Digital

The world has become digital. I attempt to keep up but I am running out of steam. Well, not really steam but interest. I remember adopting email, and then I remember the moment my beloved receptionist compelled me to text. Its efficiency surprised me.

I signed up on Twitter because of the hullabaloo but quickly lost focus. I did not understand why I should give a flying you know what about the barrage of 150 words that endlessly occupied my phone. And due to my litigated-against profession, Facebook was never an option.

When the hospital and the physician group began to push email down my throat, I politely agreed and neglected to look at it. I still remember a medical student looking in horror over my shoulder at the number of emails never opened. He was tasked with erasing them.

Did I miss something important, maybe? My goal was to provide the best care I could, and I think on a one to one basis I did that. It is not an easy thing to do. Every patient encounter is bespoke. I like that word. It, in a Queen’s English kind of way, provokes a gravitas that “custom” fails to do.

The digital revolution forced me to do an audit of my mental capacity: to inventory the memory and the processing power available to my aging mind. I determined the limits, and then decided what was necessary and left the other behind.

I envisioned practicing to a ripe old age. Experience in many ways supplants vigor. The longer I practiced the more efficient I became. In training, we would be confronted by wizen old doctors who could tell a patient’s entire history by watching them walk into the room. I was becoming one of these soothsayers.

This is part of the craft and not a saintly power bestowed on only a few. It requires decades of attention to detail, careful history taking and examination, and then the ability to formulate a proper note.

The act of writing allows the mind to catch up with the data stream. It allows for the split seconds needed to devise a plan. And it stores much of the information gained in long term memory, so it can be drawn upon later.

Of course, the reader can probably see where I am going with this. See why I abandoned my calling younger than I had anticipated, and went off to invest the energy left to me onto other areas of interest. A digital world I could not ignore finally caught up with me in the form of the electronic medical record.

I knew I was in trouble during the first of two two-hour lessons delivered by the provider of the software. Four hours of disjointed instruction by trainers, who truly could not understand that they were replacing a system developed over hundreds of years with a wholly insufficient and cumbersome digital equivalent.

But strike that last word. There is not a thing equivalent to several blank pieces of paper and a trained mind. Simple things turned complex and complex things were ignored. The patient encounter designed to be helpful, compassionate, and believe-it-or-not fun, turned ugly.

I spent six years in strident effort trying to perfect a thing that I knew after the first several weeks of use was hopeless. The digital world had bested me. I gave up. It took years to not feel guilty about the decision. And I suppose by writing this I am admitting to myself that I am not yet over it.

What prompted this thought process was the Iowa caucus debacle. In a purely selfish way, I take solace in the apps failure to count a few votes in a state with less population than Chicago. It looks like the collective consciousness of the country has many of the same issues with digital that I have.

But I am not good at wallowing, so I will continue to download the next best weather app and to post my bread baking victories on Instagram. That is, at least until my neuronal network ceases to connect!

February 2020

Almost

When I began to play the shakuhachi every series of notes went allegretto, despite the expected tempo. I could not keep up: my head spinning with futile attempts to suck in oxygen. A half decade into concerted study, the notes are beginning to unfold in slow motion.

Honkyoku, the shakuhachi’s classic music, does not have a specific time signature. It is timeless and often seems to begin as it ends. Small dashes and indeterminate lines droop from each note to provide a sense of the rhythm, but typically, the phrasing is passed down from teacher to student generation after generation.

I think of the music as the forest breathing. And if I am being romantic about it, this is interspersed with the devotional chants of Buddhist nuns, monks, and priests. A honkyoku piece reflects the interplay between nature and the player, if that distinction can be made.

That the quality of the sound has no bearing in this is hard to grasp. I struggle for the correct timbre and cadence knowing that if I had a truthful spirit the notes would be superfluous.

I often relate a work to a season of the year, even if there is no such indication. Winter is pianissimo, until a blizzard blows in and shatters the silence.

Spring is allegro molto vivace. It goes from crescendo to decrescendo as the nestlings are fledged.

Summer’s moderato ushers in with a steady drumbeat of activities only to be broken by tympanic summer squalls that pass quickly.

Fall is nature in retreat. Unlike spring, the pace is not frantic but largo. The earth is changing again, this time reluctantly.

With a repertory that can be counted on one hand, none are mastered. A few brief honkyoku tolerate my complete attention. Others linger on and challenge my competency.

I begin with a plan and great expectations, then midstream they are forgotten. Notes squeal then burrow deep. Fingers refuse to conform. Time is too short or too long. Breath runs out and leaves unexpected gaps.

For all that, after the last note it is difficult to disengage the mouthpiece from my lips: the music still beckons. And though the echo has faded, the sound continues.

Slowly my heartbeat fills the void, and it feels as if I am about to blow into the shakuhachi again for the first time. This is frustrating and thrilling at the same time. To know some forty years ago, what I know now would be joyous.

But then, now I can keep up with the notes . . . almost!

January 2020

Humans

These days when the newest wiz kid app developer or start up billionaire is interviewed, and the use of their product is questioned, they respond by stating that it is uniquely designed for humans. This takes me aback. I begin to wonder whom else would it be designed for.

Artificial Intelligence (AI) must be further along than I realize. Are these applications designed to be used by modern day R2-D2’s. I comprehend that my concept of robots, with or without AI, is colored by the black and white images I saw on TV when I was an impressionable youth.

I suppose I need an up-to-date definition of what a robot is. Can I equate AI with robots, are they one in the same; do robots have to have an arm to manipulate the world or can they do it by manipulating our minds to do their bidding.

AI, at least in my imagination, inhabits faceless servers, and is imbedded in the cloud and on our phones. It navigates through the Internet’s neural network, and it see’s through those odd looking goggles where people experience the virtual world while wandering around sparse rooms as molecules do in Brownian motion.

Though I often feel like a Luddite, I have been part of the internet since before there was an Internet. In the mid 1970’s, Southern Illinois University’s library was my chosen spot to study. I would leave the apartment after dinner and cross a gravel parking lot; walk up and over the train tracks (careful not to be run down by an errant freight train) to the Greek fast food joint for a cup of their bitter coffee.

This cup would be sneaked into the library where I set up shop and sipped while I studied anatomy, chemistry, and higher math. At about nine, my limit for absorption was reached, and I would head for the basement lab that contained odd neon screens with a resolution of about four dots per square inch. Here resided PLATO (Programmed Logic for Automatic Teaching Operations): a pre-internet network developed at the University of Illinois.

A reservation was required to use the terminals and I always scheduled a 45 minute session. This was a reward to motivate my diligent study until the library closed at 11:30pm. If I remember, the programs offered were geared toward higher education, but it had other functions that we now equate with the Internet.

I most often used the learn-to-type tutorial. I never learned to type other than the laughable hunt and peck that I write these commentaries with, but I did get a sense that there was a wider computer based world out there.

My next interaction with the web was from the editors of the Whole Earth Catalog. In the far off fantasy land of California there were enlightened individuals who communicated about intriguing things on a network that was the progenitor of user groups and chat rooms.

I longed to be part of that world but never managed to ingratiate myself. I considered myself too ordinary to be of interest, though in reality I lacked the motivation to investigate how to connect. Maybe I thought it would entail too much typing.

In those years, when I had some free time I opted to take long walks in the woods and spy on birds rather than lock myself in a room with a screen. Remember those days!

Back then the assumption was that these electronic innovations were to be used by Homo sapiens. I am not sure that this is true any longer. Each day brings news of ways to replace humans. The bank teller is replaced by an ATM. Stores are now busy training us to check out and bag our own goods.

Automobiles are so capable of driving in rush hour that their drivers are free to nap at the wheel. And then there are the drones, which will soon deliver packages and transport us above roads crowded by automatous delivery trucks.

The world moves on whether we like it or not. I watched my parents struggle for years to program a VCR. I like to think that I am better equipped to manage change but I also realize that I have lost the ability to record and play back video images.

For my part, if I can quickly get the latest app to work I may be interested, but if not I am perfectly happy to do without it. There is always the shakuhachi to practice, a wood working project to finish, or a couple of YouTube videos to watch. And I think I will try to stay awake while driving.

After all, I am proud to be human; it must be better than being a nematode. But then a nematode does not need to update its software or delete thousands of emails!

December 2019

Vortex

Winter arrived early. The polar vortex (perhaps it should be capitalized), which in most years is reserved for January and February, showed its ugly face this November. In the past, the wind that carries the brittle polar air would simply appear without being named, but no longer. The branding of each storm coincides with the drama that the 24 hour news cycle and the insatiable social networks demand.

Nonetheless, the cold is real, and requires an expertise in layering. The drawers that hold the appropriate garments must be searched through and cataloged after a spring-summer-fall of neglect: long sleeved flannel undershirts, tight fitting long johns, heavy pants and shirts, gloves, hats, down and/or wool vest and coats, and boots with knuckled soles are retrieved.

The clothes are invested with a lifetime of hard won experience, knowledge, and money. To find a suitable combination any thought of fashion is forgotten. Practicality rules the day or at least what is left of the day as winter progresses.

The earth’s wobble tilts the planet in such a way that the sun’s warming rays aimed at the north ricochet back into the absolute cold of space. Southern climes are sought for relief, but this realization can prove difficult. The vagaries of the jet stream threaten Florida as well as Chicago. It requires optimism to plan a winter respite months ahead. It is a gamble to drive south, attempt to tan, and then return home unscathed.

To add to the chaos, once a storm is named it invests the populace with mania. Grocery store shelves are emptied, classes are canceled, snow blowers are prepped, and we are asked to check in on the vulnerable.

I am indebted to R. H. Blyth and to his four volumes simply called, Haiku. Each season I take the appropriate volume from its reverential space on the bookshelf and read his commentary. The haiku are interspersed with quotations from Western poets and writers.

Though I have had these books since my early twenties I have never
fully read them. They act as a reference for how to perceive the world, more encyclopedic than novelistic. Japan is an animistic nation, thus haiku poetry is supremely tailored to represent it. For the most part Blyth indexes the poems in a natural order. Birds and beasts, trees and flowers, sky and elements are some of the topics.

I have spent much of my life on the water and much of that on Lake Michigan, so the wind plays large in my perception of nature. Haiku, in a mere 17 syllables, encapsulates the reality of the wind.

Buson writes: The winter storm, The voice of the rushing water, Torn by the rocks. I can see it, I can feel the spray on my face, and I am relieved to be lounging on a comfortable chair in a warm home, and not out fighting the tempest.

Basho on the other hand is not as abstract as Buson. He writes: The tempest is blowing: Someone’s painfully swollen face. Now this describes a winter in our beloved windy city. This is raw and visceral, and even though I am comfortable now, within the poem’s few words, an inescapable truth lies. That ultimately there is no comfort.

I wonder if a warm tropical breeze was bathing me, would I still be as dire. Would a few swaying palm trees uplift my worldview, temporarily I suppose.

A Polar Vortex (capitalize now!), or its equivalent is bound to be lurking out there somewhere. I will be thinking of this when I try to escape from its clutches this February, no matter the inescapable truth.

November 2019

Realization

In the 1980’s, I began my study of chanoyu, the tea ceremony. I am a native of Chicago who after spending many years away for schooling erroneously thought I was through with the Windy City. Thus, for my first job I sought out a position in a beautiful lakeside town in Wisconsin. It did not take long to realize I had made a mistake.

The mistake had nothing to do with the amiable people of this small town but with self perception. Soon I was driving to the larger city up the coast for East Indian music concerts and Middle Eastern food. There were authentic Italian bakeries and delicatessens that needed visiting.

Wander lust set in quickly. Next, I found myself in Chicago reconnecting with friends I had abandoned in my quest for higher education. They were gracious in welcoming me back into the fold.

On one trip “home” I picked up a brochure for adult education at the Latin School. One of the listings was for a four weekend seminar in the tea ceremony. I quickly signed up and found myself driving back to Chicago after office hours to attend the class. It was taught by an imposing man and a diminutive woman both in kimono.

It was obvious from the start that she was in charge. The woman, my future teacher, ran the roost but due to limited English needed a translator. The class started with the basics: how to fold a fukusa, how to handle a chawan, an explanation of matcha and the technique of using a chasen. There was a short dissertation of the history of chado, and then we were all invited to take the chasen in hand and make our partner a bowl of tea.

Years later in medical school where the aphorism “See one, do one, teach one” is paramount, I looked back and recognized the style of my first teacher who was a distinguished internal medicine doctor. Six months later, I took the class again and then to my surprise was asked to take lessons formally.

The year was 1985 and I am still at it. If I am truthful, I have gained a level of competency but nowhere commensurate with the time spent in study. It is as if the more I study the wider the tea world becomes. It is infinite.

That revelation changed frustration into the comforting thought that chanoyu will be forever fascinating. I will never be bored with the process, the history, the arts and crafts, and thus I will never need to move on to another endeavor to satisfy my curiosity. And that is the realization, my realization at least.

October 2019

Senioring

The backs of cars are festooned with many clues as to the type of people that inhabit them. There are political affiliations, union memberships; you can see where most of the money that should have gone in the retirement account went instead to a university. The type of dog that is riding shotgun, and how many family members are shuttled around by mom in the mini van is often evident.

There is on occasion a quirky haiku-like statement about how we are going to hell in a hand basket. And often I am left feeling inadequate because my other car isn’t a Corvette.

I miss the Grateful Dead’s skeletons and bears. Where have all the deadheads gone? And I have not seen the elitist Colorado’s green Native sticker for a while; maybe they have become more inclusive.

The best adherents to bumper sticker culture have to be the drivers of old VW camper vans. The backs of their vehicles, including the window, are covered with every destination in their carefree lives.

I have never participated in this, though I have come close. Stickers collect in the back seat waiting to be affixed but grow old and tattered, and are eventually thrown out. But I think my time is coming.

Not that I want to make a political statement, or advertise a lifestyle. I have no grandchildren that are going to Harvard or Yale, and there are no dogs or exotic cars that the world needs to know about. What I propose to post is similar to the “New Driver, Please be Patient, or “Baby on Board, Please don’t drive me off the road” genre of stickers.

I must have crossed over an imaginary line recently. My neck must have gotten spindlier, my hair sparser and greyer, I must be slumping in my seat or listening to talk and classical radio more. Something has changed that motivates drivers in my rear view mirror to help me along by blaring their horns.

Maybe I am preventing them from getting to the next stoplight quicker, or from making that forbidden right turn on red. I certainly am slowing the progress of every plumber’s van, not that they ever get to my house on time.

Okay, I am comfortable that my time has come to burden the vehicle behind me with guilt by announcing, “Senior On Board, Please Give Me A Break”, or “Senior On Board, What’s The Hurry”, or maybe “Senior On Board, Where The Hell Are You Going Anyway”.

Though when I mention this plan, friends caution that it will make me increasingly vulnerable to the scofflaws that call our streets home, and it will give these hurried drivers more glee in cutting me off the next opportunity they get.

On occasion, I have fun at a stoplight. The unremarkable white Honda I pilot, when dropped into sport mode, will translate its 260 HP to the front wheels in dramatic fashion. I know it is wrong, but when the towering pickup truck that has been tailgating me pulls to my right, I cannot help but accelerate just for a moment. It alters the whole dynamic.

It is juvenile, as it would also be to put the above stickers on my bumper. In the end, better to remain anonymous and keep driving . . . . like an old man!

September, 2019

Bizarre

One morning this first week of August, I was listening to Nino Rota’s film music. It was soothing in an odd way. If you are unfamiliar with him, go to YouTube and listen to the music, and then watch the movies. He is famous for writing the scores for The Godfather and for the eccentric Italian director Federico Fellini’s movies. If you have never watched any of these, you are in for a treat.

It is Italian music at its finest, an offbeat mix of serious and comical, even farcical. It reflects the bizarre world the Italians found themselves in during the 50’s and 60’s: a time not far from the devastation of WWII.

This music is a perfect background for the world we find ourselves in; no, more the world we are trapped in. The country is barely recognizable. Our worst tendencies are sanctioned to retain power at any cost.

America has become a country that sits back and lets its young men slaughter families, friends, and children for no other reason than pure misguided hate. And to make the unthinkable even stranger, we not only continue to encourage them but also to arm them.

Fellini’s films are about the absurd. They are extreme depictions of life that seem unreal at first viewing. But after some thought the tangible world make his films tame.

In my profession, there was the constant threat of malpractice. We armed ourselves with high value insurance and even higher value preventative measures. Of course, the best approach is to strive to do the best job possible: to ignore the threat, and practice responsibly and treat everyone with respect.

I find this lacking in our leaders. They have put the country at risk by ignorance at best and malice at worse.

In my 66 years, the country has been through traumatic events: unjust wars, assassinations, riots, massive economic fraud, homeland attack, political suppression and maleficence, and environmental carnage. A short search of Wikipedia will bring up the specifics. Somehow, this feels different.

Where there was hope and enthusiasm, it seems crushed under a mass of electronic media. Other than reading an opinion piece or watching Walter Cronkite on television, I was left to my own thoughts. Ideas simmered for hours or days. Conclusions were reached, not forced by a millisecond turnaround time.

There was no stress to broadcast opinions because no one particularly cared. Friends reinforced each other, and families did what families always do (or did), stuck together despite differences.

When I tried to write a coherent conclusion to this commentary, I could not. To use logic to ferret out a solution does not seem possible. Of course, we should try but not be surprised if the effort is futile. Now that is bizarre.

August, 2019

Once

Today was one of those days; up at 5:30, a quick breakfast then the pre-cruise inspection. There was 75’ of anchor chain laid out between Cross and Mink Islands, and it needed the mud hosed off most of the chain before our scheduled departure at 6:45.

I said it was one of those days, so the reason for the 6:45 departure was to arrive at the Quoddy Narrows at the last vestige of Maine in time to reach the Lubec Narrows Bridge at 10:18. And the reason for this was (for once) to try to cross from the Atlantic Ocean to the Passamaquoddy Bay at High Slack tide when the water would be calm.

If we reached it at the proper time then the current under the bridge will be minimal. If not then it makes for a hair-raising experience, as the entire bay begins to lower itself by twenty feet and much of its water passes under this bridge.

To reach the bridge at Hugh Slack tide is the theory, alas, we have yet to succeed coordinating the variables involved. Some of these include integrating the low and high slack currents with the timing of low and high tide. Another is the time zone: Eastern Daylight and Atlantic Daylight time, which here exists directly across from each other. And then there is the lack of data concerning the current at the Lubec Narrows. All these make timing the transit difficult to pin down. So far, we have been off by plus or minus an hour.

The timing error becomes apparent as Carrie Rose is being sucked through (if it is low to high tide), or struggles to transit the two bridge pylons of the Lubec Bridge (if it is high to low tide). Of course, it is not quite that simple. There are strong eddies above and below the bridge.

If there is one thing I know about Carrie Rose, if I fully engage the throttle she will plant her stern deep into the water and go straight. I have only had to do this a few times, most notably on the New Jersey coast and now in northernmost Maine.

At this point in my boating career I should know I better, but as we say in the Tea Ceremony: One meeting, one time. Each attempt is unique. I should end this tale now but there is more. Please feel free to stop reading at any time. You will not hurt my feelings.

As I mentioned above, we left Cross Island in Maine early this morning. A horrendous dream awoke me and I got up to look around. The entire anchorage was shrouded in fog. I could barely see the glow from Sir Tugely Blue’s anchor light. I crawled back into bed and I awoke at 5:30.

The surrounding fog was gone, but this was nature being deceitful. It did not take long for the fog to enveloped us once out onto the Atlantic. To add to the fog there was squall after squall. Their only benefit being to temporarily blow the fog away.

More events took place: whirlpools, a pissed off (I did inadvertently yelled at him) hulk-like Canadian border patrol agent, and more cold rain and fog.

Now on our mooring, the rain has stopped, the winds have calmed, and the cloud ceiling has risen. There may even be a sunset, and tomorrow it is predicted to be sunny and in the 70’s. All is well.

Oh, did I forget to mention that the water hose popped off the hot water heater and sprayed 50 gallons of water over the engine room (an easy fix if you can believe it) as we approached the Narrows. I think it is time to have a glass of wine, a bite to eat, and go to bed!

July 2019

Forethought

Every tea/chanoyu event engenders much forethought. Most of the groups that request a tea ceremony demonstration are surprised at the amount of equipment needed to perform the task properly. And they are also surprised to see the number of kimono clad women and men that deliver, unpack, assemble, use the various objects, and then reverse the process.

Along with the equipment is the creation of a mizuya (kitchen). One of the principles of chanoyu is purity, and during tea, the host ceremonially purifies the utensils. But before that, hidden away from the guest in the mizuya, the utensils are cleansed and prepared for use.

Chanoyu is not a preordained event. Each time tea is prepared it is unique. I believe that that is one of the reasons why chanoyu is so engrossing. Many factors are considered when designing (if that is the appropriate word) each event. The season, the availability of tea ware, the level of formality, the space that tea is to be made in, the practitioners level of expertise, all these and more must be considered.

And though we draw upon our training and experiences, another tenet of chanoyu is ichigo, ichie (one time, one meeting). It belies us to consider this presentation of chanoyu as a one and only. In my medical practice, when asked to provide an opinion, diagnosis or medication sight unseen, I would respond that each patient is a custom one off encounter, and in my experience the simpler the problem was made out to be, the more complicated it was.

The lesson learned is never to be complacent. Never to take anything for granted. Plan, plan, plan, and then review the plan. Despite my excellent chanoyu training, I must remind myself of the above. This may be because I know that my teachers will not allow themselves or their students to strive for anything except perfection.

Of course, this striving for perfection is passed down from above. My visits to the Urasenke Headquarters in Kyoto have been a mixture of awe and dread. It is not fear of their reproach, for they are gracious and accommodating, but fear of my insufficiencies.

Alas, the only way forward is to persevere. Riyku, the founder of chado (the way of tea), stated it this way: To become adept at something requires liking it, adroitness, and the accumulation of training. It is the person with all these three who will realize mastery. (Translated by Gretchen Mittwer)

So, the next time you watch the sublime tea ceremony performed, think of the forethought that the scurrying group of kimonos before you put into the planning and implementation. It will make the experience more fulfilling.

June 2019

Clutter

To get as far out of earshot I practice the shakuhachi at the front of the house. I can close a few doors to lessen the sound permeating into the back room where the ever patient Charlotte sits, watching the latest Amazon Prime serial. We have reached a compromise on location as the recent piece I have been practicing has the highest notes possible to be played on this 22” piece of thick bamboo.

In a virtuoso’s hands, these notes would not need volumes of air to reach their peak, but then I am not a virtuoso. The tuner does not lie; I can produce the proper pitch at the sacrifice of increased volume.

The shakuhachi’s five basic notes have simple one syllable names: Ro, Tsu, Re, Chi, and Ri. They are notated in katakana, and when first practicing a tune the notes are sung rather than played.

With other pitches, especially in the third octave, the names become complicated and defy song. It has taken 40 years for me to sound them: Go-No-Ha, San-No-Ha, Yon-No-Ha, or D, D#, and E.

There are others a bit lower on the scale but these three have been fleeting. When I manage to play the note properly, I try to replicate what I have just done. Where was my tongue, how were my lips pursed, what angle was the flute in relation to my mouth, how much air was I forcing into the flute, the list goes on.

Breath is fleeting as well. It should be deep and abdominal, a steady stream of powerful air. But mostly it comes from my upper chest. Halfway into each measure, when it is too late, I remember that this breath should be deep and abdominal. The final notes struggle to survive.

When I sit at my makeshift desk where I practice, and look west into the front and dining rooms, I see clutter. It is not clutter in the negative sense. Most of the objects have a cherished history and their place, but there are still an awful lot of them.

Closest to me there are cigar box guitars and several bamboo komuso figurines. The books and dolls, various wooden and metal objet d’art; paintings and woodblock prints; there is a stereo cabinet with CDs and records, and speakers the size of large picnic ice coolers.

The dining room has the prerequisite table and chairs with the addition of a small shrine to the shakuhachi and chado gods. The walls are cover with home generated prints and watercolors. There is my mother’s maple hope chest and Charlotte’s grandmothers white marble topped dresser, along with a smattering of family and friend's photographs.

The entirety is dusted twice a month on Tuesday, so we cannot be accused of slovenliness. Most of the clutter has been circling the sun along with us for decades. My sister does not have this predilection. She regularly without sympathy redefines her space. In fact, quite a few of the pieces, both large and small, once inhabited her home.

There are moments when I wish it was all gone, and my life was as clean and spare as the furniture ads I see in the Sunday New York Times Style magazine. The people in the ads are as sleek as their surrounds, and I imagine that they have figured out how not to carry any baggage, both spiritual and material, around with them.

Then I relax and realize it is never going to happen. I pity my nephews for somehow I imagine they are going to have to deal with the clutter. But maybe they will wash their hands of it and call 1-800-GOTJUNK . . . not a bad idea.

I turn back to the score. It is time to make some noise. Time to send a few high pitched notes out to interact with the stuff that clutters my life.

May 2019

Resourceful

I have always enjoyed making things, all kinds of things. When I was a kid I enjoyed taking things apart, the problem was, I was not skilled at putting them back together again. My parents were tolerant of this proclivity of mine. In fact, I think my father encouraged it. I never remember him getting mad, even when I took grandpa’s fancy pocket watch apart and ruined it.

That watch still exists. I have lugged it around with me since I first destroyed it. Whenever I unearth it from some drawer or box I have hidden it in, I cannot help but feel guilt. It is a constant reminder of the years it took me to become resourceful enough not only to disassemble, but also to reassemble.

One of the frustrations of practicing chanoyu in America is the lack of appropriate utensils. Granted the Internet has made this less of an issue, but still there are things that are not readily available. I have spent my adult life searching art and craft fairs, and antique and consignment shops for that rare find, a suitable western piece that will work for tea.

Over many years of study, I have developed a sense of what foreign object will work in tea’s highly stratified world. My home is littered with objects that do not make the final step to being useful in the making of tea. Japan has spent close to a millennium defining and refining these objects, so why do I think I will find one willy-nilly while wandering around a crafts fair.

It has happened: a beautiful white tea bowl found in Door County, Wisconsin, and another bowl stumbled upon in a northern Maine coffee shop. But these are the outliers. Other objects I have made, partially out of a sense of frustration but also out of curiosity and a need to be hands on in my personal tea ethos.

This pursuit of a personal identification with the material world of tea is not always met with approval. Tea is a conservative practice in the way that period musicians only use instruments appropriate to that time; no Switched On Bach for them. And so, it is thus with tea.

Change is not bottom up but top down. It is not the purview of the general membership but the responsibility of the few. This is with good reason. As with most earthly constructs, chanoyu is a fragile thing. Change has ramifications, mostly unanticipated. Tea’s oeuvre is firmly set.

That said I have a library of tea books and a basement of tools, neither of which I can ignore. Once I get a design in my head, the above resources are put to work, and sometimes, if I am lucky a useable piece is constructed. Of course, this is an unorthodox approach.

In the book, The Spirit Of Tea, the then Grand Tea Master Sen Soshitsu XV touches on this subject in the chapter titled Selecting. I have read its twelve lines many times to try to understand where the boundaries between seriousness and frivolity lie. In this, I have been unsuccessful.

There are many ways to truth: scholarship, spirituality, physical practice, and the disciplines of arts and crafts. To be successful in the selection, or the design and building of tea utensils requires resourcefulness. But how to keep the ego out of it, well, chado, the way of tea excels at that.

April 2019

Prep

It is winter and I am retired. That means, for the most part, I do not need to leave the house unless I want to. There is comfort in this. It also means that I have the time to prep myself and the house for the onslaught of freezing winds, snow, and ice.

This winter (2019) has had a few particularly nasty days. I did not grow up with the concept of wind chill, so I tend to discount the figures as inflated for breathless weatherpersons, but reports of ten below zero grab my attention.

I retrieve the extra heavy black ski jacket. Next to be fished out of the back of the closet are fleece lined Patagonia pants, wool hats, and recently purchased Thinsulate mittens. I also rummage through the dresser drawer for long sleeved UNIQLO extra warm t-shirts, and just in case put long underwear on alert.

To add to this, I fuel the snow blower and start it to assure that when push comes to shove it will work. Snow shovels are strategically placed at the front, back, and garage doors along with containers of sand to prevent mishaps if the ice proves intractable.

And while in the garage, snowbrushes and ice scrapers along with shovels are placed in the car’s trunks. One car, an overpowered sports coupe, is slippery on anything other than dry pavement, so as a reward for a life spent driving beaters, come around November I fit it with four snow tires.

When the cold materializes windows and doors are searched for air leaks. Various types of barriers are employed to seal what is ultimately an un-sealable house. There is more but at the moment, I can’t think . . . . No wait, I oil the Bell & Gossett circulating water pump on the boiler, and bleed the radiators of accumulated air.

In late September, the storm windows are lowered in place. A portable electric radiator is put in the back porch and the crawl space underneath it is packed with fiberglass insulation. Of course, the front and back water spigots are drained along with what water is left in the garden hoses.

I have a few survivalist tendencies, so I stock up on pasta and canned tomatoes and red wine, and let’s not forget cookies and flour and yeast. To add to the above list, in September I did much the same thing to Carrie Rose, our handsome cruising tug.

Is it any wonder that Chicago’s population shrinks every year. Instead of constantly raising taxes and fees, the city should be paying us a hazardous duty stipend. The block I live on is magnanimous. Once I have the snow blower running I will continue south for three or four houses, and occasionally some gracious soul will clear the snow from the entire block’s sidewalks.

In October, I pull R. H. Blyth’s Haiku Vol. 4 down from the bookcase’s upper shelf, and read Buson’s haiku: My bones feel the quilts; A frosty night. That about sums winter up for me.

Only now can I take the liberty to think of winter’s preparation. It is March, and there is hope in the still frigid air.

March 2019

Boxes

Much of life is tucked away in boxes: hidden in attics and crawl spaces, in storage units and garages. An unofficial duty of mine is to patch together the multitude of boxes that contain the implements of chanoyu, the tea ceremony. Some boxes are pristine, others look like they have been through a war, and maybe they have.

Despite their artistic contents, they can be works of art unto themselves. They are platforms for their own history. The joinery is perfect. The wood is clear, fine grained and pale, though some boxes have the patina of age.

If there is a nail, it is because of an uninformed attempt at repair. For all the beauty and artisanship of their construction, Chicago is not a forgiving place for them. It is toxic. Japan is humid and so is Chicago, but not in winter. Humility disappears in January and February.

In my 1913 bungalow, cracks appear in the kitchen's wooden backdoor despite yearly attempts to mend them. The humidifier is turn up and while this prevents an almost fatal shock each time I touch metal, the humidity still hovers in the low thirties. The leaky storm windows break out in a forest of ice crystals with the added moisture, and still wood shrinks and cracks.

When the straight grained wood that these boxes are made from splits, it does so cleanly. Though I have never heard it happen, it must make a tremendous sound. Maybe it contributes to the constant creaking of my 106 year old house.

My first step in the restoration is to carefully inspect the box, and come up with a plan to mend the damage: less is more when making a repair. Often the wood is split and the dowels that act as nails are damaged. A judiciously sectioned toothpick will replace a dowel. With the new dowel in place, a bit of hide glue is added, and then hefty clamps are applied.

Most boxes have a rim around the bottom with four centrally placed slits. A ribbon is passed, though the middle of each. The middle of the ribbon meets the two straggling ends at the top. These, once tied, hold the lid on. The knot used is similar to tying shoes but of course, as I have learned, Japanese knots are tied opposite of Western knots. I grew up sailing and take pride my ability to tie knots, but these confound me.

Chanoyu uses a plethora of knots, which, of course, I thought I would be able to master. Think again. It is a constant frustration to be confronted by the same knots and fail each time to tie them properly without pedantic instruction.

The lids are made of the same wood as the rest of the box, but because of their construction, they tend to warp instead of split. There are two wooden rails on the bottom side of the lid to keep it in proper alignment. The rails are affixed to the lid with small wooden dowels. The dowels shear as the lid shrinks and warps. It is clever, because if they were nailed the lid would be damaged.

Though the glue sets in twenty minutes, I leave the lid and box to rest overnight. There is no hurry. Once returned to its owner, the box and its precious contents will be put away, and become a memory until needed. It could be months, it could be decades. The renewed box will again protect the little spark of life that went into the creation of the treasure within it: hidden or not.

February 2019

Handmade

I have built a few things over the years and in the process learned many skills: working with wood, metal, and fiberglass, and then often the most difficult, the final finish. This is one of the reasons I was drawn to Japanese culture. It was before I had developed any of the above. I was anticipating, however impossible, that one day I would be able to emulate the workmanship, the craft, and the creativity I saw presented by Japanese artisans.

If I am honest, even though I have built and designed things as disparate as boats and tea tables, I have never realized the competency and artisanship of Japan's craft practitioners. The tradition of arts and crafts in Japan is on such a high level that it is almost unattainable.

Think of a "simple" Raku bowl. It is rough and irregularly shaped, it is grossly black, and it is a bowl with such a specific purpose that it is useless to most. But for tea, it is the perfect vessel. Though it looks heavy, it is light. Fill it with hot water and it is the perfect insulator. Behold it filled with whipped, frothy matcha, the green within the black surroundings, and the natural world is revealed.

This is the same for many of tea’s utensils. Consider the natsume, the tea caddy. Depending on its shape, the matcha within is carefully placed into a steep volcanic peak or a low lying hill. In use, the natsume is placed close to the side of the chawan, the tea bowl. The right hand while grasping the chashaku carefully removes the lid. The matcha now conjures up an image of a tree covered mountain, or a mossy hill.

We learn over time to disturb the perfectly formed mound of matcha selectively, creating a crag in the far off side. The totality remains, if not in reality, then in the minds eye.

Tea utensils have evolved with the practice of tea. The ten craft families that collaborate with Rikyu’s descendants are dynasties of their own. They continue to supply the ceramics; cast iron vessels; pottery; bronze; silk cloths and containers; various wood and bamboo pieces; lacquered paper and wood; and the other paper products that make tea possible.

And though Rikyu stated that, “it is foolish to possess numerous utensils", surely chanoyu would be found lacking without the tradition of design and execution these families bring to tea, to say nothing of their historical significance.

I do not diminish my skills but I am humbled by the art and craft of even the simplest of tea wares. Whenever I am working on a project, their example keeps me honest. Each bowl of handmade tea draws upon this four hundred year legacy, of what Morgan Pitelka calls in his same named book, Handmade Culture.

January 2019

Devotion

To excel at a task requires devotion. Of course, devotion alone does not guarantee competence but that hardly matters. What matters is the work, the striving for perfection without the anticipation of it. I do not speak of devotion to a faith or a supreme being. That is too abstract. I speak of a more personal, hand crafted effort.

The ranks of stalwart pianists and violinists have diminished and so, in their place many fresh faces have appeared. It is comforting to see and hear them. Music has definitely changed. There are new interpretations of classic pieces. And the level of virtuosity has sky rocketed.

Most of these new player’s biographies begin while they are four or five years old. In the past, these musician’s lives would have been considered freakish, but not now. It seems to be standard operating procedure. Just like in sport where athletics become taller, faster, more coordinated, and break every long standing record, so with music. Exceptionalism has become the norm.

This of course does not mean that they have something to say, or something to add to the interpretation. In the process of searching my library’s music section, I have listened to many new artist recordings. The standard fare is Chopin’s Etudes or Bach’s Partitas. These pieces seem to be the coming out party for young phenoms.

They do not always have something to say. The music can be technically flawless but lack heart. There are many ways to read the notes and measures. There are many ways to hit a piano’s keys or to pluck a violin’s strings. The variation is infinite even within the constraints of classical music.

But I error, Bach does not micro-manage. The scores have plenty of freedom to allow for personal exploration. And with venues like SoundCloud and YouTube, no one can force a musician to conform to a specific view. If you have the skill (or not) and an iPhone, there is a platform to share your view of the world with others.

Persistence in developing the intellectual and physical skills, even in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds, is the key to unlock the constraints hidden within us. It does not matter if the skill desired is playing Danny Boy on the penny whistle for your friends on St. Patrick’s Day or performing a Beethoven Piano Sonata in Carnegie Hall.

In my world, I have been practicing chanoyu since 1984 give or take a decade to concentrate on a career. In all that time my goal has been to make tea without worrying about making tea. It is odd to see that in writing. What is the big deal about that, but it is elusive. There is always second guessing and self doubt creeping in. It creates a roadblock.
The mere fact of doing tea repeatedly in every possible combination, with many types of utensils, with seasonal changes breaks down resistance simply by exhaustion and complacent familiarity. Without devotion, practice devolves into a chore, comforting maybe but fruitless.

And though it is a month too early for a New Year resolutions, mine next year will be to be more devote. Not to an external entity or institution but to myself. To expunge self doubt and get on with the task of living the years left to me in a fashion that may not lead to Carnegie Hall but to excel . . . competently or not!

December 2018

Rising

My mother was a cook and a baker. These are not always compatible traits. To prepare her wonderful Sicilian dishes required a kind of slapdash attitude. Rarely was there a recipe. It was the little-of-this-and-a-little-of-that school of cooking. But when it came time to bake, the recipes came out, as did measuring spoons and cups.

I learned that baking is deterministic. The recipes have to be trusted, not questioned. And that cooking is a more egalitarian pursuit. I am skeptical of a recipe until it has been proven. If an ingredient, or an amount, or a procedure, or a temperature, or the timing does not sound correct, I have no compunction about changing it.

Now that I have said this, it does not apply to baking bread. Bread occupies a space between cooking and baking. It did not when I first began to bake. That was in Southern Illinois, Carbondale to be precise. It was my second attempt at college. I was twenty-five and a bit desperate to move on with my life.

At the same time I decided to become a vegetarian, I still am. Carbondale had a slightly world weary hippie feel to it. There was a lot of the counter culture mixed in with academics, partying, and environmentalism. This was packaged in a small rural town 350 miles south of Chicago. It turned out to be a good place to reinvent myself.

My first loaf of bread was a failure. It resembled a rough brick and weighed about as much. No matter, the apartment smelt good and I was the envy of my friends. I ate every bit of it all the time recognizing its deficiencies. Learning to bake was an off and on thing. I was busy, my mind was busy, my body was busy, but I kept at it. It was like chasing the Holy Grail.

I cannot remember when I finally succeeded but it was decades later. By then, I had stopped referring to recipes in favor of ratios. To fill two trusty ceramic bread pans I start with two cups of water. Once I had the feel of the dough, measuring the other ingredients is unnecessary. Yeast, salt, oil, and sugar are added by intuition.

That said there are a couple of inviolable truths that cannot be varied if bread is going to rise. The first is pure microbiology (my favorite class in undergrad): do not kill the yeast. Yeast is a living thing, even if dormant.

Recipes often break down here. Some will give specific temperatures implying that the yeast will not grow unless the temperature fits into a tight range. Some are more vague, stating that the water should be luke warm, whatever that means.

Yeast is a robust organism. It has been found to function even after thousands of years sitting in a Pharaoh’s tomb. The only thing it cannot take is heat. A temperature over 120 Fahrenheit/49 Celsius and the yeast is dead. Yeast will rise in cold water it will just take longer, so if not sure, error on the cool side. If you are more scientific or have a background in engineering, and cannot proceed further without a precise temperature; then use 100 Fahrenheit/38 Celsius.

The second truth is that the second rise cannot be prolonged. The first rise is not a concern. Put it in the refrigerator overnight; leave it in the kitchen for hours, all that’s needed is to punch it down and start kneading. The flavor may even benefit from its neglect. But once it is rising for the second time it has to be watched. Too high and it will deflate, a sinking feeling.

There is this concept not often discussed called oven rise. The yeast soaks up the heat of the oven and starts metabolizing CO2 and alcohol. The bread rises until the yeast is killed. If the dough rises too high before being put in the oven, its gluten backbone cannot sustain itself and down it comes.

Spend the last half hour of the second rise sitting in the warmth of the kitchen and watch the miracle happen. And just when it starts to peak over the rim of the pan slash the top and put it gently into the oven.

Bread inhabits both worlds. Precision and a laissez-faire attitude are needed to produce a memorable loaf of bread. I guess this is what I learned from watching my mother cook and bake. And when I think of it, it is probably not a bad way to live a life.

November 2018

Reality

Though I have been involved with Japanese culture for decades, my Japanese language skills are sorely deficient. I admit that I have never put the effort in to learn the language of the culture that I love. One of the side effects is that I am constantly learning the obvious. It also means that the simplest of revelations is exciting.

I have been to Japan three times: travelled from Nikko in the north to Nagasaki in the south. In these travels, I have never felt looked down upon because of my lack of the language. In fact, the Japanese people have been welcoming and on numerous occasions gone out of their way to rescue me, usually because I cannot read the simplest of signs.

And this has me thinking about Japanese prints, Ukiyo-e. What could be more mysterious than the various seals, stamps, text, and calligraphy that accompany the subject of most prints. The figures or the places depicted are framed in, at least for me, an incomprehensible array of kanji and bright red hallmarks.

Once, years ago a friend who was born in Japan but has lived in the USA for most of their adult life came to visit. They had only two requests, they wanted to see the Art Institute’s Japanese print gallery, and then have dinner at the Italian Village. As we walked through the gallery, which was displaying a grouping of classic prints by the like of Hiroshige, Masanobu, and Hokusai, he casually looked at each print and simply read the text.

This was a revelation for me. As obvious as it was, it had never occurred to me that these prints were formatted with a particular array of identifying and regulatory markers, and that on many were poems and descriptions of the depicted scene. What was a mystery for me was, in most cases, the set series of elements that make up a print's bona fide.

So, after that faithful afternoon I determined to understand the prints on a more practical level. To this end, I began to acquire scholarly books about the prints. At one point, I even make a spreadsheet of the various “families” of print makers to try to understand their lineage.

Of course, as might be imagined, it was a complex task. In the process, I learned that the production of the prints had a definitive timespan, and that the printing technology evolved, as did the availability of inks from outside of Japan. And those are clues to when the prints were made.

I also realized that the artists listed on the prints were the designers, and an entire industry existed to make the artist vision a reality. Woodcarvers, printers, publishers, and a sales staff, not to mention the clients that ordered the prints and the public that bought them. For printmaking was a commercial enterprise.

In the years that I sought out these prints, I had put my uninformed interpretation on them, an idealized image of a perfect world without mercantilism. After all, I was thinking Zen, and not the reality of courtesans, Kabuki actors, and travel brochures.

But let me not sound disappointed by my discoveries. In fact, it only heightened my enjoyment of the medium. Knowledge is a grand thing and with the more gained, the increased frustration that more is lacking. Knowledge, like the proverbial iceberg, is mostly hidden.

Does this mean I will sign up for the next Japanese language class, probably not. I will use the brainpower still left to me to study the culture knowing the deficit I am operating under. And that is the reality; to continue to rejoice in each small discovery I stumble on.

October 2018

Sound

Neuroscience has caught up with common sense. Since the scientific method was discovered it was thought that past a certain age, it was downhill for an aging brain. That once neurons matured the only option was deterioration. Our neuronal architecture was fixed and there was nothing to do about it.

Of course, life long learners knew differently and kept the knowledge to themselves. They quietly painted, wrote, read, built, and played despite the grim prognosis provided by the scientific community.

This has changed. Our neurons are now free to grow and interact as they please. And this brings me to the title of this article, sound. I spent most of my life listening to all kinds of sounds from the most esoteric Japanese to ubiquitous pop, and just below the surface longed to play, to participate.

I had (have) a busy life. With the other study I involved myself in there was no place for music making. In my early twenties, I bought a shakuhachi and managed to learn how to read the music but that is about as far as I got. Once a decade I would pick up the flute but to no avail, other mental activities had sucked up the brainpower needed to progress, and the flute would be confined to its drawer.

This was true until four years ago when I quit working. It took me a couple of years to say retired. I think it was a combination of guilt and self denial, but I am over that now. And then with no excuse and plenty of time, I picked up the shakuhachi once more. Of course, making notes other than the basic pentatonic scale of D, F, G, A, C was troublesome.

I purchased a tuner/metronome and went to work. An uncompromising friend who is an amateur oboe player stressed that I practice at least one hour per day, otherwise forget about it. I agreed. It seemed like I was making a pledge, signing a contract with dire consequences if I did not comply.

Now retired and having numerous hours free how hard could it be to find one hour to practice, as it turns out, very. Mornings and evenings are productive times for me, afternoons not so much, unless I manage to sneak in a shot of espresso around 2:30.

As retirement progressed, I noticed the morning rituals did also. During my working life I was able to wake, shower, make tea, and a breakfast and lunch sandwich, and be out of the house crawling down Lake Shore Drive in twenty minutes, now the task (minus one sandwich and the commute) was taking hours.

This severely cut into my attempts to practice first thing in the morning. I thought there is always the afternoon, no problem. In this, I did not take into account that I do not live by myself. My wife Charlotte and I are a good team and it turns out afternoons are for teamwork: groceries, maintenance of the house and garden, haircuts, and financial advisors, accountants, doctors . . . well you get the idea. These duties often interfered with the above commitment.

Then there are the intangible reasons (read excuses) for not practicing. Self doubt even loathing is a prominent one. To sit quietly and listen to someone else make music/noise is one thing but to make your own noise is entirely different. Why do I think that I have or will ever develop the talent that could justify making the constant stream of mistake ridden sounds needed to become proficient?

Where in the confines of a 1200 sq. ft. bungalow with neighbors feet away to either side can I practice without disturbing the good will of folks we have lived peaceably next to for decades. And what about my spouse? She has graciously supported me in pastimes from chanoyu to welding steel sculptures to basement boat building to sacrificing home improvement in favor of boat upgrades. Can I push my luck one more time?

To this end, I decided to set up shop in the dining room, and then in deference to the close proximity of the southern neighbor’s bedroom I moved into the front room. I can close two doors to slightly isolate the sound from the TV room in the back of the house where Charlotte resides most evenings.

If there is one common thread in my diurnal existence, it had been night owl-ism. When sent to bed as a kid I would lay awake for hours conjuring up fantasy worlds. This would have been a good time to read under the covers with a contraband flashlight but I did not figure out how to read until late in my high school career.

So, it ends up that when the sun goes down my energy level goes up. Since cable has been ousted in favor of an antenna, and attempting to keep up with the providers of the ever-changing Internet stream has proven beyond my skill or interest level, there are not many distractions after dinner. Other than the fact that the rest of the world is quiet, it is my perfect time to blow.

The shakuhachi is not a forgiving instrument. There is no guarantee that the notes played the night before will again be present on the next night. This ancient pentatonic flute lives in a chromatic world, and the changes in embouchure, air speed and direction, unique fingering, and the variegation of each tube of bamboo make each session an adventure.

Not to sound defeatist, I have made progress. I have even garnered the occasional compliment from long suffering Charlotte. The sound has improved and I have learned to play softer and slower. There is less tension in the notes, and less sharp and flatness.

I can feel neurons remodeling. It happens in the guise of muscle memory, in the four or five songs I have been able to memorize, and above all, in the eighty year old flute’s response to my entreaties. It has finally recognized my existence, the sound of my newly minted neuronal architecture.

September, 2018

Phenomena

At first light, the lobstermen wake Carrie Rose as they transit to their boats. And not long after sunrise, other lobster boats wake Carrie Rose as they stream in to check their traps. I am usually up with the former, go back to bed and have the latter wake me up for good. Fishing is just one of the phenomena that occurs here on mooring ball #14 in Herrick Bay, Maine.

When the moon disappeared this month of August, the tide was particularly low. Where I usually have 8 to ten feet under me at low tide, there was less that five. It rendered my outboard useless at the floating dock where the water was less than three feet.

All the obstructions to navigation around the dock became visible. New smatterings of rocks appeared throughout and the bay’s boat traffic halted for several hour pre and post low tide.

Then there is the fog. Locals have told me that this year has been particularly bad. It rolls in and it rolls out. It hugs the water only to rise and hug the shore. At times the water particles that make up the fog are visible, each one its own entity. And with the fog comes the cold. One moment there is the sun’s warmth, and the next the fog’s chill. It makes choosing the day’s wardrobe a lesson in compromise.

One morning I awoke to a fog so dense that I could not see the boats around me. A steady breeze was blowing from the southeast and there was a hint of blue sky above me. I was tinkering in the pilothouse when I noticed that the fog had cleared around me and had coalesced into a parabola shape streaming off Carrie Rose’s bow and stern. It was rainbow-ish: more shades of browns and purples than the usual Technicolor.

As the boat swung, it undulated but stayed attached. I went to the bow and took pictures and a three minute video, and then I thought that I should just watch it. And so, I did until it slowly widened and disappeared deep into the bay. I know you are going to ask if I checked the boat for a pot of gold, I did not, figuring that boats are more generators of debit than revenue.

The night before my personal rainbow I was sitting below in the salon. It was dark and foggy. There were only a few dim lights visible on the shoreline and the ghostly yellow hue of my solar garden light illuminated the stern. The lights in the pilothouse were off as I walked up the stairs where I confronted a brilliant 7/8ths blood orange moon about 30 degrees off the horizon. Its reflection was streaming towards me and the entire bay was ablaze.

It took me by surprise. I was expecting a void and instead I saw an otherworldly landscape of water, islands, and boats silhouetted by the moon’s bronze glow. I almost fell back into the salon. Of course, I went for my camera in an attempt to capture the few photons streaming around the boat’s wobbling platform, impossible. Again, as with the rainbow, I gave in to the image and watched.

Some days later, after a day of rain and fog and threatening thunderstorms the skies began to clear. It was close to sunset, so I kept watch on the western horizon. The skies were chaotic enough to offer a chance for a stunning sunset, always welcome after days of low clouds.

A thunderstorm passed in the distance. It’s lightening was audible as it headed to the northeast. The girth of the storm seemed to draw in other substantial clouds, which began to organize on the horizon. I have seen clouds like these before. They are roll clouds that form, if I am correct in my analogy, like the vapor seen on the front of jets wings. Pressure causes the humid air to condense and become visible.

Though these clouds look formidable, they usually do not presage a violent occurrence. Nonetheless, I do not ignore them. My eyes were drawn into their pure symmetry and relentless movement. I prepare for the worst but am most times relieved by their inconsequential passing. They seem to signal an end to the chaotic weather, but on occasion portent a worsening. So, I stay beware and count my blessings if they pass silently.

There are other stories but my computer’s battery is getting low and the two fingertips that I am using to type this are sore, so I will stop. Phenomena are one thing, despite the challenges, that keep folk like me on the water. May they all be benign!

August, 2018

Aviary

Chamcook Harbor is a small inlet off Passamaquoddy Bay. Passamaquoddy Bay is a larger inlet off the Bay of Fundy, and the Bay of Fundy is an even larger inlet connected to the Atlantic Ocean.

The tide here is seventeen feet, so when anchored in 21 feet at low tide enough anchor chain had to be put out for in six hours it would be 38 feet. 120 feet (all I have) of 3/8 inch chain was lowered connecting Carrie Rose to a hopefully well buried 45 pound anchor.

Chamcook has a pair of loons. Loons keep their distance unless they are trying to dissuade you from approaching their youngsters. The Chamcook loons did not get much closer than a football field. I was to begin my daily shakuhachi practice (Charlotte is a saint) when the loons started calling to each other. As much as they are the butt of jokes, their call penetrates the soul.

It was a cool night after a 94 degree day. The 100% humidity made it seem warmer than it was. I had a vivid dream about trying to find my apartment at the hospital, and got wrapped up in the sheet and blanket, quite frustrating.

The cloud shrouded sun rose at 4:50 AM. I managed to ignore it until six. I boiled water, made tea and toast, and sat down to eat when I noticed five black dots about 200 yards outside the port salon window. At first, I thought they were the eider ducks that flew by low to the water the day before. I grabbed my camera and took a few pictures before using the binoculars.

What I discovered was the loon family out for a swim. There were the parents and three young football sized youngsters. My experience with loons is that the kids are kept near the shore hidden from danger. The parents will be fishing but aware and will intervene if anything threatens their babies.

Carrie Rose has been stopped in her tracks by a couple of determined loons. So, to see the five of them together in the middle of the bay was a surprise and a treat. I went back to breakfast and when I looked up again there was only the parents. They had stashed the kids near the shore.

There was some commotion and suddenly the parents were airborne. One flew direct at me. I grabbed the camera again but it would not focus on the grey underside silhouetted by the sky’s homogeneous gray background.

Loons are big birds and powerful fliers once they manage to get off the water’s surface. Their large black feet stream behind the tail feathers. They joined in formation with one leader and a tail gunner, and flew out the opening of the harbor into darkening clouds and fog.

Sometime later, I thought I saw them again but there were only four. These were eider. A male I think and three young brown birds. They paddled to shore and simultaneously disappeared beneath the water only to pop up and start to preen. Carrie Rose makes a good perch to observe the local waterfowl.

Later that morning, mother loon and two beautifully marked siblings spent a few hours fishing to the north of us. The wind steadily increased from the west. We received some strong gusts but the bulk of the wind was pushed over us by the low slung hills.

All morning we had loons to the starboard and eiders to the port. The loons were more active but then they were older, already decked out in their adult plumage, whereas the eider mom had four small rust colored children to contend with.

She would fish ahead of them as they floated downwind. Each time she came up, she looked back to see them farther away until judging the situation untenable, she swam back to corral them and moved forward. They stayed in a neat little buddle, while the loons roamed freely.

The wind sped up and with one particularly strong gust, a large black bird flew over the western hills. It clawed high in the sky, hovered, blew downwind, and repeated the same maneuver until it was out of sight. It was big. I thought B-52, but then a B-52 would not have finger like feathers pointing horizontally in line with its long slender wings.

I captured a fuzzy picture of it hovering directly in front of me and noticed whitish feathers under the wings close to its body. It was an immature bald eagle fishing in the harbor, off the bays, attached to the Atlantic where Carrie Rose spent an eventful morning spying on the bird life.

July, 2018

Fluffy

Early to rise one recent June morning, I decided to take a walk around Montrose Harbor, a place dear to my heart. The place where I learned to sail and where, in many ways, I grew up. It is also where Carrie Rose, our 32’ Nordic Tug, was moored for over a decade.

This June will be the ninth year since Carrie Rose, and us, left Lake Michigan and our mooring at Montrose. We have traveled thousands of miles through Lake Michigan, Lake Huron, the canals of Canada, Lake Ontario, the St. Lawrence River to Lake Champlain and the Hudson River, out into the North Atlantic along the coast of New Jersey to Chesapeake Bay and last year north to Maine where she sits awaiting our return.

A few highlights have been the canals of Canada, the wind and waves and weather especially on the Great Lakes, the sincere and earnest people of Vermont, and then NYC. How exciting to motor on the Hudson under the Tappen Zee bridge, pass the Palisades and into downtown Manhattan with as much hustle bustle on the water as on the streets.

There was the trepidation of leaving, passing through the Verrazano Narrows and around Sandy Hook for the first time into the North Atlantic and south on the New Jersey coast. The New Jersey folk were as gregarious, as their coast was treacherous.

Then to Chesapeake Bay, which at first seemed an isolated cruising ground, but turned out to be surrounded by millions of people, with a McMansion around every bend. The year spent there was one of the hottest ever, 100 degree plus everyday. But we were in the perfect spot, and though we did, we rarely needed to travel more then twenty miles for another perfect anchorage. There were so many eagles that at first I mistook them for flocks of crows.

Last year (2017) it was north to Maine. Throughout the cruise, we interacted with multiple diverse communities and cultures. Though not historically true, America seemed to get older the farther north we went. I think because much of the “oldness” is still present. It is in the buildings, in the speech, in the food and drink, and in the attitude of the people.

When we finally crossed the border into Maine the isolation was palpable. The coastline is more on the edge and the lobster culture predominates. Carrie Rose negotiated dense forests of lobster buoys, which predominate the landscape at about one per square foot. It is hard to imagine how the cages sort themselves out on the bottom, as it is to believe there are enough crawly lobsters to fill them.

This summer Maine’s coast will be explored. The water is deep and cold; the tides are eleven feet or more. I am thinking of this as I sit on the Montrose Harbor promontory. I can see the center city with cranes building taller skyscrapers into the perfectly blue sky. There is just a fringe of clouds, lacelike in the distance outlining the blue green water.

There are only a couple of boats out on the lake. The cribs sit stoically three or four miles offshore. A slight breeze disturbs the surface just enough to obscure the reflections of the buildings on Lake Shore Drive and in the distance the sun’s rays are sparkling off the wavelets.

Along the abutment, it is obvious that it was a drunken melee over Memorial Day, cans and bottles, smashed and broken, litter the pale concrete along with trash. I am depressed to think that the revelers can be so clueless to make such a mess for someone else (hopefully) to clean. But I choose not to dwell on the negative this glorious spring day.

I have inhabited this place since I was a kid on a one speed bike. Back then there was a group of German immigrants, many trained in the classical arts of stonework that chiseled and craved the limestone rocks that made up the shoreline into beautiful images. Images of mermaids and moon landings and family crest were painted with vibrant colors. They tolerated me and even gave me tools to do my own primitive memorials.

Little by little, as limestone is apt to do, the paint faded, the sharp chiseled corners rounded, and their world disappeared. I wish I had a camera for now I fear the images only exsist in my mind. The lake reclaimed the wood and stone to the point where it has been replaced with a functional but sterile series of concrete steps.

The Great Lakes are a magnificent background to live one’s life, and representative of that, is Montrose Harbor’s Magic Hedge. It provides a resting place for thousands of birds migrating north and south along the coast. The hedge, born out of neglect and saved by the local birding community, is a world famous site amidst a decidedly urban setting.

The rustic hedge is packed with birds, some exotic and some not, depending on the time of year. As I walked through it that morning, I kept waiting to be attack by one of the cranky red-winged blackbirds. Lucky, I escaped injury.

When I started to walk along the harbor, fluffy fledgling geese were laid out helter-skelter on the boat ramp. Their necks placed haphazardly as they stretched pitch-black legs readying them for another day of foraging. Compared to their alert caretakers, their lethargy was striking.

So this is my tale of a June morning spent wandering in familiar territory that I still find full of surprises. A place that keeps me here, and a place I think of when people from afar ask me how can I stay in Chicago, and I always say, “How could I leave!”

June 2018

Caution

In 1973 with Crosby, Stills & Nash reverberating in my ears, I grabbed a backpack, stuffed $700.00 in my pockets, and flew to Tel Aviv. It would be a year before I walked on Chicago’s grey fields again. Israel felt like the frontier. Its people were fresh faced and optimistic. Young people in khaki shorts with automatic rifles slung from their shoulders were commonplace, as were tanks on enormous transport vehicles. Phantom and Mirage fighter jets owned the sky.

I landed on a large kibbutz located on the western slope of the Valley of Israel. Its one thousand souls milked cows, raised beef, picked oranges and grapefruits, raised hundreds of thousands of chickens, and operated a sizable plastics factory. I would spend most of my time there at the bottom end of poultry husbandry.

Intelligent and serious young men toting Uzi’s patrolled the perimeter of the kibbutz. Israel (at least the kibbutz) was an open-air community. There were hardly any walls. The kibbutzniks were a hardy lot.

The founders had lived through pogroms, the Warsaw Ghetto, and the diaspora. Some had fought in WWI, WWII, lived through the Communist Revolution, and then the expulsion of the Palestinians and the wars that followed. In their spare time, they built a robust agricultural-industrial economy. My contemporaries had been involved in a war and endless policing actions.

The country’s population at the time matched that of Chicago and was looking to expand. There were folk from all over the western world. Intellectuals and farmers, engineers and tradesmen, politicians and every kind of military professional, but surprisingly there were no religious zealots amongst the group.

Their kids were raised in dormitories. The boys were steely eyed and the girls were fiercely independent. I realized that I was out of my league, and kept a low profile and an ear to the ground. The first month I was hardly noticed. After the third month, the place gradually warmed to me and exposed some of its raw nerves. I made it through six months and if the Yom Kipper war had not loamed, I might still be there.

In the end, I survived the non-stop parties, kicking an exposed grenade down the road, near tractor accidents, multiple encounters with large hell raising roosters, and hitch hiking from the top to the bottom of the country.

I lived with Arabs in the Old City of Jerusalem, had tea and snacks with Bedouin shepherds in their tents, walked amongst the shuckling Orthodox Jews at the Wailing Wall, rode the back of a spirited horse into the hills after ranging cattle, danced to a mean blues harmonica, and for some reason spied on an Israel Defense compound. If I keep remembering, even I will get bored with this list.

For a squirrely teenager with limited reading skills the reality of Israel was a kickstarter. It set me on the road for many future adventures. Now as I approach Social Security, I wonder if it is a cautionary tale or one of the best things that ever happened to me. I’ll take the latter.

May, 2018

Questions

Chanoyu, the tea ceremony, is heavily depended on dogu. The word dogu curiously translates into instruments of the way, or roughly into the tools and utensils necessary to prepare matcha. Of course, it is a difficult task to recreate an entire culture in a foreign land. So sometimes, dogu from foreign lands are used. How to decide if they are appropriate is always a question worth considering.

I attend chanoyu lessons on Tuesdays and I anticipate the unique objects of wood, pottery, or metal I will see and for that matter, use. It can be a chawan (tea bowl), a mizushashi (cold water container), a chashaku (tea scoop), a tana (tea stand), or a natsume (matcha container).

Or it can be a scroll, a kogo (incense container), or ephemeral things such as chabana (flower arrangements) or sumi (charcoal). Many times, it is all of the above. In fact, when preparing to make matcha for guests it is expected that the dogu will be distinctive. The appreciation of the dogu is one of the joys of the practice.

And to add a question, I often wonder how do we in the west with limited means, availability, and knowledge uphold this tradition of appropriate utensils? It is difficult but not for the want of trying, something I know from personal experience.

My approach to this dilemma has been to create objects for chanoyu out of metal and wood. The designing and building helps to control my frustration with not having access to dogu. Each object made and used provides a further understanding of what makes the craft traditions of Japan exceptional.

Think of the subtleties that the tenth or twelfth or fourteenth generation of craft families infuse into the utilitarian objects they make. Each detail on every chawan, chashaku, or natsume, just to name a few, is a conversation piece.

An area of scorched glaze brings visions of ancient wood fired step kilns belching with flames. A swirl of grain on a wide unfinished wooden board envisions a deep forest of monumental trees. A wrought iron kettle’s patina conjures up the many hands that have ladled steaming water over its hot surface. These images make a simple bowl of tea worthy of a lifetime of study.

Of course, we have to be aware of substituting avarice for utility. Last year I was reminded of this at a fellow association’s gathering. The quality of the dogu, even though described only in Japanese, could not be ignored. I could feel several of the seven deadly sins creeping into my psyche.

It reminded me of one of Rikyu’s One Hundred Verses: Keep tea rustic and through your heart, give warm hospitality; always simply put together utensils you already have. Good advice to follow from the founder of wabi tea.

So, after pondering the above, I conclude that I have not asked the correct questions. The only question that matters is when is the time to start studying chanoyu, and that time is now!

February 2018