Angels in the Economist

There's something quite apocalyptic about the fact that the Economist just printed a three-page article on angels. I found it an odd and interesting read. The article makes no mention of the financial crisis, which surprised me -- I think an article like this one can be written because of today's economy, and a sort of cultural longing for rescue. But the Economist's purported reason for the article? Modern science has a few explanations for angels, and in fact, it can even make the idea of angels more acceptable. One of the most interesting points:

Oddly enough, modern science—so antithetical to angels—has made the world a more receptive place for them. In the age of the internet, scientific and technical language evokes angels all the time. Invisible networks and the world wide web are their natural and eternal business; from Ancient Greece onwards they have had instant access, global reach and universal applications. (Their very name, from the Hebrew, means “one going”, continuous action.) As Aquinas put it in his “Summa Theologia”, “The angel is now here, now there, with no time-interval between…angels exist anywhere their powers are applied.” Indeed, as fast as bytes flash, angels will always go faster. It is sheer speed that makes them invisible.

...

The knowledge universe is therefore the ideal home of angels, and their natural place. Anyone who supposes that the potential of the human mind is scarcely yet tapped or appreciated, and that its operations may extend to levels far subtler and higher than the senses can grasp, is leaving space for an angelic realm. And where there are still gaps in the grand unified theory of the universe that scientists dream of, angels fill them, agents of motion and illumination otherwise unexplained.

No doubt, in the future, these agents will acquire some sub-sub atomic label; just as, presumably, whole classes of angels have been replaced by photons and quarks. In some mystical quarters, the vibrating strings that are now posited to make up the created universe are happily compared to angels’ harps or the motion of their wings. And the web of unseen, unknown material that scientists call dark matter, holding everything together, might as well have been spun by the angels until the Large Hadron Collider proves otherwise.

Finally, a bit on Proposition 8

Ben told me that at a Proposition 8 rally, he saw a small group of people holding a sign that said something like, “Mormons in support of tolerance.” Presumably, these are people I know, as the Mormon community in Boston is relatively small and close-knit. He took a fuzzy picture of them with his camera phone, and I can’t wait to see it; I have a few guesses of who was in the group, and I want to find them and talk with them about the issue, and get insight into how they’ve reconciled their religious and political beliefs.

For the last few weeks, I’ve promised to post an insightful blog explaining my thoughts on Proposition 8 – and which side I take – but I’m feeling quite perfectionistic about it and I guess the only sentiment I have to share now is uncertainty and discomfort. The issue has brought to the surface the complexity that comes with being both a devout Mormon and a social liberal. When I first became Mormon at age 18, I didn't anticipate that my loyalty to God would ever come in conflict with either my loyalty to my friends or my intuitive sense of what is right. I also think that at age 27, living with contradiction is more troubling thing than it was at 18.

I envy Maria Shriver the freedom she felt to publicly declare that she was pro-choice – but not pro-abortion – and to explain that she was quite comfortable with this perspective as a Catholic. In a strict Catholic parish, such public support for abortion could get you excommunicated, and I believe John Kerry was denied communion following a similar statement. Although theologically Maria Shriver is on shaky ground, culturally she’s not in any trouble, and that’s quite interesting to me. I think it encapsulates a strong difference between the Catholic Church and the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints: while theologically both churches insist upon complete agreement from their members on moral and spiritual issues, culturally, Mormons enforce (or reinforce) these values much more strictly.

I’ve begun outlining some of my more specific views, but for now, I'll just leave you with the comforting words of Walt Whitman:

Do I contradict myself?
Very well, then, I contradict myself.
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)
—Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself"

New York, New Friends

Within ten minutes of my arrival in New York, I was seated in a cafe in Little Italy, across the table from a friend I'd never met before, but who I knew quite well in the context of my college's alumni blogosphere. For ages, he's read me, I've read him, and we've occasionally one another messages. (That's a feature of the Amherst blog community that is different from livejournal or blogspot style: rather than posting 'comments' publicly, you have the option to send the blogger a private message or post a response on your own blog publicly with a link to blog you'd like to comment on; I've found this slightly different format to be important for the community feeling).

There is talk about this sort of "digital intimacy" and whether it is meaningful form of human interaction, or if it comes at the expense of real, in-person communities and friendships. But gosh! I've always enjoyed my interactions with this writer, and within ten minutes of getting off the bus I was swept into a wonderful, breathless conversation about writing; about regret at having ideas when you don't have a pen at hand to write them down; about our life stories, in summarized form, and how our blogs fit into them; about religion and finding fullness and completeness with and without it; about travel and having the bravery to be non-traditional about work and your career. I felt like I met an instant and lifelong friend. Life feels so exciting in an encounter like that -- meeting someone who, even before our meeting, was convinced that I was a worthwhile person who had good things to contribute to the world, and who wasn't disappointed by the reality of who I was in person, outside of my blog. And I felt the same way about him, too. Now we're real friends. :)

Later in the day I caught up with old Amherst friends -- one of whom I hadn't seen in five years. And on Sunday I met a second blog friend, and again, there was that same feeling of instant connectedness, mutual admiration, and goodwill. She had begun reading me at someone else's recommendation, and that was wonderfully exciting, too. To hear: he told me, oh, you'd love kleahey. Read her. It was interesting to feel that I had proved myself on my blog in a way that I feel unable to prove myself in person; to feel that I've won the respect and friendship of wonderful people I can't imagine equaling in any dimension other than writing. Or no -- that doesn't quite put the nail on it. It's just -- as a shy person who isn't a great conversationalist, it was exciting and refreshing to skip all of the awkwardness of getting to know someone, and just to move straight into the meat of a fantastic friendship.

Describing this makes me feel that I've entirely failed on blogspot. I guess I haven't felt been ambitious about building this blog out into a community, when I already have one through my college. Perhaps I need to put more work into this one, or start an outside-of-Amherst blog all over again?

On the Fung Wah Bus, 11/15

Here I am en route to New York. I look forward to seeing and catching up with dear friends, but I've also been looking forward to the journey itself, and strangely, sitting on a bus for four hours. For three of the past five weekends, I've ferried myself down to New Haven, and there was something so peaceful and refreshing about spending two-and-a-half hours there by myself in the car, listening to music and weaving through traffic -- but mostly just thinking.

I realized that I don't really set aside time like that, just for reflection, and this is a time in my life where I've had more thinking than usual to do: about California and my imminent move; about Proposition 8 and what it means to be both a faithful Mormon and a social liberal; about career goals, personal goals, apartments, being 27, etc. Last week on the drive home I found myself wishing for a dictaphone, to talk through my thoughts aloud. Not to report any "aha!" lightbulb-style moments, but to capture small insights that I would otherwise forget, and to document the process of beginning with a vague question and making small conclusions about it. So here I am, thinking about thinking. I'll let you know if I reach any epiphanies, on the Fung Wah bus to New York.

Soy un votante democrata

I just got back from knocking for Obama in New Hampshire. I went with Ben to one of the most despairing neighborhoods I've seen in New England: an impoverished part of Nashua full of dilapidated houses, children wandering the streets during school hours, children smoking cigarettes, children with children of their own, children who seemed to be thugs in training. It was a sad and wonderful day that reminded me very much of my time as a missionary in Texas.

An immigrant from Kenya (and a non-voter) insisted on inviting us in and wouldn't allow us to leave until she had served us large glasses of Sunny-D -- part of the tradition for hospitality in her country.

A McCain supporter rolled down her car window to tell us she was supporting McCain because he wouldn't kill our babies.

A Republican for life-until-now, also in his car, rolled down his window to tell us that he and his entire family were bailing on the Republicans for the first time ever -- after decades of party loyalty. He asked us for a two photos of Obama and then drove off.

A man missing teeth (there were so many of those today) told us absently that he didn't realize that today was election day, but that since we reminded him, he would go and vote. For Obama.

A woman told us she didn't realize she'd lived in New Hampshire long enough to vote (30 days residency is the minimum) and she didn't know you could register to vote on election day in New Hampshire (a shame you can't in other states!) and she also said she'd go vote for Obama, too.

We gave two people directions to their polling sites.

I wore the sticker: Soy un votante democrata! and had two conversations in Spanish, both with enthusiastic Obama supporters.

All in all, it was a much more exciting and gratifying experience than my canvassing in Londonderry a couple of weeks ago.

What was really wonderful about this volunteer experience was that the volunteers weren't all highly-educated, or white, or young, or middle-to-upper-class, or even US citizens eligible to vote. Well, a lot of them were, but there was a richer demographic representation than I expected. The Nashua campaign headquarters were delightfully frazzled and full of people: people talking on the phone in Spanish and in English, people making colorful campaign signs, people giving directions and instructions and taking care of paperwork, all in a barebones storefront with a few tables and chairs.

I'm off to an election-watching party now. I'm hoping good things for Obama. :)

Corporate etiquette and the kiss-kiss-kiss

Last week I met a UK-based client in person for the first time, after working for him for a number of months. We greeted one another warmly, and then, after shaking hands, he leaned in for a kiss-kiss-kiss, which I was entirely unprepared for. I almost maintained my composure for cheek-kiss number one, but much to my chagrin, I was a bit dumbfounded for cheek kisses two and three. The client laughed and explained: that's how we do things in London. I've never been to UK, but I guess I'd always unknowingly thought of the cheek-kiss as more of a continental European thing, and unfortunately, I'd also assumed that such greetings were a social and not a business custom.

I take comfort in the fact that I'm not alone in needing guidance on the matter of cheek-kissing. In fact, the Wall Street Journal devoted an entire article to the topic earlier this year (Americans Learn the Global Art of the Cheek kiss). Interestingly, the article focuses on the Hispanic business culture as the primary site of cultural difference. And even more interestingly, the article cites the expertise of a "corporate etiquette consultant." That sounds like a tremendously interesting career path, and one that certainly intersects public relations.

Having lived in a predominantly Mexican-American community in Houston, I became accustomed to greeting friends with the beso (just one kiss on the cheek), though it always did feel a bit foreign to me. And then at family reunions for my dad's side of the family, there is always the cheek kiss, and it never occured to me to wonder if that was an Irish custom, or where it came from, since at other gatherings I haven't seen in it. But context aside, I'm decidedly a hand-shake person.

Fasting, a migraine, an obituary

I fasted today, as you do in my church the first Sunday or every month, and which I don't usually observe because it sometimes gives me migraines. I had cranberry juice this morning, so it wasn't a complete fast, but I still got an awful migraine later in the day that would not be appeased by exedrin migraine. I no longer keep anything stronger on hand, and I quickly realized that the headache had gotten out of my control and I just had to wait.

I think of the time in a headache as dead time -- there is nothing you can do but wait for the time to pass, the only cure for headaches of that variety. I spent an hour sitting on the bathroom floor reading the Economist, and then watched "Martian Child" with my roommate and a plastic bag. I was urged to go lie down in the dark, which does ease the pain a little bit, but in the boredom of lying down, unable to sleep, my focus always turns undistractedly to the pain.

I helped my mother, today, with my grandfather's obituary. It described his education, his work, his family: he leaves his wife of 55 years, a son, Eric (who has never been called Eric a day in his life), a daughter, Meryl, and nine grandchildren. I have to admit that it made me think of W.H. Auden's poem, "The Unknown Citizen"; it could have described any number of boyscout-troop leading, Sunday School teaching, family man grandfathers.

If I had the chance to write an obituary, regardless of the likelihood it would be accepted by a local newspaper, it would have described a trip that my grandfather took me on in honor of my fifth birthday. He asked me what I wanted as a birthday gift, and I had something very specific in mind: a pink, gem-encrusted plastic snail, about eight inches tall, that was all the rage amongst my little friends. It had a shell that opened into a hiding place for the little treasures that only a five year-old has. I can't remember what those snails were called, but it was one of those eighties toys that was heavily marketed on television and which I desperately wanted.

My grandfather drove me to Toys 'R Us, and got a shopping cart, and we quickly found exactly what a wanted, much to my delight. We put the pink snail into the shopping cart, and then my grandfather surprised me by suggesting that we take a little walk through the store. I thought he was going to try to convince me that I may want another toy more, and I was entirely baffled when he led me down every aisle of the store, frequently picking things up and asking, "You know, this looks like a neat toy. Would you like to get this, too?" Even being five years old and having only the most rudimentary knowledge of the world, I was acutely aware of the extravagance of that trip, so much so that it made me feel shy. I don't remember everything we got that day -- we did get a "lite-brite," a my little pony, some small dolls whose hair changed color in the bathtub, a baseball bat, some gifts that my grandfather let me pick out for my other siblings. The cart was overflowing with toys by the time we left, and I truly felt like the luckiest girl in the world that night.

I wonder if he planned to get all of things that night, or if it was a spur-of-the-moment decision. When I was in college I wrote about that trip in a letter to my grandparents, and gosh, I'm so, so glad that I did. I wish I had written notes describing other fond memories, too: the memory of my grandfather pulling me out of knee-deep muddy water after I feel into a swamp in a hike that we took; my grandfather sneaking a doughnut to me after I had been sent to my room for misbehavior; my grandfather taking me and my siblings and my cousins to a frozen lake that was covered in six inches of snow, and playing the most fun game of tag that I think I've ever played.

Gosh. I just really want to value people the way the deserve to be valued, and to just show my appreciation more generously. I also feel my role in my family changing subtly, but in a real way. I felt this on my brother's birthday, which was the same day my grandfather died. My mother was in Florida and I ended up organizing a somber birthday celebration with my sister and my dad: we got the cake and candles, made the phone calls, organized the dinner, all things my mother would have done if she were in town. And I realized that I really don't do enough to help organize the time that I spend with my family. That sometimes my role in my family is too much just showing up, and that I can and should do so much more.

Any, goodnight. My headache seems to have gone, finally.