ValleyDad

Stanford is hosting an "Evening Labyrinth" at 5:30 PM tonight.

'A what?' you may well ask? Well, it's a walking thing -- you follow the path of a labyrinth laid out on the ground, much as you would a maze, but without the dead ends. It's quite the trend these days, especially among the progressively spiritual. Sounds like the perfect thing for the kids, too, but I'm thinking that maybe we'd not be so welcome.

The 'Events-at-Stanford' web page describes the plan thus: "As twilight deepens into evening, experience the serenity of walking the labyrinth in the candle-lit ambiance of Memorial Church. It may be just the path you need to follow after a day of work or classes. Trained labyrinth facilitators available to assist and enhance your labyrinth experience."

Not so child-friendly, then. We'd challenge that serenity for sure.

We would also, of course, bring youthful joy and exuberance and our indiscriminate love of candles to the occasion. But I'd be worried about those 'trained labyrinth facilitators.' Are they trained in security? I'm figuring they'd certainly frown on anyone jumping straight to the center or seeing how fast they could race the whole thing while running -- backwards.

Luckily we all held candles last night at a vigil against Prop 8. That was outside, let us all jump in the air a lot and even honk to our fellow protesters as we left. It was great to see so many families there with their kids and to hear hoots of support from so many people as they drove by.

Ada and I drove by the site where we gathered last night again this morning and she said, "Dad, can we honk again like last night?"

Well, you'd hope so. 

It was certainly the promise we found on a small, fancy-folding card in Ada's trick or treat bag when she returned home from stumping the neighborhood.

"Free Candy -- what could be better than that?  God's Love!  That's the sweetest gift of all!"  reads the tract.  Flip it around a bit and it becomes a cross, declaring: "say this prayer and long after the candy is gone, Jesus will still be by your side."

So I'm first wondering which neighbor was handing them out -- and whether he or she gave kids candy plus the card.  And then I'm thinking that these proselytizers are playing a really low stakes game.  Jesus better and longer lasting than candy?  If that's the comparison set, you might as well believe in a table lamp, or a pet poodle. 

Still, I'm up for anything that moves kids away from the candy, candy, candy rush of All Hallows Eve.  This year we offered four inch high, glow-in-the-dark skeletons along with the M&Ms.  A bunch of kids took them -- a memento mori for their teeth, perhaps.

Farmer-poet Berry has this stanza in his poem 'Some Further Words,' published in his recent collection 'Given.'

When I hear the stock market has fallen,
I say, "Long live gravity! Long live
stupidity, error, and greed in the palaces
of fantasy capitalism!" I think
an economy should be based on thrift,
on taking care of things, not on theft,
usury, seduction, waste, and ruin.

It's slimy, forty foot long and super strong -- no wonder you can't beat kelp for hours of honest fun.

Live braced
Against the wave and
Nothing will shake you.
You might be made of
Stone.

Sit without a care
And the waves
One day
Will sweep you full away.

At the beach I warn my children.
“Waves come in sets,” I say.
“Always keep your eye on the sea.”

I point to a family on the far rocks – foolhardy,
Adventuring,
Spattered suddenly with spray.
I’m biblical in my admonition.

At Bean Hollow
Nature offers us her shells, her sediments, her sand,
The many glories of her earth-ages and her relentless energies besides;

Layered conglomerates – twice built into rock –
Deep purple kelp ripped that hour from its mooring,
Young fish and crabs in pools,
Minute jadeite pebbles,
And outcrops of a particular
Grey-brown stone
That wind and salt water, over eons, reduces – here – to
Matrices, to
Hand-scoop coves that terrace the cliffs with
Shelters –
Impossible, organic pods,
Tumbling
In a honey-combed
Fall. 

I wax pedagogic to the children
On themes of time and weathering.
I forget to ask – do you find these beautiful?

I’m ignored, anyway, for a game
Conjured from the air. 

I keep my eye on the sea.

A whale slinks by, heading the wrong way for the time of year.
Pelicans patrol.  A seal spy-hops up a moment
And then moves on. 

I let the children climb,  
Climb with them.  We keep
Our balance,
Just. 

I return to my watch, caught some by the sun.  
Careworn, too.  Glad to be the father.
Happy to pause.  Sad to never be the 
Same age as these play-full children – in love with their mother,
Amazed that they are at all, worried for what they’ll face.

I keep my eye on the sea.
I photograph the interstitial scene.

Ada runs to the time-hollowed rock.  In each small cove she
Places treasure:

A flower,
A shell,
Five perfect stones.

 

Birdhouse by Ada

Mr. Kute Ali has been urgently trying to contact me for some days.  He seems to know all my email addresses.  And while I'm not sure I want to take him up on his kind offer of handling (to our 'mutual benefit') a multi-million dollar transaction for his bank in Burkina Faso, I do admire his rhetoric.

"GOOD DAY FRIEND, IT WILL BE A SURPRISE FOR YOU TO RECEIVE THIS MAIL," he begins forthrightly.  Then, before he gets down to the (small cap) nitty gritty, he adds: "WELCOME THIS LETTER IN THE NAME OF ALL MIGHTY GOD, I am Mr Kute Ali."  Punchy stuff.

 

Hornpoke.

Courtesy, Michael (age 4)

It's one of the occupational hazards of going out for a coffee in Silicon Valley. Go to Izzy's Bagels in Palo Alto, for example, where I am now. There are two young guys talking very loudly about their current business ideas -- everything they say is clearly being heard by everyone else in the room. The substance of their discussion, I'm helpless to ignore, could fairly be described as business intelligence (right now the blond guy is revealing his long term plans for his financial technology start up: he's going to sell out after 5 years. I'll try and catch the name of the company in case you want to invest, or divest).

So why are they talking so loudly?

Maybe they figure that because there's no-one in here they recognize, the place is empty of anyone who really counts in their lives. Maybe they want us to hear and be impressed with the substance of their conversation. Maybe they really have no idea of what privacy should mean for them -- and for those of us who are expected to endure their conversation.

I'm amazed by how often this happens. The other week I was sat next to Anne Wojcicki of Google-funded bio-tech startup 21 and Me as she held what sounded like an investor or analyst briefing. Her company touts itself as "the world's trusted source of personal genetic information." Hmmm.

One lunch time at Printer's Inc. a small business owner revealed to a potential investor (and me since I was at the next table) all kinds of data about her debts and liabilities, her problems with specific employees and partners and more. It was kind of compelling and I almost offered advice myself -- after all, by their choosing to meet within two feet of me, I'd been involuntarily invited to attend.

And I'm not even trying to snoop here. These are public meetings conducted at the table right next to me. When I'm sitting alone, they dominate my aural environment.

Since they're obviously being regarded as public, maybe I'll hit 'record' on my laptop and post some here next time.

This has happened twice recently: I'm having a conversation with a friend and then I'm hit by the distinct feeling that we've said all this before.  The moment has all the hallmarks of deja vu until, I realize, we have indeed had that exact conversation already.

There was the conversation about seeing tarantulas in the foothills I had with Erik last week at the park -- and that I'm pretty sure I had with him last time we were both at the park a couple of weeks previously.

And then there was the discussion of play-centered learning I had with Kathy at a recent nursery school potluck -- one I soon realized was an almost word-for-word repeat of our conversation the last time we spoke back before the summer break.

Both incidents had common characteristics that I think help explain them.  Both were conversations with the parents of young children, like me.  Both were with people I only get to chat with infrequently.  And both occurred while said children were under our care.

Along with its many pleasures, the parenting life brings with it the phenomenon of the fractured conversation.  When we get to hang out with people we like and our kids are with us, we hardly ever get to follow a thread of discussion to its natural conclusion.  Plus we're most of us pretty tired most of the time. 

Put together the distraction, the sleep deprivation, the low-stakes nature of most of what we choose to talk about when in each other's company, and you have recipe for deja vu that isn't.

In a sense, these conversations attain their deepest meaning not in their content but in their form.  They are rituals of friendship, perhaps, more than anything -- rites that bind us as friends and tell us that we are not alone in our parenting journey.  If that's true, maybe saying the same thing over and again is the ritual at its most refined!