Notes From A Bear's Journey

The End, The Beginning     For many in the world, today either marks or has already marked, the end of 2015.  Turn on virtually any media source and you will be able to witness everything from well-researched to hastily put-together summaries of what each outlet felt were the highlights of the past year, what had happened, who had passed away, what events had changed the world, who had been forgotten in the sprawl (an excellent excerpt of being forgotten comes from one person's tale of escape as a refugee as told to The New Yorker ).  Here in the U.S., it is also the final day to claim a tax deduction for whatever, a gift to charity, a contribution to your retirement fund, an added gifting of money to someone without penalty...but to me, as noteworthy as many of these stories were (for indeed, each year brings many changes as I can attest in dealing with my aging mother), the end is a beginning, a time to look forward instead of back.     One such story that caught my eye came

The Year Closes     The other night we met with a few friends; the dinner and gaiety being off the charts, the warm tidings and wassailing (by the way, as heard on NPR's show, to "carol" is to sing and to "wassail" is to toast, taken from an old Norse phrase to "be healthy") far greater than usual.  And it made me think of other friends whom we had yet to call or to have dinner with; as it was with us, so it seemed to be with them, our friendship shifted down (if that's a rude but possibly correct term) to a lower level simply out of priorities.  We were all too busy, too filled with other obligations around the holidays and now having to face the dreaded "scheduling" of our days, as if we were now cultural dignitaries with massive amounts of obligations and dinners and parties to attend out of necessity.  Uh, no, or at least not that we know of (an interesting take on this come's from the new book Photograph by former Beatle, Ring

Getting Out     Almost as if I had been ready to move on, this article appeared on today's National Geographic site; it's a place called Sunday Stills and is worth a peek, not only for the thought-provoking articles that appear each week, but for the photographs that accompany them...think of it as a different way to catch up with the week's news.  At any rate, this particular piece dealt with --ready-- stress and your brain (as if you haven't read enough about that during these recent posts).  But in this piece titled This is Your Brain on Nature , cognitive psychologist from the University of Utah, David Strayer, argues:... that being in nature allows the prefrontal cortex, the brain’s command center, to dial down and rest, like an overused muscle. Writer Florence Williams adds: Our brains, he says, aren’t tireless three-pound machines; they’re easily fatigued.  When we slow down, stop the busywork, and take in beautiful natural surroundings, not only do we feel

    One of my friend's said that she had a similar flu bug.  My wife said that I was simply drained and thus due to get sick.  But there was something different at work here.  And to be clear, when I use the term "breaking down," it is used as a far cry from those who suffer from truly traumatic incidents, the over-stressed single parent or caregiver, the returning soldier, the spouse of the at-home dementia victim, etc.  No, those people are to be given full credit for not breaking down, as much as they deserve to.  Somehow, their bodies have endured and continue to endure the onslaught, the daily, almost hourly pressure of the child wailing, the deadlines passing, the stove still being left on.  It doesn't end...or at least, doesn't seem as if it will end.  For some, their venting heads outward, anger or an unnatural emotional reaction to something, often resulting in a surprised partner's reaction at the least, or a violent intervention or worse when thi

Breaking Down     The other day, I was working away on the third segment of this series when this rebutting email arrived from places unknown.  Still, it proved interesting since, well, see what you think: Now wait just a minute, this talk's bringing me down.     'Tis life to be sure but there's smiles around. It's a time to look forward to peace as one knows     Though cold winds may blow, windows cover with snow. Doesn't matter the suit or the man or the child,     Of the high office tower or the girl in the wild. What matters is something a camera can't see,     Nor often one's eyes when blinded by greed Of things and of people and the passage of time,     Until soon reminded that nothing is thine's. For moments pass quickly in seconds and years,     And all that's immortal is memories or fears. Now which would you rather, the good or the bad?     The people all laughing or the people all sad? The gold and the trinkets all buryin

    To those of you just beginning, this will be another post of moaning; okay, that might be a bit harsh but it's an extension of the trials and tribulations of moving a parent into an independent living facility, and likely will sound familiar to some and quite boring to others, as if this is yet another woe-is-me story ready to dot another make-your-life-better magazine.  If that is how you might be  looking at it, and there's absolutely no judgement here for when everything was going well and the years were sailing by without incident, reading another version of such a story was way down on my own radar list, this is your fair warning.  But surprisingly (perhaps coincidentally), I've found many more people coming out of the woodwork like ghosts in a foggy forest, as if spirits of happenings past.  As I relate my frustration at clearing up the insurance angle or the reluctance to move until it is too late, I hear small mumbles in the background, the heads nodding in ag

Back     Admittedly, it's been awhile, and much of this has been my fault due to being gone at my mother's, not only visiting her while she somewhat healed (she fell and suffered a proximal femur fracture or close enough to the hip to be considered a hip fracture), but in clearing her house.  In this case, after seeing her condition and age, a decision was reached by all to have her move closer to me (due to the threat of blood clots post-surgery, she would be forced to choose the closer and unfortunately colder location near me) and also to independent living.  My brother took the first post at her home, clearing the old pans and glasses and towels, and in the process, donating some 40 large trash bags worth of clothing to charity, along with a seemingly equal amount of bags going to the trash.  I felt relieved, for what more could there be?, only to have him snicker and say, just wait until I got there and I would probably wonder what, if anything, was thrown out.  Surely n

Another Pause     Just a quick heads up as I return to help my mother in her transition from true independent living to today's version of "independent" living.  It is quite an interesting shift, that of researching places and then assuming that what you have found will prove suitable...rather like looking for a used car, the salespeople so friendly and so accommodating; it is eerily like looking at dog kennels, for once you commit and leave, you really have little idea how things truly work out.  So you have to rely on your gut...     Luckily, there's another part of the story, and that is 100% credited to my brother who is tackling the other half of the equation, that of caring for and checking on my mother while she is in rehab.  Not only does he have to man what is being done and handle the visitation to make sure my mother has what she needs and can convey her wishes to the personnel, but also has to begin the process of filtering through her home.  The exces

Another Drink, Please     The other night found us at a friends' home surrounded by their family and other friends...24 in all.  It was a grand time with lots of conversation, lots of food and, as befits such a holiday occasion, lots of drink.  The cold weather and their home in the mountains only added to the wintery chill and the warmth, all of us glad to be so comfortable inside, not only physically but in our heads as well.  After all, it comes down to having good friends and family, doesn't it?  But sometimes, aided with the inhibition-diminishing power of alcohol, it can turn a bit.  Inner feelings or hidden anger can emerge, as can somewhat sloppy realizations of guilt and/or a sudden recognition of selfless love from a parent or someone ill, the past transgressions quickly forgotten for the moment, along with the realization that harboring such ills was silly in the long run.     So, and here's a bold segue, I was somewhat captivated by the series of stories in

Thanks, and Giving     There is a holiday coming up in the United States, a holiday usually relegated to eating turkey with cornbread stuffing, some sweet potatoes or yams, mashed potatoes, even some cranberry relish, all ended with a dessert of pumpkin pie or mincemeat pie.  It's a holiday meant to give thanks for freedom to practice a different sort of religion, for settling in a new land, a land full of bounty and friendly neighbors (i.e., the native Americans already there).  It is a holiday appropriately titled, Thanksgiving.  Here's how The History Channel put it: In September 1620, a small ship called the Mayflower left Plymouth, England, carrying 102 passengers—an assortment of religious separatists seeking a new home where they could freely practice their faith and other individuals lured by the promise of prosperity and land ownership in the New World.  After a treacherous and uncomfortable crossing that lasted 66 days, they dropped anchor near the tip of Cape

Obsession and Love     Walking though a book store in Amsterdam proved an interesting stoll.  For one, it was an all-English bookstore, this in a place where English is likely the third or fourth language.  And second, everything in the store, from hardcover to softcover, cost 5 euro.  Most all of the titles were there (the owner told me that they primarily buy remainders and unsold titles in bulk, from Steven King to Lee Child, as well as a host of non-fiction) and the selection went from photography to cooking, and from Game of Thrones to Prime Suspect.  But what was even more striking to me was the number of titles, each stack carefully laid out, not only on the floor to ceiling shelves, but on the floor as well.  Paths were carefully constructed and the books were quite orderly in how they were presented.      So what's the big deal?  Books are books and bookstores are pretty much everywhere.  And so are games (electronic and otherwise), and so are music stores (albeit, dim

Earth (Again)     You may have read that a few recent observations have discovered what may likely be yet another "earth."  Ho-hum, one might say, since recent reports have put the number of earth-like objects in space (that is, potentially habitable to some form of life, about our planet's size and orbiting a larger heat source star) in the billions, anywhere from 11 to 40 billion.  Yes, billion with a "b."  So why on earth (pardon the purposeful pun) would this latest find be such a big deal?  For one thing, this newest orbiting planet is pretty darn close to us, relatively speaking...just 39 light years away...now just as a refresher, a light year is the distance light (moving at 186,282 miles per second or, for those of you outside of the U.S., 299,792,458 meters per second ) would travel in a year ...pretty far, in other words, about 6 trillion miles (9 trillion kilometers) if you're wondering.  Now multiply that by 39 and you have our nearest &