27%

I know that statistics can be interpreted in many ways. They may be wildly inaccurate and, possibly, even downright lies! This distrust is what has happened in the last few years, however, let’s talk about that another time. But, being a writer, it’s disturbing to read that only 27% of Americans read a book last year. This seems to be a function of both interest and ability.

Many writers, myself among them, sometimes wonder, if anyone ever reads what they write. Are we crazy? Are we talking (writing) to ourselves? That would be kind of a Zen thing. The sound of one hand writing.

Writers, don’t go there. Some one is out there, reading.

Aren’t you?

Okay, enough of that. How about this? In an essay, in The New Yorker, called, The Twilight of Books, it said that, “According to the Department of Education, between 1992 and 2003 the average adult’s reading skills declined.” No real surprise there. But, “The proportion who were proficient, that is, capable of such tasks as comparing viewpoints in two different editorials, declined from 15% to 13%.”

What?!!? The fact that it was 15% in 1992 is frightening, but it has declined to 13%! That blew my naïve mind. I thought of this during the primaries, which are STILL GOING ON and have, so far, failed to focus on stuff that seems to be important – like, climate crisis, people dying, misspent taxpayer money in Iraq, etc.

But back to the statistics. Are these guys voting? In our democracy, all votes are equal. Well, except for superdelegates. But, 87% (!!) who can’t compare viewpoints in two editorials? It’s like letting your dog drive. Or, like having the TSA guys at the airport determine who should pilot the planes.

According to exit polls at the primaries, Hilary has been doing well with un- and under-educated voters and Obama is doing well with those who are college-educated. Shouldn’t that tell us something?

I don’t want to sound elitist, but I would feel better if voters were somewhat competent. It makes me wonder how anything gets done. And, it makes the case that those guys already in Washington are of a special group (elitists?), who have taken control of the country.

I don’t know where this leaves us. I would normally urge everyone to get out there and vote and make sure it counts, but, maybe first, we should all go home and read a book.

In Sickness and In Health

I’m getting better. My health is returning. I know it. I feel it in my bones. In my sinews. In my toes. It’s been a long haul, but sometimes it takes something bigger than you, something armed with an aluminum bat, to get you to stay put long enough to reflect on the reflectables. No more driving obsession with plots and schemes. No more endless noodling at the computer. No indefinite fantasies of future actions.

This cold or whatever it is, has brought about a complete halt to my machinations. My attention is demanded by fundamentals – sneezing, coughing, breathing. Bed, and the surrounding surfaces, have become my new habitat. I begin consulting the ceiling. I start to notice feelings. I spend so much time in bed that I rediscover my past. Being brought low and closer to the fundamentals, I find I have gathered some of my oldest friends around me – provocative books, both spiritual and weird (but true), my guitar (all but neglected recently), a pen, some paper.

Ideas occur. Forgotten birthdates arise. My restless leg is quiet. Thoughts and no-thoughts occupy the spaces between fits of coughing. My focus expands from my well-defined personal space to a wider and clearer view. It’s as if the lenses are flashing before me - This one? Or, this one? – and, as the hours go by, I find I’m reading the tiny letters on the bottom of a chart that I couldn’t even see before. They are spelling out, m-o-r-t-a-l-i-t-y.

Mortality! Suddenly, my petty concerns are shown for what they are. Thinning hair, declining bank account, passing years are put into perspective. I realize my worries are someone else’s dreams. I begin to see that we are all here together. I feel the connection we share. I understand that there is no separation. Awareness radiates from without and within. The neighborhood disappears and the Universe, both dark and light, surrounds me.

I swear this is not the medication talking. All it takes is a bit of peace and quiet to awaken that consciousness that everyone is talking about. Once recognized as such, noise can’t stop it, busyness can’t replace it, that old idea of self may try to reassert itself as a big deal, but it can read the writing on the wall, even if it doesn’t like what it says.

Being sick is good for my health. Those crafty little viruses and bacteria have popped me in the nose, so to speak, and laid me out. Waaaa! I realize that this isn’t the big one, but it gets my attention, all the same, and attention seems to be what it’s all about. Seeing beyond my idea of self. Not taking important actions, like breathing, for granted. Sensing something much bigger than little old me. Understanding that there’s more to all this than me, you, and a billion other mes. More to it than protecting my needy self.

Now that I am almost back on my feet, I find that I feel better and not just because I’m no longer as sick, but because I’m, well, how can I put it? I’m not the same. I’m changing, evolving, growing. Awakening. And, not just to my wife’s purpose.

The life that goes on, is going on, that will go on without us, is big. It’s beautiful. I’m a part of it. I’m a part of you. You’re a part of me. We’re a part of it. It’s a part of us. It’s all one big deal. I’m not going to forget this when the coughing stops. I swear, this is not the medication talking.