Americans are constantly bombarded with information about what’s good to eat and what’s bad. Nutritionists have got us bleary brained about those things we should eat to be healthy and those things to avoid, lest they lead us into disease. We’re inundated about the benefits of omega-3 fatty acids, lycopene, and gingko, as we’re warned against trans fats, oxidants, carbohydrates, etc.
But nutritional fads come and go. As soon as we get straight what foods we should be ingesting (or not), the latest studies turn it all upside down and we’re told we’re still bad in our eating habits; once again we need to reorder our food priorities.
It’s a dilemma for many of us—especially for those of us who are getting long in tooth. The older we get, the more we know that various nasty diseases lurk around the next bend. Cancer, Alzheimer’s, heart problems, and many other maladies await the slacker.
So how does one eat and drink sensibly, in the face of all this complexity, conflicting evidence, and shifting sands? Michael Pollan has written extensively on the struggle to eat wholesomely. It’s particularly challenging for Americans, for whom processed food, pesticide-laced farms, and tainted meat are ubiquitous. In his latest book, In Defense of Food, Pollan’s advice boils down to: “Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.”
That counsel is pretty much what we’ve tried to follow for more than two decades, here on the hermitage. Whole foods—particularly those grown yourself—are best. But we can’t grow all our food—even those of us who live in the country. One must import a few things like olive oil, coffee, tea, sugar, and other “necessities” of life. So the dilemma is one we continue to face: How to eat wisely and age gracefully?
Great news on this front arrived recently. From a study by none other than Oxford University, comes information that gladdens my heart: The ingestion of three foods—chocolate, wine, and tea—enhances one’s cognitive behavior. The Oxford researchers examined a large group of old folks and found out that those whose diets included regular doses of wine, chocolate, and tea (well, it was England) displayed improved brain function.
That’s all I need to know. I’ve enjoyed all three of them for most of my life. What wonderful news! Habits that I’ve sometimes thought may even be a vice, are suddenly transformed into virtues by an impeccable source: Oxford University. Case closed.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Monday, December 29, 2008
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Primeval Sky Watching
When I sit in the outdoor tub, the 100ยบ heat soaking into my body, I often gaze upward into the sky. I am looking at stars and other celestial delights with naked eye (attached to naked body). As I get drawn into the experience, I sometimes feel it draws me closer to my forebears; to the ancient peoples who had no way but the naked eye to view the heavens.
Our astronomical discoveries have taken gigantic steps forward in the last few centuries, with the advent of telescopes and other technological sky-probing wonders. With these tools our knowledge of what’s out there and how it works has progressed unimaginably beyond what the ancients knew. We now know, for example, that all points of light up there are not stars, and that they are not portents from the gods. We know much about conditions on the surface of the planets (and many of their moons). We have built a massive data base of our universe’s sights and how it all works.
And yet we moderns—a sea of astronomical facts at hand—are quite unfamiliar with, even ignorant of the starry skies themselves. Astronomy has become a esoteric field of science—beyond all but professional astronomers and the most determined star enthusiast. Additionally, we live in cities whose skies are too light polluted to see all but a few stars. We have no time or inclination even to look at them; we are far more preoccupied with dazzling spectacles from TVs and computer screens.
We are strangers to the sky. We no longer are drawn into the celestial progression across the heavens, the cyclical motion of the heavenly bodies: the sun, the moon, planets, comets, and other delights.
The first accomplishment of modern astronomy was to conclusively demonstrate that the universe does not revolve around Earth. We are not the center of it all. Yet despite our intellectual knowledge of the true nature of the heavens, when we look up naked-eye and view the sky, we experience a geocentric view. As far as what I see and perceive, I really am at the center of my universe; it all does revolve around me.
So I sit there in my tub, naked-eye viewing, feeling connected to my ancestors, who watched the heavens just as I am doing. Over time I get drawn into the night sky and begin to notice patterns that the stars make—maybe not the same constellations of my forebears, but ones that I make up. I observe the cyclical progression of these star designs through the year; along with the moon’s monthly visitations, and the planets odd wanderings.
In time, the cycles and rhythms begin to speak to me. I intellectually know why they appear to me as they do (because modern astronomers and telescopes that I trust have told me so), but the direct, geocentric experience I have is quite different. The ancients watched, became familiar with the cycles, but didn’t know why. I watch, know much more about why, but have lost their acquaintance. I wonder if I can acquire their wonder, awe, and imagination.
Our astronomical discoveries have taken gigantic steps forward in the last few centuries, with the advent of telescopes and other technological sky-probing wonders. With these tools our knowledge of what’s out there and how it works has progressed unimaginably beyond what the ancients knew. We now know, for example, that all points of light up there are not stars, and that they are not portents from the gods. We know much about conditions on the surface of the planets (and many of their moons). We have built a massive data base of our universe’s sights and how it all works.
And yet we moderns—a sea of astronomical facts at hand—are quite unfamiliar with, even ignorant of the starry skies themselves. Astronomy has become a esoteric field of science—beyond all but professional astronomers and the most determined star enthusiast. Additionally, we live in cities whose skies are too light polluted to see all but a few stars. We have no time or inclination even to look at them; we are far more preoccupied with dazzling spectacles from TVs and computer screens.
We are strangers to the sky. We no longer are drawn into the celestial progression across the heavens, the cyclical motion of the heavenly bodies: the sun, the moon, planets, comets, and other delights.
The first accomplishment of modern astronomy was to conclusively demonstrate that the universe does not revolve around Earth. We are not the center of it all. Yet despite our intellectual knowledge of the true nature of the heavens, when we look up naked-eye and view the sky, we experience a geocentric view. As far as what I see and perceive, I really am at the center of my universe; it all does revolve around me.
So I sit there in my tub, naked-eye viewing, feeling connected to my ancestors, who watched the heavens just as I am doing. Over time I get drawn into the night sky and begin to notice patterns that the stars make—maybe not the same constellations of my forebears, but ones that I make up. I observe the cyclical progression of these star designs through the year; along with the moon’s monthly visitations, and the planets odd wanderings.
In time, the cycles and rhythms begin to speak to me. I intellectually know why they appear to me as they do (because modern astronomers and telescopes that I trust have told me so), but the direct, geocentric experience I have is quite different. The ancients watched, became familiar with the cycles, but didn’t know why. I watch, know much more about why, but have lost their acquaintance. I wonder if I can acquire their wonder, awe, and imagination.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
To the Dark Side
My outdoor soaks in the tub are done under evening skies. After saturating in hot water for an hour or more and slowly morphing into a jellyfish, I’m ready to flow into the house and sink into a deep night’s sleep. This nocturnal bathing has given me many opportunities, as I lie up to my chin in hot water, to view the night sky in its various degrees of darkness. Let me count the ways.
On long summer days I usually begin my tub sits during daylight and watch the darkness slowly creep in, as I marinate. In winter, however, I start after dark and watch the night sky grow ever blacker. As Guy Clark sings in his song “The Dark,”
In the Dark you can sometimes hear your own heart beat;
One way or another, we are all in the Dark.
There are many shades of darkness to the night sky. A full moon will brightly light up the heavens, illuminating every object around me. On clear, moonless nights the sky appears jet black, yet is liberally sprinkled with stars, meteors, and satellites. Guy Clark again:
Fireflies, sparks, lightning, stars,
Campfires, the moon, headlights on cars.
The Northern Lights and the Milky Way,
You can’t see that stuff in the day.
On nights when scattered clouds fly overhead, I like to watch those celestial lights play peek-a-boo between clouds. Darker yet, when high clouds fully cover the sky, all stars disappear, but I can see the city lights from the nearest town reflect from the cloud bottoms. It’s an eerie but beautiful glow.
When thick, low clouds close in, promising rain or snow, it’s the blackest of all. You can’t see your hand in front of your face (or behind). Yet blackness is relative, especially after your eyes adjust. Even on the darkest night the sky is not completely black, but appears a deep charcoal, while the blackest objects are the tree silhouettes, artistically painted across the sky. Clark again:
How dark is it? It’s too dark for goblins.
How dark is it? It’s so dark you can smell the moon.
How dark is it? It’s so dark the wind gets lost.
The Dark is not all goblin scary; it’s very inviting.
On long summer days I usually begin my tub sits during daylight and watch the darkness slowly creep in, as I marinate. In winter, however, I start after dark and watch the night sky grow ever blacker. As Guy Clark sings in his song “The Dark,”
In the Dark you can sometimes hear your own heart beat;
One way or another, we are all in the Dark.
There are many shades of darkness to the night sky. A full moon will brightly light up the heavens, illuminating every object around me. On clear, moonless nights the sky appears jet black, yet is liberally sprinkled with stars, meteors, and satellites. Guy Clark again:
Fireflies, sparks, lightning, stars,
Campfires, the moon, headlights on cars.
The Northern Lights and the Milky Way,
You can’t see that stuff in the day.
On nights when scattered clouds fly overhead, I like to watch those celestial lights play peek-a-boo between clouds. Darker yet, when high clouds fully cover the sky, all stars disappear, but I can see the city lights from the nearest town reflect from the cloud bottoms. It’s an eerie but beautiful glow.
When thick, low clouds close in, promising rain or snow, it’s the blackest of all. You can’t see your hand in front of your face (or behind). Yet blackness is relative, especially after your eyes adjust. Even on the darkest night the sky is not completely black, but appears a deep charcoal, while the blackest objects are the tree silhouettes, artistically painted across the sky. Clark again:
How dark is it? It’s too dark for goblins.
How dark is it? It’s so dark you can smell the moon.
How dark is it? It’s so dark the wind gets lost.
The Dark is not all goblin scary; it’s very inviting.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
My Habitat
By the dictionary’s definition, habitat is the natural home of an organism—its native environment. One’s surroundings strongly influences one’s health, productivity, and creativity. In turn, our actions impact our habitat. If we collectively take care of our environment it will be healthy and will nurture us.
I am blessed to live in a productive habitat, situated in a rural corner of the northern Shenandoah Valley (because of the direction of flow of the Shenandoah River, it’s also the lower end of the valley). Our region is officially designated as the Appalachian oak forest. Here at the hermitage we are fully surrounded by this forest—many hundreds of acres of woodlands, sprinkled here and there with small farms. Since the farms do not break up the woods, the forest provides a contiguous habitat for wildlife, so their health is satisfactory. It’s also a reasonably stable ecoregion, not too strained, and as yet uncrowded by human development.
These woods are dominated by oaks, which are accompanied by several other large trees such as white pine, hemlock, sycamore, poplar, and maple. Common understory trees are dogwood, cherry, and redbud.
If you had walked these hills a hundred years ago, you’d have seen a rather different mix of trees. Elm and chestnut were common then; but imported blights killed them off. A hundred years hence a different mix will again likely prevail. Current threats to some of these trees are the gypsy moth (mostly the oaks), the wooly adelgid (hemlocks), and dogwood anthracnose. Acid rain, global warming, manmade chemicals escaping into the environment, invasive species, and human development add to the habitat threats. It’s daunting to contemplate the collective impact of these changes. We are collectively not taking care of our environment.
Yet locally, we are blessed by the fact that our habitat is still reasonably fit—especially when compared with many stressed parts of the planet. Despite the local ominous signs of habitat transformation, I live in an area that is beautiful and far more healthy than that provided for too many people and animals. I remind myself daily of our good fortune and I wonder what I can do to help my habitat. No substantial answers come to me, except to try to understand my local surrounding and meld with it as much as possible. And certainly enjoy the gift I’ve been given.
I am blessed to live in a productive habitat, situated in a rural corner of the northern Shenandoah Valley (because of the direction of flow of the Shenandoah River, it’s also the lower end of the valley). Our region is officially designated as the Appalachian oak forest. Here at the hermitage we are fully surrounded by this forest—many hundreds of acres of woodlands, sprinkled here and there with small farms. Since the farms do not break up the woods, the forest provides a contiguous habitat for wildlife, so their health is satisfactory. It’s also a reasonably stable ecoregion, not too strained, and as yet uncrowded by human development.
These woods are dominated by oaks, which are accompanied by several other large trees such as white pine, hemlock, sycamore, poplar, and maple. Common understory trees are dogwood, cherry, and redbud.
If you had walked these hills a hundred years ago, you’d have seen a rather different mix of trees. Elm and chestnut were common then; but imported blights killed them off. A hundred years hence a different mix will again likely prevail. Current threats to some of these trees are the gypsy moth (mostly the oaks), the wooly adelgid (hemlocks), and dogwood anthracnose. Acid rain, global warming, manmade chemicals escaping into the environment, invasive species, and human development add to the habitat threats. It’s daunting to contemplate the collective impact of these changes. We are collectively not taking care of our environment.
Yet locally, we are blessed by the fact that our habitat is still reasonably fit—especially when compared with many stressed parts of the planet. Despite the local ominous signs of habitat transformation, I live in an area that is beautiful and far more healthy than that provided for too many people and animals. I remind myself daily of our good fortune and I wonder what I can do to help my habitat. No substantial answers come to me, except to try to understand my local surrounding and meld with it as much as possible. And certainly enjoy the gift I’ve been given.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Precious Silence
There is a dark side to creativity, however. When our ego enters the picture or our desire for power grabs us, things can go awry. Creativity may then, for example, feed runaway and harmful technology. Language can also go to the dark side of creativity. When language becomes propaganda, it spreads fear; inducing people to succumb to domination and control.
Our modern culture is overflowing with words and noise; they distract us. The ancients were better at welcoming silence. They opened to it, actively sought it; whereas modern people tend to fear it. We contemporary folks have also detached from nature and its creative calmness. Instead of opening to the wisdom of nature’s silence, we attempt to control it, to bend it to our noisy will.
We can, however, open ourselves to the creativity of the silence, as the sages once did (and many still do). How can we do that? One way: simply put attention to the void. Seek and enter the silence. That means finding the time to turn away from the modern fast lane. Entering the silence opens us up to our—and the universe’s—creativity. We can attend to the void by not hurrying; by sitting with the silence and awaiting its wisdom and inspiration. Creative thoughts literally pop into our heads when we enter the void. They don’t necessarily come from us, and they’re not owned by us—in a sense they’re already in the void, waiting to be received. Our inner space is that void. We share it with all beings.
It’s paradoxical that we can become creative by doing nothing; that we can mature and heal—through inaction. It’s the way of the Tao, taught us by Taoism. Two partial verses from the Tao Te Ching say it beautifully:
Therefore, the Master
Acts without doing anything
And teaches without saying anything.
Our modern culture is overflowing with words and noise; they distract us. The ancients were better at welcoming silence. They opened to it, actively sought it; whereas modern people tend to fear it. We contemporary folks have also detached from nature and its creative calmness. Instead of opening to the wisdom of nature’s silence, we attempt to control it, to bend it to our noisy will.
We can, however, open ourselves to the creativity of the silence, as the sages once did (and many still do). How can we do that? One way: simply put attention to the void. Seek and enter the silence. That means finding the time to turn away from the modern fast lane. Entering the silence opens us up to our—and the universe’s—creativity. We can attend to the void by not hurrying; by sitting with the silence and awaiting its wisdom and inspiration. Creative thoughts literally pop into our heads when we enter the void. They don’t necessarily come from us, and they’re not owned by us—in a sense they’re already in the void, waiting to be received. Our inner space is that void. We share it with all beings.
It’s paradoxical that we can become creative by doing nothing; that we can mature and heal—through inaction. It’s the way of the Tao, taught us by Taoism. Two partial verses from the Tao Te Ching say it beautifully:
Therefore, the Master
Acts without doing anything
And teaches without saying anything.
And
Practice not-doing
And everything will fall into place.
Although words can be special, the silence between words is precious. Can I allow that silence to be? Can I respectfully and reverentially enter it? We become free in that space between words—free to open, to soften; free to connect to our natural instincts. We can catch our mental breath. Through meditation we seek to exist for a short time in a space that is without thoughts, words, concepts. It’s not easy. When we can do it, we find that we have a direct contact with the void—that precious silence.
[Note: These last two postings were inspired by The Blackwinged Night:
Creativity in Nature and Mind, by F. David Peat, 2000.]
And everything will fall into place.
Although words can be special, the silence between words is precious. Can I allow that silence to be? Can I respectfully and reverentially enter it? We become free in that space between words—free to open, to soften; free to connect to our natural instincts. We can catch our mental breath. Through meditation we seek to exist for a short time in a space that is without thoughts, words, concepts. It’s not easy. When we can do it, we find that we have a direct contact with the void—that precious silence.
[Note: These last two postings were inspired by The Blackwinged Night:
Creativity in Nature and Mind, by F. David Peat, 2000.]
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Precious Silence—Part 1
We’ve all heard expressions like “Silence is golden.” And we’ve been exposed to the guidance that listening to others is a gift. (Thoreau: "The greatest compliment that was ever paid me was when one asked me what I thought, and attended to my answer.")
We cannot really listen when we are talking. There’s something special about halting the flow of our chatter and opening our ears and other senses to our world. I believe that silence is beyond golden—it’s precious.
A fascinating attribute of silence is that creativity flows from it. It’s fascinating, partly because it’s also a paradox: something comes from nothing. Out of the void of silence emerges imaginative and original things. (Maybe in a future posting I will explore the parallel between this point and an insight that quantum mechanics brings us: subatomic particles—real things—do slip in and out of existence.)
Creativity is the act of bringing something into existence—something that never existed before. It’s a kind of artistic imagination. It’s bringing the new and unexpected into being—from which change and evolution stem. Creativity is also a renewing process that spawns vitality and innovation. It fosters freshness and helps break the dreary rut we may find ourselves in. Creativity is even a form of healing—in the sense that it is intelligence, which leads to regeneration and healing. Our body, our immune system, must be open to our environment, and this kind of intelligence fosters health and healing.
Language also can be creative. It connects us to others. We relate to each other by symbols, creating a common world in our heads. The cosmos is creative. It is unpredictable, unexpected, and constantly evolving. New qualities are continually emerging—things that could not have been conceived of before.
Creativity is often confused with novelty—but it’s very different; it’s far deeper. Novelty is, by definition, something new, but it’s usually something assembled from existing things. It’s just a rearrangement of stuff that’s already around, into something different. It’s often a repetitive process that can eventually lead to a rut—a copy-cat, frenetic existence that lacks true creativity. It can feed fashions and fads, that become addictive and encourage our grasping for the unattainable, as we try to feed an insatiable hunger. When we fall prey to novelty, we become numb and dull. We close ourselves off to our world—hewing to the fad, becoming rigid and dogmatic.
Continued next time…
We cannot really listen when we are talking. There’s something special about halting the flow of our chatter and opening our ears and other senses to our world. I believe that silence is beyond golden—it’s precious.
A fascinating attribute of silence is that creativity flows from it. It’s fascinating, partly because it’s also a paradox: something comes from nothing. Out of the void of silence emerges imaginative and original things. (Maybe in a future posting I will explore the parallel between this point and an insight that quantum mechanics brings us: subatomic particles—real things—do slip in and out of existence.)
Creativity is the act of bringing something into existence—something that never existed before. It’s a kind of artistic imagination. It’s bringing the new and unexpected into being—from which change and evolution stem. Creativity is also a renewing process that spawns vitality and innovation. It fosters freshness and helps break the dreary rut we may find ourselves in. Creativity is even a form of healing—in the sense that it is intelligence, which leads to regeneration and healing. Our body, our immune system, must be open to our environment, and this kind of intelligence fosters health and healing.
Language also can be creative. It connects us to others. We relate to each other by symbols, creating a common world in our heads. The cosmos is creative. It is unpredictable, unexpected, and constantly evolving. New qualities are continually emerging—things that could not have been conceived of before.
Creativity is often confused with novelty—but it’s very different; it’s far deeper. Novelty is, by definition, something new, but it’s usually something assembled from existing things. It’s just a rearrangement of stuff that’s already around, into something different. It’s often a repetitive process that can eventually lead to a rut—a copy-cat, frenetic existence that lacks true creativity. It can feed fashions and fads, that become addictive and encourage our grasping for the unattainable, as we try to feed an insatiable hunger. When we fall prey to novelty, we become numb and dull. We close ourselves off to our world—hewing to the fad, becoming rigid and dogmatic.
Continued next time…
Monday, December 1, 2008
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