PEE SHIVERS – The Odd Sensation Many Feel While Urinating

TMI ALERT: Sometimes wonder can be an indecorous business. Like when it involves some of the essential functions of the human body. So…fair warning, this is one of those topics.
                                                  ~    •    ~    •    ~

For as long as I can remember, just as I start to urinate, I get this brief surge of what feels like a mild electric current coursing through my body. It’s never concerned me in the slightest—in fact, it’s kind of a pleasant rush. And it's never occurred to me to mention it to anyone.

PHOTO: Mental Floss

Then, just yesterday, it dawned on me: Hey, Mister Wonder Man, isn’t this little tingle tidbit exactly the kind of small wonder you’re supposed to appreciate and share with the world?

It is indeed.

So I googled my experience. I did so with some concern. I mean, what if Google—or its little AI gofers—came up with some dire diagnosis? Your bladder’s on its last legs. Or Next to go are your bowels.

EASY FOR YOU TO SAY
Thank God, the answer’s more agreeable than those prospects…and way funnier. Turns out what I’ve got is something with the highfalutin technical name, the Pee Shivers.

PHOTO: 123RF

The actual medical term is post-micturition convulsion syndrome (PMCS) It’s a harmless reflex where releasing urine causes a brief drop in blood pressure, that triggers a sudden release of catecholamines (sympathetic nervous system neurotransmitters such as adrenaline and dopa-
mine) and results in a momentary shiver or “buzz.”

No one’s sure exactly how common the phenomenon is, since large-scale clinical stu-
dies of it are limited. However, informal polls and social media discussions suggest it may affect as many as 80% of all men. (It seems to happen mostly in men be-
cause standing during urination causes a slightly greater blood pressure shift than sitting. And that’s borne out by my experience.) *

    We tend to talk far more about the things that 
    go into us…than the ones that come out.

PHOTO: Kommissar via Wikipedia

PROPRIETY BE DAMNED!
Among the thousands of small wonders I’ve celebrated on these pages, those found in our own bodies are, if nothing else, the closest to home. Phenomena like hic-
cups, yawning, eye floaters and lunula (those little light-colored crescents at the bases of our fingernails) are always right there for us to consider. 

Yet we take most of such bodily wonders for granted. And we tend to talk far more about the things that go into us—like sights, sounds, smells and tastes—than the ones that come out. I guess you could call it propriety. 

But c’mon, the pee shivers are just too…wondrous to censor. Don’t you agree?

Well, if you like the pee shivers, let’s talk about poophoria. Yup, that’s a real thing too. But that’ll have to wait for another post.

* “Watch a Doctor Explain Why Guys Sometimes Shiver After They Pee”
    By Philip Ellis – Men’s Health, Mar 24, 2021

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LEAVING LEAVES – After 31 Years, Shades of Autumn Is Going Dark

The inspiration literally fell out of the sky.* That was 31 years ago, and I've been making lampshades of pressed autumn leaves ever since. Let's just say I've made a few of them...and learned a thing or two. In fact, by now I may just be the world's leading authority on this craft.

Number 4, one of my early works

MEDIUM SIGHS
As part of the inexorable downsizing of my life, I’ve decided to take down my shingle and clear out my studio. Today, as I begin dumping my precious medium—the 50-plus bins of dried, pressed leaves I’ve collected over these three decades—I realize just how emotional this transition will be for me.

         

So many varieties, leaves from the most common trees, like oak, maple and birch, to some pretty exotic ones, like Canadian moon seed, cucumber magnolia and smoke bush. And not just leaves; I’ve also preserved grasses, seeds, berries, flowers, sticks, birch bark and other accent materials.

 

         

With each Tupperware lid I pull back, I’m reminded of all those crisp autumn days out searching for the freshest, cleanest leaves. The countless meditative hours picking them up with my reacher-grabber tool—at least 100,000 of them, I figure. 

               The leaves in my hands remind 
               me of warmer, brighter days.

MORE THAN A HOBBY
Crafting lampshades of leaves has been more than a hobby for me. It’s been the main outlet for my creative ardor. It’s reminded me I can be really good at some-
thing that’s not my job. 

It’s helped brighten some of the darkest passages of my lifetime—the trauma of 9/11; the deaths of my parents, my sister, a few friends and a dog; the pandemic; the turbulent aftermath of George Floyd’s murder; and the deadly gestapo blitzkrieg on Minneapolis and the rest of the attempted overthrow of American Democracy. 

There will be a void in my long-held 
identity as an artist and designer.

And my leaves have provided my primary autumn connection with Nature. (Actually, that connection carried on through all those cold, dark Minnesota winters, the leaves in my hands reminding me of warmer, brighter days.)

Jeff chats with a visitor 
in his booth at the juried 
American Craft Council Show.

There will be a void, not just in the scheduling of my days, but in my long-held identity as an artist and designer. I can only hope to discover a new craft, one I can practice in a much smaller space—or a space shared with someone else. I’ve always wanted to give woodworking a shot.

THANK YOU!
To all of you who’ve commissioned and bought my lampshades, thank you. I hope they’ll keep illuminating your home with beauty and joy for many years to come.

     * I was taking a walk one autumn afternoon many years ago, and a gust of wind churned up a few fallen leaves. One of them landed and stuck on my sleeve. I picked it up, and as I turned it over, it happened to catch a glint of sunlight from the back. 
     As if autumn leaves weren’t wonderful enough, the light coming through this one just seemed to ignite it with color. All the veins and little irregularities, backlit like that, made it all the more stunning. 
     I stopped right there and wondered, How could I make something out of leaves that would cause light to shine through them and show off these rich textures, this incredible, radiant color? Without hesitation, the muse of creativity answered: Make lampshades out of them!

Want to support my ad-free writing? Buy me a coffee—just click on the purple button at the upper-right of this page. Many thanks! – Jeff

FANTASIA – A Dream of Musical Mastery

I’ve had the common dreams: stepping on the school bus and realizing I’d forgotten my pants; facing a final exam without having opened a book all term; discovering I can fly… Some of them reveal deep-seated fears; others celebrate potential.

The other night I had another of the latter.

I dreamt I’d taken guitar lessons secretly for a couple of decades. (As cover I’d also taken on a second quest, one which everyone knew about, to explain my twice-weekly absences. I decided on cooking school—so I became about half as good a cook as folks expected.)

But the ruse worked. I waited until I knew I was ready. And for the right audience, the right moment to unveil my superpower. That moment came when Sally and I joined my brother, his wife and two other couples—as we’d been doing for many years—for our annual New Years Eve party. 

The hosts always came up with a theme, and then each of us was to share some-
thing we’d created that spoke to that theme. Some made handcrafts; others wrote something or compiled photo essays; one couple composed and performed music.

                Oh, great…a fourth grader’s 
                first screeching violin recital.

OUT OF THE BOX
In my dream, that year’s theme was “surprise.” So, when it came time for my offering, I made everyone wait while I ran out to the car and brought in the large, repurposed Amazon box containing my guitar. (Do you know how hard it is to hide something that size—including from your wife—for twenty years?)

Imagine the expressions on everyone’s faces when I lifted my instrument out of the box. Some reflected simple curiosity: Jeff…guitar? Others, dread: Oh, great, steel yourself for the equivalent of a fourth grader’s first screeching violin recital.

Believe me, I milked the skepticism for all it was worth. I feigned awkwardness holding the instrument; made a couple of false starts; regained my composure and then started haltingly playing A Horse With No Name—the 1972 hit by America that requires just two chords.

And then the wit hit the fan. Finally, after my third feigned false start, I launched immaculately into In My Life, by the Beatles—a selection I’d played hundreds of times and perfected.

                      

             When I finished there was nothing 
             but awestruck silence.

CHANGED THEIR TUNE
As I played, the dream’s focus turned from my hands to my audience. You can imagine, as I have frequently since, the new expressions now on their faces. 

          

When I finished, instead of applause or even approving smiles, there was nothing but awestruck silence…and then, gradually, the applause.

I awakened from the dream reveling in the adulation. And having to give myself a little pep talk. Hey, self, people already love and admire you for who you are. Even if you’re no virtuoso. 

Have you dreamt of having a superpower? Was it something you could actually do if you put your mind to it? Did you put your mind to it? Won’t 
you please share your dream with me and the rest of the OMW family in 
the comments? 

Want to support my ad-free writing? Buy me a coffee—just click on the purple button at the upper-right of this page. Many thanks! – Jeff

RUBY IN THE SKY – Sipping Nectar With Hummingbirds

A small wonder’s playing out on our urban deck this evening. 

Dusky clouds sidle across the western sky. Cream, peach, rose…blending as in one corner of a Monet or Degas palette. 

Against that lavish background, a sudden movement as one of our resident hummingbirds swoops in, hovers at the railing, eyes me through balusters and trailing vines. 

This juvenile, barely three feet from my face, hesitates long enough to sense my welcome, then lands and sips nectar from our feeder. 

Close behind, Mama, too, surveys me before taking her demure turn. Finally, Papa, informed by now of my benevolence, forgoes caution and drinks his fill.

Sated, he lifts his head, where the sun’s ember ignites that iridescent ruby throat. And I, too, am full. 

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ONE DAY, IF I’M LUCKY

One day, if I’m lucky, all my friends will be gone. 

Wait...what am I saying? Would that really be so lucky? Sure, I'd have outlived them, but…

I reflect on this now and then, like on a sultry, pulsing-crickets night like this when I’m alone, deep in thought, sipping a nice tequila on the deck. Maybe it’s the booze, but in such moments I often yearn for that sweet, simple connection: calling to chat with a dear old friend. So I call. Usually, they answer.

             I hope there’s room left in the 
             loneliness for joy and gratitude.

Those chats nourish me, mind and spirit. They reaffirm who I’ve been, who I am, how lucky I am to be both alive and befriended so well. They also make quite clear how empty the former would be without the latter.

How fortunate I am to still have such friends!

But if I were indeed to be the last, I hope missing my old pals wouldn’t hurt too much. That there’s room left in the loneliness for joy and gratitude. That remem-
bering might feel just a bit like calling one of them from my deck. 

               

Living friends or not, I hope I’ll have kindled the kind of relationship with the rest of my world where that affection, too, might sustain me. That, for one thing, my companionship with Nature, with all her familiar ways, might feel like being with an old friend. Someone who cares, who shares their wisdom with me, who’s got my back. And, dare I wish it, laughs at my jokes.

HOCUS FOCUS – The Utter Reality of Magic

Now and then something happens in one’s life whose elegance, whose grace, whose aura just can’t be explained. It excedes the art of any individual; it’s more than matter, scale or place. 

You may think you can describe it, but often the emotional impact leaves you speechless but for a gasp or a breathy “Wow!” You end up apologizing: You had 
to be there. 

IMAGE: Greg Rakozy / Unsplash

Some folks are uncomfortable when they can’t quantify or explain things, but I rather like it. For one thing, it keeps me humble, reminding me just how limited even a writer’s vocabulary is—not to mention how infinitesimal my place in the Scheme of Things. 

And I’m more than okay with what turns out to be both the simplest and most impenetrable description of such awe: It’s magic.

        Magic, you see, is not just a quality 
        or an emotional state; it’s a connection.

A CONNECTION
Of course, that declaration bothers folks whose education, culture and world view all revolve around the tangible. Who believe everything needs a reason, and that if you can’t come up with one you’re either a brick short of a load or just not trying hard enough. 

PHOTO: Paramount Pictures / CBS

Well, there’s the catch. Some things, no matter how hard you try, you simply can’t make happen. Sometimes you have to stop trying altogether and let them happen. It’s that way for magic, and that, for many, is very hard indeed.

But that’s exactly where magic is brewed. In that moment when one abandons logic and opens oneself, body and soul, to wonder.

IMAGE: No attribution found

Magic, you see, is not just a quality or an emotional state; it’s a connection. It lies not just in the beguiling thing or event. But, like an electrical circuit, unless the power has someplace to go, it remains mere potential. Until, that is, you emanate your intention, that mystical signal that you are that place. 

    It’s what makes the Mona Lisa 
    seem illuminated from within.

CASES IN POINT
The kind of awe sparked by that cause-and-effect connection may come from something very big or very small, quite obvious or extremely subtle. Let me give you some examples of magic—a couple of them very personal:

• Magic is what makes Lionel Messi better than anyone in futbol (soccer). 

• 

  PHOTO: Kriangkrai Thitimakorn

  It’s what makes Starry Night’s sky-
  scape swirl and the Mona Lisa seem illuminated from within.
• It’s the spectacle of 10,000 herring surging back and forth as one.  
• It’s what lends the Taj Mahal its celebrated powers of seduction. 
• It’s why a 50-foot gray whale cow 
  swims under her 20-foot calf, lifts and carries it to my extended hand.

BELIEVE  
Magic is Creation’s sleight of hand. You’ll never figure out how it’s done. You can’t measure it. You can neither time it nor tame it. Most often you can’t even describe it.

Nonetheless, please believe in magic. It lives not just in exotic places; it’s present all around you and even in you. The key is to realize that looking for it usually fails. It will find you if you let it.

ILLUSTRATION: Matthew Burgess and Doug Salati

        "Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it." – ROUALD DAHL

IN A NEW LIGHT – Attached to the Moon

(With August nibbling away at our recent full moon (the buck moon,* July 29) I offer this reflection on the storied orb. May it move you to get outdoors and experience the wonder in a new light. By the way, this month's full moon, on August 29, will be a Sturgeon Moon.**)

Sun shadows fall heavy on the earth. Stark, stretched, hard-edged forms, so common we barely notice their attachment any more.

Moon, though, lays down her strokes gently, subtle shades of black 

on black. Now we feel the attachment more than know it.

* Buck Moon is the traditional name for the full moon that happens in July, referring to the time of year when male deer grow new antlers. 

** A Sturgeon Moon is a full moon occurring in August, named for the large lake sturgeon of the Great Lakes and Lake Champlain, which indigenous peoples found easiest to catch these late-summer days. 

I'M ALL EARS! – Sweet Corn As If For the First Time

There are a few foods which, if you haven't tasted them really fresh—like a day 
or two after picking— you haven't tasted them at all. Among them, home grown tomatoes, apples, strawberries, and, so apropos of midsummer here in Minnesota, corn on the cob.

        

Obviously, the main attraction with corn is eating it—that sublime interplay of flavor and texture that only really fresh corn can serve up. (I like mine with a little butter and enough black pepper to make my lips smart.) M-m-m-m, I can't wait!

But wait you must; first you've got to shuck it. Like so many of life's little chores, you can look at that task as a nuisance...or you can choose to see it as an experi-
ence, a joy. I highly recommend the latter.

                                                  *     ~     *     ~    *

KERNELS OF TRUTH
Pick up an ear of fresh sweet corn and the first thing you notice is that it's heavier than a green, leafy thing should be. I've always imagined that heavy gifts in small packages held special promise.

The next thing that strikes you are the silken tresses spilling out the tapered end in bleached yellow-green, tips perhaps tinted golden brown by summer air and sun.

The snug, slightly sand-papery leaves peel back easily one at a time; try for more and they voice their squeaky objection. Layer by layer, the green softens from dark and dry to light, tender, translucent. The 
last ply or two cling tight, conforming like shrink wrap to the pebbly texture beneath.

      Emergent kernels, near the tip, wander 
      randomly, then fall into neat rows as they 
      march smartly down the cob.

The kernels greet you cheerily, buoyantly. Slightly cool and moist, they grab the tips of your fingers like so many tiny, shiny, pale yellow balloons all squeezed together— inflated, it seems, to the point of bursting.



Emergent ones, near the tip, wander randomly, then fall into neat rows as they march smartly down the cob. Here and there someone loses the cadence and falls out of line for a step or two.

        A few strands always hold out, ducking 
        stickily into crevices between rows.

Then it's back to the silk. Most of it lets go willingly, but a few strands always hold out, ducking stickily into crevices between rows. I suppose this is where some might let the job get a bit tedious. Don't let it spoil the wonder; a few threads of corn silk may even be good for you!

Now just cut or break off the remaining stalk—appreciating the cob's tough, woody core—and your cob's ready for the pot.*

Corn on the cob: whether you're shuckin' it, cookin' it or eatin' it, enjoy! And if you have any funny or informative takes on corn we small-wonder freaks would love to hear from you in the comments!

* There are as many suggestions out there on how to cook sweet corn as there are on how to swing a golf club. I lean toward the less-is-more approach: Boil the water; turn off the heat; plop the corn in; and wait three minutes.

Even better and way easier, microwave your corn: Do not shuck the ears; cut off the stem end just before it starts curving in toward the stem; and nuke for: one ear - three minutes / two ears - five minutes / three ears - seven minutes. 

Using hot mitts or pads, grab each ear by the pointed, silk end and squeeze as you would a big tube of reluctant toothpaste. The denuded ear will slide out the fat end and leave you holding all the husk and all the silk in your hand.

BIRD’S-EYE PEE-EW – The Sad Decline of Balconies

As a designer and former architecture student, I despise the plague of cheap, soulless apartment and condo buildings popping up around town in recent years. Especially here in the neighborhoods surrounding the University of Minnesota’s sprawling Minneapolis campus.

Most are dull, three- to twenty-story cuboids clad in various colors of stamped metal siding. (As if color could mask the lack of imagination.) With little dimen-
sion, detailing or texture, they appear to have been built on the cheap for a shelf 
life of about ten years.

HANGING BY A THREAD
As if to double down on the shallow design, the builders—pretty sure they’re not architects—nearly always tack on a bristling of tiny, barely-closet-size balconies. Underscoring the tackiness, they opt not to even try integrating them into the building’s structure. 

Instead, they’re more or less screwed into the façade, where it seems the only thing keeping them from simply falling off under their own weight is a pair of half-inch cables. I'm sure the wires are up to the job, but they don’t look like it.

         

These dime-a-dozen, afterthought balconies are more insult than asset! I wonder if prospective renters or buyers actually see these little appurtenances as an attraction—one that probably added a couple hundred bucks to their payments. 

             These “McBalconies” always look 
             more like swings than solid ledges.

CANTILEVER…OR CAN THEY?
More damning than my esthetic gripe is the fact that very few residents even use these bitty balconies. If I scan twenty of them—say on one of these fine summer evenings—I’d be surprised to spot one of them occupied. Few have as much as a folding chair on them.

No wonder. The thin, woven strands holding up all these “McBalconies” make them look more like swings than solid ledges.

NOW THAT’S A BALCONY 
A thoughtful, well-designed balcony, one you’d actually want to use, is a wonder, especially for those without the space, or with too much altitude, for a deck. It affords one a chance to step outdoors now and then, breathe some fresh air, maybe catch some rays. What’s more, you get a bird’s-eye view.

A balcony should at least provide enough room for a couple of chairs and a small table. Room not simply to sit, but to stretch your legs out without them poking through the railing. Even better, space for a few potted plants, perhaps a bird feeder, and—codes permitting—a small grill.

Besides the issue of space, there’s also an esthetic baseline here; a deck has to look solid, as if it’s actually incorporated into the structure of the building, not just glued on. It’s that visual integrity, that intentionality, that makes a decent balcony feel solid and safe.
   It’s a bonus when your balcony’s made of wood.

Though rare these days, it’s a pleasant bonus when your balcony’s made of wood. I know it can be a maintenance issue, but it’s a warmer vibe—kind of like the feel of sitting in a wood canoe instead of one stamped out of cold, hard aluminum or some synthetic supermaterial.

         

          Nature blesses us with a vital spiritual 
          connection to Mother Earth.
 
ENTREE TO THE REALM
We human animals have a primeval need for secure, elevated vantage points. That need, once driven by the sheer will to survive, eventually gave way—once we gained the luxury of leisure—to simply a desire to enjoy a few of Nature’s won-
ders, even when living in the city.

We all, especially children, need regular doses of what author and Children and Nature Network co-founder, Richard Louv calls Vitamin N (Nature). It calms us, cures us, and blesses many of us with a vital spiritual connection to Mother Earth. A good balcony offers us at least a maintenance dose.

But we’ve been steadily losing touch with Nature since the Industrial Revolution. And never at the staggering rate that’s come with the Digital Age. The Internet, social media and artificial intelligence have all taken ravenous bites out of that essential connection. Bad balconies don’t help.

While I feel sorry for a kid who doesn’t have a back yard to play on, or an adult who’s too busy to spend much time outdoors, thank God there are still ways to experience Nature in an urban setting. A walk, a bike ride, container gardening…all offer us entrée to that precious realm. 

So does a good, solid balcony.

PHOTO: iStock

WATER, WIND AND SPIN – My Go-round With the June, 1981 Minneapolis Tornado

It's prime tornado season here in southern Minnesota. (From May through July we average 41 twisters each year.) 

I've been fascinated with tornadoes since I was a boy, and find it pretty ironic that, while I've still never seen a twister, I have, indeed, been in one. This post marks 25 years since that unforgettable experience.

A DRAINING EXPERIENCE
It’s June 14, 1981—a Sunday—a bit before 4 PM. I’m upstairs in my little house on 16th Avenue South, Minneapolis, chipping away 60 years of paint that's lost its grip on a window sill. Though it’s far from taxing work, I’m sweating.

The air outside, and even more so inside—on the second floor of a non-air-condi-
tioned house—is thick with humidity. I’m grateful for the occasional waft of breeze that finds me.

The work is pleasant. I’m accomplishing something, listening to some nice Hall & Oates on the stereo, and Bess, my sweet black lab, is lying on the rug beside me, panting.

At one point, I notice it’s getting kind of dark outside, and that now those breezes are holding their breath. You can almost smell the rain coming. Oh well, I figure, I’ll work until I feel it on my hands.

 A few minutes later the gunmetal sky and everything I can see out the window has taken on an eerie greenish cast. I realize this can’t be good.

I don’t remember hearing the civil defense sirens going off. Just that soon it’s raining, then hailing. Then the air starts churning…and that’s when I hear it.

          I picture the massive, vacuum-cleaning
          vortex swirling overhead.

SO MUCH DUST

Nearly everyone who’s lived through a tor-
nado says they heard an unearthly rumbling heading toward them. Like a freight train. That’s exactly what I hear. Bess hears it too and gets really squirrelly.
 
I’d always wished I could see a twister. I admired those daredevils who tear along back roads in Kansas, Oklahoma and the Texas Panhandle to document them. So here’s my moment, I'm thinking; I’m about to be in the middle of one. But I can tell you, what I’m experiencing is not a thrill.

IMAGE: The Weather Channel

I imagine the massive, vacuum-cleaning vortex swirling overhead.** And here’s this flimsy little house, these two minute creatures helpless in its path. If it’s an F4 or F5, we’re like so much dust.

I take the cues and start down to the basement. First I shut the window, and I feel my ears pop as if something just sucked all the air out of the house. In the kitchen I grab some candles and my portable radio, and by the time Bess and I reach the cel-
lar it’s like we’re under a trestle and the train is thundering right over us.

     The entire roof of the three-story apartment
     building next door gets lifted off and dropped
     across my back yard and garage.

FOREST FOR THE TREES
We’re not in the basement for more than a few minutes when the ominous roar ebbs. And we still have a roof over our heads! I head cautiously up the stairs and, thank God, everything appears intact.

It’s when I go outside that I see the destruction. Eighty-foot, half-century-old trees ripped from the ground. Cars piled on one another. Large sheets of drywall and other building materials strewn in the street. (I later find out they’re from the Sears yard a mile away.) And the entire roof of the three-story apartment building next door lifted off and dropped across my back yard and garage.

IMAGE: teapots happen

• The so-called Har Mar tornado, rated an F-3 with winds reaching nearly 200 miles per hour, was on the ground for 26 minutes.

• The human toll: two fatalities, 6 serious injuries, more than 80 minor injuries. (Experts considered it miraculous that these numbers weren't much higher.)
• Other impact: $47 million in property damage; 1,300 homes, 50 businesses and 400-plus vehicles damaged or destroyed; 3,500 trees killed; some 30,000 customers without power.*

So I’ve finally experienced my tornado, up close and personal. I suppose that affords me certain bragging rights. The good fortune of having survived it is not lost on me, but I'm also disappointed that I never saw it. 

Maybe this tornado season I’ll get that chance (from a safe distance this time).
                                               ~       •      ~       •      ~      

* Storm data thanks to CBS News, WCCO and Minnesota Public Radio, and
   Hennepin County Emergency Management.

** I should write a post just about all the ways air acts like water. Suffice it 
to say for now that how water drains from a sink or bathtub, how it swirls—counterclockwise in the Northern Hemisphere—is exactly the way air acts during nearly all tornadoes. And yes, just like water, most tornadoes spin clockwise in the Southern Hemisphere.

I BEG YOUR POLLEN – The Joyous Succession of Summer Flowers

The other day a friend and I were comparing notes on our daily walks. He won-
dered how I, as Mr. Wonder himself, manage to spot something new to photo-
graph and write about nearly every day. 

I explained that if, instead of simply waiting to be struck by wonder, one seeks and expects it—a notion I call SEEING GENEROUSLY—there’s always something new to see.

 Each plant hands off the duty of beauty to the next.

PASSING THE BATON
One example, I explained, is the splendid sequence of flowers that bloom through-
out the summer here in Minnesota. No sooner does one species shed its blossoms—turning to the work of reproduction—than another’s unfurl. 

It’s like a bloomin’ relay race; each plant hands off the duty of beauty to the next. Something's always flowering afresh, serving up something new to see, smell and carefully touch. 

First, the heralds of spring: Siberian squill and snowdrops. 



Then, in order:

• Crocus, hyacinth and daffodils.
• American tulips and Virginia bluebells

• Common lilacs, followed by late lilacs
• Bleeding hearts and lilies of the valley
• Peonies

• Irises
• Hydrangea
• Lilies and gladiolus
  
  

• Bee balm and coneflowers
• Asters and dahlias
• Chrysanthemums

Of course, this is just a sampling; there are so many other plants—including trees—that join the bloomin’ cavalcade. 

Catalpa flowers 

CYCLES OF LIFE
Besides just flowers, lots of things change during a Minnesota summer: Bird song, smells, the shades of green bedecking trees… Even people’s faces. So don’t let your walks get stale. Look for wonder, expect wonder, not just in all these plants and crit-
ters, but in change itself. 

And don’t let this, another of Nature’s countless lessons on life, be lost on you: 
We all bloom at different times too!

STRING OF PEARLS – The Sequence of My Perfectly Imperfect Days

DRAWING: Albrecht Dürer

Each night as I settle into bed, I say a prayer of gratitude for the day’s blessings. From the most profound gifts,
like peace, freedom and the health of my loved ones; to somewhat less vital ones, like a safe, warm, comfortable place to sleep; to such a trivial gift as the smell of the lotion I just rubbed on my hands. 

Lately, this prayer’s started to feel pretty repetitive; it’s been much the same script every night for like a year and 
a half. Life’s been so good during this stretch that I’m wondering if my gratitude’s become so humdrum as to lose its sincerity. I mean how pure can one’s appreciation be for things one’s seldom, if ever, had to do without?

I ask myself if, God forbid, my fortunes should turn south—I get sick, a friend dies…whatever—would I still be able to feel grateful despite the pain? That doesn't mean I'd deny the emotions. I'd acknowledge and process them, but I'd also cele-
brate how many, many nearly perfect days there have been.

   Hey, I remind myself, it’s still a string of pearls.

PHOTO: Pearly Luster

VARIED TREASURE
So, to hone my thanksgivings, take my blessings less for granted, I’ve been picturing each of my most fortunate days as a pearl. (I’ve amassed quite a string—by my rough calculation, about 25,000 of them since I was old enough to even think about gratitude. That’s an array of pearls the length of two-and-a-half football fields. Or, I suppose, if I made each pearl repre-
sent a year, I'd have it down to the length of a nice double-loop necklace.)

Of course, strung here and there throughout my life are a few outliers of, how shall I say it, varying luster. Some are misshapen; some are off-color or have obvious blemishes. A handful represent such heavy hurt or sorrow that they’ve broken and fallen off.

PHOTO: shutterstock

But hey, I remind myself, it’s still a string of pearls. 

It may be far from perfect, but the precious little orbs scooch together to fill in the gaps; I turn some so you can’t see the flaws. And I still have this unique, incredibly beautiful, perfectly imperfect treasure. The miracle’s not just the awesomeness in aggregate, but that of each individual pearl. A reminder of my need to take it—good or bad—one day at a time. 

PHOTO: Katie Carrin Jewelry

HOW ‘BOUT YOU?
Let’s make this a conversation. How do you consider the good days in your life? How have you managed to weather great hardship and still feel gratitude for your better days? 

            “Those who look for seashells will find seashells; 
              those who open them will find pearls.”
               AL-GHAZALI

COMMAND PERFORMANCE – Americans’ Willing Servitude To Cameras

Smile! 

Thus begins every child's career as an actor.

It wasn’t always this way. Look at portraits and group shots from the early days of photography. Folks look as I suppose they must have felt at the time: not scowling, but certainly not smiling.

        

So how did we get from that norm to today’s camera culture where kids, many of them now adults, feel that whenever they see a lens they must not simply smile, but start acting?

Is a child hamming it up for the camera really big deal? Not if it were just a few children on a few occasions. But the fact that it’s virtually every child on every occasion says something troubling about our culture.

DOUBLE EXPOSURE
One reason for those stiff, old sepia-tone poses was that, until the turn of the 20th century, the technology of photography required subjects to stand perfectly still for as long as a minute. With the development of inexpensive, hand-held cameras and faster-exposure film, taking pictures became ever less formal, more spontaneous.     

PHOTO: China Daily

Fast-forward to the turn of the 21st century. With 
the wide availability of digital photography, not 
only did exposure times become insignificant, but snapshots began to lose their preciousness. One could afford to take a hundred shots and throw away 
ninety-nine.

So, if a parent didn’t like their child’s expression opening a Christmas present in one shot, they could coach a better look of delight in the next.

  They strike the pose of someone they want others 
  to think they are.

OH-H-H THE BOREDOM!
Besides parents’ prompting, kids learn photo-emoting through simple observation. They see their family and friends hamming it up for selfies. They see it in movies and on TV, where deadpan is death. 

And then, of course, there’s social media, where the last thing kids want is for their friends to see them not being cool and having fun. So they strike the pose of someone they want others to think they are. 

PHOTO: iStockPhoto

Next time you watch any live—or taped-live—TV show (SNL and the so-called talk shows come to mind) watch what hosts and guests do while they’re being introduced. They’ve obviously learned that inaction induces boredom. And boredom is the media’s kiss of death. 

So they animate. A little dance, engaging hand gestures, mugging it up for the camera. Always moving; always an engaging expression.

THE WORD ESCAPES ME
The penchant for performance even shows up in our use of language. Used to be, when folks quoted someone, they’d use that person’s words. If those words were especially colorful they might have attached some colorful modifiers to describe how they said those words. 

Then in the late 70s and early 80s, with the advent of the “me decade” and the Valley Girl craze, the words “He/she said...” gave way to “He/she goes…” And instead of describing how a person said something, the adjectives gave way to...
you guessed it, acting. Tell gave way to show.

         

           How have we become not just the 
           entertained, but the entertainers?

ALWAYS ON
These days nearly wherever we go, indoors our out, we’re on camera. Someone’s always watching: the police, security guards, Google Street View vehicles, folks monitoring their Ring doorbell camera. I fear this omnipresent scrutiny is making us feel self-conscious nearly all the time. Obliged, even subconsciously, to be putting on a show.

If we’re not there quite yet, we soon will be. The point where we can’t tell any more whether Jimmy’s or Jill’s expression reflects genuine emotion or just their performance for the “reality” show we’re all starting to accept as everyday life. 
(By the way, “reality show” must surely go down in history as the oxymoron of 
our age.) 

Some folks will do just about anything to be on TV. Including, like most of their reality show favorites, making utter fools of themselves. Is this just light-hearted fun, or does it augur an age in which human beings blithely trade their every real, God-given faculty for stuff that’s artificial—yes, including artificial “intelligence.”

       Maybe…they feel better seeing others 
       who are even more pathetic than they are.

MIRROR IMAGE 
We’ve become so inured of performance in our own lives that many of us now expect it from others. Most notably, in the election, by a large minority of Ameri-
cans, of a U.S. president who has mastered absolutely nothing…but performance.

IMAGE: Busy Beaver Button Museum

This shallow, soulless little man has, more than any public figure in my lifetime, blurred the distinction between fame and qualifica-
tion, performance and lying. He’s famous only for his fame. How sad, when one might expect honesty to be a key asset for a political leader, that so many Americans have chosen performers for that role.

We know this problem has been building for decades, since now we have senior citizens (Trump is prime example) who have never lived a millisecond of reality in their lives. No looks, no brains, no talent, no humanity… It’s all an act. Trump, if nothing else, has validated his followers’ preference of show over substance.

This is the kind of audience that’s made the Real Housewives conglomerate a billion-plus-dollar enterprise. Maybe it’s that their own lives are so miserable and they feel better seeing others who are even more pathetic than they are. Folks whose job, it seems, is a celebration of ignorance, selfishness and vulgarity. 

PHOTO: Kathy Boos / Bravo

              I don’t think I’d relinquish control 
              of my body and soul.

SPORTS PROGRAMMING 
When I watch TV sports I always cringe when the cameras swing around for shots of fans. It’s as if someone flipped the “On” switch on a bunch of robots. Folks suddenly forget cheering on their team, stop mid-sentence chatting with their seat mates, and start performing.

PHOTO: Val Montanez / The Kansan

You know the moves: the aggressive bobbing of the head; the impassioned “Yeah!;” the “We’re-number-one!” finger; the jersey grab-and-shake. It all happens on cue, as if scripted by TV sports producers. If you don’t emote on demand, the producer won’t cut to that camera. And there goes your audition for the big time. 

And then there’s the Jumbotron. Your mug appears up there and you don’t perform, expect to be ridiculed by thousands of your fellow fans.

PHOTO: KickinItWithCarly / TikTok

Really? Shouldn’t folks be devoting every second in those $150 seats to enjoying the game and the com-
pany of those around them, instead of letting that ESPN camera flick the switch on their fake,”reality show” selves? 

I wonder what I’d do if, God forbid, that should happen to me. I’d like to think I’d not change my behavior at all. Okay, maybe I’d nod or offer a little wave, but I don’t think I’d simply relinquish control of my body and soul. Or would I?

Would you? We'd love to hear what you think; leave a comment.