Prisoner of Hopes


  • Arrival: Travel Goals Canada

    Most days I love my rural home. Those days I am up before the sun, happily curled up in my favorite chair drinking coffee and either reading or writing. Today we have an early (5:30 am flight) and we live an hour from the airport. If you do the math; factoring travel time, airport parking and shuttle time, check in time, and leaving time to get some breakfast because we will be in the plane for hours with no food…..this is not be a leisurely morning. In fact, even though we went to bed at about 8 pm. I am questioning whether we should have slept at all. It is almost yesterday really. But a new day has arrived whether we like it or not.

    I am up and ready to go. Almost….

    I make coffee and do the pre travel checklist while my husband showers. Passports. Wallet. Luggage. Medicine. Notes for the house sitter. Lights off. Birds secure. Thermostat set. Doors locked. Wow.. I can’t tell you how much in this moment I wished we lived closer to the airport. I hate the hour that separates me from the plane.

    This time of morning there should be no traffic, so if we leave a little bit later my anxiety won’t spiral. But the later if gets, the more I worry and demand a time cushion. Because I have driven the highways into the city most days for twenty five years, I know what happens as traffic backs up, accidents happen, and road closures occur. To get to the plane, we have to navigate three of the four busiest roads in the region. Over the years, I have spent hours stuck in traffic on all of them. My husband thinks I am a worry wart…I just call it informed caution born of significant first hand experience.

    As predicted, there isn’t much traffic at 3:00 am and we arrive at the airport in record time. The shuttle is waiting at our car before we even have the luggage out of the trunk. Perhaps our morning is charmed. The driver is as helpful and pleasant as anyone I have ever encountered and in minutes we are dropped off at the terminal. My husband asks if I am happy now. Yes, as a matter of fact I am. I have arrived.

    I am strangely euphoric at each travel milestone that stands between we and my destination. I get the same little boost when I get through security and when I actually board the plane. A psychologist likely has something to say about this tendency. Walking and laughing, we approach the Alaska airlines entrance. Stepping through the automatic doorway into a vestibule, we almost trip over a man snoring as he is passed out on the floor. His pants are down to upper thigh, exposing his backside. Hmmm.

    My arrival euphoria crashes instantly. He isn’t dead. He is breathing. Is he drunk? Is he having a medical emergency? Is he a traveler? Is he unhoused? Do we seek help? We are wondering whether to try to intervene, step over, or find another door. We see a security guard approaching. So we nod and walk on. Weird. Being mooned at 3:40 in the morning at a major airport was not on my bingo card. I’m going to need a stronger cup of coffee.

    After making it through security behind three older men who apparently have never been told they need to remove their belts and wallets to go through screening (they seriously act as if it is a totally new concept), I finally arrive at the gate with a large cup of coffee. It is a short wait to board.

    When I get to my seat, I settle in for the next several hours. I arrange my phone and earphones and kindle. Creature comforts can make the flight bearable. I thought I would try to sleep but apparently the full moon experience at the airport entrance seared my eyeballs because they won’t close.

    Alaska Airline provides free WiFi and entertainment options if you have a personal device. Watching a movie on my phone is sort of like looking at fine art transferred onto to a postage stamp, but it is better than nothing. I choose Hamnet from the long list of inflight options. I always choose movies I think my husband won’t enjoy (the only time I watch films is when we are together or I am sitting on a plane). It seems logical to pick something to pick something artsy.

    Within an hour, I am crying on a plane. Again. Why do I do this to myself? A few years back, I watched Lion on a European flight. I sobbed so loud that an attendant asked if I was okay. I even ugly cried after watching Coco. It is a Disney cartoon for goodness sake. And now Hamnet. Tears. However, I am prepared with tissue and coffee. Intense familial devotion gets me every time….

    Finally dry eyed, we arrive in Seattle on schedule and find our gate. This trip we don’t even need to use the inter terminal tram. Ten steps from jet bridge to the new gate.

    Our flight is delayed. I realize I forgot to pack a deck of cards. Oh well. I have yet another coffee and we wait. My husband finds word games on his phone. I am only his emergency contact when he gets stuck so in between spelling emergencies, I watch people. To my great relief everyone is fully clothed in this airport.

    The flight to Vancouver takes less than an hour. It is closer to a half hour. The plane takes off. We see a few mountains in the distance and then we descend. Thera seems to be an abundance of water. But we are on ground before I can orient myself.

    We have arrived in Canada. The airport is a frenzy of activity. Apparently, it is World Cup week. I know this because of excessive signage and countless photo opportunities. The immigration check point is crowded. I joke that U.S. must be training the Canadian immigration agents (only because I have never had Canadians act this aggressively or rudely to people at the border …… unfortunately it seems the norm when returning to the USA). I think the Canadian team must be tired. Futbol fans have destroyed their last reserves of patience. The crowd is boisterous and intense. It is clear that more than a few have never traveled internationally and they aren’t really listening to directions because they also are overwhelmed. And because…selfies.

    I sigh in relief when we get into the Canadian sunshine. I am away from the crowds and standing on Canadian soil. We have arrived. Now we just need to find the ride share pickup location. They have a designated Uber pick up point…that is so convenient.

    Within minutes we are in a car and headed to Marpole where we have rented a house. It suddenly makes sense why we couldn’t find a hotel or rental closer to downtown. World Cup. Not on my radar. I barely have time to consider the dynamics of a city in World Cup frenzy when we pull up to a house. We have arrived.

    We get out. This house looks under construction. Wait, this is the wrong house. The Uber has already pulled away. I walk to the house next door. Right address, but the door code doesn’t work. I look up the entry directions on the rental site. They don’t make sense based on our location. There is no side door. I text the owner. My husband brazenly unlocks a tall gate and goes into the back yard. He finds a door down steps and into a basement. The code works. We have arrived.

    Turns out we have not rented a house. We have rented a room in a basement of the house with a private bath. There is a bed, a small table and chairs, a microwave, and two couches. There is not a television or a coffee pot. It is just one big crowded room. Hmm. This usually doesn’t happen.

    Then I think about trying to book a place for the next three days. Hotels are full or cost over $800 per night. Usual rental channels are completely sold out. I booked the first rental that looked decent for that was close to public transport. The listing did say private home with private apartment and outside entrance. Technically that is what we have. I also remembered a short mention that the owners have children…that is now obvious as they bang and scream from the floor above. No worries. We are travel veterans. Sometimes things exceed your expectations and sometimes there is air conditioning in your newly acquired basement get away.

    We have arrived. We are only here for three nights. That will be enough time to explore the city and catch our cruise ship for the real adventure. The price is affordable and it won’t be the first time I have crashed in someone’s basement. At least there is a fan. Let the Canadian adventures begin.

  • Walking Tokyo Or Why I Think Your Feet Are Key To A Rich Travel Experience: Travel Goals Japan

    There is never any doubt in my mind that the best way to get to point b from point a is to walk. This rule only applies when we travel. At home, I am more than happy to waste gas to take me three quarters of a mile to buy a luke warm latte made of powdered chemicals in a dirty gas station vending machine. I have been know to get in the car and drive a just block to find a new parking spot rather than walk between shops, because it is too hot or too cold or too wet….. But I digress.

    Home rules do not apply in a new place. Walking an unfamiliar city allows the character and color of the place to unfold in ways that are unexpected and joyful and sometimes jarring.

    Today, we can take a 20 minute Uber ride from Tokyo’s Ueno Park to the small market street I have read about or we can walk 15 to 30 minutes through local neighborhoods and find out how people really experience residential Tokyo. I will choose the latter every single time (much to my husband’s chagrin).

    As we walk, the streets are so narrow in spots that houses sit practically on the road. There are no sidewalks, simply a narrow painted line about 10 inches from the wall of the building. People have flower boxes hanging out windows, or mops leaning on the wall, or bicycles tucked tidily against the front porch. Walking down the middle of the street is really the only option, but thankfully, there are few cars this far from the main road. It is quiet here in the suburbs. Crowded, but very quiet.

    Closer to the park, there is a neighborhood nestled around a university. The houses are large red brick. The side walks are expansive. There are boxwood hedges and lawns. I might as well be in Cambridge or Boston. I have walked streets like these many, many times. Academia is a language I know well. I could be in University City or Berkeley. Apparently there is a prototype university staff neighborhood that has been replicated all over the world. I guess we can thank the English for that.

    The commercial streets are a bit more crowded as we get further away from the park. But it is still pretty quiet here in the suburbs. It seems every few blocks there is a shrine or temple. They are tucked between copy shops and salons. Sometimes there is an adjacent cemetery. People come and go. Here in Japan, prayer and remembrance are practiced daily. At least, I haven’t yet found a place of worship devoid of the faithful.

    I am overwhelmed with appreciation of the clever use of landscape architecture. I just walked a mile down a street with dirty buildings and dangling electric lines, but when I step through the temple gate I am in another world. It is peaceful and protected. Prayer and remembrance is encouraged and supported by the natural oasis deliberately shaped in this small public shrine.

    I find myself wondering how society changes when houses of worship create sanctuary instead of demanding attendance at “service”. This is not the first time I have pondered this question. In Europe, where I understand church attendance is in decline, I have never entered a church where there aren’t a number of people in the pews engaged in prayer. I wonder when the American church began to lock its doors in between formal gatherings? What does it mean? Wow these are deeper thoughts than I mean to have on a walk to buy inexpensive used kimonos. This is definitely not a typical “I’m headed to the flea market now” conversation. Do you see how good these spaces are at drawing you into reflection?

    As we take a Google approved short cut through another shrine (my husband is beginning to ask “how much further is this little side trip you are taking us on?”). I notice the traditional red caps and jackets on some of the stone figures. These are placed out of reverence for a loved one or as an offering with the hope of good fortune. That is fitting. I am walking to the market that is known for selling used kimonos on a mission. I want to buy a few for the family and friends who are watching our house and our birds while we travel. I want to honor them with a gift and I hope I have good luck finding them.

    I read that the kimonos are plentiful and inexpensive. Apparently, kimonos sold at the market have been made for the kimono rental business. In Japan everyone dresses up for photos during cherry blossom season and when visiting cultural sites and for special occasion. Sometimes people dress up when visiting museums or anime conventions. I don’t really understand and I don’t know what I will find. But I am intrigued.

    I am already thinking about what I might buy and walking faster. My husband is thinking that he is getting hot, we have been walking a long time, and we are probably lost because a cemetery does look like a road to a bustling city market. He is getting slower. This is my clue that we need to find our destination before we hit critical mismatch. (This is stage of travel in which neither spouse is happy. We avoid this stage if possible.)

    Soon, we do find the market. Google once again comes through (and this time we didn’t have to climb a gate or walk through a loading dock). There is an entire street of stalls. Most exciting, it seems to be an actual local market. There are no cheap souvenirs in sight.

    There are, however, more kimonos than I could have imagined. They come in all shapes and sizes. I easily get carried away. One for my neighbor, my brother, my sister in law, me, my husband….and suddenly I have more kimonos than I can handle. I have no idea how I will carry or even pack them all to travel home. I don’t care. I love them. Each one matches the personality of the intended wearer. At least I think so.

    The old lady that runs the booth tells me sternly that they are “Sore wa honmonode wa arimasen” (not the actual ones). She is insistent and intense. I smile and say I understand. (Only because a local woman translates as she sees me reaching for Google Translate.) It makes me wonder who has been upset to find out that the kimono they bought at such a low price wasn’t an authentic handmade Japanese treasure and had the gall to complain to her.

    My smile and assurances satisfy the woman, who then agrees to take the offered yen. She asks if I want matching obi. I do, but couldn’t possibly carry 10 to 20 more yards of fabric so I say “no arogato”, which must make no sense as the old woman looks confused. The nice local lady translates and the old woman nods and hands me a bag. Apparently, the sale is complete. Everyone is glad.

    An old man slaps my hands away when I try to fold the kimono to get them in the shopping bag. He kneels down on a sheet laid out on the street (apparently for this specific purpose) and shows me the proper way to fold kimono. This feels pretty actual to me. I appreciate the ancient ritual of it. There is honor and dignity in this sale. There is pride in the work. Even if I am standing in an alley, in a Tokyo suburb at a second hand market. Even though they are “Sore wa honmonode wa arimasen”, whatever that means.

    I like to walk the cities I visit because in the streets and neighborhoods “ the actual” always shows up. The polished and the “for the visitors” places are fun sometimes, but travel is for me about seeking the authentic. Today we walked from Ueno park to a market. For two miles, I compared my known experience to a university campus, a one lane alley, a shopping street, a variety of temples, a cemetery, and a flea market. And as always, I found we have more in common than not. And I found the quiet dignity of the human spirit.

    It is comforting to know that all over the world, there are people painting lines of protection even when the streets are just too narrow. There are people planting flowers in a sea of concrete. There are people creating beauty in a half acre lot between skyscrapers just to give people a place to pray and reflect. There are people honoring those that have gone before. There is an old woman that wants you to be sure you understand you are purchasing a used kimono so you don’t feel cheated. And there are old men who insist we take the time to do things the right way. I love that and I would miss it completely if I don’t take the time to walk.

  • Tourist Mecca or Sacred Mountain?: Travel Goals Japan

    Today’s destination is Fushimi Inari Taisha, a temple that has over 3 miles of trail up Mount Inari. The mountain temple path is lined with over 10,000 Tori Gates. My son has picked the location because of internet reviews and photos of the Tori gates. It does look impressive and a little intimidating. However, if I can hike a mountain with my son, I am all for it. After a 2.5 hour train ride from Tokyo and a transfer onto a regional train, we arrive.

    It is already crowded by 10:00 am. People are jostling around large temple buildings directly across from the train station. Founded in 700 by the Hata clan, the temple is dedicated to Inari, the sacred spirit (Kami) of rice. Inari has evolved into a patron of business, thus each of the thousands of Tori gates snaking up the mountain has been provided by a Japanese business. They make a colorful and memory sight.

    We wander the lower courtyard and take in the sights. There are monks making music, stalls selling prayer cards, fortune telling sticks, and lots of burning incense. People queue to pray. But mostly there are endless crowds.

    Unlike other temples we have visited, the bulk of the people appear to be tourists. Perhaps the tennis shoes and fanny packs give it away, but something is different. There is a literal stampede of people trying to get to the Senbon Tori, a tunnel made of 800 Tori Gates. I feel like I am in a cattle stampede. It gets worse once we are inside the tunnels. I think I know how livestock feel when they are forced through loading chutes.

    This may be worse. While it is picturesque on the internet, once inside it is hard to see anything. There are elbows and selfie sticks to dodge. Every three feet there is a person making duck lips and trying to pose balanced with one foot pointed sideways and a hand shooting awkwardly forward. It seems YouTube and instagram have turned this temple into an “it” destination. Sigh…

    Unlike 90% of the “influencers” and internet travel warriors, we do not turn around at Senbon Tori. I want to. The crush of tourists has cooled my enthusiasm. I can’t do this all day. It is too people-y. But the crowds all seem to be going back downhill. We came to walk the mountain. We decide to walk the mountain. Instead of following the herd, we turn onto a different path less used trail and we climb. The mountain unfolds slowly. Now we cross paths with pilgrims and random travelers seeking something more from the Fushimi Inari experience. The forest opens up. There is bamboo and maple. I hear bird song.

    Every so often we encounter ancient shrines and offerings. Always, the Tori gates lead the way. On and on they go, through the forest and up the mountain. The old path. It feels sacred in ways that the circus happening below can never be part of.

    There are rest houses along the path and we stop for tea. No English signage. No souvenir shops. Just stone dragons with agate eyes staring as we pass. Jade circles and lantern boxes marking the path near trail side shelters.

    Here old men kneel to pray to the ancestors. A line forms up a steep escarpment, apparently a celebration culminating with the blessing of a priest. I can hear the shouts of joy as we walk on. It is different here on the mountain. I can feel the peaceful relaxation in my body.

    About two miles in, the path becomes steep. The trail is now just endless steps taking us higher and higher. The Tori gates lead on. My son moves like a mountain animal born to the climb. He is steady and onward. I am older and despite my love of hiking, the climb is starting to take its toll. I find I must rest between stairways. My heart is pounding. I look up and my boy is patiently waiting ahead. I wouldn’t trade this moment for anything. While I will always feel the need to take care of him, today he is looking out for me.

    High on the mountain, there are no people visible in the temples. The incense burns. The prayer chains sway in the breeze and someone the isolation makes it seem holy. Set apart. We linger.

    Too soon, we realize it is time to return. We have been on the mountain for hours. We have a train to catch. But as we backtrack on legs that feel like jelly, I am amazed at all the things I didn’t notice on the way up the mountain. As I pray my knees will keep holding me up as I descend thousands of stairs, I reflect on the power of perspective. The view is absolutely breathtaking, but I didn’t see it when I was focused on climbing. What else have I missed in my life because of tunnel vision while surrounded by a sea of humans? What surprises have I missed because I failed to pause and turn around? It is said that people come to the mountain for wisdom. This mountain may be teaching me something after all.

    Okay…it is time to put my elbows back out. We made it back to the base of the mountain, but there are thousands of people between here and the train. Somehow the crowd grew while we conquered Mt. Inari. How is that even possible?

    I want to tell the hordes that the joy of Fushimi l Inari Taisha is not taking a selfie in front of a Tori gate. I want to tell them the star attraction is the pilgrimage itself. I want to shout that the beauty of this place is its ancient sacred path. I want to emphatically share that it is about the journey with those you love and not about how many buttons or stamps you can collect. But I don’t. Mount Inari is too special to be an “it” destination. Let’s just keep the secret between you, me, and the others that have walked to the top the sacred mountain.

  • Prudence: Character Matters

    “It wouldn’t be prudent. Read my lips. No new taxes. A thousand points of light.”. If you are old enough to remember Saturday Night live in 1989, you can likely remember Dana Carvey’s impression of George Bush Senior. I can picture it. I haven’t heard anyone use the word prudent since then.

    Prudent. It is a funny adjective that means acting with care, wisdom, and good judgment to avoid risk and plan for the future. It describes a sensible choice that prevents harm or loss. It assumes a position of moral care.

    When I was a teacher, I worked in a rural community and had a few students over the years named Prudence. It conjures up images of pilgrims in white caps and long aprons. I don’t live the name Prudence. (sorry girls). But Prudence is the quality of being careful, using good judgment, and avoiding unnecessary risks. It means looking ahead, planning carefully, and thinking about the future results of your actions before you make a choice. The Prudences that I taught were well named. If you looked up good judgement in a dictionary, you might find their pictures. They were lovely humans.

    Prudence is an important character trait. People who are prudent act with caution, wisdom, and self-control instead of rushing or acting on impulse. They save money, spend carefully, and manage resources responsibly.

    Prudence is regarded as one of the major cardinal virtues in both Ancient Greek philosophy and in the Christian church. Some have called prudence the “charioteer of virtues” because it guides and balances justice, strength, and temperance. How then, did we get to a time and place when so few people know what the word even means? How did prudence go from being perhaps the most important character strength to the dust bin of rarely used words?

    The word prudence comes from the latin word prudentia, derived from providentia and has the connotation of looking to the future. A prudent person is able to judge between virtuous and vicious actions, and to discern appropriate actions at a given time and place. For this reason, all other virtues are regulated by it. It is a fitting place to begin a discussion of character.

    In modern English, the word “prudence” has become closely associated with cautiousness. In this sense, prudence is a virtue that involves taking calculated risks, but that is not expansive enough. Aristotle talked about prudence in the language of “practical wisdom” or “rational choice”. Prudence provides guidance on the appropriate course of action. The purpose of prudence is to consider the circumstances of time, place, and manner that are relevant in any given situation. While it relies on the intellect, prudence is always a moral virtue. Prudence determines the right thing to do.

    You cannot consistently “Do the Right Thing” (yes, it is another 1980’s reference) without prudence. Without prudence a person blindly acts or meekly follows the directives of others without their own internal compass. Prudence tempers and forges our response. It somehow both softens our worst impulses and strengthens our backbone when we need to act.

    Prudent. It seems like something we should strive to be. But even prudence can be problematic in the blur of modern American life. If I am committed to prudence I may be very slow to act and I may perseverate. I may need to reflect and consider. Slow to act, slow to speak. Wait ….I think I remember reading about that in Proverbs and also James. Maybe it isn’t a problem if prudence slows us down. Maybe we should all slow down. That is not a popular message in the age of tweets and A.I..

    Prudence requires a host of intellectual skills. Memory. Foresight. Discursive reasoning. Open mindedness. Caution. To be prudent means to think. Prudence cannot be outsourced. It is a deeply personal endeavor.

    According to Thomas Aquinas, judgments that take a reasonable form, but are aimed at evil ends or that use evil means, are considered to be examples of “cunning” and “false prudence”. This may be the Achilles Heel of prudence in modern life. If a person knows the right thing to do and instead uses their discernment to take advantage of people or for personal gain,that is the opposite of prudence. Prudence is moral. Cunning is amoral. Prudence cannot be outsourced. Prudence is not simply financial accounting or the answers from an algorithm.

    Prudence is deeply personal and may not always be understood by those who hold different moral imperatives. In 1793 George Washington kept the U.S. out of the war between England and France. It was a prudent decision as the young country was too weak to withstand another war. Nevertheless it was crushing to French allies who had given much to help the Americans. Was the decision good for America? That is without question. Did it seem like betrayal to the French that fought for American independence? Certainly.

    When Abraham Lincoln made the Emancipation Proclamation, he withheld timing until he had won at Antietam, and even then it only freed slaves only in places of active rebellion (technically where he had little to no control). Was his a heroic and prudent choice to set freedom in motion without disrupting allies? Was it Constitutional overreach? Did he sell out of human rights to political expediency? Sometimes what looks prudent from a long view makes no sense to those only looking at the present.

    Prudence is a deliberate act of creating space between your immediate impulses and your subsequent actions. To be prudent is to seek wise council and deliberate. The prudent remember past experiences, seek input, and acknowledge their own blind spots. They exercise sound judgement and evaluation by conducting analysis. This could include cost and benefits, or asking themselves if it is true, good and kind. They look to the future and think about what happens outside of immediate gratification. They choose the timing of action to optimize success. They follow through on commitments and take measured risks.

    Prudence isn’t easy. It takes mental work. It isn’t distracted. It isn’t narrow. It is attentive and alert. It is focused on a successful and moral future. It looks beyond emotion and comfort. It is rational and comprehensive.

    In my humble opinion, “we need to be more prudent at this juncture”. Okay, you have to admit this would be funny if Dana Carey delivered the line. Use your imagination. If you aren’t old enough to remember Dana Carey there is always YouTube.

  • Character Matters

    Over the years, I have met some characters. I have definitely been accused of being a “character” and probably was guilty as charged. But this week, I have been training adults (my day job) and I have discovered an uncomfortable truth. Okay, discovered is dramatic. I noticed once again a pattern among humans. The Ancient Greeks wrote about it long ago.

    Humans struggle to talk about what they value and how those values shape their actions. Many (maybe most) people can’t tell the difference between human character and a human characteristic. In fact, we have very limited English words to even try to discern the clear distinction. When I talk about character, I am referring to the moral and ethical values that guide how a person thinks, feels, and acts.

    Ask a human to describe a personal character strength that they possess and they almost always default to a specific action. It seems we are really good at noticing what we do, or a specific outcome that action produces. A human characteristic is just a neutral label for an attribute like physical looks, a skill, or personality. It takes no effort or intention to have a characteristic. Whatever happens is a characteristic. Whatever currently exists is a characteristic. I am smart, old, beautiful, poor, etc….

    Characteristics seem obvious. I have always been what I like to call “built like a Roman goddess”. You might in American slang say that I am chubby. It is perhaps in my genetics or perhaps a learned response to family norms around food or maybe a response to a highly processed food supply. If I say, “that just the way I am”, it implies that the characteristic is immutable. While being chubby is a physical characteristic, it works the same for emotional and personality related characteristics. Such as “I was born with a bad temper. Therefore I am bad tempered. Therefore, you should expect that I will react to you in ways that are undesirable.” Being bad tempered is a defining characteristic…..but is it the person’s character? Does the conversation change for either scenario if we talk about the character trait/virtue of temperance?

    Character is formed. It is shaped through what you learn, what you experience, what you see modeled, the relationships you have, what you value and think about, and what you intentionally practice. Character is about intentionally living out your values in ways that are meaningful, consistent, and purposeful. Character traits can be divided into categories including: ethical/moral, performance, intellectual, and civic.

    If you have managed to read this far, you may be asking yourself why is she yammering on about this? It is because this week I realized that in setting after setting, when I asked professional and educated people to describe good character, they could always tell me specific things they wanted other people to do (be on time, show respect, consider my ideas, etc). But they struggled mightily to come up with the character trait (core value) itself. Adults could not identify the underlying values beyond the preferred actions.

    This is not the first time I have noticed this phenomena. When this happens in a group discussion , I ask the following questions. Why is that action important to you? If you needed to be “respectful” instead of simply doing something “respectful” how would that change your ideas? How do you help someone value kindness instead of simply performing a kind act in order to get something in return? Will punishing people who are late help them develop respect for other people’s time (fyi. It won’t.)?

    Increasingly, Americans struggle with these conversations. In some circles, just asking if actions live up to ideals written in our founding documents is enough to start an argument. How did we get from the age where Ben Franklin created a list of 13 virtues that he meditated on and practiced throughout his lifetime to a nation struggling to even consider the concept of empathy? How can it be that even in houses of worship sermons are more likely to tell us “3 things you need to do this week” than encourage us to examine ourselves in light of a moral truth? Maybe because “just do it” is easier than self reflection. Perhaps holding your actions up to ideals sometimes feels defeatist. A checklist with three easy steps seems accessible and brings instant gratification. Truthfully, it sometimes makes people down right uncomfortable to talk about abstract and aspirational ideals, particularly if the discussions are about shared values and personal character. Just ask Socrates.

    At his trial for “corrupting the youth” of Athens, Socrates famously said “the unexamined life is not worth living”. He chose death over the inability to ask moral questions within his society and publicly refuted the idea that it was unpatriotic (anti-Greek) to ask people if their actions really reflected their ideals. Socrates believed that a good life requires questioning your own habits, beliefs, and goals rather than blindly following. He taught that reflection and introspection allow people to recognize their own ignorance and strive to become better human beings. He feared that living without reflection would cause humans to accept whatever society hands you without truly understanding your own purpose and power to affect positive change. He asserted that personal ambitions must be tempered with the common good. He believed that a society thrived only when it looked beyond its outward characteristics and cultivated moral excellence (good character).

    And so this week in the heartland of America, I am pondering when we stopped talking about character, values, and shared ideals. When did the subtle shift occur in which we can all talk about what we are supposed to do, what we have, what we want, and what we think and yet struggle to talk about why that action or idea is a reflection of what we value? When life is reduced to doing only the right “actions” or having the right “things “ devoid of what they mean, people lose discernment.

    Isolated actions can be manipulated and misused. Rewards and punishment become the only behavioral drivers. We become “controlled” by what’s in it for me. Justification of our actions is unlimited without reflection against our ideals. For example, “I want to make money” is a frequently stated action. It is not grounded in any particular character trait. Rich is a characteristic not a character strength. But if the characteristic is what you are chasing, any action is permissible as long as it makes money. A concrete action becomes the ideal.

    Sometimes the distinction is even trickier. Obedience can be viewed as character strength, but most people treat it as a transactional characteristic. We use “do what you are told” in order to avoid a punishment or gain a reward. We use the characteristic of obedience to encourage compliance. But what if you are told to do something that harms someone else? Do you do it? When obedience is balanced with critical thinking, it maintains social order and teamwork, but practiced blindly, it can lead to ethical risks.

    People who cannot see beyond concrete action are certainly not well positioned to see the nuances in values. There is a continuum that must be acknowledged. It is possible to have too much of a character trait, just as it possible to have too little. Courage is a virtue right up to point where a person takes unnecessary risks and endangers self and others. Honesty is a virtue. But is truthfully telling an elderly person struggling to unload their cart that they are slowing down the grocery line, kind or necessary? And so it goes. Actions can be illustrative, but separate from the underpinning values they can be amoral; Operating purely on logic, instinct, or mechanics without ethical judgment, or based strictly on utility, survival, or data.

    Like Socrates, I believe that character matters. Like Franklin, I understand that character is formed. Because, your character is shaped through what you learn we have to take time to understand concepts of character. Because your character is informed by what you experience and what you see modeled we have to reflect and discuss what is happening against what we value. Because character is influenced by the relationships you have, people should take time to talk about what we value collectively. If we are serious about character, we have to identify what we value and then intentionally practice the variety of specific actions that become habits that improve our lives.

    Characteristics can just happen. Character is formed. Character, it turns out, does indeed matter. And it takes work. So in an effort to live what I believe, I will be blogging occasionally in a new series called I am calling, Character Matters. I hope to explore specific character traits. Together, I hope we can discuss and examine shared values, ideas about the identified value over time, individual actions associated with the value, what the character trait looks like on a spectrum of too little or too much, and how a commitment to the development of the trait might be practiced.

    Ambitious? Probably. Esoteric? Perhaps, but shouldn’t be. Critically needed in public discourse? Absolutely. Character Matters. Shared ideals and commitments strengthen society. Personal character formation builds the internal compass that guides action. I hope you join me as we work to get better at identifying what we value and strengthening character.

  • Bullet Train: Travel Goals Japan

    I am riding a bullet train today. There is one leaving the station every few minutes. I can arrive and walk to the platform with absolutely no fuss. I am still in shock that for a small fee I will be in a city across the country in just a few hours. With a Japan rail pass (and a Suica card), there are aren’t many places that I can’t get to by train or bus. The possibilities seem endless because of Japanese transit systems. The trains are fast, safe, clean, and energy efficient.

    Most Japanese towns and cities are connected with fast and reliable railway services that run multiple times a day and consequently, people use them. The timeliness, cleanliness, and efficiency seems miraculous. I feel like Americans are missing out. Why can’t this be my everyday reality?

    Today we will travel from Tokyo to Kyoto, spend a whole day exploring, and travel back to Tokyo. It is not our first train trip in Japan, but it is our first Shinkansen bullet train. The ride will take about two hours (And also another half hour to take the bus and metro to Tokyo Station from the house). I think I will spend the travel time reading and looking at great views of Mount Fuji. Fyi, the highway drive time to the same destination was estimated at 11 hours. Why would anyone drive here?

    The Shinkansen trains have a separate ticket turnstile system within Tokyo Station. We exit the metro train area and follow the signs to Shinkansen. Today, the entrance is very crowded and we are unsure what to do. There seem to be hundreds of people pushing into five ticket lanes. We aren’t even sure we are in the right place. Do we go through?How can we be sure? There aren’t departures boards visible to us? Do all turnstiles lead to all trains? We take a breath and enter the sea of people. When we get close to the turnstiles, I show my reservation to a man in uniform who waives us through.

    Once inside the Shinkansen area, things calm down. The departures board is large and we are near our platform. There is a waiting room and a pastry shop. A croissant and coffee sounds nice. My husband is not a morning person so even coffee doesn’t make up for the fact that we have a half hour to spare (he could have been asleep) before we board.

    I have a need to give myself a time cushion. Until this moment, I didn’t know where to go, or that trains leave every half hour, or that I could simply catch the next one…..Our seats have been pre-reserved, but if our plans change I am welcome to catch the next one. At least I think so, but we may have to stand or take a seat in an unreserved car. There is not a penalty. That relieves a bit of stress. With coffee in hand, the correct platform in sight, and the excitement of a new adventure, I am triumphant. Of course I am a morning person. Seven am is my best time of day.

    Eventually we move toward the train and I decide that I need to get a few snacks from the interesting vending machines on the platform. They serve both hot and cold drinks from the same machine! There is ice-cream and ramen. I can buy cake or candy or a sandwich. Today, I decide on a lovely hot green tea. In about an hour, I want to be reading a book on my kindle while sipping warm tea and looking out the window at the mountains of Japan.

    At the boarding area, we find our car number and wait in the lined marks on the platform. As trains come in, each station plays a cheery tune. Passengers learn to identify stations by the music. Once the train pulls in, an automatic gate opens and we are invited to board.

    Once inside the train, our seats are easy to find. We have WiFi and even electrical outlets at each seat. There is a hook to hang our jackets and overhead racks for backpacks. The tray table allows me to arrange my personal items within easy reach. I am amazed at how much room I have. Why can’t the airlines figure this out?

    Within minutes of getting settled, we are leaving the station. Soon the train gains speed and hurls itself toward Yokohama. It is hard to fathom how fast we are moving. I don’t notice until I try to count the telephone poles visible along the roadways. It makes me dizzy. They are rushing by so fast my eyes won’t register and it is completely disorienting. I decide to only watch things in the distance.

    Before each new station, a pleasant tone announces our arrival and suggests passengers use the next few minutes to prepare to disembark. Passengers are quiet and polite. If new people board and are loud, they are almost always tourists. Sad, but true. The Japanese travelers are silent, efficient, and pleasant.

    To break up the journey, I explore the train. The bathrooms are large and clean. The toilet has heated seats and bidet features with warm water. There is a sound machine you can play so people can’t hear you do your business. It is nicer than my bathroom at home. I notice people carry personal hand towels to use after washing up in the large sinks that sit in the corridor. This culture clearly values sustainability and personal responsibility.

    If all this isn’t enough, a smiling young man comes down the aisle pushing a cart full of goodies. There are drinks and snacks. I brought my own, so I decline to purchase but promise myself that I will make a selection on the way home.

    Thinking about food, I decide that my (now only slightly warm) tea would be a welcome addition to the Shinkansen experience. I open it and take a big gulp, ready for the warm comfort that a good breakfast tea always brings. Unfortunately, it tastes like grass. I don’t actually know what grass tastes like, but if cut grass smell had a taste it is currently in my mouth. Hmmm. I look at the bottle. It looks like green tea. Maybe Google can help. I open my camera and work to get the image to translate. I need to know what I am drinking.

    It seems that I purchased barley water. Hot barley water. Perhaps it is not too late to flag down the nice young man with the snack cart. We still have an hour to Kyoto and I am not sure I can go that long with the unexpected taste of farm field in my mouth.

    Eventually, I embrace the experience. I drink the grass water. I hum alone with the station chimes. I take a few selfies to remember the experience. And just like that, in less time than it would have taken to clear Tokyo traffic in a vehicle, I am standing in Kyoto station. Now we just need to figure out how to exit Shinkansen and find the Kyoto regional train to Nara. I have a mountain to climb and some temples to visit.

  • Adventures in Grocery Shopping: Travel Goals Japan

    One of my favorite things to do when we travel internationally is to hang out in the grocery stores. This is weird because grocery shopping is not something I enjoy normally. I would put it in the necessary inconvenience of modern life category. But a grocery store in an unfamiliar place is a cave of wonders. I am suddenly an explorer in search of undiscovered treasure.

    Since we usually rent a house for an extended stay, finding a local grocery store is usually a good beginning step toward settling into local life. First, however, I have learned to explore my kitchen and cookware. It does no good to have food you can’t store or cook.

    In Ireland, we stopped at a local market and bought a week’s worth of groceries on the way to the new house from the airport. We discovered upon arrival that the refrigerator was half the size we were used to with limited freezer space. It could hold about three days worth of food. Oops.

    In Portugal, I had an ancient gas oven that had to be lit with a very long match. Baking was possible yet challenging. In a 250 year old European farmhouse, we had a wood powered oven and stove. The owners cut and stacked plenty of wood but I had a steep learning curve. Making anything quickly was impossible. It had to be planned.

    This trip, we have rented a typical house in a Tokyo suburb. There is a small toaster oven, electric range, a variety of electric and gas portable cooktops, four kinds of rice cookers and a few appliances that I have no idea about. I don’t seem to have any forks but there are a lot of tongs. Hmm. (Perhaps I am supposed to cook in hot oil?) But there are also no spices, condiments, or cooking oils in the house. We will be starting from scratch.

    The neighborhood grocery is busy. People are rushing in and out like their lives depend on it. I am not used to this level of grocery shopping energy. We get a cart. I notice I am getting a lot of side eye. It is polite, and yet something is suggesting we are breaking a norm. After a little observation, it seems we were supposed to put a shopping basket in the cart and then put the groceries in the basket…. not directly in the cart. I’ll file that away for next time.

    The produce section is easy. I recognize lettuce, onions, carrots and a variety of fruits. We can’t go wrong with fresh fruits and vegetables. But the next aisle is packaged insects. Mmm. Nope.

    I move on to the next aisle which is entirely rice. A whole aisle of rice! Not a box of minute rice to be found. Guess those rice cookers could come in handy, but since every meal we eat out will come with rice, we move on to noodles.

    There is also an aisle of sauce. At this point we realize that we don’t read Japanese and just looking at the package isn’t at all helpful. Now the polite side eye of other shoppers turn into barely suppressed amusement. My husband and I hover over packages with our cell phones trying to get an angle that allows the Google Translate camera app to tell us if the sauce was are holding is pomadoro Italian, basic ketchup, seaweed extract, or octopus juice. I can’t tell if I am fascinated or terrified about what I might accidentally take home.

    We’ve done this dance all over the world. The strange thing is that no matter where I am, I can always find the ingredients for taco salad/tacos, spaghetti, pizza and pancakes. I can find cuts of chicken, beef, and pork. There are always potatoes, eggs, and bread. No one is starving. Things may just not look the way we are used to seeing them.

    The eggs won’t be refrigerated. The butter may come in a squeeze tube. I may have to ask a butcher for “mince” if I want hamburger. I may discover that he is profoundly insulted that I expected to find ground beef prepackaged. There will likely not be preservatives in the meat and bread, which means that we will have to shop every few days getting just what we need or our food will spoil.

    The grocery store tells me a lot about what people value. Limited packaging and a strong culture of bringing your own reusable bag signal environmental awareness. Aisles of dried and fresh fish tell me people have a close relationship with the sea. There are hints of lifestyle on every shelf. Lack of junk food and the regulation on dyes and preservatives tell me health awareness is more than a slogan.

    There are limited bread options and almost no sweets. I see rows of rice cakes and a few varieties of chips. There are exactly two breakfast cereal options (I wonder what the lady watching me shop would think of our wal-mart aisle with a hundred cereal options? Probably how I am feeling about the endless varieties of rice…..how much can you actually need?)

    We stop to collect a few bottles of soft drinks. We don’t usually consume soda, but Coke looks familiar in a sea of unknown. Yesterday I got a lovely green tea out of a vending machine. At least I thought so. It turned out to be barley water. It was a lovely color. The package was beautiful. It tasted like a mouthful of grass.

    Sometimes we buy the snacks and Doritos even though they are rarely in our everyday pantry. The juxtaposition of comfort and exotic. I will defend till the end of time that Tayto is the best potato chip in the world (I never eat chips at home, but in Ireland I eat them by the case…not the bag). In Japan, I am becoming addicted to cans of calbee veggie straws. Weird.

    Sometimes I improvise and use the new things I find with recipes I know. I make taco salad with baked rice chips because we are craving Mexican and we can get most of the ingredients right. Occasionally a masterpiece is born. Usually it is edible. Never will it knowingly contain bugs or octopus juice, but most new things are fair game. We won’t know until we try it. And to try it we have to buy it.

    Ps. When we get to the check out, we understand why you need the basket. There is no counter. They take out the basket and set on a small ledge. The items are scanned and put into your cart for you to bag. We have created an awkward situation for the checker. We also don’t know how to operate the payment machine that is only in Japanese. A friendly local helps us out. Now we know. Next time I won’t hold up the line . Gomenasai.

  • Wind Power: Rural Road Trips

    Today we find ourselves at a windmill museum. Why? You ask. That is a good question that we are still asking ourselves. The short answer is that we are on a road trip and find ourselves in the middle of Texas with time to kill. Our RV park has no amenities and the ambience at the camp site is down on your luck trailer park meets construction site. You really can’t tell these things when you book online. It isn’t great. So we really need to find something to do with our afternoon.

    I am not really interested in windmills, at least I don’t think I am. I had to question my need for random exploration when they told me the admission price. This may be the steepest admission of any stop on our trip.

    Okay, it isn’t that high compared to other places I have been in my lifetime….but for two rooms full of windmills? Not sure about this. But, I am somewhat won over by the cute couple who own the museum. They are determined to preserve the history of the windmill and its importance in the development of Texas ranching.

    I guess I have not considered the fact that it is dry, hot and windy here. Not much grows and the rivers and streams tend to dry up at certain times of the year. But there is plenty of groundwater and also plenty of wind. If only there was a way to harness the wind power to get to the water….. Ahhh….. I suddenly understand the Texans love of the windmill. And I am charmed by owners enthusiasm.

    With new appreciation, I dutifully stroll the giant barn of windmills. I don’t want to admit to the owners that the windmills all look alike to me. I can’t tell one model from the next. I can see by the signs that they have an extensive collection.

    Yep. That is another windmill with a different model number and a different year of manufacture. Oh look. This one is green. This must be how my aunt felt following my uncle to tractor conventions. “Yep, there is another tractor. That’s nice dear.”

    Guess, I better keep walking. There is another large building of windmills. I wouldn’t want to miss the giant wind turbine. I hear I can turn it on with the press of a button. And the owner tells me there are model trains that run under the windmills. I get to run those too? This stop is getting better all the time.

    Since we are the only guests, it is time to tap into my inner child. I might even get to play with the Lego models or color a windmill at the art station. I mean, why wouldn’t I take advantage of all the windmill museum has to offer? I am here to celebrate the power of the wind. Let’s do this.

  • That’ll Be The Day: Rural Road Trips

    We are in Lubbock taking a rest for a few days on an extended rv trip. Today we ran across the Buddy Holly Center. I didn’t know Buddy Holly was from Lubbock. But I do now. I also didn’t know that he looked eerily like my son in law. But now that I have seen it. I can’t unsee it.

    I think that is what caught my eye. All of the murals of Buddy spread across Lubbock look like my son in law. They would look even more alike if he wore big black glasses. Maybe it is the long face and the big brown eyes, but holy moley…it is a little uncanny.

    And so, we stop at the center. First I sing a verse or two of American Pie to get myself ready. Then I sing a little medley of Holly tunes on the way in the building. The main exhibit has a lot of memorabilia. Guitars and lyrics line the cases. There are records and tour set lists. Hits like “Peggy Sue” and “That’ll be the Day” play throughout the museum.

    It is fun to think of Buddy Holly and Crickets as teenagers. Even at their height, they were a teenage garage band. It seems like the boys had fun and more importantly, they had real talent.

    The house of one of the band members sits next to the museum. It is open to museum guests. With our guide, we walk into the bedroom where hits were born. It seems easy to imagine the boys crowded around the piano, writing and trying out potential lyrics. Physical artifacts always make things seem more real. But mostly, I am a parent whose teenage son was in a band. I remember the excitement and silliness that emanated from kids full of creativity and dreams. They were so young.

    At age 22, Holly died in a plane crash along with Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper. It was a tragic end to a rising star. A tragic accident in a winter storm ended a legend. Or maybe it created one.

    Holly is credited with influencing the trajectory of rock and roll. Musicians like Dylan, the Beatles, and the Rolling Stones all say Holly heavily influenced their sound.

    As I stand in the memorial garden I think about how a short life can have such a big impact. But mostly, I can’t stop thinking about how much Buddy Holly looks like my son in law. Weird.

  • In Flight Entertainment

    Earlier in the week I was on the flight from hell. Today, I am determined to have a great travel day. Despite the flight to California on Monday, my work week has gone well. I had a good hotel, good food, good training sessions, and the clients are happy. It is time to go home.

    I drop the rental car with no issues. Security is a breeze. I find a quiet corner and knock out some emails, calls and even a zoom meeting. I celebrate with a toasted bagel and a cappuccino. Boarding is uneventful. Things are definitely looking up compared to the inbound flight experience.

    I settle into my seat. The plane WiFi connects on the first try. It is my day! I search the movie options available. There is a newish Western available that I haven’t seen. I love westerns. It isn’t the best storyline but I am entertained until we land in Las Vegas. A bearded Pierce Brosnan with a full Irish accent makes up for the plot defects.

    I stay on board with three other people as the people stopping in Vegas deplane. This plane is headed to my final destination, I can stay in my seat. The crew leaves for a shift change and tells us to feel free to walk and stretch. I decide that a stretch would be nice. The maintenance guy walks back and forth down the aisle and I move over each time to let him pass. It becomes just silly after about a dozen times of stepping in and out of the aisle, and so I head back to my seat. I need to let the man work. He has duct tape. It must be serious.

    Eventually, the next load of passengers begin arriving. There are a lot of small children in tow. Is Vegas a new family destination? For some reason, a fair amount of the kids are in costumes. I watch Spider-Man and Mickey Mouse bounce down the aisle with smiles as big and bright as the sun. I find myself smiling along. It is hard to not get caught up in toddler giggles. Flying is clearly a grand adventure.

    I am smiling along and wishing I still loved the airline experience, when an aggressive round woman stops in front of me and puts her finger in my face. I take out my earplug and ask if she needs in my row. She replies that I am in her seat and that I need to get up. I said, I am sorry but I am sure this my seat. She again aggressively claimed the seat and demanded I vacate.

    At this point I calmly call up my boarding pass. I have been in the seat since California, I am sure it is assigned to me. I am just going to show her my boarding pass. As I am searching she says loudly, “okay, we have a problem!”, and begins to throw down her bags. Just as I am trying to decide if I need to stand up and escalate the encounter, a flight attendant approaches and escorts the woman to her seat, across the aisle.

    Everyone now knows she is actually in seat d, not seat c where I am sitting. She sheepishly looks at the attendant and says “I was just following the numbers.” The guy behind me mutters, “next you should work on your alphabet.”

    I am trying not to laugh out loud because, some things are just funny. I think this guy and I share the same sense of humor/sarcasm. I don’t think she heard him, as she is preoccupied. She can’t get her bag under her seat because she can’t bend over. The seat belt isn’t long enough to buckle. It is clearly not her day. Bless her heart.

    As I am just settling back into my seat and reinserting my earplugs, when an older man puts his finger in my face. I take out my earplugs. He is saying “Let’s see what we can work out here.” Thinking I missed something, I ask if he is in the center seat in my row. He said, “I want to sit by my wife” and pointed to me. I look at the girl by the window who is a teenager. Neither of us are his wife. Is he confused?

    He points to the man behind me. “What can we work out so that I can sit by my wife.” An older woman seated in the row behind me looks embarrassed. Ah, they both have middle seats. The my funny friend behind me and I both have aisle seats. I guess Mr. Insistent didn’t want to pay to select a seat.

    Before I can respond, the man behind me says “unless you have an aisle seat to exchange with one of us I suggest you sit down. The lady in front of me has been harassed enough for one day and I am not moving.”

    The older man swallows hard and gestures for me to let him sit in his assigned seat. He promptly begins the man spread routine and is being overly dramatic. I am determined to ignore the guy’s elbows claiming the single arm rests on either side of him and his big feet claiming half of my leg space. He is clearly annoyed that someone didn’t willingly give up an aisle seat. As if anyone would be happy to claim a middle seat on a three and a half hour flight when they paid for an aisle. I guess hope springs eternal.

    He eventually settles down and tucks his arms and legs back into more acceptable space. He has enough papers spread out to wall paper a small room. I can’t help but notice he appears to be writing a sermon. There are scripture quotes and jokes in the jumbled stack. A paper falls into my lap. It is a checklist that says “what to do when someone dies.” Now I have questions. I return the wayward checklist to its owner. Bizarre sermon? Inappropriate funeral speech.

    It doesn’t matter. Today, I am shutting out other people’s crazy. I am going to eat my pretzels and return to in flight entertainment options. Maybe there is another western or perhaps a comedy. I could use something to make me laugh. However, I am pretty sure that I won’t be able to find anything half as entertaining as the people sitting next to me on this flight.