So, Bono's going to Germany to lobby the G8 about increasing financial aid to Africa.
In the past, concerts held worldwide drew attention to the plight of the "lesser." Organizer Bob Geldof said he wanted to draw people’s attention to the poverty and suffering of Africa, with a call, he claimed, for “justice,” rather than charity.
I've written before (see "Brad Pitt is One Fine Hunk"), I think this is both noble and possible. Even as Christ told us the poor would always be with us, He also gave us the tools (love thy neighbor) to alleviate poverty, if we could ever get our act together. I’m just not sure about the way we’re going about it.
First of all, Africa is not the only impoverished place in the world. For all its affluence, America has its share of starving children. In fact, there are poor and hungry people in every country, in every part of the world.
Second, I’m not sure it is the job of the wealthy to feed them. While it seems that the rich “have it all,” they don’t--they can’t, nobody can. Christ himself ministered to rich and poor alike. He understood that people of means have their needs too.
It stands to reason that, if by sheer luck, or hard work, one amassed an abundance of worldly goods, and people were always begging them for handouts, one might become suspicious, wonder if they are being used and question just how much responsibility they must bear.
And even if it were the job of the wealthy, I’m not sure they understand the true needs of the impoverished. They aren’t wearing their shoes, after all (or going shoeless, as the case may be).
George W. Bush is hesitant about giving aid to Africa. He’s not sure the governments receiving the aid will actually give it to the people in need. As an "insider," he surely knows a thing or two about government corruption.
But, he’s absolutely right. I remember George Harrison’s Concert for Bangladesh and all the money it raised. Food was shipped to feed those ravaged by famine in that country--and the government held it in customs so long it rotted.
I commend Bono, and Geldof, and others like them, and I would love to see justice done--I just don't think govenmental aid is the best way to bring it about. I think the best way to help the hungry people of Africa, and the rest of the world, is to solve the problem--of hunger and of injustice--for ourselves right here in the United States. We need to all--rich and poor--come to the table with our strengths--and weaknesses--and forge a fair and just system that allows everyone to feed themselves. We need to purge our own governing institutions of corruption and rise like the eagle we hold as our emblem of freedom. When we do this, the world will see our success--and our collective strength--and will want to follow suit. The best leader is, after all, the one who leads by example.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Friday, May 11, 2007
To Mothers Everywhere--Especially Mine!
Mother’s Day sneaked up on me this year--it seems to have come early--but here it is, the second Sunday in May.
Traditionally, Mother’s Day has been set aside to show mothers gratitude and affection for all they do for us, their families. People mark the holiday with brunches, lunches and special dinners. It is one of the floral industry’s busiest days, and long distance phone lines jam up as children reach out to touch base with Mom.
The day became an official holiday in America in 1914, after intense lobbying by a women named Anna M. Jarvis. Jarvis was moved to mark the day after experiencing the loss of her own mother. According to womenshistory.about.com, Jarvis had an argument with her mom, and the two had not reconciled when her mother died. She began to mark the anniversary of her mother’s death, the second Sunday of May, by passing out carnations in her mother’s church.
Soon, her home city, Philadelphia, was celebrating Mother’s Day, and Jarvis, with others, began a letter-writing campaign to make it a national holiday. Jarvis later decried the commerciality of the holiday--the purchase of flowers, and greeting cards (she felt a handwritten letter was more meaningful).
But Mother’s Day celebrations are found even earlier in history than Jarvis'. Ancients of the Greek and Roman empires both had spring festivals honoring “mother” goddesses--Rhea in Greece and Cybele in Rome.
In the 1600s, England observed “Mothering Sunday,” a day servants and apprentices were encouraged to go home to spend the day with their mothers. They often carried with them special cakes to offer as gifts. This tradition died out with the feudal system only to be revived as American soldiers reintroduced the idea during WWII. And not to be forgotten is Julia Ward Howe, the first to organize Mother’s Day celebrations in the United States--as a day to promote peace.
Personally, I think we should pamper our mothers more often than once a year--how hard is a note, a phone call, or a bouquet of flowers? We may not even have Mother’s Day as a holiday if not for the guilt and grief of Anna Jarvis. To avoid the same trap that snared her--taking our mothers for granted, their love, their comfort, their advice--I suggest we keep our mothers on our minds and in our hearts every day of every year. Then, on the second Sunday of every May, celebrating Mother’s Day will be a greater, grander affair steeped with real meaning.
Traditionally, Mother’s Day has been set aside to show mothers gratitude and affection for all they do for us, their families. People mark the holiday with brunches, lunches and special dinners. It is one of the floral industry’s busiest days, and long distance phone lines jam up as children reach out to touch base with Mom.
The day became an official holiday in America in 1914, after intense lobbying by a women named Anna M. Jarvis. Jarvis was moved to mark the day after experiencing the loss of her own mother. According to womenshistory.about.com, Jarvis had an argument with her mom, and the two had not reconciled when her mother died. She began to mark the anniversary of her mother’s death, the second Sunday of May, by passing out carnations in her mother’s church.
Soon, her home city, Philadelphia, was celebrating Mother’s Day, and Jarvis, with others, began a letter-writing campaign to make it a national holiday. Jarvis later decried the commerciality of the holiday--the purchase of flowers, and greeting cards (she felt a handwritten letter was more meaningful).
But Mother’s Day celebrations are found even earlier in history than Jarvis'. Ancients of the Greek and Roman empires both had spring festivals honoring “mother” goddesses--Rhea in Greece and Cybele in Rome.
In the 1600s, England observed “Mothering Sunday,” a day servants and apprentices were encouraged to go home to spend the day with their mothers. They often carried with them special cakes to offer as gifts. This tradition died out with the feudal system only to be revived as American soldiers reintroduced the idea during WWII. And not to be forgotten is Julia Ward Howe, the first to organize Mother’s Day celebrations in the United States--as a day to promote peace.
Personally, I think we should pamper our mothers more often than once a year--how hard is a note, a phone call, or a bouquet of flowers? We may not even have Mother’s Day as a holiday if not for the guilt and grief of Anna Jarvis. To avoid the same trap that snared her--taking our mothers for granted, their love, their comfort, their advice--I suggest we keep our mothers on our minds and in our hearts every day of every year. Then, on the second Sunday of every May, celebrating Mother’s Day will be a greater, grander affair steeped with real meaning.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Discovering the Planet
Discovery Channel’s series "Planet Earth: Portrait of a Planet" has had me completely riveted. The photography is astounding, and I am left awed by the vast and complex systems of life. The show, an eleven-part series, filmed over five years, is roughly divided by ecosystems--Caves, Deserts, Jungles, Shallow Seas, Deep Oceans.
From the Redwoods of California, the oldest living things on the planet, to the Himalayas of China, the tallest mountains in the world, created of limestone (essentially compacted seashells) and thrust into the air by the collision of tectonic plates, from the comical dances of Borneo’s Birds of Paradise, to the habits of Russia’s elusive and almost-extinct Amur leopard, I am amazed by the power, the tenacity and the efficiency of life.
This is no fluffy nature show. It is a comprehensive look at the real worldwide web that is our habitat and the intricate, interlacing systems that allow it to work. As intricate as those systems are, the purpose of it all seems quite simple: it’s all about the children--the survival of the species. In other words, it’s all about life itself.
Anyone who's seen "March of the Penguins," knows the utter extremes the parent penguins go to to ensure their one single egg produces its chick, and that that chick survives to grow and experience its own ordeal to produce its own chick.
Planet Earth takes the principle global, showing the unique extremes to which each species goes to produce young, to send it off with the best possible chance of survival--to promote its species. Sometimes, as with elephants, it takes a herd--that when threatened will form a formidable circle around the calves to keep them safe. Sometimes, as with sea turtles, it isn’t about nurturing, it is about numbers. The turtle lays many eggs in the hope that enough hatchlings, who never see their parents, will make it to the sea and survive to return to the very same beach to themselves breed.
It is heart-wrenching to watch predatory animals stalk and seize their prey. There is no regard for the other’s life, only the singular goal of eating--and feeding their young. It seems brutal to me, but I know it would be just as painful to watch the predators and their offspring starve. As difficult as it is to watch, I am comforted by the fact that animals are not greedy, nor wasteful, nor mean and spiteful. They kill to eat, period. And there is no such thing as a free lunch. From the crabs that clean the ocean bottom to the moths that pollinate the baobabs, each creature gives, as well as takes.
Watching Planet Earth has made me question my own place in the scheme of things. I feel much less "highly evolved." I have realized how little we humans truly understand the planet we call home, and how removing any single component, even the (icky!) cave-dwelling cockroaches which eat bat guano, could have a tremendous, and perhaps grave, consequence--we could, for instance, find ourselves buried in bat guano!
From the Redwoods of California, the oldest living things on the planet, to the Himalayas of China, the tallest mountains in the world, created of limestone (essentially compacted seashells) and thrust into the air by the collision of tectonic plates, from the comical dances of Borneo’s Birds of Paradise, to the habits of Russia’s elusive and almost-extinct Amur leopard, I am amazed by the power, the tenacity and the efficiency of life.
This is no fluffy nature show. It is a comprehensive look at the real worldwide web that is our habitat and the intricate, interlacing systems that allow it to work. As intricate as those systems are, the purpose of it all seems quite simple: it’s all about the children--the survival of the species. In other words, it’s all about life itself.
Anyone who's seen "March of the Penguins," knows the utter extremes the parent penguins go to to ensure their one single egg produces its chick, and that that chick survives to grow and experience its own ordeal to produce its own chick.
Planet Earth takes the principle global, showing the unique extremes to which each species goes to produce young, to send it off with the best possible chance of survival--to promote its species. Sometimes, as with elephants, it takes a herd--that when threatened will form a formidable circle around the calves to keep them safe. Sometimes, as with sea turtles, it isn’t about nurturing, it is about numbers. The turtle lays many eggs in the hope that enough hatchlings, who never see their parents, will make it to the sea and survive to return to the very same beach to themselves breed.
It is heart-wrenching to watch predatory animals stalk and seize their prey. There is no regard for the other’s life, only the singular goal of eating--and feeding their young. It seems brutal to me, but I know it would be just as painful to watch the predators and their offspring starve. As difficult as it is to watch, I am comforted by the fact that animals are not greedy, nor wasteful, nor mean and spiteful. They kill to eat, period. And there is no such thing as a free lunch. From the crabs that clean the ocean bottom to the moths that pollinate the baobabs, each creature gives, as well as takes.
Watching Planet Earth has made me question my own place in the scheme of things. I feel much less "highly evolved." I have realized how little we humans truly understand the planet we call home, and how removing any single component, even the (icky!) cave-dwelling cockroaches which eat bat guano, could have a tremendous, and perhaps grave, consequence--we could, for instance, find ourselves buried in bat guano!
Friday, April 20, 2007
Poetry: Priceless.
April is National Poetry Month, and in its honor, I’d like to share some thoughts on the topic.
At the close of the Civil War, Booker T. Washington and W. E. B. DuBois argued its importance. Washington felt it (I paraphrase) a luxury, as it could not feed the body, and DuBois felt it gave the soul the reason for feeding the body.
Long treatises have been written about the form and function and nature of poetry. Edgar Allen Poe felt that the most poignant poetic subject was the death of a beautiful young woman, as told by her bereaved lover.
The romantics thought poetry expressed man’s essential imaginations, capturing truth at its purest level. Shelley, in his essay “Defense of Poetry,” contrasts poetry to narrative, where time, he says, distorts things and makes them ugly. Poetry, on the other hand, "is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted.”
Poetry was, in many ways, born of practicality. Before the invention of the printing press, poetry was the news and entertainment of its time. Its rhyme and repetition were mnemonic devices that let people memorize and recite its stories, its truths, its expressions. The greatest and oldest works of literature--Beowulf, the Iliad, much of the Bible--are in verse forms.
The word itself derives from an ancient Greek word meaning “I create.” Thus a poet is a creator--the poem, the creation.
In the 21st century, poetry seems to have become superfluous, an unnecessary adornment, the latest advertising jingle.
Has “creation” thus fallen by the wayside? And with it beauty--even truth?
Poetry, no matter its form, or its function, exerts an undeniable power on those who experience it. If you don’t believe me, ask yourself: What is this little ditty I can’t get out of my head?
At the close of the Civil War, Booker T. Washington and W. E. B. DuBois argued its importance. Washington felt it (I paraphrase) a luxury, as it could not feed the body, and DuBois felt it gave the soul the reason for feeding the body.
Long treatises have been written about the form and function and nature of poetry. Edgar Allen Poe felt that the most poignant poetic subject was the death of a beautiful young woman, as told by her bereaved lover.
The romantics thought poetry expressed man’s essential imaginations, capturing truth at its purest level. Shelley, in his essay “Defense of Poetry,” contrasts poetry to narrative, where time, he says, distorts things and makes them ugly. Poetry, on the other hand, "is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted.”
Poetry was, in many ways, born of practicality. Before the invention of the printing press, poetry was the news and entertainment of its time. Its rhyme and repetition were mnemonic devices that let people memorize and recite its stories, its truths, its expressions. The greatest and oldest works of literature--Beowulf, the Iliad, much of the Bible--are in verse forms.
The word itself derives from an ancient Greek word meaning “I create.” Thus a poet is a creator--the poem, the creation.
In the 21st century, poetry seems to have become superfluous, an unnecessary adornment, the latest advertising jingle.
Has “creation” thus fallen by the wayside? And with it beauty--even truth?
Poetry, no matter its form, or its function, exerts an undeniable power on those who experience it. If you don’t believe me, ask yourself: What is this little ditty I can’t get out of my head?
Friday, April 13, 2007
Southwest Michigan has Jumped the Shark.
After twenty one years of living happyily in southwest Michigan, I am afraid to say, it has, at last, "jumped the shark."
This saying references the infamous shark-jump executed, on waterskis, and in leather jacket and trunks, by “the Fonz” on the TV show Happy Days. The show's ratings declined after the stunt, resulting in its eventual cancellation. The phrase has been coined to mean that “over the top,” moment, where the tide turns, and the once popular begins its fade into oblivion. Southwest Michigan has reached this point.
What makes the region so special, so sought after, so popular with visitors and residents alike--the beaches and the farm belt--have become such a hodge podge of commercial developments, private enterprises, and homes that they are no longer enjoyable, nor, sometimes, even accessible.
Lack of cohesive planning has left the lake front a busy mix of styles, shapes, and sizes. Garish signs block what little scenic view is left, and lack of parking discourages visitation.
The wide open spaces so recently occupied by quiet farmland have suffered similar fates. Clusters of vinyl sided boxes sit where grains once waved and apple trees blossomed. Meanwhile, once charming older neighborhoods dissolve into dilapidated decay.
Area leaders, so thirsty for the almighty dollar, have sold the citizens of southwest Michigan out, stumbling over themselves and each other to “top” the last development, attraction, corporate tax break. Well, you can’t top sand dunes and fresh peaches. The leaders of this community have caused it to “jump the shark,” leaving the midwestern West Coast a mere facsimile of what it once was, what it could have been, and, presumably, what they wanted it to be.
This saying references the infamous shark-jump executed, on waterskis, and in leather jacket and trunks, by “the Fonz” on the TV show Happy Days. The show's ratings declined after the stunt, resulting in its eventual cancellation. The phrase has been coined to mean that “over the top,” moment, where the tide turns, and the once popular begins its fade into oblivion. Southwest Michigan has reached this point.
What makes the region so special, so sought after, so popular with visitors and residents alike--the beaches and the farm belt--have become such a hodge podge of commercial developments, private enterprises, and homes that they are no longer enjoyable, nor, sometimes, even accessible.
Lack of cohesive planning has left the lake front a busy mix of styles, shapes, and sizes. Garish signs block what little scenic view is left, and lack of parking discourages visitation.
The wide open spaces so recently occupied by quiet farmland have suffered similar fates. Clusters of vinyl sided boxes sit where grains once waved and apple trees blossomed. Meanwhile, once charming older neighborhoods dissolve into dilapidated decay.
Area leaders, so thirsty for the almighty dollar, have sold the citizens of southwest Michigan out, stumbling over themselves and each other to “top” the last development, attraction, corporate tax break. Well, you can’t top sand dunes and fresh peaches. The leaders of this community have caused it to “jump the shark,” leaving the midwestern West Coast a mere facsimile of what it once was, what it could have been, and, presumably, what they wanted it to be.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Zzzzzzzzzzzzz
I love to sleep. The chilly mornings of winter make me roll up tighter in the warmth of my down comforter. Gray rainy Mondays send me back for a nap. Even the cool crisp mornings pf spring and autumn prompt me to spend “just ten more minutes” in bed.
This hasn’t always been the case. In my teens and early twenties, I shaved the candle at both ends, just sure that I was missing something as I lay in repose.
I learned the value of sleep in college. While I nodded and dozed my way through chapter after chapter, my straight-A, class president roommate, no matter what she was doing or studying, at ten o’clock sharp, picked herself up, brushed her teeth and went to bed. She arose at six the next morning and proceeded with her day. I was amazed at her productivity. I, of course, struggled to finish my studies, often until the wee hours of the morning. This became increasingly difficult with her deep breathing in the background. At some point, I gave up and began to follow her pattern. My alertness and energy levels increased, and my productivity rose. I have never turned back.
Getting too little sleep has become somewhat of a badge of honor as worker-bees slave at sixty-hour-a-week jobs, and struggle to maintain marriages and households. Getting enough sleep is also seen as a perk of privilege. “I wish I could afford to get enough sleep,” someone once said to me. I put this statement in the “penny-wise, pound-foolish” category. It’s like saying: I wish I could afford to live healthily. I would have to challenge the mental health of anyone who does not have health at the top of their short list. After all, if one isn’t healthy, how can one work to afford the things they want, or enjoy those things once they are acquired? It is the ultimate self-sabotage.
Research has begun to uncover the dangers of sleep deprivation. Studies show that not getting enough sleep impairs the immune system. And, just as the body has its own biorhythm--which is thrown off balance without proper sleep--individual organs have their own rhythms, also affected by sleep. Lack of sleep interferes with hormone production, and, oddly, erratic sleep patterns may lead to insomnia (we’ve all witnessed the two-tired two-year-old who winds him or herself up to stay awake).
People who work “graveyard” shifts, working throught the night, and counter to the body’s natural biorhythm have higher cancer rates than those who sleep.
And, while society wages war against driving while intoxicated, it has been shown that sleep deprived drivers are, in fact, more dangerous than drunk drivers.
My point? It pays to listen to your body! Get forty winks, saw some logs, grab that cat nap. Both body and mind will benefit from it. Energy levels and alertness will increase--and all those things folks are sacrificing sleep to do will get done.
--a version of this essay was published by the South County Gazette.
This hasn’t always been the case. In my teens and early twenties, I shaved the candle at both ends, just sure that I was missing something as I lay in repose.
I learned the value of sleep in college. While I nodded and dozed my way through chapter after chapter, my straight-A, class president roommate, no matter what she was doing or studying, at ten o’clock sharp, picked herself up, brushed her teeth and went to bed. She arose at six the next morning and proceeded with her day. I was amazed at her productivity. I, of course, struggled to finish my studies, often until the wee hours of the morning. This became increasingly difficult with her deep breathing in the background. At some point, I gave up and began to follow her pattern. My alertness and energy levels increased, and my productivity rose. I have never turned back.
Getting too little sleep has become somewhat of a badge of honor as worker-bees slave at sixty-hour-a-week jobs, and struggle to maintain marriages and households. Getting enough sleep is also seen as a perk of privilege. “I wish I could afford to get enough sleep,” someone once said to me. I put this statement in the “penny-wise, pound-foolish” category. It’s like saying: I wish I could afford to live healthily. I would have to challenge the mental health of anyone who does not have health at the top of their short list. After all, if one isn’t healthy, how can one work to afford the things they want, or enjoy those things once they are acquired? It is the ultimate self-sabotage.
Research has begun to uncover the dangers of sleep deprivation. Studies show that not getting enough sleep impairs the immune system. And, just as the body has its own biorhythm--which is thrown off balance without proper sleep--individual organs have their own rhythms, also affected by sleep. Lack of sleep interferes with hormone production, and, oddly, erratic sleep patterns may lead to insomnia (we’ve all witnessed the two-tired two-year-old who winds him or herself up to stay awake).
People who work “graveyard” shifts, working throught the night, and counter to the body’s natural biorhythm have higher cancer rates than those who sleep.
And, while society wages war against driving while intoxicated, it has been shown that sleep deprived drivers are, in fact, more dangerous than drunk drivers.
My point? It pays to listen to your body! Get forty winks, saw some logs, grab that cat nap. Both body and mind will benefit from it. Energy levels and alertness will increase--and all those things folks are sacrificing sleep to do will get done.
--a version of this essay was published by the South County Gazette.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
It’s a Snow Day!
Note: Since this was published, as an Inside Column by the South County Gazette of Three Oaks, Michigan, on January 20, 2007, the area has been hit with much more snow! The "blanket" is easily two feet thick, with even deeper drifts. My editor has "blamed" this on my column.
I keep a list of column ideas--politics, health, environment--object lessons and observations I think could interest others, make them think, make them feel, remind them what life is about. But as I sat down to write this column, there was nothing on the list that could do any of that more than the view outside my window. At least six inches of snow coats tree branches, fence posts, lawns and rooftops. Small shrubs and utility lines sag under its weight, and the whole world looks light and bright--even without the sun.
Snow is often described in terms of “a blanket” of “sparkling crystals”--an apt description, yet somehow inadequate to capture its purity, its thoroughness and its egality, its way of covering absolutely everything, without discrimination, in thick dazzling white.
While we may complain about it, snow is important, especially to southwest Michigan. It is what allows the area to produce the wonderful fruit we relish in summer. Snow, and cold, kills bugs and diseases, and makes pesky raccoons hibernate. It is part of the great biological clock. Without it daffodils and cherry blossoms fall out of sync.
Snow refreshes and nourishes the environment, and as well, the soul. It is a great equalizer, making everyone have to get off their proverbial treadmills to dig out their mittens and scarves, shovel their their driveways and sweep their sidewalks. It makes people cooperate, as they help each other out of ditches, or drifts. For a brief time we are distracted from life’s pettinesses, and reminded of its importance.
All the machinations of man cannot stop snow from falling--that’s real power. It humbles “horsepower.”
Of course there are the lucky few who get to go out and play in the frosty fluff. Snow angels and snowmen spring up across the landscape. People head for the hills with sleds and skis. Snowmobiles race across the open spaces. This is as it should be--a hearty celebration of nature’s spontaneous gift.
Many years ago, living in southern California, I read an editorial written by a Chicagoan who found himself the manager of a local fast food restaurant. He incredulously proclaimed that “only in California!” would “surf’s up” be a legitimate excuse to not come to work. Dude! What surfers understand is that a good wave, like a good snow, only comes along once in a rare moment--and it should be respected, revered, appreciated and enjoyed. The burgers--and all the other “busy-ness” of human endeavor--can wait.
I keep a list of column ideas--politics, health, environment--object lessons and observations I think could interest others, make them think, make them feel, remind them what life is about. But as I sat down to write this column, there was nothing on the list that could do any of that more than the view outside my window. At least six inches of snow coats tree branches, fence posts, lawns and rooftops. Small shrubs and utility lines sag under its weight, and the whole world looks light and bright--even without the sun.
Snow is often described in terms of “a blanket” of “sparkling crystals”--an apt description, yet somehow inadequate to capture its purity, its thoroughness and its egality, its way of covering absolutely everything, without discrimination, in thick dazzling white.
While we may complain about it, snow is important, especially to southwest Michigan. It is what allows the area to produce the wonderful fruit we relish in summer. Snow, and cold, kills bugs and diseases, and makes pesky raccoons hibernate. It is part of the great biological clock. Without it daffodils and cherry blossoms fall out of sync.
Snow refreshes and nourishes the environment, and as well, the soul. It is a great equalizer, making everyone have to get off their proverbial treadmills to dig out their mittens and scarves, shovel their their driveways and sweep their sidewalks. It makes people cooperate, as they help each other out of ditches, or drifts. For a brief time we are distracted from life’s pettinesses, and reminded of its importance.
All the machinations of man cannot stop snow from falling--that’s real power. It humbles “horsepower.”
Of course there are the lucky few who get to go out and play in the frosty fluff. Snow angels and snowmen spring up across the landscape. People head for the hills with sleds and skis. Snowmobiles race across the open spaces. This is as it should be--a hearty celebration of nature’s spontaneous gift.
Many years ago, living in southern California, I read an editorial written by a Chicagoan who found himself the manager of a local fast food restaurant. He incredulously proclaimed that “only in California!” would “surf’s up” be a legitimate excuse to not come to work. Dude! What surfers understand is that a good wave, like a good snow, only comes along once in a rare moment--and it should be respected, revered, appreciated and enjoyed. The burgers--and all the other “busy-ness” of human endeavor--can wait.
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