Small Good Things

Most years I at least make a nod to the changing of the calendar. I'm not much for resolutions (see more on that at the end), but I usually acknowledge the idea in some way. The thought didn't really cross my mind this New Year. The closest I came was sharing the meme below on Facebook with the paragraph following this one as a comment.

Of all the celebrations and blessings I'm seeing on my feed, this is the one that resonates. I don't remember ever feeling less celebratory on January first. I don't feel like reflecting on the past year or looking forward to the next one or marking today as an occasion, just to continue slogging on.

So this is my not-New Year's post. I'll honor the event with a few memes and themes.

This recent diagram from Indexed seems appropriate to the moment:

But only when paired with this message hidden beneath the book jacket of The Project (more on that later).

(Always look for secret delights under the book jacket.)

No one is undamaged, unscarred, and unbroken, we are all limited and finite and prone to error, yet none of those things are flaws that should be judged. That's simply existence.

I have no original source for this one (I got it from someone who didn't give credit), but I find it really profound and it definitely resonates.

Some days nothing is magical, some days everything is magical, and the other days can falsely feel stagnant. Lately I'm fighting against drifting to0 far to the right on the diagram.

This is not a meme but a photo I took.

It was on the gate of a run-down looking storage facility of all places, so I took a picture partly for the irony, but something about the message with no context works sincerely in the right mood.

Speaking of moods and memes, I was looking through a new board game we got our son for Christmas, Dragonwood, and decided to make my own little thing to share:

Which card best describes your current mood?

My wife's comment when she saw it on Facebook:

Grumpy Troll because I am dealing with a Friendly Bunny who is morphing into an Angry Ogre after he provoked another Grumpy Troll who had been a Gooey Glob. Sigh.

Exactly. Often we can go through multiple moods per day, sometimes at the same time.

I also came up with a question that I find poses an interesting choice: Would you rather be able to see in the dark or be able to summon light on command? The first response (of only a few) said, "Summoning light would help more than just myself." Exactly. However, it also draws all attention your direction. It makes you bigger than yourself in ways that can be both good and bad.

I did manage to make my annual "favorite books read last year" lists.

For Kids - [Degolar's] Favorites Read in 2021

For Teens - [Degolar's] Favorites Read in 2021

The lists are long this year. Lots of time at home to read.

Speaking of, I got a really nice affirmation a couple of days ago. A former colleague who has recently started as a school librarian tagged me in this status, which is followed by a comment from me and a reply from her:

Her: Hat tip to [Degolar] for single handedly doubling my must purchase list.

Me: We have a new person at work and I just responded to her request for resources to get to know all the books better. I managed to limit myself to four emails with 24 links. 😆

Her: That is some SERIOUS restraint. Your reviews are invaluable to me.

It's so rewarding knowing something I love doing is making a difference to others.

Here's something else that just came across my feed. It isn't really on theme, but I've been told I do the same thing so I find it interesting:

“When I first met him, I would spend as much time as I could filling a silence, just to feel comfortable. And the more I jibber-jabbered on, the quieter he would get. And I thought, I don’t understand what’s happening! He’s looking at me with eyes of confusion. He’s quiet. Did I say something to offend him? And then a day or two later, he would arrive with a note or a little package, saying, ‘I thought about what you said.’ And he would have his response.”

— Keanu Reeves Knows the Secrets of the Universe

I often do so in writing as emails and similar.

Back to the topic of year-end booklists, what I thought most interesting about the Mother Jones article Our Readers Thought These Were the Best Books They Read in 2021 was this summary from the introduction:

Judging from the titles they shared, Mother Jones readers were drawn to three subjects in particular: the pandemic, climate change, and the legacy of American racism.

Yeah. Those have been things on my mind lately as well.

Every time we have crazy weather or unseasonably warm temperatures (it's happened a lot recently), I just wonder what summer heat is going to be like in 20 years.

I took this picture of a dandelion in our backyard on December 30. That's pretty unheard of in our area.

Our church's youth leader shared this meme:

It felt particularly accurate ending our second year of pandemic--with the new Omicron variant currently setting records for numbers infected and hospitalized. We haven't had to do anything particularly traumatic (in comparison to many), but things have nevertheless been harder than "normal."

My wife commented this response:

This is really awesome. Our kids' elementary school gives them the message, "You can do hard things," so I read this to our boys to remind them that yes, indeed, they can and they did!

Indeed. This is going to be one of their life-long formative experiences.

A random thought I had after seeing yet another news story accompanied by an image of someone with a testing stick getting a sample from a nostril: We are in the era of media pictures of people sticking things up their noses.

Ah, but enough of that. Here's a section about our kids.

Starting with a picture of their penchant for making everything epic. We've had very little snow so far this winter (see above: climate change), so when we had an inch on Jan. 1 they spent a couple of hours "struggling" through the "blizzard," which was apparently so bad they had to cling to the ground and crawl with "ice picks" for grip.

I (unironically) love it.

Similarly, previously shared on Facebook:

"Finally, we might be able to defeat Sparkle Dog!"

Overheard from the other room in the midst of much shouting, thumping, and play fighting. I believe they are taking on an army of stuffies.

They spent two weeks of holiday vacation mostly at home. They didn't want to go outside or have adventures away from the house, but they sure created plenty of chaos and adventure inside.

The six-year-old, our token social extravert, said out of the blue during play recently: "We're a happy but crazy family." We do our best.

That's him taking a quick break.

This won't have the accompanying video, but I think it tells the story anyway. From a couple of evenings ago with single-digit (F) temperatures.

Just to be silly, I challenged the boys to run outside shirtless and do a somersault in the snow. Except they took me up on it.

Back inside, displaying his personality, [Older] said, "My somersault wasn't very good; I need to go do a better one." So they did.

Back inside again, displaying his personality, [Younger] said, "We need to do it one more time so Dad can get a picture. Wait, a video! And put it on Facebook!"

They're now taking warm showers.

My wife and I have commented that we're going to need to steer him away from his Jackass tendencies as he gets older.

Here's another precious moment, this time featuring [Older]:

"I wasn't actually going to hit you with the stick; I was just threatening you with the stick to help you calm down."

 - Part of their ongoing argument after the boys came in from playing in the snow.

And how did that work out for you?

Here's one from my wife:

We had barely left church when the kids started singing their own rendition of Go Tell it on the Mountain. Let's just say my reply was "Boys, I don't have a lot of credibility in this area because I was not born with a penis. However, you guys know that penises are private and I have never heard Dad or your uncle start randomly singing about their penises, so I am pretty sure that song is not appropriate. I certainly appreciate your creativity though."

No, unfortunately I don't generally randomly sing about my penis.

This was both hilarious and prompted me to add some thoughtful commentary:

"I want to eat you because I love you."

[Younger] created this "dragon" from Legos and has been role-playing it for a couple of days. At this moment he "translated" the growls he'd been roaring. He said the dragon just said it wants to marry [Older]. It told him "I want to eat you because I love you."

This seems not only an apt description of dragon love, but the intense, obsessive, self-centered feelings often wrongly self-described as human "love."

Which is a perfect transition for what follows.

It was only a day or two after the dragon's pronouncement of love that I read Raymond Carver's short story collection What We Talk About When We Talk About Love. Here's what I wrote for my review.

For all I've heard about Raymond Carver, I'd only read one of his stories before this, so I finally decided to jump in and try more. This collection is certainly effective (and affective) at capturing little pieces of life of a certain time and place. He does, as advertised, convey much minimally. It's a rather bleak world he captures, though. The overarching themes are bad decisions and failing love. The fuller quote the title is taken from, after all, is, "it ought to make us feel ashamed when we talk like we know what we're talking about when we talk about love." Carver is very good at portraying an unhealthy culture and the people in it. It makes for interesting reading, though not necessarily enjoyable.

The love being debated by the couples in that title story where the quote occurs is an abusive love; one woman's ex tried to kill her, and she justified it by saying he was motivated by his love for her. That might be dragon love, but it's not healthy human love. Raymond Carver seems to agree.

I've started the new year with a string of good books, so I'll share some others as well.

I want to share Home Is Not a Country by Safia Elhillo for the poem that follows as much as the story. It is a good message for New Year's thoughts.

First, my review: 

An affecting novel-in-verse about a young woman who feels isolated and trapped, misunderstood and exiled from all others.

Nima has only her mother for family and a small extended family network of fellow American immigrants from (an unnamed) Sudan. She feels she has lost her true identity and doesn't belong in her new home, and longs to be someone she is not. A very specific someone, the girl she imagines he mother really wanted for a daughter. Then she meets a ghostly version of that girl and they travel together to her mother's past--much like Scrooge does in A Christmas Carol, except Nima learns things she never knew--and she comes to realize she needs to stop wanting all the things she is not and start loving all the things she is.

It's an insightful, resonant lesson.

Second, the poem, titled A Life:

yasmeen continues     all this stuff you love     the music,

the dancing, your mom, haitham     i don't have any of it

i don't have anything like it     & it's all i want

i want a favorite song & i want to know if a guava tastes

the way it looks     i want to shine with sweat

& change colors in the sun     i want to watch television

& memorize whole stretches of movie dialogue     like you

& haitham do     i want the feeling of sitting in hot water

& to be afraid of heights or dogs or the dark

i want to ride the bus     & give someone directions

i want to shell pistachios     & bite my nails     & get the hiccups

from laughing too hard     i want to shield my eyes from the sun

i want eyes that are mine to shield     & skin that is mine

i want goose bumps     & armpits that go damp & i want arms

that are too hairy     or feet that are too large

or anything     i'll take anything     any version of a life

Though I'm leaving off the last few lines, which are about the plot.

Gratitude. Always remember gratitude.

I'm mostly mentioning The Project by Courtney Summers as the source of the book cover quote above, There Is No Flaw in You. My review:

An intensely compelling psychological thriller.

Not entirely logically satisfying, but certainly exciting and interesting.

I really like the way this part of the School Library Journal review says it:

Summers creates and sustains almost unbearable tension, exploring sacrifice, loss, forgiveness, miracles, surrender, grief, and lies. The unflinching look at Bea and Lo's desperation is devastating, especially as both chase healing and salvation to counteract emptiness and loss. Readers will question the truth and everyone's motivations in this world full of manipulation and mind games.

The irony is that phrase is what the abusive cult leader says to gain followers when they are their most vulnerable, when it should be a positive, healthy message. And it can be without that context.

I'll add my review of The Bird and the Blade by Megan Bannen because it includes a personal story.

I'll start with a confession. I first heard of the Mongolian Empire when I was a Dungeons-&-Dragons-playing teenager in small town Kansas in the 1980s. I loved learning about pre-gunpowder history, the kinds of fighting and conquests that reminded me of my beloved game and fantasy novels. And when I heard there had been a conquest greater than anything we'd learned about in our Western-focused classes? I wanted more. Except, in pre-Internet small town Kansas, there was almost nothing to learn. I could find sketchy, basic facts, but nothing more.

I moved on, and with maturity I realized it is humans and emotions that make for compelling stories, not fighting and epic feats, and never got around to learning much more about that time in history.

And now I have read The Bird and the Blade and experienced this story of humans and emotions that sprawls its way across the Mongolian Empire, full of facts brought to life as cultures, stories, poems, languages, and relationships.

It is wonderful.

And because she's a former colleague--who quit to write full-time after this, her first book, was so successful.

I wrote about (and extensively quoted from) one of Peter Mendelsund's nonfiction books, What We See When We Read, a few months ago in Backward Phrenology. I just finished one of his fiction titles, The Delivery. It inspired a longer review than many:

A compelling book that is unique for its storytelling as much as its story.

It narrates the life of an anonymous delivery boy in an unnamed large city. He is a teenager with a bike and a sequestered, refugee life. And by "refugee," readers learn, the tale means an unofficial immigrant smuggled by human traffickers who now control every aspect of his life of indentured servitude. He lives in the warehouse he works from, is not allowed to take the time for conversation or friendship, and has his movements and time monitored. He doesn't know the language or culture outside his warehouse, only tricks to earn better reviews and tips from his wealthy, oblivious customers.

In Part I, the story is told in snippets. Short sentences. A paragraph here, a paragraph there. It doesn't even narrate scenes or episodes, just passing moments. The entirety of Chapter One: Delivery 1: [two stars]; Chapter Six:

Green awnings (stippled from the rain).

Manhole covers (latticed).

Trees (on the median. Marbling shadows).

Pedal; coast. Pedal; coast.

Light (strobing).

The smell of the hot, wet pavement.

The phone: heavy in his pocket.

It's spare and poetic. It effectively conveys the delivery boy's minimal life.

Part II shifts to more standard prose. It includes momentary shifts in perspective to minor characters. The narrator quickly inserts himself with a few asides. It's much wordier and flowing.

The change reflects a shift in the story. The delivery boy has just taken a risk, and it has gone badly. He's made a gesture of affection for the dispatch girl (woman?) who--secretly--is the closest thing he has to a friend. They are both in trouble. He is assigned a unique delivery to somewhere far away he's never been. It is something new and terrifying--for reasons more than its newness.

Part III is one long, continuous block of text without a single paragraph break. Reading it is stifling and anxiety-inducing merely for its form, to say nothing of its contents. To add to the suspense, the narrator spends half the space talking about himself (I'm not clear the purpose of this aside from creating more tension; though, based on the shape and style of the book, I imagine Mendelsund has something more in mind as well--perhaps it is a an example of the privileged being blind to the oppressed in ways that continue to insert and center themselves, continuing the marginalization despite their good intentions; perhaps it is an attempt to indicate how readers create meaning of what they read by finding their personal connections; perhaps it is something else. [And now I have inadvertently imitated Mendelsund's style. Appropriate]). Needless to say, it is immensely effective.

This is a unique and uniquely powerful story.

And a few quotes that I like from it.

The first is his introduction for Part I

Our language can be seen as an ancient city: a maze of little streets and squares, of old and new houses, and of houses with additions from various periods; and this surrounded by a multitude of new boroughs with straight regular streets...

At the end he credits the quote to Wittgenstein. All three parts, in fact, are led by Wittgenstein quotes. I feel pretty confident that Mendelsund's choices in crafting the form of his story reflect Wittgenstein's philosophies, but I wouldn't know exactly what or how without research. I'm only passingly familiar with his work.

Anyway, I love that quote and how it describes language. (Just like I love Wittgenstein's thoughts that have been shared with me, though I don't remember the actual thoughts, just that they made sense to me.)

I love this little bit of insight.

No matter how hard he tried, when he considered these facts the delivery boy could not manage to square them (though I find his confusion on this point surprising, I also remind myself that he was still young, and would imagine that a person must, perforce, feel only this way or that, rather than feeling several ways at once).

We're complicated, complex individuals.

It's one of the few narrator intrusions I liked. This is another.

His hands shifted, his weight redistributed (or something like this: and, I could no more narrate all his precise movements, subtle adjustments, flashes of navigational inspiration than he could; in fact, had he even been made aware of such crucial, minute, unconsciously coordinated decisions, even for the briefest instant, he would have fallen right over on his bicycle, or else driven into a tree. All his foremost thoughts were feelings.).

Thoughts are much more automatic and embodied than we like to think. That's a great description of it.

This just came across my feed and I find it exquisite.

James Davis May

THE REALITY AUCTION

from a typo on a sign in Warne, North Carolina

It was a dour crowd that gathered at the auction house

beside the Community Center,

elderly, for the most part; the auctioneer, meanwhile,

sounded more like a Latin teacher

rehearsing declensions than a derby announcer

as he invited bidding on the first item,

Sparrow Consciousness, which drew only two offers,

though its description promised keen appreciation

for both the lexicon of gravel and the flavor

of windfall seeds on cold February mornings.

A couple—she wore flowers in her hair,

and a threadbare sundress; he, a greasy ponytail,

jeans, and a stain-spackled t-shirt—bid aggressively

on the blue pills of Altered States and went unchallenged.

The afternoon went on. Objective Reality

went for its asking price, not a penny more.

And when it came time to bid on the Ideal,

a burly man hauled in a miniature oak cask,

the contents of which, the auctioneer said,

should be self-evident, so it remained sealed.

The oldest couple there opened the bidding,

remembering their trip to San Francisco in 1948,

the loaf of sourdough they ate one night instead of dinner

(they could afford the travel but not their meals,

so they ate the bread slowly, tearing off pieces

which they fed to each other, leaning on the bakery’s wall

before returning to their motel and making love

as cold air scudded in from the bay and surrounded their bed).

They were outbid, though, by a farmer’s widow,

and she, in turn, was overcome by a mustachioed man

in a brown suit who appeared to have won

when the auctioneer, his voice excited by then

but quickening to a stop, opened a manila envelope

and, frowning, announced that the minimum bid

had not been reached, that they had to keep going

or the cask would be returned to the warehouse.

By then, everyone’s budget was stretched.

Their sole option was to pool their funds

and share the prize. Fist-thick rolls of twenties,

checks, and jewelry all filled the hat they passed.

When the price was reached and the barrel tapped,

they each tasted their thimble-sized share

of the sunset-red liquor, which was unlike anything

anyone had ever had and thus hard to remember

even seconds after—so they all stayed circling the empty cask,

sniffing their empty glasses, trying to describe what they knew

but couldn’t name. A few said it tasted bright, citrusy;

others thought bitter and ashy. “Brisk,” one said.

“Well worth it,” another added, and the rest stood there

in that sort of silence that sounds like agreement.

—from Rattle #46, Winter 2014

Rattle Poetry Prize Finalist

I don't have words to verbalize it, but my gut knows these images to be true.

The same source, Rattle, shared this one on New Year's Eve. I find that completely appropriate.

Marjorie Saiser

THIS IS WHAT LIFE DOES

It gives you a glorious green childhood,

if you’re lucky, and I hope you were.

Mine was barefoot, it had bicycles

and swimming, it had some

dogma but I shucked that off.

This is what life does. For instance,

I stepped out my door this morning

before sunrise—some people are morning people,

some—my neighbors in their unlit houses—

sleep long honeyed sleep, apparently,

and this morning

a firefly was caught in the grass

a few feet from where I stood.

I couldn’t see the insect, but assumed

him by the light he gave off, and he or she

couldn’t apparently get airborne,

couldn’t make those arcs in the air,

those sweeps of light their kind

are known for. This one was stuck

low in the grass, the grass I couldn’t see.

Life is like that. You assume

so much, and the firefly

sparked in the grass for a few minutes,

blinked on the ground,

would have done so whether I watched it

or wasn’t there. I looked at stars without

knowing the names assigned to them.

The shapes of trees made an opening, 

a window. I saw sky

and several nameless ancient stars,

and suddenly it was as if something

important had shifted in a dream last night,

a dream I don’t remember the details of.

Something useful and helpful to me.

After I had been angry and felt so

disrespected again, shut down, stifled,

and yet I mean it

when I say I’m lucky. That is what

life does, gives me another morning,

fleeting reminders, small impermanent

flashes in the grass.

—from Rattle #73, Fall 2021

Gratitude. Always remember gratitude.

One closing thought, fully on topic. This article articulates brilliantly how I feel about resolutions every year, plus captures why this year it's especially so.

Resolutions Are Not the Vibe for 2022

Congratulations: You’ve made it to 2022. Perhaps you’ve already listed 300 New Year’s resolutions . . . Perhaps you’ve also felt a deep shame for failing resolutions past. . . . 

This year, the cycle feels intolerable to me. My experience of the pandemic has been one of great luck and privilege—but like many people, I’m worn out anyway. My 2021 resolutions went unattended while I worked from the couch, donning sweatpants and blue-light glasses, and wondering why, two years into this, I still don’t feel normal. How 2022 will unfold is so uncertain that choosing new goals feels like setting forth in a snowstorm, squinting into a great blurry expanse. So I’ve resolved to not make any resolutions this year. And I don’t think you should either. . . . 

According to research, New Year’s resolutions just aren’t likely to work. . . . 

You might figure that declaring resolutions doesn’t hurt, even if you don’t complete them. But that’s not necessarily true. The very act of goal setting can undermine results if it feels like homework: One study that directed people to practice flossing, yoga, or origami making found that focusing on the desired result actually predicted lower achievement. If goals are too narrow or too challenging or too many are attempted at once, they can obscure the bigger picture or lead people to focus disproportionately on short-term gains. Getting goals just right is hard. . . . 

Of course, some people—unlike me—actually fulfill their resolutions. But they’re not always happier. . . . 

See, the problem isn’t just with how we define or pursue our goals; it’s with the very idea of prioritizing tangible outcomes. Assessing our personal progress in terms of resolutions leads us to aspire to things that we can cross off a list, and that shapes our behavior in turn. “We often measure things that are easy to measure,” Ordóñez told me. “Not what we really want to do.”

Instead, perhaps this year we can reflect on why those outcomes matter to us in the first place. . . . 

I don’t know what 2022 will look like. But I’ve started putting together a list of small good things from the year that ended: I got to visit home and bake tomato bread pudding with my family; my roommates and I decorated our new apartment, each adding a piece of ourselves to the whole; I grew even closer to my best friends, shivering through long conversations in triple-layered socks when we still couldn’t meet inside; the weather got warmer; I got vaccinated; I read some beautiful poetry. These aren’t accomplishments—they’re more like gratitudes, or bright points, or road signs for my future self to follow. They remind me that my life can be beautifully inconsequential, and the things that make me most human are not particularly unique or impressive. . . . 

I hope to have been a dedicated daughter and sister, a patient co-worker, a kind stranger; I hope I helped tell stories that maybe changed a few people’s minds. In 2022, I’ll continue to follow these lodestars, without knowing my destination. Nearly two years into a pandemic, maybe that’s all right.

The very act of goal setting can undermine results if it feels like homework. (see more here, on motivation)

The problem isn’t just with how we define or pursue our goals; it’s with the very idea of prioritizing tangible outcomes.

Small good things - gratitudes, or bright points, or road signs for my future self to follow. They remind me that my life can be beautifully inconsequential, and the things that make me most human are not particularly unique or impressive.

I’ll continue to follow these lodestars, without knowing my destination.

Gratitude. Always remember gratitude.