Swinging On A Star
Hello World,
Happy Saint Patrick's Day! I hope that everything where you are is jolly and green, festive and green, not to mention green and just plain more green. I don't know about anywhere else, but around here, it seemed like the holiday just sort of snuck up on us, without the usual brouhaha (or should I say, "brew-haha!") about who's allowed to march in the parade, or who's protesting being allowed or not being allowed to march, or what they're allowed to wear or not wear, or who's protesting what they're allowed to wear or not wear, and so on and so forth, oh Danny Boy, from glen to glen and sea to shining sea. On the other hand, it does seem to me lately that the fabled saint's day has turned instead into more of a movable feast, or a kind of Irish Saints Month, along the lines of Womens History Month, as they begin having what they refer to as St. Patrick's Day parades at the end of February in the local towns, with one showing up in the newspaper at least every other day until the 17th, by which time, the big one in New York City is old hat. Or perhaps I should say, "old tam." But anyway, it seems to have come and gone without the usual controversy and attendant media circus, so I suppose that's a good thing for the world in general, and purveyors of fine green beers in particular.
As a matter of fact, when we went to the diner tonight, the major-domo of the establishment was decked out in a shocking green tie with shamrocks, and I told him that anyone could tell that he was Irish through and through. Although truth to tell, in reality he's extremely Greek, and everyone knows that Greek Orthodox St. Patrick's Day lags at least a week behind traditional St. Patrick's Day in the old calendar, so I thought that was rushing things just a bit. And of course, it could be even more than a week, because it's based on the first full moon after the Festival of the Dervishes, and everyone knows that you can't count on those Dervishes by a long shot.
Speaking of things you can't count on, I was more surprised than anyone when our temp apparently requested her agency to re-assign her to another department in the hospital, out of the blue yesterday, after being with us for two months. She'll be going over to the main building to help out in Radiology, and I wish her well there with them, and vice versa. It occurred to me later that perhaps she's been with us before and is working her way through the departments in alphabetical order, starting with Admitting-Billing-Cardiology, through Geriatrics-Housekeeping-ICU, and only just now getting to the Ps and Rs before wrapping up in Volunteers. I only found out about it after it was a done deal, so there was no point in complaining about it, although based on how my co-worker has been coming along in her physical therapy, I'm cautiously optimistic that she might actually return in two weeks. The agency promised me another person for the remaining two weeks, and if we can just keep our heads above water for that time, we may actually make it through this 16-week ordeal with a minimum of bloodshed and no fatalities, which would have seemed unthinkable in January. I realize that may sound delusional to rational people, but it's my delusion and I'm sticking with it.
While we're on the topic of unthinkable things, I'm afraid that I have to report that it was on Wednesday of this week that I first heard the ice cream man outside my office window in the middle of the day. Mind you, it was 45 degrees at the time, and more than a week before the official beginning of Spring, so I can only say that I find that alarming, not to mention inappropriate, to find these harbingers of latter days showing up so prematurely. Why, next thing you know, they'll be sending out Christmas catalogs in August.
I am reminded of the Spirit of Summer to Come, because we somehow managed to get through the entire month of February without me cutting any firewood for camping, which is when I usually take the opportunity to get a jump on that. I still have plenty of left-over firewood from last year, but I always cut more anyway, plus what I scavenge from parking lots, neighbors and along the side of the road in my travels. Because I use a hand-saw, rather than something more automated, I like to do it in the winter, when I don't get so overheated, or attract swarms of crazed mosquitoes. If they ever come out with winter mosquitoes, I'm in big trouble. In any case, it wasn't until March that I actually got outside with my saw and did some damage on the old woodpile, and at least making some progress in that area. There's more yet to do, but a start's a start, and I expect by July that I should have way more firewood than any dozen people would need to take camping with them. Not that I know a dozen people who carry their own firewood camping with them, but if I did, I would still have enough firewood for all of us. No sense leaving these things to chance, I always say.
And what might be going on in the wonderful world of mission statements, do we suppose? I hold in my hands the latest catalog from my new friend Skip Backus, the Executive Director of the Omega Institute, whose motto seems to be "Awaken Engage Explore" and who assures me that they obtained my name from a like-minded organization. (Since one of the program highlights of the upcoming semester appears to be a Chant Weekend by the international yoga community leaders, I shudder to think which "like-minded organization" was kind enough to provide my name and address to these folks.) Inside the front cover, Skip cheerfully invites me to peruse their mission statement on page 4, not realizing that I consider myself an expert of the genre with extremely high standards. Their idea is actually very nice, and I have no quibbles with it, but as a mission statement, it fails every test there is. You may as well just call it a sentence of their beliefs, because it utterly lacks the ponderousness and incomprehensibility that make mission statements, well, so missionary. Theirs simply says: "Through innovative educational experiences that awaken the best in the human spirit, Omega provides hope and healing for individuals and society." Now I ask you, where's the melodrama in that? That actually sounds like people saying what they mean and meaning what they say, you certainly can't have that and still call it a mission statement.
On the other hand, their course offerings, workshops and educational experiences are about what you'd expect from the nation's premier center for holistic studies. Right across from their very upfront and basic mission statement, I discover that I can explore such experiences as "Revelation of Universal Energy," "The Practice of Abundance" and "The Art of Translucent Living," whatever that means. They have pages upon pages of things like "Mindfulness Education for Children" and "Awakening to Oneness" that don't even get you in the ballpark as far as what the program is all about, or if in fact it's a program at all, rather than rejuvenating retreat, empowerment vacation or performance art. My favorite part is where they list their categories, with all the buzzwords and jargon that you'd expect, such as Activism, Creativity, Drumming, Meditation, Shamanism, Sustainability, Trapeze, and Wellness, when all of a sudden, right smack dab in the middle, there's French staring you straight in the face. I can't imagine what holistic French must be like, but I'm thinking it would not be a pretty sight. Or in the immortal words of Louis XV, "Apres moi, le trapeze!"
Happy Saint Patrick's Day! I hope that everything where you are is jolly and green, festive and green, not to mention green and just plain more green. I don't know about anywhere else, but around here, it seemed like the holiday just sort of snuck up on us, without the usual brouhaha (or should I say, "brew-haha!") about who's allowed to march in the parade, or who's protesting being allowed or not being allowed to march, or what they're allowed to wear or not wear, or who's protesting what they're allowed to wear or not wear, and so on and so forth, oh Danny Boy, from glen to glen and sea to shining sea. On the other hand, it does seem to me lately that the fabled saint's day has turned instead into more of a movable feast, or a kind of Irish Saints Month, along the lines of Womens History Month, as they begin having what they refer to as St. Patrick's Day parades at the end of February in the local towns, with one showing up in the newspaper at least every other day until the 17th, by which time, the big one in New York City is old hat. Or perhaps I should say, "old tam." But anyway, it seems to have come and gone without the usual controversy and attendant media circus, so I suppose that's a good thing for the world in general, and purveyors of fine green beers in particular.
As a matter of fact, when we went to the diner tonight, the major-domo of the establishment was decked out in a shocking green tie with shamrocks, and I told him that anyone could tell that he was Irish through and through. Although truth to tell, in reality he's extremely Greek, and everyone knows that Greek Orthodox St. Patrick's Day lags at least a week behind traditional St. Patrick's Day in the old calendar, so I thought that was rushing things just a bit. And of course, it could be even more than a week, because it's based on the first full moon after the Festival of the Dervishes, and everyone knows that you can't count on those Dervishes by a long shot.
Speaking of things you can't count on, I was more surprised than anyone when our temp apparently requested her agency to re-assign her to another department in the hospital, out of the blue yesterday, after being with us for two months. She'll be going over to the main building to help out in Radiology, and I wish her well there with them, and vice versa. It occurred to me later that perhaps she's been with us before and is working her way through the departments in alphabetical order, starting with Admitting-Billing-Cardiology, through Geriatrics-Housekeeping-ICU, and only just now getting to the Ps and Rs before wrapping up in Volunteers. I only found out about it after it was a done deal, so there was no point in complaining about it, although based on how my co-worker has been coming along in her physical therapy, I'm cautiously optimistic that she might actually return in two weeks. The agency promised me another person for the remaining two weeks, and if we can just keep our heads above water for that time, we may actually make it through this 16-week ordeal with a minimum of bloodshed and no fatalities, which would have seemed unthinkable in January. I realize that may sound delusional to rational people, but it's my delusion and I'm sticking with it.
While we're on the topic of unthinkable things, I'm afraid that I have to report that it was on Wednesday of this week that I first heard the ice cream man outside my office window in the middle of the day. Mind you, it was 45 degrees at the time, and more than a week before the official beginning of Spring, so I can only say that I find that alarming, not to mention inappropriate, to find these harbingers of latter days showing up so prematurely. Why, next thing you know, they'll be sending out Christmas catalogs in August.
I am reminded of the Spirit of Summer to Come, because we somehow managed to get through the entire month of February without me cutting any firewood for camping, which is when I usually take the opportunity to get a jump on that. I still have plenty of left-over firewood from last year, but I always cut more anyway, plus what I scavenge from parking lots, neighbors and along the side of the road in my travels. Because I use a hand-saw, rather than something more automated, I like to do it in the winter, when I don't get so overheated, or attract swarms of crazed mosquitoes. If they ever come out with winter mosquitoes, I'm in big trouble. In any case, it wasn't until March that I actually got outside with my saw and did some damage on the old woodpile, and at least making some progress in that area. There's more yet to do, but a start's a start, and I expect by July that I should have way more firewood than any dozen people would need to take camping with them. Not that I know a dozen people who carry their own firewood camping with them, but if I did, I would still have enough firewood for all of us. No sense leaving these things to chance, I always say.
And what might be going on in the wonderful world of mission statements, do we suppose? I hold in my hands the latest catalog from my new friend Skip Backus, the Executive Director of the Omega Institute, whose motto seems to be "Awaken Engage Explore" and who assures me that they obtained my name from a like-minded organization. (Since one of the program highlights of the upcoming semester appears to be a Chant Weekend by the international yoga community leaders, I shudder to think which "like-minded organization" was kind enough to provide my name and address to these folks.) Inside the front cover, Skip cheerfully invites me to peruse their mission statement on page 4, not realizing that I consider myself an expert of the genre with extremely high standards. Their idea is actually very nice, and I have no quibbles with it, but as a mission statement, it fails every test there is. You may as well just call it a sentence of their beliefs, because it utterly lacks the ponderousness and incomprehensibility that make mission statements, well, so missionary. Theirs simply says: "Through innovative educational experiences that awaken the best in the human spirit, Omega provides hope and healing for individuals and society." Now I ask you, where's the melodrama in that? That actually sounds like people saying what they mean and meaning what they say, you certainly can't have that and still call it a mission statement.
On the other hand, their course offerings, workshops and educational experiences are about what you'd expect from the nation's premier center for holistic studies. Right across from their very upfront and basic mission statement, I discover that I can explore such experiences as "Revelation of Universal Energy," "The Practice of Abundance" and "The Art of Translucent Living," whatever that means. They have pages upon pages of things like "Mindfulness Education for Children" and "Awakening to Oneness" that don't even get you in the ballpark as far as what the program is all about, or if in fact it's a program at all, rather than rejuvenating retreat, empowerment vacation or performance art. My favorite part is where they list their categories, with all the buzzwords and jargon that you'd expect, such as Activism, Creativity, Drumming, Meditation, Shamanism, Sustainability, Trapeze, and Wellness, when all of a sudden, right smack dab in the middle, there's French staring you straight in the face. I can't imagine what holistic French must be like, but I'm thinking it would not be a pretty sight. Or in the immortal words of Louis XV, "Apres moi, le trapeze!"
posted by El Tango Fandango @ 9:43 PM
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