Blind

blurred image - what a partially blind person might seeWhat’s it like to be blind? Those with sight can never know. Those who lost their sight later in life have different perceptions than those born blind, as they retain memories of what the world looks like.

The perceptions of a blind person must be totally different than the perceptions of a sighted person. Temperature changes and smells are much more important, I would guess. Seeing people can never know what a song is like to a blind person. I imagine that a richer and deeper set of colors accompany the mood of a piece of music.

But we are all blind. Another Paul said this: “Now we see things imperfectly, like puzzling reflections in a mirror.” They say humans only use about 5% of their brains (or something like that). Maybe a deaf person uses 10% of the visual part of their brain, and a blind person uses 10% of the auditory part of their brain – and a person with sight and hearing only uses 5% of every part. Everyone uses different levels of each sense. We all have our strengths and weaknesses. Our strengths and weaknesses open us up to different vulnerabilities – and abilities.

If you are blind and reading this, I’d love your reflections on the topic.

FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmailFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmail

Insulated and isolated

moving houseOur new neighbors moved in. They used a large Penske rental truck that they drove from a distant city.

Somehow I thought of villagers having to move their worldly possessions due to war. Everything they have is carried on their backs or loaded on a cart pulled by a donkey. What a contrast to life in America.

I live such an insulated life here. If I don’t visit websites to read and see what’s going on in other parts of the world, I am blissfully unaware. And even if I do see what’s happening, I become desensitized to the pain and suffering. There’s so much of it.

What can I do? I could give. I could downsize my possessions, so I don’t feel guilty about having so much. I could go overseas to try to help. I can pray for those who are hurting. I’ve done all those things, but it still does not seem to be enough.

Does the family moving their possessions on their backs feel less guilt than I? It’s hard to say. Do they feel more pain? Yes.

Where am I going with this post? I don’t know. Maybe just sharing the pain will help a little.

The photo of the refugees was taken by Julien Harneis and is used under a Creative Commons license. If you click on his name, you can read a little of his story, which took place in the Democratic Republic of Congo in 2008.

Footnote: A good friend is going to the middle east to make a difference. You can give to help her efforts. Among other things, she will be teaching zumba classes in the West Bank. Visit her site.

FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmailFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmail

Memories of pizza

Pizza - courtesy of Sebastian MaryMario’s served my favorite pizza. High school was a long time ago, but that restaurant in Lexington, Massachusetts still lingers in my memory. Their thin crust had a light dusting of flour. The tomato sauce was the perfect blend of spicy and sweet. The cheese must have been real mozzarella. I am not sure if I ever met Mario – he may have even been Greek.  But the large Italian population of Boston definitely had their influence on that venue’s offerings.

What restaurant stands out in your memory?

FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmailFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmail

You gotta live

I put up a question on Facebook recently about soy. I wondered why it was considered bad. That post received 28 comments! A lot of people care about soy.*

cup I love coffee. How does that relate to soy? Well, I know that coffee has caffeine, which is known to cause problems for people with heart problems. My mother and several uncles died of heart-related problems. So if I were purely logical, I would quit drinking coffee. But I love the taste of a fresh hot cup of fine coffee each morning. I’m willing to lose a few months of my life for the minor thrill of coffee.

Soy is not a great source of pleasure to me, so it’s not hard for me to skip buying soy snacks. But I’m not going to carefully read each label before I buy a product to see if it has soy. I’m willing to take the minor risks associated with eating more liberally to avoid the hassle of reading every label when I go shopping – or insisting that other members of my family who do grocery shopping for my family do the same.

Having said that, I do not condemn those who are careful label readers or non-allergy soy avoiders. I understand that you have to live your life too. and I greatly appreciate that many people care about such things, or we would all be consuming food that is a lot less healthy than what we are.

*If you don’t know about why some people consider soy to be bad, you’ll have to visit my Facebook page. And you’ll have to be a Facebook user to see that post.

FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmailFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmail

The bass in the basement

basement-closetEvery Sunday they played so well. Sometimes the music touched my soul so much that I cried.

We were part of a church in Oxford, England called St Aldate’s. One Sunday, on the way home after church, I told Heather than I wanted to play the bass. I have always been able to hum the bass line in my head. I played violin in elementary and middle school. My sister is a professional musician. My dad could pick up any instrument and create music in less than an hour.

We returned to live in the States, and Heather bought me a bass, an amplifier, and a few learning videos – including one by a favorite bassist, Abraham Laboriel. I spent a little time trying to learn to play. It was not as easy as I hoped. I tucked the bass in a corner. A year later, the bass went into the basement closet. Two years later, I sold it.

Seeing the bass in the basement became a guilt trip for me. Heather bugged me to wipe the dust off and give it another try. We finally realized it was not going to happen, and I admitted defeat.

Selling that bass was a freeing experience. So maybe if you let go, you will find freedom. But maybe it’s worth fighting till you win.

Footnote: There is no period – or full stop – after the “t” in St.” That’s just how they spell it in England.

FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmailFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmail

One-time treasure

one-time-worthThis truck was once someone’s dream vehicle. They had a huge amount of pride driving it off the dealer’s lot for the first time. Washing the dirt away to keep it shiny clean was a joy. Showing the amazing new features to the next-door neighbors was a delight.

No more.

Why did I feel compelled to remind you – and me – of how short pleasure lasts? I dunno. Maybe just to say we should enjoy it while we can! We were designed for pleasure, and if it lasted forever there would be no contrast.

FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmailFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmail

We need pain, we need variety

You go barefoot. There are rocky, muddy, sandy and grassy sections. A nature preserve in Belgium allows you to experience a wide variety of textures as you explore footpaths in the slightly hilly park. As their website says, you can feel the extremes of “hot and cold, moist and dry, pleasant, exciting and stimulating.”

In western life, our feet are not used to feeling much beyond the insides of our socks, the floor, grassy lawns or sandy beaches. The Lieteberg Park allowed my vulnerable feet to experience something different. The pain of rocky sections made me appreciate the squishy mud.

bath-matAnd as I recently bought a bathtub mat to prevent slips and falls, I experienced tiny bits of pain from the soft bottoms of my feet. The mat’s spiky plastic tines poked into my soles. At first, I thought of taking the mat back. Then I realized it made my feet feel alive.

Life is like that. If we live a life of ease with no pain, we cannot truly understand pleasure. And variety keeps life interesting. You know this. I’m just reminding you – and me – that pain is OK. I also hope your life has variety and some respite from pain.

FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmailFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmail

The humble brag

Humble brag (n) – to brag about how humble you are.

I often fall into this trap. Readers of this blog have seen me brag about how humble I am, many times. “I save money this way, so I’m better than those who don’t.” “I’m more environmental than the people who drive that kind of vehicle.”

Humble-bragging is obnoxious to anyone who detects it. And as T Bone Burnett sang, “It’s a funny thing about humility, As soon as you know you’re being humble, You’re no longer humble.”


Having said that, let me launch into a humble brag.

an entry-level bikeA recent Wall Street Journal article on triathlons had a sidebar featuring recommended equipment. the “entry-level” road bike was $1,449. that freaked me out a little until I realized that their normal readers are in a class where that price is entry-level.

Across the page, the featured mountain bike cost $11,000 (with an integrated hydration system).

My humble brag: my road bike is worth a lot less than $1,449. But I know that having both a road bike and a mountain bike puts me into the 1%. So there goes my humility.

FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmailFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmail

The name flush

missing nameI have a great ability to forget your name immediately after you tell me. This is not good.

Why do I forget? Maybe at a subconscious level, I think I don’t need to remember your name. Definitely, I am overwhelmed with keeping up with the flood of information I need to remember for work or to keep the wheels of life spinning. In any case, when I forget your name, I am cheating you. I am cheating myself. At a very basic level, if I remember your name, I am telling you that I value you. I am opening the door to a relationship and am showing you I think you are worth getting to know.

Work with me on this. Let’s try to remember names.

FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmailFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmail

We love to be the first

trander joe's foursquare checkin screen shotI was definitely not the first customer to enter the new Centennial Trader Joe’s on opening day. I also wasn’t the first one to leave without buying anything, because of my impatience with the long checkout line.

I was the first person to be Foursquare Mayor – a very small – and ephemeral – thrill.

For many people in Denver, the arrival of three Trader Joe’s store on the same day was exciting news. Great food at even greater prices is worth celebrating. (And I did go back the next morning to endure the long wait. My reward was some inexpensive Sriracha, among other things.)

My question is: What makes us want to be the first to experience something that is all the rage?

FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmailFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmail