Lift Up Your Hearts!

Stained Glass Elegies: Stories by Shusaku Endo translated by Van C. Gessel (Tuttle Publishing, Tokyo, 1986)

When Basel records the highest temperature in Switzerland, and much of Europe has the temperatures of Florida in July without benefit of Florida's air conditioning, and a recent birth precludes visiting the local swimming pool, let alone fleeing to somewhere high in the Alps, then sitting in front of a fan and reading beats most other activities.  It especially beats sitting with a hot computer on one's lap, so this will be a short review.

Endo is not an author I would have likely come across on my own, but that's the advantage of having someone else's bookshelves at one's disposal.  I chose this book of short stories over the many Endo novels available, on the theory that they would work better in a household punctuated by random baby needs.

Although the themes are decidedly adult, and rather depressing, the stories were good to read and rarely objectionable, even to me.  What I found most fascinating was the glimpse of life from a Japanese point of view.  Recurring motifs, probably somewhat autobiographical, include tuberculosis; hospitals; internal doubts, fears and struggles; war; and the suffering of Christians, both martyrs and apostates, during the time when Japan attempted to stamp out Christianity—and the effect that era has on Japanese Christians today.  "Would I be able to endure torture and death—and the torture and death of my family—without abandoning my faith?" is not a thought most American Christians give serious consideration, but apparently for Endo, a Japanese Catholic in a land where Christians of all sorts make up only 2% of the population, it was a haunting question.

Temperatures in the mid-90's do not surprise me in July:  I live in Florida.  I'll confess I was hoping for something more reasonable in Switzerland, however.  Somehow calling the temperatures "mid-30's" doesn't improve the situation as much as I would hope.  I miss air conditioning; I miss ceiling fans.  Even when we lived without air conditioning in Boston I could find relief at the grocery store.  Not so, here.

But there are compensations.  The apartment is wonderfully designed for cross-ventilation, and the lack of screens means we make the most of every breeze. We have two fans, and the temperatures cool off enough at night to make sleeping reasonable.  Still, there's not much incentive to be very ambitious, and Janet is really wishing she could take advantage of her membership in the pool that's only a five-minute walk away.

How about you?  I gather it's been hot for a lot of folks.

Baby update:  Doing fine, eating lots, filling out, doesn't like the heat but still likes to be held.  Has perfected the knack of filling a clean diaper within 15 seconds of the change.

In Tune with the World: A Theory of Festivity by Josef Pieper, translated from the German by Richard and Clara Winston (St. Augustine's Press, South Bend, Indiana, 1999; original copyright 1963, translation copyright 1965)

Sometimes it helps to take a second look.

I wasn't halfway through the first chapter before I was disappointed with In Tune with the World.  It was my own fault:  Despite the book's subtitle, I had been expecting practical suggestions for recovering festivity in a society where abundance is commonplace.  (See New Year's Resolution #2:  Rediscover Feasting.)  However, when Pieper says "a theory of festivity," that is exactly what he means.

What's more, the first few pages put me off because Pieper seemed to be dividing our lives between work and festivity, with work pretty much defined as what men do to earn a living, and I kept thinking, "But you still expect the women to cook and clean for your festivals; if they separated their work from the feast, it wouldn't be much of one!"  He was writing in the early 1960's, so I can't say he's free from that attitude, but there's much more to what he is saying, and my preconceptions definitely distorted that first chapter.

Before I had finished the book, however, I realized that it deserved re-reading for what it is rather than for what I wanted it to be.  I'm not generally one to read books of philosophy—largely, I'll admit, because I find them hard going, and true to form, this 88-page book with relatively large print is not something to be read in one sitting, even for a fast reader like me.  I had brought it to Switzerland to read and leave with Janet (it was, after all, her suggestion and her birthday present), but as with The Brain that Changes Itself, I soon realized I'd have to bring it home with me.  There is only so much of this kind of writing I can take without my eyes glazing over:

Human acts derive their meaning primarily from their content, from their object, not from the manner in which they are performed.  Play, however, seems to be chiefly a mere modus of action, a specific way of performing something, at any rate a purely formal determinant.

The text is well worth working through, however—perhaps several times.  Here are a few points I was able to glean on the second reading.  Because of all the quotations, the rest of the post is very long.  I think they merit the time it will take to read them, or I wouldn't have made the effort to type them in, but the ideas are highlighted so you can indulge in "Festivity Lite" if you wish.

Festivity is a joyous affirmation:  Everything that is, is good, and it is good to exist.

[S]uch affirmation [is not] shallow optimism, let alone...smug approval, of that which is....  [It] is not won by deliberately shutting one's eyes to the horrors in this world.  Rather, it proves its seriousness by its confrontation with historical evil. ...  [The Christian martyr]...never utters a word against God's Creation.  In spite of everything he finds the things that are "very good"; therefore he remains capable of joy, and even, as far as it concerns him, of festivity.  [O]n the other hand, whoever refuses to assent to reality as a whole, no matter how well off he may be, is by that fact incapacitated for either joy or festivity.  Festivity is impossible to the naysayer.

To celebrate a festival means:  to live out, for some special occasion and in an uncommon manner, the universal assent to the world as a whole.

It is the nature of festivity to be non-utilitarian.

To celebrate a festival means to do something which is in no way tied to other goals, which has been removed from all "so that" and "in order to."  True festivity cannot be imagined as residing anywhere but in the realm of activity that is meaningful in itself.

With the death of the concept of human activity that is meaningful in itself...[it] becomes a sheer impossibility to establish and maintain an area of existence which is not preempted by work.  For there is only a single justification for not working that will be acceptable even to one's own conscience.  That is, dedication of leisure to something meaningful in itself.  It is more important not only "socially" but also on a higher human level to work than to kill time; and if we contrast the laboring society and its totalitarian planning for utility with a civilization dedicated mainly to entertainment, the former seems without question overwhelmingly superior.

The antithesis between holiday and workday, or more precisely, the concept of a day of rest, tells us something further about the essence of festivity.  The day of rest is not just a neutral interval inserted as a link in the chain of workaday life.  It entails a loss of utilitarian profit.  In voluntarily keeping the holiday, men renounce the yield of a day's labor....The day of rest, then, meant not only that no work was done, but also that an offering was being made of the yield of labor.  It is not merely that the time is not gainfully used; the offering is in the nature of a sacrifice, and therefore the diametric opposite of utility.

Extravagance is appropriate for festive celebrations.  Here is a foreign concept that rings true.  Surrounded by plenty, yet endowed with a great sense of thrift, it is hard for me in good conscience to be lavish—with money, calories, or enthusiasm—even for a celebration.

A festival is essentially a phenomenon of wealth; not, to be sure, the wealth of money, but of existential richness.  Absence of calculation, in fact lavishness, is one of its elements.  Of course there is a natural peril and a germ of degeneration inherent in this.  The way is open to senseless and excessive waste of the yield of work, to an extravagance that violates all rationality.... But this potential perversion cannot be included within the definition of festivity.... [T]he fact remains that the paramountcy of a calculating, economizing mentality prevents both festive excess and festivity itself.  In the workaday world all magnificence and pomp is calculated, and therefore unfestive.

True festivity is inseparable from religious experience.  Pieper writes as a Christian, and clearly views Christian festivals as the highest and best of celebrations.  Yet the theory of festivity he posits has its roots firmly in pagan, primitive, Jewish, Roman, and other practices as well, and the book is rife with quotations from sources many and varied.  He would probably agree with the concept, which I first encountered in C. S. Lewis, that Christianity did not come so much to abolish the old religions as to fulfill them.

[T]o celebrate a festival is equivalent to "becoming contemplative, and, in this state, directly confronting the higher realities on which the whole of existence rests."...Bustle does not make a festival; on the contrary, it can spoil one....[A] special spice, essential to the right celebration of a festival, is a kind of expectant alertness.  One must be able to look through, and, as it were, beyond the immediate matter of the festival, including the festal gifts; one must engage in a listening, and therefore necessarily silent, meditation upon the fundament of existence.

A festival without gods is a non-concept, is inconceivable. For example, Carnival remains festive only where Ash Wednesday still exists.  To eliminate Ash Wednesday is to eliminate the Carnival itself.  [This is nowhere so obvious to me as in Orlando, where the Universal Studios theme park "celebrates" Mardi Gras throughout Lent.  It is an excuse for partying, or more accurately for profit-making, and nothing else.]

Secular as well as religious festivals have their roots in the rituals of worship.  Otherwise, what arises is not a profane festival, but something quite artificial, which is either an embarrassment or...a new and more strenuous kind of work.

[F]estivals are doomed unless they are preceded by the pattern of ritual religious praise.  That is the fire that kindles them.  But it is that very thing—praise of God—which constitutes almost the entire content of Christian ritual....[A]ffirmation is the fundamental form of Christian liturgy.  Christian liturgy is in fact "an unbounded Yea-and-Amen saying."...St. Augustine has defined worship in the same terms:  "Worship takes place," he says, "by the offering of praise and thanksgiving."  Indeed, the Church itself uses the name "thanksgiving" for the sacramental offering which is the source and center of all other acts of worship.  The Mass is called and is eucharistia.  Whatever the specific content of this thanksgiving may be, the "occasion" for which it is performed and which it comports with is nothing other than the salvation of the world and of life as a whole....Of course, everything depends on whether or not we think the historical world and human life are "made whole" or at any rate "capable of being made whole" by Christ.  This is the all-important question....Christian worship sees itself as an act of affirmation that expresses itself in praise, glorification, thanksgiving for the whole of reality and existence.

The purpose and fruit of a festive celebration is an other-worldly phenomenon, which cannot be attained by effort, but only received as a gift.

Language harbors a variety of names for this phenomenon:  renewal, transformation, restoration, rejuvenation, rebirth.  But they all mean the same thing, even though it does not lend itself to clear definition and description.  There are many ways in which the gift is experienced.  It is recreation; it is, as Goethe put it, release from the pressure of daily obligation.  Passing time stands still....Men are swept away from the here and now to utterly tranquil contemplation of the ground of existence; to happiness, as in absorption in beloved eyes.  Everyday things unexpectedly take on the freshness of Eden; the world, again in Goethe's words, is "glorious, as on the first of days."

[T]he fruit of the festival, for which alone it is really celebrated, is pure gift; it is the element of festivity that can never be "organized," arranged, and induced.  The will is bent on action; however easy it may seem, we have far less talent for relaxation, slackening effort, letting ourselves go, than for the hard task of work.  To be sure, relaxation can be learned and practiced to a certain degree.  But no amount of effort, no matter how desperate, can force festivity to yield up its essence.  All we can do is prepare ourselves to receive the hoped-for gift; and perhaps the idea of "ritual purity"...should be rethought and recaptured.  All these considerations, however, do not in any way nullify the nature of the gift, which is in no way pledged, predictable, or meritable, and descends only of its own accord.  "In order for a festival to emerge out of human efforts, something divine must be added, which alone makes possible the otherwise impossible."  This is an ethnologist's conclusion, but it applies not only to primitive peoples.  It suddenly makes us realize the very real sense of the statement in both the Psalms and the Platonic Dialogue that the festival is the day God has made.

Thus, when a festival goes as it should, men receive something that it is not in human power to give.  This is the by now almost forgotten reason for the age-old custom of men wishing one another well on great festival days.  What are we usually wishing our fellow men when we send them "best wishes for Christmas"?  Health, enjoyment of each other's company, thriving children, success—all these things, too, of course.  We may even—why not?—be wishing them a good appetite for the holiday meal.  But the real thing we are wishing is the "success" of the festival celebration itself, not just its outer forms and enrichments, not the trimmings, but the gift that is meant to be the true fruit of the festival:  renewal, transformation, rebirth.  Nowadays, to be sure, all this can barely be sensed behind the trite formula, "Happy holidays."

The fine arts are necessary, though not sufficient, for festive celebration.

[A] festival without singing, music, dancing, without visible forms of celebration, without any kind of works of art, cannot be imagined.

[T]he artistic act is like festivity itself, something out of the ordinary, something unusual, which is not covered by the rules governing the workaday world.  This is true not only of the artist's creative act, which gives rise to the work of art, but also of the secondary act of the person who (for example) reads a poem poetically.

[T]he invisible aspect of festivity, the praise of the world which lies at a festival's innermost core, can attain a physical form, can be made perceptible to the senses, only through the medium of the arts.

[T]he fine arts keep alive the memory of the true ritualistic, religious origins of festivals when these begin to wither or be forgotten.  And this memory may at some moment succeed in blasting open again the buried entrance.

On the other hand, the very overestimation of the arts can also obscure this knowledge.... [The arts] are not themselves the festivals.  Rather, the arts, like pleasure itself, are derivative and secondary; they are a contribution, the adornment and medium of the festival, but not its substance.  As soon as festiveness itself becomes unachievable, the arts are inevitably left without a home; their necessity and even their credibility fade away....  It is not too surprising that under conditions of tyranny the arts fall into the service of the political power and are subjected to utilitarian ends—quite often with the acquiescence of the artists themselves....  [H]omeless art looks for a new home.

Gloomy diagnosticians told us long ago that in an existence founded on negation, festivity becomes a caricature of itself....  If assent to the world can no longer be celebrated festively at all, then every one of the fine arts becomes homeless, useless, idle, unbelievable, and at bottom impossible.  To be sure, such refusal can exist side by side with the greatest technical skill.  That is precisely what complicates the matter.  For wherever truth in form is achieved, no matter how "formalistic" it may be, there exists...in some sense harmony, concord with a pre-established image of order—and thus inevitably a grain of affirmation.  Complete negation is necessarily formless; it presupposes the shattering of form; whereas negation proclaimed in perfect form is only a half-negation, inherently a contradiction of itself.

Unfestive, sham, made-up festivals will proliferate when true festivals are absent.

Worse than clear negation...is mendacious affirmation.  Worse than the silencing and stifling of festivity and the arts is sham practicing of them....  [P]seudo-art is related in a variety of ways to pseudo-festivity.  The sham is inherent in the fact that the affirmation and assent compatible only with true reality is falsified into a smug yea-saying, whose basic element is a desire to fend off reality, so as not to be disturbed, at any prices.  A deceptive escape from the narrowness of the workaday utilitarian world is found in the form of entertainment and "forgetting one's worries."  And the same mendacious message also reaches men through the medium of the pseudo-arts, whether trivial or pretentious, flattering or entertaining, or intoxicating like a drug.  Man craves by nature to enter the "other" world, but he can attain it only if true festivity truly comes to pass.  For it appears—but it is appearance only—that this other dimension of reality can be produced with ease and at will; it appears to stand at the disposal of the harried or bored man who needs "entertainment" and a "change."...But the man who by such devices is the more imprisoned within a workaday world now made amusing no longer misses real festivity; he does not notice the emptiness.   And thus he even stops grieving over his loss—and the loss thereby is finally sealed.

[T]he place in life which should naturally be occupied by real festivity cannot remain empty. And when real festivals are no longer celebrated, for whatever reasons, the susceptibility to artificial festivals grows.

[T]hings have not reached their sorriest pass as long as men are concerned over the disappearance of the festive principle from life....[T]he grumblings of cultural critics and the plaints of pets are the very opposite of hopelessness.  But when, unnoticed and almost unnoticeable, sham festivals foist themselves on men in place of true festivity...then the situation is really bad....

Naturally enough, in the past as well as in the present, the festivals most prone to such corruption have been those whose public character is unassailable.  Even secularized society cannot—not yet—ignore Christmas.  However, as everyone has observed , the real festival is almost disappearing behind the commercialized folderol that has come to the fore.  The true content sometimes becomes distorted to a degree that is really grotesque.  In Japan the opinion has been voiced in all seriousness that commercial advertising is not misusing the symbols of the Christmas festival, but rather that the Christian holiday has borrowed the various motifs so successful in the department store displays, in order to exert a more powerful influence on the public.

Compared with the falsification...of festivals already existing as institutions, the creation of completely new festivals...is a relatively unambiguous problem, although those closely involved may find it difficult to see through the illusion.  Granted, all festivals are in some sense "made" by men...from the fixing of a particular calendar day to the specific forms....   While man can make the celebration, he cannot make what is to be celebrated, cannot make the festive occasion and the cause for celebrating.  The happiness of being created, the existential goodness of all things, the participation in the life of God, the overcoming of death—all these occasions of the great traditional festivals are pure gift.  But because no one can confer a gift on himself, something that is entirely a human institution cannot be a real festival.

This habit of inventing festivals took a serious turn only when, in the course of the French Revolution, entirely new festivals were initiated by the state.  These were intended to displace and replace the traditional religious holidays....

The entire section on the French Revolution is worth reading; you'll never look at the Opening Ceremonies of the Olympic Games in the same way again.

The fundamental vapidness of these artificial festivals is clearly exposed when we try to find out what they are actually celebrating.  What is the object, the reason, the occasion?  A phrase that recurs so constantly...as to be virtually a classic formula maintains that the people themselves are not only the "ornament" of the festival and its organizers, but also its object....[The phrase] goes back to Rousseau.  The object of the festivals celebrated by "happy peoples," he says, is, "if you willl, nothing at all"; strictly speaking, however the people themseves are the festive spectacle....[W]hat is really being celebrated is human "happiness"....

There can be no festivity when man, imagining himself self-sufficient, refuses to recognize that Goodness of things which goes far beyond any conceivable utility; it is the Goodness of reality taken as a whole which validates all other particular goods and which man himself can never produce....He truly receives it only when he accepts it as pure gift.

Festivity IS.

[T]here remains the indestructible...gift innate in all men which impels them now and again to escape from the restricted sphere where they labor for their necessities and provide for their security—to escape not by mere forgetting, but by undeceived recollection of the greater, more real reality.  Now, as always, the workaday world can be transcended in poetry and the other arts.  In the shattering emotion of love, beyond the delusions of sensuality, men continue to find entrace to the still point of the turning world.  Now, as always, the experience of death as man's destiny, if accepted with an open and unarmored heart, acquaints us with a dimension of existence which fosters a detachment from the immediate aims of practical life....Consequently, for the sake of what prospects there are for true festivity in our time, it is essential to resist the sophistical corruption of the arts, the cheapening of eroticism, [and] the degradation of death.

The core and source of festivity itself remains inviolably present in the midst of society....[T]he festive occasion pure and simple, the divine guarantee of the world and of human salvation, exists and remains true continuously....

The Christian...is convinced that no destructive action...can ever corrode the substance of Creation.  "Miraculously founded and more miraculously restored," it cannot be corrupted by the "will to nothingness."  Thus there always remains the "festive occasion" which alone inspires and justifies celebration.  It remains in force, forever undiminished.

Warning:  You can read In Tune with the World in under an hour, but the ideas you encounter therein may never leave you.

(This is not the resolution I thought I'd be adding this month, but as authors often say about the characters in their novels, my resolutions tend to take on a life and will of their own.)

Not everything—even on the Internet—requires the expression of my opinion.

Anyone who knows me from recent years—where "recent" probably means the last 15 years or so—may find it hard to believe that my habit of jabbering away on any subject that interests me is not my natural state of being.  I like silence, do not like to talk about myself, and have always preferred to have other people carry the burden of conversation.

But silence is not generally considered "friendly" in the presence of other people.  I am blessed with a husband who will happily be silent with me for long stretches of time and not feel slighted, but for most social interactions, silence is not golden, but rather interpreted as indifference or even hostility.

Thus I made it a matter of effort and prayer to open up and share in conversation with others.  Perhaps a bit too much.  :)  If I don't like to talk about myself, I've discovered that I do like to talk about my thoughts and opinions.  This can be helpful in some contexts, such as discussion groups and classes, but in general conversation tends to bore some and overwhelm others.  Worse, I get carried away, and that does not leave room—physically or psychologically—for what I want to hear, which is the other person's thoughts, opinions, and experiences.

So this month's new resolution involves:

• Listening for signals that I'm with other people who don't find silence unfriendly.
• Working on conversational strategies to encourage others to speak.
• Remembering that it is not necessary to express my opinion on any- and everything.^*
• When asked for my thoughts, trying to give them in digestible portions rather than the all-you-can-eat buffet.

Progress Report

#1  Read More Books  June's progress was half of May's, and it can't get any less and still be a postive whole number. I'm living amidst a veritable feast of books that I want to read and thus far have read one of them.  But I'm not worried.  There are seasons in life, and babies don't keep.  And yes, I've so far chosen writing over reading in my spare time.

#2  Rediscover Feasting  No Fasting Wednesdays while overseas—I suppose that's a kind of feasting.  :)

#3  Learn to Relax  No progress in actually relaxing, but some in data gathering, I think.  I attended two of Janet's Alexander Technique classes, and even had a private lesson with her teacher while we were waiting for labor to progress.  I'm also halfway through a book her teacher recommended.  Although I'm still quite incompetent at it, I'm learning to ask, "Do I really need to tense this particular muscle to do the task at hand?"  We all waste much effort and energy on useless actions—who doesn't know the phenomenon of sticking out one's tongue when concentrating?  Often we feel it's actually wrong not to put forth as much effort as possible, even useless effort.  For example, she assured me that tensing my own muscles when Janet was not even in the room was not going to assist the progress of her labor in the least, but at some gut level that was hard to acknowledge.

#4  Like More Things  Living in another household is always a good time to try new food combinations, and when that household is in another country the opportunities are multiplied.  When that country is Switzerland, some of them involve chocolate.  Gooseberries, too.

#5  Pay Attention  Hmm.  I haven't been paying much attention to this resolution.  But I have been paying more attention to locations and directions this month, as I've been taking many solo walks through the city of Basel, and need to be able to find my way home.

#6  Cast Away Fear  This month has provided a few opportunities:  In addition to my city-wanderings—which trust me was at least at the beginning an exercise in conquering fear—there was also my first solo overseas trip, and participating in the long and difficult (though in the end joyful and radically successful) home birth of a new grandchild.

My original impression of Basel as a quiet place has been irrevocably shattered now that I'm here in the summer instead of the winter.  In this season construction projects are in full swing, and the noise of machinery is nearly incessant during the work day—including some sort of saw that reminds me of a high-volume dentist's drill and sets my teeth on edge worse than the World Cup horns.

That unavoidable annoyance notwithstanding, I realized this morning that in some ways Janet and Stephan's city apartment is closer to nature than our own suburban house.  (And our back yard, for its size, is an especially wildlife-friendly area.)  Light and air stream through the many windows, and when I look up from my computer I rest my eyes on a view of the blue sky, the trees of a nearby park, and a window box garden of herbs and wildflowers.

When I look up from my computer at home, I see a wall.  Well, I also see pictures of our grandkids, which is a delightful view itself, but here there is something restful to the eyes in focussing on the distant trees, and soothing to the spirit in watching the birds soar and the wildflowers move in the breeze.

Who'd have thought one could feel so close to nature in the middle of the city?  The peace it brings almost cancels out the noise.

Grandma:  "It's afternoon where you are, but it's nearly bedtime here in Switzerland."

Noah:  "What are you doing?"

Grandma:  "I'm writing a blog post."

Noah:  "If it's bedtime, why are you writing a blog post?

Good night, all!

I left the new family to their own devices on Saturday morning, when Stephan's mom whisked me away for an adventure.  There is a small farm in nearby Riehen which, as I understand it, specializes in biodiversity/heritage breed conservation of berry plants.  On this day, they opened their farm to the public for tasting!  We could take nothing away, not even by purchase, but were welcome to taste and enjoy all we wanted.

(Somewhere therein is a metaphor for life, I'm certain.)

There were tiny strawberries with the sweet, strong flavor I remember from my childhood, from the wild plants that once grew profusely in the field near our house in New York.  My mother would make the most delightful strawberry jam imaginable from what berries escaped immediate consumption.

The raspberries had clearly been the most popular among those who had come before us, but there were still plenty left for tasting, including a white variety.

Even more to my delight, though less popular in general, were the tiny black raspberries, again from my childhood; we called them "black caps."

And one more childhood memory; this one will be shared by my younger siblings, whose memories are more solid of our time in Pennsylvania.

Some fruits were new to me.  A former neighbor had black and red currant bushes, but she moved soon after we became acquainted, and the bushes were cut down.  This was probably my first taste of fresh currants in over 30 years.  The black were my least favorite of all the tastes there, but the red and the white were exquisite.

Finally, there were the gooseberries (green) and the jostaberries (purple).  Having cut my teeth on (and learned spelling from) English novels, I'd heard of gooseberries, but had never, to my knowledge, tasted one.  They are delicious.  The jostaberries—a somewhat complex mixture of gooseberry and black currant—tasted strange at first, but that impression soon evolved into a nice, tart flavor. 

(As usual, you can click on the images to see the full version.)

Not everything was ready for tasting.

As might be expected from a farm specializing in diversity, there was no such flavor as, say, "raspberry," any more than "orange" can cover the vast spectrum of Citrus sinensis.  Half the fun was moving from one bush to another apparently the same, and being surprised by the change in taste.

Over half a century I have watched our choices for food (and much else) expand astronomically, and yet at the same time contract.  We can eat food from all over the world at nearly any time of the year, and appreciate ethnic recipes of which our ancestors knew nothing.  Yet at the same time our choices within a particular food are narrowing, perhaps dangerously.  Milk is milk, orange juice is orange juice, tomatoes are tomatoes (or red tomato-like substances in the grocery stores), hamburger is hamburger, and we know nothing of the rich variability within a single food.

My gratitude is great to the Creator who wove such diversity into his work, to the gardeners who lovingly, carefully work to nurture and extend that diversity, and the heritage breed preservationists whose efforts may allow us once again to recover the flavors that delighted our ancestors.

Janet and Stephan are the proud parents of Joseph Andreas Stücklin, born at home in Basel, Switzerland on June 28, 2010, at 5:28 a.m. after 25 hours of labor.  Joseph arrived a week early, proving his independence at an early age:  Stephan, Janet, Heather, and all of Heather's children were late.  Thus we were taken a bit by surprise, and if Janet had known when he was coming, she would not have scheduled two days of major exams (Thursday and Friday), a wedding for which she was not only a guest by also a participant (Saturday), and a mere four hours of sleep before going into labor on Sunday.  But she was a trooper and her stamina showed that she had been taking good care of herself all along—barring the last few days.  (Click photo to enlarge.)

The vital stats:  3590 g (7 lbs 15 oz), 51 cm (20 in) long.

There were several similarities between Janet's labor with Joseph and my own with Heather, which brought back memories both pleasant and not so pleasant.  There were surprising similarities, also, between Joseph's birth and that of his birthday buddy, his cousin Noah, four years earlier.

I expect that some day Janet will write her own post, but at the moment she's finding more important things to do.  You can check out Stephan's blog for more.  Eventually I'll have a few more comments, too.

I wouldn't call it a picture-book birth, more an Old Master's painting birth:  the laboring mother surrounded by her attendants, which numbered five at one time or another, each with a different role to play.  It was a joy and a privilege to be one of them.

On Sunday, Firefox suddenly stopped working on my computer.  It would open all right, but no matter what URL I used it would only display a blank page.  Existing HTML files on the computer worked fine, but nothing online.  The problem was not with my connection, as Internet Explorer worked, as did other network connections.

I have no brilliant solution to the problem—though mine is now "fixed"—but am writing it up because I appreciate reading other people's experiences online when I run into a problem.  My Invisible Firefox post is also one of the most read on this blog.

I did find other folks out there with the same blank-page-only issue, but no clear solution.  Suggestions included doing a system restore, creating a new Firefox profile, reinstalling Firefox, and/or making various changes to Firefox, firewall, and registry settings.  In my limited research, I found no obvious reason for the changed behavior of Firefox, and no definitive evidence that the suggested approaches would work.  Moreover, there wasn't a one of them that I trusted myself to implement, given that all this was taking place under the exciting and sleep-deprived circumstances of the home birth of my latest grandson. Thus I was reduced to depending on IE, which I dislike, though I must admit times like this make me glad it's there as a backup.

By Wednesday I figured I was in sufficient command of both my faculties and a few moments of time to tackle the problem.  But before I could make any changes at all, Firefox suddenly started working agan.  To all appearances it is back to normal.

As my father always said, I'm suspicious of inanimate objects that appear to heal themselves.  I don't understand the fixing any more than I understand the breaking.  But there it is.

The day I arrived in Basel on this trip, I felt in need of some "chill-out" reading that wouldn't tax my jet-lagged brain cells.  Fortunately, Janet and Stephan's bookshelves are well stocked, even after eliminating the books in German, French, and Japanese.

For much of my life, Isaac Asimov was one of my very favorite authors, first for his science fiction, and later for his non-fiction.  (I had the pleasure of astonishing him once at a science fiction convention by presenting to him one of his American history books for autographing.)  Asimov kept writing—surely he must hold some record for the quantity and scope of his works—but life took me in different directions and I neglected him for many years, except for re-reading his delightful Black Widowers mystery stories.

But there on the bookshelf was Gold, a collection of some of his last short stories and essays, and it was just what I wanted.

So far, I'm still impressed with Asimov's writing, though his own opinions and philosophies intrude somewhat annoyingly into the stories.  I suspect that was always the case, but I was less aware, both because of my lack of experience and because his prejudices did not then conflict in any significant way with mine.  In any case, his worldview is part of what makes an author who he is, so I don't mind much.

In the essay on women in science fiction, however, Asimov's sharp wits seem to have deserted him.  How else to fathom his casting blame on puritanical attitudes toward sex for the fact that early science fiction stories were all about men?

In most cases, non-recognition of the existence of sex was treated as though it was the law. ... But if there's no sex, what do you do with female characters?  They can't have passions and feelings.  They can't participate on equal terms with male characters because that would introduce too many complications where some sort of sex might creep in.  The best thing to do was to keep them around in the background, allowing them to scream in terror, to be caught and then rescued, and, at the end, to smile prettily at the hero.

Excuse me?  Female characters are good for nothing but sex?  If they can't have sex, they can't do anything?  And you can't have male and female characters together in the same story without having them jump into bed?

What makes this statement all the more absurd is that Asimov himself succeeded many times over in doing what he just said was impossible.  As he stated in a later essay, "I use no gutter language or sex in my juvenile books, but then I use no gutter language and very little sex in my adult books."

Robert Heinlein, another of my once-favorite SF authors, was also adept at writing stories with strong—i.e. normal—female characters and no sex scenes, although to be sure he also wrote plenty of books that were objectionable and even bizarre in that department.

Asimov clearly knew better, and wrote better.  Why he would say something so irrational escapes me completely.  He's right that science fiction, along with most stories of adventure, daring, and heroism, failed their female readers miserably.  I know, because as one of them in my impressionable childhood, I couldn't help noticing that, with few exceptions, the only characters worth admiring or emulating were male.

But it wasn't the censors' fault.  It may, in many ways, have been society's fault.  I'll easily believe that the problem reflected a poor general attitude towards women and girls—but to imply that a story with female characters must have a romantic interest, let along a sex scene, is the more offensive error.

To repeat, from Part 1, lest I forget:

The first principle is that nobody should be ashamed of thinking a thing funny because it is foreign; the second is that he should be ashamed of thinking it wrong because it is funny. The reaction of his senses and superficial habits of mind against something new, and to him abnormal, is a perfectly healthy reaction. But the mind which imagines that mere unfamiliarity can possibly prove anything about inferiority is a very inadequate mind. — G. K. Chesterton, writing on foreign travel in What Is America?

I thought the diapering world was divided neatly between cloth and disposibles, with elimination communication thrown in as an added wrinkle—which only shows how limited and parochial my world has been.  Of course, the whole diaper situation here was planned to be well under control by now, but it has become an issue thanks to a miscommunication with the "diaper lady" reminiscent of my last-minute struggles with Lufthansa's baggage policy.  "No, I don't actually sell diapers; I only have samples you can experiment with to help you decide what you like.  You can't actually buy them here in Switzerland, and no, I don't have any overseas suppliers to recommend...."

This was a Boston Rubbermaid moment for me.  At home I would zip off to Babies R Us, Target, or Walmart, all within walking distance, and grab several packages of birdseye prefolds.  Here I was prepared to pay Swiss prices, but I was not prepared for diapers to be unavailable!

But of course, I'm wrong.  Diapers are available here.  Swiss diapers.  Which are decidedly not birdseye cotton prefolds.  I spent half an hour looking for a good picture of one for this post, without success, although in the process I found out more about diaper choices and technology than I ever imagined existed.  (Type "diaper folding" into YouTube for just a glimpse at the possibilities.)  But imagine large, thin, square cloths in all sorts of colors and designs, sold individually.  If you ask the sales clerk at the baby store how to fold them, fasten them on the baby, or how to cover them so they don't leak, she has no idea.  They don't sell diaper fasteners and they don't sell diaper covers.  Cloth diapers, it appears, are popular baby items, but no one in his right mind actually diapers a baby with them.  That's what disposables are for.  Real diapers are bought to be used as burp cloths.

Unless, of course, you go to the "organic" store here.  Except that she would gag on the prices, I kept thinking that our all-natural, organic, earth-friendly friend Serina would be in heaven there.  At that store, the clerk was very competent indeed; if she hasn't diapered a thousand babies herself, she at least must have given the demonstration a thousand times.  They sell not so much diapers as diapering systems, all in an eye-pleasing, natural, ecru shade—you couldn't bleach it, but stains would be less obvious than with white.  The diapers themselves are still the thin sqares of cloth, but these folks have obviously thought about their practical use as a diapering medium.

Watching the clerk fold a diaper was like watching Johnny Montroll fold an origami animal.  Faster than I could follow, she created a very clever diaper from the square, thick and thin in all the proper places.  I didn't follow the rest of the procedure, either, as she was demonstrating two different systems, with explanation in rapid-fire German.  In addition to the diaper there are inserts of various kinds, covers to hold it all together, and a few other things I'm sure I've forgotten.  It was, no doubt, a lovely system for an all-natural, earth-friendly, baby.  In many ways it was quite attractive and appealing.  But SO complicated!  It's one thing to accept, and even embrace, inefficiencies in laundry, and quite another when one is attempting to diaper a squirming baby, or promoting awareness of potty needs.

This problem is still in search of a solution.  Despite the imminent arrival of the baby, it's not an urgent situation because of what Janet already has in place, but it's definitely a puzzlement.  We've been looking around online for what we might order.  Alas, most of the American companies I depend on won't ship overseas.  My brief investigation into European online stores yielded Heather's favorite diaper cover and a whole array of previously-unknown (to me) cloth diapering options, none of which is either the kind of diaper I'm used to back home or what is common in the stores here!  Who'd have thought diapering could be so complicated?

Maybe it's a very good thing that Janet has been folding John Montroll models since she was six years old.

The first principle is that nobody should be ashamed of thinking a thing funny because it is foreign; the second is that he should be ashamed of thinking it wrong because it is funny. The reaction of his senses and superficial habits of mind against something new, and to him abnormal, is a perfectly healthy reaction. But the mind which imagines that mere unfamiliarity can possibly prove anything about inferiority is a very inadequate mind. — G. K. Chesterton, writing on foreign travel in What Is America?

Visiting another country or culture is one thing; living there, even for a few weeks, is another.  As a sightseer, it is easy to find something funny and respect it inspite of, or even because of, its apparent oddity.  A good attitude can be more difficult when it frustrates the efforts of daily life.

I didn't need to live in a foreign country to experience those frustrations.  Soon after arriving in Switzerland, I found myself spinning in a disorientation that had nothing to do with language differences, and at the same time, puzzling over the familiarity of the feeling.  Then I remembered the first few weeks after our move from Florida to the Boston area.   Boston is a great city, and there's much about Massachusetts that I now miss—a lot, even.  Nonetheless, as I was trying to set up housekeeping in our small apartment, searching store after store and making telephone call after telephone call trying to find a source of Rubbermaid storage bins, I was very nearly reduced to tears and a heartfelt cry of, "A Wal-Mart!  A Wal-Mart!  My kingdom for a Wal-Mart!"  Although I eventually came to appreciate what Boston had that Orlando didn't, what was lacking (or apparently lacking) was uppermost in my mind in those days.  (I never did find out where Bostonians purchase Rubbermaid storage bins, or even if they use such things at all, but I did eventually find a Wal-Mart.)

Freely admitting that differences are not an indication of inferiority, but with Chesterton's permission to find them peculiar, I will be sharing some of the disorientations and adjustments of my time here.^*

Laundry

Europeans have a reputation for being more laid-back and relaxed than Americans.  I am now suspecting that the reason is the Laundry Zen Experience.  One can either scream,

• "This is one of the most civilized, organized, efficient, and technologically advanced countries in the world.  Why does it take three hours to do a load of laundry in the best of circumstances?"  ("Best of circumstances" = there's actually a clothes dryer available.  In many cases all laundry must be hung on a clothesline in the basement, in which case don't count on having clean clothes in less than a day.)
• "Why do manufacturers still make ordinary clothing, even underwear—we're not talking silk ties and fancy dresses here—that can't go in the dryer?"  Each item as it comes out of the wash must be examined for a laundry tag with its mysterious hieroglyphics and sorted into what can go into the dryer and what must be hung on the line.
• Most of all, "What company in its right mind would make baby clothes that must be line dried?  That's baby clothes, as in the kind that get spit up, drooled, peed, and pooped on!  What are they thinking, to make them of materials that need special care?"

Granted, there are Americans who take more care with their laundry than I do.  With rare exceptions, I do not coddle our clothes.  If they can't survive a normal trip through the washer and dryer, they don't get in the door.

Laundry routine, at home:

1. Determine whether or not the items need washing.
2. Throw them into the washer, normal cycle, warm wash/cold rinse.
3. When done, throw all clothes into the dryer, normal cycle, medium heat.
4. Fold and put away.

Laundry routine, here:

1. Sort laundry by color and by washing temperature.  (Fortunately, Janet does this part, not only to be helpful, but because she rightly doesn't trust me.)
2. Put laundry in washer.
3. Choose correct water temperature.  (In our case, it's either 30 or 60 degrees—86/140 Fahrenheit—but there's an option of 90, practically boiling!)
4. When done, about an hour and a half later, examine each article of clothing as it comes from the washer for either the cryptic sign or the blessed "tumble dry low."  Throw the favored few into the dryer; hang the rest.  Again, to be fair, Janet does this part much faster than I do, since she pretty much knows which of their clothes can and cannot be dried.  It's not at all obvious from the fabric.
5. Start dryer (low heat), which again takes about an hour and a half to complete.  The dryer is a bit disconcerting at first, because it keeps stopping and restarting.  Perhaps that's one reason it takes so long.  But when it stops, it reverses direction, which I'm certain is better for the clothes and helps keep them from getting tangled together.
6. Fold and put away.  (At least this part is the same!)
7. Return to the basement the next day to retrieve the remaining laundry hanging on the line.

As I said, one can either scream, or one can take a deep breath, relax, and s-l-o-w  d-o-w-n.  After all, what, really, is lost if the washing machine takes twice as long as it "should," or hanging clothes take 18 hours to dry?  Mostly just the ability to act at the last minute, in a hurry.  It's not as if you can't do other things while waiting, and if Janet is any indication, after a while the sorting process becomes second nature.  In the meantime, when I do the laundry, there's no need for me to be in a hurry.  And I make the dryer/clothes line sorting into a game:  "Cute little new outfit?  Probably needs to be hung." "Hand-me-down from Heather?  I don't even need to look; into the dryer it goes!"  And if the item happens to be one of my own, I fling it into the dryer with a defiant grin.

The trouble with having a handicap not shared by most people is that no one appreciates it when you have a major victory.  If they care about you, they may try, but it's difficult to avoid a "well, duh!" inflection when faced with an accomplishment that is, to you, incomprehensibly easy.

Take Porter along an unknown pathway once, and chances are he will be able to reproduce it.  Take me along the same route 10 times, and if I am talking, listening, thinking, or otherwise not paying deliberate, close attention to landmarks and directions—which I find very difficult to do—and I will still have no clue how to get from A to B.  Basel is not a large city, but despite several visits I couldn't tell you how to get from Barfüsserplatz to Theaterplatz.

I am not, however, as incompetent as I appear, though it took the writings of John Holt to convince me.  His How Children Fail and How Children Learn opened my eyes to both the negative effects of fear and pressure on learning, and to the importance of allowing learners sufficient time to "play around" with a puzzle, be it a Rubik's Cube or a mathematical concept or navigating a city.  The need for that exploration, unhindered by expectation, pressure, or "help" varies from person to person and from problem to problem.

For my first solo walk through Basel I began slowly, marking my turns and frequently looking behind me for familiar landmarks.  Much to my surprise and pleasure, I had no trouble finding the Basel Hilton, and from there was able to retrace part of a walk we had taken on a previous trip.  I was inexpressibly delighted to find myself at Barfüsserplatz—though as yet I had no idea how close I was to Theaterplatz.

(The only time I felt lost in the least was in the train station Migros store, which was jammed with Sunday shoppers—most stores are closed on Sundays here—and from which there appeared to be no exit at all for one who had nothing at all to purchase and who did not want to wait in a very long check-out line for nothing.  The trick, it turned out, was to screw up the courage to ask the security guard for help, for no sooner did I approach than he regally swung open the "no exit" gate and waved me through.)

I found my way home with no problem whatsoever, and was ridiculously proud of myself!

Emboldened by this success (and an emergency map and cell phone), on my next walk I abandonned the constant checking backward for a retreat path and decided to trust my feet.  I wandered the city for nearly three hours, finding myself variously at the Musik-Akademie, the University, the Predigerkirche (considerably warmer than when I was there two Januaries ago), walking along the Rhine (which was flowing swiftly and glittering in the sun), buying fresh rhubarb from a farmer at at Marktplatz, and puzzling over diapers and baby clothes at Coop City.

There's a lovely park very close to home here, and I intend to investigate it soon.  There are trails that will be much more beautiful and relaxing than a city walk.  But I find myself continually drawn into Basel.  I know that my navigational successes must be frequently reinforced or I will lose them; I'm still very much in the "playing" stage.

More than that, I treasure the thrill of victory.  It more than makes up for the knowledge that few people will ever understand why it is an accomplishment at all.

Stephan returned from a business trip, and graciously spent what few minutes he had free to install a new system that not only includes more reliable Internet, but wireless connection!  Whoo-hoo!  Now I am home away from home!  I think it's a good thing—one day without Internet was a nice break, but I'm not ready for a steady diet.

Among many people I know, IKEA seems to be almost a cult store, like Trader Joe's, Whole Foods, and Penzey's.  I've come to understand people's devotion to the last three, but had to travel to Switzerland to have the IKEA experience.  Part of the fascination here is the reasonable prices:  pretty normal by U. S. standards, but worth a special trip here.  Or maybe it was the restaurant special:  a huge plate of Swedish meatballs, with gravy and lingonberry sauce, plus a mountain of French fries with unlimited ketchup, all for CHF 5.  I could have done without the gravy, but the meatballs were very good, the lingonberry sauce terrific, and I hadn't had French fries in ages.  Even the shopping was fun, even for this non-shopper, though I suppose I'll have to go to Orlando's IKEA to discover what was the overall IKEA experience and what was due to the local flavor.  The meal was my favorite, though—mostly because it was a good time to chat and renew acquaintance with a Swiss friend.  Actually, she's not Swiss—she's an American living in Germany—but I meant a friend we only see when visiting Switzerland.

Father's Day is not celebrated in Switzerland (although they do have Mother's Day), but it at least gets a mention (and a large, yummy, soft pretzel for the men) when your church is an international one.

Settling in was not as difficult as it might have been, thanks to Janet and Stephan's patience and their creativity in finding a mother/mother-in-law nook in an apartment that was already crowded.  We've been busy, with laundry and shopping and errands and even a party, but Janet's need to study for a major, intense, German certification exam coming up (if the baby doesn't come first) leaves me with time to write blog posts and take much-needed long walks.  That will change, of course, but I'm grateful for the time to adjust.

I'm also grateful for inexpensive international phone calls, for e-mail, instant messaging, and other forms of communication with my other life.  I don't think I would have made a very good traveller in the old days.

I certainly can't complain about the weather.  Having left behind record-setting highs in Orlando, being able to wear jeans and a sweatshirt again is bliss.

I know, I know, I have many more adventures to write up, but I'm starting with this one, as I think it will be more interesting to most of those for whom I write.

The first adventure of the adventure occurred the day before I left.  I suppose I should have discoverd the problem earlier, but I didn't.

Because I was bringing quantities of food, books, and educational materials with me, and knew I would be pushing the weight/size limit on my luggage allowance, I did my packing early.  That was good.  That was smart.

That wasn't enough.

Even though I knew my flight was on Lufthansa, I had carefully followed the baggage rules of USAirways, as my reservations were through them.  And anyway, aren't the rules all pretty much the same?

No.

The day before my flight, I dutifully typed the flight number into the USAirways Flight Status box, and was momentarily encouraged.  The from Charlotte, North Carolina to San Francisco, California was expected to be on time, which would have been good news had I not been expecting to fly from Orlando, Florida to Basel, Switzerland.  A bit disconcerted, I called USAirways and was informed that they had nothing to do with the flight except for making the reservations, and I'd have to talk with Lufthansa about flight status.

Uh oh.  Being the obsessive-compulsive person I am, I decided I'd better check Lufthansa's luggage rules, just to be sure.  Everyone said I'd be fine.

Everyone but Lufthansa, that is.

The USAirways weight limit for the carry-on bag is 40 pounds, or 18 kilograms.  I was feeling good about my packing, which at 38 pounds gave me a little leeway.  But the Lufthansa website said their limit was 8 kg.  Hoping that was a misprint that left off the ten's digit, I called—and they confirmed the lower number.  :(

My plans for the final day had not included repacking.  And re-repacking.  And re-re-re-packing.  But I did it!  The weight allowance for the checked bag was 23kg, and at the airport the next day it weighed in at 22.8!  Both my carry-on and my personal item were slightly over 8kg; I had a Plan B if that had been a problem, but it wasn't.  True, I didn't bring all that I wanted to with me, but I brought all that was most important, and I have to admit that it was nicer to carry 8kg than 18 on the long hike through the Frankfort airport.

The Day came.  Let me say this at the outset:  Weight restrictions aside, flying to Basel with only one change is a lot nicer than having two.  What's more, leaving at 8pm sure beats leaving in the morning.  It was great to have most of the day for last-minute chores, and in theory leaving at that hour would make it easy to sleep on the plane.  But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Porter was able to take me to the airport, which was a real blessing.  All went smoothly with checking baggage and going through security.  Our plane was a little late taking off, but we more than made up the time in flight.  I had an aisle seat, which normally would have been fantastic.  Not that it was bad, but if I'd known how things were going to go, I'd have asked the girl next to me if she wanted to change places.

She was a lovely child, perhaps 10 years old:  friendly, talkative, polite, and interesting.  But she was up and out of her seat a lot—I had told her not to worry about waking me up if she had to use the bathroom—which meant I was up and down as well, and I don't think she slept all night.  Consequently, my own total was less than three hours, probably more like two due to the interruptions.  Still, overall there was little to complain about, and nine hours in the plane sure beats the 14 of my last flight.

The plane landed in the wing of the airport from which my next flight was scheduled to depart, so getting from one to the other ought to have been easy.  But Frankfort is a big airport, and despite the apparent closeness, the two gates were a very long walk and a security checkpoint apart.  The latter caused an unexpected delay as well, as both I and my luggage were searched.  They didn't find anything because there was nothing to find; I have no idea what caused their suspicions.  (Later I learned that my checked luggage had been examined by the TSA, so I guess it was old-lady-with-more-books-than-clothes profiling day.)

Despite that, I made it to the Basel flight in plenty of time.  By now, the EuroAirport is looking quite familiar, so I grabbed my luggage, exchanged Swiss German greetings with the customs agent as I breezed by, and walked out the door to three generations of waiting relatives, one very pregnant.  :)

Jet lag turned out to be no problem at all.  The bigger adjustment was to a 10 p.m. sunset, hence a totally discombobulated sense of time.  But it's great for long evening walks.

Lesson one learned from my first solo transatlantic flight:  If I speak English, I can get along just fine.  If I try to speak German, I provoke a stream of German in response, of which I understand not one word, and my own brain, struggling with German, forgets to be competent in English.  Note to self:  leave playing with other languages to non-critical situations.