Uncategorized – Page 14 – Steve Jacobsen, Ed.D

“The Field Is Tilled and Left to Grace

A poem by Wendell Berry, “Whatever Is Forseen In Joy”:

Whatever is foreseen in joy
Must be lived out from day to day.
Vision held open in the dark
By our ten thousand days of work.
Harvest will fill the barn; for that
The hand must ache, the face must sweat.
And yet no leaf or grain is filled
By work of ours; the field is tilled
And left to grace. That we may reap,
Great work is done while we’re asleep.

When we work well, a Sabbath mood
Rests on our day, and finds it good.

Wendell Berry works his own plot of land in a community that has sustained his family and neighbors for generations. They know the weariness that comes from “ten thousand days of work” but are sustained by having the vision of a plentiful harvest that has been “forseen in joy.”

I have known farmers and their families and have come to appreciate the skill and tenacity they bring to their labors. After all their best efforts, they are always subject to unexpected events, severe weather, and price fluctuations.

But most of the people I know are not farmers — we are people who have worked in education, health care, businesses and religious organizations. For us, it can be hard to see or measure the harvest of our labors that we hope will “fill our barns.”

Over the 30 years of being a parish pastor, I worked hard to develop healthy spiritual communities. Of the 3 congregations I served, every one has declined in membership in recent years. I sometimes have asked myself, “What was it all for?”

I once attended a clergy retreat where the leader said he has found many pastors will privately acknowledge that they experience depression. He felt it arose from the feeling that you have failed to achieve what you had envisioned when you started. But, he said, clergy accomplish more good than they realize — the results are not easily measured, but are present in peoples’ lives.

So I look back at the “fields” I have labored in and can see how many relationships were nurtured, how much hope, joy and mutual support was shared, and how much grace was experienced. The buildings may have emptied, but not the lives of those of the people who were part of it all.

And what of your work? Does it feel as if your “ten thousand days of work” filled the barn?

And what of our personal lives — our families and relationships? Lives we have been responsible for may or may not have met our expectations when we began parenting. We may have planted and watered as best we can, but we are not the ones who create the growth.

My mother used to say, “I want to live until I’m a hundred and see how it all turns out.” But she died suddenly at age 75, and all our stories were still unfolding. Thirty years later, they still are. I would love to know what happens to our kids and grandkids in the years to come, but I know my time will be completed when their lives are still being made.

So “the field is tilled and left to grace.” All the people we love and care for are seeking to do their best in this life. We may not know what the ultimate harvest will be of our life’s work, but “when we work well, a Sabbath mood rests on our day, and finds it good.”

May we be grateful for the opportunity to labor in the fields of our lives, as well as the grace that will outlive us.

Clarifying Our Intentions: Fear or Curiosity? Worrying or Caring?

I’m skeptical about self-help books. They always sound like they are going to lead us to endless happiness if we just set the right goals and remember a few principles, but over time life turns out to be more complicated.

I remember reading a bestseller in 1989: Do What You Love, The Money Will Follow. I tried following the advice. It didn’t work. I think many poets, musicians, athletes, spiritual seekers, and artists eventually realize they need to find a real job to pay the bills while making time to do the creative and imaginative things that bring joy and satisfaction. I’m a skeptic when it comes to simplistic formulas for negotiating life.

However, I have found two suggestions that seem to be worth sharing.

The first comes from my hospice experience: “The opposite of fear is curiosity.” When faced with unwelcome news or unwanted challenges, we may naturally respond with fear. We may choose to be defiant or in denial about whatever is happening. When we are fearful, our ability to think creatively shrinks. (I have a friend and professional leadership coach who tells his clients and his teenagers, “Remember, when you get angry or emotional, your IQ shrinks.”) It’s interesting to consider choosing curiosity instead. Becoming curious feels different. We become calm. Our mind is open. Our mental state and awareness expand rather than contract.

I remember Hank, a parishioner and mentor. He had a Ph.D. in chemistry and spent his career in higher ed and international education. He was also a strong Mennonite, a tradition that seeks to live out the Sermon on the Mount including the principle of nonviolence. He contracted a serious form of cancer that began in his lower spine. He decided to learn all he could and employ multiple approaches toward healing. He worked with his oncologist in planning his chemotherapy and radiation treatments. He asked people he knew who were gifted in prayer to visualize his healing. He began to practice a form of meditation in which he saw the chemotherapy chemicals as bottom-feeding catfish, slowly gobbling up the unwanted cancer cells in his bloodstream.

Hank’s cancer went into remission, and he lived another 25 years. His spine was damaged, and his walking was impaired, but his spirit was not. Even if he had not had such a good outcome, I believe he would have died with a calm mind and strong heart. He chose curiosity over fear.

The second insight comes from a book on golf:

“Dave, an instructor at a golf school, asked me for advice about his own game. He wanted to know how to ‘putt without caring.’ He said, ‘How do I not care? I do care! Otherwise I wouldn’t be out there playing golf.’ I told him his problem was with the word ‘care.’ Of course you care about making the putt. The point is not to worry about whether you will make it or not. I then asked him to pay close attention to how each of the next sentences made him feel: ‘Dave, I care about you.’…’Dave, I worry about you.’”

— Dr Joe Parent, Zen Golf: Mastering the Mental Game, 2002

We don’t have to have any interest in golf to get the point. So much of our time is spent wanting life to meet our expectations. We press, fret, strategize, and — loaded with anxiety — act. If we don’t get what we want, we blame others or ourselves.

Joe’s point is instead of worrying about an upcoming action, we focus on caring about it. That feels different. He also believes shifting our approach to caring increases our chances of being effective.

Imagine standing in front of a mirror and making an expression that conveys worry. Our brow wrinkles. Our eyes narrow. Our breathing may become shorter. We tense up. It’s a drag.

Then imagine shifting your expression to one expressing care. Our face relaxes, our eyes open. Our pulse probably slows down. It’s a nice way to be in these bodies of ours.

Would you rather have someone worry about you or care about you?

Would you rather be afraid or curious?

Spiritual traditions offer us alternatives to fear and worry.

Buddhism teaches we can live more compassionately and freely when we let go of rigid expectations. We still formulate clear intentions with whatever we are facing – including being present and compassionate with ourselves and others – but that is different from giving into anxiety.

In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus says, “Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” As an adult who’s personally and economically responsible for myself and others, I need to be vigilant, informed, and careful as I manage our resources and plan for the future. But I try to do so from a place of caring, not worry.

In 1999 I visited the “Tomb of the Patriarchs” mosque in Hebron, Israel. I remember seeing two people. One man was sitting on the floor with his back to a wall, reading. Another was lying on the floor taking a nap. While there was tension at the security checkpoints we passed through on our way there, the mood inside the mosque was spacious and peaceful.

When we are in challenging situations, we may want to observe how we are approaching them. Are we being driven by fear or curiosity? And do we want to be filled with worry, or instead, focus on simply caring for ourselves and others?

Image:

“Feeling Light Within, I Walk,” Navajo Night Chant/Native American sculpture, Vancouver, The Quiet Eye: A Way of Looking at Pictures

Note: in a prior post, I shared a similar reflection drawn from training sessions I used to lead, and included some points from a grief counselor about how “companioning” can be a distinct form of caring: “Is Your Intention to Cure or to Care?”

The Intrinsic Power of Veriditas

Early this past Monday morning, I set out for a short round of golf. When I play on my own I use it as a form of walking meditation.

I went to ”Twin Lakes,” a modest 9-hole course five minutes from my house. Some private country clubs in Santa Barbara charge $250,000 to join and $1,000/monthly dues; Twin Lakes has no joining fee and I pay $59/month. Of course, it’s not quite the same feel. Where some local courses are set alongside coastal bluffs with stunning views of the Pacific Ocean, Twin Lakes is bounded by a tire store, a lumber yard, a drainage ditch, and railroad tracks. That may be why you do not see photos of Twin Lakes on Santa Barbara tourism websites.

However, wherever we are, there can be wonders to behold.

The 8^th hole is bounded on the north by a rickety fence running parallel to the train tracks. As I was walking down the fairway, I sensed something bright to my left. I turned to see what it was. I was surprised to see the moist leaf of a nasturtium plant reflecting the morning sun more brightly than I have ever witnessed. Like Moses at the burning bush, I turned aside to look more closely. I’ve always admired nasturtiums for their flowers, but had never appreciated how a leaf can hold and reflect sunlight like this one.

As I stood there, an ancient word came to mind: “veriditas.” This Latin word was a favorite of Hildegard of Bingen, the 12^TH century abbess, mystic, prophet, philosopher, composer, and expert in the medical practices of her time. In her last major writing, “Book of Divine Works,” she begins with a vision of divine love wearing a robe as bright as the sun, speaking with the voice of nature:

“I am the supreme and fiery force who sets all living sparks alight and breathes forth no mortal things, but judges them as they are.

Circling above the circumscribing circle with my superior wings, which is to say circling with wisdom, I have ordered the cosmos rightly.

But I am also the fiery life of divine essence: I blaze above the beauty of the fields, I shine in the waters, I burn in the sun and the moon and the stars. And with the airy wind I quicken all things to life, as with an invisible life that sustains them all.

For the air lives in viriditas and in the flowers, and the waters flow as if alive, and the sun lives within its own light, and when the moon has waned it is rekindled by the light of the sun and thereby lives anew, and the stars shine forth in their own light as though alive.

Exploring how “viriditas” is being newly appreciated in our time, I came across a reference to a 2003 dissertation by physician Victoria Sweet in the History of Health Sciences Department at UCSF:

“… Sweet draws special attention to Hildegard’s use of the word viriditas. It comes from the Latin word for “green,” and was used to refer to the color of plants, as well as meaning “vigor” and “youthfulness.” Sweet points out how Hildegard also used the word viriditas in the broader sense of the power of plants to put forth leaves and fruit, and the analogous intrinsic power of human beings to grow and to heal. Inspired by Hildegard, Sweet began to ask herself as she was treating her patients whether anything was interfering with the viriditas or the intrinsic power to heal—to relate to healing like being a gardener who removes impediments and nourishes, in a sanctuary-like setting.

All this may seem a long way from the illuminated nasturtium leaf that stopped me in my tracks on the 8^th hole at Twin Lakes. But it’s not. What I saw was a glimpse of the viriditas that permeates and surrounds us, an inner force we share. “Veriditas” — it’s a great word — take it with you as you go through your day.

Paul Simon’s “Seven Psalms”

When I saw a review of a new Paul Simon album in a recent New Yorker, I was mildly interested. But then I began reading:

“On January 15^th, 2019, Paul Simon dreamed that he was working on a piece called “Seven Psalms.” He got out of bed and scribbled the phrase — alliterative, ancient feeling — into a spiral notebook. From then on Simon periodically woke between 3:30 and 5:00 AM to jot down bits of language. Songwriters often speak about their work as a kind of channeling- the job is to be a steady antenna prepared to receive strange signals. Some messages are more urgent than others. Simon started trying to make sense of what he was being told.

This month, Simon, who is 81, released “Seven Psalms,” his 15th solo album. It’s a beautiful mysterious record composed of a single thirty-three-minute acoustic track divided into seven movements…”[i]

The article itself is so well-written – and full of fascinating comments about Paul Simon’s lifelong spiritual journey – that I’ve reread it several times. (“Pleasant Sorrows’ review) I ordered the CD, and when it came, began listening. (Streaming options can be found on PaulSimon.com) There is that unmistakable voice – a voice many of us have known for decades. At 81, it sounds strong and humble, quiet and clear; he’s not trying to get us up dancing or score a #1 hit, but simply sharing the evocative thoughts, phrases, and questions that have come to him.

I alerted several friends. After repeated listening, one described it as “mesmerizing.” Another sent a link to a recent interview with Simon on CBS Sunday Morning.[ii]

It begins:

I’ve been thinking about the great migration
Noon and night, they leave the flock
And I imagine their destination
Nettle grass, jagged rock

He’s exploring this great mystery of life and death and what might lie beyond.

He begins to sing about “the Lord:”

The Lord is my engineer
The Lord is the earth I ride on
The Lord is a face in the atmosphere
The path I slip and I slide on

And a bit later:

The Lord is a virgin forest
The Lord is a forest ranger
The Lord is a meal for the poorest of the poor
A welcome door to the stranger

Some verses echo familiar religious images, while others are contemporary:

The Covid virus is The Lord
The Lord is the ocean rising
The Lord is a terrible swift sword
A simple truth, surviving

“The Lord” is one of the most common titles for God in English – it is used 6,753 times in the King James Bible. There are dozens of names for God in Hebrew, and “the Lord” has been used to cover many of them; no doubt English translators wanted to convey a sense of higher authority, and “Lord” fit. But the most evocative definition is found in Exodus 3. Moses is alone in the wilderness and is addressed by a voice from a “bush that was blazing, but not consumed.” A dialogue with this mysterious voice ensues, and at one point Moses asks what name he should use for this one who is speaking to him. He’s given a name that is also a riddle; it has been translated as “I am that I am,” or “I will be who I will be,” or “He who brings things into being.”[iii] This sense of “the Lord” comes to my mind as I listen to Seven Psalms – the name for a presence that goes beyond everyday language and expectations; close enough to whisper to us, but forever elusive.

Simon describes a turning point in his own “migration:”

I lived a life of pleasant sorrows
Until the real deal came
Broke me like a twig in a winter gale
Call me by my name
And in that time of prayer and waiting
Where doubt and reason dwell
A jury sat deliberating
All is lost
Or all is well

He refers to one who, 3,000 years ago, also shaped feelings into sounds:

The sacred harp
That David played to make his songs of praise
We long to hear those strains
That set his heart ablaze

Toward the end, he sings:
Life is a meteor
Let your eyes roam
Heaven is beautiful
It’s almost like home
Children, get ready
It’s time to come home

When asked, Simon refuses to let his current perspective be defined by any particular religious tradition or spiritual identity. He is simply passing on what he was given.

As I listen to Seven Psalms, I keep thinking about that first dream that woke him, and the times before daybreak when he was “receiving” these prompts and words. Where were they coming from? What is on the other side of our ordinary awareness? Just our personal unconscious, always stirring and searching? Or a shared, collective unconscious, where, like a grove of aspen trees, we are all connected in ways we can’t conceive and from which we create art for the benefit of one another? What is that spiritual force that seems to exist within and beyond all of it, which, at unexpected times, offers us gifts of insight and mysteries to ponder?

[i] “Pleasant Sorrows: The mysticism of Paul Simon,” Amanda Petrusich, New Yorker, June 5, 2023, (“Pleasant Sorrows’ review)

[ii] https://www.cbsnews.com/video/paul-simon-on-seven-psalms-and-dreams/

[iii] The JPS Torah Commentary: Exodus, Jewish Publication Society, pg. 17; The Hebrew Bible, Volume 1: The Five Books of Moses, pg. 222, translated and commentary by Robert Alter.

Lead image: Paul Simon, Seven Psalms

Lower image: David a la Harpe, Marc Chagall, 1stdibs.com

Songs of America

I’ve been thinking about songs that focus on the meaning of America. I decided to do some modest research into the history of five compositions that reflect particular themes in our history as well as our collective aspirations. I then asked myself a question: If you look at them together, what do they tell us about who we are?

As we are often reminded, the words to the ‘Star Spangled Banner” were written by an amateur poet, Francis Scott Key, after seeing an American flag over Fort McHenry survive a night of bombardment by the British navy in 1814. It’s a difficult tune for an average person to sing. At every baseball game I’ve attended over the years, everyone listens closely to the brave soul who will perform it – will they stay within the melody as it is written, or will they do something surprising and amazing when they get to “O! say does that star-spangled Banner yet wave, O’er the Land of the free and the home of the brave?” The best performance I ever heard was a 12-year-old girl at a spring training game in Arizona…she hit every note with a beautiful tone and powerful volume, but didn’t overdo it; when she finished she smiled as if to say, ‘Yea, I could do this all day long.” The crowd went nuts.

“America the Beautiful” began as a poem written by an English professor, Katharine Lee Bates, in 1882. She had made a train trip from the East Coast through Chicago, across the Great Plains, and up to Pike’s Peak in Colorado. Thinking of all she had seen, she penned a poem describing the “alabaster cities,” “amber waves of grain,” and “purple mountain majesties” and blended those with themes from American history. I appreciate the way this song both celebrates America and also recognizes we are always going to be a work in progress: “America! America! God mend thine ev’ry flaw, Confirm thy soul in self-control, Thy liberty in law.”

Not long after Ms. Bates was inspired at Pike’s Peak, a lawyer and poet, James Weldon Johnson, was serving as Chair of the Florida Baptist Academy in Jacksonville, Florida and began to compose a poem to honor Abraham Lincoln’s birthday. But then he felt drawn to commemorate the long struggle for equality by African-Americans. Drawing on the Exodus story, “Lift Every Voice and Sing” was set to music by his brother. It soon gained popularity and became known as the Black National Anthem. I find it particularly stirring and inspiring. If you don’t know it, here’s the second stanza:

Stony the road we trod,
Bitter the chastening rod,
Felt in the days when hope unborn had died;
Yet with a steady beat,
Have not our weary feet
Come to the place For which our fathers died.
We have come, over a way that with tears has been watered,
We have come, treading our path through the blood of the slaughtered,
Out from the gloomy past,
’Til now we stand at last
Where the white gleam of our bright star is cast.

I did not know this song when I was growing up, but I became familiar with it as it began appearing in many church hymnals. More than once I thought about including it in a worship service. But my congregations consisted entirely of white folk; we had not traveled the same “stony road” or experienced how “bitter” the “chastening rod” had been, and it felt inappropriate to sing of that experience. But what a powerful testimony it always is.

In 1918, a musically gifted Jewish Russian immigrant was stationed at an army base in New York and felt inspired to write a song he called “God Bless America.” Twenty years later, as the second world war was drawing close in Europe, Irving Berlin revised it and had it sung by the powerhouse entertainer, Kate Smith. “God Bless America” took on new meaning when members of both parties of Congress gathered on the steps of the capital on the evening after the 9/11 attacks and spontaneously sang it together. After that, it was sung during the seventh-inning stretch at baseball games across the country. In those early days following 9/11, it was often sung by a NY Fire Department member or police officer, and it became a way to honor all those who died in the terrorist attacks.

But not everyone took a liking to Kate Smith’s “God Bless America.” Woody Guthrie felt it was too easily used to venerate the status quo of American life, which, especially during the depression, included glaring inequalities. In 1944, he recorded his own American anthem: “This Land Is Your Land, This Land is My Land.” The message and the spirit of “This Land Is Your Land” affirms that the vision of America is a nation for all people, not just those in power. “This Land Is Your Land” found new popularity in the Sixties and has remained popular ever since.

This is my list of five “patriotic” songs. If you consider them as a group, a certain composite image of our country emerges. America is a nation that celebrates bravery and freedom. It’s a country of great natural beauty that has been blessed by the sacrifice of many people but will always be in the process of improving itself. It’s a society in which formerly enslaved people have endured generations of severe hardship yet are resolutely moving toward a better future. This is a much-loved land that needs divine blessing to fulfill its promises. And it’s that rare place where people of all backgrounds and identities are meant to share in its bounty and its possibilities.

Here’s a sampling of performances of three of the songs:

Kate Smith, “God Bless America”

Woodie Guthrie, “This Land Is Your Land”

Kirk Franklin, “Lift Every Voice and Sing”

And one loyal reader suggested I add these to the list:

Lead image: “Latino Nurses’ Choir Ring in 4th of July,” July 5, 2021, https://aldianews.com/en/culture/heritage-and-history/our-heroes-sing-4th

Water and Life

Eleven years ago, we went to visit friends on the “Big Island” of Hawaii. One afternoon we visited a black sand beach; only a handful of other people were there. I went in for a swim. The water was warm. I was floating about 100 yards out, looking back at the beach, when a soft rain began to fall. The raindrops were also warm and made a barely audible sound as they met the surface of the ocean before dissolving. My body was in the ocean and my head was just above the surface, so I was floating on the boundary between the sea and sky. I was also on a boundary of awareness – focusing not on any immediate concerns but simply being aware. I’ll never forget the feeling.

Moments of awe and wonder are a common human experience, and the words we use to describe such experiences include “magical,” “mystical,” and “timeless.”

I was at a conference recently where a speaker shared a passage about floating in a river. It was written by Loren Eisley, a popular science writer in the mid-20^th Century. He grew up in Nebraska and spent much of his childhood wandering the countryside. One day he was at the bank of the wide and shallow Platte River and followed an impulse to not just observe the river but become part of it. His experience integrates his scientific knowledge, physical sensations, and receptive imagination:

I thought of all this, standing quietly in the water, feeling the sand shifting away under my toes. Then I lay back in the floating position that left my face to the sky, and shoved off. The sky wheeled over me. For an instant, as I bobbed into the main channel, I had the sensation of sliding down the vast tilted face of the continent. It was then that I felt the cold needles of the alpine springs at my fingertips, and the warmth of the Gulf pulling me southward.

Moving with me, leaving its taste upon my mouth and spouting under me in dancing springs of sand, was the immense body of the continent itself, flowing like the river was flowing, grain by grain, mountain by mountain, down to the sea. I was streaming over ancient seabeds thrust aloft where giant reptiles had once sported; I was wearing down the face of time and trundling cloud-wreathed ranges into oblivion. I touched my margins with the delicacy of a crayfish’s antennae, and felt great fishes glide about their work.

I drifted by stranded timber cut by beaver in mountain fastnesses; I slid over shallows that had buried the broken axles of prairie schooners and the mired bones of mammoth.

I was streaming alive through the hot and working ferment of the sun, or oozing secretively through shady thickets. I was water and the unspeakable alchemies that gestate and take shape in water, the slimy jellies that under the enormous magnification of the sun writhe and whip upward as great barbeled fish mouths, or sink indistinctly back into the murk out of which they arose.

Turtle and fish and the pinpoint chirpings of individual frogs are all watery projections, concentrations–as man himself is a concentration–of that indescribable and liquid brew which is compounded in varying proportions of salt and sun and time.

It has appearances, but at its heart lies water, and as I was finally edged gently against a sand bar and dropped like any log, I tottered as I rose.

I knew once more the body’s revolt against emergence into the harsh and unsupporting air, its reluctance to break contact with that mother element which still, at this late point in time, shelters and brings into being nine-tenths of everything alive[i].

Spirituality has a great deal to do with how we live our day-to-day life, but it also includes an underlying sense that there is a seamless unity in the natural world, and we are only a small part of it. Eisley was an evolutionary scientist who did not consider himself religious but had a profound reverence for the mystery and wonder of life.

2500 years ago, an anonymous observer composed a poem known as Psalm 104. It would be centuries before science would begin to comprehend evolution and the biological basis for life. But the writer had seen, felt, and intuitively understood what is important. It’s 35 verses long, and only five of those verses refer to human beings. The rest focus on the interplay of water, oceans, streams, clouds, and the many life forms with whom we share the earth.

Psalm 104 found new relevance in the 1970s during the dawn of the environmental and eco-spirituality movements. It describes a world in which humanity’s task is not to dominate the natural world but to revere it.

I was once on a hike with my friend Rabbi Cohen. I mentioned how I had recently been reading Psalm 104 with new appreciation. He told me a great poet and philosopher, Johann Gottfried Herder, wrote “It is worth studying the Hebrew language for ten years in order to read Psalm 104 in the original.”

Water is something more than what comes out of a tap.

“If there is magic in this planet, it is contained in water.”[ii]

[i] Loren Eisley, The Immense Journey: An Imaginative Naturalist Explores the Mysteries of Man and Nature,” pgs. 18-20, 1957.

[ii] Eisley, pg. 15

Photo credits: “Black Sand Beach Along the Road to Hana, Nancy Schretter; “Platte River:” Platte River Resilience Fund, Nebraska Community Foundation

My Plan for Dementia Care

In my years of ministry, hospice work, and living life, I’ve seen individuals and families go through all kinds of challenges and heartaches, including serious illnesses and aging. I’ve witnessed people face these challenges with love and grace. I’ve also seen some situations create tension, stress, and suffering that go on for a very long time.

Modern medicine can keep us alive, but sometimes beyond a point where there is any real quality of life remaining. I’ve visited many people in nursing homes in their 90s who have told me they are “ready to go” and don’t want to “just exist.” And I’ve seen many people in wheelchairs placed in front of televisions looking as if any reason to live has long gone, and they are stuck in a stagnant existence. With dementia, things can get particularly difficult; families ask, “What would Dad want us to do if he was able to tell us?”

I’ve often thought, “I don’t want to go through that myself. And I don’t my family to go through that.”

Recently I met with a colleague to update my own “Advanced Health Care Directives” and define how I want to be cared for as I age. She has worked for years with local hospices, hospitals, medical clinics, and retirement homes to help people define what their wishes are for the last years of their life. When I told her one of my great concerns is what would happen if I should develop serious dementia or Alzheimer’s, she told me about an article in the New York Times that discusses a new option: “One Day Your Mind May Fade. At Least You’ll Have a Plan.” [i] Then she referred me to a new document discussed in the article that would allow me to put my wishes in writing.

You can find the document on the website Dementia Directive. It’s very simple. It defines three stages:

Stage One — Mild: With mild dementia, people may often lose the ability to remember what just happened to them. Routine tasks become difficult, such as cooking. Some tasks can become more dangerous, such as driving.

Stage Two — Moderate: In moderate dementia, communication becomes very limited. People lose the ability to understand what is going on around them. People require daily full-time assistance with dressing and often toileting. They can sometimes become quite confused and agitated and paranoid. Some people appear to be content much of the time.

Stage Three — Severe: In severe dementia, people are no longer able to recognize loved ones and family members. Some people with severe dementia may be calm and serene much of the time, but many go through periods of agitation. They can be awake through the night. They can be angry, disruptive, and yelling. People need 24-hour help with all daily activities, including bathing and assistance with all basic body functions.

For each stage, you can mark which of the three levels of care you want:

Care goals (choose one for each stage)

To live for as long as I can. I would want full efforts to prolong my life, including efforts to restart my heart if it stops beating.
To receive treatments to prolong my life, but if my heart stops beating or I can’t breathe on my own then do not shock my heart to restart it (DNR) and do not place me on a breathing machine. Instead, if either of these happens, allow me to die peacefully. Reason why: if I took such a sudden turn for the worse then my dementia would likely be worse if I survived, and this would not be an acceptable quality of life for me.
To receive comfort-focused care only. (Including DNR and Do Not Intubate) I would only want medical care to relieve symptoms such as pain, anxiety, or breathlessness. I would not want care to keep me alive longer. It would be important to me to avoid sending me to a hospital or ER, unless that was the only way to keep me more comfortable, because trips to the hospital when someone has dementia can be quite traumatic.

After discussing my wishes with my friend, I took the form to my doctor during my annual checkup. When I showed him the form, he asked how he could get his own copy. Then we discussed my wishes. We agreed that if I was in the first stage – Mild Dementia – I’d choose the second Care Goal: don’t allow CPR or put me on a breathing machine, but if there are some simple treatments that may help me live a bit longer, that may be OK.[ii] My guess is that if I can still recognize family and friends and putter around enjoying daily tasks, then it may be worth some modest interventions. But for the other two stages, “Moderate” and “Severe,” I marked the third option. Keep me comfortable, but don’t take dramatic steps to prolong my life. For example, if I get pneumonia, don’t give me antibiotics – let me die of natural causes.

Each of us may make different choices. But it’s a real gift to have these options spelled out.

Next month we will be with our children and grandchildren. I’ll be sharing this with them, so they know what I want, and I’m adding this form to my records with my physician and attorney.

If you read my blog, you know one of my constant themes is my sense of awe at the miracle of life, and gratitude for all the opportunities and experiences I’ve had. But I don’t want to live “beyond my time,” and I don’t want my family to be emotionally or financially burdened caring for me when I don’t have a life I can appreciate.

I am grateful for my friend’s counsel and this new directive.

Photograph: “Starry Night Over the Pacific Ocean,” Michael Shainblum

[i] https://www.nytimes.com/2018/01/19/health/dementia-advance-directive.html

[ii] If your heart stops and you are young, medical personnel can often use CPR to revive you. But with people over 80, only 3% of people who receive CPR are ever able to leave the hospital. (https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/31840239/)

Where Are You Going? Oregon? Or Yogurtland?

I once picked up our 4-year-old grandson at his preschool near the end of the school year. As I stepped into his classroom, several children came up to me. The first one said, “We’re going to Oregon!” A second said, “We’re going to Yogurtland!”

Those are two different horizons.

We’ve had several friends who have relocated to Oregon, and they’ve found much to like. Not as hot! More water! Not as crowded! We enjoy visiting them. Other people we know have moved out of California to other states – Texas, North Carolina, Arizona, and Washington state. It’s a big decision.

Yogurtland is not the same level of commitment, but it’s still pretty exciting. Our grandkids have shown me how to do it. You make the 5-minute drive to the local shop. You go in, step up to the serving line, take a bowl, and enter the area where you choose from twelve soft-serve yogurt flavors. When you see one you like, you hold your bowl under the dispenser, pull the handle, and out comes as much yogurt as you want. It’s hard to decide between options like “Birthday Cake Batter,” “Rocket Pop Sorbet” and “Sumatra Coffee Blend.” But you don’t have to choose just one – you can fill your cup with several different flavors – all in the same bowl.

Then you enter the “Toppings” section. There is so much to choose from! Gummy Bears…chocolate chips…diced almonds… miniature marshmallows…crumbled Oreo cookies…M & Ms…to name a few (of the ones I can remember). Again, you can mix and match as much as you want. And, you can say to yourself: it’s not like I’m indulging in ice cream – this is good-for-me-pro-biotic-yogurt. When you’ve completed your masterpiece, you hand it to the clerk who weighs it. You pay, find a seat, and enjoy.

Life is full of decisions. Big ones, like moving to Oregon. Or less dramatic ones, like going to Yogurtland.

Recently I saw a comment from the writer David Brooks: “Instead of trying to understand the meaning of life, just make a 3-year plan.”

That caught my attention — another set of two choices. I’ve been trying to understand the meaning of life for as long as I can remember. That’s why I studied philosophy in college, went to seminary, listen to the personal reflections of all kinds of people, and study spiritual traditions. I feel I’m getting closer to some basic conclusions. But will something happen to me that interrupts my search, taking me out of the game before I’ve figured it out? Or do I have another five, ten, or twenty years to keep searching? There’s no way to know.

Jesus tells a parable of a person who had finally accumulated everything he wanted in life and figured he had plenty of time to enjoy it. ^“But God said to him, ‘Fool! This night your soul will be required of you; then whose will those things be which you have provided?’ So is he who lays up treasure for himself, and is not rich toward God.” (Luke 12:20-21)

I could go anytime. Maybe I should go to Yogurtland more often.

But if I’ve got more years in my future, I’ve got to plan ahead – watch what I eat, exercise, keep up on my medical appointments, and manage our money the best I can.

I like the idea of making a 3-year plan. That seems doable. Maybe visit other states and evaluate moving versus staying, setting a goal of making a decision in the next three years. Meanwhile, go to places like Yogurtland — but not too often.

And what is “rich toward God?” I think it’s being aware every day of what a miracle this life is, no matter where you are. And enjoying the simple blessings of life, no matter what you have for dessert. And being useful to other people, including family, but also beyond family. And being a responsible citizen. And taking care of the earth.

Photo credits: Credits: Oregon Dept of Transportation, Yogurtland Los Angeles

Taking Control of Your Life in the Age of A.I.

Captain Kirk: “Evaluation of M-5 performance. It’ll be necessary for the log.”

Mr. Spock: “The ship reacted more rapidly than human control could have maneuvered her. Tactics, deployment of weapons, all indicate an immense sophistication in computer control.”

Captain Kirk: “Machine over man, Spock? It was impressive. Might even be practical.”

Mr. Spock: “Practical, Captain? Perhaps. But not desirable. Computers make excellent and efficient servants; but I have no wish to serve under them.”

— Star Trek (original 1968 television series), Episode 24: “The Ultimate Computer,”

This will be my third post on the topic of Artificial Intelligence, or AI. In my first, I included part of a transcript of a two-hour “conversation” between New York Times tech columnist Kevin Roose and the Bing AI chatbot “Sydney.” I was curious about what else Roose has written and bought his 2021 book Futureproof: 9 Rules for Humans in the Age of Automation. I want to share a few of his recommendations on how we can try to stay in control of our lives.

A major theme of the book is that many jobs now done by humans that will soon be done by A.I. For example, a central concern of the current writers’ strike in Hollywood is the writers’ fear that AI will be used to create scripts and stories that will put human writers out of work. They want assurances from the studios that they won’t let that happen. But studios, knowing how cost-effective such a change would be, are so far reluctant to make such a commitment. Many other jobs, even in law and finance, will soon no longer need human beings as they do now.

So what can we do? His first rule is “Be Surprising, Social and Scarce.” AI-assisted computers are used effectively in performing rational tasks in stable environments, like playing chess, operating a complex warehouse, linking an Uber driver with a customer, and analyzing massive amounts of data. But, so far, they aren’t yet good at operating in unstable environments that require subtle human perceptions, adaptability, and responding to unexpected situations. Roose thinks there are some jobs in which humans will have an advantage, at least in the near future: teachers, bartenders, nurses, occupational therapists, police detectives, hairstylists, flight attendants, and mental health workers, to name a few.

Another rule is “Resist Machine Drift.” By this Roose means “… a kind of internalized automation taking place inside many of us that, in some ways, is much more dangerous. This kind of automation burrows into our brains and affects our internal lives – changing how we think, what we desire, whom we trust.”[i] As our activity on our devices and social media is tracked, analyzed, and sold, AI systems on platforms like Facebook and YouTube offer us links, ads, and information that we are tempted to follow. This can “… lure users into personalized niches filled exactly the content that is most likely to keep their attention – and how, often, that means showing them a version of reality that is more extreme, more divisive, and less fact-based than the world outside their screen.” [ii] We don’t realize what’s happening – we just keep getting presented with interesting links to click on and enjoy the ride. But we can, over time, find ourselves down a rabbit hole.

These options and prompts sometimes simply appear in our feed or are presented to us as “recommendations.” Recommendations can feel like a helpful, personal invitation offered to make our life easier and more pleasurable. But the real purpose of the recommendations is to keep us engaged and to keep clicking. Over time, Roose believes our preferences are no longer our own, but become intentionally shaped, crafted, and utilized by AI to capture our attention and profit from it. (For example, he notes that 70% of YouTube views are “recommendations” generated by AI, not what viewers originally went looking for; as long as we stay engaged, YouTube can sell our attention to advertisers.)

To resist “Machine Drift,” Roose encourages us to not let our time, attention, and money follow every recommendation we are given and instead take time to consider what we really want and what sources we can trust.

Leave Handprints is another theme. We can go online and buy inexpensive items from anywhere in the world. But machine-designed and manufactured objects reflect a very different reality from a handmade ceramic pot or artwork made by a real person who used skill and patience to create something unique; we instinctively value it more. When it’s someone’s birthday on Facebook and we see all the “Happy birthday!” responses, we know that those come from a convenient, one-click option Facebook offers us, taking almost no effort. But when we see a message that somebody took time to compose and post, it feels very different. And if we find in our mailbox a real birthday card with a meaningful, personal message, we know that took time, focus, and care — and it means so much more.

I would add the importance of patronizing businesses which reflect local neighborhoods and cultures. You can feel the difference when you go into a business where its identity and practices are determined by a large, remote, data-driven corporation, in contrast to a local pub, coffee house, market, or retail store that is owned, operated, and managed by real people.

Roose says instead of buying a drill on Amazon, he now takes a little more time to go to the local hardware store and talk to a real person. He suggests we occasionally turn off the Google map directions when we are driving and rely on our own brain – maybe even choosing a route that will take more time but is more scenic or interesting. We can regularly take time to meditate and reconnect with our bodies. We can set aside a “human hour” every day in which all devices in our household are off, and instead do activities (a sport, cooking, conversations, or taking the dog for a walk) that are personal, pleasurable, and restorative. (And, as far as we know, no AI system is tracking our activity if our devices are turned off.)

I was particularly taken by Roose’s account of how he was able to significantly change his addictive relationship with his Smartphone. But I’m going to save that story for a future post.

The challenges of AI go far beyond our individual lives, but I appreciate Roose’s efforts to help us claim as much independence, freedom, and integrity as we can in this rapidly changing world.

I do think AI will have uses that will benefit us. But all these years later, I still want to remember the wisdom of Mr. Spock: “Computers make excellent and efficient servants; but I have no wish to serve under them.”

Photo of Kirk and Spock: Photo 8158024, fanpop.com

[i] Roose, page 80

[ii] Ibid, page 80

With the Passage of Time, A Hope for Healing

Memorial Day was first observed just three years after the end of the Civil War. 620,000 Americans had died. The turning point of the war is often identified as Picket’s Charge during the Battle of Gettysburg, which occurred on July 3, 1863. Fifty years later, all who served – north and south – were invited to return to remember what had occurred. Here’s one account:

Fifty years past the bloody end of the Battle of Gettysburg, over fifty thousand Union and Confederate veterans converged to set camp again in Pennsylvania. The old men came back to see where they had stared death in the eye, and left their youth behind. July 3rd was another sweltering hot Pennsylvania day when the Union veterans again took their positions on Cemetery Ridge, and waited for their old adversaries to emerge from the woods of Seminary Ridge. At 3 in the afternoon, the Rebels charged again, but this time they moved with difficulty through the waist high grass – with canes and crutches and prosthetic limbs – some could fit their old uniforms and most could not – but still the bearded old men kept on coming. The youngest veteran was 61 years old, and the senior member claimed to be 112. Slowly they approached the stone fence at Bloody Angle, and some of the codgers croaked out the rebel yell when they were “surprised” by a group of Union men from the old Philadelphia Brigade. There were those that had feared a bitter confrontation might ensue, but where once they had thrust bayonets at each other, the men clasped hands across the stone wall. They ceremoniously exchanged flags, and some fell into each other’s arms, weeping, while others just sat down in silence and looked sadly across the hallowed ground. [i]

My father fought in World War 2 in Europe against the German army. America was allied with the Soviet Union at that time. Twenty years later, my brother-in-law was stationed in Germany as part of the “Cold War,” and this time America was protecting Germany and western Europe from the Soviets.

In World War 2, China and America were allies fighting Japan. Now, we are allied with Japan to counter a threat from China.

I like to think of the day when the war in Ukraine will be over and there will be peace between those two nations, who share so much history and culture – and suffering.

In my childhood home, alongside our World Book Encyclopedia, we had the 11-volume series, The Story of Civilization, by Will and Ariel Durant. The Durants had also written a small book, The Lessons of History. I remember a comment about war: in three thousand years of recorded history, they could find less than 300 years where a war was not occurring somewhere. They speculated that the only event that might unite all the people of the world would be to face a common enemy from beyond our planet.

Life is complicated, and human conflict may never cease. But it’s important to set aside days to be aware of all the suffering and sacrifice that has occurred, and to be grateful for the unseen forces that work to prevent unnecessary conflict and preserve peace. And to know that, when enough time has passed, sometimes former enemies can gather to embrace over a stone wall or simply “sit down in silence and look sadly across the hallowed ground.”

[i] http://www.awb.com/dailydose/?p=168