More Like John Lewis

 “We have to be more like John Lewis . . . ”

                —Barack Obama

Suggestion or Statement?

I recently made the comment that a suggestion is often better than a statement. It was one of those moments—fairly rare in the life of an introvert—when I felt the words come out of my mouth before I had thought them through. Afterward, I kept hearing myself say: A suggestion is often better than a statement. It felt right, but what did it mean? My intuition grasped it before my mind.

A suggestion—like a hint or a clue—elicits curiosity, mental engagement, and emotional response, inviting discussion and participation. The follow-up to a suggestion is often: “What are you suggesting?” On the other hand, a statement is settled business, and much like a proclamation, statements are intended to end discussion and debate—close it down, shut it off. Case closed.

Suggestions are powerful because they raise questions and prepare the way for a flow of memories, thoughts, and ideas. A thin cotton curtain blowing in an open window, animal tracks in the snow, a leaf lying all by itself on a rock, a single bird's feather lying on ground—such images, whether presented visually or literarily, toy with one's thoughts and imagination. And imagination—both personal and communal—need I speak of its importance in the life of an individual and a society?

The exercise of imagination is dangerous to those who profit from the way things are because it has the power to show that the way things are is not permanent, not universal, not necessary. —Ursula K. Le Guin

Art—in all its varied forms—is never a statement; it is always a suggestion. There is always more to art than what meets the eye. Art offers a hint and entices the viewer to finish the story . . . in their own way, using their own imagination, drawing from their own personal experiences. 

There it is . . . the power of suggestion.

from Be Here Now, by Baba Ram Dass

   "Did I ever tell you about the time that Tim and I . . . "

   And he'd say, "Don't think about the past. Just be here now."

   Silence.

   And I'd say, "How long do you think we're going to be on this trip?"

   And he'd say, "Don't think about the future. Just be here now."

   I'd say, "You know, I really feel crumby, my hips are hurting . . ."

   "Emotions are like waves. Watch them disappear in the distance on the vast calm ocean."
   He had just sort of wiped out my whole game. That was it—that was my whole trip—emotions, and past experiences, and future plans.

_________________________

I wonder: What are we left with when we lose our "whole game?" What are we left with if we lose our past, lose our future, lose our emotional reactions? All we have is this moment . . . right now. We lose our "whole game," but what do we gain? 

Elijah Cummings Will Be Missed

Elijah Cummings died October 17, 2019

Everyday the media brings people into our homes and lives that we would never have the opportunity to meet in person—politicians, celebrities, news reporters, performers. Sometimes we come to like what they have to say and even feel as if they are part of our lives. Such was the case with Elijah Cummings, whose voice—always firm, steady, and reasoned—was instantly recognizable. I always perked up when I heard his voice on the news, anxious to listen to what he had to say. No matter the issue—and he worked on and fought for many during his more than twenty years in Congress—his focus was on dispelling corruption, dishonesty, and social inequality. He was a man of honor and dignity. He will be missed, and I will miss hearing that voice—that instantly recognizable voice.

Spellbound

I walked down to the hill at dusk today. A freaky warm day after a few weeks of refreshing, cool weather. Even late in the day, the air was warm and heavy, almost oppressive.

Seemingly overnight, greens in the woods have begun to disappear, replaced by yellow, brown, orange, tan, red. Standing at the top of the hill in the low light of the evening, looking down at the expansive fern beds, I was held spellbound. 

As beautiful as the ferns are in the spring—fresh, bright green, elegant—they are stunning in the fall—the color of sweet hay, relaxed, even slouching against one another, proudly showing the wear and tear of the summer season. I stood there until dark. Spellbound.

Gliding through Time

 I go out on the pond in my kayak shortly before the sun is to set. I paddle out of our cove and turn south towards the stream. An eight-minute paddle and I hit the shallow water just before the stream. This is my favorite part—the rushes. I pick up speed as I approach them, paddling as strongly as I can. The rushes are sturdy, tall, dark green, and resilient. I hit the rushes, hold my paddle up high, and glide. It’s magical. The sound of the rushes rubbing on my kayak, the sight of the rushes parting as my kayak passes through, the shimmer of the water, the zig-zag reflection of the rushes in the water, the red dimple right where the rushes meet the water. The sight, the sound—I never tire of it. I pull the brim of my hat down low, so all I see are the rushes and the water. Sometimes I close my eyes so I can focus on that wonderful sound made by the rushes rubbing on the kayak. And the feeling that comes with gliding on the water . . . so smooth, free, simple . . . no bumps, bottlenecks, stumbling blocks, or barriers. Just the luxurious feeling of gliding . . . and realizing that nothing really matters.  

The Progress of the Seasons

My friends ask what I will do when I get there. Will it not be employment enough to watch the progress of the seasons? 

— Henry David Thoreau, “December 24, 1841”