Do You Wu Wei?

Call it Wu Wei or going with the “flow”, or just slowing down, or whatever you want, it apparently is a very good thing.

While I have been to Italy and a few other stops along the Mediterranean, I wouldn’t say I know much about living like a Mediterranean-ite, but I’m trying to learn. I’ve read the diet books because there is no doubt that it is a better way to eat. Not only am I not a Mediterranean, I am also not a dietician or nutritionist, but I do know this, for a few years now I’ve been eating closer to the Mediterranean Diet and I feel much better for it.

But it turns out it’s not just their diet we should adopt, but the way they eat too: slower, and with people we like, taking time to enjoy every bite, appreciating the nuances of flavor and texture, with conversation that leads to gratitude and laughter and joy instead of alienating and pissing people off.

“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world. ”

— J.R.R. Tolkien

As I mentioned a few posts back, I have a new turntable and a rediscovered appreciation for playing music on vinyl long-play records.

Here’s the deal, there is a process to it, kind of like Mediterranean eating: First you look through the albums and make a selection. You remove the inner sleeve from the cover, and then the record from that. You place it on the platter and turn it on. Then you gently lift the tone arm and place the needle on the smooth outer margin of the record. Now you listen as you watch the platter spin. The process requires you to slow down, to pay more attention, to engage more with the music. Probably there are photos and great artwork on the album cover and maybe the lyrics to the songs are printed on the sleeve. It’s all very real. And the sound… Oh, the sound. You can almost see the musicians playing. If you are young and have only heard digital music, I invite you to come over for a listen. Seriously.

Imagine sitting with headphones on and listening to Simon & Garfunkel sing this:

Slow down, you move too fast
You got to make the morning last
Just kicking down the cobblestones
Looking for fun and feelin’ groovy
Ba da da da da da da, feelin’ groovy
Hello, lamppost, what’cha knowin’?
I’ve come to watch your flowers growin’
Ain’t’cha got no rhymes for me?
Doot-in doo-doo, feelin’ groovy
Ba da da da da da da, feelin’ groovy
I got no deeds to do
No promises to keep
I’m dappled and drowsy and ready to sleep
Let the morning time drop all its petals on me
Life, I love you
All is groovy

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I think I can live in this state, in the groove so to speak. But it beats “the rut”, right? We can slow down, pay more attention, listen more carefully, see more clearly. Think back, and remember if you can, what child-like wonder was like. 

Remember, for example, the first time you “fell in love”? Like water in a stream, you go with the flow, you’re just sort of carried along. My first love was doomed from the start though. The girl of my dreams had another.

Maybe Elvis was right about what wise men say—that only fools rush in. And the Drifters too, when they sang:

Well, fools fall in love in a hurry
Fools give their hearts much too soon
Just play them two bars of Stardust
Just hang out one silly moon, oh, oh

Image by Cerith Wyn Evans

Speaking of playing two bars of Stardust, here’s an experiment for slowing down to see if you can experience Wu Wei. You’ll need a good version of Stardust to listen to. I recommend Willie Nelson’s version, but Nat King Cole’s is the classic. You can get either on iTunes for a buck-twenty-five. Also have a cup of really good coffee or beverage of your choice.

The Willie Nelson version is nearly four minutes long. Take those four minutes to listen and savour, blocking out everything else. Be careful though—you might fall in love (again). Just go with the flow.

“Young lovers see a vision of the world redeemed by love. That is the truest thing they ever see, for without it life is death. ”

— Wendell Berry from Jayber Crow

Grand-Fathering

PICTURE WITH ME an idyllic, mythic tableau of grandparenting. You know the ones that look like the “after” picture of prescription medication ads, not the ones where he’s plagued with those pesky side effects like: constipation, diarrhea, rash, swelling of hands, feet and face, wheezing, irratibility, increased appetite, night sweats and visions of Donald Trump or Hillary Clinton in the Whitehouse.

In the first frames of these ads, gramps is relegated to the porch with an elephant sitting on his chest while the rest of the family is frolicking in the yard. But, then he takes his meds for HBP, COPD, ED, ADD, RA and XYZ. Now he’s splitting wood, and throwing another log on the campfire, where the kids are roasting marshmallows for s’mores. He gives grandma a knowing wink and a nuzzle, and thinks how much better the whole scene would be if he could light up a pipe and have a scotch. Then he notices something at the edge of the campfire’s glow: it’s Norman Rockwell and Thomas Kinkade painting the whole scene. “I’m so glad I put on my clean cardigan and remembered to zip up!” he thinks to himself.

When you are of a generation that grew up with programs like Father Knows Best, Ozzie & Harriett, Leave It To Beaver, etc., you think of things like this.

Perhaps you’re aware that I am the grandfather to three grands; all girls. AKA, Pops and the Grand-Girls. It is a role I cherish. But, I will admit that sometimes I don’t feel adequate to this high calling. It has to do with gender roles. Don’t panic! This isn’t veering off to some weird place.

I know it’s old fashioned, but my culture has created in me some expectations and understandings—right or wrong. For example, when I think about rites-of-passage, the connections between a grandfather and grandson seem really obvious. A grandfather can teach the boy to shine shoes, oil his ball glove, bait a hook. He can buy his grandson his first pocket knife and teach him how to play mumbley peg or “dissect” a frog.

But who are we kidding here? There is nothing a granddad could pull out of his bag of tricks that will break the trance-like spell an iPad or video game has on a wee lad.

The fact is, I wouldn’t trade my three Grand-Girls for all the boys in the tri-state area. Turns out I love going to the ballet with them. We all love to read. And even though I don’t know an Elsa from an Anna, I’m still invited to sit in the floor and “play” Frozen. We go to museums together and weirdly enough we all like Chick-fil-a and dark chocolate. Who knew?

Sometimes, when spending quality time with the girls, I will suggest an activity, a game, or maybe a plot line and characters for an evolving make-believe story.

Sometimes, my ideas are met with enthusiasm.

Sometimes, not so much.

Sometimes, the creative juices are running way ahead of me.

Often times, our best times together are where memories are made.

the grand-girls at uncle kyle's graduation

Football & Fall

BACK IN THE AUTUMN OF 1974, we left Tulsa and headed west. Being young and fairly newly wed, leaving friends and family brought challenges and great times. We’ve been gone from Tulsa for a long time now, and even though we return often, I still miss it. When we are there, I feel like I’m Home.

You’ve probably heard the old joke: Show me someone with an OSU (Oklahoma State University) hat and I’ll show you someone who went to OSU (or had a family member that did). Show me someone with an OU (Oklahoma University) hat and I’ll show you someone who went to Wal Mart.

If you live in Oklahoma but outside the Tulsa metropolitan area, chances are good that you either have a red shirt or an orange one. You might not even know there is another Division One football team in Oklahoma.

There is. It’s the Tulsa University Golden Hurricane. Strange mascot moniker, right? Why the mascot picker chose “hurricane” for a school that’s 500 miles inland, I have no idea. And, why the singular hurricane is golden is even more perplexing. But I don’t care. TU is my school. I went to school there and have the hat. I can whistle the fight song and even know most of the words. The Gold and Blue and Red stir me as much as the red or orange of those other teams do for their fans.

Tulsa’s best season was in 1942, going 10-0, including wins against Oklahoma (23-0), Oklahoma A&M (now OSU) (34-6), and Arkansas (40-7). The Golden Hurricane went to the 1943 Sugar Bowl against Tennessee. Tulsa lost the game on a late Volunteer touchdown, justing missing a National Championship.

Being the smallest school in Division One, as Golden Hurricane fans, you never go in to the season thinking this could be another 1942, the year we win it all. Here’s the cool thing about that, you can just enjoy the atmosphere of a college football game in its innocence and simplicity. If you have indigestion after the game it is likely because the hot dog, nachos and “cheese” covered pretzel you had are indigestible, not because the “game” has become so much more than a game that we work ourselves into a frenzy that sets priorties that might include going out to find another multi-million dollar coach. (Although, I will confess that I’m really glad to have that former Baylor Offensive Coordinator, with his high-flying offensive schemes as our head coach.)

Spending an autumn Saturday afternoon at Skelly Field in the heart of Tulsa is just as fun today as those Saturday afternoons I spent there as a kid.

GO Tulsa! and Sooners! and Pokes!

I Shouldn't, But...

Oh, I do have opinions, and strong feelings, convictions and dogma. I have a son who teaches on a college campus. I have another son who is a U.S. Infantryman and National Guardsman. I have a granddaughter in a public school.

Because I’ve promised myself this blog would not take the easy path of political commentary, I’m only going to say this: I am sickened by the loss of lives in these senseless, unrelenting mass shootings. Can you imagine what the families of victims are feeling today? I can’t.

“They’s times when how you feel got to be kep’ to yourself.”

— John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath