Jeannette's Wisdom July 11, 2017

I am often struck by how my friend Jeannette can hit the nail on the head.  I have known her for more than thirty years, and I can turn to her when I just need to let someone know I am struggling.  She is the kind of person who is in touch with her own feelings.  She also pays attention to sage ideas of others, such as  “as we get older, we shift from doing to being”, or “when we near the end of life, we may have to be content with just looking out of a window”. 

Well, I said to myself, this will have to be one helluva great window! 

And this all brings me to Point Reyes Station, a speck of a town on Route One, north of San Francisco at the junction of the American and Pacific Plates and the epicenter of the 1906 earthquake.  Thirteen years ago, in my quest to have a home in the country, I bought a plot of land and built a simple home on a horse pasture in this little community.  I also included a small guesthouse, built initially with the hope that my father might move there (he had a stroke, unfortunately, and never could), but also accommodating friends and family who could enjoy this magnificent wilderness with me.  I am off the information grid out here – no internet, no TV, no phone, and no cell phone service.  It is my own little Tassajara retreat, complete with endless hiking, daily yoga, swimming in Tomales Bay, and deep sleep.

In the ten years since the house was completed, my stays out here have typically been very brief, as I was always juggling work, school, and Annie’s commitments.  But in the past year, I have spent longer and longer stretches of time.  I settle into someone else, it seems. I talked to Jeannette about this, and her insight is that when I come here, I let go of my achievement side, the need to perform, to succeed, to push new boundaries.  Indeed, I am being and not doing. 

And talk about view!  I have that helluva great window!  I overlook a large pasture with horses (not mine) and a few farm buildings, with the Inverness Ridge and its attendant fog looming in the background.  Herons, badgers, bobcats, hawks, foxes, and frogs come by.  The grass in the breeze is mesmerizing. I have everything I need.

Just back from Rome, I have settled in here again, and as I plunk myself down on the deck, I realize that my decision to purchase this land and to build this house, as stressful as that whole process was, was one of the best decisions I have ever made.

On Agassi July 9, 2017

You might think that Andre Agassi and I have nothing in common, and you would be right, almost.  But for a short time, he and I were under contract with the same literary agent, and that was how I became aware of his memoir “Open”.  As readers of this blog know, I tend to follow men’s tennis, but I hadn’t picked up his book until I happened upon a used copy from the library’s book sale a few months ago.  It is an open-hearted and compelling account of this champion’s struggles, and I couldn’t put it down. 

Agassi’s journey is wrenching and inspiring.  Forced to play tennis by his ambitious and athletic father, he was then sent to a Florida tennis academy, which he also loathed.  His escape was to break into professional tennis at a young age and to coalesce trainers, coaches, and friends into a team that enabled him to survive the grueling rounds of training and tournaments.  He speaks to the issues of family, of meaning, and of retirement.  Of course Agassi’s retirement came at a young age, but the transition for someone whose entire life is a professional sport must be much more difficult than it is for us boomers!

Turns out, it wasn’t.  He had met and married Steffi Graf, had children, and started a foundation to launch a charter school.  He was ready to let go because he had built a life that was far more meaningful than tennis competition.  (I suppose it didn’t hurt that he had won seven Open championships as well as a gold medal in the Olympics and had made one of the most spectacular comebacks in the sport.)  He quotes Nelson Mandela, “No matter where you are in life, there is always more journey ahead.”  When I despair of this or that, I will meditate on these powerful words.

Back from Rome July 8, 2017

For two years I looked forward to taking a three-week study-abroad course called Drawing Rome, an elective offered by my school.  My drawing ability isn’t that great, and this opportunity to gain some proficiency in free-hand architectural representation, whilst learning about one of the most historically and architecturally important cities on earth, really appealed to me.  Plus – Italy – what’s not to like?  

Yet I found myself somewhat disappointed, and now that I’m back I’m trying to make sense of the whole experience.  Was it worth the time?  Yes.  The money?  Not so sure.  What lessons can I draw from this?

I was actually expecting to improve in my artistic skill – fancy that! – and I had assumed that evolution would happen through a course of instruction, constructive criticism, and practice.  But there was no actual drawing instruction (save one guest lecture) and very little criticism until the final project.  We did practice several hours a day, but it often involved subject matter that held little inherent interest for me: statues, sculptures, fountains, or the interiors of Renaissance villas.  I am a slow draftsman, and rarely was I able to complete something to my satisfaction in the time allotted.  It was very frustrating, though I admit I’ve probably gained a little facility and a smidgeon of confidence despite my complaining.

I also hoped to learn a lot about Roman history, and this I did, as both instructors were very knowledgeable about Rome.  Still, that aspect was underplayed and disjointed.  I kept wondering what all the younger foreign students were gleaning from this.  To quench my thirst, I did extra reading and made independent side-trips to some of the sites I found most compelling: Ostia, the imperial fora, and the Mussolini monumental buildings in a district called EUR. 

I loved perusing the historical maps of Rome (by Nolli and Lanciani) and visiting the ancient aqueducts and the Aurelian Wall.  I enjoyed sharing an apartment with my artist friend Gail, who is not a student but allowed to join us.  I looked forward to our morning coffee in the Jewish Ghetto and our warm outdoor evenings of wine, Roman pizza, and grilled artichokes.  I liked getting to know my classmates and teachers better.

When it comes right down to it, Rome is intense.  (Of course, the daily 6-mile walks in 90-degree heat added to the oppressive feeling.)  With its 2700-year history, its layers of ancient buildings, cleverly crafted out of concrete, brick, and marble and buried under other layers from subsequent centuries, it is all hard to take in.  It is also a contradiction: while the Roman Empire built baths, theaters, forums, libraries, and sports arenas for the benefit of the common man, its violence toward people and animals was almost unspeakable, and I came away with a very bad taste in my mouth for the “glory that was Rome”.  Granted, this was an empire of amazing infrastructure and creativity, but at what price to humanity?