Of Matters Celestial

By Marilyn Moore

The sun is slipping toward the horizon this afternoon at 4:30, on the eve of the Winter Solstice.  Each day for the past six months, sunrise comes a minute or two later than the day before, and the sun sets a minute or two earlier than the day before.  Barely noticeable from one day to the next, but obvious over the course of several weeks, and in the past ten days or so, it seems darkness is settling in.  Tomorrow will be shortest day of the year.  Coupled with generally colder temperatures, and the first significant snowfall of the year….winter is here.

 

It must have been truly frightening to people who lived thousands of years ago, as they watched the daylight and the warmth of the sun gradually diminish, and with it, the light and warmth upon which they depended to grow crops, to nourish forests and prairies, and to protect themselves from the cold.  If it kept getting darker and colder, life could not sustain.  Rituals and ceremonies and traditions developed around appeasing the gods who controlled the sun and offering gifts to the gods in supplication for the return of the sun.

 

Those who had lived through many winters knew that the sun would return…the gods would be kind to them, and bring back light and warmth.  Still, even with the wisdom of the elders for assurance, there was great celebration when the shortening days seemed to stop, and gradually, the daylight advanced, and the dark diminished.  Those celebrations occurred in cultures in all parts of the world, except for those on or near the equator, celebrating the return of light and warmth.

 

Today, of course, we know that it is not a pantheon of angry or unpredictable gods who must be appeased to bring back longer days and warmer temperatures.  We know that the tilt of the Earth in its revolution around the sun results in the seasons of the year.  At the time of the winter solstice, the northern hemisphere is in its tilted position farthest from the sun.  As the Earth continues on it journey around the sun, the relative position of the northern hemisphere to the sun changes, and we experience early sunrises and later sunsets.  

 

This year, of course, we have the added wonder of the conjunction of the planets Jupiter and Saturn, which will occur on the night of the winter solstice.  The two planets have been moving closer together, and tomorrow night, it will appear as if they have merged – creating one incredibly bright star.  You can see it in the low southwest sky, an hour or so after sunset.  Some call it the Christmas Star, because of its proximity to Christmas in the calendar.  This last happened nearly 400 years ago, observed by Galileo, and it last happened at night some 800 years ago. 

 

People have always watched the stars – sailors and explorers used them for navigation, storytellers brought the constellations to life with tales of their formations, and philosophers and dreamers looked to the stars for meaning.  What must those early stargazers have wondered, as they watched the two bright stars come closer and closer together?  Did they fear an explosion?  Did they see it as a sign of an impending disaster, or an impending miracle? 

 

Today, of course, we know that it is neither a disaster nor a miracle.  In fact, we know that what appears to be two planets so close they seem to be one is actually a function of the angle from which we view them; the two planets will be 450 million miles apart – and they will look like they have merged.  (Note:  I’m still trying to wrap my mind around 450 million miles!  And how that distance is measured….)

 

So, the winter solstice is not caused by angry gods, nor is the reversing of diminished light caused by appeasing the angry gods.  We know the cause of the shortest day of daylight, and we know that it will reverse.  The conjunction of the planets is not a sign of doom or miracle; it’s caused by the natural movement of planets in the universe.  But the fact that we know the science that explains these phenomena doesn’t make them any less awesome.  What could be more awesome than knowing that the Earth will continue its revolution around the sun, returning light and warmth to our days and our lives?  What could be more awesome than knowing (knowing!) that Jupiter and Saturn will look like they have merged when they’re 450 million miles (450 million miles!) apart? 

 

The fact that we know it is the most awesome of all, that human minds have begun to understand the Mystery of Mysteries in the universe and beyond…and the questions that are raised from what we know causes us to raise our eyes to all that we do not know…and that is truly awesome.

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Goodnight noises everywhere . . .

 

By Mary Kay Roth

Early this morning, just as Saturday dawn was whispering in my ear, I found my way to a favorite trailhead at Wilderness Park, hiked over miles of paths and meandered through a wonderland of snow-frosted trees.

Then stopped.

Listened to the sounds of quiet.  

And felt the silence settling over me like a blanket of bliss.

The promise of winter was in the air. 

Once upon a time, when winter was threatening to arrive, I moaned and groaned about the long stretches of dark and lonesome. Somehow over the years, something changed.

I love the stillness of winter. I love the darkness.  I love the annual sense of hibernation that stirs the embers of renewal and rebirth.

My dad’s favorite song was Silent Night, and he sang it all 12 months of the year.  I was a newborn who arrived in the spring, but my dad still sang me the sounds of “all is calm, all is bright.”  Now my daughter sings Silent Night to her two daughters as she tucks them under the covers each evening. 

There is indeed something sacred, something holy about silence, slowing the cadence of life’s rhythms and giving your weary brain a break from the day-to-day clamor. 

After this morning’s moment of merciful shush, I found myself wanting more.

I wanted a walk in the woods with nobody to meet.  I wanted to sit in my home, just as the afternoon sun starts to fade and the light is low, stillness all around. I wanted to stand in the silence, comfortable in the calm.

For me, quiet brings essential moments of introspection, grace to nourish my spirit and the rare opportunity to listen to my own heartbeat.  Thump, thump. Yep, I’m still alive and kicking. 

Sometimes, I almost lose track. 

Today we live in the noisiest period of human history with pinging cell phones and squawking alarm clocks, car alarms and leaf blowers, loud TV commercials and even louder sports competition.  The stereo sound systems we now have in our cars are much louder than the sound system the Beatles used for their concerts in the sixties. 

Once upon a time, not so very long ago, we had more space to daydream.  We sat quietly at traffic lights, in physician waiting rooms, in line at the grocery store.  We went for walks without earphones and roamed without GPS to guide us in the “right” direction.

Believe it or not, the Internet did not exist 50 years ago – Google was not around, 25 years ago – and the telephone did not exist 150 years ago.  Yet in  2019, the average cell phone user touched their phone more than 2,600 times per day (double that for millennials).  The average American was exposed to 5,000 ads every 24 hours.  

I had high hopes of a possible silver lining in this pandemic, perhaps easing the jangly busyness of our days.  But in some ways the noise escalated, even intensified, with experts calling out ongoing pandemic death counts,  politicians screaming post-election pandemonium, shoppers facing holiday frenzy on steroids – and the New York Times reporting that antacids are the latest shortage facing Americans.  

I’ll pass on the Tums, thank you. My own personal prescription for release from the migraine-pressure of screeching decibel levels is much simpler:  Give me quiet.  

Research confirms that silence allows our prefrontal cortexes — our brains' “attention centers” — to relax and restore.  But honestly, we don’t need experts to recognize we are desperate for a bit of undisturbed sanctuary. 

One of the most soothing reads I know is the child’s book, Good Night Moon, which concludes with these calm, familiar words: “Goodnight stars, goodnight air, goodnight noises everywhere.”

When asked about the book’s true meaning, author Margaret Brown said: “Quietness is an essential part of all awareness. In quiet times and sleepy times, a child can dwell in thoughts of his own, and in songs and stories of his own.”

Grownups can and need to dwell in quietness as well. Quiet re-introduces us to ourselves, allows us to settle into ourselves, helps us remember our internal songs and stories.

I find my own stories in that hallowed space of stillness ... 

* Standing on the edge of a frozen lake at sunrise and watching the light turn golden.

* At dusk, bundling up and sitting in my front yard as twilight arrives, leaving my cell phone inside.  

* Relaxing in my favorite easy chair, all devices and gadgets off, a dog lounging nearby. 

* Getting lost in the middle of the woods on a winter morning.

Please understand, I don’t hate noise.  True confession, I am an information junkie who appreciates the avalanche of available podcasts and craves constant updates on vaccines, inauguration plans, CNN, NPR, social media prattle.

But on an achingly beautiful weekend like this one – with a soft blanket of snow and the cool, clean advent of winter – perhaps it is time to reclaim our peace and quiet.

Time to put the world on mute.

Time to soothe our souls and savor the silence.  

Time to get lost in the woods. On the prairie.  Around the lake.  In our own backyard.

Time to stand in a circle of quiet. 

And hush. 

Dear Santa Claus

I hope this letter finds you in good health and excited about your upcoming travels later this month. We both know it has been more than half a century since I’ve written to you. Even so, I want to say a long overdue thank you. Because, in spite of my not asking you for anything specific for Christmas in all that time, you have done amazingly well by me, and I am truly grateful.

Some of my fondest memories of Christmas Eves past are of helping Mom carefully prepare plates of cookies and milk for your arrival, and watching my dad bundle up to go out to the corral to put hay out for Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen, and Rudolph. What a thrill it was to see only crumbs left on the plate and a few scattered blades of hay left on the ground on Christmas morning!

My brother, Tom, assures me that he has continued to put that hay out every year at his place. If that is not the case, please leave me a note this year, and I promise to have a talk with him.

I don’t need to tell you, Santa, it’s been a tough year. In the work I do with our local food bank, I see record numbers of people in distribution lines, many of whom would never have imagined finding themselves there. As Christmas approaches, I can only imagine the worry and sadness in their hearts and minds as they look into the faces of their children, parents, friends and loved ones for whom they want to be able to do so much more, but can’t.

But it has also been a beautiful year. I have seen private citizens, nonprofit groups, local businesses and corporations respond with amazing generosity and compassion that truly puts the Human in Humanity.

I know I don’t even need to mention COVID-19 to you, Santa. If it is in your power to put a dose of vaccine in every stocking, or to somehow miraculously eradicate this virus, you will do that without me asking. But for the millions and millions who have lost loved ones, or are still battling the symptoms and impacts of this illness, I will ask you to please do what you can to ease their grief and suffering, even for just one day.

We’re all tired, Santa. Tired in ways we can’t articulate or sometimes even recognize as we keep putting one foot in front of the other and endeavor to be and do our best. So, as wonderful as new sleds, video games, puppies, and warm sweaters are to unwrap and reveal, I think a lot of us would be very happy with a renewed sense of wonder and hope.

You are the Wonder Man, Santa. If anyone can pull this off, it’s you. You can bet there will be a plate of cookies and milk at our house just for you. And I’ll make a trip to the feed store for some cake to put out in the side yard for Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen, and Rudolph.

As for me, if you could just give a special jingle by my window when you stop through, I will have everything I could want. Thank you, Santa, from the bottom of my heart. It’s been a long time, and it’s very nice to reconnect. Safe travels. Watch out for those swarms of Murder Hornets.

Love,

Penny

* * *

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Listening to the Landscape

 by Mary Reiman

There seems to be a "national day" for just about everything.  Important days like National Day of Donuts, Planner Day (for those highly organized) and Face Your Fears Day (oh my heavens, which fears should I try to face?) There are many National Day calendars and websites to find days to celebrate. 

Friday, November 27, was the National Day of Listening. Celebrating the importance of listening! Being a good listener? Paying attention? 

I think they are talking about listening to others, asking if people need a response, an opinion, or a simple nod and offer of support. We could discuss who is the best listener you know or why some don’t listen to the scientists and doctors during this critical time. But I went in a different direction to celebrate National Listening Day. 

As I make the journey from Lincoln to Northwest Iowa, the drive seems to include more alone time than I think I need. Listening to my own thoughts (and fears) swirl around for 4 hours is definitely too much time in my own head. My savior has been audiobooks. 

Blue Highways (William Least Heat Moon) started me on this pathway. “Life doesn’t happen along interstates. It’s against the law.” So I sought the back roads and rolled along those highways, around curves, up and down rolling hills, listening to a variety of stories. It wasn’t long before I found myself entranced in the story line, comparing their experiences to my own, reminding me of the curves, dips, roadblocks and lane closures that affect our lives.  

The curvy roads from LeMars to Sheldon align with the mysteries and suspense, twists and turns in the lives of Atlee Pine (David Baldacci) and Virgil Flowers (John Sandford). Sometimes when I arrive in Milford I have to drive around for a few more minutes to finish a chapter. I know you are nodding your head because you do the same thing!

The beauty of the landscape engages my memory bank.  I arrive at the farm where I grew up. Watching the crops develop from spring to summer to fall this year with my sister as we wandered the countryside waiting to see mom through the nursing home window has conjured up every childhood memory imaginable, especially while listening to Before We Were Yours (Lisa Wingate). “But the love of sisters needs no words. It does not depend on memories, or mementos, or proof. It runs as deep as a heartbeat. It is as ever present as a pulse.”

For many years as I made this journey I forgot to look around. This year with  life seeming more fragile, I have marveled at the lay of the land, the look, feel and texture of the soil. Braiding Sweetgrass (Robin Wall Kimmerer), reminds us to breathe in the life of the plants, our strongest connect with the earth. "The land knows you, even when you are lost."

And as the colors change throughout the seasons, the importance of our diverse lives is ever present as I listen to The Henna Artist (Alka Joshi) and the stories of those who came before us, The Last Hundred (Jim Ellis, narrated by our friend, Tim Tidball). 

For those of you looking for day trips near Lincoln, travel through the gently rolling hills from Lorton to Johnson with You Learn by Living (Eleanor Roosevelt). "If you can develop this ability to see what you look at, to understand its meaning, to readjust your knowledge to this new information, you can continue to learn and grow as long as you live and you'll have a wonderful time doing it."

The cadence, the rhythm, the power of story guides me as I traverse the land contemplating life, liberty, truth, mayhem and the pursuit of happiness.

Listening to the landscape...soothing my soul.  

Whose Truth is it?

By JoAnne Young

Thanksgiving approaches. 

And with it comes the question: What to be thankful for in 2020?

I’d like to say truth. I’m thankful for truth. 

But what truth would we be talking about? Whose truth? Which truth?

I know of a journalist who years ago had “the truth” tattooed onto the inside of his right arm. Noble gesture. As journalists we are seekers of truth. Like, big-T truth. 

But mostly our task has been to sort out whatever smaller truths we can find, because like the Ma Bell monopoly, big-T truth has been broken up. And what we are left with are the wiggly truths: my truth, your truth, his truth, her truth, our truth, their truth. Our job is to question them, turn them inside out, and question them again. And when we think we’ve finished, someone inevitably will say, “Do it again.”

Since I’m not in the mood to be so generous with the truth these days, I’ll just say it’s my truth for which I’m thankful, along with the awareness that even my truth cannot be etched in stone. 

As much as I would like it to be durable, viable and long lasting, it’s not. It’s just not.

I can sit quietly and watch the world and listen, just for an hour, and see the changes. Some of them are hideous, yes. Some of them beautiful. Many, these days, are head spinning. 

I have learned to appreciate the beauty of change through morning walks, visits to the natural world, photography. 

If nature doesn’t feel any obligation to hold onto truth, why would we?

It is true the only constant in life is change. 

You can stand in the soaking light of a sunrise, but only for moments. You can lock your eyes with an owl peering at you from a high branch, but she will quickly tire of you, spread her wings and fly. A flawless black-eyed Susan will grow imperfect in the strain of an autumn day. 

A lot of people don’t like change. I gratefully embrace it. 

I learned early in life that I wasn’t going to live in the same house or the same city or go to the same school very long. It taught me valuable lessons. I may have gotten the difficult education of the highly mobile, but I learned to adjust. And the ability to adjust is one of the best life lessons a person can be given. I thank my parents for that. 

Life is fleeting. 

Sunrises, sunsets, sea creatures and the natural world are fleeting. Youth is fleeting, no matter how beautiful Bob Dylan’s notion is to stay forever young. 

But being courageous, upright and strong in the face of change, we can take a shot at that. 

Truth is transient. I am buoyed by the knowledge that many who are smarter and wiser than me haven’t been able to make it stay put. 

But we still can be thankful for its decisive indecision. 

Seek your truth this Thanksgiving. Hold onto it for however long you can. And when its light fades, be grateful and move on. 

That may be the only Truth we need to know. 

* * *

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To Love the Questions...

By Marilyn Moore

Oh, to be a social studies teacher at this time in history.  The headlines of the day (and the past many months) are what make this former social studies teacher's heart leap for joy and my mind go into overdrive.  So much content, so many questions, so much that is real and of-this-minute in disciplines that sometimes seem dry and removed from real life.  

Take, for example, the concept of "federalism."  Not exactly a hot-button idea, not often discussed, seldom given much thought - until you take a look at the election map that dominated the 24-hour news channels for days.  It wasn't a national map; it was a map of the fifty states.  And the popular vote, while important and engaging, wasn't the figure everyone was watching.  We were watching for the Electoral College figure, which is influenced/determined by the vote of the states, not the national popular vote.  That's what federalism looks like, decisions made by the collective decisions of states.  And social studies teachers everywhere are teaching that concept right now, and most likely posing the question, "What were the founders of this country thinking when they devised this system?"  

"The right to vote" is another great concept my former colleagues are teaching.  It's a right most of us take for granted, and a right, and a responsibility, that this year most of us exercised.  (Except, of course, not everyone has had the right to vote from the beginning.  In fact, this year marks the 100th anniversary of women being able to vote, which was not won until more than 100 years after the founding of this constitutional republic.  And Native Americans followed later.  And even with those constitutional provisions, systematic voter suppression was the law of the land for decades.  Why would that be?  Who benefits from some not being able to vote?) Over 150 million US citizens voted this year, more than ever before in a presidential election.  We sorted through the rules and regulations that govern early voting, voting by mail, voting at the polling place.  We balanced voting with staying safe in a pandemic.  And we wondered about the rules...why are the rules for absentee voting, for example, different in Pennsylvania from those in Texas?  And why do some states vote entirely by mail?  And why are mail-in ballots in some states counted (but not reported) before Election Day, while other states don't start counting those ballots until after Election Day?  Social studies teachers are guiding their students to the concept above, "federalism."

Now that the election is over, and nearly all the votes are counted (though no state is reporting 100% of ballots counted at this point), there's this time of transition.  Social studies teachers are asking students to consider how decisions are being made at this time.  What is law, and what is custom?  And who decides?  And when is it finally all decided?  Who has the last say?  (Hint:  See the above concept, federalism.  It's officially decided when each state's electors cast their ballots, in accordance with their state's laws.) The US prides itself on the peaceful transfer of power at the time of presidential elections.  What does that look like?  What norms and values and customs are part of that picture? 

The important part of these questions is not that teachers are answering them, but that teachers are asking students to consider them.  A questioning mind, a search for information, a robust discussion of the issues and values that are inherent in the questions...that's what social studies teacher help their students develop.  And moments in history such as these are just the best.  

Another question that I suspect teachers are asking students to consider, and that I would pose for all of us to ponder, is about human behavior in times of great turmoil and upheaval.  Living in a pandemic, at the time of a significant presidential election, has been just that - turmoil and upheaval.  We know how much our lives have changed, how much our institutions have adapted, or not, and the impact of those adaptations on our lives.  That's obvious to students, too - school right now is very different from school a year ago.  

The question I think about, a lot, is how people react and respond, and what beliefs and values people's responses reflect.  For those who generally comply with safety measures advocated by public health experts, is it because they value the evidence upon which the measures are based, because they want to protect their own and others' health, because they want the pandemic to end with as little loss of life as possible, or because they generally place the greater good as a higher value than individual freedom?  Or is it some combination of all of the above?  And for those who resist compliance with public health directives, is it because they are brave, because they refuse to live in fear, because they don't like being told what to do, because they place a higher value on individual rights over the greater good, because they don't trust or believe the evidence upon which the directives are based, or some combination of all the above?  

In the case of humans who are confronted with making personal decisions in a pandemic, or in the case of citizens who are confronted with making decisions about a presidential election, the question I find engaging is, "What information, and what values and beliefs, cause people to decide what to do?"  It is not uncommon for people to have the same information at hand, but to make very different decisions about their own behavior, which means information is not the only factor in decisions; values, beliefs, culture, norms, all come into play.  And this discussion is a rich one in a social studies class, where teachers teach students not what to think, but help them develop awareness of their own thinking and inquiry skills into the reasoning behind the collective decisions that nations and communities have made in the past and continue to make today.

The likely development of a safe and effective vaccine against the coronavirus brings another great opportunity for social studies teachers, and for science teachers, too.  From what has been announced, it is likely that such a vaccine will be available in the next few months.  It is also clear that not everyone will be able to receive that vaccine at the moment it is first distributed.  A great question for consideration:  what groups of people should receive the vaccine first?  And who is next, and who after that?  And who is the last?  And related to that string of questions, who decides?  And related to that, should the vaccine be required for some/all people?  For teachers, the important question is the next question, the probing question, the one that says, "Help me understand your thinking on that.  What were you considering when you decided that (name the group) should be the first to receive the vaccine?"  "What's your reasoning for requiring, or not requiring, the vaccine?"  Followed by, "Tell me more about that...."  There's always another probing question in a classroom...it's the best part of teaching and learning.  

And finally, far removed from this world, is another event I hope my former colleagues are considering with their students.  (And yes, I know, there is never enough time for everything, and this one probably isn't in the standards, but it's at the heart of who we are....) A few weeks ago, a probe from a NASA spacecraft touched the asteroid Bennu and collected up to two kilograms of crumbled rock from its surface.  It's a remarkable engineering feat, requiring touching an 11-foot arm from a craft the size of a van to an area the size of a few parking places on an asteroid that is roughly the size of the Empire State Building which is rotating and speeding through space, 200 millions miles from Earth.  And our scientists watched that happen...truly awesome!  Two years from now, if all goes according to plan, that sample of asteroid rubble will be in labs in the US and in other countries, and scientists will have a significant artifact for study of the origins of the solar system and life on Earth. As the scientist Jamie Elsila explained, "This will allow people not yet born using techniques not yet invented to answer questions not yet asked." This, this, is at the heart of all the questions that teachers so carefully frame for students, so that they develop the habits of mind to pose and consider the questions not yet asked.

I know that these conversations, these discussions, are happening every day in classrooms, and I am in awe of the teachers who do this important work.  From the concept of federalism, to the questions of who votes, and why, to the consideration of human behavior in a pandemic, to the questions at the heart of our very existence...these are why teachers do what they do.  And they do so with my great admiration, and my gratitude.  And yeah, I miss it, more than just a little...

 

A letter for my son and daughter …

By Mary Kay Roth 

Joshua and Anna: 

Saturday evening and my phone is exploding during Joe Biden's acceptance speech, as you are both texting with such abundant and abounding joy.  Josh, you have posted a photo of Kamala Harris with the simple, audacious number, "47."  Anna, you have immersed your daughters in a blue bubble bath while chatting with them about becoming vice president someday.

• Everlyn, age 5: "No, I want to be president someday."
• Scout, age 6: "I want to be president someday."
• Anna: "I'd vote for both of you."
• Scout: "What if we ran against each other?"

Meanwhile, fireworks are going off throughout my neighborhood, car horns are blasting and, somewhere down the street, someone is strumming a guitar by firelight.

The tide has turned and the wind has shifted.  A decent, steady civilized man will be the next president of our country, having tallied 74 million votes (and counting), more than any other presidential candidate in USA history.  We will have a vice president who is female and who is black and who is good. We set records for election turnout with citizens who still believe their votes count. We transformed everyday, dedicated election workers into quiet heroes.

So today, I am choosing joy and I am choosing hope.  Our citizens exercised their fundamental right to have their voices heard - and those voices mattered.

However, in all honesty guys, I need to admit I've had some dark moments this week. As election numbers rolled in Tuesday evening, I simply could not believe that almost half our country embraced the most disastrous, dangerous president in our history.  And when Wednesday morning rolled around, I felt like staying in bed and hiding from the world. But what I want to tell you - what I want you to know - is that eventually I pulled off the covers because of inspiration from the two of you.

I knew that your hearts were just as heavy as mine on election night.  But when dawn broke the next morning, you both got up, went to work and carried on.  Josh, you continued shouldering the responsibility of developing a Kansas City high school for 2021, a place that will provide quality education for students of poverty.  Anna, as a nurse dealing with the deadly reality of this pandemic, you headed straight into the eye of the storm.

And you were most certainly not alone.  The young physician who lives next door - who volunteered to serve on the Covid team at one of our local hospitals - worked election night and paused only briefly to check on voting tallies as he also checked on ventilators. At daybreak, the elementary teacher who lives down the block headed for one of our community's poorest schools to teach immigrant and refugee children - children learning in the classroom, and children learning from home.  And my neighbor across the street didn't have time for tears Wednesday, as she was needed at her job with the local food bank - because people were hungry.

I can get lost in the sadness of the last four years, a time that often felt like a jagged edge of ugly despair.  Racial bigotry remained resilient.  Propaganda and misinformation were all-powerful.  Science and common sense were ignored.

And yet, Josh, as you so wisely pointed out, the slog of democracy persisted this week despite the assault upon it.  Both you and your sister seem to have more clarity about our country than I do, understanding yet accepting the fragility of democratic values.  I can get overwhelmed with the depth and breadth of our country's fissures and fault lines, while you have the ability to fly over the contours of the land and focus on what you can control - what you can change.

This week I keep thinking about one of my favorite parables I shared with you in childhood, adapted from Loren Eisley's "The Star Thrower."  I hope you remember it. 

Early one morning, an old man was walking along the shore after a big storm had passed and found the vast beach littered with starfish as far as the eye could see.  Off in the distance, the old man noticed a small boy pausing, occasionally bending down to pick up an object and throw it into the sea. The boy came closer and the man called out, "May I ask what it is that you are doing?"

The young boy paused, looked up and replied, "Throwing starfish into the ocean. The tide has washed them up onto the beach and they can't return to the sea by themselves."

The old man replied, "But there must be tens of thousands of starfish on this beach.  I'm afraid you won't really be able to make much of a difference."

The boy bent down, picked up yet another starfish and threw it as far as he could into the ocean.  Then he turned, smiled and said, "It made a difference to that one."

Josh, Anna, I remember four years ago when we all woke up to find that Donald Trump had won the presidency - I simply had no words for you, no explanation. This weekend we can scream, shout, celebrate, find promise in the future.  And as I pause and ponder how to move forward - how to move on - I take my lead from my children, two young adults who understand the power of tossing starfish back into the sea.

In the past four years I have learned that I cannot take our democracy for granted.  I have grown humble, falling to my knees when it comes to any sort of star-spangled, arrogant American greatness.  Trump's racist, venomous rallies have directed a spotlight on injustices that have long existed in our country, but were mostly invisible to me - from my foolish position of privilege. 

Nonetheless, in the aftermath of those years of disappointed optimism and shattered trust - darn it, I still love this country. I believe in America.

But I believe America requires hard work and plenty of beachcombing.  This is not a time to sit back, get comfortable and wait for someone else to act.  This is a time for soul searching and vigilance, joining the collective courage of our country, finding the power within us to find a starfish and make a difference.

Kids, I suspect you will long remember the election of 2020.  I hope you remember that I kept the faith.  I kept the faith in our country.  I kept the faith in you.

Inauguration Day is Jan. 20, 2021. Meantime, I suggest that we take it - one starfish at a time.

*****

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