Moments and connections

This past weekend was a ‘moments’ weekend, where something I read or heard triggered memories of my parents and my childhood. At mass this morning, something the priest said must have unconsciously triggered a memory of my mother, and all of a sudden it was almost as though I could feel her standing in the aisle beside me. Going to mass together was one of the things we used to like to do when I visited her in Tarrytown during the 1990s. I remember sitting in the church with her, singing the hymns that she liked, and hearing her sniffle when something in the hymn touched a nerve that made her tear up. Now, fifteen years after her death, I cannot sing those hymns without the same thing happening to me because they remind me of her. Perhaps those hymns reminded her of her own mother. I thought of how tightly I am connected to my mother, that the bond between mother and child is so strong, stronger than death. That’s a comforting thought, not a sad one.

Later on, when I was standing in the kitchen cutting up a pumpkin to prepare puree, I remembered how much my mother loved the autumn, how much energy it gave her for new projects. I was feeling that way the entire weekend. Whenever I have worked in the garden, I have felt her presence as well, and that is no surprise since she loved planting her own garden in the spring. A small flower garden, but one she was very proud of and that looked so lovely each year. She planted morning glories at the base of the lampposts so that they would have a post to climb as they grew. She planted a trellis on the side of the apartment building we lived in, and grew red roses there. And she ordered her tulip bulbs from Holland each year from a catalog company I don’t remember the name of. Whenever I hear the birds in my own garden, I am reminded of my mother’s love of birds. She would watch them from our kitchen window as they gathered in the dogwood tree outside the window, and during the winter she made sure they had enough food.

I think of my father too, when I am sitting at the dinner table with my husband and we are discussing different world situations. It reminds me of all the times I sat with my father after dinner and discussed the state of the world with him. That was when I was growing up in the 1970s. In the 1980s, when I was working in Manhattan, I would sometimes meet him for lunch since he worked there as well, and we would wander over to St. Francis of Assisi church on West 31st Street. I seem to remember that the church had a bookstore/gift shop then, and we would purchase a book or two and look forward to discussing them after we had read them. I checked the church’s website but could not find any mention of the bookstore, so perhaps it no longer exists or perhaps my memory is faulty. My father and I bonded over books and faith, and they led to spiritual and intellectual discussions that buoyed me through my teenage years.  He was my link to the outside world and to the work world. He died over thirty years ago, a lifetime in so many respects. Yet that connection too remains strong.

Books are the portals that allow me to connect to my parents. I remember them individually and together. I was closest to my father when I was a teenager, and when he died, I grew very close to my mother. As a child, I remember them as a couple, sitting together in the evening reading their individual books. Before my father’s health diminished him, he would sometimes tease my mother or chase her around the dining room table. That vision sticks in my mind—that they had their happy moments in the middle of their trying times, mostly due to my father’s poor health. His health is what I remember most as I neared my twenties; I can see my mother walking with him after he had his first stroke, helping him cross the street to the church so he could attend mass with her. She never wavered in her care of him. She took care of her blind mother before she met my father, and then my father and us children after her marriage. It is her faith, loyalty and devotion that stand out in my mind to this day. She had the strength and courage to live her life the way she felt it should be lived. She found grace in the small things; she did not seek the limelight nor would she have been comfortable there. The older I get, when I think about who are the heroes in my life, they are my parents. Their lives were far from perfect, but their faith in God and in each other did not disappear. No matter what private doubts they may have had from time to time, they stayed true to each other and to us. That is all that matters in this life. Nothing else—not worldly glory or fame or money. What matters to me is that the connection to my parents remains strong even though they are no longer physically alive. But they are very much alive in my heart and soul.

Not my president

I’ve been watching the Trump campaign implode more and more with each day that passes. If he gives up his position as Republican presidential nominee, I won’t be surprised or sorry to see him go. His vice-presidential nominee, Mike Pence, could do a better job as president, I’m sure of it. He seems to be a far more decent man. The whole sordid affair of watching Trump make an ass of himself (something he seems to care nothing about) is also beginning to get creepy. His behavior is creepy. It’s the behavior of a sociopath, one who doesn’t think the rules apply to him, but damned if they don’t apply to everyone else. In his view, he’s special, up there in the clouds, wealthier than God, worthy of being worshipped. He’s the best, no matter what is being discussed. He doesn’t do anything wrong, and if he does, his apologies are at best lip service. But it’s his views about women that are truly creepy for me. When I listen to him talk, I have to pinch myself to remind myself that we’re not living in the Mad Men era. I could never stomach watching that series, even though I know it’s won many awards. I found the male characters on that show repugnant—smug, arrogant, and proud of their sexual conquests and treatment of women. Maybe it bothers me because of what I have seen in academia (a profession that also seems to be mired in the 1950s and 60s—when men were kings and women were the underlings).

I have to wonder how we got to this place and what we are telling our children when we condone or make excuses for Trump's behavior and statements. I have some questions for the average men and women who support Trump. I need to ask these questions because I have no answers that make any sense to me in 2016. Because I simply don’t understand how a person can call himself or herself a modern man or a modern woman and support Trump and what he stands for. Yes, he is anti-abortion. So what. I know Christians and priests who support him solely for that reason. Not good enough. In every other way, he does not live the life of a Christian--he makes fun of handicapped people, he is rude, he is without empathy or respect for others, he incites hatred and racism rather than peace and tolerance, he seems to despise the poor or at least blame them for their situation, and he treats women like crap. This is a man we want for President of the USA? Why? Just to prevent Hillary Clinton from becoming President? Not good enough. This is a man who will be meeting heads of state from around the world, some of whom are women. If he thinks they’re pretty, will it be ok if he goes after them and tries to seduce them? Will it be ok if he ‘grabs their p*****s’? What about their breasts? Will we stand by and condone his behavior at that time and try to explain it away once again? This is a grown man who should know how to behave. Is it ok to refer to women as ‘c***s, b*****s, and ‘p*****s’? No, it’s not. A real man knows how to treat a woman respectfully, and it’s not the way Trump treats them. Why bother raising our sons and daughters to have respect for each other if an important role model like the President of the USA treats women like crap and gets away with it? Does anyone ever wonder if the current ‘rape culture’ and this type of behavior in men go together? We certainly don’t need more of this kind of behavior; we need less.

If my father was alive, he’d have a lot to say about Donald Trump, none of it good. My father was a good man from a generation that fought in WWII; he had morals and respect for his country. He did not denigrate women and minorities. He would have been appalled by Trump’s statements, and even more appalled that many Americans were considering electing him to the highest political office in the USA. He would have wondered aloud (and discussed with me) how it was possible that in 2016, racism was still so easily incited and women were still disrespected and sexually harassed. He would wonder how men with wives and daughters could defend Donald Trump’s behavior and statements. He’d say that Trump gives men a bad name, because many men do not disrespect women nor do they wish to keep them down or treat them as second-class citizens. And he’d be right, because I knew other men (now deceased) in my father’s generation that were decent men—good husbands and good fathers. They never referred to their wives in a disrespectful way; they never joked about their wives when they got together with other men or told those other men that their own daughters were a good ‘piece of ass’. If my father had been anything like Donald Trump, I would not have had anything to do with him. If I was any one of Trump’s children, I’d be cringing right now. Painfully embarrassed by and for my father. Wondering how to show my face, and wondering how I was going to survive having to deal with him. I haven’t heard a word from any of his children after his last comments. Why? Trump’s current wife came out and said she found his comments offensive but she still found some room to defend him (she has to unless she is looking to become ex-wife #3). Mike Pence has said he cannot defend such comments. Who can? They are cringe-worthy, embarrassing, rude, crude, and demeaning, not only to women, but to men who do not want to identify with a man like Trump. He is an embarrassment to our country. I know a lot of good men, and they are not like Trump. They don’t talk like him, they don’t treat their wives and children disrespectfully, and they don’t treat other people disrespectfully. So how did Trump get to the place he’s at? Are there really that many men and women who think he’d make a good President? The question we need to be asking is how did we get to this place? And how do we step back from it and move in another direction—one that is respectful of women, of minorities, of the handicapped, of the poor? One that shows that we as a nation are decent people who don’t support people like Trump for public office. It’s as simple as this--get rid of him and replace him with someone we can stomach, someone who doesn't make you want to vomit each time he opens his mouth.

Autumn evenings and September moons

After an unseasonably mild September, with temperatures close to 70 degrees Fahrenheit most days, we are starting off October with chillier temperatures. It's odd how that happens--one day it's warm, and then the next day it's not. Yesterday afternoon we ate an early dinner outdoors at a restaurant called SkuteBrygge on the Drammen River (Drammenselva) in the city of Drammen and enjoyed sitting in the warm sunshine, but last night the temperatures dropped and today we woke up to 40 degrees Fahrenheit.  

Even though September was a warm month, autumn came just the same, bringing with it dark evenings with crisp clear skies. Perfect for photographing the moon in some of its phases. I've been using my telescope again and experimenting with taking different kinds of photos. These are three of my best 'moon shots'. Enjoy!

Video of our garden--September 2016

Connection to nature

As I've written many times before, I go to my garden to get some peace and solitude when I need them, which is often these days. I don't mind being around people generally, or being at work or being social. But there is something about the lure of a garden, about the chance to be alone for several hours, connected to the earth--nothing beats it. Working with the earth, watching plants grow slowly, flower and produce vegetables and fruit, and then die at the end of the season--it's all a part of the cycle of nature. I am so glad to watch nature at work, so glad to not be divorced from it anymore. There is something inherently wrong, even sick, with the way we live our the major portion of our lives, cooped up in offices or workplaces that are lighted by fluorescent lights and ventilated by air-conditioning/internal air. There is often no possibility to open a window to get real fresh air in many new office buildings. I've begun to go outdoors at lunchtime when I can, just to get some fresh air and sunshine, and to be able to walk.

It's been a very warm September, so my pumpkins are almost ready to harvest. I've already harvested two of them, one that is fifteen pounds and the other eight pounds. I planted twelve pumpkin plants and each of them yielded a pumpkin; the slugs ate one, leaving eleven, of which ten have grown to maturity. I'm still getting runner beans and string beans, but all other veggies are done for the season. I plan on drying some of the runner beans so that I can get seeds for planting next year. The corn was very good, just small, so next year I'll plant corn in richer soil so that it can grow larger. The hollyhocks and daisies are still blooming. I've been working hard prepping the garden for winter--taking up dead plants, cutting dead branches, and preparing the soil for next spring. Plus mowing the lawn and raking up dead leaves and dried grass to use as soil cover.

I bought honey from the garden's beekeeper who was selling small and large jars of the honey he had collected from hives in our community garden and from the Botanical Garden here in Oslo. It's very good honey, and it's kind of cool to know that my garden contributed to the honey that the bees made. I love that idea.

ripening pumpkins

runner beans

two harvested pumpkins

honey from our community garden; soldugg means 'sundew'

Soul-sucking exercise in futility

After a wonderful and relaxing summer, I was actually ready to go back to work. I cannot honestly say I was looking forward to the daily grind again, but my mood was positive and upbeat. You might even say I was motivated to start a new academic year. Unfortunately, those feelings never last. They are replaced by ennui, resignation and boredom once the grant application season starts or once we start to get replies from the grant organizations to which we applied before the summer months. You would think that after so many years in the business that rejection gets easier to take. It doesn’t, at least not initially. By the end of the day however, I have recovered from it, compared to perhaps several days some years ago when I actually cared more.

I did not spend much time on grant applications this year, since I and my colleagues agreed that we would spend the next year working diligently on new projects and generating data so that we could use that data in next year’s applications. Applying for grant funding at present is a soul-sucking exercise in futility. The funding situation is so brutally competitive that it makes no sense to waste precious time on writing and sending an application with preliminary data; it will not get funded, period. You need to be an established researcher in your field, and it gets harder and harder to remain in that field if you don't get funding. I sent only one grant application to a private foundation that has supported us previously with funds for a PhD position. I was hoping to get funding; I asked for about 180,000 USD to cover a two-year technical position plus costs for lab consumables and overhead. After all, the foundation knows that we can deliver the goods—their support of my PhD student was money well-spent since it led to a successful PhD defense back in 2010. However…….

The foundation’s board members were not entirely negative to my application for a technician. They agreed to give our institute one-third of the amount I applied for, with the stipulation that I come up with the remaining two-thirds. In other words, I cannot accept their 33.3 % funding unless I can guarantee them that I will obtain the remaining 66.6% from other sources. I have to find someone willing to support us with 120,000 USD or I cannot receive the 60,000 USD they are offering. It’s laughable if it didn’t make you want to cry first. The reason I am applying to this foundation is because all other sources of funding have dried up at this point. I have a snowball’s chance in hell of raising 120,000 USD. So it doesn’t look like our group is getting a research technician any time soon, which is unfortunate because a full-time technician is exactly what we need.

I will allow for the possibility that the foundation doesn’t really understand the brutality of the funding situation. But hopes get raised and dreams get smashed each year, and for each year that passes, I see less and less point in the whole process. I struggle to find meaning in such a soulless and brutal profession. Any wonder that I prefer to be alone in my garden these days, with no interference or constant rejection to deal with? I understand the laws of nature and manage to work with them--a peaceful co-existence. Sometimes things grow and sometimes they don't. Sometimes the slugs win and sometimes they don't. But there is at least some reward for the hard work. In academia, there is none.

Reclaiming the best parts of ourselves

Getting older is about reclaiming the best parts of ourselves, the parts that we discovered as teenagers but then buried for fear that they might be ridiculed or destroyed. Or possibly because we felt sure that no one would understand us if we expressed them. Because the world that we grew up in, while less intense in terms of social media pressure compared to today's world, was every bit as intense when it came to ‘fitting in’ or ‘assuming’ personalities that were acceptable to society. Some of those personalities included career woman, feminist, wife, mother, successful man, husband, and father—all of the things that we had to deal with and make choices about in our 20s and 30s. But I remember my teenage years; they were about self-discovery and about wanting to find the path inward to my soul after reading St. Teresa of Avila’s book The Interior Castle or The Mansions. She described seven different rooms that a person had to move through in order to find God. Those years were about intense emotions, strange new feelings, spiritual exploration and even an interest in the mystical; questions about life’s meaning, our purpose on this earth, and our place in the universe. But after I left those years, I entered another world, one that required that I fit in, work for a living, contribute to society in one form or another, and be responsible. I have done and do all those things still. But I long to clear the decks, to make room once again for the young woman trying to find her way in the world, discovering new areas inside herself, before responsibility, duty and work took over.

That young woman was a writer; she wrote poetry on a daily basis, as well as short stories. She was a reader; she loved sci-fi and crime novels, English literature and poetry. She wanted to be like her father and mother, both avid readers. She talked to them about what she read, and they in turn did the same with her and suggested books for her to read. She read Thomas Hardy’s novel Jude the Obscure (her father was a Thomas Hardy fan and she became one too), and cried at the end of that novel when Jude died alone. She remembers wandering into the living room where she found her father to share that sadness; that memory stands out because he understood how she felt, like he understood so much of who she was when she was young. He always listened to her; that was his gift to others—the ability to listen well. Her female friends loved him as he always made them feel welcome and accepted. He understood that life was unfair (because he had experienced it himself) and that Thomas Hardy was able to write about that unfairness in a way that appealed to him and to her. Her father died when she was 29 years old; he died too young. She remembers driving home to the Bronx the evening he died, a wall of grief all around her. It almost seemed real, as though the car that she was driving would smash against it. That too is a memory that she recalls clearly all these years later. He never got a chance to see the woman she became or the woman she is now. The woman who is returning to her literary roots, planted by her parents, who were gardeners of all things literary. She is returning to her roots in other ways as well—as a proud American with a new interest in American history, trying to sort out all that makes America a great country. She loves returning to her hometown where she was born and seeing the changes as it moves on without her. She is not nostalgic for the past. Yet so much of Tarrytown remains the Tarrytown of her memories—the Tarrytown Lakes, the Hudson River estates, the river itself, Rockwood State Park—all the places that left their imprint on her heart and soul when she was a teenager. She spent a lot of time alone as a teenager, and understands only now the purpose for that. That solitude was a gift to her in the midst of much that was sad around her--her father’s illnesses, family crises, unemployment and uncertainty. It became something to seek after when she entered her 20s and 30s, knowing full well that she would not find much of it during those years. Even in her 40s, there was little in the way of solitude, because each waking minute was occupied by daily home and work routines. But when she entered her 50s, her world changed, for reasons she is still not quite clear about.  The need for solitude re-emerged, stronger than ever. Solitude became something to fight for, to defend; it became a meaning for living—a purpose. It was suddenly very important to ‘have a room of one’s own’ so that solitude could be ensured. That meant being firm about the need for that; it meant not giving in to what others wanted immediately. It meant being selfish in a good way; putting one’s ideas, dreams and wishes first, for once. It meant not sacrificing what was important to oneself. Because without solitude, there is no chance to discover or rediscover oneself, to examine one’s life, to find the special meaning in one’s life. It was Socrates who said, “The unexamined life is not worth living”. She understood that as a teenager, and now again as a woman moving toward her 60s.