[Above photo:  All the turkeys in a row.]

Yesterday I split the rest of the maple which we pulled from the woods two years ago. The second maul, which Linda was using last week, is double the weight of the one I was using. Hard getting it over your head but it really cracks through the wood on the downstroke. It’s a musical sound and very satisfying to pop off fireplace-sized chunks.

We made soap two days ago. Well, I watched as Linda made it. NaOH and olive oil/Crisco/coconut oil were carefully measured, mixed into a slurry, and poured into pans to “saponify”. Once solid, they were placed on a table to harden further. Oh, also lavender essential oil for scent. When hard, we’ll cut them into bars with a wire, she says, and wrap them for little gifts in her handmade paper—instead of the customary bottle of red wine at a dinner party, we can bring this. Will our hosts imagine it as a suggestion to bathe?

The noose is tightening. Little did I think I’d feel grateful to Michael Cohen for lying and then telling the truth. What a sea of sewerage DT swims in! Surrounding himself with chiselers and liars. How ever did we sink so deep as a people to elect someone so shallow? Maureen Dowd wrote in the NY Times today about the Clintons’ road show, how they’ve made $240 million from >700 speaking engagements since he left office. What of moment have they to say, at this point? Does it all go into the Clinton Foundation to do good works, I hope? I now feel wary of Hillary, even though she was in most ways the best prepared and most intelligent of our candidates. We all have feet of clay, of course. Since I’ve never had, or made, the opportunity of great wealth or vast public approbation I cannot understand the attraction of spending one’s days mining for money and fame. A miner’s life is, if not dull, repetitive.  Like Mick Jagger at 70+ singing “I can’t get no satisfaction” or “I’m a backdoor man”.  Kind of sad and irrelevant.

There is a must-read article in the Times today, “The Insect Apocalypse is Here”, about the collapse of the insect world. Since they, with their millions of subtly and not so subtly different species and tasks, form the very foundation of our natural processes, it is sobering to note that our degradation of the planet has yielded a 75-90% decrease in many species in a variety of locations. Since everything depends on their toils, it is pretty scary. EO Wilson, in his latest book, talks about how we must allow half of the planet, to revert to a wild state in order to prevent the eventual collapse of Nature as we know it. Of course, if we are gone, life will continue but differently. It makes me hesitate when I drive my car to the grocery or, even more so, knowing that when I’ll fly to Yangon, my personal atmospheric CO2 contribution will literally be tons. Multiply that by an immense number of planes daily and the mind numbs, aware of the implications. And climate-deniers abound, heading corporations and governments, chasing….money? And cod were once so thick in the Atlantic that schooners sailing thorough a school of them would be stopped. One of the author’s points is that we are like the frog in the gradually warming-to-boil pot: we don’t easily recognize the changes.

As I attempt to stave off the frailty, if not feebleness, of ageing—speaking of the frog in the pot—I put unreasonable faith in my daily 20’ morning exercise routine. It, along with regular hikes and walks, keeps me fairly limber and strong. But I can hear the footsteps behind me in the forest, as I race to outrun them. I cannot settle for a non-physical life; it may be forced on me, as it is on so many. I don’t mind moving through life more slowly. I just like to keep doing most of the same.

There is a decidedly morose cast to my mind today. It is reflected in the weather. As we awoke it was snowing vigorously, which I’d love. Now it is 34 degrees and raining. And grey. It is, however, amazing how one’s mental state improves with a fire in the fireplace, a warm onion tart, a glass of red wine, and lively conversation.

We went to a performance of a local choral group last night. It was a beautiful venue, the Saint Sauveur Episcopal Church in Bar Harbor. The guest music director didn’t exactly extract the most from her musicians so the Bach Magnificat was pretty lackluster. She had planned for the chorus and the audience to sing a few carols afterward but, even though the words for the 3^rd and 4th verses were given us and everyone was enjoying it, she stopped us after two verses, saying, “I’d just planned for us to sing two.” I wondered about her parents’ treatment of her. Were they caricatures of rigid Lutherans, as Garrison Keeler affectionately mocks? I like amateur offerings if the performers are engaged with some passion. In two weeks we’ll hear the Bagaduce Chorale which is reputed to be special.  It ain’t New York or San Francisco but I prefer living here.

As I assemble my curriculum for the Child Psychiatry course I’ll teach in Myanmar, I am amazed that I’m taking this on. Teaching an entire 9 month course covering all of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry on my own. Generally there is an entire department of a medical school contributing to it. However, it is an opportunity to effect the course of child treatment in an entire country.  Long on relationship, light on the medication. The power of talking/playing therapy. I’m warming to the task. Plus, weekends I’ll travel about the country, seeing natural and man-made wonders, eating delicious Burmese food. Pretty sweet. No turkey or buche noel for this man on Christmas day: green mango salad and mohinga for me, as I’ll arrive in Yangon at 11:45PM December 24. Perhaps a ripe mango or a handful of mangosteens for desert.

I hope that December is kind to you all. It can be a tough month in a Buddhist sense: more attachments and expectations than can be satisfied.

[Photo above: Bed in the snow.]

I guess Linda’s and my canvasing on election day 2018 paid off! The Blue victories continue to roll in. And His Less-than-Excellency increases his squirming and deceit as his options become more limited and his escape less likely.  Perhaps he can be put to work raking the forest floor in the Sierras after his removal from office.

There are many more serious things, now that the House is retaken, to consider, such as all the dire and believable reports tumbling in concerning the climate changes coming to our globe. And we (mankind) are still building coal-powered electrical generating stations at a rapid clip and mining the black gold at a ferocious pace all over the world.  The anticipated Mars InSight mission, landing on the Red Planet on Monday, may yield important scientific information for us but can anyone possibly think that an escape of 6 billion people to another planet is a solution to fouling our own nest? Or of 6 people?

After publication of Paul Erlich’s The Population Bomb in 1968 there were decades during which fretting about overpopulation was in the public media and consciousness. But we hear little about it now, which further suggests to me that our collective will to remember impending catastrophe is remarkably limited.   If we had intelligent leadership, and leadership by example, I think most people could get behind efforts of self-sacrifice and change in order to preserve our amazing planet for our grandkids. Or for those of someone else.

Speaking of grandkids, we just finished a 4+ day marathon with 10 of us staying in Linda’s home. It is large enough that it didn’t feel crowded. And we devised a cover for the dining room table that makes it 10’x 3 1/3’, comfortably accommodating the 13 people for Thanksgiving supper. Linda, as is her wont, totally knocked herself out with fabulous food and breads and pies and hospitality. The Little Ones, James and Amelia, were darling.  We all hiked around MDI (Mount Desert Island) on two separate days in very cold weather. With 8” or so of snow and record-setting low temperatures (-12C), noses freeze and appetites build. I can see how the Inuit can sit in igloos for months, chewing on blubber, fat having 2x the calories of carbohydrates or protein per gram.

It is 33F and raining now, so the snow will melt. We had the traditional bonfire two nights ago, burning downed trees from the surrounding woods, circling it in warm clothing, drinking hot libations (mulled wine), and commenting on how amazing it was that we could create a successful fire with wet, snow-covered wood and only 1 ½ bottles of charcoal lighter fluid!  As I was spraying it, I recalled how Milton Rosenbaum, the chief of psychiatry at Albert Einstein College of Medicine, squirted some on his barbecue in the 1960’s and the can exploded in his face, burning him badly. I was ready to toss, tuck, and roll if the flame came back up the stream into the container.

I also recalled my elder brother, Roger, holding a match in front of his mouth and spraying a stream of lighter fluid out 6 feet or so to make a flame thrower. This was in a bar and an onlooker, a bit soused, tried it without the proper pressure and his mouth and throat lit up. Lighter fluid burns at a pretty low temperature, so he wasn’t seriously injured. But don’t try it! Roger performed some amazing feats in his youth, like stealing a beer truck and tossing the beer off the end of the town pier. The water was 40’ deep and only he and his friends would know to go there for retrieval on a warm summer night. As his forebrain matured, he became an excellent Navy jet fighter pilot (never saw combat, happily), he got a PhD in physics, married a lovely woman, and had 3 splendid kids. Anyone who knew him misses him a lot, especially his immediate family.

It is a bit strange, joining an already-formed family. Everyone is very nice to me, yet when the memories start flowing I am clearly an outsider. Our guests from the UK, reduced to one couple as the male (Chris) of the other couple was hospitalized in Oxford for weeks on oxygen with cryptogenic organizing pneumonia, were as fun and lovely as can be. They, Penny and Paul, came for an American Thanksgiving and got that plus the Arctic cold wave. They were wonderful sports and seemed to enjoy all the chaos and good cheer. That Chris, a picture of robust, muscular health, should be felled by this is sobering to us.  And by a disorder of which I’ve never heard. He is gradually recovering, hopefully to his former state.

I received permission to apply for a visa, which I’ll do tomorrow. Another strangeness is that it will only be good for 70 days, before which I must re-apply for another.  I sent off 55# of books and teaching videos. And I am beginning to hear of places to rent. I’ll fly out of Boston on 23 December and have a hotel, equidistant from Medical University 1 and Children’s Hospital of Yangon, booked for 10 days.

My next chapter is gradually coalescing. I hope all who read this had a good Thanksgiving.  [And all others, as well, knowing that isn’t likely.]

[Above photo: Why is this woman smiling as she strides along at Mile 24 of the NY Marathon? ]

11 November 2018

As winter sets in, with crisp mornings, shortening days, brilliant sunlight, and snow flurries yesterday, I am still awaiting permission to apply for my visa to Myanmar. I can see Burma vaguely in my future. Whatever obscure reasons are hindering approval, the process is shrouded and nowhere transparent.

The weather in Yangon yesterday was: temperature 87/76 F, humidity 90%, and thundershowers. The advice is “Don’t bring a rain jacket, as it will be too humid to wear it.” Blantyre was 82/58, 27% humidity, and sunny; the rainy season hasn’t begun. Since it is at 3000 feet, it is a milder clime.   I’ll be happy to be in Myanmar, no matter the weather.

Our country breathed a sigh of relief after the elections. Not that a liberal agenda can be moved forward with the current Tweeter-in-Chief, the Supremes (So many offers of new, younger ribs for Ruth!), and the Mitch lining up his Yes-Men, but at least investigations of corruption can advance and perhaps the most egregious of His Ploys can be foiled. Now is the time for smart Dems to show their strategic chops. I’m a terrible chess player and cannot think 6 moves ahead but I know there are plenty of people out there who can.

Linda and I canvased to get out the vote on Election Day, first in Hancock County and in the afternoon in Southwest Harbor. What a contrast! Single and double-wides in the former, except for very large and fancy houses on waterfront, and lovely old salt boxes and federalists in the latter. The poverty of rural Maine is something I’ve largely encountered only while driving past it or at the Goodwill store in Ellsworth, when I am buying throwaway clothes to wear in Myanmar.  At the end of a muddy, rutted road in the woods I knocked on the door of a trailer. An elderly man wearing a gray union suit, with a large hole at the right elbow, answered. I thought, has he a shotgun in there? To my surprise, he was friendly and chatty and on the kind and benevolent side of the great divide in this election. We talked for a bit and his understanding of our current predicament was bell-clear. Next, at the end of another muddy road with many pickups parked outside and people laughing inside, was a double-wide. A 30ish woman came out and shut the door behind her, tensely saying that her mother, after whom I’d asked, wouldn’t be coming out to speak with me. She was totally wired and it was disconcerting to see her continuously flipping her dentures with her tongue in 360’s as she nervously responded to my inquiry. Having a speed party inside, I’d guess. Likely they’ve given up on the election process as a way to secure help. Next Linda went to a small house with a disabled ramp to find a 50yo amputee and her 70yo mother with their caretaker. Linda, it turns out, had delivered the caretaker’s first child.  The younger resident claimed they had applied for absentee ballots and hadn’t received them. We drove to the polling place and used the phone to discover: 1) the older woman hadn’t applied for her absentee ballot; 2) the younger woman’s ballot had been sent to the correct address—likely it got buried in the chaos of the household; and, 3) we were unable to secure  handicap transport for either of them.  They couldn’t vote.

In the afternoon we went from comfortable house to elegant home in Southwest Harbor. Linda knew a number of the residents and they all had voted. The streets were paved and, as the rain poured, we wearied of the task.  We didn’t encounter anyone who was ambivalent about voting or needed a ride, so we packed it in for the day. Overall it was a very good experience for me to be busy in a constructive-feeling way rather than just fretting about the outcome of the election, which would only become clear 24 hours later. It also was fun talking with different people, bringing a neutral agenda—just offering them encouragement and help to vote.

Time is in reverse in this note. Linda (see above photo) ran the NY Marathon, all 26.2 miles, last weekend. It was glorious for her and, if a bit exhausting for me to follow her on the subway, a fully engaging and exhilarating experience. Kind of presaging the election results, I think. I’ll do more systematic training on cheering and subway riding before her next one. I was able to see her in three spots, at mile 4, mile 18, and mile 24. She felt, and looked like she felt, terrific. There was so much cheering along the way and so many funny signs: “I’m more tired than you just from holding this sign up.” “You are running faster than a Supreme Court justice to an open bar.” “Pain is just bread in French.” And on and on. The runners could only exit Central Park, after finishing the run at Columbus Circle (59^th), at 76^th Street, and Linda then had to walk to her friend, Ruth’s, at 57^th. After celebratory photos, champagne, tapas, and cake at Ruth’s, we walked to Harold and Connie’s at 81^st and fell into bed.  I thought, well she’s got the madness out of her now. Oh, no. It was such fun she is thinking about another marquee marathon next year. “I think I’m built for long distance running.” Obviously.  Warsaw, Berlin, Paris (Do they have a marathon in the City of Light?). Reno Orsi, her Italian immigrant father, was a powerhouse who realized himself in his older daughter, not that he was moved to give her credit commensurate with her accomplishments.

I’m finishing the detailed curriculum for the course I’ll teach in Myanmar. It’s a lot of work, or at least I make it so, to assemble and teach it the first time. The second year would be simple.  In Malawi there was only a week of Child Psychiatry, for medical students, taught twice per year and I shared the teaching with others.  I suppose the unknowns in this situation make it more daunting: will I get a visa and be able to go? If so, when? How much time each week will I be given to teach? How many students will I have? Facilities don’t matter so much to me, as I can do it anywhere with a roof.

Two couples, old friends for Linda and newish for me, will come from UK for Thanksgiving, along with between 2 and 4 of Linda’s children and two grandkids. It will be such fun! Laughter, good food, fires, hikes, stories to hear and tell, watching another year pass. What a miraculous gift it is to be living, even with the progressive indignities and privations of old age.

And we took back the House! I want to see his tax returns.

[Above photo:  Kitchens I have known. Safari Camp, Liwonde National Park, Malawi]

26 October 2018

As I walked and drove around Berkeley and Oakland during my visit I was astounded at the number of obviously emotionally disturbed people appearing homeless.  They were sitting on the sidewalks on Telegraph and Durant Avenues; they were walking and panhandling on Shattuck Avenue. There was a small collection of tents right at the ‘There’ sign between Berkeley and Oakland on Adeline. And while riding the BART to the Oakland Airport I saw huge tented and tarped encampments underneath the 880 freeway. All of those people, cast off and out. One measure of the success of a society is how well they care for their most vulnerable. Didn’t DT say that once? No.

I had such a good time visiting and dining and hiking with all manner of friends in the Bay Area, including some from 50 years ago. But the urban human decay left a very bad taste in my mouth. A bitter, guilty taste.  How have I escaped such a fate, why have they not?

Seattle, where I was born and lived until 12 years old and to which I returned for my internship and a year of medicine residency, looks sparkling and prosperous. Cranes are everywhere downtown, erecting tall buildings. The weather was gloriously sunny and bright for 4 days and has been drizzly for 2. Nothing like the rainy season from November through April in Blantyre, when the skies open at any moment each day and drop buckets down, drenching everything and everyone.

My nephew, David, and his wife, Kir, and their children, Maddy and Sebastian, have all welcomed and integrated me into their family. Maddy and 4 incredibly cute and geeky high school boys brought their robot to the basement to show me last evening. They all are just bursting with ideas and talk so rapidly it is sometimes hard to decipher. The robot is amazingly complex and can lift a ball off the ground, toss it into a scoop, drive wherever, and unload it. Little motors all over.  It was such fun to hear them chatter.

I get up at 6:30 or so with the family and marvel at their dance as they inhale breakfast and get ready for school and work. David works for Valve, an incredibly successful game company, whose founder just sold the most expensive car ever, a 1962 Ferrari, for $48 million. It is pristine, all original, and was raced by several legends.  Just one of his stable. To think that computers and software didn’t even exist commercially until, what, the ‘80’s? Kir has a busy interior design business. Maddy goes to college next year. Sebastian will start high school.

The buses here are amazing—clean, quick, efficient.  In the morning I walk one block alongside Volunteer Park, jump on a waiting #10, swipe the Orca card, and sit back for a quick ride to the Washington State Convention Center downtown.

I’ve really enjoyed myself at this conference. I feel like my brain is expanding exponentially. My presentation in a panel about starting Child Psychiatry programs in low-resourced countries went well. I even sat in and held my nose through a day of psychopharmacology review. I learned useful things, to my surprise. One of the presenters, however, talked as if his patients were just objects he fed pills to and then sat back to see how they responded. Wouldn’t you know, he’s at Harvard and smart in his way so he has a bully pulpit, what Big Pharma calls “a Key Opinion Leader”.  Workshops on aggression, autism, and systems of care were amazingly interesting at points. This evening I was at a working group on problem-based learning. I facilitated problem-based learning exercises in Malawi but hadn’t realized the extent to which it has taken over medical school curricula. Of course, active learning is so much more interesting and successful, stimulating curiosity and a habit of learning that should last a lifetime. Sitting in a lecture is so passive and unengaging, generally. All said, the AACAP annual meeting was of high quality.

The first two days I was a little late for the all-day symposia I’d signed up for. The ballrooms were packed with 350-400 people and I wandered a bit each day until I found an empty seat. The first day I unwittingly sat next to a guy I’d liked and worked with in Oakland; he moved to Seattle five years ago. We had lunch at a great Syrian place he knew and he told me about his cardiac arrest 4 years ago (at 45yo, fit and running half-marathons) on a plane just before take-off to Paris. Fortunately, his wife, into whose lap he fell, is an ED physician and she did CPR and defibrillated him. He now has a stent and a pacemaker and is back running half-marathons. The following day the free seat I slipped into was next to a young psychiatrist I’d also known and liked a lot in Berkeley. He also moved to Seattle where he is structuring an interesting life with a wife and 3 kids.

I had supper with my former sister-in-law two nights ago. She is a lovely person and we talked and talked. I’ll sup with her, her husband, and their daughter with her family on Saturday. All of those relationships were disrupted by my divorce and I’m glad to restore them, if on a more limited scale.

Now I’ve walked downtown to the Pan Pacific Hotel where my friend from Berkeley, Hans, is staying. He teaches couples therapy in Seattle for 3 days several times a year and in San Francisco and Los Angeles, as well, and loves it. We’ll have supper. I feel like I now have friends throughout the world.  Maybe I always did, but I’m more aware of it now. It feels good in these times of global fear and feckless leadership.

Linda is in Boston, speaking at a conference tomorrow.  Sunday I’ll be on the 6AM flight for Portland, Maine and back in Bar Harbor by Monday.  I can’t wait to see her and the snow accumulate on the planter outside her kitchen window.