HOME DELIVERANCE – Presence From Afar

"Conjure" is a fascinating verb. Usually, it means calling upon some kind of spirit 
to appear, as if by magic. But it can also have a far less occult meaning.

That’s the kind of conjuring I do when I pray for my loved ones. Now, just so I don’t lose you in a fog of abstraction, I'm okay if we just call it visualizing, im-
agining, calling to mind…whatever.  

THE POWER OF PRESENCE
I believe there’s immense power in one’s physical presence. It’s what drew me to become a hospice volunteer. I knew I couldn’t reverse anyone’s terminal diagnosis; I didn’t presume I could end anyone’s pain.

But I did believe I could simply sit with someone. Keep them company. Help them find meaning, or at least a degree of comfort, in their precious days. If they could still communicate, I knew I could listen. Even if they couldn’t, I could still relate by sharing my thoughts, empathiz-
ing, caring. Language wouldn’t be essential.

The power of presence isn’t just some airy, theoretical notion. There’s scientific proof that the company of a caring person promotes health, healing, and a sense of connection.*

 It feels like I’m delivering the intention in person.

TELEPRESENCE
It’s one thing to be fully present with someone who’s right next to you. Where you can see, hear and feel each other. But how does one bring that kind of immediacy to bear on someone who’s 1,200 miles away? That’s what I aim to do when I pray. 

The trick, if you want to call it that, is that I don’t simply ask God ** to be present with my loved ones; instead, I will myself—with God’s help—to be present with each of them in turn. (I believe God is happy to employ me as a deputy.) 

ILLUSTRATION: dreamstime

There’s nothing all that inscrutable about it. I simply imagine the person’s face, and let that image meld with other memory to evoke what it’s like being with them. Their demeanor, their attitude, the spirit they exude. 

Then, once that virtual connection’s established, I use it as a conduit to send them my love and best wishes. It feels way more direct than simply putting a wish out there to the Universe and hoping it finds its way to a loved one. This way, it feels like I’m delivering the intention in person.

       The good news is that it might just work.

LOST AND FOUND
After doing this for a while I wondered, if I can project my virtual presence to someone I know, why couldn’t I do so to a stranger? Thus began my spiritual reaching out to folks who need the power of human presence more than anyone: 
those lost in the woods or at sea, buried deep inside collapsed mines, or trapped under earthquake or bomb-strike rubble.

IMAGE: Soldier of Fortune

In this case, my intention, my prayer, is for that poor soul to actually feel not just the presence of whatever their higher power, but my presence. To know, without doubt, that, even in their hopelessness, there’s this one fellow human being who, despite the untold miles, is thinking of them at that very moment, wishing them well, encouraging them not to give up. 

If my “friends and family” conjuring raises a few eyebrows, I imagine this audacious version might seem quite over the top. The good news is that it might just work. The other good news is that I doubt anyone can prove that it doesn't.

PHOTO: 9News, Sydney

   
         Sometimes you have to believe it to see it.

LEAP OF FAITH  
Of course, as with any endeavor—especially one this intangible—faith is the linchpin. Sometimes, contrary to that old skeptic’s adage, you have to believe it to see it. ***

And I do believe it. You can too.

              “Your presence is a miracle.” ~ THICH NHAT HANH

* Psychology Today

** “God” is the term I use to identify my higher power. Yahweh, Jehovah, Creator, Allah, Great Spirit…any title will do. I believe they’re all names for the same thing.

*** The expression, “You have to believe it to see it,” is often attributed to former National Geographic photographer, DeWitt Jones.

FILLED WITH EMPTINESS – The Power of Presence

“The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing...not healing, not curing...that is a friend who cares.” 
HENRI NOUWEN                      
                                             •      ~      •      ~      •

It’s taken me a very long time to realize that just sitting, with no task, no agenda, no expectation, is not a waste of time.

“Just being” is something infants and old folks do very well. I suppose you could say that’s because they can’t walk and their hands don’t work very well. But more important than how they might have come to be so acutely in the present moment is the fact that only the most cynical observer would ever conclude from their lack of “productiveness” that they’re squandering their potential.

What a shame that the art of just being is so lost on the rest of us! For it’s in that state, devoid of ambition and guile, liberated from presumption, that we’re best able to experience what I’d argue are the human pursuits of the highest order: curiosity, compassion and wonder.

            There are some worthwhile goals
            that don’t fall within the reach
            of anyone who’s reaching.

NOT THEN OR WHEN, BUT NOW
By the time we’re in grade school, most of us have already been indoctrinated with the familiar mantras: keep your nose to the grindstone; idle hands make for the devil’s work; work hard enough and everything will be fine. You know, the good old American dream. Trouble is, there are some worthwhile goals that don’t fall within the reach of anyone who’s reaching.

We’re all conditioned to place enormous value on the past and the future. We think the past, the sum total of all our life experiences to date, defines who we are. We think the future is where all our hopes and dreams—and fears—will play out.

In fact, we tend to focus so much of our mental and emotional energy on the “then” and the “when” that we fail to fully experience the “now.” And, as much as we’d like to think we can do it, no one can be in two places at the same time.

I learned a lot about just being during my parents’ last days in this life. These lessons come naturally when you’re with someone who can no longer communicate with words. You sit there. Maybe you talk a little, hoping the person understands you at some level. But mostly, you just sit.

I continue to refine this art in my work as a hospice volunteer, in which capacity I’ve witnessed at least 30 people’s ultimate lettings-go.

Sitting with someone—or, for that matter, sitting with Nature—may seem like an old-fashioned idea, like visiting or courting. These are things no one used to think much about; there were fewer options, fewer distractions, so they just did them. 

      It’s in precisely such moments of “emptiness”
   that we are most apt to be fulfilled.

Now that most of us are on call wherever we go, connected 24/7 to each other and to all the information that ever was, it’s gotten harder and harder not to feel we should be productive to some degree nearly all the time.

But it’s in precisely such moments of “emptiness” that we are most apt to be fulfilled. That’s when we let go of any notion that, somehow, we’re in control, that there’s something we should be doing or thinking, or that anything but our presence matters.

It’s only by clearing the decks of this preoccupation with stuff from the past and future that we can be truly open to a communion with the present, whether with our own true spirit, the soul of a loved one, or the astounding beauty of Nature’s gifts that surround and fill us.

            We tend to focus so much of our
            mental and emotional energy on the
            “then” and the “when” that we fail
            to fully experience the “now.”

FINDING SOMETHING NEVER LOST
To be truly in the moment is a difficult concept for some people to grasp. After all, how can you achieve something that’s accessibly only to those who don’t try to achieve it? Is it really possible to notice the absence of everything? Can you really hear silence, feel emptiness?

You can if you’re ready. Just as a sponge can’t absorb a spill until it’s wrung out, you can’t understand these things without first wringing from your consciousness the concerns and constructs that saturate your mind.

Perhaps the one mental construct that clashes most with just being is our notion of time. We imagine our lives as linear paths; we move along a time line. Each day, each experience we have becomes another part of our past, that which defines who we are.

And the line extending in front of us, the future, holds all the experiences we will have from now on, illuminated by our hopes and dreams.

       Outside of the present moment, nothing—
       literally, nothing—exists.

Curiously, we even see the spatial aspect of our existence as linear, imagining, again, that only those places where we’ve been and where we’re to go delineate the sphere of our existence. Imagine walking through a Costa Rican rain forest, touring the Musee D’Orsay or even riding the bus home from work, looking nowhere else but straight ahead or straight behind you. Would anyone consider this a whole experience?

As Eckhart Tolle says in his wonderful book, The Power of Now, these linear paradigms are just illusions we’ve invented to help us deal with the incomprehensible reality of the infinite.

If you're looking to the past, the future or a change of scene for the secret of happiness, you're looking in the wrong place. If fact, it makes no sense to be looking at all, since you already possess it; it’s already inside of you, part of you.

This is why just being is such a compelling, articulate force. Notwithstanding its utter simplicity—or, perhaps, because of it—it is a most eloquent expression of a reality few of us are ready to grasp, that, outside of the present moment, nothing—literally, nothing—exists.

Even the most defining moments of your past exist only as you interpret and apply their lessons now. Even your fondest wish, your most compelling goal, exists only in the work you begin now to realize it.

ARTICULATE SILENCE – The Power of Presence

“The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing...not healing, not curing...that is a friend who cares.”
HENRI NOUWEN
                                              ~      •     ~      •.     ~     .     

It’s taken me a very long time to realize that just sitting, with no task, no agenda, no expectations, isn’t necessarily a waste of time.

“Just being” is something babies and old folks do very well. I suppose you could say that’s because they can’t walk and their hands don’t work very well. But more important than how they might have come to be so acutely in the present moment is the fact that only the most cynical observer would ever conclude from their lack of “productiveness” that they’re wasting their time.

It’s a shame the art of just being is so lost on the rest of us. For it’s in that state, devoid of ambition and guile, liberated from expectations of any kind, that we’re best able to experience what I’d argue are the human pursuits of the highest order: curiosity, compassion and wonder.

NOT THEN OR WHEN, BUT NOW
By the time we’re in grade school, most of us have already been indoctrinated with the familiar mantras: Keep your nose to the grindstone; Idle hands make for the devil’s work; Work hard enough and everything will be fine. You know, the good old American dream. Trouble is, there are some worthwhile goals that don’t fall within the reach of anyone who’s reaching.

          There are some worthwhile goals that
          don’t fall within the reach of anyone
          who’s reaching.

We’re all conditioned to place enormous value on the past and the future. We think the past, the sum total of all our life experiences to date, defines who we are. We think the future is where all our hopes, dreams and fears will play out. In fact, we tend to focus so much of our mental and emotional energy on the “then” and the “when” that we fail to fully experience the “now.” As much as we’d like to think we can do it, no one can be in two places at the same time.

I learned a lot about just being during my parents’ last days in this life. These lessons come naturally when you’re with someone who can no longer communicate with words. You sit there. Maybe you talk a little, hoping the person understands you at some level. But mostly, you just sit.

Simply sitting with someone may seem like an old-fashioned idea, like visiting or court-
ing. These are things no one used to think much about; there were fewer options, fewer distractions, so they just did them. But now that we’re all wired in, on call, connected 24/7 wherever we go, it’s gotten harder and harder not to feel we should be “productive” at some level nearly all the time.

Yet it’s precisely in such moments of “emptiness” that we are most apt to be fulfilled. That’s when we let go of any notion that, somehow, we’re “in control,” that there’s something we should be doing or thinking, or that anything but our presence matters.

When our consciousness is full of stuff from the past and future, there’s no room for what’s happening now. It’s only by clearing the decks of these preoccupations that we can be open to a communion with the present, whether with our own true spirit, the soul of a loved one, or the astounding beauty of Nature’s gifts that surround and fill us.

            We focus so much of our mental and 
          emotional energy on the “then” and the
          “when” that we fail to fully experience
          the “now.”

FINDING SOMETHING NEVER LOST
To be truly in the moment is a difficult concept for some people to grasp. After all, how can you achieve something that’s accessible only to those who don’t try to achieve it? Is it really possible to notice the absence of everything?

Can you really hear silence, feel emptiness? You can if you’re ready. Just as a sponge can’t absorb a spill until it’s wrung out, you can’t understand these things without first wringing from your consciousness the concerns and constructs that saturate your mind.

Perhaps the one mental construct that clashes most with just being is our notion of time. We imagine our lives as linear paths; we move along a time line. Each day, each experience we have, becomes another part of our past, that which defines who we are.

And the line extending in front of us, the future, holds all the experiences we will have from now on, illuminated by our hopes and dreams. It’s precisely in such moments of “emptiness” that we are most apt to be fulfilled.

        

Curiously, we even tend to see the spatial aspect of our existence as linear, imagining, again, that only those places where we’ve been and where we’re to go delineate the sphere of our existence. Imagine walking through a Costa Rican rain forest, touring the Musee D’Orsay or even riding the bus home from work, looking nowhere else but straight ahead or straight behind you. Would anyone consider this a whole experience?

As Eckhart Tolle says in his wonderful book, The Power of Now, these linear paradigms are just illusions we’ve invented to help us deal with the incomprehensible reality of the infinite. 

If you're looking to the past, the future or a change
of scene for the secret of happiness, you're looking
in the wrong place. If fact, it makes no sense to be looking at all, because you already possess it; it’s already inside of you. It is part of you; you are part
of it.

This is why just being is such a powerful, articulate force. Notwithstanding its utter simplicity—or, perhaps, because of it—it is a most eloquent expression of a reality few of us are ready to grasp. That, outside of the present moment, nothing—literally, nothing—exists.

Even the most defining moments of your past exist only as you interpret and apply their lessons now. Even your fondest wish, your most compelling goal, exists only in the work you begin now to realize it.

ON MY TOES – The Unexpected Soundtrack of a Pedicure

I always try to appreciate life’s experiences with all my senses, not just the obvious ones. You know, feeling music, seeing flavors, hearing color. So when I went to this typically touch-oriented spa session, I was primed to take it in with all my faculties.

                                              ~       •       ~       •      ~    

For the past couple of years Sally’s been inviting me to join her for her occasional pedicure.

At first, I was reluctant. You know, the whole macho thing; guys don’t get pedicures. But once I tried it—and survived the good-natured ribbing I got for giggling as they used their small version of a power sander on my callouses—I’ve come to love the experience.

A pedicure, I’ve discovered, is a trip for all one’s senses. And each time I go it seems I come away having especially appreciated a different sensation. One time it might be the toes massage; the next, maybe the gritty exfoliant; or the immersion of my feet in bags of hot wax.

So many delights—not just of touch, but the fragrance of the various soaking solutions and lotions, watching the fish swimming around in the salon’s big aquarium, taking in the Asian-kitsch art on the walls.

Among my favorites every time is the cushy, full-featured massaging chair. Like some hefty Nordic masseuse, the chair’s four rolling, kneading, pummeling fists work tirelessly up and down my back. And I can set it to any combination of massage styles and intensities. (I’d gladly pay the $55 for just an hour’s worth of that.)

            What I found so pleasant, so hypnotic
            about her voice was the music of it.

BEGUILING BABBLE
And this last time, just today, I found myself transported into a new dimension of sensory delight, one of sound. I know, of all places to get lost in sound: a spa.

The young lady who administered my pedicure is very good at what she does. And, shall we say, quite easy on the eyes. Maybe it was that my eyes were blissfully closed much of the time, but what my senses kept focusing on was her voice.

She talked incessantly for the entire hour. Not to me, but to her counterpart working on Sally’s feet right next to us. I don’t know how she kept it up; aside from her co-worker’s occasional word in edgewise, it was a monologue.

That may sound annoying, but I didn’t find it so. They were both speaking Vietnamese, so I couldn’t understand a word of it. And even if it had been English, most of the time my manicurist spoke so softly that I couldn’t have made out much of it anyway. But that wasn’t the point.

What I found so pleasant, so beguiling about her voice was the music of it.

        Vietnamese is a contour tone language,
        where two or more accents might occur
        in a single syllable.

CONTOUR TONES
Vietnamese is a tonal language. That is, it employs varying, often subtle, voice modulations which can lend two identically-spelled words completely different meanings. And those vocal ups and downs start from a significantly higher pitch than the baseline tone we’re accustomed to in English.

From that key, the tones jump or slide around, often more dramatically than the tonal variations in English. For example, the basic syllable ma can be pronounced with any of six intonations. *

Most of the accents give shape to sounds we’re not accustomed to in English. Like the many nasaly tones, and syllables that get suddenly cropped off at the end.

There’s also a different rhythm to Vietnamese. English is what is called a stressed-timed language whose syllables vary in spoken length and emphasis, with accentuated syllables occurring at quite regular intervals. Vietnamese is a syllable-timed or contour tone language, where syllables are all the same spoken length and where two or more accents might occur in a single syllable. **

My manicurist has a very pleasant, soft-spoken voice to start with. But then hearing it adorned with all these subtleties of her first language turned it into the lilting, hypnotic song I enjoyed while getting my feet done. Another of the many reasons why I’ll be back.

The lesson from all this: Life’s just too rich, too precious, for us not to be fully present. So with any experience, try calling on more than the obvious sense. At
the symphony, notice the smells. At dinner, relish the colors. At a hockey game, feel the beat of the pep band. And, yes, at your next salon, barber or massage parlor visit, bask in the sounds.

* Six Vietnamese Tones

** Stress-timed vs. Syllable-timed languages

HEAR, HEAR! – Music As If For the First Time

Those of you familiar with my As If For the First Time (AIFFT) series will recognize the premise: pick some common observation or activity—one so ubiquitous as to easily escape one’s full appreciation—and describe it as if I’d never seen or done it before.

I’ve written at least fifty of them, and the other day, while listening to our local public radio classical music station, I realized music just begs for a place at the AIFFT table. Why had it taken me so long?

                                                •    ~    •    ~    •    ~    

         It can curl one into the fetal position
         or lift one to prayer.

BABIES DIGGING MOZART
Usually these treatises practically write themselves. But the more I think about music, the more it’s proving one of the hardest themes I’ve tackled.

It’s just that music is so intangible. Unlike any of my previous AIFFT reflections, experiencing it involves no physical action. You can’t see it, pick it up, turn it over, smell it or taste it. You can only listen…and relate.

Much of our response to music is emotional. Like poetry for the ears, it can render one sad, happy, pensive, agitated…or sleepy. It can curl one into the fetal position or lift one to prayer. It can move one to dance. 

IMAGE: New York Times

It coaxes out the sweetest and sorest of memories. It can draw shut dark curtains of fear or doubt, or open them to the golden-hour light of promise.

And yet, how do I describe music as if I’d never heard it before? Doesn’t its appreciation require some cultural or personal reference point? Or could some aspects of it actually be innate to us? In other words, might even infants love a Mozart concerto the first time they lay ears on it? (Brain sciences researchers say they do, and that music plays an essential role in speech development.)

NATURE’S MUSIC
I’m reminded of a film I once watched portraying some early 20th century explorer who’s managed to penetrate a remote jungle—in Borneo I think it was—and discovers a tribe whose culture remained untouched by modern civilization. The visitor unpacks a Victrola, winds it up and plays Caruso. The natives are spellbound.

Why? Is it because the music their visitors love has touched their souls too? Or is it simply the novelty of their magically producing such sounds—any sounds—from that odd spinning disk?

It’s not that they’ve never heard—or played—music before. Of course they have their own rudimentary music. But where does the inspiration for that creation come from? And why hasn’t it produced works of comparable sophistication to those of Mozart or Steely Dan or Nas?

Nature’s sounds are influential—as they have been for composers in other cultures. From the rumble of thunder to the shrill airs of birds; from the sighs of wind through trees to the rhythm of cricket chirps or water dripping.

This might explain basic melody and rhythm, but what do those wide-eyed Borneans know of harmony? Of tonal color? Of counterpoint? Even though Nature has never shown them such niceties, might they not have simply invented them through experimentation?
     Is rhythm something we’re born with, part
     of our DNA, or is it taught us by no less
     a maestro than our own mother’s heartbeat?

I GOT RHYTHM
The one aspect of music that just might be inherent to us human beings, even before it’s ensconced in culture, is rhythm. So is the urge to tap our fingers and move our feet a need we’re born with, part of our DNA? Or is it taught us by no less a maestra than our own mother’s heartbeat? (Brain development research has shown that it is.)

And our appreciation for harmony, is that an innate quality of sound, an invention of our hearing, or a component of our souls?

          Do infants love Mozart the first time
          they lay ears on it?

NO ACCOUNTING FOR TASTE
We listen to and appreciate different types of music for different reasons. While some folks love what we might call traditional harmonies and rhythms, others prefer their music dissonant, their tempo harsh, even angry. And still others…well, our tastes are all over the map.

One example: Years ago, I met and became friends with the fantastic Mexican magical-realist painter Fernando Garrido. I was absolutely sure Fernando would love a new album I’d discovered, a CD by Norwegian jazz pianist Tord Gustavsen, whose sublime style “melds brooding Nordic lyricism and modern jazz.” *

So, next time I visited him at his home in Querétaro, I brought the CD and gave it to him.

Now I find Gustavsen thoughtful, soothing, at times etherial—creating the perfect “head space” for my own creative writing and crafting. What better music, I reasoned, to stir the creative juices of a famous, prolific, Caravaggio-inspired Mexican painter? Right?

Wrong. After months of my trying tactfully to pry an honest opinion of the CD from my tactful friend, he finally came clean. He said, “It’s so slow; it has no life.” So much for becoming soul mates with Fernando Garrido—at least music-wise.

So I guess music’s effect on us, like that of art, or design, or any other type of expression, is colored not just by taste, but by culture and by our own experience. I know I’ve heard music most people would find nice, but not especially moving, which, because it recalled for me a particular moment of love or loss, caused my heart to swell or brought me to tears.

         It's like trying to assess emotion as if
         we'd never been able to feel.

A LOSS FOR WORDS
So, experiencing music as if for the first time. Is that even possible?  

For something so ingrained in the development of our brains, so influenced by our natural surroundings, so colored by both experience and culture, I’m inclined to say it is not. It’s like trying to assess emotion as if we’d never been able to feel. Or discussing language without words.

IMAGE: www.KarlAndreasGrosspixelpoems.de

At least for me there are far fewer answers than more questions. If you have some answers based on your own experiences with music, we’d all love to hear them!

“If I can learn to understand this language without words, I can learn to understand the world.” ~ PAULO COELHO

“Remember, all music was once new.” ~ SLOGAN OF THE AMERICAN  COMPOSERS’ FORUM
* Apple Music ( https://music.apple.com/us/artist/tord-gustavsen/18309440 )

A LITTLE NIGHT MUSIC – Singing With Insects

Folks have been staying home and cultural venues shutting down during the pandemic of 2020. Yet, still, these sultry mid-summer nights are awash in music. And I’m not talking one of these ensembles we’re seeing patched together on Zoom.

No, I’m hearing this music right now, tonight, in the flesh—no social distancing involved—emanating so bright from the shrubs and trees that it illuminates the darkness.

For most of us, I’m afraid, it’s a sound that may be so ubiquitous, so deeply set in memory, that, like the constant background hum and hiss of the rest of city life, we don’t even notice anymore.

        One can quite accurately estimate the
        temperature from the frequency of the
        snowy tree cricket’s pulsing chirrs.

But hey, I’m the wonder guy; I can’t not notice. In fact, this summer of COVID, under the pall of tragedy, fear and uncertainty, I’ve decided life’s too short not to engage Nature’s night music, sit with it a while…and really listen. And here’s what I’m hearing:

MULTI-PART HARMONY
You know how, in most musical pieces, the rhythm acts as a sort of pump that impels the notes? The heartbeat of my night music is the bright, pulsing performance of the snowy tree cricket. Synchronized like a fine symphony orchestra’s string section, it emanates from low bushes, wrapping me in its crystalline tone.

Snowy Tree Cricket - PHOTO: www.BugGuide.net

              
This delicate, pale green cousin of the stockier, brown or black house or field cricket is elusive; I’ve never run into one without purposely looking. Hiding, often under the branches, it’s the one sometimes called the “thermometer cricket,” because one can quite accurately estimate the temperature from the frequency of the snowy tree cricket’s pulsing trills.*

Trig - PHOTO: www.SongsOfInsects.com

The second track of tonight’s audio mix, about an octave higher in pitch, is laid in behind that of the snowy tree crickets. It’s a subtle, constant whistle, so high and thin that it’s nearly consumed in the evening’s man-made ambient sound. This might be another of the many species of tree crickets found in Minnesota, or perhaps another cricket cousin called a trig.

Then there’s a back beat, a kind of rolling, rasping syncopation falling in threes between the others’ notes. This crafty musician is likely a katydid, with its eponymous Kay-tee-did…she didn’t song.

Common Katydid - PHOTO: SongsOfInsects.com

Also blending in are some sweeter, truer voices, about the same pitch as the snowy tree crickets, but in shorter, more distinct chirps. I’m guessing these are either the field or house crickets.

         It’s like some far-out Latin jazz guy sitting
         in with a little improv on the güiro.

Rounding out the multi-part harmony—or at least the parts these ancient ears can still make out—is a deeper, woodier rasping with an irregular rhythm. It’s like some far-out Latin jazz guy sitting in with a little improv on the güiro. Another type of katydid? Or maybe a mole cricket?

(For a sampler of these and other night insect sounds, check out SongsOfInsects.com

Every summer, I find a few experiences so wonderful, so precious, that I resolve to preserve their memory, like canning fresh fruit, to be opened and savored in the cold, gray depth of a Minnesota winter. The concert I’m hearing tonight will be one of them. Which of summer's sweet blessings will you be putting up?

* The calculation is (for Fahrenheit): count the number of trill pulses in 14 seconds and add 40. (I’ve done this many times over the years—as recently as tonight—and have always come within a degree either way of the actual temperature.)