Corona Bloglette: Delayed Gratification

I'm going to try writing a short blog every day during the quarantine. I want to be encouraging. I'm not going to be too Suzy-Sunshine since what we're going through is bad, it's bad. I want a place to crab, but I want to do it with humor to keep perspective. I've got it pretty good here on the Embassy compound, and I know it.

So, I'll give you today, a thought that came to me while I was running, the thought that spurred this idea. I've noticed that during this time, my ability to delay gratification is stronger. I have a finite amount of chocolate and Pepsi on hand and don't want it to disappear too soon, because I don't want to go to the store any more often than I must. So I've notice that I'm consuming less of them and (with a couple of exceptions) only once a day. (Don't judge me - that's progress.) I look forward to heading to the piano at the end of the day, after I've spent time working on my novel and exercising. It's not only rewarding, it's good for me cognitively.

Check back tomorrow. I may have a sentence for you, maybe a paragraph. We'll see what has my attention. Please comment any thoughts you have. There's a chance, depending on how long this lasts, that I'll run out of thoughts completely. My mind may become a void. (I just mis-typed "voice" for void - a Freudian slip of some sort, I wonder? I guess I have some time to ponder that one.) I may need to steal, er, borrow your ideas.

I've been asked to post more pictures, so I'll give you a picture from an art gallery in Vladivostok.

I actually took a picture of this painting at two different occasions. I continue to be drawn to it. I love the rich coloring. She's looks beautiful and strong, very Russian qualities.

Extremes

I started this post while flying to visit my parents in Phoenix. I had every intention of posting on time, the first of March. I didn't. I continued working on it while awaiting a flight to Paris. Sounds romantic, doesn't it? Don't envy me. Do not envy me. I'm finishing it up while sitting in an apartment on the Embassy compound in Moscow. What am I doing here? You'll find out . . .

I titled this post Extremes. I probably cursed myself in doing that. At the time, the only extremes I was writing about were small things like flying from snowy Vladivostok to mild Phoenix and how Douglas and I had to get my baggage up a steep, ice-covered hill to the awaiting taxi. Our feet could get no purchase, so he left me at the bottom of the hill to let the driver know we were coming. When he came back down to help me, walking gingerly, arms out at the ready, he looked like a baby penguin. (Do you ever love someone extra when they're not at their best?) I yelled to Douglas how cute he looked. He either didn't hear me, of didn't feel cute and, thus, ignored me. There were some flight issues, like Aeroflot telling me that I not only wasn't allowed to have a second checked bag, but that they didn't show it in their system even though I held my claim tag and receipt. Not to risk boredom during the lengthy layovers, I left my passport and boarding pass in one of the many bathrooms in the Incheon airport in Seoul 20 minutes before boarding. Fellow travelers, like the guy who sat beside me in full-blown man spread, eating with his elbows out like it was Black Friday at the Old Country Buffet always kept things interesting. 

Anyway, I was busy in Phoenix and didn't spend much time on my blog, and, as time passed, the extremes got a little more extreme and I put off posting to include them. For example, I was unable to fly back the same route I flew to Phoenix (Seoul, Seattle, Phoenix). Russia was not accepting flights from the Asian countries. I had to fly through New York, Paris and Moscow into Vlad with two five-hour layovers. Every low point, however, was met with a high of some sort. For instance, I found the bathroom in Seoul where I'd left my passport and boarding pass and they were still there. I was so sweaty and red-faced by the time I boarded, they pulled me aside for an extra screening. I then had the entire row to myself for the flight to Seattle. 

Heading out of Phoenix, I had the police called on me for the first time. The Yellow Cab driver, who was to collect me at 3:30 called me at 3:20. "I'm close." He said. "Be ready." I said goodbye to my mother, lugged my baggage to the bottom of the driveway and waited. And waited. He finally showed up at 3:55. I was livid. He didn't care. "You have plenty of time." He said. "What time's your flight?" Right. Plenty of time. Anyway, when I got the the airport, I thrust half his fare into his hand, grabbed my baggage and left him. He chased me through the airport saying "This is wrong, this is wrong." I agreed, told him I was busy and ignored him. As I was checking in, I saw three police officers standing off to the side. "I think they're waiting for me." I told the woman who was helping me. They soon surrounded me. End of story: I had to pay him or get arrested. To not pay would have been "breach of contract." Never mind that he breached contract by leaving me standing for a half hour in the middle of the night. The high following that ordeal was I was able to upgrade to Comfort Class for a mere $79 on that flight. I drank Mimosas. 

When I arrived to Vladivostok, I was surprised to see not Douglas, but our Consul General waiting for me. I told him I'd planned on kissing the man who met me. He told me that even if Douglas were there, I wouldn't want to kiss him.

Uh-oh.

Douglas was in quarantine having had a fever. Alice, our Regional Security Officer, was next door also in quarantine having worked with Douglas. I was put into quarantine next door to Alice for two days just to be on the safe side. When I arrived to the townhouses, I stood outside under our front window and was able to talk with Douglas Romeo and Juliet style.

After our quarantine ended, we found out that we'd be evacuated to Moscow where the health care was higher quality and there were more flight options.  Douglas disappeared into the Consulate for long days as they suspended operations in Vladivostok. He only emerged to come home to feed and sleep. I pulled out the bags I'd just unpacked and repacked them. We'd be allowed two checked bags and our carry-on. Douglas and I decided to pay for a third checked bag. It's funny. While I was deciding what to bring with me, I looked at my piano. Knowing it couldn't go, I panicked. How will I ever learn the Chopin Nocturne? I pulled out the music and sat to practicing, as though I could learn it in the few days I had before evacuating. I was given Scrivener (a word processing program for writers) for Christmas. I had barely begun the tutorial in the three or so months I'd had it, but, suddenly, knowing I might not have that computer with me, I sat to learning it. Mercifully, we were allowed to pack an additional 300 or so pounds of unaccompanied baggage since we didn't know whether we'd be in Moscow for weeks or months. (I got to bring my computer. And some piano music, just in case.)

As I close this post, we've been here a week. We got to meet the Ambassador. I found a piano that's out of tune, but playable. There is a pub in the compound that has a pool table, and I seem to be the only one interested in it. Nice. 

It's odd not knowing how long we'll be here. As I've written before, in our greatest limitations, we find our greatest freedoms.  Without the thrice-weekly choir rehearsals and four weekly Russian classes, my mind is free to write. I hope you, as well as I, will benefit from it.

Shall We Compete or Cooperate?

When you’re driving, and you see a car in the next lane with its turn indicator (the one nearest your lane) on, what thoughts run through your mind? I’ll go first. My thoughts range from “Oh, no you don’t!” to “I’ll make some space so they can move over.” The turn indicator is a device for safety, order and cooperation (if it’s even used – that’s another blog entirely), but it is seen as an attack – like the tiny laser light you see on the forehead of the guy who's about to get shot.

Here’s another one for you. You’re standing at the end of a long line at a grocery store. The next cashier opens up. Do you bolt for the front of that line, or let those who’ve been waiting longer get there first? I’ll tell you what I’ve started doing. Having seen too many inconsiderate, selfish people dash to be first in line, I, too sprint over only to let the ones I knew were in line before me go first. I used to just take advantage of my good timing and quick feet until I shopped at Byerly’s in St. Paul. The cashiers there walk up to someone nearing the cashier in a long line, tell them that they’re going to open register number four, would they like to step over there? Smart. Fair. Cooperative.

Why are we so competitive? Is it because most of us will never be so good at anything to successfully compete that we take advantage of every mundane situation to feel victorious? Are we so wrapped up in ourselves that we don’t see our place in society? Do we want to be noticed and lauded? (Let me tell you: You want to be lauded? Let someone into the lane ahead of you when they put on their turn indicator. Let someone in line ahead of you once in a while.) Or is it more basic? We’ve been taught to be competitive.

There’s nothing wrong with competition in the right arena. There’s nothing wrong with handing out awards to the first two or three winners and nothing to those who lost or didn’t place. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be the best, but there are some things that are immeasurable. I lost two beloved piano students because their father wanted them to play in piano competitions. I could have responded better, I admit. I told him that foot races were competitive, not music making. His daughters were ages eight and eleven, beginner level, and he wanted them to compete in piano playing.

Since my youth, society has taught me to be competitive. My school’s better than your school. (Even though I’d never attended any other school.) Girls are smarter than boys. (The only proof offered was my gender.) She’s my best friend. (You’re not.) Those seemingly innocent taunts and comments weigh heavily in our minds, I believe. They’re seeds that grow into our inability or unwillingness to live more cooperatively as we age.

“America First” was a rally call in the last election. I assume most countries have their own equivalents of such a slogan. But, how about "Humanity First"? I think we have enough problems as a race (hunger, poverty, pollution, global warming—you know . . .) without dividing ourselves into camps to protect our own interests at the expense of others, like having off-season produce available even though it's expensive and, consequently, often spoils and gets trashed while others are starving or shipping trash to others’ backyards for them to deal with because we won’t recycle or package things better.

What do we get out of it? A sense (more often false) of being better than those around us. It’s disturbing to me to hear sportscasters comment about how disappointing the silver medalist must be feeling after missing the gold by .00003 seconds. Think of all the years of disciplined training, personal growth, levels of fitness achieved and other victories being dismissed because of the color of a medal from a single performance. Competitiveness invites a sense of being lesser when don’t have the most followers, friends, views, shares or likes. We feel common, as though there’s something wrong with that. And competitiveness promotes divisiveness.

I’m tired of competitiveness and all its consequences – external and internal.

Here’s another rally call: “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.” (Keep the word country in that sentence or change it to company or neighbor.) That’s cooperation. That’s recognizing one’s role in society. I learned an important lesson about my role in society when I worked at the Renaissance Festival. I sang in a madrigal group that wasn’t exactly an audience magnet like Puke and Snot, Zilch the Torysteller and The Tortuga Twins. Those who didn’t just pass us by would sit to eat their lunches, get out of the sun or rain, check their phones or (my least favorite) chat. It really bothered me. Then, one day as I was walking around the festival grounds, I walked past a harpist. What a lovely sound, I thought, as I walked on and smelled the rosewater booth and felt the gentle autumn breeze. That’s when it hit me that my little madrigal group was as much a part of the ambiance of the festival as that harpist (who had no seated audience) and The Dew Drop Jugglers with their standing room only crowds. Even though I didn't take the time to sit and listen, I would have missed hearing that harpist (and the next, and the next, because you can't toss a ducat at the festival without striking a harpist). That realization gave me more pride in the music I helped present and eased the envy I felt seeing the large crowds for the Washing Well Wenches at the next stage.

Competitiveness starts when we’re young, and it grows. Competitiveness is what drives congress to stalemate the seating of a Supreme Court Judge or filibuster to stop the passage of a bill. It is the foundation of the rationale of congress to impeach one president with all the witnesses they can find and overlook the sins of another by not calling any witnesses and, consequently, tying the hands of justice. Obviously, competitiveness, as it grows, gets ugly and destructive.

As the final interview in the application process to the State Department and Foreign Service, applicants are grouped together (about 5 or 6), each of who has a project. This group is given a budget that will fund only some of these projects. Each applicant had to pitch their project, but they also have to listen to the others’ projects and consider the budget and the importance of each project in the mission. Many applicants are weeded out during this part of the interview because they demonstrate that they cannot consider the greater good over their own agenda. It is my belief that every senator and representative and other higher-ranking government officials should have to go through that interview process before being allowed to run for office. (I have written this to my senators and representatives. I’m sure you can guess how that went over.) But I’m serious. Why should anyone work in congress who can’t work well with others and put aside their own or their party’s agendas for the greater good of the country? 

I can’t change congress. What I can do is set an example. I can drive cooperatively which will free up the time of highway patrolmen and women who would be pulling me over for stupid driving. I can set an example on the level where I’m at and hope it eventually wicks up to those with public jobs. I challenge you, dear reader, to consider where in your life you can live more cooperatively. Write me with any ideas that come to mind.

A Visionary Year Ahead

Those of you who have been reading my blog know how much I love the word (and concept of) practice. Another word (and concept) I love is visualization. It has been immensely helpful to me in my behavior regarding personal discipline and interactions with others. I know that prevailing wisdom in setting New Year’s resolutions is to be specific. I do better when I’m vague. This year I’m going to focus on envisioning what I want of myself and visualizing the steps required to get myself there.

To me, visualizing is practicing for something in my mind. It’s giving myself scripts and trying them out in imaginary conversations or confrontations. It’s seeing myself stepping back and assessing rather than reacting. It’s low-level dreaming when my mind can come up with constructive scenarios and I can interact with impunity and see what could possibly work and what I should never, ever try in reality. Like in my dreams, I get feelings from visualizations that tell me whether this reaction or that response comes from my soul or from a part of me that is a fleshly concoction of the world.

Visualization helped me run the 10-kilometer bridge run in the autumn. Visualization helps pick up the phone and (knowing I’ll have to use my extremely limited Russian) call a local restaurant or shop to see if they have something I want. Visualization helps me plan my days. When I have tasks I don’t want to do – clean the house and exercise, for example – I see myself doing them, then I see myself finishing them and feeling the relief at having accomplished them and how little time it took. Then I visualize my reward – enjoying a book or a favorite meal, for instance.

I’ve been keeping good company here in Vladivostok, including four sisters from the 

Catholic church where I sing. Sometimes when I’m out about town alone, I wonder how differently I’d behave if I had to dress as they do – robed, with my head covered – obviously marked as a woman of God. I would want a pleasant, approachable look on my face, so I turn up the corners of my mouth and make eye contact with passersby. (Make a note for readers to read the blog about Alexei.) I would want something to give the beggars on the street – a granola bar is easy to carry and nutritious. Alice, my neighbor, is another good influence on me. When we take a taxi anywhere she chats up the driver, exercising her Russian skills. Having seen her doing this, I, too, engage drivers in conversation no matter how awkward it is. Alice’s car arrived before ours did. When she got it, she announced that if anyone wanted a ride anywhere to ask her so she could learn her way around. I don’t like driving and it intimidates me. But, with her example, I started seeing myself getting out and driving no matter how uncomfortable it made me. I drove our car and filled it up with gas before Douglas drove it. While a small thing to many (like Alice), this was huge for me. And it started with someone setting a good example and me wanting to emulate it. That, to me, is a form of visualization.

I have been writing for years. I’ve completed one novel and am hip deep in two more. (I’m a slow and, these days, undisciplined writer.) I envision myself with three agent-ready manuscripts and a collection of short stories begun. So I will visualize myself making daily progress whether in the form of taking notes as ideas occur to me (something that helped me greatly with The Dream Interpreter), writing a scene or free-writing. I will visualize myself writing at my computer in my writing room or on my laptop or pad of paper in a restaurant. I will remember (see myself) how I walked up the stairs to my writing room in Munich every day and sat for two hours and worked. Some days I actively wrote, others I spent some of the time reading for inspiration, but it worked.

I have good opportunity here for musical growth. I’m singing in two choirs and might soon begin piano lessons. I have a harp that was gifted to me; Sister Maria Stella from the church plays harp and is happy to occasionally help me. I have a new recorder – a Christmas gift from Douglas; all the sisters play recorders. I have long envied talented musicians. I’m envisioning myself walking into rehearsals knowing the music well enough to not be the reason (or contribute to the reason) the conductor stopped us and reviewed notes in the soprano section. I’m envisioning myself knowing the recorder fingering well enough to sight-read better. I’m envisioning myself knowing a few songs on the harp that I can play and sing.

I can hear this voice in my head saying, all this visualization stuff sounds nice, but you have to do something. True. And if I don't do anything, than it won't amount to much. I know that. But I also know that visualization gets me excited about accomplishing whatever it is whether it's a behavior or a project. Visualization helps allay anxiety. Visualization can save time; when I've visualized all the required steps, I can go through the motions without as much thought and decision-making. And, as I already pointed out, it's a form of practice.

Now, I’m going to envision my comments section filling up with comments from my readers – all nine or so of you. Many bloggers write extreme ideas to shock and provoke comments. I don't do that. I don't think I do that, anyway. I want more of a sharing experience, a cooperative environment. Your comments can be positive or negative – I learn from both. They can be suggestions for ideas I can write about in the future. They can be your own version of what I just wrote about. You can back me up or respectfully disagree. But help me fulfill this visualization and fill up my comment section!

Vladivostok Sights

I last wrote that my next blog would be more fun, less heavy than the last two. That was two months ago. It's not that nothing fun has happened here. That's not why this blog post is an entire month late. I worked on it a month ago to get it out on time, then ran into computer problems (as usual) and walked away in a huff (as usual). In the meantime, Douglas was away for training for a week and I met up with him in Moscow . . . excuses, excuses. I know. Anyway, I have a friend, Alexander, who has promised to help me improve my blog. Technically. There's nothing he can do about the writing, that's on me. We keep trying to get together, but it hasn't happened yet. I've included some videos. I hope they work. If they don't, that is something that Alexander will one day help me with. So, my apologies for skipping the month of November. Here's the fun blog I promised.


One of my favorite places to go in Vladivostok is Russky Island. It's just a bridge-span from the mainland. The sisters from the church where I sing live there in an old building that housed officers for the Russian navy under the tzar. There are ruins on the island that look like they may have been old armories. Russky Island is home to Far Eastern Federal University and the medical complex associated with it. About a month ago, I got up early to join a friend to watch the sunrise and hike on the island.

Sunrise on Russky Island

Great views on the hike. (Not me-what's behind me!)

Something you don't see every day.

Considerate hikers preceded us!

The view from the top.

One more good view from the hike.

Douglas and I went hiking on the island on one of his (rare) days off, and we stumbled onto a labyrinth. What a surprise, and what a treat! Strewn among the stones were coins, shiny kopecks. I felt like I was in a dream, as I occasionally dream of finding a coin, then I see another, and another until I realize that the ground is covered with coins. We walked the labyrinth, then left a stone atop another before leaving. Then we went to one of our favorite restaurants for lunch, Novik. They not only have a great menu, they gather their own honey and make their own mead.

The Russky Island Labyrinth (with one of the bridges in the background).

Vladivostok promotes the conservation of tigers. September 29 is Tiger Day. People dress up like tigers, there’s a parade. It’s festive. In 2022, Vladivostok will host the International Tiger Summit. There is a safari park nearby that began with the rescue of a single animal. (Forgive me for not remembering the details; it’s been months since I was there, and the stories I heard were in Russian, so I didn’t understand everything.) Someone found out that a man was caring for one, so another was brought, and so on. He wound up taking on a job driving a cab in order to pay for the care of these animals. Word spread and people began to donate. Eventually, he was able to buy enough land to give the animals more space. Today, there are not only tigers there, but also Himalayan Black Bears (also known as the Moon Bear or White Chested Bear), deer, wild pigs of some sort, a leopard and cranes. The population changes over time. They promote this place as not being a zoo where animals are in cages, but that’s not true. The tigers are certainly caged, though the terrain is natural and they might have more space than your average zoo. What is unique are the walkways over the spacious cages where we can look down on the tigers. 

I don't think this tiger likes being stared at.

Vladivostok is nicknamed the San Francisco of Russia. It is full of hills - not as steep as those in San Francisco, but hills none the less. We live on one of them, which is why we have such a nice view of the bay and sunsets. The closest path to and from the Consulate is a road that we affectionately refer to as the Goat Path. It was apparently paved years ago, but has long fallen into disrepair. We recently found out that according to city statute, it is up to the neighbors on that road to maintain it. They don't. Here's a little video of me making my way down the Goad Path after a rain:

One of these days, I'll write an entire post about the Goat Path.

Have a blessed Advent everyone. Merry Christmas from Russia!

Crawling Out of the Cave

For this blog post to make sense, you must have read last month's. This could easily be a book, but I'll do my best to keep it succinct.

Escaping the cave I grew up in took time, distance and experience.

First, I had to age out and leave school and home. I needed to experience others' lives, homes and ways and I needed to form my own manner of living. I had to work back and forth between living as I always had and trying new ways. I had to recognize the difference between the concepts of right/wrong and different (wherein falls better and not-so-good).

I'll share a few pivotal moments. I dropped and broke something that belonged to a boyfriend. I remember bracing myself for his ire. Instead, he gasped and said intently, "Are you alright?" I was gob-smacked. Instead of chiding me for clumsiness or inattentiveness, he showed concern. Instead of being punished, I was being cared for.

I was a big fan of Walt Richardson and the Morningstar Band back in the day in Phoenix. I remember being on the dance floor at one club where they were performing. Some guy jumped up on the stage, danced around and sang. Walt just kept playing, watching him and waiting. The guy eventually jumped down. Walt kept playing and watching him until he caught his eye. Then Walt gently shook his head and said, "Don't do that, man." They guy nodded and kept dancing. On the dance floor.

These are two of many instances that showed me that the entire world was not waiting for someone to err and pile on punitive consequences.

While this is not as specific as the above incidents, I remember when I first started hanging around people who, when they didn't know something that someone else was talking about, listened, asked questions, then listened some more rather than laughing in discomfort or rolling their eyes in mockery. I learned to respect those who had knowledge I lacked, rather than calling them a nerd (back when it was not a compliment) or taking on a snide well, good for you attitude. This worked two ways. I also learned to comfortably admit I didn't know something, because I knew I'd be taught rather than ridiculed. While I refused to take pedagogy in college, I grew up loving to teach, perhaps as a result of those experiences.

Crawling out of the cave is a long, ongoing process. It takes my mind a long time to catch up to newfound knowledge and ways. I'm still surprised when I go out to eat and order a salad. In a moment of determination, I signed up to run ten kilometers in the local Bridge Run last Saturday. I made it! (No walking!) I've been practicing. (I can't bring myself to call it training, as I still don't see myself as an athlete after all these years.) When I started the run, my mind flooded with thoughts of: Who am I trying to fool? I'll never make it. I'm glad I brought money to get a cab ride home. I can always just walk. Etc. And those are doubts I still have of physically proven changes in myself. Imagine how long it takes my mind to catch up to realizations like: Not every clerk or waiter who doesn't smile is unfriendly. Not every homeless person is a lazy addict. Not everyone of a different faith is doomed to hell.

We create caves. The people who elected Donald Trump, who behaves abominably by making untrue, bigoted, racist and sexist comments unapologetically, create caves of ignorance and intolerant, punitive, loveless judgement. (I guess I must admit that he is, unfortunately, a sadly accurate representation of a large part of the United States of America, some whom I know and love. He is not a representation of me.) We are so intent on not changing the way we live, that we mock science rather than prepare for great changes in attempt to keep our natural world functioning the best it can. We believe news as we comfortably hear it rather than researching to verity its truth. We so want to be right that we surround ourselves with like thinkers and don't develop the ability to share opposing thoughts and sort out truth from fallacy.

Jochen Wegner gave a good TED talk on matching up people of opposing viewpoints to have conversations about their differences. That is what I want to hear about, not political rally violence incited by a presidential candidate.

Even if what you teach in your cave is the truth, opposing viewpoints need to be known to better teach. I can't tell you how many times Douglas and I have gone round and round on an issue only to eventually, finally realize that one of us (usually me) had a misconception they were going by. Some people would have said we were arguing, but we weren't; we were discussing opposing viewpoints until one of us realized we'd somehow latched on to misinformation. It's exhausting, it's rewarding and it's vital to our society.

If we cannot, in our own society, crawl out of our caves and see the array of truths outside of it, we can have no hope that religious zealots who want to leave women indoors covered with bolts of fabric or lop off our heads for our beliefs will ever hear us. Not the least reason being that we are shamefully unprepared to formulate and gently, wisely share what we know and believe. We need to find our way out of our various caves and practice experiencing more of life.

Next month, I promise something lighter, more fun, with some pictures from Vladivostok.

A Little Plato for You

In “The Allegory of the Cave” Plato describes a group of people who are so isolated that they see nothing of the outside world. They are chained head and foot facing a cave wall, able to see nothing but shadows produced from artifacts being passed in front of flames from the center of the cave. Any sounds produced are presumed to echo so that, from the perspective of the captives, it seems as though the shadows themselves are producing the sounds. That is their reality.

Imagine one of the captives being led from the cave for the first time. It would likely cause physical pain for the captive to be moved, and, I would add, scare them. The fire in the center of the cave would be so bright, it would hurt him to look at it. Imagine the effect the sun would have when he first stepped outside. How long would his eyes need to adjust before he could even see any of the strange things outside the cave? (Would he even want to open his eyes?) Would those dragging him around understand why he couldn’t see anything, why he couldn’t look? Imagine the influx of sounds. (I can only imagine it may be akin to a hearing-impaired person receiving cochlear implants.) Upon being told that this is the world, this is reality, not the dim, quiet cave, how long would he need to process that?

Having been exposed to, accepting and adjusting to the reality of the world, imagine the former captive returning to the cave. How long would it take his eyes to adjust back to the dimness and see the subtle shadows he once knew?  Perhaps the others would think that seeing the light ruined his eyes. Would they not resist anyone who tried to rescue them? Would they believe anything he had to say about what was outside?

The myth goes on, read it when you have a chance.

I, as I believe we all are, am struggling with truth―finding, recognizing, knowing, telling and sharing it. I’m extremely frustrated―enraged at times―with people in charge and friends and family who deny provable facts and are comfortable with ideas that shut out reality, ignore the future and oppress their fellow man. Plato writes of the captives in the cave, “They are like us.” I need to remember this and check my anger and frustration when I’m confronted with what I consider backwards thinking (e.g. promoting coal power over renewable energy, emulating ancient China by building a wall on our border, repressing women by not giving them free reign of their own bodies, e.g.). I spent a long time in a cave and still hear the echoes of it in my mind. None of us emerged from the womb wise or intelligent. Some were simply born into a better situation that promoted a broad education and wisdom.

The power of story is often stronger than bare facts. If I were with someone in physical pain (as the man in the story when emerging from the cave), would I be impatient with them? What if that pain were long-term? Constant? If they were confused, would I respond with anger? If they were scared, would I mock them? I think we'd all answer a resounding "No!" to all those questions. But, get a group of people who were born thousands of mile away and are scared, confused and in pain near our border and suddenly the written law means more than the needs of humanity. In the story, I think many of us would picture ourselves rescuing the people from the cave and helping them adjust to real life. But in reality, how many of us help even a homeless, unemployed person?

There are many caves in this world in which people are being raised. The cave may be a house or a country. It may be a cave of religion, mental illness, political agenda, personal or family fame, prestige or power, or sheer limitations—whether they be physical or opportunistic. They may have been born in that cave, forced into it or stumbled dumbly into it. Caves, like situations in life, can stretch deep underground for miles; it can take a long time to find your way out if you’re lost-if you even know you're lost. Sometimes caves are spacious enough to stand up in, sometimes you can barely crawl through them. Plato picked a good analogy for our situation in life.

The words to Mercy, Pity, Peace and Love by William Blake come to mind. Stanzas 3 and 5:

For Mercy has a human heart, 
Pity, a human face, 
and Love, the human form divine. 
and Peace, the human dress.

And all must love the human form, 
in heathen, Turk or Jew; 
where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell, 
there God is dwelling too.