It’s a dilemma.I face it every year.I don’t have green to wear and it’s St. Patrick’s Day.For your average run-of-the-mill citizen, this might not be an issue—but I do have an Irish heritage (in part), and so it’s a heartfelt concern.The reason I don’t have green has less to do with fashion (consider the source!) than with my clothing purchasing practices.First of all, I like to make my clothes last.Fabrics can be quite durable.They aren’t mechanical and therefore don’t break down often.I don’t live a rough-and-tumble life, so tears aren’t really a problem.The end result is that I keep my clothes as long as they’re functional.When they begin to wear out I go to the store and examine the clearance racks until I find something in my size.That means color selection is often a matter of very limited options.
Once in a great while I have landed something green.I still remember a green shirt I had in college.It served me well for more than four St. Patrick’s Days.It long ago succumbed to overuse, however, because I wore it on other days as well.And let’s face it, when I make one of those infrequent trips to the clothiers’ shops, this particular holiday’s not on my mind.Unless, of course, I go shopping in March.Back when I lived in Boston it was easy to get your Irish on.I bought a bright green silky (I don’t know if it was real silk) tie with white shamrocks on it.It was probably down at Faneuil Hall.It had been a bit outlandish to wear to work in New York City, though.Indeed, at work staid dress was by far the most common code.Consequently it hung unused in my closet for years.
When we moved a couple summers back, I noticed my green tie had faded to bronze.I thought it went the other way around.In any case, my last truly green clothing article was no longer green.Yes, it still has shamrocks, but I’d feel even more ridiculous trying to rock a bronze tie and pass myself off as Irish.It won’t even pass for gold.Of course, I work from home.I’ve practiced social distancing long before it was a trend or a government mandate, whichever it is.The only people to see my lack of green would be my wife and daughter, and perhaps a Jehovah’s Witnesses that might stop by.But still, even minor celebrations are anticipated at times such as this.Although I won’t be going out today I’ll probably be spending some time in my closet and reflecting on the true heritage of my Irish forebears.
Something happens to you on a long bus ride, reading a mind-blowing book.Part of the transport—literally—is that you’re captive for an hour or two and your book is your boon companion among snoring strangers.Another aspect is the earliness of the hour.Days like yesterday, when I have to commute to New York, involve awaking at 2:30 a.m.The day is cast very differently when your timing shifts back by a few hours.It’s almost mystical.The largest portion of the transformative experience, however, is the book itself.I’ve begun commutes with a book that I quickly realize is a mistake, but since I’m not a quitter, I soldier through it to the end anyway.On yesterday’s commute the book was one of those that caught my imagination and flew it like a kite from the rear of the bus.Arriving in Manhattan before six a.m. added to the feeling.The city’s a very different place that time of day.
Not everyone enjoys reading, I realize.My late stepfather once had a job as an elevator man.Not the kind dressed in livery at a big-city hotel, but as an operator in an antiquated building in Oil City, Pennsylvania, where you had to pull the metal gateway physically across the door and wait until the floor leveled before opening it again.I didn’t get along with my stepfather, but one day I went to visit him in the elevator.It wasn’t a busy building.He sat on a stool, staring straight ahead.For hours at a time.Not a man prone to meditation, I knew he had to be bored.I asked if I could bring him something to read, at least.He declined for fear of missing someone’s call signal.It was one of the most frightening scenarios I could imagine.
The clock in the Port Authority read 5:49 when we pulled in.The day seemed full of possibilities.I caught the 4:30 home, but the magic was gone.The book had moved on to more technical things.Traffic was bad, and there’s a world of difference between reading while the bus moves and trying to do so when it’s caught in traffic.The commute out of New York City is normally a nightmare, and yesterday traffic didn’t flow freely until we were nearly through New Jersey.My book was still my companion, but rather more like when a conversation ebbs after an intense discussion.There was the worry of getting home, taking out the garbage, and trying to stay awake until a reasonable hour.The book would still be there tomorrow, but I wouldn’t be the same.
There are times when the Internet’s asleep.Okay, well, so maybe that’s overstated, but if you have my hours you’ll quickly find the things you can’t do online well before 9 a.m.For example, just the other day I wanted to check out one of my accounts that I only vaguely understand.It’s with a company my employer contracts with, and it has an innocuous name that tells you nothing about what it really does.Still, I had to check in.After looking up the password, and going through the usual 18-step confirmation of my identity (it didn’t recognize my laptop), I landed on a page stating that it was the routine maintenance period for the website, and would I be so kind as to check back in later.This is not an isolated incident.In fact, I often awake around 3 a.m. to find that my laptop’s also doing routine maintenance, although I’m using it nearly every day at that time.Smart tech, indeed.
You see, the ultra-early riser has a different view of time than the rest of the world.After about 4 p.m. I don’t have the sharpness that was evident twelve hours before.Oh, I can still function, but it’s on auxiliary power.No warp drive that late in the day.I realize I’m the weird one here.After visiting friends and family and staying up to the obscenely late hour of 10 p.m., I’ll take an entire week to get back on track with days passing in a fuzzy haze of timely confusion.I’ve been trying to break the habit for over a year now, but I still occasionally have to go into New York City, and those days require ultra-early awakening.Knowing such a day is coming up, my body doesn’t want to be vulnerable to that shift.So I wake up naturally when many others are just getting to bed.
This is mid-day for some of us.
The problem with this is that if you have to get some business done before work hours, many websites are undergoing their maintenance.They don’t want to be interrupted when I’m actually alert.There’s a lot of talk about diversity these days, but the person trapped in the early rising net is not a protected category.It is frustrating to have people say “why don’t you just go back to sleep?” when you can’t.I’ve gotten used to all that.The early bird, they say, gets the worm.That depends, however, whether the worm is on the Internet or not because, believe it or not, the Internet slumbers in the middle of the night.
Maybe you’ve experienced it too.The sense of change in a large city like New York is palpable.Although I don’t commute in much any more, I noticed it when I made daily treks to the city—change is constant.If the skyline’s forever evolving, on street level things are more than keeping pace.In the seven years of my daily commuting I saw buildings built and razed in the same location.Scaffolding is a constant hazard.Public art pieces are placed and then replaced.Change.I was reading about Yijing, better known as I Ching, the other day.One of the spiritual classics of China, this “Book of Changes” reflects a worldview common in eastern Asia that is quite at odds with that that developed in ancient Greece.Many Greeks believed permanence was reality, those in China who read the spiritual masters believed that change was reality.The older I get the more I think the author(s) of Yijing got it right.
I’m not an expert on the religions of southern or eastern Asia, but I have studied the major ones.To those outside the field of religious studies, it may be surprising that the field is as large as it is.In the United States alone there are an estimated 40,000 denominations, and that’s just within Christianity.To be an expert in any one takes years of study.Add in the many religions of other locations, such as Africa and Asia, and you’ve got more than one lifetime’s worth of work lined up.A common—the most common, in fact—course in collegiate religion curricula is “World Religions.”I’ve taught it myself.The problem is nobody’s an expert in all of them.Still, I found reading about what used to be called “eastern religions” (with that poisonous cultural bias that the unchanging west is the correct vantage point) full of surprises.
Scientists well into last century liked the idea of a steady-state universe.Permanence.When Edwin Hubble noticed other galaxies were moving away from ours (and, by the way, first noticed that there were other galaxies), the Big Bang theory developed to explain this motion. Change, it turns out, is constant.It may be slow at times, and at others it’s like the skyline of a major city like New York, shifting several times in a single lifespan.I’ve read some of the spiritual classics (in translation) and I always come away with a new sense of wonder about the many ways of understanding the world.And I ponder what it will take to change the attitude that religions aren’t worth studying.
The long-distant commute is an extended social experiment.Although some of the people on the bus know each other—from overheard conversations while in line it’s clear that many of these commuters go to New York daily—they want to sit alone.The idea behind a bus, short for omnibus (Latin, “for all”), is essential equality.When I commuted daily from central New Jersey, I was a passenger from the originating city on the route.By the time New Jersey Transit buses got to New York it was rare for a seat to be empty.Now I take TransBridge, a bus line that operates out of Bethlehem.The buses are much nicer, but I’m no longer from the originating town.By the time the bus arrives at 4:30 a.m., it’s already half-full.(Half-empty if you’re an optimist.)That’s not a problem, of course, but the way people claim territory is.
Typically those who get on at the initial stop sit in the aisle seat, place their bag in the window seat, and do their best to fall asleep before reaching my stop, which is only 15 minutes away.When you go to get on, in other words, there are almost no seats and the happy, dreaming commuter knows you don’t want to wake him or her to get them to move their bag and let you in.Like most people I’d like to have two seats to myself—who wouldn’t?But the fact is the bus will be full and these people who do this every day should know that.But still they try to block others out.As a social experiment, it is worth some consideration.If you put your bag in the aisle seat it’s easier to accommodate the person who’ll inevitably sit next to you.But this is Trump’s America—everyone for himself.
I’m a fairly quiet person, and I don’t want to disturb anyone’s slumber.Many people not only sprawl out like they’re in bed at home, but they wear dark glasses and headphones so that you have to nudge them to get their attention.Then they act as if you’ve insulted them.Or they’re doing you a favor by letting you sit in “their” seat.I suspect the fact is that none of us wants to have to go so far to work.And I know that sitting next to a stranger can be less than ideal.When I buy my ticket, however, I know that I’m opting for an omnibus, and those who do so should be clear on the concept before handing over their money.Or maybe I’m just dreaming.
The New Yorker view of the world, so the joke goes, sees the five boroughs in great details, then a very thin New Jersey across the Hudson with a vague California somewhere out west.Having worked in New York City for nearly a decade now, I know that such a view is exaggerated, but has a small glimmer of the truth.We can only pay attention to so much and things are constantly coming at you in Gotham.I sometimes forget, now that I’m in Pennsylvania again, just how diverse my home state is.I’m not from old Pennsylvania stock—neither of my parents were born here and neither of my mother’s parents were born in the same state she was.Still, when you’re born in a place it’s natural to feel that’s where you belong.You inherit the outlook.I inherited Pennsylvania.
Pennsylvania is a bit unusual in being a commonwealth divided in two by a mountain range.Laid out with an horizontal orientation, it’s about 280 miles across, and once you’re over the Appalachians, you’re into a different subculture.On our way into Pittsburgh, signs for Evans City reminded me that among its many contributions to American culture, the Steel City also gave us zombies.Now from a history of religions point of view, zombies came from Caribbean religions that fused indigenous African beliefs with Catholicism.A religion that arose among people commodified as slaves.A zombie was a body with no will.It took George Romero, living in Pittsburgh, to give us the movie zombie with The Night of the Living Dead.Pittsburgh, among some, is glad to claim the title of zombie capital of the world.Its zombie walk is a thing of legend.
Ironically, the western end of the state, beyond the mountains, tends to be more conservative than the side closer to the seaboard.(Pennsylvania is the only of the original thirteen colonies not to have direct Atlantic Ocean water frontage.)Yet it has adopted the most egalitarian of monsters—the living dead.Romero tapped into the universal fear of unsettled death to make what were later to appear as “zombies” the unnamed monsters of his most famous film.Everyone has to die, and no matter our religious outlook (or lack thereof) the question of what comes after is asked on both sides of the Appalachians.And even by those across the Hudson in New York City.There may be even something between the two.
A funny thing happens to human minds when they’re in a crowd.They begin thinking collectively.We’ve all heard of “mob mentality” and dismiss it as so common that we don’t stop to think how remarkable it is.Maybe we’re afraid to.Yesterday I attended my third Women’s March, this time in New York City again.Being an introvert, I find the prospect of putting myself into a large crowd daunting, and with a winter storm warning posted, worriesabout getting home provided a convenient excuse.My wife knows me well enough, however, to sense when my enochlophobia kicks in and tries to kick out that part of me that’s passionate about social justice.You see, women are still not counted equal citizens in this “land of equality.”The Equal Rights Amendment has never passed.Pay is still based on gender rather than qualification.And we have an unrepentant misogynist in the White House.
Once I’m in a likeminded crowd, supporting social justice, it’s clear that my thinking is influenced by the activity of all those brains around me.Scientists know this happens in nature.Ant colonies, for example, “know” more than a single individual does.Recent studies have even suggested this “hive consciousness” can exist beyond a lifespan, creating an archive of learning that exceeds the lives of an entire generation.If only we could teach Republicans to do that.In any case, being in the crowd of bright, intelligent, hard-working women found me in a good head-space.The men in DC are certainly doing nothing to make the male gender proud.
Although crowd estimation isn’t an exact science, the media has consistently underestimated the sheer numbers of these marches.The National Park Service, on duty in Washington in 2017, estimated 1.3 million had shown up for the march.It’s still not unusual to see the number cited as 500,000.Regardless, with the sister marches it was the largest single-day protest event in U.S. history.We have to keep marching as long as men continue to elect the most ignorant of their gender to high office.There’s nothing controlled about the chaos in the White House.Fake news, alternative facts, a revolving door of staff, and Fox News’ nose so brown you could grown corn on it is not the way to run a democracy.I may have been part of a hive mind for a few hours yesterday, and it was a far better mind than those that abound in the federal government seeking only their own glory. Let’s hope the collective mind outlives this generation.