Not Even Not Zen 447: Poem - You Shouldn't Have Asked

You Shouldn't Have Asked

You asked why,
why could I possibly love you.

And I have bad news.

The sun rose in a purple morning sky. 
And that’s why I love you.

And it does that every day.

 - Eric Gallagher

Not Even Not Zen 446: Biomythography - Note 152, No One Converts, Pt. 3

No One Converts, Part III

The world feels holy. 

That's stupid, and yet there are times when simply walking alone in the woods or strolling along a dirt road with friends, or almost any other ordinary thing can bring us a feeling of, more or less, 'this place is sacred.' It can happen suddenly. My friend Michael's comments made it impossible not to remember some of those moments in my life.

Despite our rational approach, despite how my talks with Michael about the reasons behind belief in God (and non-belief) were supposed to be about what's provable, we were left with a difference in our underlying experiences. It wasn't even a big difference in outlook. We both felt holiness around us. We interpreted it differently.

Michael had been raised in a private, Jesuit boarding school. Perhaps it's not much of a surprise that the Jesuits converted him. The conversion from Judaism to Catholicism came to him as a revelation, apparently, as a series of visions of God. He got dream visitations from an actual, white-haired, bearded holy man. He loved the Jesuit priests' rational approach to it all. That's why Michael thought he could prove God must exist. For sure, he told me at length how believing in the Catholic trinity made the most sense.

For my part, I came from a tradition that included some family Catholic church membership, some Methodist, some Baptist, but mostly a bunch of Quaker church ceremonies as part of my schooling. And the biggest spiritual influence of all was reading about Buddhism and about pre-Socratic philosophies (which I often compared to Buddhism, especially the Epicurean school). 

The rational approach, at least for the two of us, seemed to come from a need to explain our sense of holiness. If someone notices a heaviness or lightness in the air, they might search the trees or the skies or look to a nearby river to try to find the cause. We were doing something similar on a spiritual and emotional level. We sensed something. Where was a source?

That's why it was such a disappointment for Michael to finally admit, "I guess there's no rational reason to believe in God."

I remember feeling a slight sense of shock. I hadn't expected to convert him. I'd helped with a conversion before but with a girlfriend. That's suspicious because of all the love and affection and trying to please each other. With a religiously-oriented friend, even a good friend, I had no reason to expect it. And I had no reason to be suspicious of it. 

The next day, when I saw Michael, he seemed depressed. But non-belief can affect people like that. It had depressed me, at first. We discussed the lack of God for a little while that day but I didn't see any reason to try to talk him out of his mood. He had to come to terms with non-belief in his own way. 
 
When we ate dinner together, Michael remained quiet. He didn't want to debate. Then, almost abruptly, I didn't see him for two days. Eventually, at another dinner with friends in the cafeteria, he said he wanted to talk. Almost immediately, before we even walked out of the dorms on our hike across campus, he revealed that he believed in God again.

"Eric, he came to me," Michael said. "He was a sturdy older man, sort of, with a flowing white beard and a voice. And the voice talked to me. I could feel Him. I felt His presence."

"Okay," I conceded. Rationality was not going to win over such a personal, powerful experience. "So really, you still believe."

"Sorry, I thought it was rational. But it's more than that. I can feel God."

We walked in silence for a while. 

"Fair enough," I said. And we started talking about black and white photography and whether it was really art. It was easy to talk with him. 

#

Conclusion

Michael converted back to his beliefs after a few days. Other friends lasted longer, some more than twenty years. But I think everyone I knew who converted from a form of Christianity to atheism has since converted back to the sort of Christianity they'd grown up with. 

Because I was young and fervent, maybe, I could seemingly help people convert themselves. But I think, in almost everyone, conversions are unlikely to last. There's no good way to measure it historically, but I suspect that thousands of years ago, maybe two to five percent of people were non-believers in their local religion. It's a rational thing to be. But more than being rational, it's an underlying judgement of people, a basic sense of experience. You have to determine whether or not other people might be fooling themselves. No one wants to die. Therefore, people might fool themselves about it. And nowadays, it's probably the same two to five percent making essentially the same judgement.

I'm sure the self-reporting has changed. In the middle ages, you might not want to come out and say everyone else is wrong. In the early days of Rome, you might not want to risk your life by saying Zeus is a figment of everyone's imagination. You might keep your opinion to yourself. But I suspect that, throughout the ages and throughout the religions, the proportions of doubters is roughly the same. 

Not Even Not Zen 445: Biomythography - Note 151, No One Converts, Pt. 2

Biomythography 151
No One Converts, Part II

Here, roughly, are the arguments for belief in God as written by Thomas Aquinas. I remember these not as the starting point of the conversation between Michael and I, nor the end, but as a mid-point of sorts. We spent considerable time walking and talking about these concepts, the way you do when you're trying to solve the universe and you're nineteen years old.

**Argument from the First Mover** — posits that there must be an initial source of motion that itself was not moved.

This is a misunderstanding of physics (just think of virtual particles, which appear wherever they want and do whatever they want until they bump into something) and it fails on the initial look, even without physics. If there's a first movement, great. There's no need for a god involved, just a first movement. I mean, what makes God move? Is he finally getting up to change the channel?

Beyond that, it's a lack of calculus. Aquinas objects to infinity because it's infinite and, to him, it can't add up to anything, which is absurd. Well, the objection is absurd itself — not everything needs to add up — and anyway calculus shows us that many infinities do reach a knowable total. On all fronts, this is the worst of arguments, and I've heard plenty of other bad arguments (including one where two people agreed at increasing volume until one stormed out of the room).

**Argument from Universal Causation** — everything that exists has a cause, leading to a first cause, which is God.

Ugh, this is the same as the first argument wearing a mustache and hoping we won't notice. Michael pretty much had to acknowledge the duplication. Also, even as a six-year-old, I could ask, "Well, what caused God?" — which is the kind of question six-year-olds are by nature required to ask, right after "why." 

**Argument from Contingency** — because things exist that could "not exist," there must be a necessary being that causes existence.

Yeah, you could "not exist" instead of existing. Buddhists would say, in fact, your existence is an illusion. You don't actually exist. Conan the Barbarian had an answer to that, which was basically, "fine." Aquinas was definitely not comfortable with such an answer.

Aquinas would have hated the Multiverse Theory in physics. Non-existence, ephemeral existence, and multiple potential existences are all accepted explanations, nowadays.

**Argument from Degree** — varying degrees of qualities (like goodness) imply the existence of a perfect being as their source.

This is stolen from Plato's ideal forms, which isn't an argument against the concept, but the idea itself isn't an argument for anything. That there are degrees of qualities we perceive ("Whoa, this chair is even more green than the couch!") is part of our sensory perception, plus our ability to assign qualities and idealize them.

It's a good argument for humans being interesting. It's not an argument for holiness, except maybe for the delicacy of our perceptions being awe-inspiring.

**Teleological Argument** (the watchmaker argument) — order and purpose in the world indicate a designer.

I find this one the most compelling. As humans, we make things. It's very nearly our defining characteristic, second only to complaining about the things someone else made. It's natural for us to look at a hammer and think about its creator. We tend to imagine creators whether there are any or not — is this stone a tool? Did someone shape it? For sure, it's comforting to think about creations and the purpose of them, and to imagine ourselves, and humanity as a whole, as having a purpose rather than just being a ambitious species of ape that discovered fire and never really calmed down.

Being created for a purpose is a pleasing idea. It doesn't look like it's true, but it's attractive to me because I think our senses of purpose and shared imagination are what enabled us to built civilizations.

Not Even Not Zen 444: Biomythography - Note 150, No One Converts, Pt. 1

Biomythography 150

No One Converts, Part I

They say there’s no point in trying to convince anyone about religion. No one ever converts. Except they do, sometimes.

When I was in college and believed deeply and fervently in my version of atheism, I was always happy to talk. I could go on and on about it. I thought I could convince anyone, really, if they were interested in the truth. Atheism isn't comforting at first but it is a truth and it's a gateway to more important truths. So I was always interested in finding like-minded life explorers.

It's important to have friends with views opposed to yours. Nevertheless, it establishes a bond of friendship to go on a mental journey together, to search for the truth, as much as friendships happen during a physical journey. Literature is full of stories about heading abroad to accomplish a common mission. It's the plot of the Dirty Dozen, O Brother Where Art Thou, Lord of the Rings, and many others. The theme of going on a mission to resolve a coherent philosophy isn't as popular. But, for friendship, it's still as good.

Here's the thing: if you're raised in a Jesuit school, like my friend Michael, and you take philosophical debate seriously, you're a good candidate for the mental journey. And if you're raised by a philosophy major father and you read a lot of his library out of boredom, it's much the same; you’re a good candidate. Together, Michael and I tended to drift from talking about food at the dining table to talking about philosophy.

We were the philosophy geeks at our college, often to the surprise and annoyance of others at our table. Finally, Michael proposed that we set aside time for better discussion

“You like rationality,” he said. “Well, I can describe a rational proof of God.”

I had heard them all, I thought. I had not only been raised on Aristotle, Plato, the pre-Socratics, Dogun, D.T. Suzuki, Paul Reps, and Alan Watts but I had decided on my own to invest in books like Critiques of God. Still, I had to admit there might be arguments or demonstrations of divinity I had missed.

Instead of dominating dinner conversations because we couldn’t shut up about our beliefs, we waited. After dinner, we walked the halls of our dorm and talked about the logic of a philosopher in the Catholic church, Thomas Aquinas. After a couple evenings like that, Michael grew impatient with the people around us. He didn't like the constraints of the dorms. Traveling from wing to wing meant passing through the bathrooms.

The next week, after dinner or late classes, we hiked on the sidewalks between the campus dorms. Our conversations grew longer and more detailed. We roamed farther. We marched from the sidewalks to the dirt paths and outlying roads, talking. We strolled in the purple dusk of sunset. We debated under cloudy skies and next, under a clear, cold starlight. Within two weeks, our debates lasted so long we had to do laps around the campus.

We were true believers. And in a religious sense, our talks were exciting. I didn’t always have immediate answers for Michael's questions. Sometimes I had to think for so long I would put off an answer until our next walk. Michael did, too, because I posed questions of my own and gave answers he didn't seem to expect. For my part, at least, I was inexperienced in such a deep level of debate. And surprised to have the friendship of such an earnest seeker for the truth.

After the first few days I started to recognize every twist and turn in the arguments of Thomas Aquinas. I knew Michael had found them convincing. They were ancient reasonings, though, and had been thoroughly refuted in the ages since. I had, years before, educated myself on some of the logical refutations and added my own notes.

Michael found Pascal's wager someone compelling, too - or at least enough to try it on me. But it wasn't a wager I would make myself. There's no particular logic against it other than my judgement that it's a pointless guess and morally suspect. We both agreed, actually, that God probably wouldn't be too flattered by someone believing in Him for an "eh, why not" sort of reason.

Interestingly, it was my own thoughts that seemed the most compelling to Michael, just as his personal views on a very personal God were the most moving for me. Our logic wasn't pointless - it was the way we both worked as we tried to make sense of our lives - but every logical system has to ground itself on judgements and observations about the world. Some of our observations weren't the same.

“I can feel God,” he said one night as we turned a corner in the road near the Enfield Mods. He stretched out is arm, almost pleading. “Can’t you?”

“I do feel something,” I admitted. For me, it was a sense of calling beyond humanity and even beyond life itself. It was a nebulous sensation but it was there, a duty to humankind, a sense of holiness around me.

In fact, the sensation of holiness was a driver in my search for the truth. In some ways, I was looking for an explanation for why I felt it.

(to be continued)

Not Even Not Zen 443: Biomythography - Note 149, People or Politics

People or Politics

We were socializing over the sort of game that doesn’t take much attention. We had time to discuss politics.

This was in college. Half of us were guests in a group living arrangement called the Prescott Mods that always looked to me like the sort of condos you would find around a ski lodge. The buildings had high-angled metal roofs. Inside them, the many-bedroom units were spacious and, despite the college furnishings and modular furniture, they felt comfy. Our discussions about politics tended to fill the common areas. Everyone walking through joined in for a little while. Our concepts remained idealistic, of course. I'd assumed we had all worked jobs for a few years, at least, but we were still young enough for us to imagine every political system functioning if people wanted it.

The ‘if people wanted it’ problem was larger than anyone knew. It is, essentially, the most serious problem in economics. Most of the fiscal judgments that appear to be about math are really about incentives and other estimations of human nature. But our judgments of other people were about what one might expect from college students.

“Communism does work,” a young man said from the sidelines. He hadn't joined the board game. He was a roommate on his way to the kitchen. His political contribution came from his experiences in his previous year, which he had spent in communal living. “Just because the Soviets are corrupt doesn’t mean the Czechs are corrupt. Or the Chinese. They're making things work.”

Across from me, my friend Al made a skeptical sound. He thought America was full of crooks. And we all, everyone around the table and elsewhere around the room, thought the Soviets were corrupt. The Chinese government seemed idealistic but also full of power-mad people at the top who were happy to murder one another and sometimes kill swathes of their own countrymen.

“It sort of works,” a couple of us allowed. I snuck a peek at my game cards.

“But it assumes people are honest,” Al commented. "That's the flaw."

At some point during our game, we ended up in a half-hour argument about capitalism, specifically the part where it eventually curdles into monopolies, like milk left out on the counter of Free Enterprise. Then we tried to tackle socialism, except nobody at the table could actually agree on what socialism was, which did not stop half the young men from having extremely strong opinions about it. This is, I believe, a requirement for being a college student: you must be prepared to argue passionately about things you cannot coherently define.

Eventually it dawned on me that the real design flaw in every political system ever invented is the people running it. Specifically, their tendency to get corrupted, which is basically a law of human nature on par with a law of physics.

This, I decided, is probably why the United States has muddled through as well as it has. It showed up to the philosophy party before capitalism, socialism, and communism brought in the serious drugs and ruined the nation-building vibe. Humanity had already spent several thousand years watching leaders get corrupted, so the founders had time to think about that part of things. And that's maybe the most important part. The political theories that came after our founding seem to operate on the assumption that people are rational and well-intentioned, which is an assumption I would not make about my best friends, let alone a large government.

Even today, actual functioning countries are basically political system smoothies - a blend of everything, yes, but with one of the main ingredients still being 'try to stop people from being terrible.'

As I sat with my friends, I had a sudden vision, as I often had back then, of moving parts, of organizations in action, and of the people in and around them. I realized I could make any political system work. It didn't matter if I had to implement communism, capitalism, socialism, anarchy (so popular then among teenagers), theocracy, or pretty much any other thing. The system didn't matter.

It was always about the people. Which, frankly, explains a lot.

If I had the right people, I could form a business. I could form a tribal government; run a farm; do anything constructive I wanted to do. What's more, the right people were always the same people. They're the people who will make any system function because they're hard workers who are willing to be responsible for themselves and others.

And I knew who they were. I built a list in my head with Al's girlfriend, Donna, at the top. The list totalled four or five people at most. That, I found discouraging. I could add a few others who weren't the right people, exactly, but who wouldn't go against the team effort. They could work under the influence of the great souls. The list grew to eight or nine people.

But for the ones who mattered most, there were at best five people out of the (roughly) thousand I knew.

In contrast, I was aware there are people who excuse themselves from responsibility under any system. They cause any politics to fail and die in corruption. I thought those were rare, maybe one or two out of a hundred. But that estimate made the great souls even more rare than the selfish ones. I tried not to think about those proportions.

I focused on the list and what it meant. It's the people, not the politics, that make efforts succeed or fail. Good people - not just well-intentioned ones, but folks actively working and doing good deeds - were at the root of every success I'd heard about. With good souls, I knew I could build any organization.

About a minute later, I realized it would probably all fall apart in the next generation. Any system that depended on good people driving it would fall apart on the next regression to the mean, on the tendency of children not to be quite like their parents.

The progeny of saints are not saints themselves.

So while it was obvious that a society built on good people is a good idea — right up there with "exercise more" and "stop eating the entire sleeve of Oreos" — I circled back to a slightly less comfortable realization: a well-run society can't just hope everyone behaves. It has to actively lean on people. It needs to reward the good citizens, ideally with something better than a certificate of appreciation. It needs to punish the bad ones. It probably needs public shaming. And corporal punishment, maybe, for people who can't be shamed but the society doesn't want to outright kill.

Basically, a society has to do all the awkward, unglamorous things that every successful nation has always done. Corruption, of course, never fully goes away — it's less a problem you solve and more a raccoon you continually manage — but in the early days of any effort, before the checks and balances are in place, success really comes down to the people involved. The quality of the people determines the quality of the victory.

It's a concept that could be deeply inspiring or deeply terrifying, depending on who you're standing next to at the time. For me back then, it was inspiring.
 

Not Even Not Zen 442: Biomythography - Note 148, Equations of the Sun

Equations of the Sun

It was a homework assignment. My professor was the curly-haired Herbert Bernstein. He liked to stride across the front of the classroom with chalk in his hand, and sometimes with both hands behind his back. As he thought about the assignment, his face broke out in a wide smile.

He turned and finished his set of equations on the chalkboard. Although we were only a couple weeks into his quantum mechanics course, I was finding his enthusiasm to be infectious. This was my favorite class.

"These are what we see, roughly, coming out of our nearest star, the sun," he told us. His eyes swept the room. He swiveled and tapped the slate next to what he'd written. "According to our best measurements, here it is. These are the results of whatever is going on in there."

"Nothing more?" someone asked, the young, blonde man who had dropped out of Princeton and returned to college here.

"Nothing of significance," Herb put his hands behind his back. He shrugged. "This is pretty much it. So your homework is to explore. Tell me, with equations, what you think is going on inside the sun to produce these results on the surface."

Dutifully, I copied the results. As I did, I started thinking backwards. What was the previous reaction step? Or really, what were the set of previous reactions that would produce this? Some of them could be simple. Maybe most of the results came from hydrogen and helium. The odds and ends in the equations could come from the traces of other light elements reacting in the plasma.

Next to me, one of my classmates, a young woman who spoke up with keen questions, pulled back her kinky blonde hair and jotted the assignment down on her page more quickly than I did. When she finished, she slapped her pencil down. She noticed me staring at her and flashed me a smile. I put my head down for a few seconds, embarrassed, and checked my equations.

It was my first semester at Hampshire College.

I'd made a few acquaintances but no close friends yet. And since I had a routine of working late into the night and getting up early to exercise, I could make lots of time for homework, especially writing. I was working on a novel, bit by bit. I was composing notes for my Division I linguistics paper. Naturally, I spent an hour on the equations for the interior chemical reactions of the sun. In fact, I spent another block of time on the problem on Saturday morning.

On Sunday, the young woman from my quantum mechanics class found me as we were passing through the halls. It was an odd chance, very welcome, but I had thought she didn't live near me. In our conversation, I found I was mostly right. She revealed her room was two floors up and two sections north of me, although conveniently we were both in the Dakin building.

“Did you make any progress on the homework?” she asked. The light in the hall was dim. It made her golden hair seem browner, but her blue eyes shone.

“Yeah.” I thought about where I had given up. I had not been able to make my forward-looking solution and backward-looking solution join together. “But it doesn’t quite balance.”

“Let’s meet up and go over it.” She gave me a determined look, based on the slight crease in her brow, but with a hopeful, uncertain grin beneath. It seemed like a challenge.

I had been thinking of her as the bright girl. She was smart and fairly quick-witted. She spoke in a feminine but slightly rough voice. For the first time, in the hall with her, I really looked at her upturned nose and her freckles and thought about how cute she was. She would later tell me she hated the bump in her nose although, if she had one, it was essentially invisible. As far as her freckles, she would tell me she hated them. She never told me she hated being smart. That, I think she felt good about.

In the afternoon, we sat down together and got out our notebooks. On hers, she had written a few lines. She appeared to have lost interest early. Maybe she figured out quicker than I did that we didn't have much of a sense of direction, in our group, about the chemical reactions in plasma even though we had spent most of a class on them.

So far, I had filled three pages with equations and maybe a sixth of another. I had given up, too, when I had gotten enough sense of the bigger problem. I had started to develop opinions about how the output from the sun should theoretically appear. I was able to contrast it with how the results actually appeared and see a significant gap. I suspected something was wrong with our starting point. Everyone was sure about the starting point, apparently, because we knew the proportions of elements in our sun, but I was starting to guess our picture had to be wrong somehow - or at least incomplete.

"Explain this," said the young woman. She put a finger down on the second step in my equations.

Line by line, we stepped through my work in the first two pages. She listened to my thinking. Twice, she jotted down notes in her own notebook. She checked my math. When she reached the middle, she tapped her chin. She sat, lost in her thoughts for a moment.

With awkward smiles and confusing body language, we said goodbye before dinner. On Monday, we met again in our quantum mechanics class. There, I discovered how little I had written compared to another student, the blonde young man who had dropped out from Princeton. He had returned to academics here at Hampshire College. He had filled page after page, nearly twenty pages, before he gave up getting the reactions to balance between the starting elements and the finished products. He seemed consumed by the project. However, he was kind enough to read my work a little and see I had tried a different direction, which seemed to frustrate him, please him, and make him want to resume. He really wanted Professor Bernstein to reveal the answer.

"There is no answer yet," Herb Bernstein told us. "No one has solved this."

That made everyone a little happier with how far we had gotten. This wasn't a trivial problem.

"The important part," Herb continued, "Is the thinking about it. The question of particle reactions in our sun is an interesting one. I think we can all see the math doesn't work out. Either it's tremendously complicated, more than humans can do, or there's something we don't know. And I think there's something we don't know."

Our classmate from Princeton seemed frustrated but he obviously felt happier, too, and more relaxed. I think he was discovering that he hated required courses and the pressure of exams but he actually liked learning. He loved the process.

I think I was coming to the same sort of understanding. When all the external forces and distractions were removed, as they mostly had been at Hampshire, I loved to learn. I wanted to figure out solutions to problems. And I wanted to make things.  

Not Even Not Zen 441: Biomythography - Note 147, Competitive Writing

Competitive Writing

The class was advertised as creative writing. We auditioned with stories about ‘an egg,’ each no more than five hundred words long. Everyone got the same story prompt for the audition. It was a decent way to limit class size. A year earlier in my quantum mechanics class, the professor let everyone attend. After two weeks, he enrolled everyone who hadn't given up. But in the arts, Hampshire College classes had to proceed differently. A professor couldn’t let a hundred students carry in their manuscripts about alienation, rain, childhood trauma, and eggs and then hope only twenty would stay.

Lynne Hanley, our newest writing professor at the college, had to know writing classes were the most popular type of course on campus. Even if she had been willing to punish herself with yards of typewritten manuscripts weekly, there were factors to consider like 'how many students will fit into this room?' For a host of practical reasons, including fire codes, Lynne had to impose a limit.

Submitting audition stories struck me as better than holding a lottery. Maybe I felt that way because I had already lost a class lottery. And with the auditions, I got in.

On the first day, the professor asked me to read my audition piece aloud. This was alarming, due to my previous writing class experiences. Those were workshops wherein the operating philosophy was: no sentence should survive. Students would go through a manuscript line by line as if they were members of a special literary police unit. Sometimes it was helpful. Sometimes it was a competitive sport. Sometimes, students would find flaws in great writing not because the sentences and paragraphs weren't strong but because finding flaws was what we were supposed to do. I think it felt even-handed, to some.

But this time, people liked the story. There was even a small burst of applause, the academic equivalent of being told by surgeons that they see no immediate reason for concern. I relaxed. At the end of the class, after the readings and discussions had finished, I thanked everybody and said I would keep their comments in mind when revising.

Professor Hanley's eyes widened.

"Oh, I almost forgot," she said. "We will not be doing revisions in this class."

For a moment, I opened my mouth to object. But that was me trying to stick up for the force of my habits. Writing and endless revision went together like college and debt, to my mind. I'd been trained to believe every piece of writing must be polished until it glowed like a jewel or it caught fire from the friction and burned the author's house down.

As the next couple of weeks went by, I started to understand the system. This class emphasized first drafts and momentum. Instead of spending six geological eras polishing one paragraph, we wrote new things. It was strange, but it was good. Compared to the earlier writing classes I'd taken at a faraway university, at Hampshire, and at Amherst, Lynne Hanley's class was speedier and more productive. The Hampshire writers remained enthusiastic, too. They were willing to work, including doing the kinds of work - and the sheer amounts - it takes to improve.

In the fourth class, though, Professor Hanley said we would do something different.

"Someone in our class has been writing songs," she said. "And I think we should listen to some of his writing and give him comments in the way writers do."

Inwardly, I winced at the announcement. I had written songs for high school and college garage bands but I knew I wasn't good at the arrangements. In my head, the instrumentation and harmonies sounded wonderful. On the page, I gave up. I couldn't make enough sense out of the musical notation. Nor, for that matter, could I play five or six instruments - and certainly not at once. Songwriting, I knew, was not just poetry with a guitar leaning against it. It required additional powers. It was the difference between being able to hammer one board into another and being personally responsible for the plumbing, wiring, roofing, windows, and whatever else it takes to make sure a house doesn't fall over.

After class, a couple of students and I talked about this development.

"You know his father," one young woman said, and she named someone famous. He was a musician whose songs I hadn't heard and yet, she was right, I knew his name. He was famous.

The other student reacted as college students do when celebrity brushes the outer edge of campus life.

"That's amazing," she said.

It was, in a way, but it didn't encourage me. Maybe our song-writing student would be relatively expert. But maybe not. Also, he might be self-indulgent and overly forgiving of his own flaws. I had known a few children of successful people. Some of them seemed driven to achieve great things, which was interesting, but some seemed to assume they had already achieved them, which was not.

The next time, as I walked toward the room in Prescott where our writing class met, I remembered I was going to listen to songs. I prepared myself emotionally to hear something terrible. I assumed there would be at least one major defect: clumsy lyrics, awkward melody, embarrassing instrumentation, or the general unfinished quality common to art made by people who are, after all, still teenagers and do not yet command a full studio orchestra with backup singers working for union scale.

After we took our seats, Professor Hanley started the class normally. We reviewed a brief slate of stories. Then she nodded to a dark-haired young man. He pulled out a boombox. After some problem with the power cord, which had gotten disconnected as people shuffled around during class, the fellow pressed play.

His song came out. And it was a finished one. Not "promising." Not "interesting." Finished. He had laid down tracks in a studio, somehow. This was not a guy strumming uncertainly to a single tape recorder in his dorm room. This was finished work. Within about a minute I realized I was not remotely qualified to critique the arrangement. I could barely scribble out partial versions of vocals and strum a few chords.

I strained to listen to the lyrics closer. Those, at least, I would be comfortable with. But it's hard to criticize words you can’t discern. And mostly, I couldn't. Lyrics on a recording do not line up neatly on a printed page. They do not give you a chance to scan ahead or return to an earlier verse to review a line again.

Abruptly, the young man pressed the stop button on the boombox. The song was over. What could I say? I didn't have even token criticism in mind. And then all the class poured in and gushed with praise.

As usual, I felt like I should pick through the words with a comb as if this had been any other piece of fiction writing from the class. But I realized, well, my response was mostly just my old habits. I was trying to do what I had usually done. With some relief, I saw everyone else was going to discuss the song. It was a good song. Maybe I could just shut up.

Sometimes when I need to be quiet or to be patient, I practice meditation. This wasn’t one of those times. I really was just trying to shut up. And maybe not be so competitive. I was growing aware I should not always try to re-write a poem or a song in my head. Mostly, for a few minutes, I practiced shutting up and trying to get with the supportive culture of Hampshire College.

Not Even Not Zen 440: Biomythography - Note 146, In Common

In Common

I stepped through the doors, first in line.

"Go on," said Roberta. The brown haired woman tilted her head to the stairs. With her not-yet-used hole punch in her left hand, she waved me through.

I was on the minimum meal plan at the Hampshire College dining commons, so I was usually hungry by dinner. Roberta knew it. She let me go through without punching my meal ticket about half the time if I was among the first to report. That way, she let me eat a few lunches during the week.

Every time she punched my ticket at lunch, it seemed to make her happy.

I put the meal pass back into my wallet and turned down the steps to the front-kitchen meal line. Unfortunately, I already knew from the eye-watering odors that I wasn't going to find anything I liked. There are only three things worse than eating a skunk, I guess, and those are: cooked squash, cooked eggplant, and cooked carrots. When carrots are raw, they're pretty good, so it's astonishing how they are transformed into a force for evil by the act of cooking.

Possessed by chaos spirits, the chefs had added carrots to otherwise fine spaghetti.

Tray in hand, I marched around to the back kitchen in the hope there would be something tasty and hot. The attendant waved me in. He gave me a big smile as I picked up a plate of spinach pie. (Other students called it spanikopita.) Then I smelled the pie. It reeked. I put the plate back where I'd gotten it. I crouched and squinted.

The pie was spinach and squash. Inedible.

A few minutes later, I found a place in the middle room of the dining commons. One drawback of arriving early was that I sat alone. A benefit, though, was I sat alone - sometimes with my writing pad or a paperback.

I was staring off into space, not writing, when a short, cute woman poked her head through the middle room doors. She spied me, gave an uncertain smile, and made a decision. She stepped in.

“Mind if I sit here?”

"Not at all!" 

She lived on the hall near my girlfriend. Her name was Annette. All I knew about her so far was she seemed smart, funny, and a little shy.

She started talking before she sat down. I tried to move a chair for her. She pulled up another. Her conversation seemed to come in bursts, each carefully measured, like leveled tablespoons of complete thoughts. When she gave me room to respond, she laughed at my responses. Her dark eyes seemed to sparkle.

To my dismay, Annette carried a plate of the forbidden spaghetti on her tray. She ignored it and took a sip of her drink. She eyed my peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

"Why aren't you eating the dinner?" she asked.

I looked at the carrots in the marinara sauce. At this point in life, I sat quietly in meditation an awful lot and I didn't think I needed to use words, so I just gazed at carrots more meaningfully. You could smell them in the sour red sauce all over the dining commons.

“Well?” She indicated my sandwich with her water glass.

"Can't you tell how bad it is?" I replied after a few seconds.

She tilted her head to one side for a moment. She could smell it all right. She just hadn't thought it was as bad as I did. She chatted a while longer, hands pursed together. Her wit about her classes, professors, and life in general made me laugh. Finally, she picked up her fork.

"Wow." She chewed for a moment and, as if determined to prove me wrong, she swallowed. She looked me in the eye the whole time. I gagged a little as I imagined the taste. "Yeah, that's bad."

"The salad bar is the best thing in the dining hall." Today, I felt particularly strongly about it.

She waved her arm and continued her thoughts on politics. I liked her gestures, graceful and quick. But her sarcastic opinions and general smart-assedness were even better. She paused at the finish of a complete thought and gazed down at her plate.

"I've never tasted spaghetti this bad," she observed. She gave her food a sort of disappointed smile and she was off again, conversationally, this time back to life in the dorms. As she described hanging out with her friends, I started to hope, just maybe, that I would fit in with them. They sounded great.

To my surprise, Annette stirred up another forkful of spaghetti, complete with a carrot. While checking me out to see if I was staring in horror, as I was, she popped it into her mouth. Again, she chewed - this time, slower.

"It really is awful." She frowned.

I stared in astonishment. She had eaten the cooked carrot.

"If you don't mind my asking." I put down my sandwich. "After you said it was bad the first time, why did you take a second bite?"

She barked out a laugh.

"To make sure I was right?" Her eyes sparkled. She got me laughing about this, too. "I couldn't quite believe it."

She stirred the spaghetti a third time.

"Fuck this," she said. She put down her fork. "I'm going to go make a peanut butter and jelly or something. Save my place?"

For the cutest smile and sharpest wit around? I would have been happy to wait as long as I could sit still. Longer, really, since that usually wasn’t enough. 

"Sure!"

And when she walked away, I felt instantly bereft. Sometimes I felt lonely in the dining hall. This was a little like that but this time accompanied by a feeling of warmth, as if I could feel the layer of affection that underlies the world.

 

Not Even Not Zen 439: Poem - A Line of Children

A Line of Children 

Gently, I eased my car past a line of children
on a wide, white sidewalk in the city.
Each of them held to a colored rope as they walked.
A woman at each end of the line, front and back, 
hovered near, mother hens watching over 
their row of baby chicks.

And suddenly I was in a different age.

I was standing on a wide concrete deck,
like the wide sidewalk but at the edge of a pool.
Shielding my eyes from the harsh sun,
breathing in the chlorinated fumes.
I was wondering where my nephew Julian was.
The women watching him in the pool, 
how did they lose track of him? 

He was four years old. Four.

He was an articulate boy, a little shy, 
a gentle soul. He was kind to other children,
willing to share but happy to play alone,
a quiet touch with adults, and a great admirer 
of his cousin, my oldest son.

I remember the looks he gave my son.
his short, nimble fingers, his gestures,
his deep eyes, his walk, his smile.
Julian was going to be a great person.

This year, he would have been twenty-eight.




 - Eric Gallagher

Not Even Not Zen 438: Biomythography - Note 145, Getting the Job, Pt. 2

Getting the Job, Pt. II

My wife had needed a lot of support from me as she started her career. It took me four years of paying for her school, our house, and her hiring process for her to qualify for a full time gig. But after the big push, she had returned a lot of support for my job progress, too. It was how we lived - it's how a lot of families live. 

As soon as I started at the NIH, I was forced to accept a long commute. Ninety minutes, less or more depending on the weather, sitting in traffic developing middle-aged back pain. We got no paid lunch, so I spent twelve hours away each day including the car trips. Sometimes I spent more time from home when I stopped by the gym on my return. My wife supported my exercise - within the limits imposed on us by being two adults who needed to drive their children to events in the evenings.

Diane even encouraged me to try mock interviews as I applied for the new CIO job. She accompanied me when I made my appointments in the Hood College Career Center.

I'd worked at Hood College for six years. I had started, in fact, as the only computer programmer in the Career Center, one of four programmers on campus. It had been more than a decade since Hood but there was no doubt about the strength of the relationship. Even though most of my old friends there had moved on, the staff understood me as a former employee. They had heard about me working with their office to create their first two Internet sites. Now they were happy to help.

"How old are you?" said my mock interviewer, a woman who seemed unreasonably young. She dressed smartly in a gold-and-silver pantsuit. But when I was a graduate student, the staff had been older than me.

"Forty-five," I said.

"Perfect." She rapped her note cards against the table top. The cards were how she had been reminding herself of the interview questions. "That's the perfect age to move into leadership."

The concept escaped me but, when I met with Diane after the mock interviews, my wife heard the same statement. She turned to me and said, "Of course."

It was all part of her teamwork. On the way home, we talked about the concept of a promotion 'for the family.' We discussed it with the kids over dinner, even though they had no idea what was going on. We wanted them to understand the expensive suits. And the stakes. I practiced my interviewing in front of the kids in the hope they would learn something about the process.

Finally, the second interview rolled around. I drove down to the main NIH campus in Bethesda. On a large campus, it's easy to underestimate the time spent in marching from place to place. It's easy to get hot when hiking in a suit, too. After a mile or so, I wandered the halls of Building 31, lost, but cooling down, physically and mentally. I had plenty of time. When I arrived at the NCCAM offices, glass-walled and beautiful for a federal administrative space, the suite reminded me of the glass-walled meeting room where I'd had my first interview for this job

For half a minute, I talked with the receptionist. She directed me to the meeting room, where a woman in a suit stood facing the glass walls, studying the table. Even from behind her, I recognized she was my prospective boss. I had finally figured out which one she was. As I approached, she turned toward me. She did a double-take when she recognized me. She paused for a moment, stunned, and then beamed.

"You cleaned up well!" she exclaimed.

"Thanks." I put out a hand to meet hers as she reached to shake. "Sorry I was so tired last time. I had just finished a three day sprint of fixing a firewall. And I had to come right to the interview."

"Tell me about that." She glanced me up and down as if to make sure I'd dressed as well as it first appeared. "You were the Acting Deputy CIO?"

"Oh, yeah." I nodded. That had been an unofficial title but the work had been very real. I had done the job. there was no point in being modest about it now. I had accomplished projects at the NIH leadership level. In fact, I was known for it among the IT staff. My boss was not really in the computer business, though, so I needed to impress her with what I’d done.

We spoke for a few minutes. Then her deputy came to meet us. To both of them, but especially to my new boss, I tried to point out my advantages. In my roles at other institutes, I had learned how to do the CIO job in all respects except budget. I could launch into my work and produce visible progress from the first day. 

“What experience do you have with data calls?”

“Lots.” That was an easy question. Federal data calls got passed down to me a half-dozen times a year. 

Such higher-level requests hadn't existed when I started at the NIH - or at least they hadn't made it to the labs. One year, the HHS asked for a few spreadsheets. Next, the NIH got the idea to ask. Now everyone in IT around the clinic and labs spent a lot of time reporting upstream. 

I automated my reports when I could. Mostly, federal data calls involved spending, just stacks of columns without context, basically unusable for making decisions. However, lately you had to know the reasons for the spending, too, and write about them. Even some computer technicians didn't understand the difference between a 4-port firewall meant to protect a medical instrument and a 256-port firewall-switch meant to protect a block of labs. So the number of people who could report competently on everything was small. 

"The data calls have been taking up almost two full time people from my staff each year," she said. "I mean, it's a team of five, really, but it takes a lot of their time and they sure are complaining."

"That could be ..." I hesitated as I thought and as I wondered how my idea would be received, "because they don't have the right background."

"Yes!" Her voice rose with emphasis. "Exactly."

The discussion proceeded naturally (and energetically) from there. In my last few positions, I had been a member of IT teams with enough staff to share the workload of the data calls. Here, that wouldn't be the case. I was sure I could handle them on my own, though. My main worry was going up against the Deputy CIO (not an Acting title, I noticed) of Fannie Mae. Maybe that person didn't have any NIH experience and couldn't leap into action but I had no control over their prestige or the strengths they might bring to the job. All I knew, in the end, was I'd done well. 

Finally, a week later, I got called in for a follow-up. I wore the second suit. (It was being useful already!) This time, the Executive Officer introduced me to the Director of the Center. The Director had a fair bit to say. She and the EO interviewed me a little more but mostly the Director told me about the direction she was taking and how IT needed to fit into her plans. 

Afterwards, my boss took me outside to tell me that, as I suspected, I'd gotten the job. 

On my drive out of the NIH campus, I stopped at a light and thought about how this had become a family victory. I fumbled with my Blackberry. Diane deserved to know. She would want to hear right away. As I sat at the light, I dialed. My wife picked up after one ring.

"We made it," I said. "I got the job."

"Go team!" Diane shouted.

"Yeah!" Go team, I told myself. Well done, team. I took a deep breath and felt myself relax. Somehow this confirmed not being so taken for granted. I felt more supported as part of our team than ever before.