Tempelhof: The joy of wasted space

 

My son has fallen in love with riding his bike as fast as he can down the runways at the old Tempelhof Airport.

Imagine it. Wide open, flat space. No cars. No stop signs or traffic lights. Just the wind running through his helmeted hair. And it's always windy, so the headwind can be a struggle, but the tailwind makes it seem like he's flying. 

Not long after planes stopped flying from it, the City of Berlin turned the old airport into a public park  

And it's a big park. It's 360 hectares, and it's flat and wide open. It's like stepping onto a prairie, well, a small one, but you get the idea. 

Rain or shine, there are people strolling, running, riding bikes, grilling, picnicking, canoodling, and flying kites.

In a city where any building can be a club, making an old airport into a park for everyone captures the Take-What-You-Got-And-Make-it-Fun spirit of Berlin.

But a big open space in the middle of the city must be torture for property developers. What a waste of space! Think of the condos that could go here. The retail space. The revenue.

So, every now and then, a developer tries to get the park rezoned. And people, normal people, push back and stop it.

Because an open space isn't wasted space for a six-year-old discovering the freedom of high speeds on a bike or for the 40-year-old father struggling to keep up with him. It's something we all need. 

Back to school, German style

If you spent some time in Germany over the last few weeks, you probably saw children walking the streets with giant cardboard cones. 

They might have been wearing backpacks large enough to fit another child inside. 

Their parents might've been dressed to the nines. 

You might've even been invited to an Einschulungsfeier, which is a party celebrating the first day of Grade 1.

It's back-to-school time in Germany, and like most things that Germans love, it's taken very seriously here.

And like most things that are taken very seriously here, I was very unprepared for it. 

My own Canadian experience with starting school was modest. I got some new clothes, a backpack, and a brown bag lunch. Maybe a photo was snapped before the school bus took me to school. No party. No body bag backpack. 

In Germany, it has been taken to the next level. There's a big ceremony at the school the weekend before the first day. Parents throw parties. All the kids' parents buy the same type of (expensive) backpack. The kids receive a cardboard cone filled with school supplies, sweets, and whatever else can be crammed into it.

It probably wasn't always this way. The kids are anxious and excited for this next step, so a ceremony at the school is a smart move. Gifting school supplies? Also, a smart move. But the rest can take on a feeling of an overly commercialized affair that's developed its own Enschulungs-Industrial Complex, making the whole thing futile to resist.

In the midst of all this, it's easy to lose sight of the most important thing: a six-year-old growing a little older and entering a new phase in their life. 

Riding to the first day of school

Parental Leave Time

My two months of parental leave is over, and I can tell you that time has taken on a new meaning.

Before parental leave and the arrival of our second son, time was structured around Kita drop-offs and pick-ups, and the unrelenting beat of the work day: focus time, one-on-ones, stand-ups, all-hands, and so on.

During parental leave from work, the rhythm of the days feels more fluid. Often just as urgent, but more important.

We (well, mostly the mother) adjust our schedules around feedings, wakings, and diaper changings. You rise with the sun, and can't wait to get to bed after the sun sets. The Kita drop-offs and pick-ups feel like interruptions into the parental leave's unique time zone. 

There are other impositions inviting themselves to the mix. Forms must be filled out to meet bureaucratic demands. We're moving to a bigger apartment, so boxes must be packed (while the baby sleeps). All of which make the usual time-constrained demands on our schedules and energy levels. 

Aside from those impositions, time starts to feel more natural. I see parental leave as a return to a natural order of things, instead of a deviation from the expected order of things. Which is something I hope to keep in mind when I return to work.

Some Berlin Tunes

The building where David Bowie and Iggy Pop lived.

Burnt out and lost in his own revolving cast of identities, David Bowie left for Berlin, well, West Berlin.

He didn't go alone. He brought a friend, James Newell Osterberg Jr., or Iggy Pop, as most of us know him. Berlin would have seemed the perfect place for them. A city living on the edge, walled in, surrounded by Soviet tanks, and still a rough ruin. But still free. 

They shared a flat (in my neighbourhood). They collaborated, went to local shows, worked with Brian Eno, jammed with Kraftwerk, and made a musical hash of rock, punk, and electronic. And they've both gone back, again and again. Those Belin roots went deep.

So, it was a treat to find this audio treat: Iggy Pop's Berlin Bound radio special. 

Mixed up in Pop's playlist is some Nico, the lady from the Velvet Underground. She's German, by the way. Some Kraftwerk, which has become a household favourite here. Some Anton Karas, who you might remember from The Third Man soundtrack. And, of course, some Rammstein and some Bowie.

Pop's playlist is perfectly Berlin. It defies genre, ranging from Krautrock to electronic music and 1920s oldies. It's all ear candy if you give it a shot. And it captures some of this city's musical awesome-ness. 

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Und! Hier ist die Playlist auf Youtube:

• Nico - "Abschied"

• Nico - "Janitor Of Lunacy"

• Lotte Lenya - "Happy End: Surabaya-Johnny"

• Lotte Lenya - "Alabama Song"

• Nico - "Evening Of Light"

• Lotte Lenya - "September Song"

• Neu! - "Lila Engel"

• Can - "Vitamin C"

• Faust - "It's A Rainy Day, Sunshine Girl"

• Popol Vuh - "Wir wissen von der Not"

• Viktor & Die Vokalisten - "Berlin Boys and Stuttgart Girls"

• Lou Reed - "Berlin"

• David Bowie - "V-2 Schneider"

• Einstürzende Neubauten - "The Garden"

• Einstürzende Neubauten - "Ich Gehe Jetzt"

• Michael Rother - "Zyklodrom"

• Michael Rother - "Katzenmusik 5"

• Michael Rother - "Katzenmusik 6"

• Nils Frahm - "Spells"

• Rammstein - "Ich Will"

• Powell Tillmans - "Tone Me"

• Anton Karas - "The Cafe Mozart Waltz"

• Neu! - "Hero"

• Helena Hauff - "C45p"

• Boney M. - "Daddy Cool" 

Lessons from Berlin's electoral do-over

It's election time in Berlin, again.

Why so soon?

Last time around, it didn't go so well.

For starters, election day was the same day as the Berlin Marathon. So, half the city's streets were closed for the runners, snarling up traffic.

Some voting stations ran out of paper ballots, forcing people to wait hours to vote. When new ballots didn't arrive, some stations photocopied blank ballots.

If the ballots did arrive, they were often meant for other districts. But they were used anyway, meaning people voted for politicians who weren't running in their district.

Some voting stations closed early, which is not so good.

Other voting stations stayed open far longer than allowed, which might seem good, but isn't.

The courts threw the election results out, and ordered a prompt do-over. Although some argued they should stand. I haven't heard a good reason why. 

Germany may be a country with a reputation for efficiency, but Berlin is not like the rest of Germany. The same things that make it interesting—it's urban wildness, chaotic energy, warped history—also make it hard to run.

But, while the rest of Germany shakes its head at the hijinks of its capital, I'd like to call a time-out and point out that this whole fiasco is a good thing. Let me break it down:

• We know something went wrong with the election.
• It went to court.
• The courts overturned the election results 
• The city is now rerunning the election.

In places far less democratic, if something like this electoral flop occurred, things might've looked different. There might've been a cover-up, or the problems would've been ignored, or labeled as "fake news."

What makes a democracy truly democratic isn't a well-running machine — although it helps — but when mistakes happen, we know about them from a free press. We're able to demand change through an eco-system of civic groups and respect for freedom of assembly. Independent courts uphold the law, even if it runs against the interests of our elected leaders, and institutions implement the court's ruling and correct the mistake.

An autocracy needs the appearance of being well-run, even if it isn't. So, there's no free press to point out mistakes, no civic groups or freedom of assembly to demand change, and no courts to uphold the law.

The best sign that you're living in a working democracy country is that you know when it isn't working, you're allowed to say it doesn't work, and you can try to get it fixed.

There's a lot of people out there who don't have that luxury.

What brings out our best

 

Europe is edging toward an energy crisis.

Everyone is getting letters from their gas and electricity providers about price hikes.

By law, my office must limit the temperature to 19 degrees. They're offering blankets and everyone is layering up.

A war rages nearby. Europe boycotts Russian oil and gas. Underwater pipelines explode. Everything costs more, far more.

During the warmer summer months, I told a friend that aside from the news reports and refugees, the war in Ukraine feels distant from Berlin.

It feels closer now.

The upside is that we're finally noticing where our cheap gas and electricity came from, and what it's funded.

If you still don't know, google Bucha.

It's a chilling, helpful reminder of why we stopped buying gas from them. And why it might be worthwhile to feel a little colder this winter if they get less of our money.

As a Canadian, winter always seemed to bring out the best in people. A stranger's car won't start? We give them a boost. We'll shovel a neighbour's driveway, or buy cup of hot chocolate for the panhandler in front of Tim Horton's.

I'd like to think this energy crisis could bring out the best of all us. That we wouldn't sacrifice our principles to pay less for heating and electricity and everything else.

Principles aren't easy, convenient, or painless. And that's the point. It's the toughest winters that bring out the best in people, if we let it.

Child-like Enthusiasm

 

Just a few days into my sick child's leave, I felt the rush of anticipation for the day's first hot cup of coffee and our morning dose of Ninjago.

For the uninitiated, Ninjago is a cartoon featuring a few Lego ninjas with special powers and their own primary colour. They fight all sorts of magicians, stone Samurai, robo-ninjas, and anthropomorphic snakes with their signature martial art: Spinjitsu.

We're into the fifth season, and it's fair to say I'm just as hooked as my nearly 4-year-old son. 

The level of enthusiasm for Ninjago in the household has been slowly building. First, it was the occasional reference after a day at the Kita. Then, there were the drawings and the priced pages of a colouring book. Then we started watching the show on Netlfix.

But, the tipping point into Ninjago fan-boy-dad-territory was the savage virus that knocked out almost all the kids, and parents, at our Kita. We've now been marathon-watching these Lego martial artists between naps, pleas to nap, matchbox car races, book-reading, and other activities meant to tire out a child that refuses to act like he's sick.

I've gone from a white belt to a black belt in Ninjago knowledge. How serious is it? I've moved beyond merely mastering the ninjas' names, colours, and powers, to thinking, "He's acting like a Cole..."

 

I've also had some deeply serious conversations about what the Green Ninja's superpower is. The answer? "The Green Ninja's power is Boom-boom."

There's so much about fatherhood you're not prepared for. At best, you think you're prepared for something, but find out you're not. 

 

But here is a situation I didn't know I should be prepared for: This powerful, unabashed enthusiasm for something — dinosaurs, cars, Ninjago, whatever — that's so strong that you happily get pulled into it. It's like getting sucked into the Darkness (season 2 for the Ninjago noobs), but far less ominous.

Simple pleasures of a Hungarian train

Magic hour at Keleti train station, in Budapest

The train has only pulled out of the station a few minutes ago, and it already takes on the familiar feeling of a Hungarian train.

The polite exchange of seats, as those with reservations ask those without reservations to get out of their seats.

The sound of a can of Dreher being opened. Then another. Then another. 

A lady sitting down across the table from us, pulling out a tin-foiled bundle and unwrapping a sandwich.

At the next station, a man sits beside her. As the train pulls out, he too pulls a tin-foiled sandwich from his luggage, unwraps it, and takes a bite.

We already finished our snacks and sandwiches.

Train travel is easily romanticized, as if it's still like solving mysteries on the Orient Express or watching the world blur past you on a bullet train.

But for most of us, it's a necessity. No Belgian detectives solving mysteries. And it's the local, so there's plenty of stops and no bullet speed.

So if you must take the train, why not make the most of it and stretch out and crack open a beer? You have to pay for the train ticket, so pay for train food when you can eat a delicious sandwich?

Any kind of travel doesn't need pricey upgrades or faux luxury. Often, it's the simple pleasures that make the trip worthwhile.

A ride on a Hungarian train is a refreshing return to that grounded normalcy. 

Once, on a flight from Budapest to Rome, I unwrapped my own tin-foiled wrapped salami sandwich. The old lady across the aisle from me nodded in approval. The flight attendant man gave me the stink eye.

It's not his fault. Airlines have managed to monetize every last bit of enjoyment of travel, while removing the last shred of dignity from the experience of flying. 

Passengers are treated like cattle, milked for every cent.

In the process, they've priced out the simple pleasures. Can you really, truly enjoy a $10 beer? Or do you feel compelled to tell yourself that it's a good beer?

And what about those sandwiches made under questionable circumstances with unidentifiable ingredients?

Train companies have yet to crush the joy of traveling and the simple pleasures that come with it: leg room, a homemade lunch, and cold beer. 

These things aren't sacred or even necessary, but they add something unmistakable to a train ride. That's something Hungarian train passengers haven't forgotten.

The places we want to visit

I was going to write a post about how Florence had changed since the last time I visited the city.
  
I'd write about how the price to walk around the roof of Duomo jumped in just a few years from 8 € to 30 €. I'd write about the enormous hordes of tourists descending on the markets, tavernas, and tourist sights. Buying every little knick-knack and drinking the town dry of Aperol spritz.
  
I'd write about how on my first visit, I bought a wallet for 15 € from the leather market that was made in Florence. And how the same market was choked with tourists perusing suspiciously identical-looking, marked-up leather goods.

But I'm not writing that post. 

I've been thinking more about the impact of my traveling decisions. Especially my purchase decisions while I travel. 

Do any of us visit a place like Florence for the cheap magnets, the machine-crafted leather goods, the silly Panama hats, the shot glasses, miniature Davids, cheap sunglasses, or anything else arrived on a super-freighter from a faraway sweatshop? 

Yet, we mindlessly buy this shit. Myself included. I bought a same-same machine-made leather wallet to replace that older wallet I bought years earlier from the same market. I instantly regretted buying it. 

 

We can loathe the pushy street sellers and roll our eyes at the ridiculous novelty items, but they're selling them because we're buying them. 

Worse, we're buying things we don't need from people who like as though they don't want to be selling these things.
 

We can lament the death of neighborhoods in Lisbon, Barcelona, or Florence and wonder why Dubrovnik or Venice doesn't feel "authentic." 

But, we're the ones staying in cheap Airbnbs, putting our money into souvenir shops, and pretty much avoiding the local businesses that cater to the local and made that neighbourhood in that city worth visiting.

What can we do?

We can stop believing that tired argument that buying garbage from a souvenir shop is putting needed money into the local economy. We can start making purchase decisions that will leave the place we're visiting a little better off than when we left it. Let's use our judgment, before we use our money.

  

Bringing a toddler to Florence

So, you want to go to Florence with a toddler. 

Are you sure? Yes? It will be tough. But, tough doesn't mean it's bad. It's actually pretty great.  So, here's a few things we learned while we were in Florence.

Early mornings.

We woke up early every morning to the sounds of street cleaners and garbage trucks. An adult usually mumbles something, rolls over, and falls back asleep. Not a curious toddler. They're compelled to investigate these things and when they're awake, they're awake. 

So, to let his mom get some sleep, I'd take him out for a walk around the piazza to watch Florence's city workers do their street cleaning thing. The grumpy part of me wanted to say it was difficult, but it's hard not to admit how refreshing it is to walk the tourist-free streets of Florence at 6am.

A 6am stroll at the Duomo. 

A hotel with a history.

Once upon a time, our hotel was a palazzo. Built in the 1700s, it was owned by dukes and princesses until it has turned into a hotel.

We had breakfast beneath a 17th-century fresco. We climbed grand old staircases. We explored  all sorts of hallways, stairwells, long corridors, dead ends, and mysterious little corners. I'm certain there are some secret passages and the website confirmed that a ghost haunts the premises. 

It was a playground for a toddler. Levi raced up and down the corridors, explored the stairwells, and tried every closet to see if it was unlocked.

Our hotel's grand old breakfast room. 

Early, early evenings. 

A spring evening in Florence is close to perfection. The setting sun casts long shadows across the piazzas. The city truly comes alive as the sun sets. Locals gather in the squares. The tourists sip their Spritz's on cocktail bar terraces. 

Of course, you won't see any of this with a toddler. It's bed time. 

You'll need to shower the toddler, wrestle on the pyjamas, and read a few stories. When he finally falls asleep, that's it.

You're sitting in a dark hotel room. No cocktails. No setting sun that evokes some Longfellow verses. Maybe a movie on the iPad, but more likely you crash before 9pm... because you were up watching street cleaners in front of the Duomo at 6am. 

Your stroller might not make it.

I don't think the medieval Florentines had strollers in mind when they paved their streets with cobblestones. You'll develop strong forearms from bumping along the street. Then blow out a knee as you try to pivot the stroller off the street onto a narrow, uneven sidewalk to avoid a car. Then back onto the street because the sidewalk is impassable with all the parked Vespas. 

But! The stroller is a valuable tool. He fell asleep while we toured through the Uffizi. Whenever his feet got tired, we coaxed back into the stroller. 

When to say enough

The problem with old Italian cities is also what makes them so lovely: the walking. You can spend all day walking around the city, discovering new things, poking around ancient churches, walking up stairs to the top of some church tower, romantic strolls along rivers, walking and gazing at masterpieces in some huge palatial art gallery. Then more walking. 

A toddler is tough, resilient, and has the endurance of an ultramarathon runner. But, at some point enough is enough. You must know when to call it a day. So, plan what you want to do, but don't plan too much on the day. He'll need breaks, gelato, and a visit to a playground.  

Our structure was a playground in the morning, then some tourist-y activity after an early lunch. Nap (hopefully). Then supper between 4-5pm. Then back to the hotel room for the night routine.

Yes, it Is worth it.

There was a point where the toddler walked into the Medici chapel, looked around at the sculptures made by Michelangelo himself, and asked, "Where's the ice cream?"

It's hard to know if he will remember much of this. He slept through the Uffizi, but he enjoyed the playgrounds and waving to the pigeons. He developed a love for Spaghetti Carbonara, which the waiters, who are accustomed to requests for Spaghetti Pomodoro for the kids, instantly respected. You could see him taking it all in, and processing it.

This experience might be imprinted on him, without the memories. It might develop into an inexplicable appreciation for Michelangelo. A love for Carbonara. Some Italian language skills that stick with him. Grazie! Prego! Ciao bambino! Or something deeper, like a willingness to try new things. If it's just one of those things, then the struggle was worth it.

Come prepared to the restaurant.

Our little circles of influence

The professional day drinkers who usually gather in front of Sudkreuz train station were pleasantly surprised about a month ago. Someone had pitched a tent, laid out some food, and put out foldable tables and chairs.

It's exhausting work to stand outside all day drinking and panhandling, so Sudkreuz's hard-working professional drinkers made themselves at home. They stretched out, drank their beer and cheap wine, and enjoyed the sun.

The next day, the tables and chairs were roped off and guarded by volunteers wearing yellow vests emblazoned with the blue and yellow Ukrainian flag. What the hard-living party folks of Sudkreuz mistook for their beer garden was a meeting point for refugees arriving by train from the war. Mostly women and children.

Sudkreuz is the last stop before Berlin's central station, where thousands are streaming into the city. A colleague arriving at Berlin, schlepping luggage with two kids trailing behind her, was graciously greeted by eager volunteers, mistaking her for one of the many mothers coming from Ukraine with small children.

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You would know Under den Linden in Berlin if you've visited Brandenburger Gate. It's a popular street in the Mitte for strolling shoppers, tourists, and locals. You'll also find the Russian embassy dominating an entire block on the street.

The embassy, which also sued to be the Soviet embassy for East Germany, is now walled off from pedestrians by barriers and patrolled by cops. 

The big headlines-grabbing protests usually take place on Sundays. 

But every day I've passed, there's always this quiet crowd of protesters on the tree-lined boulevard, holding Ukrainian flags that hang limply in the wind.

They don't do much. They don't chant or march. They stare at the embassy, its curtained windows, and its imposing stone facade.

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It might be easy to lose hope. There's an overwhelming feeling of despair about this war, its utter pointlessness and cold brutality. We all wish we could bend the arc of history in a better direction.

Most of us don't have the influence to start or end wars. But we all have our own circles of influence. We can do what we feel is the right thing to do within this circle. We can donate to a cause we believe in. We can let strangers from a war-torn land into our homes. We can march on the streets. 

The point isn't if we can change the world. The point is to make decisions and act closer to what we believe is right, and be able to live with ourselves. If we can live that way, then we might change our little circle of influence for the better in the process.

Things I loved in 2021

 

We're almost there! I know the 2020s have been tough, but there was a lot to love about this year. So, here are 10 things that made my year.

1) For a reason I can't fathom, I read a bunch of books about the Eastern Front in World War II during the cold, dark month of January 2021. 

City of Thieves by David Benioff is an adventure story of a young man who avoids execution in exchange for an impossible mission in 1940s besieged Leningrad and behind German lines. It's like reading a movie. Good stuff. 

We, Germans by Alexander Starritt is told from the other side. This story is told by a German artillery officer as the Wehrmacht retreats and everyone realises they've lost the war, but most can't admit it. Sobering stuff.

Just when I thought I couldn't go darker, I read Bloodlands: Europe between Hitler and Stalin by Timothy Synder. This is a sweeping non-fictional account of how much it sucked to live in the (blood)lands between two totalitarian states in the 1930s and 40s, and a reminder that we're living in good times. Sad stuff. 

2) Every few months, I get a vicious migraine that knocks me out. I'm usually too discombobulated for screens or reading, so I treat myself to an audiobook that I don't mind falling asleep too. Jason Isaac's reading of Thunderball is marvellous. The accents. The pacing. The almost satiric humour of the opening chapters. The hilariously cheerful American submarine captain. It's great stuff to listen when your brain feels like it's being stabbed with hot nails.

3) There is high-definition "technicolour history," which is the recorded history of Ancient Greece and onward. Then there's the "black & white history" that relies on stone reliefs, monoliths, and ruins. Technicolour history isn't so kind to the Persian Empire, but black & white History is revealing the Persians profound influence at that time. King of Kings, a set of Hardcore History episodes, is an accessible, thoughtful primer on the Persian Empire. It provides a rich context of the history of the region, into the Greek-Persian Wars, and ends with the devastating arrival of Alexander. 

Coincidentally, as restrictions eased over the summer, my wife surprised me with a birthday visit to the Pergamon Museum in Berlin to see some remnants of that Black & White History.

The Sumerian god Nisroch.

4) Like many kids growing up in Ontario without cable, I spent Saturday evenings watching either hockey or the classic movies on TVO, the province's public broadcaster. One of the joys of watching The Mandolorian is catching the references, retellings, or remixes from The Searchers, The Magnificent Seven, The Good, Bad, and the Ugly, Shane, The Wild Bunch and others. I watched it dubbed in German to keep my Bad German from getting worse.

4) Dune Part I. This was a date afternoon, since the toddler is impossible to get asleep and stay asleep during normal people's prime movie-watching time. What a movie! I could've done with less slow motion brood-y scenes, but it's a stunning movie to watch that doesn't dumb down too many of the book's many layers. More than any of the other adaptations, this one captures the book's cosmic immensity of things.

5) Rise and Kill First: A Secret History of Targeted Assassination by Ronen Bergman. For fifty years, Mossad has been waged a secret war and this book reads like an epic spy novel about that secret war —  the missions, near misses, and the cast of characters that move it along. In a way, Israel's targeted assassination program's success feels tragic, since Israel's leaders often saw it as an end, rather than a means to an end. The author is legit on this topic too, and recently published this story about an AI-assisted assassination in Iran that could be a follow-up to the book.

6) I read a chapter now and then from Plutarch's Lives. The biographies of Caesar, Pompey, and Alexander the Great get a lot of love. But the sketches on Alcibiates, Sertorius, Sylla, and Lysander are also great. It takes a while to get into the language's verbosity, but if you put some mental effort into it, you get to know some interesting people and gain sense of the times they lived.

7) I've have a soft spot in my heart (and stomach) for Korean food. It might be from my time working at a Korean restaurant in my London days. Maybe its some subliminal influence from the work of Park Chan-wook. It might be Korean cuisine's focus on cabbage-y goodness (Kimchi) and meat mastery (Bibimbop, Bulgogi, pork bone soup). Or all of the above. 

Since leaving Baldwin Village in Toronto, where I had a Korean restaurant across the street from me, I've been eating Korean and searching for my favourite dish: Daeji Bulgogi, Korean grilled pork. It's also difficult to find, like a Holy Grail of grilled meat, so I haven't quenched my thirst for it... Until I found Seoul-Kwan in Berlin and I've been reunited with my pork.

 

8) Watching my wife create 12 pieces of original art for her annual calendar was probably one of the most inspiring things to witness this year. Work, family and the minor emergencies that inevitably pop up tend to suck in our time. So, it's amazing to see someone carve out time to make something. I know artists are suppose to focus on the process, not the result, but as an admittedly biased observer, I think the result is lovely.

Focus.

9) Remember seven or eight years ago when everyone in advertising describing themselves as storytellers? In a book-ish attempt to be a legit storyteller, I tried to read Hero with a Thousand Faces and couldn't get through it. The wrong book at the wrong time for me. But, this year I read the Power of Myth, which was a series of conversations between Campbell and Bill Moyers. It's an accessible shortcut into Campbell's research, theories, and his incredible compassion for the struggle that is being human. Once you read it, you'll notice all those themes, tropes, and patterns pop up everywhere.

10) Reading Ursula Le Guin's translation/adaptation of Lao Tzu's Tao Te Ching was one of the most strangely calming experiences of 2021. It's poetry. It's wisdom. It's like ancient Chinese Twitter for the soul. Here's a good one:

Wanting less  

 

When the world’s on the Way,  

they use horses to haul manure.  

When the world gets off the Way, 

they breed warhorses on the common.  

 

The greatest evil: wanting more.  

The worst luck: discontent.  

Greed’s the curse of life.  

 

To know enough’s enough  

is enough to know.