End of Summer Travelogue

0009997_Haiti_Diagram_Paul_Fallon_101103I ended my summer doing two of my favorite things – riding my bicycle and connecting with the friends I have made through my work in Haiti.  Len and Cheryl Ann Gengel invited me to their beach house in Wells, ME.  I had to say yes to the good people, good food, and good beach.  Then I decided to ride my bike, 95 miles each way, to experience New England at that turning point of summer to fall.  I biked through 26 towns in three states, eight hours each way.  Here is a bit of what I saw along the way.

Fresh Pond

Cambridge, MA – Fresh Pond was my start and end point.

Powder House

 

 

 

Somerville, MA – I crossed over Powderhouse Blvd, where I lived when my children were born.

Royall House

 

 

 

Medford, MA – The Royall Mansion

Salem Street

 

 

 

Malden, MA – Salem Street is full of aging commercial

fellswaymelrose middel school

 

 

Stoneham, MA – The Fellsway is a great bike route close to the city

 

 

Melrose, MA – Melrose has a smashing new Middle School

wakefield

 

 

Wakefield, MA – Lake Quannapowitt and the gazebo are this town’s landmarks

lynnfield

 

 

Lynnfield, MA – Beyond Route 128 everything spreads out.  Lynnfield has an extensive historic district.

peabody

 

 

Peabody, MA – Yikes!  The bike trail that was supposed to by-pass Route 1 is not paved so I have to navigate the spaghetti of highways as best I can.

sylvan street

 

 

Danvers, MA – Sylvan Street seems to be the best way to keep off the highways…

BeverlyBeverly, MA – …until I enter Beverly and realize I am way off track

 

horse crossingWenhem, MA – There are horse signs everywhere.

 

 

 

topsfield fairTopsfield, MA – I finally get back on track in Topsfield.

 

ipswich

 

Ipswich, MA – I have a long slog on Route 1, but there is little traffic and a wide shoulder and the view across the marshes is still spectacular.

barbeque Rowley

 

Rowley, MA – I skirt the highway to explore Rowley, where I find great barbeque for lunch on my return.

Rt 1 Newburyport

 

 

Newburyport, MA – This is the midway point. The worst stretch of the whole trip is the mile leading to the Merrimac River bridge.  A sudden cloud douses me with rain, there is no shoulder, I hit a pothole, and my front light goes flying.  It’s a minor inconvenience but it rattles.

salisbury

 

Salisbury, MA – Route 1A turns east and I finally get to the beach!

Seabrook

 

 

Seabrook, NH – The ride up the NH coast is incredible. Even the Seabrook nuclear plant cannot diminish the exhilaration of a perfect cycling day.  75 degrees and overcast; by now my legs rotate on their own accord.

Hampton Beach

 

Hampton Beach, NH – On my way up, I take a break to enjoy the honky-tonk and have a sausage and pepper sub along the beach.

North Hampton

 

 

North Hampton, NH – After climbing a cliff out of the strip, mansions surround me.

Rye Beach

 

 

Rye Beach, NH – I pass one beautiful beach after another…

Portsmouth

 

 

 

Portsmouth, NH – …and descend into the lovely city of Portsmouth, where all kinds of festivals spill into the street.

 

kitteryKittery, ME – I continue to hug the coast along Route 103.  I see my first tree that has turned to gold. Fort McCleary is a cool resting spot.

York Harbor

 

 

 

York Harbor, ME – Going north, the coastline gets more and more dramatic.

Fox's York Beach

 

 

York Beach, ME – I stop for a soft serve at Fox’s, right on the beach.

 

Front PorchOgunquit, ME – Back on Route 1 the traffic through Ogunquit is tough for cars, but easy for me gliding by on the right.  The Front Porch is packed, as always, on a nice summer day.

 

Wells BeachWells, ME – The beach at Wells is worth the trip, but even better is seeing Len and Cheryl Ann and about 20 of their friends for a surf and turf buffet and hours of good stories.

Len_Cheryl Ann_me

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Made in Detroit

usa-001I love Detroit.  I loved it as a child hearing my father’s automotive tales of his home city.  I loved it through every era depicted in Jeffrey Eugenides Middlesex, even the 1967 riots.  I’ve loved flying in and out of its airport so often over the past twenty years on my trips to Kalamazoo; monitoring the spread of urban abandonment from the air and marveling how easy the Interstates flow; rush hour is lite in Motor City. I loved Detroit this summer when, for the first time, I actually got to trod its hard surfaced streets, take in a Tigers game, and marvel at its fabulous 1930’s skyline, lumpy ziggurats unencumbered by late twentieth century boxy skyscrapers that despoil urban centers who have been unlucky enough to suffer economic growth.

I strolled along Woodward Avenue, one of the 1940’s great shopping streets.  Not every storefront was empty, not every shadow harbored a homeless person, but the proportion was high enough to nudge a pedestrian along.  Still, I stopped at the Made In Detroit window.  The store had great spirit, muscular and industrial, full of hard metal objects and T-shirts, as well as a chauvinistic streak, with an entire line of ‘Badass’ goods and a tribute to Detroit as ‘The Arsenal of Democracy’ during Word War II.  If it had been open I would have stepped inside, but these days Woodward Avenue rolls up well before summer sundown, so I contented myself with the sidewalk view.

Detroit declared bankruptcy on July 18, 2013, my father’s 89th birthday if he had lived that long. Since then our news has been full of the details of Detroit’s $18 billion debt, corruption, empty pension coffers, and abandoned streets.  The same week Shinola, a boutique manufacturing company specializing in watches, bicycles, leather goods, and journals manufactured in Detroit, opened a New York flagship store in TriBeCa.  Of course the headline of the New York Times’ Style Section tribute was ‘Made in Detroit’ and Shinola’s website features beefy looking Americans with their arms clenched across their chests reinforcing the notion that Detroit is tough and tough is good.

I am struck by a paradox.  If tough is so good and Detroit is so tough, why is it such mess?  The answer, of course, is that tough is no longer good, or even relevant.  The world is not about being tough, it is about being smart, and while the rest of the world grew a heck of a lot smarter since World War II, Detroit, with its too-slow changing automobile industry, its eight-mile race divide and its corruption, was anything but smart.  But not to worry, for now we can save Detroit by buying artisanal hard goods made there. Just as we buy handicrafts from Ten Thousand Villages to support third world enterprise and feel good about being global citizens, we can buy boutique bicycles to support Detroit’s manufacturing resurgence and feel good about supporting America’s first third world city.

But I don’t want to buy a bicycle from a boutique; I want to buy a bicycle at a bicycle shop, a place that offers a full range of choice.  And I don’t want to support Detroit because it is tough, or used to be tough and now prints ‘badass’ T-shirts to prove its toughness.  Detroit should celebrate its past, but Detroit’s most important contributions to the world came well before it 1940’s factories gave shape to the world’s greatest carnage; Detroit’s genius came at the turn of the last century when it incubated the automobile industry and developed phenomenal changes in manufacturing processes.  It is that innovation, not bulging biceps and big wrenches, that will make the city relevant for today and tomorrow.  I don’t want Detroit to boast of being tough, I want it to demonstrate that its smart. I want it to get its financial house in order, I want it to reach across Eight Mile Road and bridge the gap between the affluent suburbs and deserving urban core, I want it to optimize its immense infrastructure with worthwhile, sustainable development.

Detroit is not an anomaly; it is America’s leading example of how a vital civilization can decay from its core. It deserves bold action and wise investment. Not because of what it did in our past, but because of what it can offer our future.  Made in Detroit is all well and good.  But I want a T-shirt that says Inspired / Invented / Improved in Detroit.

Shinola 2

Shinola Boutique in TriBeCa – is this any way to buy a bike?

Made in Detroit FascistMade in Detroit

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Twenty Feet to Stardom

vitruvian_man-001And the colored girls go “Doo do doo do doo do do doo…”

Thus Lou Reed’s Walk on the Wild Side begins Twenty Feet from Stardom, a movie ostensibly about backup singers that is really about how we all endure, and perhaps find solace, in life beyond the spotlight.  The soundtracks, the visuals, the characters, all stimulate the marrow of Americans of a certain age. We grew up in the golden era of back-ups, when clean scrubbed white bread voices that simply bolstered their lead singers were eclipsed by gospel choir bred sisters who didn’t even pretend to read the music, they just sang from their soul.

The films main characters, Darlene Love, Judith Hill, Lisa Fischer, Merry Clayton, Claudia Lennear, Tata Vega, and the Waters family are hardly household names, yet they are the wall of sound behind Michael Jackson, Sting, David Bowie, Stevie Wonder, Bruce Springsteen, the Rolling Stones, and many more.  Their talents are each on par with the stars they serve. Some yearn to claim their own spotlight but luck and fate never align in their direction, while others prefer life in the shadows, acknowledging that to be a star requires more than a great voice, it requires a fierce determination they lack.

The depth of the film comes from the wisdom, trials, and satisfactions these six women find in an industry where winners and losers are differentiated with even more cutthroat precision than in the wider world.  Their validation comes from the commentary by Mick Jagger, Bette Midler, Sting, Stevie Wonder and Bruce Springsteen, headliners who understand the solid foundation these women build for them to stand upon.

Darlene Love is both the most famous of the backup singers and the one whose story is most tragic.  Phil Spector simply issued her early recordings with The Blossoms under other names; other faces stole her starring voice.  Eventually she became so disillusioned she quit music, cleaned houses, but in her forties finally decided to grind out her own career.  For the past thirty years she has claimed her own center mic, and Bette Midler recently inducted her into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.  Though Merry Clayton still works it, stardom has remained elusive. Claudia Lennear gave up on Ike Turner and Mick Jagger to teach Spanish. Tata Vega admits that if she’d ever been a star she’d be gone by now; she’s been close enough to the pressure to understand it would have done her in. But Judith Hill, a generation younger than the other women, is awkwardly balanced between earning a livelihood doing back up vocals and stepping out as her own singer songwriter self.

The films greatest satisfaction resides in Lisa Fischer, a solid black woman with short knobs of hair and a twinkling diamond nose pierce.  Lisa’s voice is incomparable; the synthesis of Aretha Franklin, Audra McDonald, and Leontyne Price. My eyes and ears focused on her nuanced lips and ethereal sounds when she sang alone, yet in ensemble her voice merged completely with others.  Like the rest, Lisa dreamed of a solo career; she even won a Grammy for her first album’s hit, How Can I Ease the Pain.  But that second album never materialized, while her prowess as a session singer never faltered.  Since 1989 Lisa has toured with The Rolling Stones, and when she struts upstage during Gimme Shelter to rant the female counter “Rape, murder, it’s just a shot away” (sung by Merry Clayton in the original recording) Mick Jagger has more than met his match.  Yet, of all the women in the film, Lisa seems most comfortable with her second fiddle role in life.  She carries the regret of a single, childless woman lightly. Her life is not perfection, but she acknowledges and appreciates her compensating satisfactions.

Back up singing is on the wane, the victim of tracking technology and reduced budgets. Perhaps the most remarkable scene of the film is Lisa Fischer, alone at a mic, scatting what could be an aria composed by dawn birds.  A second Lisa appears, adding harmony, a third, a fourth.  She is her own choir.  Until the aria softens, her duplicative images evaporate, and there is only one Lisa left at the mic.  All alone she made the wall of sound that used to require a quartet.

Twenty Feet from Stardom is the story of six women’s lives.  But it is also the story of yours and mine. Don’t we all contain a star within us? Don’t we all burn to demonstrate what we do best, and what nobody does better?  Aren’t we all hampered by the exigencies of luck and fate in claiming what we know should be ours?  I have written three books.  I could wallpaper a good-sized room with the praising rejections of agents, editors and publishers.  Last week an editor called me brilliant and then passed on my manuscript. I am unpublished, and likely to remain so for some time. Not so different from Merry Clayton or Tata Vega, or you.

The universe is endless and there are billions of stars.  But between each star is yet more immense space.  Most of us dwell in that huge void.  We look to the stars to give us light, and they need us to hold them up. Twenty Feet from Stardom gives a greater sense of place to us supporting players everywhere.

20 feet

Darlene Hall, Jo Lawry, Judith Hill and Lisa Fischer in Twenty Feet from Stardom.

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Is Obesity a Disease?

usa-001The American Medical Association has decided by an overwhelming majority that obesity is a disease.  I wish I could share their certainty. Obesity is a personal and public health hazard, a risk factor for many conditions, and an indicator for premature death.  Obesity enables disease, but does that make it a disease?

My friends at Merriam-Webster define disease as “a condition of the living animal… that impairs normal functioning and is typically manifested by distinguishing signs and symptoms.”  By this definition, I concur that obesity is a disease, as is epilepsy and smoking, cancer and heroin addiction, spina bifida and AIDS. Yet not all of these conditions are considered diseases. Epilepsy, cancer and spina bifida are diseases; AIDS is called a disease though it’s actually a welcome mat for multiple diseases, while smoking and heroin addiction remain scorned as dirty habits.  The discrepancy is not whether these conditions impair normal functioning; they all do. Rather the discrepancy arises from an individual’s ability to influence whether they develop the condition, and society’s attitudes of acceptable behavior.

People with spina bifida and epilepsy are born with their condition; they are blameless in their suffering and we universally offer care and compassion to them because there but for the grace of god we go.  Cancer is increasingly linked to our environment and diet, yet it develops so randomly that no one condemns cancer patients of drinking too many Diet Cokes or breathing too much industrial air.  The increase in cancer is modern life’s collateral damage, and we extend compassion without blame to all who suffer it.

AIDS is dicier. It strikes randomly among a subgroup of people with particular behaviors. From the onset, people with AIDS were simultaneously labeled ‘sinners’ by people with a particular moral bent and ‘victims’ by those who considered the HIV virus an extreme side effect of the actions that transmit it. I find compassion easy towards the men and women who contracted HIV/AIDS before means of transmission were understood, but my empathy weakens for people who contract it these days when transmission is well understood and precautions easily available.  There are random cases of ‘oops, the condom broke’ and a disturbing subgroup of mentally ill known as bug chasers, but most of the recent uptick in HIV infections in this country is due to a casual attitude that HIV is a just another chronic condition treatable with drugs. Compassion is hard to muster for people so cavalier with their own life and health.

Obesity is the result of physiology and personal behavior in an even more complex way.  It is not a condition triggered by a single point of conversion; obesity evolves incrementally as a person eats, time and again, more food than their body needs. And, unlike HIV/AIDS, obesity is reversible.  True, there are people with metabolic dysfunction who are clinically obese, but far more people claim such conditions than actually possess them. Unfortunately our obesity epidemic has as much, or more, to do with cultural dysfunction than nutrition. Although a person with a thyroid disorder may be obese through no fault of their own, how culpable is the food stamp mom who can buy more processed food than fresh fruit for the same dollar, or the chronically depressed person who uses food as a palliative, or the twelve year old living in a dangerous and nutritionally deprived neighborhood whose mother has determined it isn’t safe to play outdoors?  These people do not have a fair shot at a fit and healthy life.

My biggest concern about calling obesity a disease is not that it doesn’t meet the criteria, but that in bestowing the condition with the imprimatur of disease we condone it. If we label obesity a disease, obesity will increase because whenever we assign something a label we deflect individual responsibility. In a world of overabundant, unhealthy food, individual responsibility is the strongest deterrent to being overweight.  If a person with epilepsy is not responsible for their disease, why should a person with obesity feel responsible for theirs, despite the fundamental difference that an epileptic is consumed by an external force beyond their control, while an obese person enflames their condition with every bite.

The prevalent American response to any disease is to take a pill. But the only meaningful response to obesity is for our society to make better nutrition available and for each individual to do the hard work of maintaining healthy weight.  I can’t see how designating obesity a disease can help either of these conditions come to pass while it is easy to see how an obesity ‘diagnosis’ will simply provide overweight people an excuse for their condition rather than the motivation to control it.

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Exploring Buddhism

vitruvian_man-001I attended a welcome session and mediation at a Buddhist center in Cambridge the other night.

There was so much not to think about.

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Larry Summers is Nearsighted

usa-001The third in a series of posts inspired by What Money Can’t Buy: The Moral Limits of Markets by Michael J. Sandel.

When Larry Summers was the President of Harvard, one day he opened Morning Prayer at Memorial Chapel with a few words on the theme of what “economics can contribute to thinking about moral questions.”  In his talk he weighed economics’ predisposition to measure benefits assigned to individuals, and its assumption that the aggregate good is the sum of each individual’s good.  He also addressed the conundrum of whether it is worthwhile to boycott goods produced in developing world sweatshops, when sweatshop work may provide the best economic opportunity for local workers.  He diffused those who criticize the selfish, greedy nature of markets by saying, “We all have only so much altruism in us.  Economists like me think of altruism as a valuable and rare good that needs conserving.”

Altruism is not blood.  Blood flows through us but we must mete it out carefully since it can only be incrementally replenished. Altruism is in our blood. Altruism is a way of thinking about the world, and our place in it.  It is an activity that nourishes us in a particular way; it satisfies and fulfills us but there is no limit to how much of it we can offer.

We are impoverished when a man of Larry Summer’s intellect and influence (Chief Economist at the World Bank (1990-1992), Secretary of the Treasury (under Bill Clinton 1999 – 2001), President of Harvard University (2001-2006), and Director of the National Economic Council (under Barack Obama 2009-2010)) has such a wrong-headed view of altruism and dismisses altruism’s possibilities.  Money is important in this world, but it is not the only important thing in this world.  The sooner that we put money is more reasoned perspective, the sooner we can make progress in the hard work of making this world a more just and equitable place for all.

Larry Summers

Larry Summers

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What Money Can’t Buy II: Have a Slice of Pie

usa-001The second in a series of posts inspired by What Money Can’t Buy: The Moral Limits of Markets by Michael J. Sandel.

Ultimately there are just two economic camps.  Some believe in a finite economic pie whereby I can only capture a greater share if my neighbor’s shrinks. Others believe in an expanding pie. They understand that my neighbor and I can both have healthy slices, that our portions can each grow, and that, miraculously, our portions will grow even faster when they are interrelated.

Evidence of the finite economic pie exists in every specific economic transaction. If a job is available and my neighbor gets it, than I don’t.  When Boston limits the number of taxi medallions (currently valued at $625,000 each), the high cost of entry makes taxis scarce and expensive. If charter schools siphon per student allocations from public schools, the public schools have less money. When China produces quality goods at lower cost we lose that manufacturing. The finite economic pie creates a world of winners and losers.  It motivates winners to protect their advantages, hence unions, licensing, tariffs, and lobbyists; while it disenfranchises the losers from the system, hence apathy, resentment, and revolution.

However, the finite pie theory offers a restrictive view of greater economic opportunity.  Our evolution from a local agrarian to regional industrialized to global information-based economy is premised on an ever-expanding economic pie.  In the ideal, the expanding pie can offer a job to me and my neighbor; it can stimulate demand to accommodate more taxi drivers, it welcomes schools best suited to each student’s need, and it offsets outsourced manufacturing with higher-level economic prospects at home.  An expanding pie point of view recognizes the potential for future growth, but is less tangible in the here and now.

My own career is a perfect example of how an expanding economic pie works over time.  I went to graduate school in architecture.  At the time all architecture schools had similar curricula and students entered the job market with basic building design skills.  Early in my career I worked on schools, houses, offices, even shopping centers.  Then I landed a job designing a hospital and found a keen fit between my skills and the challenges of creating healthcare facilities. Within a few years I was an expert in healthcare, at least according to our marketing materials.  For years I worked in every aspect of hospital design and construction but around age 50 I started to focus only on clinical planning – working with nurses and doctors to organize the building to meet their clinical needs.  In the last few years, as healthcare clients become more committed to cost containment and aligning their facilities with optimal patient care, I have become a Lean process facilitator; I write papers and speak at conferences about how to integrate Lean process improvement into the healthcare environments.

Thirty-five years after I joined my profession I do work that did not exist when I began.  Healthcare has become more complex, healthcare facilities have become more specialized, and the teams that create these spaces have become both larger and more expert at the multiple factors that must be considered. The pie required to create healthcare facilities grew larger, the teams expanded to include more specialized skills, I benefited, and I like to think that my clients did as well. Today, a graduate student in architecture can choose from among many specialized programs, including healthcare design. They can enter the job market with more specific skills than I possessed at that age.

The other advantage of an expanding economic pie over a fixed one is the ability to accommodate the inevitable shifts that occur as economic needs change.  When computers entered the work place reports of people being replaced by machines were exaggerated, yet it happens and will continue to happen.  Thanks to EZ Pass we have fewer toll takers; thanks to ATM’s we have fewer bank tellers.  In general, as each rudimentary task is automated what takes its place are a collection of higher skilled jobs, designing and maintaining these systems that require continuing education and training.  Just as I needed to gain credentials to transition from draftsman to Lean facilitator, an expanding economic pie almost always requires expanded skills.

One of my biggest frustrations over the past decades has been the automobile industry’s lethargic (reactionary?) response to creating more energy efficient transportation.  They have taken a ‘fixed pie’ approach to making cars more efficient, which has led to the US automakers losing ground to their overseas competitors.  Part of the problem for this is that expanding pie economics requires a broad vision and coordinated action that is at odds with American business concepts.  Our reliance on individual initiative and free enterprise can lose out against countries with an industrial policy geared towards an expanded economic pie.

This leads us, as in so many economic discussions, to comparing the United States and China.  China’s hyper-centralized capitalism can direct their economic output and tap into the needs of an expanding pie while we remain the best place on earth for individuals to develop their own ideas and generate individual economic reward. A pie bound by a specific circumference would impoverish the earth’s hungry, growing population. A pie expanding at sonic speed would be like a super nova energized beyond control.  Somewhere between them lies an economic sweet spot.

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What Money Can’t Buy – 1: Economic Prepositions

usa-001I recently read Michael J. Sandel’s What Money Can’t Buy: the Moral Limits of Markets. The book stirred up ideas that kept branching and expanding and inspired a series of blog essays.

The economic underpinnings of the United States have ceased to serve the best interest of the people.  We could attribute this to nineteenth century robber barons exploiting workers, or the failure of early twentieth century progressives to alter profit driven capitalism, or the rise of the military-industrial complex, or our reluctance to grapple with the interdependencies of the global economy.  But I prefer to lay the blame on James Carville. As manager of Bill Clinton’s 1992 presidential campaign against George Bush, Carville coined the phrase, “The economy, stupid”.  The slogan, usually paraphrased “It’s the economy, stupid”, did three things simultaneously.  First, it got Clinton elected.  Second, it cemented the idea that economic issues trump all others in national elections.  Third, it bestowed autonomy and power to our economic system beyond the ability of any ordinary individual to influence.

Prepositions matter. ‘Our’ economy is something we own, we have a stake in it; perhaps we can affect it.  ‘Their’ economy is other; it differentiates and possibly creates barriers among people or countries.  ‘An’ economy is neutral, there is no value assigned to its merit. But ‘The’ economy is established, fixed, authoritative and unalterable.  Nouns preceded by the preposition ‘the’ are rendered important, even majestic.  We don’t pay tribute to a queen; we honor the queen.  And every one of the three billion males on earth knows the difference between a man and being ‘the man’.

The human propensity to personify is universal; we are reassured by symmetry and human proportion.  But when we personify abstract concepts, bestow human attributes upon them and accord them human rights, we yield some of our own.  Corporations were created as individuals of business in order to pool risk and resources for a more efficient good.  But when corporations received the right of free speech (thanks to the Supreme Court ruling in Citizen’s United), actual humans lost some of our own voice.  Similarly, when we proclaim our web of economic activity to be ‘the economy’ it is no longer something that serves us, it is something we serve. When we elevate the economy to a position of immutable power, when we attribute it the ability to play king maker in a presidential election, when we toil under its burden, we are diminished in return.

These days we call our economy the consumer economy since consumer spending is the largest component of economic stimulus.  Consumer spending is now 71% of GDP, up from 61% a generation ago.  The consumer economy used to be great; it provided stuff we needed.  Then marketers perfected the pathways to human desire and the economy moved from providing for our needs to satisfying our wants.  By the time George Bush II recommended shopping as the appropriate patriotic response to the Iraq war, consumption had become a civic duty. Now the consumer economy is the noose around our neck.  We are told over and over that the only route to prosperity is through buying more stuff.

For most of us, the only certainty in a consumer economy is the certainty of debt.  Debt is not bad in itself; it an essential lubricant to a flourishing industrialized economy.  Debt allows people with ideas and capability to execute their vision, ultimately to create wealth.  But just as corporations have been given too large a voice in our world, debt has become a burden that we serve rather than a tool that serves us.  Debt is no longer something we undertake in exchange for creating wealth over time, it is the mechanism by which we survive from month to month. Most of us are in debt, have been since we were young, and will be for the rest of our lives.  Debt is the tether that binds us to the consumer economy and traps us under its power.

I propose we abolish ‘the’ economy.  Since I am no revolutionary and never want to topple all the good that is the United States, I suggest we start small.  First, wash away the proposition ‘the’.  When economic activity aligns with our interests, it is our economy, when it diverges from our interests, it is their economy, a signal that we ought to circumvent it, and ultimately change it.  When debt is going to help start a worthwhile business, buy a house or educate a child, go for it.  But when a dinner out or new TV will tether us to constant payments, think twice. Don’t bow to marketing and political messages that push us to consume. Don’t revere the economy imposed by others. Figure out what constitutes your economy and cumulatively let’s make it our economy, an economy that works for everyone.

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Cape Cod on a Summer Day and Evening

0009997_Haiti_Diagram_Paul_Fallon_101103There is no place more beautiful than Cape Cod on a clear summer day, except perhaps that same crooked peninsula as day wanes and evenings jeweled light shimmers across the bay.

This weekend was my first significant cycling on Cape Cod – 115 miles out on Sunday from Cambridge to Eastham to visit my friends Mike and Jan, and then 95 miles back today.  I got lost several times going, which extended my distance there, and hopped on the T from Braintree to Harvard on the way home to avoid riding at night.

Cape Cod’s beauty, like so much of New England, is rooted in the satisfying arrangement of ordinary elements – the sea against the dune, the wind animating the grass, the elegant proportion of a 6 over 6 window on a cedar clad saltbox.  It is the perfect environment for cycling – a landscape well scaled for ten miles per hour.  I spent most of my pedaling time on Route 6A, where the perpetual quaintness of period structures, billowing tress and vibrant day lilies is occasionally blown apart by intermittent yet expansive view across a marsh to distant dunes.

My trip was triggered by my annual visit to a Cape Cod League baseball game in Orleans, though we never got there.  Dinner talk lingered and Mike offered to show me around Eastham during the hour the sun dropped into nightfall.  He is a lively tour guide, versed in the history, politics, and characters of a small town set in this precarious strip between ocean and bay.

Although Eastham includes land with roads, houses, and such, it is the water that commands attention, or rather all the ways in which the water meets the land. Bay beaches have tall bluffs, salt ponds have scruffy edges, fresh ponds offer gentle sand for youngsters, marshes appear painterly and benign until you get caught by one racing out with the tide, while the ocean is an endless stretch of serenity on a quiet summer evening.

I don’t visit the Cape often, but I go there in my head when I need images of repose.  This weekend I stocked up on year’s worth of serenity.

Fort Hill Eastham

Fort Hill Eastham, MA

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Abby Joins the Peace Corps

usa-001Nearly forty years ago, as a Bachelor of Civil Engineering seeking a 180-degree break from academia before pursuing graduate school, I applied to ACTION, the 1970’s-era aggregation of government service efforts that included the Peace Corps, VISTA, and a smattering of other programs.  I received multiple prospectuses, mostly variations of building bridges in Afghanistan. I contacted my ACTION rep and apologized that I was not interested in going to another country; I wanted to serve in the United States. I didn’t tell her I was afraid to go abroad.  I didn’t tell her I feared being the Ugly American, that I worried about struggling with a foreign language and had zero confidence in my ability to actually design and build a bridge. ACTION placed me in Levelland, Texas, about as psychically far from Cambridge as a person can go and still remain in the United States. I had a remarkable, transformative year. I believe I touched a few lives and I appreciated all those who touched mine.  When graduate school beckoned, I was fresh for the call.

Today my daughter leaves for the Peace Corps.  She suffers none of the doubt I did at her age.  She has already traveled to more than twice as many countries than me, has a more nuanced view of the globe than ‘Ugly American’ can describe, is facile with languages, and when confronted with the challenge of traversing a river, no lack of confidence will keep her on the near bank.  Besides, Abby has a keen sense of surpassing her parents, and the most elementary math demonstrates that Cambodia is far beyond Texas.

Abby leaving fills me with wistful pride. My gut aches hollow when I think of my little girl 8,700 miles from home, but I fill that void with the satisfaction that she is doing what she wants, and her pursuit is grounded in so much good. All parents pray that our children will avoid harm, we worry over the dangers of violence and drugs and indifference that surround us; we are consoled when they mature into active participants in the world. But when they surpass simply doing alright and engage in such a positive way, we wallow in their reflected glow.  My pleasure in seeing Abby follow such a noble dream blunts how wretchedly I will miss her.

Joining the Peace Corps is a profound act of hope trumping reality.  The United States has over 1.4 million military troops on active duty, many of them introducing democracy to our neighbors with flack jackets, bombs, and bayonets.  A mere 8,000 Peace Corps volunteers represent our nation in 139 countries armed with nothing more than a willingness to live among others, learn their language, understand their customs, and share the seeds of our bounty with those interested in listening.  It is a Ghandian approach to changing the world; one that seems unlikely to succeed. But history shows time and again that every attempt to create lasting peace through coercion fails, so what else is really left but an attempt to understand each other at the individual level.

The hope of the Peace Corps is that small interventions, face to face across a table, a classroom, or a rice paddy, can produce meaningful and lasting results.  But the Peace Corps also believes in mash-ups; in throwing together people of divergent cultures, religions, and ways of thinking.  The pairing may produce friction, or incremental improvement, or the cross-culture mix might just foment disruptive change.

In a world of seven billion people, gigantic corporations, environmental destruction, and social disorder that leaks across national boundaries it is easy, almost rational, for a single person to survey the situation and turn away from the chaos.  The odds of making an impact are so small. But the Peace Corps, and Abby, teach us that the odds are still greater than zero.

As Abby flies west to the East, she bestows upon all of us left behind hope in a world that still offers the opportunity for one person to make a unique imprint.  She brings to a Cambodian community the hope that one young woman cares enough to give them two years of her energy and talent.  And she herself brims with the hope that thrives on constructive action.  Although I place good odds that Abby will effect useful change in whatever she encounters in Cambodia, I am certain that whatever benefits she gives to that country will be returned to her ten-fold. In offering so much of herself, Abby is sure to receive knowledge, understanding, and compassion beyond measure; gifts that will shape her entire life.

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