OF SUSHI AND WRITING

Jiro Ono, the brilliant sushi master of Japan,  is a life-coach. For his two restaurateur sons; for his critics and customers; for any who would listen. I am listening. For a man to be making sushi and dispensing advice into his later eighties, he is well worth listening to.

Jiro had parents who kicked him to the pavement when he was about six years old--telling him, as he entered school, he now "had no home". He took this, literally, and proceeded to create a path of toughness and independence. Apprenticing at an early age, he began to understand the worth of single-minded effort. He states he "fell in love with sushi-making". Falling in love with what one seems born to do is wise.(Harder to FIND what one was born to do.) However, once one discovers this journey, one must keep to it, full force.

Jiro speaks of never complaining about one's job. Of always seeking to learn and to use that learning to excel. Never be satisfied with what one has done, today. Though extremely difficult, do better, tomorrow. Above all: keep working. I feel the resonance of these axioms.

Jiro Ono is humble in his excellence. However, he is a task master. His greatest gifts to his sons were demanding rigorousness from their early years--a rigorousness that pushed them to his own heights. He knows he was hard on them--as he has always been on himself--as maybe his parents, however inadvertently, were hard on him. However, this strict code of self-improvement has paid off in his existence.

Understanding that, without seafood, his art, his business, would be non-existent, Ono also speaks of the commercial world balancing profit with caretaking of the planet. His long view comes from witnessing the steady decline of species over eight decades--all from over-fishing. One cannot separate the consciousness of devouring perfect sushi from consciousness of the oceans where that sushi originated. This is part of his passion, too.

An artist like Ono speaks volumes to me. How could it not?  My childhood was not easy. I always felt an outsider and either cursed, or kissed, with the drive to express what I saw around me--visually or through writing. I also had a sense that, on a fundamental level, I could never really "return". (At least not return as the naïve, innocent-minded and confused teen I left as...)

One difference between us, though, is WHAT we are selling. Sushi is up, and reading is down... A second difference is: Ono is a man. (Hard to admit, but, the males in my life, and my extended life, are still more financially successful by a wide margin, than the females--especially single males vs. single females.) It is still easier for males to find sponsorship, jobs--however odd or many it takes--acquire loans, gain admission to well-established professional cliques, apprenticeships, internships and ultimately, begin their professional careers with more sure back-ups.) If a woman HAS the backing of a male--either a wealthy father or husband or business partner, then, she, too, has a bigger chance at success. No whining here, only statistics and real-life observations. 

This doesn't negate what I take from Ono's philosophy. It merely "tweaks" it a bit.

 Gaining a wife can help, immensely. (Thanks to the U.S. Supreme Court, now, perhaps, this step is on a level playing field, for once...) Finding focus on one thing, to successfully master that one thing,  is far easier when one has one's house being taken care of, one's washing being done, one's children protected and nurtured and one's physical, emotional and mental health being supported by another. While, "behind every successful man is a great woman", can be extended to "behind every successful man is SOMEONE who is supporting him", it still seems that the most outstanding people in our history tend to be those who have  spousal support. In that arena, we remain different.

Yet, there is something about the maniacal drive to do the thing he loves--to just keep doing it--that reels me close. My heart recognizes this quest. It is the answer to so many questions my friends level at me. ("If you are not publishing for money, why write?" "Why don't you write something that SELLS--do a series of romance novels or pornography under a pen-name..." "Why spend your time banging on those keys, Minns? If you haven't broken through by now, chances are that you've missed the train..." "Get a real job, already! Write on the weekends!!")

Because Ono is financially successful, through sheer hard work (his sushi restaurant still only sits ten customers at a time!), people have stopped telling him to "only make sushi on the weekends"...They can taste what he creates. It can immediately have an effect on their well-being and appetites. They can use their five senses to interpret, turning off part of the analytical brain and just enjoy. For the more educated palates, then, it is savoring on another level: art. But the immediate audience is granted instant access.

As a writer, I will never enjoy that place of reverence. However, Jiro considers himself "a rebel" and someone still off the beaten track. I recognize still more pieces of myself in this tiny Japanese sushi master. He is proud of his roots and his toughness, even in his eighties. I can only take what can be applied to the path I walk. After that, simply appreciating the man for his work is perhaps, enough.

So, back to the keyboard and pad. Back to writing, every day; processing the world around me through words. Sharing what I see and what I question, to whomever is reading this (you!), hoping there is some instant of "umami" in what you "taste" through my efforts.

Regardless of the outcome, however delayed, there isn't much I can do about it. Like Jiro Ono, I was born to this task. I will be true to it, until the body stops; the mind's screen fades to black. 



     

EDUCATION, ASSESSMENT, THE REAL-WORLD

The history of public education in the United States is as convoluted, varied and hair-raising as the history of its party-politics. Every generation (sometimes between generations!) has its pop-star pundits, its monetary editors and its public pandemonium regarding the current rage of how the kids should be taught. Rarely does "how a child actually learns" reach the same pinnacle of interest.
How does a child learn?
What is "learning"?
Who determines this?
What content truly matters--across generations? States? Cultures and continents?
What massive effects, collateral damages and human-changing lessons have been created within the arena of public education?
Where is the defining information about how we, as humans, acquire the necessary skills to survive?
To thrive?
Does education of the rich further increase the suffering of the rest of the world? If so, how to change that? Will we change that? Will that change be stymied, thus increasing the widening gaps between rich and poor in the world?
Is access to information--real information--the key? What about access to opportunity? What about external challenge and sponsorship and "the old boys' club credo" and genetic pre-disposition (to interest in areas that are richly rewarded) and luck?
How does one create a hunger for knowledge; then, support and feed that hunger; then, steer the person into further halls of knowledge and out the door, into the world, into jobs and research institutions and social institutions that can make use of that finished  human product, for the betterment of herself/himself, as well as humanity?  What is the model of such knowledge? Its content? Who decides? Why is this important, beyond "profit for the few"? Again, who decides?
Where is "spirituality" taught in this plethora of knowledge? Or, is the spiritual unteachable? (What about Buddha and Lao-tzu and Mohammed and Moses and Jesus and all the other "teachers"?) What about the teaching of culture and the arts--beyond the collectable and decorative (that is, the profitable?) or entertaining? How does Common Core address these issues, where Common Core Standards are currently touted?  I mean, in real, concrete, life-enhancing ways? Why does the current rage of pushing "non-literary texts" (that is, "informational" material, in all forms) seem so important when, by themselves, students of all ages are bombarded with "non-literature"?  A seventy/thirty split, at the high school level, of non-literary reading vs. literature (poetry and classics, etc.) is going to make us a more productive, humane and intellectual society? Students can find this information on their own--from Africa to Tibet to the streets of L.A.--on the web, the Net, on their phones and in their hands. How to understand, appreciate, interpret and respect other ideas that are "foreign" to their own cultures, however, would seem to be the realm of the arts and literature; perhaps the spiritual exploration of our human history?  Isn't it in these areas where we "tame the beast" and don't, simply, create "workers" and "consumers"?  Don't create business people and programmers and investors, who are, at core, "workers" and "consumers"...?

Read and understand and explore your history of educational waves, America! We have begun to create industries, again, revolving, now, on "assessment strategies" based on "Common" fears of one generation's lack of speed with its children. We are creating businesses that prey on the overwhelm teachers feel from corrupted school infra-structures and lack of teacher training in basics--human basics involving what speaks to the hearts and souls of the children--or even to the adult learner.
We don't learn our own patterns and so, we all ride on the pendulum, forever simply strung-out and strung up.

It takes a village to educate a child. It takes a world, of balanced physical, mental, emotional and spiritual learning to create a human. Why do we keep forgetting that?

DOWN AND OUT IN GARDNER, MA

As I keep reading about the passing of famous people, the war dead from around the world, the increasing disparity between rich and poor, the hidden governments that for years, people assumed were only paranoid fantasies created by whacko novelists and assorted psycho-rabble, the climbing teen suicide rate, the unclaimed numbers of under-employed and unemployed folks who have simply given up looking, the crazy idea that one is a freak if one doesn't fit the current American-made image of what one is supposed to look like, the loss of memory of those younger generations who benefit from all the revolutions that came before them and allow them to experience a freedom of expression unheard of in the past, the enormous world debt burying all but the rich, the continued global weather changes and earth's response to human pollution, the aging out of my own family, as well as myself, and all the unrequited dreams we share (or hold hidden), and yet another rejection for a job that seemed tailor-made for my extensive experience, background and contemporary skills, (based on the worst evaluation processes devised possibly coming down the pike and administrators fears of "looking bad" if they don't fall in line behind what history has proven is the pendulum swing of American education), I understand Paris Jackson's dark night of the soul.

Whoever thought I'd understand Paris Jackson?

FATHERS

Dad's in the hospital, again. It seems that we go, now, every two months. This time, it was for surgery to remove some kind of "stone" from his kidney duct. Supposedly, it was not a big deal--and good news that they found the reason for his new stomach pain. But, when you are 86, everything is a big deal...

He went under "a general" which knocked him out. He came through, awakening in record time, and in right mind and good spirits...but they'd had to do more "cutting" than they'd first thought. So, overnight in the ICU...then, another day, to be sure, when his urine wasn't venting in a usual way...then, another day and night, this time, waiting for a vacationing doctor to return and to return us to normal.

Fathers' Day everywhere...our entire family "on hold"--finally, driving the forty miles to the hospital, preparing for his release...but the doctor wasn't "in" and Dad was not looking well and  his pee output was nil, so, another night in another hospital room.  All the presents and ubiquitous cards still stacked on the kitchen table, waiting for his return.

I haven't wrapped the four cans of gourmet sardines I bought for him (what can you get an 86  year old father of five that he hasn't already received, thousands of times, for birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas presents or all the other Fathers' Days before? ) I babysit Mom, who is a basket case in the best of times but worse when she is removed from the city of her spouse, not just his side. My sibs take over when they drive her to the same hospital my sister works at, in a different department. I am relegated to watching the dog.

The dog who keeps whining and searching for my Dad...circling his stinky reclining chair, where she usually ends each night her "mother" is working; where she sits with her tiny soft head propped on my Dad's 86  year old feet, until she gets tired enough to rouse herself and pad into the kitchen and onto her proper doggy bed. Tonight, she kept sitting on the floor by my side--or her "mother's side"--after the family returned from tonight's frustrated jaunt to see Dad.

A Fathers' Day with a sick father, who could care less what day it was. His mind is on a breaking down body and being able to pee, so he can come home. My mind is on "where now"? And, "what's going to happen, next" and the simple, horrible fact that nothing is going to get truly "fixed", from here.

My family thrives upon stress and yelling and fighting and congratulating itself on "always being there for each other"...What does that mean? Where is this leading? What can I do that is of any real worth? Even picking up the dog's messes or remembering her supper time or taking her out of the house for short jaunts doesn't seem enough--to anyone....well, maybe to the dog....until her "mother comes home"...but for now?

I send off Light to my friends who have no father to visit in the hospital anymore. I send Light to friends who  have been without a father their entire lives. I send Light to friends who were abused or neglected or hurt in untold ways by someone who claimed fatherhood but who didn't deserve that title in their lives. I send Light to friends who were abandoned or told there never was "a father"...I send Light to all the fathers who were present, involved, loving, working hard to support and keep together their families. I salute you, all.

I send Light and Prayers up to anyone, anywhere, who has been up all night, pleading with God, to maybe take a few years off their own existence, in return for some more healthy time, for their father.

Amen. 

SAVING EVEREST

Like so many other human beings drawn to the highest peak in the world, I have always been obsessed by Mt. Everest. Perhaps it was because I began life just shy of the first American (James Whittaker), aided (more than was given credit for aiding--as Sherpas have been since the beginning--and continue to be) by Sherpa Nawang Gombu, reaching the summit of the world. The year was 1963; the month was May (my birth month). I was only seven years old, yet, somehow, the news of this feat reached me at Sacred Heart School. Posters of the mountain tops of Tibet, photos culled from old "National Geographics", images of rugged humans with blistering faces and alien eye-goggles, burned into my brain. (It was both terrifying and exhilarating--much as the stories of the mountain continue to be.)

Years later, I learned that in 1953, New Zealander Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tenzing Norgay had made the initial successful ascent. My respect for New Zealand, as well as Nepal, grew respectively. I followed both successful and disastrous climbs, through books, periodicals and newsreports. I viewed maps of alternate routes up the mountain, from different sides and different countries. Always, Everest stopped me in its shadow.

The flapping of Tibetan prayer flags and the sight of hand-made altars (which adorn the base camps) make my throat clutch. I understand the magnitude of that place. I understand, somehow, the animation and god-force present on that mountain. I guess that is why I've  never understood the demeaning role the amazing Sherpas have been relegated to in the history books of Everest. It is so clear: if not for their generosity, bravery and knowledge, no people (outside their own tribes) would have ever reached the summit. Not all the techie gear in the world can insure that "prize". It is the Sherpas' mystical connection with the landscape which allows them access--something that has always been shiningly clear to me, even as I see accounts of the mountain from thousands of miles away.

The mountain is not simply a pile of frozen ice or strewn rubble. The mountain is alive. It carries God. (Perhaps, it IS God, in a disguise Westerners cannot see through?) Sometimes, though, like the Old Testament "Father", it, too, wreaks vengeance--something Westerners should recognize.

Given these facts, it was with utter horror that I saw the latest "National Geographic" article about the mountain. In the June issue, Mark Jenkins wrote about what it might take to "repair Everest".
REPAIR? The word implies that something on the top of the world has gone horribly wrong...wrong in a human-made way. "Repair" implies that what once worked is now broken. (How can a mountain be broken? WHO can break a mountain? Why would anyone want to engage in such an atrocity?)

Jenkins goes on to report the absolute desecration of the routes to the summit: litter, human feces-- left where they dropped, old gear, torn tent remnants abandoned on the sides of the mountain, broken lines, hardware rusting in the howling winds, weathered clothing, boots, broken goggles, and finally, the biggest shocker: the dead.

Now, dying on Everest and finding a final resting place against her breast, would seem to me, a kind of hero's end. It would be beautiful. It would be clean. It would be sacred--a privilege granted to those few who sought her solace. I'm not talking about that scenario. (Nor am I talking about tribal people filling the mountain with their ancestors.)

 Mark Jenkins writes about failed (often novice) climbers who expired on the mountain. Their climbing teams lacked the skills, or desire (maybe the money) to bring the body back down...thus, as one ascends to the top of the world, one passes several decomposing human corpses--close enough to the trail to be touched. Attempts to cover them, of course, are in vain. The blizzards rip away any shroud. The mountain will expose our feeble attempts in the most obvious ways...these dead knew that going up. If they didn't, they know it now.

It is not the presence of the bodies, per se, it is the presence of the bodies left on the route, like a bad carnival funhouse ride. It is the presence of the bodies amid the rest of the trash and human waste. This is not a war zone. This is not the site of one big tsunami nor volcanic eruption. This is the sacred mountain whose "visitors" were ill prepared to take the trek. Their spiritual awareness seems to have been almost "nil". Their respect--for their Sherpas' judgement,  their own limitations, the very land they were trekking, was lacking. Whether they be professional visitors or simply guided tourists, understanding the undertaking --and respecting that which they did not understand-- was missing. (Or so it seems to this armchair wanderer.)

Mark Jenkins included photos of "traffic jams on the trail"...climbers in gaudy, puffed up clothing, all with designer outdoor labels, huddling together as they waited their turns to "go up to the top". Sometimes as many as 500 humans have mobbed the top. (This in 2012.)

Jenkins writes: "....roughly 90 percent of the climbers on Everest are guided clients, many without basic climbing skills...having paid thirty-thousand dollars to one hundred and twenty-thousand dollars to be on the mountain, too many callowly expect to reach the summit...(two of the routes) are not only dangerously crowded, but also disgustingly polluted, with garbage leaking out of the glaciers and pyramids of human excrement befouling the high camps...and then there are the deaths."

How can we live in a time when it is clear that human beings have now polluted their planet, for profit, all the way to the Top Of The World?

For a moment, ponder this...Maybe it is the rich who can afford to dangle all that money in third world areas, paying the poor far too little to shepherd them to the last unpolluted spots on the globe? Or maybe it is the organizations and explorers and outdoor outfits who go up there, unregulated, not giving back to the land they exploit? Or maybe it is all of us who read about this behavior and still, in our own lives, litter. (Have you ever left a gum wrapper or beer can in a campsite? Have you ever taken a dump in the woods, too close to the trail, and simply left the toilet paper there, barely covered, or worse?)

Or maybe it is our arrogance, that we truly believe we have a right to every inch of this planet--to lay claim and to over-develop and to use for our own pleasure with no thoughts about impact or planetary distress? Jenkins feels that maybe we are guilty. He also feels that there are some people with clean-up and repair plans that could help.

Regulation of the ascents would be the beginning. Regulation of the ascents via Nepal and countries wanting access...regulations of the climbs via organizing and standardizing climbing requirements, licenses and permits--not just pay-off fees. (Everest is not a theme park...) Certification of climbers and requiring people to prove prior climbing experience--successful experience--before being allowed on the mountain. Fewer expeditions--which may mean more expensive fees paid to Nepal, etc. but funding increases would cut down on the human traffic on the trails. Patrols that are paid to monitor the clean-up--demanding climbers "leave no trace". If they pollute, they are fined, or imprisoned--made to clean up other messes in the country! (my idea...hah!)

Finally: remove the bodies.

All the bodies. From all nations. Charge each country that left its citizen on the glacier. Demand they come in, or pay professional removal companies to come in, and with as much dignity as can be mustered, and take the bodies off the trails. (They are not dummies in a haunted Halloween scenario.) They are human remains.

Some day, I will visit Nepal; I will wander in Tibet; perhaps even climb to the bottom of the Top Of The World. When I go, I will be going with bowed head. Prayerflags will be in my pack. I will be holding my  beads in each hand, chanting with humility, thankful for the people who allow me the pilgrimage. You won't find me hauling oxygen bottles up the trail, but if I come upon any empties, I will haul them down.