Robert Heinlein on raising children

Robert Heinlein | polyarchive.com

Working in higher education, I deal with helicopter parents and lawnmower parents on a daily basis now. Overparenting is an incredible disservice to children and young adults. Not only do they experience setbacks, negative feedback, and garden-variety frustrations of life as insurmountable failures and barriers, they often lack the savvy to safeguard themselves from actual dangers. I see expensive gadgets left unattended and personal safety measures ignored at night, and I am often asked for help with various questions and issues (sometimes it’s more of a demand than a request), apparently because I am a female who looks sufficiently older than a student. It makes me both sad and concerned to think that these young people were raised to expect a benevolent world of surrogate mothers taking care of them, only to find, as we all must, that life is harder and more unfair than that. I suspect that a child who has to live with the consequences of having a smaller item stolen would not, at 19, be so careless with a laptop. The child who had to struggle and learn by doing her own homework might not need her mother to call a college professor about an unclear grading policy. The child who was taught to hope for the best but be prepared for the worst may be able to be delighted by the good things that happen, and not crushed when problems arise.

The face of the giant | Wallace Stevens

I thought, on the train, how utterly weI thought, on the train, how utterly we have forsaken the Earth, in the sense of excluding it from our thoughts. There are but few who consider its physical hugeness, its rough enormity. It is still a disparate monstrosity, full of solitudes & barrens & wilds. It still dwarfs & terrifies & crushes. The rivers still roar, the mountains still crash, the winds still shatter. Man is an affair of cities. His gardens & orchards & fields are mere scrapings. Somehow, however, he has managed to shut out the face of the giant from his windows. But the giant is there, nevertheless.

-Wallace Stevens

Souvenirs and Prophecies, ed. Holly Stevens (New York: Knopf, 1977), note of April 18, 1904, p. 134.

Mark Strand | The End

The End
Mark Strand
 The End by Mark Strand
Not every man knows what he shall sing at the end,
Watching the pier as the ship sails away, or what it will seem like
When he’s held by the sea’s roar, motionless, there at the end,
Or what he shall hope for once it is clear that he’ll never go back.
When the time has passed to prune the rose or caress the cat,
When the sunset torching the lawn and the full moon icing it down
No longer appear, not every man knows what he’ll discover instead.
When the weight of the past leans against nothing, and the sky
Is no more than remembered light, and the stories of cirrus
And cumulus come to a close, and all the birds are suspended in flight,
Not every man knows what is waiting for him, or what he shall sing
When the ship he is on slips into darkness, there at the end.

 

 

“The End,” © 1990 by Mark Strand from The Continuous Life by Mark Strand.

Anne Morrow Lindbergh | The first days of grief are not the worst…

Contrary to the general assumption, the first days of grief are not the worst.

Charles and Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Charles and Anne Morrow Lindbergh (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The immediate reaction is usually shock and numbing disbelief. One has undergone an amputation. After shock comes acute early grief which is a kind of “condensed presence” — almost a form of possession. One still feels the lost limb down to the nerve endings. It is as if the intensity of grief fused the distance between you and the dead. Or perhaps, in reality, part of one dies. Like Orpheus, one tries to follow the dead on the beginning of their journey. But one cannot, like Orpheus, go all the way, and after a long journey one comes back. If one is lucky, one is reborn. Some people die and are reborn many times in their lives. For others the ground is too barren and the time too short for rebirth. Part of the process is the growth of a new relationship with the dead, that “véritable ami mort” Saint-Exupéry speaks of. Like all gestation, it is a slow dark wordless process. While it is taking place one is painfully vulnerable. One must guard and protect the new life growing within– like a child.

One must grieve, and one must go through periods of numbness that are harder to bear than grief. One must refuse the easy escapes offered by habit and human tradition. The first and most common offerings of family and friends are always distractions (“Take her out”–“Get her away” –“Change the scene”–“Bring in people to cheer her up”–“Don’t let her sit and mourn” [when it is mourning one needs]). On the other hand, there is the temptation to self-pity or glorification of grief. “I will instruct my sorrows to be proud,”  Constance cries in a magnificent speech in Shakespeare’s King John.  Despite her words, there is not aristocracy of grief. Grief is a great leveler. There is no highroad out.

Courage is a first step, but simply to bear the blow bravely is not enough. Stoicism is courageous, but it is only a halfway house on the long road. It is a shield, permissible for a short time only. In the end, one has to discard shields and remain open and vulnerable. Otherwise, scar tissue will seal off the wound and no growth will follow. To grow, to be reborn, one must remain vulnerable– open to love but also hideously open to the possibility of more suffering.

Anne Morrow Lindbergh (1906-2001 ), Hour Of Gold, Hour Of Lead: Diaries And Letters Of Anne Morrow Lindbergh, 1929-1932

Po prostu (Simply) | Julia Hartwig

Po prostu

Na wszystko przyjdzie pora
Ale nie przyjdzie czas wskrzeszenia pierwszych nadziei
i pierwszych miłości
ani utrwalenia w słowach tego co przebiega ci przez głowę jak wiatr
i bywa przeczuciem jakiejś ważnej prawdy
lecz umyka tak szybko jakoby swawoliło
Przychodzi jednak nieodwołalnie pora
kiedy po kolei tracić zaczynasz wszystko co kochałeś
i wszystkich którzy odchodząc stąd
nie wyjawiają ci czy odchodzą zawiedzeni
Przychodzi ten czas
a ty przyjmujesz go bez wstydu i pokory
ot tak po prostu

Julia Hartwig

Disappointed

(Photo credit: simone|cento)

Simply

For everything there will come a time
but the time for resurrection of first hopes and first loves
     will not come
nor for arresting in words that which runs through your head like
     a wind
and might be a premonition of some weighty truth
but escapes as quickly as if it frolicked
Inevitably the time comes however
when one by one you begin to lose all the things you’ve loved
and all those who leave from here
without revealing to you if they depart disappointed
That time does come
and you accept it without shame or humility
just like that simply
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Happiness | Jane Kenyon

Happiness

by Jane Kenyon

There’s just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.
And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.
No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.
It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basketmaker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
                     It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.

English: The dwarf pine barrens in the Sam's P...

 

Dorothy Parker | Coda

Coda
Dorothy Parker

Instagram 365: #158

(Photo credit: exoskeletoncabaret)

There’s little in taking or giving,
There’s little in water or wine;
This living, this living, this living
Was never a project of mine.
Oh, hard is the struggle, and sparse is
The gain of the one at the top,
For art is a form of catharsis,
And love is a permanent flop,
And work is the province of cattle,
And rest’s for a clam in a shell,
So I’m thinking of throwing the battle-
Would you kindly direct me to hell?

 

From The Portable Dorothy Parker

 

a sort of ghastly simplicity

Hollow Man

(Photo credit: Ben Cooper)

And all the time—such is the tragi-comedy of our situation—we continue to clamour for those very qualities we are rendering impossible. You can hardly open a periodical without coming across the statement that what our civilization needs is more ‘drive’, or dynamism, or self-sacrifice, or ‘creativity’. In a sort of ghastly simplicity we remove the organ and demand the function. We make men without chests and expect of them virtue and enterprise. We laugh at honour and are shocked to find traitors in our midst. We castrate and bid the geldings be fruitful.  –C.S. Lewis, “The Abolition of Man

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the blue centerlight pop

RIP Jake #tbt #annarborsfinest via polyarchive

Shakin’ Jake Woods, Ann Arbor

 

 

 

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes ‘Awww!’”
— Jack Kerouac, On the Road