The day was mild. I remember high blades of grass undulating in harmony with the gentle breeze that faintly touched my cheek. I remember the sand, so fine, at once off-white and golden, and the gentle slope that reached far behind us into the water. I remember walking through a field of flowers and wild herbs, reaching an almost distinct border between the flowers and the sand, as though two different ecosystems had developed on either side of the border. I remember turning slightly left and up the sandy dune that led to a low, white cottage. A smiling woman, wearing a scarf on her head, emerged half way from her door as we approached it. She smiled and handed me an apple. It never happened.

I never forgot. I often asked my sister, who is older by five years, about this event, where we might have gone on vacation on the seashore when I was a child, about this utterly radiant woman whose memory fills me with a sense of being safe and loved to this day. My sister has no recollection of any such event.

A greenish figurine that, it seems, looked like a sort of android, was placed on a circular surface toward the far right hand side of a board game I had unfolded on the table. It held a long stick, which pointed down at the board. It vacillated on its circle for a while, appearing to hesitate between right and left, perhaps due to a cleverly arranged set of magnets, until it finally rested, pointing at one of the questions or phrases that radiated away from the circle. I spent hours playing with this android, this plastic being that for long moments seemed a real and fascinating man-god who lived in a box and needed to be acknowledged and allowed to communicate its wisdom by pointing at the words at its feet. This, too, never happened.

I never forgot. I spent hours playing with this board game or contraption. I asked my sister about it, assuming that since it appeared to be an educational game of sorts and she was older, it had to have been hers. She has no recollection of any such game. I asked many people of my generation and some older, thinking there must be some vintage board game out there someone would surely remember, even faintly. No. What is interesting is that I remember only one afternoon of this scenario. What is even more interesting is that I sat at my dad’s end of the table, opposite the end I normally sat at to eat. I played at that table nearly every day. That is the only memory I have of not being in my own spot.

Perhaps my sister simply does not remember, though she is the one who remembers every single student from first grade to her last year at university. Perhaps a therapist could extrapolate for hours on images of angels and hand-held, god-like figures. It is, I am certain, quite revealing and probably in many ways very much in line with the circumstances of my childhood. Perhaps I simply had vivid dreams.

However, this does not explain the vivid dreams of later years, where entire scenes unfolded in a different time and place, scenes I returned to night after night, in locations I later visited in wake time and perfectly recognized. This does not explain meeting two men on a street in Scotland with my husband and in a flash “seeing” an entire massacre the ancestors of one of them, precisely that one, had taken part in and in a flash knowing his clan name, which was correct. History books later confirmed my knowledge. I feel the pain of the violent encounter, back in the sixteen hundreds, as I feel that warm breeze on my face, that day, as I walked up to the woman with the apple, and as I feel my intense fascination with the android on the board of knowledge and as I feel the keyboard under my fingers this very moment.

I recently took part in a fascinating conversation with friends regarding the existence, or non-existence depending on one’s point of view, of time and space. All agreed that time exists and is measurable. All agreed that though measurable it was relative. All agreed that measuring devices were entirely man-contrived and not applicable to all cultures. All agreed that time implies space and movement. Most concluded, at some level, that we could not be certain after all and that any discussion about time would go on, well, indefinitely.

The appearance of Buddhist Baba’s in foreign parts of the world as they meditate in their own dwellings has been documented. Could a dream state somehow slip into absolute meditation, even for a moment? I can doze off on Roderick’s shoulder, for but a minute, and experience an entire morning of events in a distant dream world. Some researchers and theorists hold that all is mere consciousness. On occasion, we may accidentally slip into our awareness of other worlds, or tap into the awareness of others. Some researchers believe cellular memory is a more accurate explanation. Yet others believe in reincarnation. Perhaps this is much like the search for an absolute deity or creative mind. Not all cultures share the same views on what this creator might be, not all religions agree, but all contain some measure of evidence or truth.

What is true for me is not true for everyone, and vice versa. Therefore, by asking what is real, we also seek to define truth. The ultimate answer or explanation may lie in the overall tapestry of all beliefs. Indeed, perhaps the ultimate answer lies in our ability to accept and embrace the diversity of views and experiences, whether scientifically verified or utterly personal. Perhaps that moment of non-resistance in accepting all points of view is the turning point where questions are no longer necessary. All is as it is, experienced in personal ways, scientifically clear and perfect or indefinitely mysterious and expanding, or both.

Slainte!

Last weekend, I visited my sister in Montreal. Though I lived either in the Montreal suburbs or on the edge of the city itself for 26 years, whenever I return I am blown away by my experience, especially the experience of using public transportation and passing through subway stations.

I am used to the distinctly smaller crowds of Vermont. Even Scottish Festivals, with an average of 30,000 visitors in two days, feel like vast and peaceful surroundings in comparison. What seems most striking in Montreal is the very high percentage of people in their thirties and twenties. What is most striking yet is the overwhelming presence of angry, rebellious, foul-mouthed teens.

The representation of ethnic populations is remarkable, also. Then again, most of our ancestors come from overseas. However, Canada and US born Americans seem to have become a minority. The subway is a good place to make this observation. A subway car contains at least 30 seats. At any time of day, the crowd is such that every seat is used and additional people stand to fill the remaining space. Amongst all the people in a single subway car, it is possible for not one to have been born in Canada or the United States.

It honestly does not bother me whether someone is white, black, brown, yellow or purple. It honestly does not bother me what someone’s native tongue is or which faith he or she embraces. I am often mesmerized by the perfection and beauty of skin tones, the deep, dark eyes of African American people, the gentle demeanor of people from India, the fascinating perspectives taken by different creeds and the voices of young students speaking their native tongues amongst themselves. All are the product of centuries of history, struggle, overcoming and hope and I myself am just one spec of one culture.

The existence of so much diversity in one place is an opportunity for a great mosaic of talents, knowledge and creativity. Unfortunately, I think it is the little things that get us, truly, not color nor creed nor languages. Different cultures behave differently in social settings. For instance, as someone who grew up in a nation with deeply ingrained “Catholic” values and rules about proper public conduct, it is second nature for me to step aside and make way when I encounter people on a sidewalk, or to hold a door for anyone walking behind me. This is not “normal” conduct in all cultures. Interestingly, it is not normal conduct for the younger generations of my own culture.

Hence, back to the teen population I encountered in Montreal. I have a hunch that what I observed likely applies to many other cosmopolitan settings. It may be a cultural epidemic of sorts. To my mind, their completely gratuitous aggressivity and rudeness surpasses any foreign threat or malicious intention ever featured on the evening news. Interestingly, when such groups of teens enter a public bus or subway, adults from every nation and every tongue fall silent and seek comfort and answers in each other’s eyes.

Twenty years ago, it seems, children did not need the fear of retribution to choose to be polite and civilized. It was common sense. Perhaps it was second nature. Now, rebelling seems to be second nature, even rebelling against nothing other than just being there, amongst others; rebelling for the rush of it. This weekend, about eight teens boarded a Montreal bus swearing at the top of their lungs, pushing their way through standing passengers, some many times their elders, and swearing about that too. The boys were sloppy. The girls wore so little that it is a wonder they were there at all instead of being a photograph on a milk carton. My sister indicated this was a daily occurrence, not an anomaly.

I am old enough to be their mother, yet they scared me. They scared everyone. What’s the point? I understand a bit, of course. Everyone does, and it is sad. I have no doubt that every single one of them has great talents and the ability to contribute much, at the very least the ability to pour heart and soul into a project and be fulfilled in it. Would it not feel better to be embraced for this rather than be feared for nothing?

I stepped off the bus wondering what they would become, if they could be happy, truly happy and laughing a heartfelt laughter, the sort that springs from the exuberance of a good moment shared with friends, in peace, not the sort they currently experience when they make fun of others. The joke is on them. No one told them.

I wish them well, but they would not want my love, wishes or encouragements. They would not hear me. Perhaps they are the ones who beg to be heard. How do they need the world to look? Has anyone asked them? They are better informed than I at their age. The world and all its drama is at their fingertips, jolting them out of innocence at its own pace, not theirs. Perhaps this is what makes them so angry.

Slainte!

To laugh often and much; To win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; To earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; To appreciate beauty, to find the best in others; To leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition; To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.

These words were attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson. Though this is questioned, it remains the most often quoted citation about success. What is interesting about this is that the majority of us actually measure success in terms of school grades, business acumen and career accomplishments. In other words, we assign a dollar value, rank and productivity to success. It is something to attain, a lofty goal that must unfold a certain way in order for us to be able to say, “I have done this”, “I am a manager” or “I work for so and so”.

When we ask an individual such as Bill Gates what he feels represents his greatest success, we expect him to reflect on the development of Microsoft, its launch and its rapid evolution to the level of empire. This would be a perfectly acceptable and reasonable answer. We would be shocked, and disappointed, to hear him talk about the first time he stopped to notice a sunrise and how he incorporated sun gazing into his daily routine from that day forward. There is no glamour in that, nothing accomplished; or is there?

We equate success with productivity. We must accomplish a task, even the most complex task, in the least possible time, with the least possible steps and at the least possible cost. Now that is success; or is it? Attention to detail sometimes requires extra steps. That a successful process should be quick and as inexpensive as possible is an arbitrary decision someone made at some point, probably to reel in the dollars faster. It became a model. This does not mean it is a successful model. How successful is it to expect results with minimal effort? How successful is it not to be willing to take extra steps to ensure a well-rounded process?

When we cook a meal for a loved one, we painstakingly select the best ingredients, begin early to have plenty of time and diligently follow each step of the recipe without seeking shortcuts. We seek not profit; rather, we seek to be of service. Profit then becomes an effortless, inevitable result. We gain trust, and love, through our ability to inhabit each moment fully, giving it our whole creativity and integrity, regardless of the required effort or time. In other words, we pour our whole attention into the process because, in fact, we are pouring our love into it.

To approach each task of every day, in our personal life and in business, with this much fervor; now that would be success. Anything else borders on discrimination.

Slainte!

I see a long corridor, or rather a field, expanding away from me and slowly curving down out of sight, with the curve of the earth. At various intervals between the horizon and me, a fence stands erect. I am surrounded by the people of my community, the small business owners diligently sweeping the front steps of their stores and restaurants. We are the working class.

Beyond the first fence, men and women in suits stand, drinking cocktails and looking in our direction, perhaps remembering, some fondly and some with disgust, earlier times in their lives when they lived on our side of the fence, before climbing the corporate ladder. Some miss this time, but dare not say. The mansions of the well-to-do reach up above the third fence, so that even at a distance we see them and hear the roar of their gatherings. In that section of the field, the sky is perpetually lit by the glow of countless television sets and the multiple bedroom homes.

The next fence can only be seen from the perspective of the well-to-do. We do not see it from the working class field, but we know it is there. It is the only one adorned with barbed wire at the top. The decision-makers enter it each day, through a guarded gate. They are the founding fathers of our wealth, success, work, health and dreams. Some of them began their lives toward our side of the fence. They may have forgotten.

Beyond this field lies another, filled with golden wheat swaying in the sun and edged by stately, ancient trees. It is the field of all possibilities. We think one must be granted access through the previous fences in order to attain it. Few of us try. We are discouraged before we even try. In truth, we are scared because we believe the lies about our place in the world and because we believe we are different, less capable, perhaps even less worthy than the folks in the corporate, well-to-do or decision-maker fields. We forget that our lives and abilities are not truly subject to the gravitational pull of a horizontal field, and we forget that the fence is a symbol, not an actual barrier.

This is the image that comes to mind when I think of the dynamics of this world, our governments and our very perception of who we are and what we are capable of becoming. Our society, with all its various echelons of workers, small business owners, big business tycoons and government, is a landscape that spans infinite acreage from the poorest of the poor to the richest of the rich and from the least influential to the most powerful.

Often, our leaders seem so out of touch with the voice and needs of the people they represent that they might just as well be separated by a field so vast that the curvature of the earth makes us disappear from sight. Decisions are made based on assumptions and memories of who we are. Those who live on the other side of the fence, within sight of the leaders, may receive more attention because they are the immediate neighbor. 

We stay within the confines of our own playground, hoping that our needs will be met, indeed hoping they will be noticed at all. Some dare to venture out, to cross the fields and approach the playground of the leaders, enough at least to be heard from over the fence. What they fear most is not to be kicked out; what they fear most is to be ignored, which is worse. Nevertheless, no voice can be ignored. The wind travels amongst all fields equally. It may not travel at the speed of our thoughts. It may not travel at the speed of our earnest desires. But in its own time, it touches every person and every blade of grass and transforms the landscape enough so that over time our perception is altered, regardless of our position in the landscape.

Change requires occasional turbulence and the ebb and flow of trial and error, approach and retreat, but it is inevitable. And the fences are just that, fences, not walls. A construct of intertwined fabric that lets the wind, and the voices it carries, reach to the furthest ends of the field.

Slainte! 

My husband, Roderick, and I were sitting at dinner, sharing light conversation. Our house sits very close to the street, in an otherwise quiet village, except during work commute. We could hear the beat of hoofs in the distance. This was not unusual since a neighbor has a horse she periodically rides around town. What was unusual was that this horse was distinctly approaching at a rapid pace. The most peculiar spectacle unfolded before us the moment we shifted our attention from our conversation in order to stare out the window.

Atop the horse in question sat a young, barefoot, female rider who wore nothing but jeans and, quite distinctly, a regular upper undergarment. As a Victoria’s Secret advertisement event in full motion, they whisked by our house and continued all the way to the north end of the street, turned around, raced by in the opposite direction and disappeared around the curve at the south end of the village. I immediately sought to confirm with Roderick that he had seen what I had seen. A couple had driven by and observed the spectacle or at least I am certain they did, judging from the look on their faces. Neither horse, nor rider, was ever seen again.

I imagine a group on teenage cousins, visiting at a nearby house up the road and sending one of their own off on a dare to embark on this courageous galloping journey. She returned to them having done the deed and reporting on the puzzled faces encountered along the way. They had a good laugh. In that moment, the only reality was the feeling of freedom, courage and youth. It will be remembered by all who shared this moment in any measure.

Another incident takes place more frequently. We have lived here for almost nine years. I have gone on morning walks around the village daily for as long as we have been here. As a child, I often sat in front of my house to wait for the neighborhood cats to congregate around me, which they did within moments. Now, several decades later, a neighborhood cat ran to me every single morning when I walked by her house. I always stopped to greet her. The first time she did this, she had no way of knowing I would volunteer any attention. I assumed she treated every passer-by the same way. She did not.

I have come to cherish this brief, daily encounter. More so since my own cat passed away, last September. I had not seen my feline neighbor for several weeks and assumed her people had gone away for a while. However, she ran to me the day after my Vladimir died; only it was different this time. As I crouched down to greet her, she placed her front paws on my lap, reached up gently to kiss me, turned around and left. I did not see her again for eight months.

A famous French Canadian author wrote a novel, long ago, in which one of the main characters is a big, old cat who sits on a windowsill and witnesses the daily tribulations of human life. A grandmother and her grandson are the only ones who see him. I sometimes catch myself questioning whether I am the only one who sees the friendly neighborhood cat after all. She does not seem to come to me, or is nowhere to be seen, when other people are nearby, except a man she shares a house with, who occasionally stands in the doorway, watching. Is he puzzled by the fact that I, too, see a cat everyone else tells him does not exist?

Roderick took our dog Mathias for their daily father-and-son walk this afternoon. I always ask if he met anyone interesting on the path. By this, I am referring to either human or animal encounters. The same faces usually turn up, but not today. As they prepared to walk up the trail, they met a young man wearing a Utilikilt. This is a modern, plaid-less, version of a Scottish kilt. He also wore knee-high, laced, black boots, the type one might wear with a Utilikilt. He wore no shirt. An eccentric character? A Celtic musician on a refreshing stroll after practice? Had he been wearing a traditional kilt and boots, we would certainly entertain the possibility of a time warp.

I have had my fair share of incongruous encounters that are so unlike anything else in my daily routine that, occasionally at least, I cannot help but question the reality of it all. I believe there is much more to this world than our normal senses can perceive and I do not need an explanation for everything I do not understand. Sometimes, there is a very logical explanation; things simply do not line up in a very logical way, so the edges of reality appear fuzzy.

That these experiences occur but once may be a clue. More importantly, the fact that they stand out and leave such a lasting impression on the memory may be a blessing. In some instances, they project us outside of our daily routine. As a beam of light suddenly reveals a flower that had been there all along, hidden in the shadows, these moments remind us to look around and see with new eyes. At other times, these mysterious occurrences bring levity to an otherwise ordinary moment or spark our emotions in such a way that, without fail, we perceive a blessing at a time we need it most.

Slainte!

We do not often think about this, but the instruments we fashion to help us work, travel, survive heat and cold or communicate have essential common traits: the shape of our bodies and immediate surrounding and the shape of the economy. If our hands were clamps, the methods we devise for handling food, for instance, would be in direct relation to the shape and mobility of our clamps. Conceivably, our home furnishings would look quite a bit different if we lived underground or under water.

That we fashion the devices we use in our daily life after the shape of our surroundings is evidenced, rather interestingly, in the design of games. Consider “Twister”, for example, the game whereby a mat covered with large colored dots is placed on the floor and players must place hand or foot on a specific color. The design of the game was quite unusual and may not have occurred to the creator only a few years before its invention.

The extended family remained an important part of life well into the sixties and beyond. Family gatherings were common and commonly took place in the largest room: the kitchen. Twister was patented in 1966, at a time when suburban life was booming and families had moved these social gatherings from the kitchen to the living room or playroom. The advent of television, in the fifties, is believed to be partly responsible for this shift.

Only a few years earlier, the majority of American families still lived in very modest, small dwellings. The working class was not rich. The sixties are the era of the bungalow, the split-level and homes with a living room, family room or both. In a word, homes with legroom and couches facing the television set, rather than facing other chairs to accommodate the aunts and cousins. Twister requires floor space, a key ingredient to spark the idea for a game to be played on the floor. The configuration of homes and available living space at the time may very well have influenced the design of the game and the logistics of playing it - indeed, the possibility of playing it at all.

Now consider board games. Nearly all are four-sided and square. What is interesting about these is that most common kitchen tables are rectangular, which means that at least two of the four players might have further to reach to access game pieces. No problem. Simply take out the game table; the one used all along to play cards, checkers and chess. Board games are square out of habit, fashioned after checkers and chess games.

While checkers and chess are designed to be played by two players, the four-sided board game, though square, becomes a circular environment designed in such a way that four players can maneuver from a beginning point to an end point around the game surface. The instructions are easy for anyone to understand and follow, allowing the typical family to join in the fun and allowing children to play alongside adults at a time when the “nuclear family” was the new family model du jour.

Racetracks and Hot Wheels sets come to mind as other games of the sixties that required more space than the common home of the previous decade might have been able to accommodate. Interestingly, these were also more expensive games, another factor deeply connected to the economic landscape of the time.

The games of today are shaped by a different economic landscape, but also a much different emotional reality. Upon careful, though rather brief, analysis of the offerings on the shelves of merchants, one quickly realizes the emergence of a new pattern: The perceived need for abundance of choice. Most games are truly a variation on the theme of earlier games. Though they look different, and the game pieces vary, similar skills and nearly identical rules apply to many of them. What is interesting is that the designers of truly new game concepts have turned to intellectual themes, which is perfectly in line with this age of child-less couples, cocktail parties and reclusive bachelors.

If we did not so diligently record details of our society throughout the ages, what might a historian studying twentieth and twenty-first century games two thousand years from now conclude? Conceivably, he might draw conclusions regarding our home furnishings, size, and perhaps even the size of our families, but what of the change in the focus of games. For instance, Parcheesi is strictly a parkour game, while probe is rather more intellectual. Would he draw conclusions as to the levels of education at the time these games were played? How would this shape his portrayal of the people of these times?

The games we invent are designed based on our intellect, physical surroundings, economic situation and family models. Similarly, the theories we form about a society we have not experienced first hand are colored by our immediate experience and understanding of intellect, physical surroundings, economy and family models. When we find a stone that appears to be shaped as a knife, we can almost certainly determine whether it was shaped on purpose and for what purpose.

I image the historian somehow conversing with a prehistoric man, and casually showing him the stone and referring to it as a hunting tool. The prehistoric man raises his eyebrows and breaks in a giant uproar of laughter. After calming down, he informs the historian that the stone is in fact a game piece in a game that is strangely similar to our old Tip It!

Slainte!

Thank you notes sent by real mail, three-page letters recounting a voyage to distant lands, referring to men as Sir and women as Madam or addressing a teacher by his last name; all lost delicacies of the art of expression. Not merely. Lost art, yes. Lost values and depth, definitely.

I remember reading a biography of Marie Curie*, written by her daughter Eve. She had collected her mother’s early correspondence with her own sister, at the beginning of her journey into life. Marie Curie was born in 1867. Her life spanned the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth century. As a scientist, she participated in the historical and scientific advancements that very rapidly, indeed exponentially, shaped the nineteen hundreds. She lived at a time of great transformation in the very fabric of society and the manner in which people interacted with each other.

Her correspondence is worthy of the works of the great masters of literature. Yet she was merely a teenager when she began writing. No slang, no abbreviations, perhaps not even a hint of the vernacular of the time were ever penned by her. She wrote with the mind and maturity of one for whom it does not suffice to say, “The sky is grey today”. Each thought beautifully unfolds to reveal an entire thought process and a level of self-awareness and self-scrutiny far beyond her age, had she lived today.

While reading her biography, I discovered a great disparity between her ability to express and my own, and that of the people of my time in general. I think my mother might have lived on the cusp of the final great transformation of the art of the written and spoken word. In her time, students still had to study the classics, learn to write properly in every single class, not only in language classes and, perhaps most importantly – that is if we are to preserve any glimpse of the art - had to address their teachers and elders as Mister or Madam.

I often think it is a great mistake to allow children to call teachers by their first names, or adults to do so with their employer and colleagues. It completely shifts dynamics and the proper balance of respect. It is actually worse in French, my native tongue, because of one little word: “tu.” When addressing someone with respect, one would say “vous” which, for the purpose of illustration, I will equate with the more formal, ancient “thou”. In this sense, using “tu” when addressing a superior or teacher would be similar to saying “hey you”. Let us say that it would be more than a tad bit too familiar for a queen or president!

Psychologically speaking, there is a remarkable difference between how one resolves conflict, or behaves in a business setting, depending on the use of a first name versus last in addressing colleagues or superiors. Imagine a courtroom where the Judge is referred to as Larry. Formality has its reasons. It works. The rules of engagement for the courtroom could very well apply to daily interactions at many levels. They lead to a conscious exercise in proper phrasing. This, in turn, stems from a conscious effort to select and shape one’s thoughts. It is not manipulation, though it can be. In its pure and honest form, it is a willingness to express out of respect and to seek clarity.

There may exist a documented account of the focus and behavior of children in schools where certain rules of engagement are enforced to this day. Where, simply, students do not call their teacher Mike or Debbie. I am positive it dramatically affects the quality of a student’s learning experience and his or her self-esteem also. It also affects how they interact in the world at large.

This is, quite simply, an exercise in inner decorum, much as wearing a tucked-in shirt and clean pants is an expression of outer decorum. It sets the tone for daily human interaction so that respect remains a central focus in all dealings. It also sets the tone for proper form, much as choosing to sit up straight at a dinner table. It reaches far beyond rank or social status. Truly, this sort of decorum dissolves differences rather than promote them, because it establishes an equal tone of respect for all.

What sort of a person would I be today had I chosen to say Mister or Madam to my teachers and employers, even though they did not request this? Today, new rules apply. We believe that we create common grounds and put others at ease when we casually announce, “You can call me Joe”. In all honesty, and based on my own experience, I believe this leads to more conflict because it is an invitation to disregard structure. It is similar to a language teacher inviting his students to disregard proper grammar. It contributes to our inability to communicate clearly and, sometimes, even our ability to communicate intelligently without rushing or stumbling upon our own emotions.

Slainte!

*1911 Nobel Prize in Chemistry for the discovery of the elements radium and polonium.

The events of September 2001 somehow revealed a level of hatred beyond any understanding. Interestingly, though presumably everyone wants peace, it resulted in more hatred and misunderstanding. Within a few weeks of the tragedy, my husband and I attended a famous Celtic Festival in New Hampshire. It was my first time at such an event. The contrast with the world atmosphere shook me deeply.

When we initially decided to attend this event, I felt guilty. Was it acceptable to seek entertainment while the world mourned a tragedy of unthinkable magnitude? Was one permitted or able to enjoy festivities in the midst of such anger and pain? I internally vouched to spend the day reflecting on the toils of humanity. I was 37 and ignorant of the many facets of war games, both globally and psychologically. I felt I needed to gain some mature perspective on these matters. I was guilty of ignorance.

The moment we began walking through the venue, which spans an entire resort, my mind went into a swirl. There were more people dressed in medieval garb than modern clothes, there were tents and vendors that seemed to be straight out of a history book, and there was enchanting bag pipe and drum music throughout the site. We sat on a hill and watched, silent, transported and moved.

People were dancing, juggling, singing and laughing. How could there be so much joy, so soon? How could there be so many people there? Were we all insensitive? The answer came to me the instant I began to examine these questions. Peace and joy are always stronger than pain, and the ability to join in a place of music and joy was an expression of perseverance, perhaps even faith.

Eight hundred years ago, people of another time had done the same thing. They had watched their fellow men fall to persecutions of all sorts, put on their best clothes and gathered on the public place to celebrate the feast of the day, to seek healing in laughter, music and, most of all, community. A sense of community, the ability to embrace diversity based on intricate and subtle little common threads, can override any divergence in belief, opinion or background.

On that day, in 2001, at the New Hampshire Highland Games, thousands of people who were as horrified and hurt as me had come together in spite of the pain. Strangers smiled and nodded at each other in perfect accord as they listened to the music they loved. We had all gathered there as though we had known each other for centuries. There was no hatred there simply because there were no apparent reasons for discord. It was a microscopic, yet gigantic expression of our natural propensity for communion and peace.

Though there were no major world tragedies at the time, I had had a similar experience many years before, when I lived in Montreal. A friend had invited me to attend an event called “The Night of Publivores”- a twelve-hour screening of the best, most creative ads in the world, from seven at night until seven the next morning. The movie theater was packed. When a crowd of hundreds of people of all ages and backgrounds is confined and awake for twelve hours, chaos becomes a distinct possibility. Nop. It was fantastic.

During intermission, some folks made paper airplanes. Soon, the entire theater became the arena of a silent air show, perfectly and joyfully orchestrated by hundreds of strangers who had separate stories, different tastes and different beliefs. It did not matter. A sort of microcosm of historical communities had formed, quite spontaneously, as though one did not require hundreds of years of coexistence and evolution to experience community. All was said and done in just twelve hours.

Fourth of July celebrations are another example, but with an added perspective. Since they typically attract a town’s own population, it is possible to observe people return to their respective homes after the festivities. Neighbors who rarely speak, often simply out of shyness or a sort of fear of invading each other’s privacy, can be seen gathering and chatting as they watch the parade or attend a community potluck in the park. When the day is over, we return to our respective homes, resuming the standoffish lives we are accustomed to. Perhaps we need a reason, even an unspoken one, to come together. It requires an ability to be vulnerable and bold all at once. We are more likely to knock on a neighbor’s door to borrow a tool than merely to say hello. Maybe we simply need to say hello a bit more.

I have a hunch there is silliness in everyone, a little jester who has come to believe that being serious is the proper way to be, except sometimes. I imagine this silly vision of a warfront where, unbeknownst to both sides, all ammunitions were replaced by flowers, confetti and balloons. When the shooting begins, everyone is taken by surprise, stops and starts laughing in perfect accord. And this is the end of hatred.

Slainte!