Learning styles.  The term is unfortunate, I think, seeming to suggest that we could choose a different style, just as, say, we could choose to dress Goth today.

Some of us can choose our learning preference, or at least, sometimes can.  I know, for example, that I don’t do well when listening to a long set of directions.  More than 3 pieces of information, and I’m lost (no pun intended!). But if I  write down the spoken directions - even if I never look at the paper again - I can often make my way there with no problem!  That’s because I’m a very kinesthetic learner, and if I combine the two (auditory and kinesthetic), it works well for me. But that’s for those of us who function relatively well in several different learning styles.  My experience tells me that there are those who don’t.

We’ve all heard the stories about how, when one sense is lost, another compensates. This myth is a great detriment for some of our differently-abled neighbors and friends.  Here’s my first epiphany along these lines:

In the 90’s, I was working as a sign language interpreter.  For the first two years, my client was a high school student.  When I met her, she was 16, and was placed in Algebra 1, though she could not multiply.  She also, I discovered, could not draw a triangle or a circle - the ends didn’t meet.

Curious about how to reach her, academically, I began experimenting with different learning styles.  Clearly, visual learning was not an effective tool for her.  This would, unfortunately, include sign language itself!  Over the weeks of my very active experimentation, a very interesting thing occurred.

One day, in her remedial English class, the teacher began talking about nouns. To make sure my student remembered and understood the concept, I asked if she remembered what a noun was. She signed “A person,” the screwed up her forehead, as if what her brain was telling her didn’t make sense. “…PLAYS??” she added, incredulously.

I knew that it was not the visual similarity between the words “place” and “plays” that caused the confusion.  This student  generally did not recognize the similarity between words when a simple ending was added to them, such as -”ly”.

But “place” and “plays” sound virtually the same.  Stunned, I had a devastating realization: This profoundly deaf girl appeared to be “wired” for auditory learning!

I further confirmed my theory over the coming days, then went excitedly to the professionals with whom I worked, sure that they would be happy that this young woman had finally been “decoded”.  But these were the same professionals who had allowed this non-multiplying student to be passed through the grades until she ended up, way out of her league, in Algebra I:  No one wanted to see the truth.  No one wanted to see that this young woman had yet another challenge to deal with. She’d been “aided”, for years, on her tests and her homework by teachers and sign language interpreters who didn’t want to see that she had other issues, not just deafness. “Don’t you mean?,” they’d suggest, referring to the correct answer.  And “Yes,” she would sign in reply, knowing that this was the right answer they wanted from her.
So-

Some Deaf people can develop what seems to us to be “super vision”, and some Blind people can develop “super hearing”.  These are the people for whom the still-functioning learning style is strong  (A blind person whose primary learning style is NOT visual, for example, and with strong auditory and kinesthetic abilities for learning). For us to compare what one learner is capable of doing, how one Deaf person adapts to his or her circumstances and to impose that expectation on another… Well, that’s going to create just one more (unnecessary) obstacle for someone who just doesn’t need one more.

- Shanti Mai

I’d love to hear your experiences and perspectives on learning styles…

Years ago, I attended a Remote Viewing workshop.  My (then) sweetheart’s idea. He thought it would be an interesting way to bridge our worlds.  The experience, however, did nothing of the sort.

Unfortunately for me, early in the day we were given the Buddah as our “target”.  Tuning in to this target, as instructed, I was immediately engulfed in a luminousity, an expanded, enlightened Consciousness  (Oops! that part was not instructed).

Moved and increasingly expansive myself, I went to the instructor with my guess:  Jesus. 

Not understanding that I had experienced the target, rather than gotten objective information about the target, his reply was simply, “No. Go try again.”

With further contact, the feeling, the experience, of course grew.  I didn’t know what to say.  “An angel?”  was my next guess.  And again, “No,” was the response.

He sent me back to my paper, filled with tables and grids.  I was, by then, in such a NoN-analytical state that I could no longer even pretend to perform the (highly analytical, highly mental) exercise.  Soon it was time for our lunch break, but I knew I would not be returning.  This just wasn’t working for me.

My brilliantly analytical (computer genius) boyfriend was embarrassed at my behavior (I was in tears by this time).  To the others in the room, I must have seemed like I was crying because I hadn’t gotten the answer right.

I didn’t blame my sweetheart, nor the instructor.  Their experience did not include mine.  How could they know what it felt like to be told that I should go from my experience of touching Enlightenment, of being engulfed in Oneness, that I should return to my desk. Return to some cerebral, linear process and do it “right”. SO many years later, I was being told, again, that my experience was not Valid.

This time, however, I was an adult, and simply chose not to continue the process.

I suppose it’s not surprising that Remote Viewing, developed in secrecy for military purposes, would not have a mindframe capable of understanding a mystic.  To them, Gautama Buddah is an historical figure, nothing more.  Facts, such as his country of origin, would have been a partially correct answer, as would physical characteristics.  If I’d drawn a picture recognizable as the Buddah, I’d have been RIGHT.  Experiencing the Buddah as if I were in his presence, or as if I were the Buddah, well, that just was never a part of their expectation, and appeared - from their perspective - to be the wrong answer.

We all need to honor our gifts, our way of moving through the world.  They’re not all the same, and there’s a reason for that! I honor the scientific - I love the world of quantum mechanics, technology, computers…  It doesn’t however, always love (or understand) me!

A few days ago, a friend sent a link about voting for the White House Farmer.  I thought, for a moment, that the only thing in question was which organic farmer was going to be chosen.  - And what an amazing reaction I had!  Tears ran down my face, even as I researched and discovered that it was still only an idea (though a VERY good one!)

I spent a chunk of my childhood close to Washington, D.C., in nearby Maryland, where I went on the White House tour with my grade school class.  To imagine THAT girl (me!) seeing a gorgeous garden of produce, growing right there on Pennsylvania Ave….

Our mothers, in the ’50s and  ’60s, valued canned peas and frozen carrots and “instant” potatoes and powdered milk  (they were new-fangled).  Not a mother I knew growing up had food she picked for dinner.  That was old-fashioned, growing things. I was so unused to home garden produce that, in one of our military “home” incarnations, my mother grew mint on the side of the house, and I found that quite exotic and wonderful.

What a potent message it would be for hordes of school children to see Obama Organics during their tour!  Children hear us blather about what we believe we’re all about, what we’d like to believe our values to be.  But they SEE what we DO.  Having an organic garden on the White House lawn would be the biggest statement of our TRUE values that we could possibly make to the children.  (They understand food so much better than they do fuel, banking, and the like!)

• It would say to them that food is more important than lawns (it IS);
• that healthy soil, the soil that grows our food, is of concern to us all, ALL the way up to the top; and
• that small scale, organic farming is not a thing of the past, but is having a resurgence with this resurgence publicly on display for tourists with cameras, who though they may not speak English, will need no translated signs to show them what that garden really means.

Thanks to Michael Pollan, whose idea which has inspired so many…

Unlike so many Americans with African roots, Barack Obama is lucky to know which country his family hails from.  It’d be like knowing merely that you were European…  Italian?  Portugese.  Belgian?  Finnish! Scottish?  Not many of us would be comfortable with such vague information.

When I was in 5th grade, a relative of my father’s - perhaps a 2nd cousin, we were not at all a close family - sent us a request for information; she was doing a family genealogy. I was very intrigued, and offered to help her.  Sadly, she broke my heart by sending me a very condescending letter. What she didn’t know was that, 14 years later, I would solve the mystery that ended up stumping her.   At the time of publication, her volume left a mystery:  was the “John Harrington” on the neighboring lot indeed the father, the next link to the past?  At this point, due to a lack of paperwork proof, that strain of the Harrington tale “ended”.

For myself, I wondered why no one tried to start from the other end - to start where Harringtons started and see if they could find evidence bringing a John Harrington to that town in that time…

I forgot all about that thought until, at age 25, newly arrived in Ireland, my brand-new map in my hand, I became transfixed (without a thought in my head) with a little island off the coast of County Cork:  Bere Island. Nearly a week later, having gone to a music festival and traveled around a bit, I claimed Dublin as my own town.  Told a new friend about my neat and mysterious experience with Bere Island, to which he said, “Well sure, that’s where the Harringtons are!”  and proceeded to bring out his phone book, which actually included the professions of at least some of the listings.  The first one he showed me was (first name?) Harrington, ferryman. For a small island, there were lots of Harringtons.  I knew that, though there were lots of Harringtons in England, that my family was Irish.  Several visits to England had never brought any feeling of familiarity, had solved no personal mysteries. Discovering the Irish connection really did. (More about that later in a later post!)

It was like my cells recognized their own roots.  So….  Intuitive - or genetic?  Who cares, really?  It was a deeply confirming experience.  As far as I’m concerned, it’s like the question about the chicken and the egg.  It’s irrelevant really, which came first:  What’s important is the connection between them.  And that’s what you get when you know your roots.

I’m looking for a really smart tech person (I am not skilled in that department!). For blog issues, website work, computer questions, and the like - not necessary to have design or artistic ability, just the ability to implement it!

I’d like an ongoing relationship, where I can call or email you with problems or new projects, and you would help me in the next day or two (or three). Ideally, someone I could meet with in the Bay Area, as when tech-speech people ask me questions, I’m often not even sure what they’re asking me. Easier, then, when they are right there, looking at the same computer screen. (We could possibly use a webcam pointed at my computer screen as an alternative, if needed.)

My preference? Honestly, a younger person and a non-professional. From my experience, they’re more likely to be enthusiastic and to think outside of the box. Younger, non-professionals are more likely to tell you when they don’t know how to do it, and also less likely to want to do your website their way. Very fluent English is essential, as I am, as I’ve said, pretty lame at understanding tech talk to begin with.

If this is YOU - or someone you know - contact me: (415) 200-8292

One of the perks of living in city is the occasional opportunity to be on the cutting edge….

Today (in San Francisco) I was part of a focus group, discussing and RIDING the new A2B electric bike. What a blast! I left with a feeling very similar to the one I had when I watched Who Killed the Electric Car?  These vehicles have an organic feel to them, I swear! I end up feeling a little like a kid does when it’s fallen in love with a puppy or kitten:  I want one!

Thanks to Cindy Sheehan for bringing this to my attention. (I don’t believe in cloning, but, if I did, Cindy Sheehan and Mark Twain are two people I’d love to have several copies of!) This piece would great for teaching the concept of satire.

from The War Prayer  by Mark Twain:

…O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale form of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it — for our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet! We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts….

I have once again deliberately cut my roots, inviting Life to blow me where it wants me to go - - inviting “free-fall”, inviting the Universe to sew me, the Seed, in the most fertile soil possible.
I’m watching what’s occurring: wonderful reflections in my current community, to start with, so whether I stay or go, it’s enriching my appreciation for the community I currently call Home. Kind of like a re-commitment ceremony while staying to a years-old marriage, if I should stay right here, it’ll be on more conscious terms, having re-examined my options, once again deciding that this is what I want.

Years ago, when in the midst of a double-bind situation, I effectively stopped much of my despair and worry about the outcome (in which there would be “casualties”, whichever way it went). I had an inspiration to wear nail polish whose color was called “Blood”, so dark it sometimes looked black.

As I move my arms and hands around when I talk, I knew it would stop my thinking when I saw my pale skin in dramatic contrast with those nails. And it worked, beautifully: I was constantly being startled by the appearance of my hands - - startled into the Present Moment, which, though the situation was still filled with land mines, allowed me the grace to get through it. It helped me to stop projecting into what the different terrible outcomes could be, and to stay with what was right in front of me.

And later, though the element of surprise was eventually gone, seeing my dark-nailed hands became a happy reminder of how I had given myself a hand up. (Sorry - these puns!)

Obviously, some lifestyles don’t allow this kind of self-therapy: imagine an Armani-suited lawyer on whose shoulders a sensitive and serious verdict lies. He approaches the bench, his hands each with five dark, dried-blood-colored nails… Why, they might dismiss his argument off hand!

I’ll post anti-depression tips for him - - and others for whom this particular tip doesn’t apply, in another post.