Travels with Charley, In Search of America by John Steinbeck. From the last chapter of that book: “Who has not known a journey to be over and dead before the traveler returns? The reverse is also true: many a trip continues long after movement in time and space have ceased.”
James E. Miller, "The Art of Being a Healing Presence," paraphrased:If you try to make yourself anything other than who you are, if you try to act especially competent, especially sensitive, or especially 'together,' you create a distance between yourself and those around you. They may feel they can't measure up to this 'false' you. When you allow yourself to be with another person as you naturally are, with all of your frailties, you have taken a sure step toward the wholeness that awaits you both.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Learning Curves
You know how much faster you can travel in a straight line, as the crow flies? I wonder how much farther we could get in life if there weren't so many learning curves?
We'd be born walking, like horses, if there were no learning curves. We wouldn't require any schooling or training or experience. We'd all know how to do everything automatically. In fact, there'd be little point in living three quarters of a century. Everything would quickly become redundant.
I like learning. Actually, I love it. But when I want to be done learning something (espcially how to use some new technological thing) I want to be done learning it NOW and using it like a pro. I suppose that's why engineers struggle to make everything "intuitive." I guess I just don't have very good intuition when it comes to technology.
Santa Claus asked me what I would want for Christmas this year 'if money were no object.' Santa understood that for me, money is always an object. I am a naturally frugal person. But Santa really wanted to know (Santa was about to go shopping), so I told him what I had been secretly dreaming about for years: a Nikon digital SLR.
Over these years of quiet contemplation, the prices have really come down, and sure enough, there, under the tree, was my camera. It came in a package with two lenses, a camera bag, and 18 photography classes, which I thought initially were only a sales tool. Who could need 18 classes to learn how to use a camera?
I have now attended three or four classes and bought an additional class featuring my camera model specifically taught my a Nikon trainer out of New York. I've also invested in a good tripod and some camera cleaning supplies. I still have not taken one decent picture.
I am definitely intimidated by the thing. On more than one occasion, I have framed the perfect shot only to find that the camera would not shoot. The Nikon trainer said it was a focus thing. I should have stepped back or switched to manual. I'm learning.
I took the camera out last weekend at sunset to a quiet spot in the valley with a great view of the mountains. I snapped pictures while the sun descended over the horizon in what I thought would be a spectacular array of colors. Instead, it was the world's first black and white sunset. Grayscale.
Our valley has been under an inversion since about the time I got the camera. The sky is perpetually gray. The snow on the ground is gray. Everything is in grayscale.
So I await the perfect picture. But that is part of the fun of being a photographer, even a very amateur one like myself. The perfect picture is always out there, waiting to be taken. It beckons you to remote outposts in distant places. And to be ready to take it, it forces you to lug equipment and attend classes and practice, practicie, practice.
So thank you, Santa, for throwing me this learning curve. And thank you, Mom, for giving me my first camera (the trusty Olympus I took to Denmark.)
We'd be born walking, like horses, if there were no learning curves. We wouldn't require any schooling or training or experience. We'd all know how to do everything automatically. In fact, there'd be little point in living three quarters of a century. Everything would quickly become redundant.
I like learning. Actually, I love it. But when I want to be done learning something (espcially how to use some new technological thing) I want to be done learning it NOW and using it like a pro. I suppose that's why engineers struggle to make everything "intuitive." I guess I just don't have very good intuition when it comes to technology.
Santa Claus asked me what I would want for Christmas this year 'if money were no object.' Santa understood that for me, money is always an object. I am a naturally frugal person. But Santa really wanted to know (Santa was about to go shopping), so I told him what I had been secretly dreaming about for years: a Nikon digital SLR.
Over these years of quiet contemplation, the prices have really come down, and sure enough, there, under the tree, was my camera. It came in a package with two lenses, a camera bag, and 18 photography classes, which I thought initially were only a sales tool. Who could need 18 classes to learn how to use a camera?
I have now attended three or four classes and bought an additional class featuring my camera model specifically taught my a Nikon trainer out of New York. I've also invested in a good tripod and some camera cleaning supplies. I still have not taken one decent picture.
I am definitely intimidated by the thing. On more than one occasion, I have framed the perfect shot only to find that the camera would not shoot. The Nikon trainer said it was a focus thing. I should have stepped back or switched to manual. I'm learning.
I took the camera out last weekend at sunset to a quiet spot in the valley with a great view of the mountains. I snapped pictures while the sun descended over the horizon in what I thought would be a spectacular array of colors. Instead, it was the world's first black and white sunset. Grayscale.
Our valley has been under an inversion since about the time I got the camera. The sky is perpetually gray. The snow on the ground is gray. Everything is in grayscale.
So I await the perfect picture. But that is part of the fun of being a photographer, even a very amateur one like myself. The perfect picture is always out there, waiting to be taken. It beckons you to remote outposts in distant places. And to be ready to take it, it forces you to lug equipment and attend classes and practice, practicie, practice.
So thank you, Santa, for throwing me this learning curve. And thank you, Mom, for giving me my first camera (the trusty Olympus I took to Denmark.)
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