When Paul Simon Surpasses Paul Simon

More Thoughts About Paul Simon's Quiet Celebration Concert

I was reminded recently of the scene in Chariots of Fire when Sybil Gordon, after watching Harold Abrahams lose a race to Eric Liddell, tries to encourage him by saying, "You were marvelous! He was more marvelous." 

That's how I felt watching the newly-released Paul Simon documentary, "The Quiet Celebration 2025 Concert." I had recently seen this concert live at the Hollywood Bowl. And yes, that concert was marvelous. But this concert documentary was more marvelous. 

True, it was essentially the same concert, but everything about it was just so much better. Maybe it was the sound engineers, or the smaller venue, or the magic of video editing, or the camera-work focusing on the musicians surrounding him on stage. You don't see this at a live concert, especially at a large venue. And my comment about Paul Simon's vocals being slightly off-tune at the live concert doesn't apply here. His vocals here are lovely. The entire concert was truly beautiful. Especially the final 30 minutes or so.

I think this DVD is one to buy and keep. For the next generation. 

He won't be around forever.

Thoughts About an Aging Songwriter

Back to "A Quiet Celebration." 

This morning after the Paul Simon concert at the Hollywood Bowl, we four were sipping coffee and reflecting on the concert. We all had the sense that this could be the last hurrah for him. The tour looks to be a pretty grueling schedule. He’s mid-eighties, has lost hearing in one ear (though the technology can do anything with challenges like this). 

Personally, I loved the concert. The first thirty-three minutes he and his band performed his entire new album, “Seven Psalms.” A and B sides, no commentary, just the music and the lyrics. They then took a break. 

Back onstage, they performed for another hour and a half. A couple of songs I didn’t know (deep cuts?). Most of them, of course I knew. This music is in my veins. It’s music from my teens, my twenties, my thirties, my forties. The set list represents Paul Simon at his peak, his best music. 

That said, the songs performed on stage weren’t the songs of my youth. Yes, they were the same songs. But they were repurposed, reimagined. Classics made somehow new. 

Likewise, the voice on stage was not the voice from my past. It was a weakened voice, slightly shaky, a bit off tune. The voice was that of an old man singing to (mostly) old people. Like me. 

Nevertheless, the music and the voice were beautiful. Sitting in that quiet arena, listening to the voice I’d grown up with, I admit, I teared up a few times. Maybe it was the cheap wine. 

Near the end of the concert, I noticed my friend Karen had pulled out her phone and was filming. I asked her later to send me the videos she’d recorded. I’m including two of them in the comments (the first didn’t load). Maybe they illustrate what I’m trying to say here. 

The first, “Diamonds on the Soles of her Shoes,” is from his Graceland album. Again, the vocals are fragile. But the accompaniment, the instrumentation? Brilliant, as was that album, his first solo album after the split. Paul Simon, the boy from New York, rediscovering himself. 

The second is his classic, “American Tune.” Among the most beautiful song lyrics (in my opinion) he’s written. 

These clips reveal both Paul Simon’s musical genius and his poetic instincts. But they also reveal something else. Paul Simon is an old man. In his youth, in his prime, when he composed these songs, when he wrote these lyrics, he was an old soul. 

His body has finally caught up.

****

"Diamonds on the Soles of her Shoes"

Video from "A Quiet Celebration"

Hollywood Bowl

June 7, 2026

"American Tune"

Video from "A Quiet Celebration"

Hollywood Bowl

June 7, 2026

A Word About Wine in an Igloo at the Hollywood Bowl

My husband and I went to the Hollywood Bowl this past weekend with another couple. We were there to see Paul Simon on the second night of his two-month 2026 tour he’s called, “A Quiet Celebration.” I didn’t know until after the concert that the tour had this name, but in retrospect, I understand why he chose that name--the evening was both quiet and celebratory. More on that later. But first, a word, about wine. 

Rather than deal with traffic and parking, we took a bus to the event from Lakewood, carrying a couple of ice chests and picnic accoutrements. As we approached the entrance to the Bowl, we noticed a sign informing guests that no wine bottles (or aluminum cans) are allowed inside the venue. We had both. But since we had recently done the same on a previous visit to the Bowl in 2025 to see Joni Mitchell and had passed through inspection without incident then, we weren't overly concerned. If the policy had been in effect, someone had apparently chosen to turn a blind eye and let us through. We assumed the same would be true this time.

Unfortunately, when we got to the inspection tables, our two inexpensive (I won't say "cheap") bottles of Chardonnay were flagged. No blind eye this time. We were given the option of either tossing the bottles or checking them in and picking them up after the concert. We obviously opted to check them in. Why throw away unopened wine bottles, especially when you know someone will take them home after the concert. Free to good home?

We learned later that the Hollywood Bowl’s alcohol policy depends on the type of event you're attending. According to the website, "For LA Phil-presented events, feel free to bring your own wine, beer, and more (glass bottles are permitted). For lease events outside alcohol is not allowed.” Ah, the fine print.

We’re still confused as to why we passed inspection the last time we came to the Hollywood Bowl. The Joni Jam was presumably a lease event. Whoever turned a blind eye at our concealed glass bottles at that event probably lost his job. But for the moment, the only issue at hand was that we had no wine. I felt a bit like Jack Sparrow: “Why is the rum gone?” 

No need to explain why we had carried in our own wine other than to say we had a hunch the wine on site would be ridiculously expensive. Should we overpay and plunk down too much money or go without? Needless to say, the desire to sip wine beneath a starry sky while listening to one of our favorite artists trumped our desire to save money, so, yes, plunk we did, a little over $100 for a couple bottles of the least expensive (cheap) Chardonnay. 

Lesson learned: Read the Hollywood Bowl Lease Events Policy before packing up a picnic. 

Concealed bottle of cheap Chardonnay in Igloo

Another Poem About Mothers

Here's another poem*, a little longer, a little more poignant than the earlier one.

To our daughters, just beginning.

And to our own mothers,

some long gone.

We celebrate you today.

💕

* Poem by Jess Urlichs

A Poem About Mothers

A Poem About Mothers

I like this little poem.

It doesn’t exactly represent a memory of my mom (banging pots in the kitchen before we woke up? Not really). For as long as I can remember, she was involved, to greater or lesser degrees, volunteering outside the home. So whether she was coming or going, she was always deeply preoccupied in whatever she was doing.

That said, we weren’t latchkey kids. She was home more often than not when we came home from school.

So yes. I like this little poem. It speaks to the value of being present. There’s a kind of security in that. Kids always knowing there’s an adult nearby.

Here’s to moms who may not be the best cooks, who may be preoccupied or absorbed in their own lives or interests, but who are downstairs when the kids wake up.

Wading Through Norman Maclean's River

Why I'll Probably Re-Read This Book

Years ago (we’re talking last century!) a friend recommended a novel written by E. Annie Proulx called The Shipping News. I will always read a book when a friend I respect recommends it, and I did read this one. But I admit, it was a bit of a slog. I remember wondering more than once why I continued reading it. But all I could think was, a friend I respect recommended it. So I soldiered on. Eventually I finished the book. 

 

But here’s the weird thing. By the time I reached the end of the novel, I was oddly moved. I remember thinking, as if it had never occurred to me the entire time I was reading, “Ohhh . . . it’s a love story.” 

I had a similar experience when I finished A River Runs Through It, by Norman Maclean, though for a different reason. It’s the oddest book I’ve ever read in that not only does it have no chapter breaks, it literally has no breaks at all. You know how some novels separate sections within a chapter by an extra space? So if you’re reading a long chapter but aren’t able to complete it in one sitting, you may reach that internal break knowing it’s a logical place to pause, even if you’re not finished with that chapter? That’s what I mean by no breaks at all, let alone no chapter breaks. The entire book is literally only one chapter. I’ve never experienced anything like that while reading. 

In that regard, A River Runs Through It is probably a book that should be read in one sitting. Since for a variety of reasons that scenario is not realistic for me, I ended up taking a few weeks to finish the book. My habit of penciling in the spot where I’d stopped reading and then resuming the next day was trickier in this book since there are neither section nor chapter breaks: consequently, I’d usually end up re-reading a paragraph or two before the spot I’d marked in order to re-capture the thread. 

Also, unlike other novels, A River Runs Through It, though referred to as a novella, is, in fact, autobiographical. In that regard, the book lacks the traditional narrative pattern of a novel: there’s no clear beginning-middle-end plot line, no distinct rising action/climax/falling action/denouement that you get when reading a novel. So, there’s a bit of a mismatch between the words on the page (autobiographical) and the expectations of the reader (fictional). At least, there was for me.

In a nutshell, here’s the book: 

Setting: Montana. 

Main Characters: the author himself, his preacher father, his alcoholic brother

Minor Characters: his brother’s wife, his brother’s brother-in-law 

Key Events: fly fishing in one particular river 

Minor Events: Rather than me summarizing, here's a helpful synopsis.

And that pretty much sums it up. There’s not much tension—as mentioned above, no dramatic rising action, at least, not until literally the last few pages. With the exception of getting his brother out of jail once, there’s really not much drama. And the most dramatic part of the story is literally not even discussed. Rather, it’s mentioned in passing. Almost as an afterthought. 

Re-reading my own description, I have to say, it’s not really a book that’s easy to recommend. 

And yet…I do. And I will read it again. Much like my experience reading The Shipping News—reading a book I wasn’t quite getting—I got to the end of A River Runs Through It and had a similar reaction. “Ohhh . . . it’s a love story.” 

But, it's also the writing. The prose. At times funny, at other times breathtakingly lovely. The author hints at a tragedy but doesn’t dwell on it. It’s truly the most understated event in the book. Yet it’s the saddest. Have I mentioned the incredible details about fly fishing? Even if you know nothing about this sport, the author has you baited and hooked. These three men (father and sons) were masterful fishermen. But the best among them was the author's brother. The final pages are of the author and his elderly father watching from the riverbank as the brother battled a monster trout. Ordinary event. Extraordinary prose. 

A River Runs Through It is a book that should be read more than once. Hopefully, my next read will be in one sitting.

Who is Entitled to Privacy?

I've been thinking about death and fame in the aftermath of another celebrity's passing. Though her family has requested privacy, I'm sure we'll start to hear more about the cause of Diane Keaton's death soon. Rumors of her declining health are already beginning to trickle out. 

Does knowing how someone died matter? Whenever a well-known figure dies and the family requests privacy, I find myself struggling with this question. If a person down the street, who I may know by name but am otherwise not involved with personally, suddenly dies, I may feel sadness or empathy, but I'm certainly not entitled to the details of their passing. 

But when a celebrity suddenly dies? The word "entitled" may be too strong, but there is a sense that loss of privacy comes with the territory. This is a person who long ago made a kind of bargain with fame. The benefits of fame may be many, but the costs are often high. One of the costs is privacy. And when a celebrity's cause of death isn't disclosed, questions and speculations are inevitable. 

Anyway, whatever the cause, it's looking more and more as if she had a complicated end. 

May she rest in peace.

****

Diane Keaton January 5, 1946 - October 11, 2025

Taking a Moment to Personify Death

Out of respect for the passing of Robert Redford, Perry and I watched an old episode of Twilight Zone (Season 3, Episode 16) called "Nothing in the Dark," in which Redford was cast as the personification of Death. It first aired in January of 1962. 

Even though I knew ahead of time who he was and what he represented, I watched the story unfold with a bit of anxiety. I wasn't sure how the elderly woman—who for years had been living her life in seclusion behind locked doors, terrified of meeting Death in person—would react when she finally recognized who she had invited inside her house. 

If someone reading this post hasn't watched the episode (we hadn't, so it was new to us), I won't go into many details. But I did want to comment on one aspect of Redford's character (named Harold Beldon). Though his character was kind, gentle, even vulnerable, knowing who he was and why he was there, I kept waiting for him to become evil or bad. Like a demon in disguise. 

When that never happened, when, like a gentleman, he offered the woman his arm for her to take as he escorted her out the door, I realized I was conflating two things unfairly: death and demons. But this episode seems to be suggesting that death, in and of itself, is not evil. Death did not enter her house to hurt her. He entered to escort her to the next life.

I won't bother to explore spiritual or Biblical questions about the afterlife, or faith in God, or sin or hell. Rather, I prefer to stay focused on what this one little 30-minute Twilight Zone episode seemed to be exploring: Death seems terrifying to those of us who are clinging desperately to this life, breathing in and out and living day to day. But what if it's not so terrifying? What if it's simply just the next step?

Anyway, not that I don't want to keep on breathing and living day to day. But these are the thoughts that came to mind this morning. And I was reminded of this lovely poem by Emily Dickinson, who also took a moment to personify Death.

Reflections on the Craft of Teaching Writing

"Skyrocketing tuition has turned students into paying customers 

who expect to be praised, not challenged.”

~Solveig Lucia Gold and Joshua T. Katz 

Some years ago, I was on the community college campus where I taught, walking to the library or something. I remember stopping briefly to say hi to a student I knew. Just as I started to walk away, another student approached me, and after apologizing for interrupting, introduced herself as a former student. 

"You probably don't remember me," she began (I didn't), "but I took your English 100 class years ago. I just wanted to thank you. You kicked our butts." 

I remember laughing out loud and thanking her for saying hello. 

Best compliment I've ever received. 

I taught English Composition (both transfer and non-transfer level) as an adjunct professor for a little over 20 years at a local community college. Prior to that, I taught Grammar and Composition for about 10 years to a combined 7th and 8th grade class at a private Christian school in Escondido. 

That adds up to maybe a little over 30 years of my life devoted to the craft of teaching writing. During those years, it's safe to say I read and commented on every submitted paper, both rough drafts and final submissions. 

It didn't hurt that in both scenarios I was a part-time instructor, nor that in both scenarios, class size was relatively small compared to most public schools. But when it comes to teaching writing, I honestly don't know any shortcut. 

Reading student papers, providing personal, concrete, substantial feedback, designing reasonably clear rubrics for grading, is time consuming. But to me, it’s the only way students can learn the craft of writing. I don’t know how full-time teachers or professors do it. 

At the college level, I gave out quite lot of Ds and Fs, particularly at the beginning of each semester. Most students learn pretty quickly what they can and can’t get away with and adjust accordingly or drop the class. 

As semesters progressed, the grades were mostly Cs. This grade often meant the paper was rote, unimaginative, repetitive, or otherwise lacking in originality and freshness. Lower grades reflected more glaring problems having to do with structure, or sentence level issues, or failure to meet the basic requirements of the assignment. 

A and B papers were rare, but you knew them when you saw them. You could hear the writer’s voice. You knew they’d been well-taught even before they arrived in your classroom. As writers, they could only get better from this point forward. Teaching at the college level, you’d think this should be the rule rather than the exception. Alas . . . 

As for those D and F papers, I often allowed students to re-submit failing papers, as long as they included for final grading all previous drafts and preparatory notes (from what I understand, not all professors do this). If the re-submitted paper looked essentially the same, the grade stayed the same. On the other hand, if a student was willing to work with me, listen to my comments, demonstrate integrity in the effort of the rewriting task, then I felt obligated to respect the effort and adjust my grades accordingly. 

In my way of thinking, this is what writers do. It's hard work, writing. “You kicked our butts.” 

I read articles like the one I read in the Wall Street Journal (link below), and I worry about what's going on in today's classrooms. I worry about kids in grade school, junior high, college, kids raised in a world of technology, immersed in an academic environment of easy access to information and the reductive influence of artificial intelligence. 

I worry about students who may end up in schools like those described in the article below, where instructors don’t seem to have the time or incentive to insist students master a craft that seems to be at risk of vanishing. 

And yes. I worry about children I know. Some still too young for the classroom. My children’s children.

I hope it's not too late to turn this ship around.

***

America Needs Tough Grading, by Solveig Lucia Gold and Joshua T. Katz (September 2, 2025, Wall Street Journal)

A Poem about Passings

Passings

how sad

the passing of time

and with it

the passing of those

we love 

eem/September 2022

Remembering Ruth Finley: Remarks at my Mom's Memorial (2002)

My mother died 23 years ago at the age of 79. She was a lovely and in some ways remarkable woman. I say this from the perspective of having observed the so-called Second Wave of the Women's Movement influence my mom's gentle evolution from traditional housewife and stay-at-home mother of three into the well-respected member of her community that she became. 

At the time she passed, I was a busy mother of three myself, living several cities away, and preoccupied with my own life changes and attempts to figure things out. Consequently, I was only marginally connected with my parents' day to day lives. 

Not that we weren't close--we were. And not that I wasn't proud of her accomplishments--I was. But my attention was turned elsewhere. I was distracted. Busy. And consequently, less involved, less aware. I regret this self-absorption. 

We commemorated my mom's passing in January of 2002 at a local park in Huntington Beach. There were a lot of people in attendance, including former mayors and council members who had worked alongside my mother over the years in local politics. Several of them approached the podium and spoke highly of my mom. They spoke of a woman I only knew from afar.

As the ceremony neared the end, I also approached the podium. I had prepared my remarks and read from my notes. Then, as they say, the years passed. I never thought to save my comments. I either lost or misplaced the document, not thinking (at the time) of a future when I might want to recall my words.

But, funny the things you discover when you start the process of preparing for your own end. A few weeks ago, clearing out boxes of old papers, I found the document. I apparently hadn't saved it on any accessible computer or hard drive, so I had to re-type it. I'm posting it here. 

For the kids. 

And their kids. 

Maybe they'll be better organized when it's their turn to step up to the podium.

****** 

Memories of Ruth Finley 

Central Park 

Huntington Beach, California 

 January 20, 2002 

I think, if you were to ask my friends what they remember most about my mom, the first thing they wouldn’t say is, “strong leader” or “quick-witted, feisty councilwoman,” or even, “great Girl Scout leader." What they would probably say is, “Mrs. Finley never really did learn how to drive a stick shift.”
 

For those of my friends who suffered through stomach-churning years of carpooling back and forth in the Volkswagen van or the Volvo sedan, all I can say is, “Talk to my dad." He’s the one who didn’t get any of us a car with an automatic transition until we kids were grown and gone. 

What my mom lacked in the area of smooth transitions from second to third gear, she amply made up for in her own unique life-saving technique. If you’ve ever been the lucky passenger seated beside her in the front seat during a moment of (too) rapid approach to a stoplight, you’ll know what I mean. In the days before seatbelts became mandatory in cars, that strong right arm thrust firmly across your chest was, if not dignified, at least reassuring. 

Listening today to the reflections and tributes from people who remember my mom both personally and professionally, I marvel at the woman you knew. Unfortunately, self-absorbed teenager and young adult that I was, I missed out on a lot of what Mom was doing when she was in her prime. My sister Laura and I spent this past summer going over newspaper clippings and articles of my mom. It’s been fun reading about the woman you know. 

Of course, none of those articles highlighted the details of the woman I knew. 

The woman I remember is the one sitting somewhere—anywhere—it could be a quiet corner of a room, a small boat on a lake in Maine, or the crowded bleachers of Dodger Stadium—reading a good mystery. 

It’s the woman you might occasionally find at the end of a hectic day, seated at the piano, plunking out a few chords of a favorite hymn. 

The woman I remember is the one who always promised to “keep her fingers crossed,” who never hesitated to apprise you as to the contents of your head (usually it was “rocks”), and who was always quick to reassure new and sometimes frustrated young mothers that “this, too, shall pass.” 

“Housewife” may not be the first item on my mom’s resume, but the Ruth Finley I knew was, in addition to her outside involvements and commitments, a full-time mom. If all dinner consisted of was iceberg lettuce tossed with Wishbone Italian dressing, really overcooked pork chops, and a bowl of buttery, salted peas, dinner was on the table every night—even on those nights my dad came home from work at 8:15.

 

Betty Crocker she was not. She admittedly hated housework. But she was there when we got home from school. There are a lot of things that I admire about my mom, but for some reason, that ranks among the top. 

It’s possible my mom might have accomplished a lot more in life than she already has were it not for a husband, three kids, and a couple of dogs. But if you were to ask her today if she has any regrets, I think she’d raise her eyebrows, look at you as if you had rocks in your head, and say, “Not a one.”

Notes on Mom 

Born November 30, 1923 in Ramsey, New Jersey 

Died January 14, 2002 in Long Beach, California 

Laid to rest 

 

Redeemer Cemetery 

Church of the Redeemer

Mahwah, New Jersey

Published Obituaries

Daily Pilot 

(may be behind a paywall, sorry)

Dayle McIntosh Center

Pictures

A family classic

Mayor Ruth with my sister
(where was I?)
July 4th Parade
(1981)
Huntington Beach, California

The Little Prince and the Merchant: A Lesson for Today

 "Good morning," said the little prince. 

"Good morning," said the merchant. 

This was a merchant who sold pills that had been invented to quench thirst. You need only swallow one pill a week, and you would feel no need of anything to drink.

"Why are you selling those?" asked the little prince.

 

"Because they save a tremendous amount of time," said the merchant. "Computations have been made by experts. With these pills, you save fifty-three minutes in every week." 

"And what do I do with those fifty-three minutes?" 

"Anything you like . . ." 

"As for me," said the little prince to himself, "if I had fifty-three minutes to spend as I liked, I should walk at my leisure toward a spring of fresh water." 

The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry (chapter 23)

Small chapter, big message. 

There's a metaphor here. I realize the author's life pre-dates our current technological advances, but the message here resonates with my suspicions regarding artificial intelligence. 

It all sounds so novel, so convenient. It saves us time. Frees our brains from the tedious minutiae of thinking. 

Adults are beguiled. 

Merchants see dollar signs. 

But I worry for my children's children. Babies, toddlers, kindergartners, school children, growing up where information is available instantaneously. What's not to like? Today's "merchants" make it all seem so marvelous. I read recently about Bill Gates fantasizing about the time when people will only have to work two days a week. Think of the time saved. 

But, at what cost? I've heard it said that work, no matter how menial, has its own rewards, that too much leisure has its downsides. Work—things like reading, building, creating, thinking. Things AI can now do for us in half the time. 

Perhaps the story of the little prince's encounter with the merchant is a metaphor for today:  the physical act of drawing water from a well, the pleasure of tasting, swallowing, drinking water, represents the satisfaction of being productive, of work, creativity, thinking, learning. 

 Time consuming, maybe. Laborious, perhaps. 

But has its own rewards?

*****

For a similar view, here's an article by a journalist in Paris. 

How I Realized AI Was Making Me Stupid--And What I Do Now

by Sam Schechner, Wall Street Journal (April 3, 2025)

Maybe There's "The Rest of the Story"

 A Plea to Calm Down

Lots of sturm und drang about Donald Trump's recent appearance at Arlington Cemetery. 

I've seen memes, posted even by friends I know (or thought I knew), actually wishing for Trump to die a horrible death because of this supposed faux pas. To say I'm disappointed in my friends might be an understatement. 

 If I'm understanding the situation correctly, it's not Trump's behavior that should be questioned here, but that of President Biden and Vice President Harris, as well. Apparently, all three of these officials were invited by members of the Gold Star families who lost loved ones at Abbey Gate, yet neither Biden nor Harris even accepted the invitation (see article, below). Needless to say, some of these families are furious at the president and vice president. 

This is less a rant than a plea to friends and acquaintances. 

Maybe wait for all the facts to come in before reacting to the latest news. 

Consider accepting the possibility that maybe there's "the rest of the story." 

Maybe take a moment to re-read "Desiderata," still lovely after all these years. Published in 1927, the poet encouraged us to "go placidly amid the noise and haste" and to "keep peace in your soul." 

He reminded us that, "With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world." 

Maybe try to remember, too, the words of our mothers--the wise ones, anyway--"This, too, shall pass." 

I will try to do the same.

**** 

This, Too, Shall Pass, or, Why I Prefer Trump to Harris

A Time for Choosing 

My best and only answer to why I’d prefer Trump to Harris is that, at least if Trump is elected, the press would “do its job.” With Harris (or any Democrat, for that matter), the press is actually doing everything but its job. It’s become advocates for the party, both in terms of how they cover the candidates and what they choose not to cover. 

When a society loses the press to party loyalty, we’re in trouble. Frankly, that’s what I fear more than a Donald Trump administration. 

Trump will be gone in a while. We can recover from him. I don’t think we can recover from the corruption of the Fourth Estate.

 Once upon a time 

... the act of rescuing someone who had been kidnapped and held hostage was considered a truly noble, maybe even heroic, act of daring courage. It may even still be—unless the rescuers and those being rescued are Jewish? 

Why is that? Four Israeli hostages were rescued—Israeli military operatives literally swept in during broad daylight, knocked on doors, announced who they were, and basically said, “We’re here to rescue you." One rescuer apparently asked permission to hoist the female hostage over his shoulder. 

 

Like, pretty damn amazing, right? 

And yet. The response I’ve heard runs along the lines of, “Yes, glad they were rescued, but what about the innocent civilians who were killed during the operation?” 

Glad they were rescued . . . but?

Who talks like that?

Who thinks like that? 

One wants to ask, If it had been your son, your daughter, your grandchild who was rescued, would that be your response? If they say, "of course," why do I not believe them?

During the rescue, civilians happened to be in the crossfire. The loss of innocent life is a tragedy. Some lives were lost, but not all were innocent. Hostages were being held in people’s homes. Regular people, not military. People who cook dinner for themselves and carry on with their lives while somewhere in the house a hostage is being held captive. We'll learn--are already learning--what they endured during those months while regular people carried on with their lives downstairs.

So when the Israeli military plans its rescue strategy for hostages being held captive among a civilian population, it has to factor in the very real possibility that regular people may be at risk. 

I agree, this is tragic. But this is also intentional. This is a military tactic of Hamas. Today's Wall Street Journal has a front-page article explaining that this is the Hamas leader's strategy to gain world sympathy. Those who chide the Israeli military are chiding the wrong actor in this tragedy. 

This rescue could have gone so bad. Indeed, it almost did. The next time (if there is a next time) the military attempts a rescue it may not go as well. And who knows if this rescue portends an even worse fate for the remaining hostages?

But for just a few minutes, can we not at least look at the faces of those who were literally plucked from their corner of hell-on-earth and simply say a quiet word of thanks…and nothing else?

***

Gaza Chief's Brutal Calculation: Civilian Bloodshed Will Help Hamas

June 10, 2024

Wall Street Journal 

Are We All Just Walking Each Other Home?

Is Today Poetry Saturday? 

For my birthday last month, a friend gave me a book, A Poem a Day. This morning's selection (Saturday, February 17, 2024) was by Christina Rossetti.

The book’s editor always includes a brief footnote, some bit of trivia or detail about the poet or poem. Today’s footnote said Rossetti found the world evil: “I cannot possibly use the word ‘happy’ without meaning something beyond this present life.”

I’ve always liked the few Christina Rossetti poems I’ve read. Despite a childlike quality to them, they seem to convey wisdom or insight. I didn’t know that about her, that “she found the world evil.” I guess if you think about it, it is, which is why, perhaps, the Bible says believers are called to be light in the darkness.

Anyway, today’s poem, "Up-hill," I thought quite lovely. Another variation on the Ram Dass line, We’re all just walking each other home?

****

Poem a Day: Vol. 1: 366 Poems, Old and New - One for Each Day of the Year, by Karen McCosker (Editor), Nicholas Albery (Editor)

Running Out of Time

 Musings on Tim Urban's "The Tail End" (link below)

The "tail end," as in, putting our entire lifetime into perspective: the tail end of time together with parents (if they’re still with us), with siblings, with friends. 

 

As in…maybe we can only count on one hand or two how many more days we spend with these people.

As in, maybe we’re running out of time. 

A snippet from Urban's article: 

“Relationships. I’ve been thinking about my parents, who are in their mid-60s. During my first 18 years, I spent some time with my parents during at least 90% of my days. But since heading off to college and then later moving out of Boston, I’ve probably seen them an average of only five times a year each, for an average of maybe two days each time. 10 days a year. About 3% of the days I spent with them each year of my childhood. 

Being in their mid-60s, let’s continue to be super optimistic and say I’m one of the incredibly lucky people to have both parents alive into my 60s. That would give us about 30 more years of coexistence. If the ten days a year thing holds, that’s 300 days left to hang with mom and dad. Less time than I spent with them in any one of my 18 childhood years. 

When you look at that reality, you realize that despite not being at the end of your life, you may very well be nearing the end of your time with some of the most important people in your life . . . it turns out that when I graduated from high school, I had already used up 93% of my in-person parent time. I’m now enjoying the last 5% of that time. We’re in the tail end. 

It’s a similar story with my two sisters. After living in a house with them for 10 and 13 years respectively, I now live across the country from both of them and spend maybe 15 days with each of them a year. Hopefully, that leaves us with about 15% of our total hangout time left. 

The same often goes for old friends. In high school, I sat around playing hearts with the same four guys about five days a week. In four years, we probably racked up 700 group hangouts. Now, scattered around the country with totally different lives and schedules, the five of us are in the same room at the same time probably 10 days each decade. The group is in its final 7%. So what do we do with this information?”

 ***** 

I don't know, honestly, what to do with this information. 

 

My parents are already long gone.

My siblings and in-laws are nearby but busy with their lives. Holidays are our best bet--one, maybe two a year?

My closest friends are nearby-ish, but like everyone, they're busy with their own lives and families.

My three adult children live out of town/out of state. We text frequently but see seldom each other. Maybe a few times a year, if we plan well. 

My (so far) one and only grandson lives out of state. He's already walking and causing all kinds of mayhem which I see in pictures and videos. I'm missing out. Should I up and move?

It's the tail end of time. 

And I'm running out of it.

*****

The Tail End, by Tim Urban (Wait But Why)

Time to Learn About Jewish History?

 A Little Rant 

I’m aware that I’m only slightly less ignorant than the people on the streets (mostly college age and younger) calling Israel a colonizer/oppressor/apartheid state, so I decided to try and learn its history. Websites are helpful for sort of a quick overview but can’t compare with books written by historians and researchers. 

So, on the recommendation of John Podhoretz of Commentary, I bought this old book, published in 1986, called The Siege: The Saga of Israel and Zionism, by Conor Cruise O’Brien, an Irishman and Catholic, not that it matters. His interest in the region’s conflicts began (he says in the Prologue) in the mid-fifties after Ireland became a member of the United Nations and he became a delegate and represented Ireland on the Special Political Committee, where there was an ongoing debate on The Question of the Palestine Refugees. He was seated between the delegates from Iraq and Israel. He enjoyed the Israeli delegates more than he did the Iraqis. 

It’s a long-ish book for someone like me, who reads every word and usually glances at endnotes, and I’m the kind of reader that sometimes has to sort of step back and try to get the bigger picture before working through it chapter by chapter. After skimming the chapter headings, examining some of the maps and timelines, and reading the Prologue, I followed a footnote reference at the end of Prologue which led me to the Epilogue, which is where I read this paragraph (see image). This one paragraph seems to explain in a nutshell what the protesters on the streets don’t seem to understand. 

This book was written in the early eighties, yet what the author writes in this paragraph seems as if it’s still true today. Israel’s pattern of what appears at first glance to be an “asymmetrical” military response “shocks the outside observer” because the outside observer simply can’t do math (my words, not the author's). In other words, if Israel’s military response to an attack on its citizens within its border seems asymmetrical, it’s because the loss of a thousand young Israelis is devastating if your population is already small. It's not unlike the problem with calling October 7th “Israel’s 9/11.” Numerically that’s not accurate. For October 7th be Israel's 9/11, we would have needed to have lost over 30,000 people on that day. 

Anyway, all this to say…details and accuracy and truth matters. When college kids on the streets scream “colonizer” or “oppressor,” I want to ask them to please explain what they mean. I want to see if they’ve done any reading on the issue, if they understand the history, if they’re informed. Unfortunately, I already know the answer. 

And so, the beat goes on. Jew hatred has crawled back up from the sewers. Yet for some reason, it seems even more vile than ever since it’s being spewed not by neo-Nazis but by some of our own—elites in academia, members of Congress, journalists, op-ed writers, editors at top newspapers, and perhaps scariest of all, young people: college kids, young adults in their mid-twenties, full of rage and bile, who get all their information not from historians but from memes they read on TikTok.

 Let's (Not) Talk About the Children

Just collecting stuff here (for future reference)

De-transitioning

TransLife Survivors

(book by Walt Heyer and also commentary about the Texas law by Heyer HERE)

Sex Change Regret

Artifact of 2021: Social Justice Convening

I post this here as an artifact of the year America went mad.