Children are the Present

I have been lucky enough to live in several places throughout the world over the last decade or so. Every time I move to a new place, the first things I notice are all of the differences. I notice that while in America we play our brand of football and listen to country music, in Germany we played soccer and listened to David Hasselhof (ok, I made up the Hasselhof bit, but I couldn't resist). In Scotland we ate fried fish and chased it down with dark beer, but in Japan we eat raw fish and wash it down with green tea. In Africa we napped in hammocks suffering the lethargy of extreme heat, but in Michigan we worked long hours in heated offices while complaining about the cold. I am still fascinated by the incredible, if often trivial, differences between cultures and customs from place to place. But sometimes this intrigue prevents me from noticing the commonalities between people the world over.
This discussion needs to begin by saying a little bit about my new girlfriend. Actually, her English is limited to the ability to introduce herself and count to ten (twenty if you let her slide on 15, 16, and 17). I should also mention that she is only five years old. In truth I think the only reason she likes me is because my arm provides her with a monkey bar from which to swing when she is bored, and my hand serves as a security blanket when she gets nervous. All of that aside, she is one of the sweetest little girls I know. It was while I was swinging her around today that I realized how similar kids are throughout the world. No matter where you are in the world, a kid will laugh if you pick them up and swing them around. They will feel safe if you hold their hand. Little girls like to be hugged and little boys like to imitate bodily functions with their underarms (its true...I've witnessed it on four continents). Despite all the differences between people from varying cultures, the kids are remarkably similar. That's when it hit me...
People often refer to kids as the future, but I think that is grossly misleading. When kids grow into adults they forget all of those common traits and they start adopting the norms of their respective society. That's when it all falls apart. At some stage in our life we begin to accept that things are a certain way, and we start to adjust our personalities to fit into the proverbial mold. But it is that mold of adulthood that is different from place to place, not the innocence of youth. We should all strive to remember what it was like when we were kids, especially when we are facing the seemingly insurmountable problems of adult life. Wouldn't it be great if your boss noticed how overwhelmed you were and just picked you up and spun you around? What would happen if we hand a hold to hold whenever we felt unsure? And who wouldn't give good money to see Vicente Fox say to George Bush, "pull my finger"?

The Garden

As the rainy season quickly approaches our sunny little village of Heiwa-cho, I have found myself spending spare moments in the garden. Don't stop reading because you fear that I will bore you with the trivial details of my toils in the soil. I won't. Instead, I will bore you with some reflections on the philosophical side of horticulture. Farmers have long held a place among the romanticized and admired professions in Western culture. Perhaps our shift from agriculture to manufacturing has left us longing for the life of our forefathers. They never needed a watch to tell them when to go to work or when they could call it a day. An endless hedgerow stood where cubicles now confine. Even for those millions of people who have never spent time farming, there is something in their blood that tells them it is better to be outside than in, and I dare say I have never heard anyone praise the taste of canned vegetables over that of fresh ones. Something calls us to it. Thomas Jefferson went so far as to imply divinity was behind this yearning when he noted that "Farmers are the chosen people of God if ever he had a chosen people". (Apologies to my Jewish friends, but try to focus on the point.) Maybe he was onto something. After all, God made Adam out of dirt. During the late 1700's, a group of French philosophers, known as the Physiocrats, rationalized that agricultural production was the only real measure of wealth. This was based on the idea that manufacturing required one to strip the planet of resources in order to transform them into another product but, to the contrary, agriculture consisted of nurturing the earth and actually growing something naturally (no input other than the natural elements and a bit of sweat). While I won't delve into an economic diatribe based on Physiocratic ideology, I will agree on the point that there is something inherently primal and wholesome in cultivating the earth into producing life. Of course, I do not mean to count myself among the noble farmers. I am merely a gardener, and a poor one at that, but this is all beside the point.
I am a gardener because I have a little dirt around my house, and I have taken advantage of the opportunity to play in it. But maybe the idea of "playing" in it sells short what it really is...a small attempt to cling to that age-old calling. In a time too many centuries past to recall, all the people of this world farmed for subsistence. Over the years their numbers have dwindled. People started farming for money. Then corporations started farming for money and there was nothing left for the family farmer. Today, most people wanting to retain some connection with the soil just garden, I guess. Some people grow food in their gardens, not so much out of necessity anymore, but just because they can. I don't even do that. No, I'm a flower man, myself. Is that the kind of person Jefferson referred to? A far cry from it. Is that what the Physiocrats had in mind regarding wealth? Probably not. But still I dig.
It is a mind-relaxing and body-exhausting hobby, but at the end of the day it feels great. Sometimes I try to imagine what my grandfather must have felt like when he was a boy picking cotton under that unbearable Georgia sun. My few hours in the garden will never give me even a glimpse of that, I suppose. Maybe I am reaching out to that very first ancestor...the old clump of clay that gave rise to Adam. Or maybe I just like all the pretty flowers. Its ok. I'm man enough to admit it.