Shoot the moon - Nederlands Dans Theater - Sol León & Paul Lightfoot

Another favorite--Shoot the Moon--by the NDT

Silent Screen - Sol León & Paul Lightfoot (NDT 1 | Scenic Route)

One of my favorite modern dance creations from my favorite modern dance company--the Netherlands Dance Theater (NDT). I was reminded of it tonight when I was at the Opera (Operaen.no) to see three different dance pieces--one classical ballet--Divertimento No.15--choreographed by George Balanchine, the other two experimental modern dance pieces--27' 52'' and Some Girls Don't Turn--choreographed by Jiri Kylian and Emma Portner respectively (Portner/Kylian/Balanchine - at Oslo Opera House (operaen.no). I enjoyed all three, but when it comes to experimental modern dance, my taste runs more toward NDT. 

A book recommendation for my Norwegian readers

I just purchased the following book recently, as I was looking for a book that described the bridges over the Akerselva river (my second favorite river after the Hudson River). As luck would have it, a couple of Sundays ago my husband and I stopped to drink coffee at Hønsa Lovisas cafe, and while we were waiting to be served, we took a look at the books on the small bookstand near the entrance. Akerselvas Bruer og Fosser (Akerselva's Bridges and Waterfalls) by Kjell Egil Sterten was one of them. I'm happy to support anything to do with local history, be it in Tarrytown NY where I grew up, or in Oslo where I live now. The author is a local historian and lecturer who clearly loves Oslo. You can buy it from different online bookstores; here are the links: 

Akerselvas bruer og fosser by Sterten, Kjell Egil. 9788230333198. Innbundet - 2016 | Haugenbok

Akerselvas bruer og fosser | Kjell Egil Sterten | ARK Bokhandel

The Gifts of a Garden

A Town and A Valley: Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley

Generosity of spirit

I recently published the paperback version of my book, A Town and A Valley: Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley, and have been trying to promote it, along with another book that I published last May (The Gifts of A Garden). Both books are available for purchase on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Bookshop.org, among other online booksellers. 

Publishing a book is only the start of the huge job that looms ahead--marketing a book. Writing a book pales by comparison, although it is the most important job that the writer can do. But getting your book out there, getting it seen and read by others, that's important too. After all, writers write books that they hope people will read, even if the number of people who read them is small. What matters is that you've shared something you wanted to share, with others. There isn't always a huge audience for all books, nor should there be necessarily. But if no one sees your book at all, that can be frustrating and ultimately creates feelings of futility concerning writing. 

I've often written about the challenge of being creative and the internal tug-of-war between wanting to share the results and being afraid to do so. Sharing means exposing yourself not only to normal criticism (which is fine), but to destructive criticism on the part on internet trolls. There are so many of the latter whose sole aim is to tear down, not build up. But ultimately wanting to share wins out over the fear. Don't hide your light under a bushel basket, to paraphrase the biblical saying. I've interpreted this saying to mean that one should not hide one's creativity from others, if you truly have something to share. But goodness, kindness, and generosity can be substituted for creativity. If we are good people, we are asked to step up to the plate. And so it goes with talent as well. If God has given you a particular talent, make the most of it and share the results.

However, even if you haven't hidden your talent, even if you've spent a lot of time marketing your book on social media and personal websites, etc. it still isn't enough. You can't do the job completely alone. Authors need help from readers who liked an author's book and who post a positive comment about it on Amazon or Goodreads or social media. That happened to me recently--a rare and treasured experience of generosity of spirit on the part of a man I don't know who had read my book and who happens to be the moderator of a Facebook page about Tarrytown & Sleepy Hollow. I messaged him to ask if I could post a little notice on the page that I had published my book about Tarrytown, and he wrote back to say yes. So I posted it, and he followed up with a photo of the book's front cover and some amazing words about the book and about me. He wrote that 'Paula is too modest. She is a fabulous author and this book is great'. He also wrote 'Such great memories in your book'.

His generosity of spirit and his words made me happy. If only people truly understood how words can influence your feelings and thoughts, about yourself and others. I have some wonderful friends and loved ones who read my books; Jean, Trond, and Brendan (who passed away a few years ago) are/were my most faithful supporters and have read everything I've written. Knowing that they like my books has given me the motivation to keep writing over the past years. The praise from the Facebook moderator likewise gives me needed motivation to continue writing. 

I've often written about the world of academia and its lack of generosity of spirit. Very few people wish their colleagues well; that has been my experience at least. The competition for grant funding is fierce and those who 'win' are often ignored by those who 'lose'. I used to congratulate those who had gotten funding; after all, they did a good job and were recognized for it. In all my forty-odd years of research work, I've been congratulated perhaps twice when I got funding, once by someone who didn't think I was good enough to get funding, the other by a former boss. Among peers, almost never, and I have no idea why. I stopped caring after a while. It costs nothing to open your mouth to praise someone else and to wish him or her well. But that type of generosity of spirit is rare, at least in my experience.

More generally, how many times have you experienced wanting to share a small success or happiness, e.g. a particularly nice photo that you have taken, only to hear from the other person you showed it to that they have taken photos that are just as nice. They veer the conversation over to themselves or to something that they have done and for which they want praise. They don't want any attention focused on you. It's a spirit-crushing feeling when you realize that you are the recipient of envious and petty behavior. So I am grateful to those people in my life who have shown me that generosity of spirit when I have shared my creative pursuits with them. I am grateful for those who wish me well and who can celebrate the small successes that I occasionally experience without their feeling envious or resentful. I pay it forward and for the most part always have. I can say this much about myself; I am not afraid to let other people know that they've done a great job. So it's nice to hear from others when I've done a great job as well. 

The upsides and downsides of instant information

Another apt commentary on the state of the world and our addiction to cell phones from my favorite cartoonist--Stephan Pastis--and his menagerie of talking animals (and birds) in Pearls Before Swine. 

A Servant to Servants--a poem by Robert Frost

A Servant To Servants

I didn’t make you know how glad I was
To have you come and camp here on our land.
I promised myself to get down some day
And see the way you lived, but I don’t know!
With a houseful of hungry men to feed
I guess you’d find…. It seems to me
I can’t express my feelings any more
Than I can raise my voice or want to lift
My hand (oh, I can lift it when I have to).
Did ever you feel so? I hope you never.
It’s got so I don’t even know for sure
Whether I am glad, sorry, or anything.
There’s nothing but a voice-like left inside
That seems to tell me how I ought to feel,
And would feel if I wasn’t all gone wrong.
You take the lake. I look and look at it.
I see it’s a fair, pretty sheet of water.
I stand and make myself repeat out loud
The advantages it has, so long and narrow,
Like a deep piece of some old running river
Cut short off at both ends. It lies five miles
Straight away through the mountain notch
From the sink window where I wash the plates,
And all our storms come up toward the house,
Drawing the slow waves whiter and whiter and whiter.
It took my mind off doughnuts and soda biscuit
To step outdoors and take the water dazzle
A sunny morning, or take the rising wind
About my face and body and through my wrapper,
When a storm threatened from the Dragon’s Den,
And a cold chill shivered across the lake.
I see it’s a fair, pretty sheet of water,
Our Willoughby! How did you hear of it?
I expect, though, everyone’s heard of it.
In a book about ferns? Listen to that!
You let things more like feathers regulate
Your going and coming. And you like it here?
I can see how you might. But I don’t know!
It would be different if more people came,
For then there would be business. As it is,
The cottages Len built, sometimes we rent them,
Sometimes we don’t. We’ve a good piece of shore
That ought to be worth something, and may yet.
But I don’t count on it as much as Len.
He looks on the bright side of everything,
Including me. He thinks I’ll be all right
With doctoring. But it’s not medicine–
Lowe is the only doctor’s dared to say so–
It’s rest I want–there, I have said it out–
From cooking meals for hungry hired men
And washing dishes after them–from doing
Things over and over that just won’t stay done.
By good rights I ought not to have so much
Put on me, but there seems no other way.
Len says one steady pull more ought to do it.
He says the best way out is always through.
And I agree to that, or in so far
As that I can see no way out but through–
Leastways for me–and then they’ll be convinced.
It’s not that Len don’t want the best for me.
It was his plan our moving over in
Beside the lake from where that day I showed you
We used to live–ten miles from anywhere.
We didn’t change without some sacrifice,
But Len went at it to make up the loss.
His work’s a man’s, of course, from sun to sun,
But he works when he works as hard as I do–
Though there’s small profit in comparisons.
(Women and men will make them all the same.)
But work ain’t all. Len undertakes too much.
He’s into everything in town. This year
It’s highways, and he’s got too many men
Around him to look after that make waste.
They take advantage of him shamefully,
And proud, too, of themselves for doing so.
We have four here to board, great good-for-nothings,
Sprawling about the kitchen with their talk
While I fry their bacon. Much they care!
No more put out in what they do or say
Than if I wasn’t in the room at all.
Coming and going all the time, they are:
I don’t learn what their names are, let alone
Their characters, or whether they are safe
To have inside the house with doors unlocked.
I’m not afraid of them, though, if they’re not
Afraid of me. There’s two can play at that.
I have my fancies: it runs in the family.
My father’s brother wasn’t right. They kept him
Locked up for years back there at the old farm.
I’ve been away once–yes, I’ve been away.
The State Asylum. I was prejudiced;
I wouldn’t have sent anyone of mine there;
You know the old idea–the only asylum
Was the poorhouse, and those who could afford,
Rather than send their folks to such a place,
Kept them at home; and it does seem more human.
But it’s not so: the place is the asylum.
There they have every means proper to do with,
And you aren’t darkening other people’s lives–
Worse than no good to them, and they no good
To you in your condition; you can’t know
Affection or the want of it in that state.
I’ve heard too much of the old-fashioned way.
My father’s brother, he went mad quite young.
Some thought he had been bitten by a dog,
Because his violence took on the form
Of carrying his pillow in his teeth;
But it’s more likely he was crossed in love,
Or so the story goes. It was some girl.
Anyway all he talked about was love.
They soon saw he would do someone a mischief
If he wa’n’t kept strict watch of, and it ended
In father’s building him a sort of cage,
Or room within a room, of hickory poles,
Like stanchions in the barn, from floor to ceiling,–
A narrow passage all the way around.
Anything they put in for furniture
He’d tear to pieces, even a bed to lie on.
So they made the place comfortable with straw,
Like a beast’s stall, to ease their consciences.
Of course they had to feed him without dishes.
They tried to keep him clothed, but he paraded
With his clothes on his arm–all of his clothes.
Cruel–it sounds. I ‘spose they did the best
They knew. And just when he was at the height,
Father and mother married, and mother came,
A bride, to help take care of such a creature,
And accommodate her young life to his.
That was what marrying father meant to her.
She had to lie and hear love things made dreadful
By his shouts in the night. He’d shout and shout
Until the strength was shouted out of him,
And his voice died down slowly from exhaustion.
He’d pull his bars apart like bow and bow-string,
And let them go and make them twang until
His hands had worn them smooth as any ox-bow.
And then he’d crow as if he thought that child’s play–
The only fun he had. I’ve heard them say, though,
They found a way to put a stop to it.
He was before my time–I never saw him;
But the pen stayed exactly as it was
There in the upper chamber in the ell,
A sort of catch-all full of attic clutter.
I often think of the smooth hickory bars.
It got so I would say–you know, half fooling–
“It’s time I took my turn upstairs in jail”–
Just as you will till it becomes a habit.
No wonder I was glad to get away.
Mind you, I waited till Len said the word.
I didn’t want the blame if things went wrong.
I was glad though, no end, when we moved out,
And I looked to be happy, and I was,
As I said, for a while–but I don’t know!
Somehow the change wore out like a prescription.
And there’s more to it than just window-views
And living by a lake. I’m past such help–
Unless Len took the notion, which he won’t,
And I won’t ask him–it’s not sure enough.
I ‘spose I’ve got to go the road I’m going:
Other folks have to, and why shouldn’t I?
I almost think if I could do like you,
Drop everything and live out on the ground–
But it might be, come night, I shouldn’t like it,
Or a long rain. I should soon get enough,
And be glad of a good roof overhead.
I’ve lain awake thinking of you, I’ll warrant,
More than you have yourself, some of these nights.
The wonder was the tents weren’t snatched away
From over you as you lay in your beds.
I haven’t courage for a risk like that.
Bless you, of course, you’re keeping me from work,
But the thing of it is, I need to be kept.
There’s work enough to do–there’s always that;
But behind’s behind. The worst that you can do
Is set me back a little more behind.
I shan’t catch up in this world, anyway.
I’d rather you’d not go unless you must.

Some thoughts on life, roads, gratitude, and faith

I was reading through some old Time magazines, specifically one from 2019, and came across a short article--a Quick Talk with Deepak Chopra, who was promoting his book Metahuman, Unleashing Your Infinite Potential. He talked about the importance of becoming 'metahuman' in order to make the world around us a better place, and defined 'metahuman' as 'connecting with our innate beings'. He included four questions that people can ask themselves in order to get started on the path toward becoming metahuman. They are as follows: 

1. Who am I?
2. What do I want from my life?
3. What is my purpose?
4. What am I grateful for?

I don't read this genre of literature anymore, at least not like I did when I was younger and thought that such books were written by people much wiser than I was (am). It's always tempting to think that there is a guru out there who can answer all of the questions that one might have concerning life and how to live it, especially when one is younger and hits a wall of sorrows that threaten to destroy one. But there isn't a cure-all for anything in life, and there is no guru to set us on the path of enlightenment. It is the journey that matters, after all, and you find that out when you get older. The road of life is difficult and we can only navigate it by living life with all its joys and sorrows. 'The only way out is through', as one wise person once said; the quote is attributed to Robert Frost, from his poem 'A Servant to Servants'. 

The four questions are worth asking ourselves every now and then, especially if we feel we have strayed from the paths we intuitively know we'd like to be on. We have to take stock every now and then and ask ourselves if what we are doing in life is what we ought to be doing. Is it good for us? Are we wasting time on things that give us nothing or have no real meaning? For example, are we glued to our screens many hours during the day, wasting time on social media that really doesn't make us or the world a better place. Do we want to take risks or make changes that would be good for us, but are too fearful to do so? 

One of the simplest ways to find our true paths again is to start by being grateful for something in our lives. That has helped me in tough times. There is always something for which we can be grateful. Just the fact that we have been given another day is a gift. I find that gratitude comes easier to me now, perhaps because I am older, but also because I know how difficult life is for some people in my life. They have sorrows in abundance. Yet they plod on. They have faith in God and that seems to help them. I don't purport to understand faith and how it strengthens people. I have faith but I also have dark times where I question it. I do know that it is a solace, albeit a mysterious one. But life gets simpler with each passing year. It's getting easier to say yes, to accept, to let go, to not argue or want to dissect or overanalyze. Perhaps that's one path that will put us in touch with our innate selves and strengthen our faith. Your will, not mine. There is a lot of power in that. I just never knew how much before. 

On writing and why I write

I've been writing this blog since 2010, and every once in a while I stop to reflect on writing it and on why I continue to write it. Those thoughts lead me down the path toward writing in general--why do I write poetry, short stories, and novels (both fictional and non-fictional)? 

I've been writing since I was fourteen years old, inspired by my high school teacher Brendan who encouraged each of us in my sophomore year class to keep a creative writing journal. We did, and he was interested in reading what we wrote and critiquing it. That started the process for me, because prior to his class, the activity I hated the most was having to write short creative essays on exams, which was not uncommon practice in grammar school. Perhaps because we only had one hour to get it done. For the life of me I couldn't be creative on demand, nor could I write anything of interest in the space of one hour. Luckily the latter is no longer true; however, I find it impossible to be creative on demand, one of the reasons I have always hated brainstorming meetings of any kind together with colleagues. They became very popular during the last fifteen or so years. I'm simply not a team player in that respect, nor did I ever aspire to becoming one. I'd say one of the main reasons I enjoyed being a scientist was because I could retire to my office and think for myself. I could come up with experimental designs and plans on my own. At that point I could share them with others if I wanted to, but I had no desire to hash out experimental designs and plans at meetings. My brain simply could not tolerate the chaos associated with trying to take into account everyone's opinions. Some scientists enjoy that; I'm not one of them. That may have been detrimental to my scientific progression. No matter. 

Writing is a solitary activity, and I enjoy it for exactly that reason. Now that I'm retired, I awake each day and look forward to my writing time in solitude. It may be one or two hours each day, but whatever time I manage, I'm grateful for it. It's time well-spent for the most part, especially when I complete a blog post or a poem and am happy with the result. Writing novels is more difficult, but when the words 'flow', the process is rewarding. I love reading about the creative process as described by other writers; I like knowing that they struggled with many of the same thoughts and feelings as I do when it comes to being creative. 

Writing is a 'private room' that I choose to enter each day. There can be noise around me, people talking, or the tv, but I don't hear them in the same way when I am inside my room. It's about having a focus and staying focused. Do I get distracted? Yes, at times, especially if I end up on the internet for one thing and then lose track of time while I meander the internet universe. But as I write my blog posts, I'm grateful for what the internet has given me--information at my fingertips. If you use the internet wisely, you won't lose your focus. 

I write because I feel that I have something to say and writing is the best way I know how to express it. I've never been very good at verbally commanding attention from others in a roomful of people. I'm not an extrovert; I feel more comfortable away from the crowd. I find that creativity manifests itself best when I am alone, unencumbered by the demands of daily life. The latter will always be there, but they can be put on hold for a few hours. I write in order to learn about the world but mostly about myself. The unconscious is a large part of our brain, but mostly unreachable/untapped. I believe that writing allows me to access my unconscious mind, which houses forgotten memories and repressed feelings, among other things. Or perhaps better put, my unconscious mind sometimes provides my conscious mind with a thought or feeling that I end up writing about. The unconscious mind tosses up tidbits of interest that I can write about if I so choose. 

Interestingly, the existence of a  'collective unconscious' has also been postulated. The term was coined by Carl Gustav Jung, who theorized that the unconscious mind consists of two layers--the personal unconscious and the collective unconscious. The latter according to Jung is 'the deepest level of our psyche', and is 'the whole spiritual heritage of mankind's evolution, born anew in the brain structure of every individual'. In other words, it is inherited through the generations (see Wikipedia for more complete information). I find this idea very appealing; it means that the collective unconscious can also influence us creatively. When I was younger I used to envision the collective unconscious as a 'ring' (not unlike the ring(s) around Saturn) swirling about above my head, containing the knowledge, thoughts and feelings of all of humanity. Sometimes I saw the faces of poets and literary figures swirling above me. I thought that if I reached my hand upward, I could pluck some of the knowledge from that ring. I knew the ring would go on forever and that it would grow ever larger the longer mankind lived. 

I've kept a dream journal for years. Some of my dreams have been quite startling and have become poems. I'd never really had what one could call nightmares until recently. I cannot shake some of the images from those dreams, so perhaps they will find their way into new poems or short stories. The following poem started life as a dream; when I remember writing this poem, I can see the images in the dream very clearly:

Confrontation            

Seated at a table on a grassy knoll
Odd people milling about me 
Talking frenetically the clocks toll

Standing then upon the table
Large coyotes all around me
Marvel at the deception they enable

He loves you he loves you she whispers in my ear
But he does not oh this I know
She may be sure of it but no

How many times I’ve wandered
From this battered table to the door
Of this old house abandoned

Once inside, light all around me, glass doors
Between the rooms, large windows
Unencumbered views of crocodile-infested shores

Turn to face the crocodiles and coyotes
Tracking me at all turns
Turn away unsure of what they want from me

Uncover what it is that must be faced
Appease the predators take them on
Make peace with treachery and move on

(from Quantum Bloom, published in 2014--Quantum Bloom: De Angelis, Paula Mary: 9781505211160: Amazon.com: Books) 

-----------------------------------

Perhaps it isn't possible to fully know why a writer writes; the writer may not know either. That is part of the mystery of creativity. The results, when they are good, remain in the minds of the people who read the words that make up the fiction, non-fiction, dramas, and poetry collections that are cherished, often for generations. 

The film--The Farmer Takes A Wife, from 1935

The 1935 film The Farmer Takes A Wife was based on the popular 1934 Broadway play of the same name (see The Farmer Takes a Wife (1935) - IMDb). Sandy Schuman talked about this film in his presentation about the Erie Canal (see A New Yorker in Oslo: The Erie Canal: A Story of Building the Impossible--a New York Adventure Club webinar (paulamdeangelis.blogspot.com). Henry Fonda had a leading role as farmer Dan Harrow in the play, and reprised his role in the film. The film depicts life on the Erie Canal before the railroads were built; it was an important waterway that connected the mid-West with the Atlantic Ocean via the Hudson River in order to transport goods between Europe and America. There were many freight boats on the canal and a lot of life in the small towns along the canal. The active boat life on the canal was dominated by boat drivers who employed cooks, all of them loyal canal folk. They didn't want to hear any talk about railroads being built that would put them out of business. Few of them believed that railroads would replace their livelihood, and in the film, they were willing to fight anyone who supported the building of railroads and/or who believed that railroads were the future of freight transportation. Dan Harrow works on a canal boat in order to save up money for his life's dream--owning his own farm. He meets and falls in love with Molly Larkins (played by Janet Gaynor), a cook on one of the canal boats owned by Jotham Klore (played by Charles Bickford), a drunk and a bully. Molly can take care of herself; she's in love with canal life and has no intention of leaving it. Until circumstances change and she grudgingly has to realize that the time has come for her to leave it; she accepts Dan's proposal of marriage, but not without a few monkey wrenches thrown into the drama before it ends happily. The nice thing about the film was its depiction of canal life, the hustle and bustle of the small canal towns, the idyllic landscape along the canal, and the quaint characters that populated the canal towns. 

I recognized some of the songs from the film: Fifteen Miles on the Erie Canal (the Low Bridge, Everybody Down song); I've Been Working on the Railroad; Buffalo Gals Won't You Come Out Tonight. They're all songs that I remember from childhood from an LP that my parents had. I especially remember I've Been Working on the Railroad, especially the refrain Dinah blow your horn..... After watching The Farmer Takes A Wife, I understood more about life on the Erie Canal and how that came to an end once the railroads took over the same routes. 

What a rich and eclectic history America has. The more I learn about it, the more I want to learn. For example, DeWitt Clinton, who lived from 1769 until 1828, was a US senator, the mayor of New York City, and lastly the governor of New York State. As governor, he was responsible for construction of the Erie Canal, which was a big deal in the 1800s (construction started in 1817 and was finished in 1825). Think about this--the canal was 363 miles long and was finished in the course of eight years--very impressive. Clinton lived long enough to see it finished. 

There were thriving societies in America in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and a lot of progressive thinkers lived during those times, DeWitt Clinton was one of them. Those who built the railroads in the nineteenth century were also progressive thinkers. Compared to our current society, household activities back in the 1700s and 1800s took longer to get done, travel and transportation were slow, and there were no telephones (until 1876) and computers (not until the twentieth century, at least in the form we know them). My point is that there was no lack of visionaries in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Many of them achieved great things and pushed the society around them to evolve and change. 

The Erie Canal: A Story of Building the Impossible--a New York Adventure Club webinar

This New York Adventure Club webinar is now over, but it will probably reappear on their roster at some point. I'm including the link to it so that you have it for future reference. It is a top-notch webinar; I learned a lot about the history of the Erie Canal. What an impressive feat of engineering, begun in 1817 and finished in 1825! The webinar is led by author and storyteller Sandy Schuman--a wonderful presenter. 

Here is the link to the webinar: 'The Erie Canal: A Story of Building the Impossible' Webinar | New York Adventure Club (nyadventureclub.com)

Well-worth watching! And if you're wondering how Gordon Lightfoot's song The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald found its way into my consciousness, it's due to this webinar. When the politicians and experts were discussing where to situate the canal, they decided to avoid Lake Ontario because of the fierce storms that are known to blow up on the Great Lakes. One thing led to another (those wonderful connections) and I remembered the song. As I've written about before, I love when that happens......

Learning through humor (and thank God for it)

Apropos my previous post--

Hear me out

'Hear me out' is a good expression. It asks another person, persons, or an audience to listen to what the speaker has to say, without interrupting him or her, until the speaker has completed what he or she wanted to say. It asks listeners to 'let me finish what I'm saying, please'. It's a little plea for civility. 

The world needs more civil listeners who are willing to hear a speaker out, before they voice their own opinions. I'm all for a good civilized discussion between decent people. It can be an animated discussion; it can even get a bit testy on both sides. But it cannot descend into mayhem. It cannot become an attack on the speaker or an attack by the speaker on his or her listeners. It also cannot be a one-sided discussion, in the way that some discussions become, when the speaker (or the listeners) dominate the discussion. No one likes to be told that they have to think or act in a certain way, no one likes to be told that their opinion is the wrong one, with the implication that the other person's opinion is the only correct one. 

When I use internet, I read the user comments to the stories that are presented on different social media platforms. Some of the comments invite civil discussion; many do not. And I often wonder, when I sit in a room full of politically-correct (on the surface) people, how the same individuals let loose when they get the chance, often on social media. It's been written about many times before, but for some reason people feel freer to be rude and derogatory when they're on social media. Twitter is a good example. The limitations on how many words your tweet can be often generate rude and startling tweets. I rarely visit Twitter anymore exactly for that reason. No one hears the other person out. The platform is not set up that way. It does not invite real discussion. It does invite venting. Venting is fine, but it's probably best to do it in the privacy of your own home, preferably away from family members who have most likely grown tired of listening to the same rants and raves. Venting does not invite discussion; it destroys discussion, and it destroys the willingness on the part of listeners to hear the venter out. 

In normal conversation, it should be possible to listen to what another person has to say before answering. It should be possible to not interrupt, to not jump in with your opinion, to not destroy the focus and flow of another person's thoughts and feelings (if they are being expressed). As long as the speaker is civil, the responses should be civil. But we have come to a point in the world where even if the speaker is civil and asks an audience to let him or her finish, there is no guarantee that civil responses will be the outcome, even in family situations. And the latter are often the most insidious, especially if one person (male or female) dominates all discussions and the rest of the family end up being helpless listeners or cowed into listening. 

How did we get to this point? I don't know. I remember watching 'Meet the Press' with my father during the late 1970s. If there were people on the show with opposing ideas, they each got their say. There was a host/moderator who ensured that the tone stayed civil. Critics might say that this emphasis on civility limited real discussion; I disagree. Even talk show hosts listen to their guests. If a civil discussion degenerates into chaos, what does one learn then? Nothing. Chaos does not lead to real discussion, truthfulness, honesty or awareness. It destroys whatever decency exists. That's how I view Twitter. I don't learn anything useful on that platform, at least where politics are concerned. There are no 'take home messages' that help me in my daily life. 

My hope for today is that we try to be better listeners. Thank you for reading and for hearing me out. 

The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald by Gordon Lightfoot

I grew up listening to this heartbreaking (and fantastic) song and never knew at the time it came out that it was based on a true event. Or if I heard about it, it didn't make the same impression as it did now. On November 10, 1975 the SS Edmund Fitzgerald sank in Lake Superior, and all 29 crew members died. Lake Superior is one of the Great Lakes, known for their storms. Lake Superior has been the site of many shipwrecks over the years; according to one website more than 550 ships lie on the bottom of this lake. Gordon Lightfoot released this incredible ballad in 1976 as a tribute to the shipwrecked crew of the Edmund Fitzgerald. It's a beautiful and haunting song. Here are the lyrics: 

The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald · Gordon Lightfoot
℗ 1976 Reprise Records, a division of Warner Records Inc.
Writer: Gordon Lightfoot

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they called Gitche Gumee
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
When the skies of November turn gloomy
With a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more
Than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty
That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed
When the gales of November came early

The ship was the pride of the American side
Coming back from some mill in Wisconsin
As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most
With a crew and good captain well seasoned
Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
When they left fully loaded for Cleveland
And later that night when the ship's bell rang
Could it be the north wind they'd been feelin'?

The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound
And a wave broke over the railing
And every man knew, as the captain did too
T'was the witch of November come stealin'
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
When the gales of November came slashin'
When afternoon came it was freezin' rain
In the face of a hurricane west wind

When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck sayin'
"Fellas, it's too rough to feed ya"
At seven PM, a main hatchway caved in, he said
"Fellas, it's been good to know ya"
The captain wired in he had water comin' in
And the good ship and crew was in peril
And later that night when his lights went outta sight
Came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald

Does any one know where the love of God goes
When the waves turn the minutes to hours?
The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
If they'd put fifteen more miles behind her
They might have split up or they might have capsized
They may have broke deep and took water
And all that remains is the faces and the names
Of the wives and the sons and the daughters

Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings
In the rooms of her ice-water mansion
Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams
The islands and bays are for sportsmen
And farther below Lake Ontario
Takes in what Lake Erie can send her
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know
With the gales of November remembered

In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed
In the maritime sailors' cathedral
The church bell chimed 'til it rang twenty-nine times
For each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they called Gitche Gumee
Superior, they said, never gives up her dead
When the gales of November come early

Source: LyricFind
Songwriters: Gordon Lightfoot
The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald lyrics © Warner Chappell Music, Inc.