For the Birds

Birds are eating us out of house and feeder these days.

Frigid winds slice across frozen, snow-covered ground. Feather-weight bodies require enormous resources to rise and to remain aloft. My birds must survive this desperate winter to breed, to sing, to be happy come spring.

I love watching my birds fly between the fir trees and their feeder. Some linger a while, eating slowly, others stay only a few seconds. They have different eating patterns and habits, and they trade time at the trough in ways only they understand. The smaller finches and even the cardinals stand on the lip of the feeder; woodpeckers hang by their feet from it and poke their beaks over its edge; doves scour the ground for what’s been dropped.

Sometimes I regret ever starting my birds down this path with me. If I’d never begun feeding them they wouldn’t know. They wouldn’t keep swooping out of the trees, taking dead aim at my ancient, green plastic feeder. A feeder that has only survived these two decades (or more, I can’t remember) because squirrels cannot climb around the poop-covered, green plastic baffle that keeps them from chewing it into oblivion.

I bundle up, daily, to trek out to retrieve the empty feeder. I maintain a path cleared through the snow across our creaky deck (when will one of its old boards give way?). I lift the feeder down, carry it into the garage. I bend over what started out as a 35-pound bag of Oiled Black Sunflower Seeds. It loses weight as I scoop its dark contents into the feeder. One day it will be light enough to carry it to the feeder instead of my carrying the feeder to it. That’s one trip, not two, across my small estate. Always calculating the easiest way to do a job.

When I walk out to refill my feeder I sometimes look right and left into neighbors’ yards to pick up any sign that I am not alone in my feeding project. I see no such sign, which does not mean that they are not similarly involved with our feathered neighbors. I judge no one on this matter, and trust that somewhere on our street a human neighbor feeds the birds, and most likely deer and other wild things as well.

But I really do not mind if I am the only one. I take no particular credit for my act of kindness toward nature. It costs a little money to feed my birds, but the claim that they “are eating us out of house and feeder” is hype. To get your attention (“Is Dean at risk of losing his home in order to feed mere birds?” No, he is not.).

But they do deserve my paltry generosity, do they not? Their ancestors were here long before we humans invaded their woods.

Songs for the ages?

A front page sidebar in Wednesday’s Cleveland Plain Dealer alerted readers to the following piece on cleveland.com, the PD’s digital news outlet:

40 greatest pop songs from 2000 to today

Music writer Troy L. Smith picks the pop songs that have defined the 21st century – the ones that have stood the test of time. See his list at cleveland.com/entertainment.

What? Only 18 years into the 21st century Troy Smith knows the songs that have defined it?

The 21st century has hardly begun, and it’s been defined already by commercially-driven songs, even as many as 40 of them? I guess other things could define this present century – wars, climate collapse, famine, ethnic cleansing, particularly despicable political figures; or, hopefully, justice, fairness, acceptance, peace, plenty, particularly noble political figures, etc – but glitzy, tabloid-grabbing pop songs? I can’t imagine an entire century being defined by a few songs of any genre.

What? “They’ve stood the test of time?”

Heck, they can’t be more than teenagers, many of them not even shaving yet! How can they even begin to lay claim to “standing the test of time?” What time? Whose time? I’m nearly 75 years old, and I don’t claim to have stood the test of time, and I know for certain that I hadn’t stood that test when I was 18.

Danny Boy, Auld Lang Syne, the songs of Frank Schubert and George Gershwin, even the Beatles’ songs . . . they are only a few of the songs that have stood, or at least are standing, the test of time. You can name dozens and dozens more, of all genres.

I’m not claiming that there are no good or worthy songs that will stand time’s test among Troy Smith’s 40, but I do question the claims of the writer of the Plain Dealer’s breathless words. I question them because I think they underline a dangerous misunderstanding of our present importance and of the importance of pop culture in a society enamored by ephemeral tastes, fads, and trends. They also point to our short attention spans, our impatience with sustained discussion and consideration, our eagerness to move on to “the next big thing.”

Time’s test takes . . . time. Significantly more time than these songs have had to prove themselves, even in the carefully-managed world of pop culture.

More insidious than racism

I hereby announce that I am not a racist, either. It’s a characteristic President Trump and I seem share.

To me, “racists” are people who adhere to “racism” as an ideology; that is, to a more or less consistent and coherent body of beliefs that make sense of something they experience and want to understand in the world.

I know for a fact that I do not hold to a racist ideology (or to a racist theology for that matter).  Consistency and coherency do not seem to be important to Mr. Trump, so I seriously doubt he adheres to racist ideology. Therefore, I am willing to believe that neither of us is a racist.

If only that ended the conversation. But it doesn’t.

Not being racists ideologically does not mean neither of us engages in racist behavior, holds racist attitudes, or thinks racist thoughts. At any moment we can and I suspect both do make judgments about people and situations based upon the color of of their skin. We both no doubt reach conclusions about situations and events based upon the skin color of those involved.

I confess to this implicit racism on my part. I have worked to eliminate it from my world view since I first became aware of it, and I try to deal with it when I see it in myself. It’s a life-long struggle, and I often fail.

Only Mr. Trump knows how he reacts inside himself to people of color. We may be nearly 100% sure he does react differently to them than to white people because prejudice and racism are part of the DNA of our shared American history and culture. It is likely that the only dishonest reaction is to claim to have none.

Plus Mr. Trump and I, as white American males, are recipients of untold benefits simply from being born as white American males. The advantages of white racism, as well as of other aspects of who we are, are built into us by birth, in differing measures of course depending upon our particular circumstances.

But focusing on skin color alone, who can argue that whites are not generally in advantaged positions from birth in this nation, as around much of the world? Not to understand this privilege, and not to see how much we and our descendants depend upon its continuation is to turn a blind eye to reality.

Our real challenge as whites is not to be able to claim that we am not racists but to become “anti-racists.” If we stop at denying our racism, and remain ignorant of and indifferent to the pervasive nature of racism deep within us and fundamental to our social and political structures, we are complicit in the ongoing corrosive effects of racism among us. Too often it’s costly and unsettling to speak against racism when it is expressed, to risk our own advantage when the racism within which we thrive is challenged. So, we are silent when we should speak, and passive when we should be active.

The convenient thing about real racists is that their words identify them, and make them easy targets. But we – Mr. Trump and I and perhaps you, too – we are not racists, so leave us alone and let our ignorance and indifference and silence shield us from the hard truth.

He Do It Himself

“Since taking office I have been very strict on Commercial Aviation. Good news–it was just reported that there were Zero deaths in 2017, the best and safest year of record!” (@realDonaldTrump, Jan 2, 2018) 

Among the most important and challenging experiences of raising children are when they insist on “doing it myself.” Whether it’s tying shoes, writing their names, or climbing a ladder on a slide, a parent can be pleased, frustrated, annoyed, and/or terminally impatient when his or her child insists, “I do it myself.”

You want your children to do so many things themselves, of course; but sometimes you don’t want them to do them–or to try to learn to do them–at this particular time.

There are times and places for taking care of things on our own, and times and places when we need others and need to acknowledge that we need others. Part of growing up is learning to tell the difference, and to make appropriate choices based on that difference.

President Trump seems to have a insatiable need to “do it myself.” We knew this when he insisted during the campaign (and after it) that only he could make America great again. He maintains an endless drum-beat of self-recognition and self-congratulation, turning every bit of good news back to himself and every bit of bad news toward someone else.

That is why the tweet at the start of this post is so instructive. It gives revealing insight into the psyche of the man who sits in the Oval Office, at least to those who will see.

Instead of congratulating the governmental agencies and the airlines’ leadership for a job well done over the course of many years and under different administrations (the last fatal crash of a U.S. airliner was in 2009), he begins by drawing attention to himself, and ends without mention of anyone else.

It’s as if Mr. Trump was sitting in control towers throughout 2017 monitoring the blips and guiding them to safe landings. Before that, chaos and death. I doubt his tweet did little to improve the morale of those who work so hard to keep flying as safe as it is.

The chaos swirling around the White House threatens to engulf us all, and at the heart of it is a man who has no sense of his own place or of his responsibilities to others. If he conducted his business affairs the way he is running the country it’s a wonder his ventures didn’t go bankrupt more often than they did.

But he’s not making deals for glitzy casinos any more; the stakes are far bigger than he realizes because he doesn’t really acknowledge anyone but himself or any interests beyond his own. And I do not believe he is capable making that crucial move into real maturity.

Perched in the tallest control tower on the planet, Donald Trump do it all himself. And all of us are in deep do-do.

My New Year's Resolution

Within a few hours of the end of 2017 I read something that I am bold to adopt as my marching orders for 2018. First, some background:

Sculptor Karen Swenholt’s work and life are subject of a piece in the Fall, 2017 issue of Image (Mark Sprinkle: Lost and Found: Karen Swenholt Unmakes Identity Politics). Swenholt has created compelling human forms that challenge our assumptions and complacencies. The article centers on her own self-image as a sculptor, and tells how the image which she had of herself was existentially challenged by brain injuries she suffered in an automobile accident. Those injuries “robbed her of cognitive, creative, and even perceptual faculties for the better part of three years.”

Fortunately, she is able to work again. And here is something she wrote as a result of her devastating experience being redeemed:

“There comes a time when [making art] may become impossible; when the gift is crippled, when the leg breaks and you will never dance like that again. Then the immortal grace of the silk-ribboned foot turns back to the decaying flesh it always was. The bunions morph from trophies formed in triumph back to only pain. It is a privilege to make art. Make it while you can. Make it if you can. Make it.”

Pretty sobering. Sobering like an enemy ship’s warning shot across the bow: do what you have to do now, or you may not get it done. Sobering as in challenging.

For several years I have been writing a little book about Ghost Ranch, the Presbyterian-owned retreat and educational center just north of Abiquiu, New Mexico. The manuscript has gone through dozens of iterations, and is far different from what it started out to be, though some precious original lines and paragraphs attest to the initial inspiration.

Ghosts and Gold: Stories from a Magic Place has gone into hiding and come out of it several times through those years. This past fall I revived it again with a visit to Ghost Ranch, aided by some encouraging words. I have big plans for this little book, but right now the biggest plan of all its to get it done. To make it while I can, if I can.

And yes, I can.

I think of myself as having a more than tolerable way with words, but as far, far from being an accomplished writer, or word-artist if you will. But I do not need to be an artist to welcome Karen Swenholt’s invitation to get this thing done. I just need the resolve to work it until it is the best I can make it and offer it to any who would receive it.

You can help, which is why I am writing this blog. You can encourage my resolve, by checking in with me (How’s the Ghost Ranch book coming along, Dean?), and then admonishing me to be true to my own resolve when I hem and haw and act as if I don’t understand the question.

I will thank you. I really will.