Napping

I find myself nodding off these days. If I am sitting in any one place for too long it is bound to happen. Never one to relish sleep, I find I get about the same amount as I always have — 6 hours. It seems a waste of time, but now at the beginning of my seventh decade it is probably not enough. I try to adapt by sleeping longer but my body is not cooperating.

The earlier to sleep the sooner to wake; I lie in the dark and wait for the first glimmer of light to appear. Of course this works better in the summer. Now in December it can be a long wait and when it does come it is not the joyous light of summer but the subdued light of a sun hugging the horizon.

Once up the morning ritual begins: a shower, breakfast, email and weather checks, and then depending on the day a commute or not. I look forward to breakfast. I have always looked forward to breakfast and so do my caffeine receptors. It has been the same for years, a couple of pieces of whole grain bread with peanut butter and jelly, and if I really splurge some yogurt and a banana.

Certain things, trivial as they may be, have become ritualized. I am loath to change. I can’t deal with brunch — too much and too late. Like sleep it seems a colossal waste of time. Flexibility is harder to accommodate these days. I will if need be, but with loathing!

It may be time to consider napping. Several days ago in the middle of the afternoon I felt wasted, so with Charlotte’s urging I curled up on the couch under a down comforter and napped. Twenty or was it forty minutes later I awoke and shook off the drowsiness. The afternoon was more productive. It was better than nodding at the kitchen table and waking up with a stiff neck.

It is possibly time to adapt, even if in reverse. I watched my mother do this. In her seventies she methodically curtailed activities and responsibilities. We all chided her for it, but she paid us no mind. She was not sentimental about such things. Life moves on, has a certain rhythm. She’d taken care of enough ageing relatives to understand this.

And deep inside so did I. After all it is part of my calling as a family practitioner. Patients who were once engaging and independent sit napping in a chair as their son or daughter speak for them. It is the way of the world. Best not to fight just find a warm sunny spot, curl up and snooze.

Warm sunlight streams
Through the southern window,
A winter’s nap.

December 2013

Sunken

Winter to spring; spring to summer; summer to fall; fall to winter, and again and again the cycle repeats. From warmth to cold, furo to ro. Furo, the brazier, sits coolly upon a tatami mat between May and October. Ro, the sunken hearth, lies below the central tatami from November to April. In the chashitsu (tea hut) the source of heat is brought from the periphery to the middle. This is robiraki. It is what makes chanoyu (tea ceremony) eternal, relevant.

The ro’s heat is welcomed now not shunned. And along with heat it brings the introspection of winter. We are drawn to a deeper study. The frivolity of summer is gone, just in time before the warm breezes that rustle the greenery are taken for granted. We relaxed in its caress but knew it was foolish too. Nature reminds us, gently at first and then with strong northwest winds that bring the first hard frost.

Hats and gloves are dug out of their summer hiding places. Wool and down become intimate acquaintances once again. Walk out of work into snow and ice, and wonder why the snowbrush was ever taken out of the trunk. The ice encrusted windshield seemed so remote only a few days before. For whatever reason this naivety recurs yearly.

It is time to substitute polenta for angel hair pasta, a rich marinara sauce for pesto. A fragrant Barolo supplants a cool crisp Riesling. Chestnuts are roasted and tomato plants pulled out of the garden. The hope for one more ripe tomato is futile. They gave what they could given the circumstances. Grass is sheared one last time. Lawn furniture is tightly packed into the crawl space. The snow blower’s fuel is topped off and it is tested in the hope that it will start when the blizzards come.

In chanoyu the chawan (tea bowl) become thicker, its side’s steeper the better to hold in the heat. Chabana (flowers for tea) go from brightly colored blossoms and wild grasses to leaves ablaze with yellow and reds.

Haiku change from Bashô’s The melons look cool/flecked with mud/from the morning dew to Buson’s Blowing from the west/fallen leaves gather/in the east (Haiku Volumes 3 and 4, R.H. Blyth).

Panes of glass replace screens. Air conditioners are covered. Boiler pumps are oiled and radiators are purged of air. And in Chicago we are waylaid by bridges forced to rise for boats coursing down the Chicago River to their winter homes.

It is both a glorious and frustrating time of year. Thoughts wander to warmer climes. Will it be Florida, the Caribbean, or further south to geography with no chance of an encroaching frigid Canadian high.

The wind becomes a bully. Pushing us around until intimidated, we give up and stay indoors. Of course this is not universal. For the coordinated, skating and skiing are relished pastimes. Children rejoice in the snow, sliding down any hill that presents itself. Fireplaces are lite and huddled around. Hot toddies are drunk. Trees are decorated. Gifts are purchased. Christmas is anticipated and flys by leaving January and February to be dealt with.

The night is dense. Sounds are as crisp as the air. Snow muffles the city’s din. It is the time of the ro, the sunken hearth. A respite from a cold world that resides just inches away.

November 2013

Claustrophobia

Japanese Ukiyo-e (floating world) prints have begun to make me feel claustrophobic. The more I see and study, the more rational this view seems to me. It was a time and place where the Tokugawa shogunate formulated strict controls over society and instituted seclusion from the rest of the world.

Tokugawa Iemitsu, shogun of Japan, issued the Sakoku-rei in 1635. It formalized Japan isolation spelling disaster for the Japanese Catholic community, preventing Japanese from leaving and Europeans from coming under penalty of death, and imposing severe trade restrictions.

It was a time (17th to 20th century) and a place (Edo), and many of the prints depict the Yoshiwara (the pleasure quarter) district’s inhabitants and the environs surrounding Mt. Fuji. It was also a time of despondent samurai and of a newly minted merchant class, of peace and at least for the samurai, boredom. And it was a time of royal hostages in Edo and distant Daimyo with their armies in the home provinces shaking down the peasantry to fund their forced dual lifestyle.

Many prints are of courtesans and actors, both of such low stature that the shogun edicts bypass them. At least in the prints, many of the faces are known by name. They are the cultural icons of their day and their images were collected like baseball cards by their fan clubs. It is an interesting mix of voyeurism and mass culture. A courtesan is most likely unattainable, whereas an actor can be seen for the price of a ticket at the local kabuki theatre.

Other prints are more geographical, like postcards with a theme. These are populated with common folk: carpenters, fishermen, merchants, porters, children, dogs, and fellow highway travellers. And to my point of isolation, multiple environs are depicted but all whirl around Mt. Fuji. It is as if nothing exists beyond its reach. It would be as if our lives vanished once the Wilson (Sears) Tower is no longer visible on the horizon.

I trust you understand that I am ignoring the whole and concentrating on my prejudices while gazing deep into the prints and in that way I am being selfish, but so be it. If you strongly disagree with me then I am elated. Elated that you care enough about these overused images — to the point where they have almost become invisible — to fight for your opinion.

As I look into and between the lines so carefully carved by unknown craftsmen, I see both a sequestered and an absolute world unto itself. It is hard to co-mingle the restricted with the expansive. That is one of the charms of these prints. This dichotomy keeps me coming back again and again. The uncertainty lends an air of universality, of mischievousness, of depth and of frivolity.

America is beautiful because of a lack of boundaries. For the price of gas I can get in my car and drive thousands of unhindered miles from shore to shore both east and west, and north and south. Japan is beautiful because of its confines: a central spine of mountains and an archipelago of islands. Both our geographies make us unique.

So, I will continue to gaze into Japan’s claustrophobic floating world with hesitancy and with longing. Ah, to be a fly on a shoji screen. To be able to linger and depart at will.

Narrows

Georgian Bay in Lake Huron has peculiar charts called strip charts. These are used to navigate its Small Craft Route. Actually not just Georgian Bay but the Trent Severn and Rideau waterways also have them. And I probably shouldn’t say peculiar. The U.S. Army Corp of Engineers has similar charts of our river systems. These charts are in a ring leaf binder and the pages are flipped as you travel.

Of course depicting the river is simple compared to Canada’s Small Craft Route. It winds itself through 10,000 Islands, which is also the name for this area of granite islands and pine forests. I have had quite a time familiarizing myself the geography. Somewhat disconcertingly it has taken being in the midst of it to finally grasps its intricacies.

Strip charts come in separate packets with varying numbers of sheets in each packet. For example I am at presently using sheet 3 of 5 of the Port Severn to Parry Sound packet #2202. Each sheet covers about 10 statue miles.

This brings up another peculiarity. When on the big water of the Great Lakes we navigate in knots and nautical miles. In more confined regions the units change to statue miles and the Small Craft Route is numbered thus. But here is the kicker; the speed limit (not that anyone follows it) is posted kilometers per hour. So I have one GPS set for kilometers, the computer is in nautical miles and the paper charts are statue miles!

But back to the sheet charts and as I said one chart follows the next. This sounds simple enough until you try to match them together. A thick red line traverses the chart when it is time to move on to the next. This red line shows the number of the next sheet and a letter (upper or lower case) in a white square box to further define where on the next chart to look. It could be anywhere. Let’s just say it is not a linear process and neither are the Narrows.

Tuesday we left Parry Sound heading east to Echo Bay and a rendezvous with the famous fish restaurant called Henry’s on Frying Pan Island. To get there we needed to negotiate several tight passages. They all were within the first few miles south of Parry Sound. The first was not really a passage but a very narrow canal under the bridge that connects Parry Island with the mainland. No problem here once I stopped aiming for the beach just to the right of it.

Canada does a good job of marking the path with many different types of navigational aids, the most common being the buoy. One of the rules of the road is Red, Right, Returning. This means that when heading into port from the sea the red is always on the right. In this labyrinth we find ourselves in it is a very fluid (pardon the pun) concept. So to add to the confusion, since we are heading for Georgian Bay the green buoys are on the right. To help me stay in the channel I made a wooden replica of a green can and a red nun that can be easily reversed. I have looked to it for guidance many times this year.

When the Narrows started in earnest we were fast approaching Two Mile Narrows. I had been lead to believe that the worst of the Narrows was to be further down but here was an impossibly skinny passage blasted out of pure granite. It also happens to be the first of many a blind curve. Suddenly multiple speedboats materialize coming full speed straight at us without the slightest effort to slow. I understand that I am the interloper. They have seen many like us pass through their territory, so I keep my course and hope for their better judgment.

Next is a no name pinch between Isabella Island and Channel Island. This leads to Three Mile Gap and then to the mercifully wide Five Mile Bay. Three miles into the trip I am finally getting orientated to my environment.

Ahead we picked out the gap between Gell Pt. and Leisur Lee Pt. While slowly cruising down Five Mile Bay both Sir Tugley Blue and a small boat towing a big inflatable dinghy pass us. One piece of advice veteran Canadian cruisers gave us was to stop or slow down if not sure of your location or are uncomfortable with the situation, so we did.

In my beloved Chicago there would be bravado of horn blowing and finger pointing. But this is Canada and even though it seems like they are trying to run us on the rocks everyone smiles and waves as they speed by. Only one rather large boat purposely plays chicken until I turn slightly away. He went by too fast to see if any gesture was directed towards us.

Hawkins Point comes in view and the uneventful Five Miles Narrows, but the worst is yet to come. We have been told to announce our approach to the next narrows. In boating radio lingo this is called “securite”. On channel 16 you say, “Securite, securite, securite, this is the southbound 32 foot motor vehicle Carrie Rose transiting Seven Mile Narrows in 3 minutes.” Of course we also listen for traffic coming the other way. Instead Sir Tugely Blue call on channel 16 that it is a zoo in the narrows with 4, 5, no 6 speeding boats coming our way.

The entrance to Seven Mile Narrows is truly narrow and to add to the excitement has a blind curve to the right. Anticipating a melee I slowed and then stopped dead as six hurtling speedboats pop out the entrance like the corks from so many champagne bottles. I was thinking if I do not make my move I will never get through, so like merging left onto the Dan Ryan expressway I start to move forward. The last boat coming out sees me, decides it will lose in a confrontation and waves me through.

A half-mile, and thirteen buoys and day markers later it is past history. I take a deep abdominal breath and smile. Right about then with buoy 201 ahead marking another blind curve Sir Tugley Blue calls to inform us that he has just passed a 100 foot tug and barge coming our way. Not hearing a securite from the barge I keep moving and we exchange greetings in a spot that passes for wide in this part of the world.

Today it has been decided to stay snug in Echo Bay as our path east will be exposed to Georgian Bay’s 25 knot SW winds and waves. At anchor we sway between 240° and 310°. It is another day in the life of Carrie Rose.

September 2013

Bugs

I went to clean up in the Big Sound Marina’s showers on the morning of July 8, 2013. The door had been open all night with the light on and there to greet me were multiple types of moths. They were mainly ensconced around the light fixture but there was a fair representation of them scattered around the small concrete block room.

Other bugs had also been attracted to the light. There were those big mosquitos like non-mosquitos hovering about (I can never bring myself to squash them, they look so helpless). There were a few of the real thing. There were the ubiquitous gnats, some biting, others not. A few well-fed spiders lurked in the corners and several flies of varying sizes flew in but did not stick around.

Some of the moths fluttered but most had their wings held out flat against the wall. They were small: the biggest being less than an inch wide. I wished I had my camera. These wings of brown and black were symmetrical as far as I could tell. One was a mirror image of the other. They reminded me of the perfectly reflected shorelines I have seen in the silent coves of the North Channel.

But I was there to take a shower before the trip to Echo Bay that morning. As I lathered up I tried not to disturb the moths, imagining that none of these beautiful diverse creatures had long to live.

There is another side to bugs. One that is not so benevolent. These are the flying creatures that inhabit the isolated anchorages we frequent when not tied to a slip in a marina. The days belong to the midges or flies. Here too there is much diversity but not much other than that to commend them. The two most troublesome are the bee-sized horseflies, and the smaller and more ferocious spotted delta winged fiends.

Your average horsefly is so large and cumbersome that they are easy to avoid. Not so the delta wings. They are stealthy, lurching in corners before the attack. If I get a good bead on one they are usually easy to dispatch but often they beat me to the punch. A nickel size red swelling quickly appears at the bite and lingers for days.

None of these hold a candle to the North Country mosquito. This is obviously an understatement. I think the dread of mosquitos is part of the collective consciousness that Dr. Jung wrote so eloquently about. Charlotte and I have developed a strategy to keep them out of Carrie Rose. Each year we have to be reminded of its importance by a sleepless night of dive-bombing buzzing-in-the-ear mosquito assaults. They are relentless and more than ready to sacrifice themselves for one tank full of blood.

It starts before the light is doused. Some announce themselves with that characteristic buzz and other by the bite they leave. We start to kill them one by one. It is a war of attrition like the Russians and the Germans had in WWII.

If we have followed our mosquito abatement policies the few that get in are dealt with. If not it is a long night. Restless sleep eventually wins out even if we lose that nights battle. When nature calls requiring a trip to the head the process begins again. I lie in bed and hope for the first light of dawn to lift the curse. It is then that I try to regain the sleep that is forever lost.

August 2013

Mañana

We woke up to the pitter-patter of rainfall on Carrie Rose’s front hatch. It is directly above us. When there is nowhere to travel due to rain and thunder at the beginning of the cruise it is concerning. Later in the cruise, when more relaxed the sound of thunder will be comforting, but today it is annoying. A decision will have to be made, go or not.

I reach for my phone and summon up the radar app. Telecommunications is slow in the Upper Peninsula, MI, so the wisp of red, yellow and green reflections off of rain and clouds appears in a pixelated mass at first and then more defined. A narrow band of red dots is making its way across our location. One after another appear. As I write this we sit in a lull between red radar dots.

Red, as you can imagine, denotes the worst clouds that are dense with moisture and reach high into the sky. Red is to be avoided if possible and that is one of the rules I try to live by. Conditions can deteriorate quickly on the lake. Within minutes it can go from a calm to a Turner painting.

Then there is a knock on the door and Bill from Dolly appears. We are leaving correct and I know more than to question his fifty years of experience. Quickly the boat is readied to leave. It is important not to rush. To rush is usually to slow down. Twenty minutes and we are at the dock pumping the head. I ask the young kid if this is a great summer job and he affirms that it is.

Then we are out cruising. It has taken a long time to get out on the water this year, but as this day on the water goes by — 7 hours and 37 minutes to be exact — it all comes together. Carrie Rose has passed through these waters before and it makes all the difference. As they say I can relax a bit and smell the roses.

My other cruising partner Dave on Sir Tugley Blue is ripe with technology. He radios to inform me that a 700-foot bulk carrier will be passing in front of me in twenty minutes. I turn to look and sure enough there it is. I had my radar set to only a 2-mile range and so I missed him. After some discussion with the John L. Block I slowed down and do a 360-degree turn. He thanks me and I wished him a great trip.

Now I have to catch up with Dolly and Sir Tugley Blue, and manage too right before Detour Passage. A thousand footer to my right, a seven hundred footer ahead and to the right two other behemoths in line to transit the passage like the airplanes in the sky over our house following each other to O’Hare airport. My compatriots make it across the passage but I decide to let the tug-barge combo pass in front of me. Another couple of 360’s and then I am behind him in his prop wash.

We head north into the calm beautifully wooded island territory of the North Channel and I have to pinch myself. Once across the North Channel and docked at Thessalon, Ontario with the sun high in the sky, the crystal clean air and the light, oh the light! Then I realize that there is no manana, there is only today . . . and today we saw a single loon off St. Martin’s lighthouse and what could be better than that.

July 2013

Spheres

It is important to know your place. I know mine; it is the north side of Chicago on a street lined with bungalows. Its recently trimmed trees give it the look of a cathedral. The neighborhood is diversity personified. A Saturday in the neighborhood out running errands makes me curious if any one speaks English. Of course they do. I am the one deficient in languages.

I am also curious who will be the next group of immigrants to grace my hood. Today, after spending a cold day on the lake delivering a friends boat to Montrose harbor, I saw a group of cheerful children and their parents exit the Church of East Africa based in a storefront on Western Avenue.

But this speculation is not my purpose here. I wish to speak of the night before, a cold one for this time of year. A high-pressure system from Canada brought in cold crisp clear air that extended out into space. No warm weather convection currents disturbed this air. Through it a full moon rose above Lincoln Ave. There it stood, hovering in the sky unmolested by clouds.

The moon lite up as if by some inner light; even my aging eyes could make out many smaller details. I clearly saw the hare pounding mochie and the man in the moon. The white was brilliant and the greys were like the grays in an Ansel Adams photograph.

Chicago is a hard place to see the horizon that is unless you venture to the lakeside or ride up to the 95th floor of the Hancock Building. Whenever I fly into O’Hare I break with convention and take as many photographs as I can of the skyline. It sits bunched up against the lake with the earth’s curvature beyond. It gives me a palpable feel that I live on a sphere. Whether we understand it or not our lives are spent on an iteration of the infinitely long number Pi, 3.14….

The moon coursing above the lights on Lincoln and California got me thinking. How could I have forgotten the physical limits, vast as the earth may be, of where I live? At that moment, while waiting for the traffic arrow to let me turn left onto California Ave. I realized, if only for a second, that everything in front of me, except the moon, was — is — an illusion.

It’s taken me 60 years to appreciate this. The fact that it occurred while driving home from Home Depot, on a Thursday night, in a place where I have spent most of my life is bizarre. I was brought up to think this kind of thing only happens in some exotic realm high in the solitary mountains, and not in a Subaru Outback with Charlotte sitting next to me. Go figure.

So now that I can feel the earth rotating under me what do I do; nothing of course. I will do what I do. It got me to this point. I will keep this little secret in the back of my mind and hope that I do not get vertigo.

July 2013

Continuum

Half of my life was spent in school (27 out of 60 years) much of it in the pursuit of various healthcare degrees. To this end many were the species I dissected. Worms, frogs, salamanders, fetal pigs, cats and dogs were but a few. It was a progression leading to the piece de resistance, the human cadaver.

Anatomy, usually paired with physiology in undergraduate education, is one of the more stringent classes. Along with chemistry it is an infamous flunk out class. Combined, these weed out many an aspiring physician. To excel I spent an inordinate amount of time in the lab. There by careful study the secrets buried within the various creatures were revealed to me. This pattern repeated itself many times as I progressed through my training.

In the early 80's and 90's I spent two years at different institution's human anatomy labs. I doubt there are many people that have lived amongst the dead for so long. And though I do not recommend this as a reasonable use of your time, I am eternally grateful to those that donated their persons so that I might have a better understanding of what makes us tick.

Add to this, years of practicing and teaching musculoskeletal medicine and I bring people watching to a new level. I have a cartoon-like x-ray vision! It is something I have grown use to. I can discern much about a person by the way they carry themselves, but I had never thought about doing this with dinosaurs.

On a recent visit to Chicago's Field Museum to see the Lascaux cave drawings I sat amidst the hullabaloo in the Great Hall. I looked up and suddenly was transfixed by Sue, the menacing Tyrannosaurus Rex. Methodically I surveyed the skeleton. Never having picked apart a bird put me at a disadvantage when trying to decipher dinosaur bones, but there are enough cross-specie similarities to make it a useful lesson.

That I seemed to enjoy this detailed study surprised me. Anatomy is rigorous. It requires stamina, brute brainpower and imagination. Not skills usually called upon for a lazy afternoon out wandering in the city.

I familiarized myself with the skeleton, naming most of the bones and appendages. Once that was done my mind began to add in ligaments, tendons and muscles. The internal organs were just beginning to appear when the shape of the skin imposed itself. At first it was an overlying veil and then it solidified. I suppose this is how a forensic artist works.

The thought entered my mind that this gigantic beast from tens of millions of years ago has the same basic structure as the Homo sapiens looking up at it in amazement. My sense is that its now long decomposed tissues are not separate structures but a continuum of sorts, with one type morphing into the next and not separate entities. This seems obvious but of course that is not how I was taught.

Histology is the study of different tissue types and it is part of the core curriculum during the first two years of medical school. We stared for hours into the eyepieces of microscopes at slides of every conceivable cell structure: muscle, bone and sinew. Only their differences mattered for the practical. How they relate to the whole was never addressed. But sitting there looking at Sue pulled it together for me.

I have read that we are made of aggregates of stardust that developed structure, function and consciousness over billions of years. It is how the universe organizes itself. Inorganic elements transition into organic constructs of carbon, oxygen and hydrogen, and suddenly we appeared to try and make sense of it.

The universe continues to evolve but now we have skin in the game. Our future once depended on the whims of nature—no longer. Chemical engines churn out DNA and RNA. Viruses are packed with it and sent into cells to alter their expression, and therefore the proteins we are made up of.

The future will be interesting. I figure I have at least twenty more years to observe the outcome of this fiddling with nature. Knock on wood!

May 2013

Flow

I never appreciated the flowing lines of the earliest ukiyo-e prints until I saw them in person. I admit to being seduced by the later multicolor ones. It is rare to see the early prints exhibited and most reproductions tend to highlight their flaws. So, after a lifetime of admiring Japanese prints it is as if I am seeing them for the first time.

In the earlier prints the figures move off the page. I only just grasp their fleeting image. My eyes follow each loving curve, never resting in one place, never taking in the whole. This is the magic: the image constantly reinvents itself, always fresh, always awaiting a new interpretation, a new appreciation.

The lines begin at the top, and flow downward and outward as silken curtains blow in a mid summer breeze. The simple entangling folds of Moronobu’s lovers, Torii Kiyonobu’s gesturing actors and Kaigetsudō Doshin’s determined courtesans move across the page. They reveal the truth of their circumstances despite their naive expressions.

For me, as the prints became more detailed the fluid line diminished. This is not meant as a criticism, the later prints are gorgeous. In One Hundred Views of Famous Places in Edo, Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji and Fifty-stations on the Tōkaidō rain pours down in torrents, massive waves threaten to engulf ships, mountain villages are buried in snow, and diminutive figures hunker down and are allowed to pass through the landscape by the grace of nature. They are technologically superior to the earlier prints and remarkable in their own right, but sometimes a bit like postcards. I suppose in some respects this is what they were meant to be.

My renewed interest in Japanese prints came after an unforeseen acquisition of a modern print. I noticed it from across the room at a friend’s home. It was obscured by a collection of hibernating bonsai. Interested, I asked about it and the next thing I knew it was hanging on my bedroom wall.

The poster size print is an odd combination of embossed gears and printed wood grain. It is surrounded by loosely woven burlap and set into a dark wood frame outlined with gold. The artist Gen Yamaguchi titled it Encounter. It is the 31st impression in a series of fifty. Its colors are earth tones of ash and pale dried earth with a smudge of black grease around the interlocking gears. This print has no flowing lines; it is without movement, it is a statement rather than a poem.

I searched for information about the artist on Google without much success, so I went to the library. There on 8th floor of the Chicago Public Library’s main branch I found a shelf and a half of books on Japanese prints. As I looked through their tattered pages the chronology of the Japanese print was revealed.

I had thought these prints were timeless but it turns out they began in the mid to late 17th century. Their lineage stems from the Buddhist prints of the Heian (794-1185) period. As with most things in the East the earliest images are from India, then into China and Korea, and finally Japan. Many of the artists were trained in the Kano and Tosa schools of painting. Their art rose to a crescendo through the entire Edo Art Period (1615-1868).

It was a time of peace and consolidation ruled by the Tokugawa shoguns. Daimyo and their samurai were held at bay, while a merchant class, though of lower rank, flourished. There were restrictions in place for most members of society and this was true of the merchants. Their outward lives needed to be subdued, but their inner lives were flamboyant. This extravagance played out behind the closed doors of the floating-world quarter inhabited by courtesans and kabuki actors, and the ukiyo-e artists documented it.

The technology moved on from the single color prints (sumizuri-e) of Masanobu to the full colors prints (nishiki-e) of Hiroshige. The first images are presented on a flat plane. Perspective is only added later.

The portraits are intimate. It feels impolite to stare, but we are distant enough that the characters are not aware of our presence. They do not beckon us into their world. We share in it as outsiders. But if we empty the mind and allow our eyes to flow through the 17th, 18th and 19th century we may just be able to capture their essence.

April 2013

insignificant

Astronomy Picture of the Day: 1/18/2013 (http://apod.nasa.gov/apod/astropix.html)

Most mornings I awake to the Astronomy Picture of the Day (APOD). It is a constructive way to greet the world. My morning ritual, before I jump in the shower, is to put the kettle on the stove so I am ready to make tea as soon as I dress. Breakfast consist of tea and two pieces of toast with peanut butter and jam. Once seated, I raise the lid of my elegant little computer and instantly the screen brightens.

What initially occupies its desktop is NOAA’S 7-Day Forecast for Latitude 41.84°N and Longitude 87.68°W. Depending on the weather and my plans for the day I may or may not explore deeper into NOAA’s maze of web pages. There is radar, both regional and national. There are the GOES satellite images from 25,000 miles out in space—I favor the infrared. Next, it is the National Forecast Charts and if I will be on the water, there are a plethora of marine sites to explore.

Once satisfied that I have a understanding of the weather I move to APOD. Well, not so fast. I admit to the occasional glance at WOOT while I sip my tea, and of course by now the email program has beeped to inform me of a few contacts since last night. Now, through with these distractions I click on my APOD bookmark (PIC) to see what wonder will present itself this morning.

I am not sure when I first stumbled upon APOD but I have frequented it for years. It rarely fails to start my day with a WOW! I use it as the foundation for the day to come. This said, I suppose you are wondering why I titled this commentary “insignificant”. In my way of thinking we are not that significant. What would it matter to another inhabited planet light years away if we ceased to exist?

Humans have gone from the pre-15th century earth centric view to Copernicus’s heretical heliocentric and now to Hubble’s Extreme Deep Field. It shows thousands of galaxies dating back 13 billion years. We can almost see the beginning of time. These distant images are garnered from a tiny sliver of dark sky in the constellation of Ursa Major. There are spiral, elliptical and irregular galaxies. As you pan the image galaxies crash into one another. It is so spectacular that the universe seems without a center, without definition. Looking at it I mystify at Earth’s place in the firmament.

But there are more local concerns. There are the “little” rocky bits whizzing past us at tens of thousands of mph. While we had our eyes 17,000 miles away on asteroid DA14 another rock crashed into Russia. NASA is searching for them. There are to date 9714 NEA’s (Near Earth Asteroids). Of which 861 are considered PHA’s (Potentially Hazardous Asteroids). And I do not think that there has been much effort to search the southern hemisphere’s sky for possible intruders.

Prating on about this makes me think of the oft-quoted tea phrase: ichigo, ichie (one time, one meeting). One meeting with any of these objects could ruin our comfortable lives. It is remarkable what thoughts can come from looking through a telescope, no matter the wavelength. An archaic Japanese aphorism is brought to life by the most advanced technology.

Having said this—understanding our insignificance in the time and distance scale of the universe—I come back to the importance of what has been given us: the opportunity for self-consciousness.

So I do not despair. Each day I search for something significant even if in the long, long run it turns out to be insignificant!

March 2013

Drama

Once while walking down a narrow street in Florence, hemmed in by the ubiquitous 5 and 6 story buildings, I glanced down a dusky cross street and there highlighted by a dim light a beautifully dressed—as they can only be in Florence—young woman stood engrossed in a conversation on her phone.

It was a fleeting moment but in that moment I sensed a complex interaction being played out. I sensed drama. Back then cell phones were still a novelty in Chicago. We had neither the habit nor the connectivity for such a scene. I thought how do the Italians do it; how do they live with such intensity.

Of course, I grew up in an Italian household. My father’s family came from a small town in central Italy called Collodi; a hamlet that climbs up a crevice carved in a steep hill by a fast flowing river. And even though he had a nervous stomach he was calm and gregarious.

My mother’s clan was from another small town, Aragona, which overlooks the Mediterranean from its southern roost in Sicily. She was the antonym of my father. Suspicious, superstitious and quick to anger, she was a loner who dealt with the world on her terms. She brought a dramatic flair to our household. I loved my mother, but I learned early to be wary around her. One false step—and I made many—and there would be hell to pay.

She had what I like to call situational memory. A slight, whether real or perceived, would be remembered for decades. Things gone wrong did not have to be acted on quickly. They could be left to ripen. As a rich red Brunello di Montalcino wine becomes better with age, the wrong became more complex, something to cherish. I cannot tell you how many times I was blindsided by a long forgotten misstep. Once confronted, I would respond with bafflement. This only added fuel to the fire.

How could I have been so callous to forget, or worse yet not even realized the issue existed? For mom there was a balance to the universe. If it tilted one way or the other it was unbearable and needed to be righted. I know now that not every wrong can be addressed. Time and energy run out, people die, circumstances change. I think this is why, like the Hatfield’s and McCoy’s, battles become generational. If grand parents and parents fail to reek vengeance then it falls to the next generation.

This is a long introduction to my way of thinking. After a tumultuous teenager-hood I determined to keep my drama quotient to a minimum. I have had a measure of success in this, though on occasion when in the middle of one of the rowdy Great Lakes I wonder if I need to rethink my approach to recreation.

And now that I think of it, my career in medicine has lead to many dramatic moments. In the last few years I have minimize my exposure to stress by extricating myself from hospital work. The office has just enough pizazz to keep things interesting. But I am afraid that even this is becoming less tolerable.

I often think of the young woman I glanced in the shadows of that ancient city and wonder who she was talking to. I believe if I found out I would be disappointed, so I am glad not to know. It is a novel I will never finish.

For all my calm and collectiveness, deep down I know my mother was onto something. It is the spark of life: indefinable and unknowable. It is the sound of one hand clapping or of a tree falling in an empty wood. It is the ripple in the ancient pond that Basho’s frog made, it is drama!

January 2013