work I’m engaged in. After 40 years of teaching, I have more questions than ever: How does learning happen? How is it that a group of people can have their lives transformed just by meeting together in a classroom for a few months? What is the force, stronger than the greatest river, that relentlessly carries teaching and learning along? I realized long ago that “I” am not that force. I know that, as a teacher, I don’t actually generate the power of learning. I merely float along, with my students, on this immense river variously called intelligence, or learning, or creativity, or just life. We arrive at the shore of this river each day in my classroom, and together we set off to discover what lies ahead. It’s all a grand and wonderful mystery to me. I pretend I know what I’m doing, but actually I’m just a fellow passenger with my students in a boat called “learning”. I wonder what adventures this year’s trip will bring.

"Harvest Moon," by George Inness

In the last two days, I’ve had some wonderful experiences with light and color. Yesterday morning, very early (5:30 am), I rode my bike out to Watch Hill, where I joined some friends for a ride along the shore and then breakfast. What I didn’t realize, when I left home, was that a partial lunar eclipse was just finishing up in the southwestern sky. As I pedaled down Beach Street beside the river, suddenly I saw what was left of the moon, a slim white slice sitting just above a bank of crimson clouds over the cemetery and the river. After giving a soft shout to see such a sight, I rode in a spirited way toward the beach, where my friends and I enjoyed the soft morning light as we cruised down to Misquamicut and back. Then, this morning, as I was doing my daily hikes up and down the hill in front of my house, I was happy to see the same moon, white as a costly stone, glowing above the still dark houses. While I was working hard to carry my weighted backpack, the old moon was resting comfortably where it has rested for billions of years, and I took solace in that. Toward the end of my exercise, as I was catching my breath at the top of the hill, I noticed a line of softly colorful light just above the roofs in the west, and just above that was the silent moon.

George Inness (1825-1894) "Early Autumn, Montclair", 1891

It’s become fairly clear to me that I have spent a sizeable portion of my life in a somewhat “mindless” state. I’ve been running mostly on auto-pilot, doing a thousand things each day with very little genuine awareness. I’ve gone from task to task like a robot. Day after day I’ve worked through the to-do list like a factory machine produces products. That may sound a little harsh, but I think it’s accurate. The truth of it hit me especially hard today when I realized how very little awareness I have of my own body. I’ve had this body for 65 years, and in all that time I have paid little or no attention to how it feels or what it’s doing. When I’ve been sick or in pain, my awareness has kicked in, but otherwise I’ve carried my body around like a strange, unknown burden. How peculiar, that a person should be an almost total stranger to the body that keeps him alive! How odd, that a man should live a good part of his life with a virtual blindfold on, rarely seeing exactly what he’s doing, why he’s doing it, and what it all means!

George Inness American, 1825-1894 The Coming Storm, 1878

I’ve been having a difficult time with the various balancing positions in my yoga exercises, but the Universe itself certainly knows to keep its balance. If balancing is defined as a state of equilibrium where all forces are cancelled by equal opposing forces, then the Universe is a master of the art of balancing. There are countless forces at work in the cosmos, but they all seem to cancel each other out perfectly. There’s sadness, but there’s an equal amount of happiness. There’s the sorrow of death everywhere we turn, but life is always there too, flourishing and indomitable. There’s sickness, but health enduringly moves forward all around it. For every gloomy nightfall there’s an inspiring sunrise. What all this means is that the Universe is perfectly balanced, flawlessly poised, unconquerably steady and stable. What this, in turn, means is that there is actually no discord, no turmoil, no evil in the world. There seems to be plenty of evil in the world, but if we pay close attention, we see that good always annuls it with its own powerful pull. All that really exists, at the end of the day, are perfectly balanced forces cancelling each other out, thereby maintaining the eternal harmony of things. If the Universe were doing yoga exercises with me each morning, it could unquestionably teach me a few things about balancing.

"Oxen in Summertime", by Maud Lewis

Yesterday I had the pleasure of attending the Brooklyn (CT) Agricultural Fair with Noah, Jessy, Jaimie, and Ava Elizabeth. (Jessy and 4-month-old Ava could stay for only a few minutes, because of the heat.) I guess the word of the day was “huge”, because we spent most of our time wandering among some of the largest animals I’ve ever been around. Some of the steers looked absolutely gargantuan as they sprawled in their shady pens or lumbered along behind their trainers. A sow in a pen with seven sweet piglets looked to be too big to do anything but take incessant naps and let her children suck to their hearts content. Noah was spellbound by the animals. He and I studiously watched one man lead his yoke of oxen (which are simply 2-year-old steers) through an obstacle course in the morning’s competition. As big as the beasts were, they maneuvered deftly among the various barriers and obstructions as the leader strongly spoke his commands. When the oxen had finished the course, Noah exclaimed, “Those boys did a very good job!”, and we both applauded for the team and the leader. It was a happy morning for all of us, especially little Noah, who may be headed toward a life as a gentleman farmer raising oxen who are wonderful boys indeed.

I realize more and more that my mind sometimes behaves like an undisciplined runner. At certain times, it can take off running in one direction or another for no discernible reason. When I need to focus my thoughts, I can do it quite well, but if I'm not alert, my thoughts can start racing down a road that leads to nothing but trouble. In those situations -- for instance, when the thoughts are full of fear or worries -- it's as if I have no control. Instead of driving my thoughts, my thoughts are driving me. I’m not worried about having streaks of undisciplined thinking now and then, because it’s the way all minds work at least some of the time. What bothers me, though, is that I do sometimes fall into an old habit of getting carried away by these wild thoughts. Instead of standing back and observing it as amusing but harmless behavior, I often get entirely captured by this unruly kind of thinking. I can spend many minutes racing with thoughts about a so-called problem, and then “wake up” and wonder where the time went. I guess what I need to learn to do is stay objective about my own thoughts. After all, my thoughts aren’t “me”. They’re simply passing phenomena, like the wind, like birds flitting by, and the best approach to them would be simply observing and appreciating. Instead of getting lost in the stray thoughts that come my way, I should just watch and be amused by them. Like a sailor at sea, I should learn to enjoy the capricious “waves” of thoughts that come my way -- be they fearful or brave, sad or happy -- without being controlled by them.

A news item about my son

from the Norwich Bulletin, August 22, 2007

PLAINFIELD --James Salsich, a teacher at Plainfield Central School, recently was recognized as one of the nation's most innovative educators in the 2007 ING Unsung Heroes awards program.

Salsich was one of 100 winners who received a $2,000 award to help fund his innovative idea and bring it to life in the classroom.

He now will compete with other winners for one of the top three prizes -- an additional $5,000, $10,000 or $25,000.

The ING Unsung Heroes awards program recognizes kindergarten through grade 12 educators nationwide for their innovative teaching methods, creative educational projects and ability to positively influence the children they teach.

Since honoring its first unsung hero in 1996, ING has awarded $2.8 million to nearly 1,200 educators across the United States. The 2007 ING Unsung Heroes winners were selected from a group of more than 1,400 applications.

"Saranac Lake, Morning," by Homer Dodge Martin, oil on canvas, 18 by 32 inches, 1857

I realized, during my morning meditation today, that I am nearly always in a state of wanting something. Even when I’m sitting quietly in a chair at 5:00 a.m. and the world around me seems utterly serene and satisfactory, I often catch myself wanting ideas, wanting inspiration, wanting some great light to dawn inside me. Instead of being content with the perfection of the present moment, I’m nearly always wanting something to be different, desiring something I seem to lack, wishing things were somehow different. I’ll bet if a million dollars was set in front of me as a gift, I would fairly soon start thinking of something more that I want.

* * * * *

Most people (including me) try to do as many things as possible as quickly as possible. We measure the success of our days by the number of things we “get done”, which means we have to do them as quickly as possible. We’re like characters in a fast-forwarded film – dashing, racing, darting, scurrying, hurrying. I wonder if I could spend one day doing as few things as possible as slowly as possible. How would it be to live that way for a few hours? How would it be to ride my bicycle as slowly as possible for one hour, trying to cover as little distance as possible? How would it be to read literally “at a snail’s pace”, trying to set a record for the fewest words read in one hour? What would it be like to speak in a totally unhurried manner, thinking carefully about each sentence, each word? This way of living would receive little if any approbation in most circles. People who do as little as possible as slowly as possible are thought to be indolent, idle, lethargic, languid, sluggish, and – the terrible four-letter word – lazy. But perhaps, for one day, it wouldn’t be so bad to be apathetic and shiftless, turning the pedals on my bike so slowly the poor bike almost comes to a standstill. After all, I’ve seen the most beautiful birds flying in the most lethargic, unambitious, and graceful manner. Maybe I can learn something from them.

FIREWORKS AT FIVE A.M.

This morning, as I was getting my daily exercise by hiking up and down the steep hill in from of my house at 5:00 a.m., I began to see the traffic passing by in a different light. In the past, I have generally had very negative feelings about traffic. It’s been noisy, distracting, and upsetting to me, especially when I’m trying to focus on getting a good workout. Each time a car would roar past me, I would find myself feeling more judgmental and disapproving than ever. This morning, though, I suddenly began seeing the beauty in this morning traffic. Yes, oddly enough, the cars rushing down the hill in the early darkness actually began to seem striking and even thrilling. I’d be walking along in the silence and darkness of the dawn, and then, wooosh, a car would zoom past me and I would watch its glowing red tail-lights and its shine from the streetlights disappear down the street. I began to focus on these cars – listening for the sound of their motors approaching from behind, hearing the sound slowly build, then seeing the shining car speed past me and vanish with its shimmering lights, and then listening to the utter silence again. It began to be a rather exhilarating experience – somewhat like watching a fireworks display, I thought. Looking back, it seems astonishing that I actually found beauty in the look of huge air-polluting cars roaring past me in the quiet of a summer morning. It makes me wonder what other kinds of beauty I’ve been missing.

MY TEACHING GOALS FOR THIS YEAR

1. Emphasize the art of criticism

In the last ten years, I have gradually focused increased attention on helping my students build up their critical capacities, to the point where now I emphasize criticism more than creativity. My changing beliefs are well-expressed in Edith Hamilton’s The Greek Way, where she relates that many of the ancient Greeks (especially Euripedes) believed that criticism – the rigorous evaluation of what is right and wrong, good and bad, beautiful and ugly – was far more important than creativity. Euripedes was a critic in the sense of the American Heritage Dictionary definition: One who forms and expresses judgments of the merits, faults, value, or truth of a matter – and this is what I want my students to be able to do this year. Whether they’re examining a chapter of a novel or assessing their own thoughts about a particular essay topic, I want them, most of all, to be able to discriminate – to be able, as the dictionary puts it, to make a clear distinction, distinguish, make sensible decisions, and judge wisely . I want them to become critical young people. Creativity is important, yes, but the ability to intelligently criticize – to demonstrate the art of critical thinking – is at the heart of what I’ll be trying to do as an English teacher in 2007-08.

2. Continue to improve the orderliness of my teaching

Of all the pedagogical ideas that are important, “order” is right at the top of my list. In so many ways, the concept of order – “the logical or comprehensible arrangement among separate elements of a group” (American Heritage) – plays a vital role in my classroom. This is true largely, I suppose, because order is good for my students and me. A sense of order can bring a sense of peace, which in turn can lead to productive thinking and action. Without order in the classroom, there would be only its opposite, disarray, and disarray leads to nothing but more of itself. So I will try, first of all, to provide an orderly atmosphere in my classroom. I will keep the room spotless and neat, which I believe can help promote spotless and neat thinking, reading, and writing by my students. When they enter my room each day, I want them to feel like they are coming into an area where each thing has its proper place, and where harmony seems to be the primary force. When they read our literature books, too, I want them to feel, and recognize, a similar type of orderliness. We read complex and enigmatic works of literature, but my goal for the students is that they learn to discern the unity and concord beneath the surface of the writing. Although, like their lives, these books may initially seem baffling to the students, my responsibility as their English teacher is to show them how to uncover the hidden harmony in the books (and perhaps, indirectly, in their lives). And of course, I have the same responsibility as far as their writing goes. The only way words can communicate in a powerful manner is if they are arranged in an orderly way. Imagination, creativity, fluency, and vision are all important qualities of good writing, but none are as important as order. Like my books are arranged in a tidy way on the classroom shelves, I expect my students’ essays to be always assembled in a shipshape manner. And perhaps, if they’re working in an orderly classroom and reading beautifully arranged books, it won’t be all that difficult to produce clear and coherent pieces of writing.

3. Teach the proper way to eat a book

Strange as it sounds, I would like my students this year to learn how to “eat” a book — meaning thoroughly chew, consume, and digest it. This is different from the way many of us often read — skimming through the pages, dashing from one chapter to the next, and then racing on to the next book. This is not eating a book, but only tasting it. Instead of truly consuming books, we often merely nibble, sip, and sample as we rush along. I want my students to read in a different way. I want them to learn to sit down at the table of a great book, settle themselves in, and enjoy a complete and nutritious meal. Reading a book by Dickens or Willa Cather or Toni Morrison is like having a meal at the home of a distinguished person. We wouldn’t rush through that meal, and we shouldn’t rush through a classic work of literature. This year I want my students to slow down (not an easy task for most of them), read each word thoughtfully, ponder the sentences and paragraphs, and slowly digest the meaning and beauty of the writing. Eating quickly can cause discomfort, and so can reading quickly. At the very least, reading hastily will cause my students to miss the most nutritious parts of the “meal”. They may close the book at the end and leave the real nutrition inside. I don’t want that to happen this year.

4. Teach like a mountain

I’ve always loved being around mountains, and in this coming school year, I would like to embody some of the qualities of mountains in my work as a teacher. First, I would like to be strong. There is nothing on earth stronger than a mountain, rooted, as it is, far down in the earth’s bedrock, and my students need to see a similar type of strength in their teacher. It shouldn’t be a boisterous, arrogant strength, but rather the strength that comes from knowing that I am part of an infinitely sturdy universe, and that endless mental and moral strength is always available to me. Second, I want to be reliable like a mountain. No matter what happens – winds, rain, snow, drought -- a mountain remains where it always was, steady and stable no matter what turmoil swirls around and across it. My students deserve to see this kind of steadfastness in their teacher. They need to be assured that Mr. Salsich will be consistent and dependable, there for his students hour after hour, day after day, no matter how well or poorly things seem to be going. I hope I can also imitate the calmness of a mountain. Mountains don’t react; they gently and quietly accept, and from this springs their true majesty. I would like to exhibit a mountain-like gentleness and quietness in my acceptance of every present moment in class. Far from encouraging misbehavior, as some might predict, this kind of stately acceptance has a way of promoting the strongest kind of compliance and harmony in a class. Finally, I hope I can be responsive in the way mountains are. Watch a mountain carefully from afar and you can’t help but be aware of its total responsiveness to everything. The smallest breeze sets the mountain’s trees fluttering, and even the wispiest cloud-shadow significantly alters the mountain’s appearance. When I’m with my students, I hope I can respond generously and suitably to even their smallest, quietest words and expressions. Like a mountain, I hope I can stand unwavering and receptive as my students pursue their English education around me.

4. Teach how to work in small groups

In my summer pedagogical reading, book after book emphasized the importance of teaching kids how to work together in small groups. The consensus among English teachers seems to be that small-group work – collaboration – should be near the top in every teacher’s priority list. The authors (all English teachers) suggested that adults fifteen years from now will be judged far more often by how well they function in groups than by how well they work alone. So...I’m going to give it a good shot. I’m planning to have occasional brief (10 minutes) small group discussions. (Example topics: “Rank the top three things you like about Pip”; “Choose a title for Chapter 17, and be ready to explain why”; “What is the single most important use of a comma...and explain.”) Also, as you know, I’m putting together a year-long small group project. Will it work??? Good question. I’ll let you know.

5. Be a better listener

This year, both in class and in faculty meetings, I want to watch and listen extra carefully (to quote Judy Oat from the retreat today). I want to let each speaker know that I am totally focused on what he/she is saying. I’ll try to use what I teach my students: S.L.A.N.T.S. – Sit up, Lean Forward, Activate your thinking, Nod toward the speaker now and then, Track each speaker with your eyes, and Say back (paraphrase) what the speaker said before making your own comment. Most of all, I want to never interrupt a student or a teacher or anyone (in my opinion, one of the worst sins).

This morning I went for a bike ride at the shore very early with some friends, and the first sight we were treated to was a beautiful and complete rainbow. I had just parked in Watch Hill by the beach around 6:00 am, and was unloading my bike, when I saw it arching up over the stores in the village. A delivery man across the street shouted to me that it was a full one, so I walked a few paces down the street to get a good look. Like any rainbow, it was an astonishing sight, but especially so at that early time of a lovely summer morning. The boats were asleep and still in the little bay, and soft sunlight was shining on the homes across the water in Stonington, and high over all was this arc of blended colors stretching from shore to shore. My friends and I marveled at it, and we spoke of it often as we pedaled away from it down the slowly lightening beach toward Weekapaug.

Ena Joyce (b.1926)

Table Cloth and Rushbottom Chair 1956
Mixed media on paper

I was wondering this morning whether I could make each moment of my life a type of ceremony. I got to thinking about this as I was having lunch in my apartment – at my little table with a white tablecloth, a small vase of flowers, and cloth napkins. I ate very slowly, taking delight in each bite, appreciating the look of the carefully arranged table and the summery view out the window. I was alone, and it was the simplest of meals, but it still felt like a formal occasion, like a ceremony of sorts. It somehow felt special – which is the way all the moments in my life should feel, because each moment is special. Every moment is a brand new experience, a unique and distinctive occurrence which the Universe has been preparing for some fifteen billion years. There’s never been anything quite like this moment, and there never will be again. In that sense, what I’m doing at any given moment is as special, as singular, as extraordinary, as sacred, if you will, as the most formal of church services. Doesn’t it make perfect sense, then, to attend each moment the way I might attend the most formal of ceremonies? If I walk and talk in a church in a careful and attentive manner, shouldn’t I perform each act in my life in the same way? Shouldn’t I reach down to pick up the napkin with care and attentiveness? Shouldn’t I reach out for a peach slice with utter awareness?

"After Dinner", also called "The Dinner Party" 1911, Jules Alexandre Grün. Oil on Canvas

I attended three fine dinner parties in the last three nights, an unusual social explosion in my somewhat Spartan and solitary life. On Thursday I gathered with my best of all friends and enjoyed a completely relaxed evening. I feel almost like part of the family in this house, and it’s a good family to be involved with. They all (including the little two-year-old) appreciate the benefits of laughter and light-heartedness, and they also appreciate superb food, which the lady of the house unfailingly prepares. On Friday night, I joined an interesting mixture of friends at a house on the beach, where we had an astonishing view of the ocean from the porch. We mingled and chatted, and then sat at a long, elegantly-set table for a dinner that almost rivaled the one of the previous night. I felt honored throughout the evening, because it was obvious that the hostess had gone out of her way to make all of us feel like privileged and special people. Then last night I joined another family at a celebration for their son who is establishing a name for himself in serious acting circles. The evening’s weather was charmingly cool, so we talked and ate outside as dusk came on. Again, the food was splendid, but the good conversation and friendship was even better.

Fountain, Wilcox Park, Westerly, RI

On this most immaculate of August days, I took a lovely – though quite exhausting – walk in the park. To add a little strain to the walk, I carried some weight in my backpack (including a copy of Emma, which I started several days ago), and traipsed up and down my favorite steps by the pond for about 45 minutes. The spotless blue sky inspired me each time I reached the top step, when the trees fell away and the view opened. Just a few translucent clouds were sailing along; the rest was a blueness that we see only infrequently through the year. The temperature was perfect for exercising – perhaps in the high 60’s, with a rousing breeze blowing. In tune with the day, I carried my cumbersome pack (and Emma) with unusual heartiness as I mounted the steps again and again.

Today I rode my bike over to Stonington Borough for breakfast with some friends, and it was good to once gain take notice of the beautiful summer flowers in the village. It seemed like every house had some type of colorful flowers associated with it – either climbing the front wall of the house, or tumbling over the window sills, or just modestly sitting in a pot by the front door. I noticed one house with brilliant red flowers gracefully ascending around the door. A friend and I stopped to take in the charm of the blossoms, before proceeding on to our favorite cafe for pancakes and conversation.

Jean-Baptiste Camille Corot, "Douai, Glacis des Fortifications, Pres La Porte Notre-Dame"

Walking through the park this morning, I was struck by the fact that everything that was happening was totally new. Each scene and each event was unlike any scene or event in the past. Nothing like this had ever happened before. For instance, never in the history of the universe had Hamilton Salsich been walking in a purple shirt at a particular point in the park when the shadows were exactly like they were and a specific Monarch butterfly had just landed on one individual purple blossom and thunder of a unique tone and volume was rumbling in the west. This was all totally new. Also, never had my shoes, when they were in the exact condition they were in this morning, touched the sidewalk when it was in the exact condition it was in this morning. This was all totally new. Not only that, never had the precise oxygen atoms that were working inside me this morning passed the large beech tree at the northern end of the park when it was in the exact circumstances it was in this morning. This was all totally new.

All of us love to get something brand new – a newborn baby, a new house, a new car, even a new shirt or a new five-dollar bill. This morning I realized that we get an absolutely perfect, brand-new gift each and every moment. The universe is all totally new.

I wonder if I could “ride” my thoughts the way a sailor rides the sea. There’s certainly no doubt that thoughts are constantly flowing along in my life, rather like currents in a vast mental sea. Thoughts come and go almost the way ripples and swells come and go in the ocean. Just this morning, as I was eating breakfast I suddenly found myself being carried away by a wave of thoughts about a long-lost friend. If I had been on a “voyage” somewhere, I would have abruptly discovered that I was far off course because of the power of these thoughts. Of course, an efficient sailor doesn’t let this type of thing happen. A sailor, first of all, continually watches the sea and the wind, so that he can better predict what will happen and more competently handle whatever situation arises. Also, a good sailor always works with, never against, the waves and winds. She knows that resisting the conditions of the sea can lead to disaster, but cooperating with them, and somehow taking advantage of them, can produce profitable results. This kind of approach is what enables a sailor to truly enjoy the sea, no matter what the conditions. He looks upon the sea, not so much with fear and trembling as with respect and appreciation. He probably smiles a lot as he maneuvers his boat on the whimsical waves and currents. This, I think, would be a fine way to live with my thoughts. If I vigilantly observe them as they come and go in my life, I’ll get to know their strength and tendencies, and won’t be so apt to get swept away by any of them. More importantly, I need to remember to work with my thoughts and use them to my benefit. Instead of resisting and standing firm against this or that thought, I should, like the sailor, simply observe the thoughts as they approach, see how I can use them, and then perhaps just let them pass peacefully by, like the endless swells on the sea. If anxious or frightening thoughts approach, I can watch them coming, make my preparations, and then “turn the sails” a little this way or that to allow my life to move harmlessly, and perhaps even more smoothly, along. What this might lead to is a greater enjoyment of life. If I can perch high on the “deck” and get a clear view of the endless variety of thoughts in the mental sea we all live in, surely I will be better able to appreciate and take pleasure in them, whatever size or shape or type they might be. Like the seasoned and secure sailor, I can smile and say, “Oh look at those huge fearful thoughts over there! Aren’t they beautiful?” or, “I see thoughts of regret approaching. Prepare to come about and we’ll ride on them nicely!” In this way, life, like sailing, could be an entertaining and pleasant sport.

Rembrandt, "Portrait of a Family"

Last Sunday, I had a wonderful visit with Luke, Krissy, Kaylee, and little (well, not so little) Josh. Truthfully, those few hours were like a chapter out of some novel about the ideal family. I felt as comfortable and happy as I’ve ever felt among parents and children. I’m sure they have their share of problems (what family doesn’t?), but what I saw Sunday was four people (even Josh) who have learned how to look past or through the problems to see and appreciate the rather amazing joys of family life. We sat in their living room, which had been barricaded into a totally safe “rumpus room” for energetic Josh. With pillows purposefully placed to block him from escape (and hurting himself), Josh sort of tumbled and tossed himself around the room as we talked and laughed. At one point he grew fatigued, which was a lucky stroke for me, because he snuggled down in my arms for a good five minutes and just breathed his deep baby breaths. Toward the end of my visit, Krissy, Luke, and I had a good talk about some personal matters, which only made me appreciate the strengths of family life all the more. We talked quietly for a good fifteen minutes, sharing opinions and suggestions, and when I left I took with me the youthful wisdom of this young couple. I also took with me a bundle of good feelings about how strong a family can be – one that works at it, anyway.

"Landscape", Jean-Baptiste Camille Corot

FAREWELL TO PRIVACY (GOOD RIDDANCE?)

A friend recently bemoaned the gradual disappearance of privacy, but I’m not sure it should be grieved over. One dictionary says the word private refers to something that “belongs to some particular person” or “pertains to and affects a particular person or a small group of persons”, but is there really anything in this universe that is private in that sense? Yes, I realize that I “own” a certain amount of money, but does the value of that money belong only to me? Did I alone make that money valuable, or was it not, rather, the hard work of countless strangers, over many years, that made the dollars in my pocket worth something? Yes, at this point in time they are in my pocket and my bank, but they have passed through innumerable hands to reach me, and their journey will continue far into the future after I spend them. In a sense, I don’t “own” my money; it doesn’t belong to a particular person named “Ham”. I just use it for the time being before it passes along to others. In that sense, it’s not my own private property. The material goods I “own” are also not strictly mine – not a personal, exclusive possession. Like my money, I’m “borrowing” the couch and chairs in my living room (even though I paid cash for them). The craftsmen who made them and the people who may use them after me surely own them as much as I do. The furniture is “on loan” to me -- and so, as a matter of fact, is everything else I theoretically “own”. “My” heart certainly does not “belong” to me. I did nothing to earn it; it was freely given to me by the Universe some 65 years ago. The same goes for “my” lungs, “my” muscles, even “my” thoughts and feelings. Ideas and feelings aren’t “made” by me. They’re not my private possession, something I can own and be proud of. They come from the vast world of ideas and feelings that’s been re-creating itself for eons and eons. They’re created from the books I’ve read, the people I’ve listened to, the movies I’ve seen, and so on. Like all of us, I’m lucky enough to share in an immense and very public wealth of thoughts and emotions.

So what’s the big deal with privacy? As far as I can tell, we live in a universe in which, the dictionary notwithstanding, nothing “belongs to some particular person” or “pertains to and affects a particular person or a small group of persons”. Everything belongs to everything, everything affects everyone, and everyone belongs to everyone. Privacy would seem to be essentially impossible in this kind of universe, so we may as well bid the charade of it a grateful farewell.

Rembrandt, "Stone Bridge"

BEYOND MY CONTROL

This morning, as I was looking out the window during breakfast, I realized that everything out there was happening without my consent or cooperation. I had nothing to do with which way the cars went, or how fast they were going. A breeze was stirring in the trees across the street, something I had no part in planning or executing. Completely beyond my control, sunlight was landing on the grass in its own distinctive patterns. Then I began to think about myself, sitting at my table with my coffee and slices of whole wheat toast. Did I have any control over the making of the bread? Did I build the coffee-maker that made the coffee? Going even further, I asked myself if I truly controlled my thoughts and actions. When the thought came that I should pick up the toast, where did the thought come from? Did I make, and therefore control, that thought? If so, then who made the thought that I made the thought? Didn’t it actually just arise, willy-nilly, beyond any real control by me, and don’t all thoughts arise in that way? I can pretend that some separate person called “I” controls the thoughts that come up in life, but the truth is that they simply happen along, utterly beyond "my" control. (Even the thought in that last sentence blew by like a passing breeze. I just happened to catch it.) I guess the reasonable conclusion from all this is that nothing is really under my control. Thoughts and feelings are just as free from my jurisdiction as are cars, breezes, and sunshine. I can play the pretend game of controlling things, but it’s only a game. What I should probably do more often is quit trying to manage it all, and just sit back and enjoy it.

A note about “The 10,000 Things” (see below):

Concerning the myriad “important” things that have to get done in my life, it’s interesting to realize that the really important things get done without any thinking or acting on my part. My heart beats all by itself, even when I’m sound asleep, and my lungs move smoothly up and down with no help from me and my hard-earned Masters degree. I don’t have to come up with a brilliant plan to enable my blood to go coursing through my veins, nor do I have to lie awake nights devising instructions for the countless cells in my body. All these vital tasks are done continually and efficiently with absolutely no assistance from my supposedly well-educated self. Perhaps my body is trying to tell me something, like...RELAX, HAM. EVERYTHING’S UNDER CONTROL. THE 10,000 THINGS BE DAMNED. PUT YOUR FEET UP.

THE 10,000 THINGS

Somewhere in the Tao Te Ching, Lao Tzu mentions “the 10,000 things”, referring, I guess, to the countless tasks each of us sets for ourselves in our daily lives. Most of us immediately start doing “things” the instant we awaken, and we fall asleep only after we’ve done the last of the hundreds (thousands?) of things for that day. We basically go from one task to the next, minute by minute, hour after hour, day after day after day. Our lives are consumed and controlled by these “10,000 things” that we have convinced ourselves simply must get done. However, every so often – and it happened again a few minutes ago – the realization hits me that most (maybe all) of these so-called important things actually don’t have to be done. They’re not that important. They don’t really matter very much, if at all. The universe will continue smoothly on course whether I do these 10,000 things or not. Not only that, it becomes disturbingly clear, now and then, that when these 10,000 tasks are completed, there will be another 10,000 waiting for me, and then another after that, on into infinity. In other words, I come to realize that I am doing the tasks only so that I can do more tasks. There’s no end. There’s no point where I say, “Ah, this is a lovely task.” (Let’s say I’m loading the dishwasher.) “This task was destined for only me, so I’m going to bask in its loveliness. I find my life’s purpose in this wonderful task.” It sounds silly even as I read it, because of course we can’t bask in any one task, because there are 9,999 “things” waiting to be done! It’s a strange life most of us lead – a life in which we feel compelled to do things that aren’t really important and that only lead to endless other unimportant things to do. Well, this afternoon I’m going to try to break the routine, at least for a bit. I’m going to try to get absolutely nothing done. The 10,000 things be damned!

(But they’ll be there tomorrow when I awaken.)

“The Universe doesn’t come and go. The Universe lasts. It’s the creator of all you can see or imagine. It doesn’t get tired out, doesn’t pause to catch its breath. And it knows everything, inside and out. It energizes those who get tired, gives fresh strength to dropouts...Those who look to the Universe for help get fresh strength. They spread their wings and soar like eagles. They run and don’t get tired. They walk and don’t lag behind.”

-- Isaiah 40: 28-31
From “The Message”, a Bible paraphrase by Eugene Peterson

(I have substituted “the Universe” for “God”)

This morning I had the pleasure of watching an utterly peaceful event for a full 23 minutes. I’m talking about my breathing. I sat in a chair and did little else but observe the breath quietly entering and leaving my body. It couldn’t be called work, because whenever a wandering thought distracted my attention from the breathing, I just observed the thought, accepted it, and then gently brought my focus back to my breath again. I didn’t “concentrate” or “resist” distractions. All I did was watch what was happening, whether it was my breathing or the occasional distracting thought. The breathing, though, was what I found really remarkable. My body has been performing this beautiful process countless times each day for 65 years, and yet I almost never pay attention to it. The breath calmly comes in and then calmly leaves, over and over, as quietly as steady sunrises and sunsets. It’s a totally serene event, and it happens again and again and again. This morning I was fortunate to be a spectator at this magical occurrence. I felt like you might feel when witnessing a great miracle of nature, and it was all happening inside me as I sat in the living room of my modest apartment on Granite Street.

AN IDEAL DAY

Yesterday was a perfect day for bike riding, or anything else in the open air. For one thing, the temperature seemed ideal for outdoor exercise, hovering around the 60˚ mark most of the day. I rode easily along through the cool, refreshing air, feeling as fresh as I’ve ever felt on a bicycle. I had that wonderful feeling that we all get now and then, like I was tireless and invincible, like I could pedal that bike forever. In addition, the best of breezes was blowing along the roads as I rode along. It was a cool, revitalizing wind, just enough to cheer me along without making me struggle against it. It seemed to unerringly guide me up and down the hills and along the smooth, straight roads. And then there was the sky – the clearest I can recall seeing. It was immaculate in its pure blueness. At one point, as I waited at a red light, I simply stared at the sky in admiration. I wanted to take some quick steps and leaps in happiness, but instead I just rode a few blocks home to my welcoming little apartment.

SEEING THE BIG PICTURE

More and more I realize that whenever I manage to see the “big picture”, any problem disappears and contentment reigns. Unfortunately, however, I spend a good deal of my time looking at the “small picture” – the picture that shows me as a separate, vulnerable entity surrounded by countless threatening entities. In this small picture, I am constantly struggling to think, act, guard, defend, acquire, keep -- and get a lot of things done. Life, looked at from this myopic viewpoint, is a constant, mindless, chaotic free-for-all. However, when I have enough composure to pull way, way back from the minute-by-minute skirmishes and get a distant view of life, I see that, actually, there are no skirmishes at all. Instead, life appears, at that distance, to be more of a beautiful dance than a messy brawl. I see that there are, in fact, no separate entities at all, but that everything blends together in a fascinating swirl. The things I labeled as “problems” when I was seeing the small picture now seem to be merely swirls of a certain kind – swirls that eventually disappear into other swirls if I’m patient enough to keep watching. It’s as if I’m floating high above the earth, watching with fascination the dance of life – including death, joy, suffering, gladness, and sorrow. Of course, I’m also part of the dance. What’s especially wonderful is that, from my distant vantage point, I can watch myself – little Ham Salsich – going through the twirls and bends and leaps of my life. In the big picture, it all seems curious and odd and interesting, never tragic and terrible. Yes, there’s suffering, but I see that there’s also joy to balance it, and that there’s always enough peace alongside pain to maintain the equilibrium. There’s good and bad, just as there’s day and night, rest and activity, death and life. In the “big picture”, everything works together exactly the way it should, and the universe is contentedly spinning along in the only way that it can. It’s a great picture to look at now and then, especially when I seem caught in the frenzied scuffles of the silly but enticing “small picture”.

SOMETHING I LEARNED IN HIGH SCHOOL

Energy is slowly leaving my mother. Though she may live many more years, it’s obvious that she’s slowing down, growing weaker, softer, quieter. I can almost see the energy slowly leaving her, departing her body to move on to other bodies, other forms of life. Strangely – and I almost can’t believe I’m writing this – it doesn’t make me sad. After all, nothing is dying, nothing is being destroyed, nothing is ending. Energy – the measureless, eternal energy of the universe – is simply changing. One form of energy is dissolving into other forms. Back in high school science class, I learned that energy can neither be created nor destroyed; it simply changes. In that sense, energy is a synonym for God – a force that was never created and will never come to an end. Like all of us – and everything – my mother’s life is a part of this force, and thus her life, in the truest sense, will never end. It will change – is changing – yes, but it will always exist as part of the endless energy of the universe. What makes her who she is – her love, patience, kindness, and dignity – will never die because it can’t. I learned that in physics class at St. Louis U. High.

Frisco tracks, Webster Groves

MY SUMMER TRIP BACK HOME

On Thursday, August 2, I had a smooth, fast flight from Hartford to St. Louis, marred only by a surprisingly forceful bump when the wheels touched down. I picked up my white Toyota rental and drove to Al and Mary Anne’s, where we had our usual cheerful reunion. Al and I then drove to Mom’s assisted-living home, which I was very impressed with. She’s living in comfort and security – and elegance, too. She seemed nervous and withdrawn, but it didn’t bother me as much as I thought it might. She’s like a leaf turning golden in the autumn – shriveling, shrinking, one day (perhaps years from now) falling in order to allow the “tree of life” to regenerate itself.

* * * * *

For lunch, Al, Mary Anne, and I enjoyed a traditional burger feast at our beloved Steak ‘n’ Shake. Al and I then took Mom for a drive through some of the old cherished neighborhoods, and we finished off the day with a revitalizing swim at the Webster pool with Maura, Grace, and Mary Anne.

* * * * *

On Friday, I spent several hours with Mom, just being quietly with her. We didn’t talk much, but it was nice just to be in the presence of this woman whose boundless energy and loving strength has surrounded me for all these years. For lunch, Al, Mary Anne, and I enjoyed splendid barbecue sandwiches from a local deli (a specialty on the weekends), and later in the day I took Mom for a ride out to see Don, Maysie, and Emily, just before they departed for their vacation in Florida. In the evening, just before descending to my utterly inviting suite in the basement, Al and I enjoyed a wonderful conversation about grammar and rhetoric, two of my favorite subjects!

* * * * *

On Saturday morning, I rode Al’s fat-tire bike along the quiet streets of Webster to a small park, where some of the extended Salsich family gathered for soccer, ice-water, and conversation. It was a hot morning, and the young children’s faces quickly became flushed with the early heat. Al and Gary Jr. worked hard to keep the games going, whereas I stayed fairly cool in the shade and talked with my nieces and nephews. It was hot but happy time for all of us.

* * * * *

Throughout my stay, I loved riding Al’s old, uncomplicated bike. I rode in the fairly pleasant air of the early morning when the streets seemed comfortable for riding. It was great fun to cruise through the old neighborhoods again – places I loved as a small, adventurous boy. I felt, in fact, somewhat like a boy as I pedaled along – as though the years had peeled back and I was twelve again and as free as a summer breeze. I often climbed hills on the bike – not especially steep ones, but long enough to give me a good workout. I always had to stand up, pushing the pedals down as hard as I could. I felt strong, though, and I recovered fairly quickly as I rested and chugged water at the top. I recall one magical moment at the top of a hill where I could look down a slope and see a slow freight train rolling along. It was a very long train – over a hundred cars, for sure. I wiped the sweat from my face and swallowed lots of water as I watched the big cars rumble past. I’ve always loved trains, so these were a thrilling few moments for me. Again, I felt like it was ’57 instead of ’07, and I was once again a footloose and carefree kid.

* * * * *

On Saturday night, Al, Mary Anne, Pete, Barbara, and I enjoyed a fine meal at a restaurant in Kirkwood. It was so good to be with my beloved brothers and their loved ones once again.

It’s interesting to realize, as I have been lately, that worrying can thrive only when I’m thinking about the past or the future. Worrying can’t live in the present moment. It instantly suffocates when I’m totally engrossed in what’s happening right now. This may seem obvious to some, but to me it’s been a gradual revelation. If I’m utterly involved in the only situation that actually exists – the here and now – it’s actually impossible to worry, because there is nothing to worry about – no past to fret over, no future to fear. When only the present is real to me (which is the way it should always be), worry completely disappears. The conclusion is simple and obvious: Live in the present (...well, at least as much as possible).

"Allowing", gouache on sumi
by Angela Treat Lyon

FROM DOING TO ALLOWING

I need to practice a lot less “doing” and a lot more allowing. I’ve been doing things, one after another, day after day, for as long as I can remember. You might say I’ve been addicted to doing. Almost uncontrollably, almost frantically, I just keep doing, doing, doing. What’s a little sad to realize is that not one of the hundreds of thousands of things I’ve done has ever turned out perfect, or even been done in a truly exquisite manner. Whenever I have finished doing something, there has always been at least a tiny feeling of disappointment, at least a slight sense that I could have done it better. All my doing has never seemed quite right, quite good enough. I have a feeling, though, that if I took some breaks from all the “doing”, and engaged in a little more of the opposite practice, which I guess would be allowing, I would, surprisingly, find considerable more perfection in my life. It’s the “I”, the ego – the one that does all the doing -- that actually causes imperfection, or the appearance of it, in my life. If I could get the ego out of the way and just, in a sense, allow the Universe to do its wondrous work, its ever-present perfection would gradually appear more often. Curiously, by allowing, or “not-doing”, I think a lot more wonderful things might get done in my life.

I'm enjoying a wonderful (though very hot) stay in St. Louis. Today the temperature will rise close to 100, and only a slight breeze will stir occasionally to cool things off. However, I've been staying inside with my family in the pleasant air-conditioning, so it's been an enjoyable few days for me. Yesterday, Al, Mary Anne, and I drove out west of the city to a wooded resort community called Innsbruck, where my brothers and sisters and I celebrated together with great food and friendship. It was steamy outside, but inside, with a good-looking view of the lake, it was as comfortable as friends would want it.

* * * * *
I never tire of considering the astounding truth that every present moment is perfect. Whatever is happening at a given moment is what must happen, and is happening in precisely the way that it must. Even a tornado striking a house at a particular time on a particular day is being a perfect tornado for that moment on that day. We don't like it, but that doesn't alter the fact that it's doing exactly what it should do -- and perfectly. Perfection exists in every moment. Whenever a breeze is blowing leaves across a sidewalk, it's doing it perfectly. (Would you ever think of saying, "Oh, the breeze is a little bit off, not quite perfect"?) If I'm sitting in an airplane over Pennsylvania and writing with green ink, I'm sitting and writing in a flawless manner. My handwriting may be "messy", but it's messy in an absolutely perfect way. If I'm thinking fearful thoughts, there's not a single defect in those thoughts. Their fearfulness is utterly perfect. If I make a mistake (which is simply an unusual or unexpected way of doing something), it's always a perfectly executed mistake. I never get less than A+'s for knowing how to do fine mistakes.

* * * * *

It's sad for me to think of my death or the death of a particular loved one, but it's not sad, really, to think of death itself, because death is a necessary and therefore beautiful part of life. When I'm feeling selfish (wrapped up in my "self"), I'm afraid of death, but when I'm feeling unself-ish, I see that death actually is a vital part of life, because it allows life to continue to be infinitely creative and expansive.