COLUMN 27: Disconnecting

JUNE 03, 2015 IN GENERAL, TIMES LEADER

This column appeared in the Times Leader on Sunday, May 24, 2015

From the Latin words “dis” (apart) + “com” (together) + “nectere” (to tie,) the concept of “disconnect” has apparently become a bad thing. I wonder why.

That’s not to say that there aren’t negative forms of disconnection—sudden or prolonged withdrawal from friends and family or a winter power outage during an ice storm for instance. But I’m far more overwhelmed by too much connection than by pulling the plug or temporarily loosening the ties. For other people, it seems there is no such thing as down time.

I’m connected to my computer, phone and television, as are most people these days and as guilty of fidgety glances looking for notifications. My smart phone dings when new emails arrive in four different accounts. It tells me if I’ve missed a call and which contact in my list of several hundred was trying to reach me.  A little camera icon appears when someone likes one of my Instagram photos, and a talking bubble icon shows up if one of my friends sends me an instant message or text. I have websites and blogs to be updated, and don’t get me started on keeping up with my friends’ activities on Facebook.

Yes, there’s something kind of cool about someone in Australia following your posts or getting “likes” from the UK and Malaysia and keeping in touch with friends throughout the world, but there is also something a little creepy about people from your past that you’d rather forget or people that you don’t know at all repeatedly sending requests to be in your network on LinkedIn.

Companies that develop the apps constantly badger me to update their products, some of which require an increasing list of “permissions” to access my phone’s history, camera, contacts, location, etc. I usually opt for “No. I’ll keep the old version, thank you.” What is disconcerting, though, is that I just scanned through some of the out-dated apps, and they now “require no new permissions.” This means that (probably) Google has taken care of that and upgraded me with some sort of system update that handed over all of my information to Amazon, Facebook, Google Play, Motorola and YouTube whether I want them to have it or not. Very disturbing to have them connecting to my life without my knowledge or my approval. It is, after all, my phone service for which I pay an exorbitant amount of money every month.

For many years, going back to the Dark Ages when I had a land line at home, I have shut the phone ringer off on Sundays. Now it’s usually because I’m writing (working) on Sunday afternoons, but then it was to disconnect and spend time reading, watching old movies and hanging out with my dog to recharge.  I do it when I need to spend a few hours of quiet time away from the world at large. Voice mail is a wonderful thing.

I disconnect when I’m working, too--no TV, no radio or Pandora. For the most part, the only sounds are usually the breeze in the trees and Zsa Zsa snoring while I write. Maybe it’s my little pea brain, but I have to concentrate without distractions. I zone in on my research and computer screen. I sound out the words in my head as I type. I read what I’ve written out loud. I can’t hear myself while Dr. Phil interrogates his guests or Ellen dances or contestants price appliances.  But that’s just the way I roll.

A commercial for a morning show says, “You don’t want to be the one who doesn’t know.” Frankly, I don’t care about “knowing” everything. I glance through the headlines later, and if something interests me I read or watch the story. What I REALLY “don’t want” is to be bombarded with bad news and commercials first thing in the morning.  I’ve mentioned this before.

I recently forgot my phone when I went to Pittsburgh with a school field trip. A little anxiety set in at first because I was waiting for an email. How would I return calls? I’d planned to do my Instagram post from the museum—what now? My friend offered her phone to check emails and snap photos, and I stopped myself. What was the big deal? I had my regular camera for taking photos, and I would still have time once back at home to return the necessary messages. No need to panic. Breathe, reset, relax and simply enjoy the opportunity to see the art and artifacts.

How have we become so nervous about stepping out of the loop? What is that need to check the phone for flashing icons or the number of “likes?” When did the human web become so tightly woven that there is no privacy and so much extraneous thread? We’ve become afraid to be quiet and alone and untied even just for a little while. Is it because “the truth is out there,” and we want to be the first to post it? Or is it because we know the truth lies within us, and we are uncomfortable with what we’ll find? 

A Valentine for Zsa Zsa

FEBRUARY 01, 2015 IN TIMES LEADER

The following column about my pup Zsa Zsa was published in today's Times Leader. People have asked me how she is doing, and the answer is well. She's very funny, and I have to be vigilant and consistent, but she is a good little dog. Though the word "Amish" didn't appear in the newspaper, make no mistake that they are top offenders in the puppy mill problem. When I took ZZ to the vet's for the first time, she knew immediately from where the pup came just from the physical traits and subsequent health issues mill dogs exhibit.  We're trying to remedy the mess these people made of this innocent animal's life. Here are a few more Zsa Zsa notes:

• Nicknames: ZZ, Zsah, and Lil' Z (gansta) 
• She loves to be in the sun and will follow patches of it on the floor around the house 
• She also likes toys and bones and isn't shy about taking what she can from her cousins or buddy Toby, though she isn't aggressive or threatening. It's hysterical to see her charge into a pile of toys and drag out the biggest bone (Samoyed size) without being intimidated at all. Think ant and rubber tree plant.
• She is still trying to figure out cats (who isn't?) but, again, isn't threatening--simply curious, much to the object-cat's chagrin
• In spite of the long days spent on the front seat of a U-Haul in November, she loves to ride in the car and now pokes her head out of the pet carrier to view the world outside the window. Previously, she has curled up and slept.      

COLUMN 25

At the end of 2013 I adopted a three-year old (estimated) ball of fur with one dark eye and one blue that weighed six pounds soaking wet.  I wasn’t sure I wanted the responsibility and expense of a pet.  My parents died the month before. I had no idea where my life was going.   

It began when I called Vicki Groves of My Young and Old Fur Babies Rescue to donate some blankets, and she said, “You’ll never believe what I got this week.”  She told me about her visit to a Holmes County veterinarian’s and stopping the vet tech as he lifted this pup, with tail wagging, out of the cage to euthanize her--just another breeder in an puppy mill that out-lived her usefulness. The vet thought she was a grey and black Shih Tzu, but after Vicki bathed her four times at the clinic to get the filth and smell from her coat, it turned out the pup was apricot and white.  She didn’t bark and seemed very sweet.

“She would be a great dog for you,” Vicki concluded. “She needs a quieter home; she could lie on your lap while you write.

When I dropped off the blankets, this little bundle fell asleep on my arm. Soon after, I, with the encouragement of most of my Facebook friends, made arrangements to adopt her. I’d picked out a Chinese name that meant “little joy:” Xiao Xiao. Right away it was apparent that she was more of a “little diva,” so her name became similar sounding Zsa Zsa instead.

I won’t lie. This co-habitation has been an adjustment for both of us. Her breed is notoriously stubborn, but she obeys eventually and looks to me for direction, acknowledgement and food. Zsa Zsa also has health issues due to irresponsible breeding practices. She’s allergic to almost everything, literally, so I cook vegetables, fruits, whole grains and fish for both of us.  I also have to make logistical schedule adjustments to come home every few hours to let the pooch out of her crate.

As she’s been acclimating to a world beyond a wire cage, I’ve observed a few lessons from her. Maybe she was sent to remind me of these as I reassess my own life.

First, Zsa Zsa goes with the flow. She’s fine hanging out with her toys and blankets at home, but is always up for adventure whether going to see her “cousins”--my cousins’ Samoyeds and kitty-- or traveling across the US in a U-Haul.  She greets everyone and is curious about everything new, a little cautiously sometimes, but always giving whatever it is the benefit of the doubt. If it has popcorn, all the better.

Vicki thought the mill may have severed Zsa Zsa’s vocal chords (not unusual) because she didn’t bark while at the rescue. Thankfully she wasn’t put through that horror. Turns out, lesson two, Zsa Zsa only barks when she thinks it’s necessary. She watches, evaluating what’s happening instead of throwing herself into it with mouth running.

Third, Zsa Zsa doesn’t let her past determine her future. I can only imagine her previous miserable life, and if it had turned out that she was snappish with people or fearful of other dogs, who could blame her?  Instead, she wakes every morning facing fresh, new days, more good now than bad. She is afraid of the dark, though, so we sleep with a nightlight (and I with a mask over my eyes) to reassure Zsa Zsa and to keep me from waking to an ungodly screeching howl at 2 a.m.  But her uninhibited joy as she scampers and struts is contagious.

Fourth, Zsa Zsa tries. Even if she’s unsure or afraid, she gathers up some moxie and gives it a go. She wants to contribute to “the pack,” and I want her to have some confidence, so when she succeeds at a challenge, it’s “good girl,” “yay,” and lots of pats on the head.

Now the not-so-good news. Zsa Zsa would have died without anyone knowing of this harmless, sweet and spunky little creature of God. There were already garbage bags on the vet clinic floor containing dogs not fortunate enough to catch Vicki’s eye, and this goes on every day. Holmes County and Lancaster, Pennsylvania are known as the “puppy mill capitals of the world.”

Virtually all puppies in pet stores—around 500,000 annually--come from mills, as do puppies at flea markets. A mill owner rakes in upwards of $300,000 per year at the expense of confined, malnourished and even injured dogs that keep the puppies coming. While puppies are sent away from the mill, the mothers—like Zsa Zsa—merely exist in wire cages breeding twice a year until they can’t produce, then are euthanized by a vet or killed on the farm. Googling “puppy mill statistics” will yield links to USDA and Humane Society reports and the ABC News story on Amish puppy mills. The only way to stop the cruelty is to stop buying these puppies and putting your money in the pockets of the monsters. Instead, support the rescues that save these dogs.

Lucky us, Zsa Zsa and me, when Fate smiled.  Another year of exploring ahead, and, as Vicki predicted, Zsa Zsa is snoring on the couch beside me. Valenti can be reached at gvalenti@timesleaderonline.com.

One More Mile

DECEMBER 11, 2014 IN TIMES LEADER

Once again my column in Sunday's Times Leader garnered some comments, so I've decided to reprint it here. For the record, I'm still deciding where to go or whether to go at all. Not sure what I'll be doing, either, because there are so many possibilities. My hope is that at some point the Universe will part the clouds and shine a big sun ray on a map or a house or a plane ticket. Or the winning lottery ticket, so I can do everything and go everywhere. 

COLUMN 24

According to the American Moving and Storage Association (AMSA,) each year an average of nearly 36 million people move their households. I know two of those people this year: my friend Dottie and myself. 

A few years ago Dottie came back to the Ohio Valley from her home in California to take care of a couple of elderly relatives. Sound familiar? She and I are part of the 15 percent of Americans who move for “family-related” reasons. She cultivated a life here but missed her daughters and grandchildren on the west coast, and they missed her. This year Dottie decided to pull up stakes and build on her daughter’s property. She asked me if I would drive the U-Haul truck cross-country for her, adding that I could head up to Oregon and clear out my storage unit holding my own furniture, books, camera equipment, etc. for over four years. I agreed that this was a good idea, and I needed a change of scenery after the last year.  

A Facebook friend recently drove to San Diego posting awesome photos all along the way, noting that to see the “real” America, you have to get off of the Interstate. I totally agree having driven I-80 through 1,400 miles of corn from Nebraska to Ohio, but Dottie and I were interstate-bound, too, with deadlines to meet and long days of driving. My Instagram and Facebook posts could only chronicle some bits and pieces of sights seen from I-40, leaving “The World’s Largest Wind Chime” for future travels.

Most of it proceeded without incident, but between Oklahoma City and Albuquerque an approaching weather system created 40 m.p.h. winds. It was a 550 mile drive anyway, but the wind, the hills and a loaded-down 17-foot U-Haul turned it into a 12-hour day. Finally in the hotel parking lot, aching, tired and after Google maps sent me circling in the opposite direction of the hotel, I locked my keys and my pup Zsa Zsa in the truck.

As I had a meltdown and Dottie called AAA three times, a man stepped over from the counter and said, “I hear what’s happening, and I can’t make any promises, but I’ll take a look at the truck for you.” He was an angel and removed the keys through the window while Zsa Zsa slept on the seat. I gave him a restaurant card to use for lunch with his kids.

Dottie and I did take some time to visit Sedona, Arizona and taste wine in Paso Robles, California. We unloaded the truck and returned it in Amador County, then headed up to Oregon.

Before leaving Ohio I discovered that it was less expensive—not to mention time consuming—to fly back to Ohio and hire movers to ship the contents of my storage space instead of renting another U-Haul. Many people commented on my last column about downsizing and clearing out. Well, those comments echoed in my ears as the purge continued.

I cautiously raised the door of the storage unit and waited for something to tumble out. All was safe and sound, and, thankfully, mostly in boxes and bins. I began transferring items to a “giveaway” pile and a “garbage” pile, steadily working my way through, oh, one-third of the unit. Hmmm. My goal was to reduce the amount of all the stuff by half, and the movers were going to pick everything up in two days. I stepped up the “get rid of” action, loaded up my rental car with items for Goodwill and made some more progress.  

By the end of the first day I’d come to three realizations. First, I had had a LIFE in Oregon. Here was my artwork and inventory; here were the items filling my cupboards and drawers; here were my files of photo negatives and client projects; here were my lesson plans, materials and tools for the classes I taught; here were my shop fixtures. It was all coming back to me.

The second realization was that I was living proof that one person CAN have too many books—and it pains me to say that. Boxes and crates of art books, cookbooks, magazines and the old mysteries that I’d collected seemed to get in the way of everything else I was trying to sort. I did give many books to Goodwill and magazines to recycling, but only glanced at the coffee table books that I used during my photo classes.

Third, I realized I could keep my storage unit for now. Once I gave myself permission to keep the space, I felt more relaxed and focused about sorting and packing. While my stuff should be in Ohio by the time this column is in print, I’ve left the possibility of returning to Oregon, even part-time, open. I packaged up the things that were pertinent to life here—sweaters, wine and much of my artwork--and left behind those belongings more suited to the beach.

It’s scary to not have a concrete plan, but right now I need to take one step at a time even if the steps go in different directions. Maybe if I continue removing the clutter, ever paring down, at some point it will clear the path.

Chaos to Composure

Among everything else of concern to me right now, I am hearing disturbing murmurs. There is a general undercurrent of restlessness in our world, and it all seems to be speeding up like the out of control bus in the movie. Stop--and it all goes up in flames. But the murmurs I mentioned don't portend any different an outcome.

While I was wrestling with the column below in my head, I had a couple of unnerving dreams where I woke up shaking. One is still unsettling as I write this, and I knew that I HAD to get these thoughts out into the public realm. The photo, which I titled "Peace," is one that kept showing up in my head as I organized my thoughts. What could be more innocent and peaceful than a duckling paddling around the Necanicum River under a blue sky?

COLUMN 22

By GLYNIS VALENTI Times Leader Staff Writer

I have been struggling with this column for more than two weeks. It concerns no less than the issue of good versus evil.

 In years past I have likened people--on certain days or times of the year—to bees at the end of summer. Buzzing, hurrying, darting to get where they’re going and do what they have to get done, usually just before a holiday weekend or before a big storm hits. But it isn’t a random occurrence anymore. It has not only become the norm, but has spread into all kinds of tangents and facets of life.

Though there are still 24 hours in a day, seven days a week, time is at a premium. It’s the “me, now” era, so get out of the way. Tempers are shorter. Everyone carries a big stick, but no one walks softly. All voices have something to say, relevant or not, and insist on being heard. Loudly. Defensiveness transitions to bullying and then to simply taking what one wants. It’s compounded throughout the world, resulting in terrible headlines that make us feel powerless.

I have friends who monitor world politics, violence, finances and trends. One of said friends is a devout Catholic, and she has been filling me in on the Ferguson, Missouri news, directives from Pope Francis and her own observations. She has summed up and connected all of this growing unsettling energy in two words: chaos and evil.

There are conspiracy theories that no longer seem theoretical. Of particular interest and concern (to me, at least) is the idea of governments and corporations without ethics instituting means to weaken and control economies and populations and foster chaos. The ground and focus keep shifting all around us—the Greek economy, North Korean weapons, Mexican drug cartels, Middle East bombings, and in the United States, the health care debacle and a pharmaceutical-dependent society amidst a rising threat of terrorism.

Most Americans are, for now, insulated somewhat on our soil, but I do see more pushiness, more defensiveness and oversensitivity in day-to-day life that is taking its toll. My personal theory is that this restlessness is the result of the chaotic energy trickling down in the atmosphere at large. Life is immediate—information, food, transportation, cash, satisfaction—and it creates sensory overload and dependence on immediacy at the same time. “Me, now” and chaos. 

This brings me to “evil.” According to my friend, all of the chaos is playing into Satan’s plan, if it isn’t being orchestrated by him already. Let me say that I have always believed in a Higher Power, God, but not so much in an evil one. My friends are adamant that Satan exists, as is Pope Francis. In my research for this I found many headlines about the Pope going “old school” on the Devil, calling for the church to take every opportunity to stop him in his tracks and to fervently pray for the world’s safety. My friend also mentioned a group of nuns whose only task is to pray. One of them came out of sequester to talk about how it has become a ‘round the clock endeavor in order to stave off the Dark Side. 

In researching my series on heroin, one of the most horrifying facts was that drug dealers now lace marijuana with heroin in order to get teens hooked right away. I can’t describe the despair I feel for these dealers and these children since hearing this. There are other haunting images that I push back from an in-depth feature on SPII (Sexual Predator Internet Initiative.) What kind of human does these things, thinks these things up? This is evil.   

Now that I’ve emptied the contents of my head, how can I be most effective in the good versus evil battle? As I’ve mentioned, my friends keep close watch on current events, usually the negative. This is not me. I’ve come to believe that giving what is negative attention gives it power, especially if fear is involved. If I am concentrating on Middle East bombings or fear a terrorist attack in America, my thoughts, being energy, will further that course.

I have to start with myself. I once read a woman’s quote about her divorce: “I can either be bitter or better.” Can’t we all? Every moment contains that choice. I can be irritated in slow traffic, or I can take that moment to send loving thoughts to a friend in need. I can assure myself that what I have is more than enough. I can give people information they can use. In a crowded store I can smile, say “excuse me” and “thank you,” and acknowledge those who do the same. I can strive to be a calm, kind oasis in a sea of chaos. I can pray for the highest and best for all concerned. I can envision my positive ripples radiating out to meet others like them and flooding the world.

And, to paraphrase another quote, if you think that “one” can’t make a difference, try sleeping in a room with a mosquito.   

Having Words

JUNE 29, 2014 IN TIMES LEADER

Words are the most essential ingredient to my "business." Times change, language evolves, but is there a trend toward superficial communication? I've heard more than one parent talk about their teens sitting with a group of their friends TEXTING instead of TALKING to each other. Teachers have noticed that students become anxious during a conversation. Is "<3" really the same as "love?"  Yo.

COLUMN 21

By GLYNIS VALENTI Times Leader Staff Writer

A good deal of my life relates to words. Though I’m generally a visual person, words help me paint images and stories through description, connotation and metaphor.

I enjoy the histories and sounds of words and often look origins up when I’m writing, thanks to my seventh grade teacher Mrs. Hart, who introduced me to etymology. It’s intriguing how many of our words have grown from ancient Roman or Greek roots and how their meanings have evolved over centuries. One of my favorite words is “inspiration,” whose origin is the Latin “inspirare” meaning “to breathe in.”  Isn’t that beautiful? To breathe in that which leads to art, music, dance, inventions. I have visions of “living and breathing” one’s work.

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there seems to have been—and I’m not particularly fond of this phrase--a “dumbing down” in and of America. Maybe it’s all over the world at this point, but somehow we’ve gone from this Valentine declaration by Margery Brews in 1477, “My heart bids me ever more to love you truly over all earthly thing,” to texting “I <3 u.” 

I’ve noticed the change while trying to find definitions and alternate words in dictionaries. It probably began in an effort to give students a portable reference guide, but most dictionaries-- paperbacks and online—now read like, basically, “Cliff Notes” versions. My friend Rich posted an article on Facebook about this shift and the author’s surprise at the difference between his dictionary and “Webster’s Revised Unabridged Dictionary” from 1828 and 1913. I tested this for myself.

Under “inspiration” in the above-mentioned 1913 dictionary, one of the definitions reads, “the act or power of exercising an elevating or stimulating influence upon the intellect or emotions.” In “Webster’s New World Dictionary” the corresponding definition reads, “any stimulus to creative thought or action.” They aren’t quite the same. One is descriptive; the other feels like the corners have been cut.

Granted, the paperback dictionary was designed as a quick fix, but I’m wondering if there has been too much “quick” so that it has become the norm. After all, one can get immediate information as it unfolds right there at the source, and with the right buzzwords it’s trending in minutes. Too often, though, people form conclusions based on the face value of “Cliff Notes” and buzzwords rather than the unabridged versions of, seemingly, every situation. 

Since so much of my life is about words, I am sensitive about choices and take great care in choosing them to convey exactly the meaning I want to present. Obviously thoughts are energy, and energy and intent are sent out through words. For instance, when someone says, “I love you” it probably means “to take delight or pleasure in; to have a strong liking or desire for, or interest in; to be pleased with.” One feels that warm and fuzzy elation of good intent.

Words have that kind of power. Selecting them wisely is especially important when the speaker knows little about the person and circumstances to which his words are directed. Consider the word “ugly,” meaning “deformed, offensive to the sight, hateful, repulsive.” No good can come of deflating someone’s spirit. In fact, “Think Before You Speak” is a local school program that addresses this issue as bullying because words and their energies can be devastating.  

As I grapple with Umberto Eco’s “Foucault’s Pendulum,” a daunting but humorous 670-page mystery also recommended by friend Rich, I’ve learned about a new app for smart phones which seems to be the ultimate (“incapable of further division or separation”) in “Cliff Notes” communication: “Yo.”

If you wept over the decimation of the English language during the rises of Valley Girls and Ebonics and cringe at texts like “CUL8R” and “jk,” well, brace yourself. “Yo” is apparently the be-all, end-all of phrases now, which, probably unbeknownst to the app’s developers, dates back to Middle English.

According to the app’s description, verbatim (grammatical errors included,) “Wanna say ‘good morning?’ just Yo. Wanna say ‘Baby, I’m thinking about you?’—Yo. ‘I’ve finished my meeting, come by my office’—Yo.” What began innocently as efficiency has mushroomed into brazen and unapologetic laziness.

I hope there’s a mind-reading app available, too, because a single “Yo” appearing out of nowhere on my phone is not enough information. Am I supposed to meet someone at Panera? Do I need to reschedule a photo shoot? Do I have an admirer? A stalker? How does one determine whether it’s an “I love you” yo, or a break-up yo? As the app’s description points out, “The possibilities are endless.”

So not only have we decreased face-to-face encounters through email and texting and sanitized the definitions of our language, but we have depersonalized conversation by attempting to distill all emotion, intent, and meaningful interaction into one silly word—which, admittedly, would eliminate the need for dictionaries altogether.

A boggling one million people have downloaded the app in its first two weeks but will most likely have to talk to their recipients anyway to decipher those cryptic messages. Though the app is probably a joke, are we really moving away from beautiful language and our essential connections to it and to each other? Do I hear a yo?