Category: Discovery

Walking, Ducks & Finding Good in D.C.

June – Ordinary Time

My family jokes that if I were dropped from a helicopter into any situation in the world, I would find “good” wherever I landed. As someone who strives to greet life from a place of unwavering faith in God and a mostly optimistic worldview, I must admit that age has tempered me somewhat. Giving in to the undertow of the “dark side” drags at me more often than I would like to admit – especially during the past five years of living right in the thick of our nation’s capital city.

Still…

Over the past several weeks, we have welcomed visitors and have accompanied them on various D.C. excursions to include a tour of the U.S. Capitol, long walks from the Smithsonian metro station to the World War II Memorial, along the length of the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool, and up the stairs to marvel at the massive sculpture of our 16th President. From there, we have made our way around to the Vietnam Memorial, and then to the wonder-filled Smithsonian museums.

I never tire of exploring. As long as I can move, I will never say never when it comes to walking. Just give me a decent pair of tennis shoes, and I am ready for anything!

Observing Washington D.C. through another’s eyes also helps me to shift my perspective from what I see in the news every day toward a fresh appreciation of what it took to build this country from days stemming back to the Revolutionary War. Each time I walk past monuments and memorials, I observe people from all over the world who actually want to see America. I hear them expressing their wonder in a symphony of languages as the stare at this city’s impressive architecture. I feel proud knowing that many of the buildings were touched by artists and tradesmen from Italy where my family originally immigrated. Crowds endure long lines to marvel at the original documents – the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, the Bill of Rights. I love peering through tempered glass at the historic parchment to discover editing marks, creative signatures, poetic form…all spelling out the human effort it took to draft a new country. 

Tourists never tire of taking photos in front of the White House – now massively barricaded and fenced, but still visible. They wander in awe past a kaleidoscope of cherry blossoms around the Tidal Basin as they experience the Jefferson, Roosevelt, and Martin Luther King memorials. On a recent visit, one of our cousins remarked that he had “never been so moved in his whole life” than when he walked along the path of the Vietnam War Memorial. His tears and ours, I believe, not only express emotion for the more than 58,000 service men and women who died during that nearly 20-year period, but also for the future of our country, riddled today with complex dissension that spans from within our borders out into the universe.

Knowing my passion for walking, my son (an avid runner!) recently gave me the book, Walking, by Erling Kagge. The author’s adventures far exceed my own; he is known to be the first person to have completed on foot the Three Pole Challenge – the North Pole, South Pole, and summit of Mount Everest. However, this book is not about those experiences, but rather about what happens when one steps back to step forward – one step at a time. Walking facilitates this literally and figuratively.

“Everything,” Kagge writes, “moves more slowly when I walk, the world seems softer and for a short while, I am not doing….” He describes how walking helps us become acquainted with our surroundings. This takes time, he says, but “it’s like building a friendship.”  We can stop when we want, move where we want. We can experience the thrill of observing people and places…and along the way, find a path that leads to an “inner voyage of discovery.”

Walking through this complicated world compels me to slow down and to keep my hands free. While I walk, I am not tempted to scroll through phone messages or call someone to talk. (Although sometimes I do pull my phone out to take a photo!) Most importantly, my vision clears and even if I am beginning to feel like the helicopter dropped me some place I would rather not be, I continue to be joyfully startled at what I discover on my path.

On our most recent visit, I strolled along the Reflecting Pool and was absolutely delighted by a mother duck and her ducklings nestled on the sidewalk. I am used to seeing the ducks in the water, but in this case, they seemed to simply be enjoying the warmth of the concrete beneath them – relatively oblivious of the tourists walking by. There was something almost magical in zooming for a moment or two into the world of that tiny, feathered family. Something I may never have noticed if I hadn’t slowed myself down became an integral part of the painting of that day, the scene brushed further into focus by the human families streaming by on foot, pushing baby strollers, gliding on scooters…

Back to the helicopter. A couple of weeks ago, our son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren were visiting D.C. and on that particular walk, we actually did see a helicopter; it was Marine One and it landed right on the lawn of the White House. Not that I would ever be on that plane with the President, but the thought did cross my mind that I had in essence been dropped in D.C. five years ago when my husband’s work took us here. Despite what is projected over the airways, we have met wonderful colleagues and friends who are doing amazing work in service to their country. It has been quite an adventure. What I continue to make of this experience is mine to interpret…let me just say, it would not be the same without the ducks!

Lessons of Us

(my gift to a former student)

May – Ordinary Time

I was recently blessed to spend a day with one of my former students, Samantha, during her visit to Washington, D.C. for her graduation from Catholic University of America. She is the first graduate from Catholic University’s Tucson, Arizona campus where students can earn a bachelor’s degree in business management through coursework and internships closer to their homes in the Southwest. As we discussed her future, Samantha began to express emotions that tumbled between joyful relief that she completed the program to wary nervousness about next steps. She admitted to suffering from “imposter syndrome.” 

I totally understand.

The knowledge that you have the credentials to take those next steps doesn’t necessarily come with all the tools you need. With time and experience, the obtuse worry over not fitting in may go dormant, but it never really goes away as we strive to become our best selves.

I just turned the page of another year on the odyssey through my sixth decade. Despite the words of encouragement I shared with Samantha about mustering her confidence and believing in herself, I also battle the reality that even a whisper of constructive criticism or a fumble with technology during one of the training sessions I do in my consulting work…honestly, even a bad hair day or waking up with the realization that things don’t always turn out the way I planned…all of this can send me scurrying down a rabbit hole where I let myself hide in the darkness of feeling “not good enough.”

When “not good enough” settles in, I am unable to engage in activities that normally ground me like writing, exploring a new route on my frequent walks, reaching out to friends, and accepting that my hair will never look the way I want it to on a humid day! I lose sight of the rich history of my past accomplishments. But then, the sun comes up again and a glimmer of light penetrates the cozy hole where I have burrowed. I see a foothold – one I fully attribute to God. My faith most often does not present itself in obvious holy moments, but more through a life’s worth of practice and discipline. I know that even if I go through the motions, eventually the exercise of my religion will pay off (and it always does thanks to the Holy Spirit who I know lives as that gift within me that I often do not recognize until I fully surrender my stubbornness!).

Writing is what I love to do, but during vulnerable moments, I struggle to find words – not because I don’t have enough of them roaming around my mind, but I worry that IF someone reads them, they just won’t be “good enough.” Months may go by, and then my body somehow lets me know when I physically need to write. So here I am. I began a new journal the other day; however, there are still no words in it – just a Mother’s Day prayer I pasted in from our church bulletin (in Italian), and a pressed buttercup I found on a path near the Potomac River the other day.

I persevere. I start small. I make pasta. I just mixed together a batch of cavatelli for dinner. The process is pleasantly slow and the ingredients simple. Semolina, salt, and water. Each piece of pasta is formed one at a time – yet out of simplicity comes dinner!

I knit. The repetition is therapeutic and, once again, the ingredients are simple (yarn and needles) and from this process, stitch by stitch, comes a hat, a sweater, a baby blanket!

I write – one letter at a time on the canvas of my keyboard.

With this “practice” of both faith and patient accomplishment of meaningful tasks, I muster the courage to tackle bigger things. Dare I ponder the plans I had, revise them, and turn them again into goals I aspire to reach?

The lessons of me are really lessons of us. None of us are imposters – we are who we are and somehow end up where we are supposed to be. This lesson – while I am no longer in a school classroom – is one I gift to Samantha as she embarks on her next steps. I can’t wait to hear how her story unfolds!

Discovering America at the Strip Mall

November – Ordinary Time

Certainly not as picturesque as an old-fashioned town square, the low-slung buildings that define America’s strip malls dominate our communities. Constructed from non-combustible concrete, steel, and glass, they are sub-divided into several units fronted by asphalt parking lots and tend to rob our vocabulary of words like “quaint” and “historic.”  This is the reality of our modern landscape. 

These commercial centers line the roads of almost every town and city in the United States and look so much alike that sometimes I have to remind myself of where I am. Daily errands require cars with spacious trunks and shopping lists that lead us to several stores at the strip mall or perhaps a visit to one of the big box warehouses we rely on for everything from peanut butter to toilet paper.

Remaining red brick and burnished wood storefronts of yesteryear are often marked on maps as weekend destinations where hand-churned ice cream and stamped t-shirts beckon tourists rather than locals.

America’s Main Streets have been replaced by strip malls, and maybe that’s okay. 

A strip mall, however, is not what I pictured when my husband shared that we had plans to meet his brother at an Italian restaurant on the outskirts of Philadelphia. Other than what I would wear, my first thoughts were of a stand-alone building, perhaps a refurbished turn of the century home, located off the street in a township tucked between urban and suburban.

No, he said, the restaurant is in a strip mall connected to one of the main arteries leading from the freeway into an area near where his brother lives. Wary of my surroundings, but trusting of my husband’s refined taste, I was more than pleasantly surprised by the ambiance once we crossed the parking lot of the Centennial Plaza, walked along the sidewalk adjacent to the stores, and swung open the metal-framed door to La Voglia.

Inside, the image of where we might end up faded away. Every table was filled, music punctuated the air, and the lights were dimmed just enough to flatter everyone.  Waiters performed ballet-like movements as they sprinted around each other filling water and wine glasses and taking orders. They proudly placed in front of guests an array of appetizers to include burrata dressed with pistachio pesto, mussels in red sauce spiced with chili and mint, main courses of truffle infused pappardelle, branzino and fresh vegetables, and desserts ranging from fresh fruit to decadent pastry. We had discovered treasure at the strip mall!

By the time we left, night had fallen and the sign marking the entrance to the shopping center cast a neon glow over the still packed parking lot. As we headed toward our car,  I peeked inside the other stores along the way – most with doors open to welcome early evening patrons. Although we had just filled our bellies with the best in Italian food, my senses piqued in response to the Mexican spiced aromas coming from Taco Suave and Puerto Jarocho – which also showed off its international grocery items stacked on filled shelves lining the walls. I laughed when I glanced inside Boot and Shoot; who would have thought of a Western store so far from where they are usually located like in my home state of Arizona. Next door, customers peered at us over their phones and magazines while technicians offered pedicures at Vee’s Artistic Nails. 

This is America, I thought…land of strip malls and so much diversity! And that is why I believe that strip malls might be okay. They have become our marketplaces. Maybe they are not as charming as the bustling stalls I have explored in Jerusalem, Israel and Florence, Italy, but they do paint a lovely composite of the people who have added the color of their individual cultures into what is truly a representative mural of our country.

Among the many photos I cherish is one taken along the street where my mother’s family once owned a bakery in Utica, New York. Next to Nicotera’s Bakery in this photo is the Utica Households Furniture Store and next to that Chanatry’s Market – all founded by first generation families in that predominately Italian neighborhood. At our family’s reunion this past summer, we drove along the 21st century version of Bleeker Street. Although the bakery closed years ago, some of the stores remain, including the market. Others have been replaced by locally owned businesses reflecting the blended diversity of today’s Utica population. 

I believe we take our modern Main Streets for granted. If my whole vision of America was based on what I glean from daily news, I would not be able to find beauty in a strip mall. I am a former journalist who is sick of journalism – yet compelled to read, watch, and analyze almost every imminent blurb that flashes on my phone’s screen. Granted, we need to be informed…but we also need to step away and look at how people have managed to navigate the complications of life as they strive to thrive and survive. Events that have torn Israelis and Palestinians apart, immigration issues in our own country, protests around every corner, fear of terrorist attacks in the name of religion…these issues are real. My faith compels me to pray; a Biblical worldview is much more hopeful than the 24/7 barrage of “breaking news.” As we navigate the streets of our everyday, I fear that we have forgotten how to appreciate what we have and who we are.

After all, most of us still frequent grocery stores for the ingredients to prepare meals for our families. We enjoy going to restaurants, walking to the local coffee shop to meet friends, getting our nails polished, buying bread at the bakery.  Despite tolerance and intolerance, our daily needs inspire us to seek what has been made possible by those called to share themselves in the goods and services we consume.

We cannot take this for granted – even as we struggle to find a parking spot at our local strip mall.

Family Reunion

August/September – Ordinary Time

The three of us were sniffling and sneezing through the newest wave of Covid that is trying to tarnish the final rays of this summer. Two of us had tested positive; one of us refused to test thinking that if she didn’t it wasn’t happening! On Day 3 of our isolation, while playing a board game and reaching into each other’s contagious spaces across the dining room table, my mother, my aunt, and I realized that despite this unexpected consequence of the previous weekend’s family reunion, we truly were experiencing a positive resulting from…well, positives.

Months ago, my mother had decided she was going to her family reunion. This would take place in a small town about a half hour from our native Utica, New York, at the camp the family has owned for more than 100 years. In attendance would be the eldest remaining cousins  – offspring of the 13 children of my mother’s grandparents. Several months ago, I decided I would surprise my mom and simply appear at my aunt’s house in Utica the day before the reunion so I could be with her at what may be her last opportunity to attend these once in a decade gatherings.

I landed in Syracuse, secured a ride to Utica, and then nestled myself into a hanging chair on the porch of my aunt’s house. With a few quiet agreed upon instructions to my first cousin (who I had never met prior), my mom and aunt moved from the backyard where they had been sipping tea spiked with raspberry brandy to the cooler shade of the side porch. When my mom sat down, I turned my chair.  

Everyone has read novels about families that have been separated over the years not only by distance but by the dramatic events that change the path of their lives forever. That is how I have always looked at the stories my mom has shared with my sisters and me. We grew up knowing that my mother’s mother (my grandmother) had died during the birth of her second child (my aunt). My mom was only six years old. This devastated my grandfather. Because he needed to care for my mother while also carrying on responsibilities in the family’s Italian bakery, the decision was made that the new baby would be raised by an aunt and uncle who the family agreed would be able to best provide for her. As a result, my mom and aunt saw each other often but knew each other more as cousins than sisters. All the while, their lives circled and intertwined with those of their many relatives. My sisters and I have seen pictures and heard tales of mom and her cousins at the camp – sleeping on cots in the big upstairs dormer, eating Aunt Josephine’s pies, playing Monopoly on the porch, and catching fireflies. Six of the eldest were at the reunion, and I will forever remember them sitting next to each other on the couch, my mom clutching the hands of her cousins. Although their bodies bear the marks of nearly 90 years, I am sure they saw themselves as kids, piling out of the family’s bakery truck and spilling into the yard of their summer camp.

A note about the reunion: There were more than 100 relatives in attendance. The camp has been lovingly restored and easily accommodated all of us in expanded inside and outside spaces. I cherish the exclamations from Mom and her cousins as they watched a video compilation of their summer escapades. And the food…Utica is known for its “chicken riggies” and spicy “greens.” I also filled my plate with sausage and peppers, a meatball, and of course, a huge slice of Italian bread!

When I was three years old, my parents moved from Utica to Maryland and began forging the adventures that would define our own little family. Over the years, we moved from Maryland to Delaware to Wisconsin and finally, to Arizona. During our summer vacations, my sisters and I would often spend time in Utica, but mostly with my father’s side of the family. I crave the taste of Italian bread soaked in olive oil and the juices of the fresh-from-the garden tomato and basil salads my grandmother made. I nurture pots of African violets in honor of those flowers that always bloomed on the windowsill of grandma’s kitchen. We grew to appreciate the Italian culture that marks the boundaries of East Utica. Occasionally, we would visit my mom’s family, but I never met her father and many of the cousins until much later in my adult life. And for sure, until this trip, I had never known my aunt’s four children – my first cousins. 

About 20 years ago, my aunt visited Mom in Arizona. They still talk about the mixed emotions that had and continue to have about discovering the tiny thread of sisterhood that has tenuously bound them together without them even knowing. Not only do they look alike, but they also share many of the same mannerisms and characteristics. The recent reunion was a chance to bridge that distance one more time.

We approached our first couple of days of Covid with resignation. We drank a lot of tea (some spiked with that raspberry brandy) and I read an entire book. In between, we prayed, we dozed, and we talked. Through the fog of my clogged ears and stuffed nose, I began to see the blessings. We had never spent this much time together. Ever.

Forty-eight hours later, we woke feeling exponentially better. Mom and I would be leaving the next day and we needed to “do” something. So, we “did” everything! This included entering my aunt’s art studio (she is a very accomplished painter) and getting creative! We had so much fun splattering acrylic paints on gelli plates, imbedding textural components and rolling our prints onto fabric. (A gelli printing tutorial from YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nAAc-5Yphu8). 

While making art, one of my aunt’s grandchildren (my newly discovered second cousin) spent hours with us sharing his own amazing creative gift of videography. Seated in the sanctuary of my aunt’s magical gardens, he interviewed my aunt and my mom about their lives. I felt something begin to shift in me. I knew then that my decision to attend the reunion all boiled down to these last hours of my trip. By the time my cousin had completed his gentle questioning, we were all crying, including him. The impact those years had on my mom and her sister is profound. Their story is only one brush stroke on the ever-evolving painting of our family. The result is rich, messy, and as beautiful as the abstract art we created that afternoon. It is also steeped in our Italian culture, which in all its diverse manifestations, has etched itself deep in our souls from the moments my great-grandparents came to America in the late 1800s.

The tears we shed that afternoon not only reflect the heartaches that both my mom and aunt experienced in their separation, but also the joy of having re-discovered each other at this time in their lives. My cousin finally snapped the lens cap in place over his camera just as the sun’s waning light cast peaceful shadows over all of us. We looked at each other and decided that even though we felt better, we had no energy left to cook dinner. There is a great restaurant down the street. Did someone say “chicken riggies?”

An Urgent SOS

June – Ordinary Time

I was listening to Bishop Robert Barron’s “Summer with the Psalms” on Hallow when I sensed a tap from one of my muses: “I am like a growing olive tree in the house of God…” (from Psalm 52). Diverted by that ripple in my stream of consciousness, I then scrolled through my iPhone Notes to find a potential poem starter I had inscribed a couple of years ago and up until now had not revisited:

The olive tree
Deeply rooted in the desert of my backyard
Sends an urgent SOS
To its ancestors

What is it about olives that inspires me? In addition to my passion for eating them at almost every meal, I realize I am often drawn literally and metaphorically to the olive tree and the fruit it produces. I remember being a cub reporter on the local political beat in Tucson shortly after graduating from college. One of the stories I covered was when the county board of supervisors banned the future planting of olive trees because so many are allergic to the seasonal pollen. Judging by the thousands of trees still blooming in Tucson, the success of that decree may still be up for debate. The fortitude of the single olive tree in our backyard is also testament of this when each year it drops a bushel of olives from its branches despite its advertised “non-fruit bearing” status!

Prayers among the olive trees at St. Augustine Catholic High School

I delighted in the prolific olive trees at my former school. One year, during my tenure as principal at St. Augustine Catholic High School, I carried empty buckets into the courtyard to harvest a crop of black and green olives to share with my neighbors. We scoured the Internet for methods to cure the fruit of its unyielding bitterness. After a month of brining them in saltwater baths, we preserved them in olive oil, lemon peel, and fresh herbs. So good.

During my recent trip to Israel, fellow pilgrims remarked about my meal choices while observing me fill my plate at breakfast, lunch, and dinner with a handful of those salty jewels, which I graced with a drizzle of oil, a sprinkle of Za’atar, and a side of fresh feta. I had to increase my water intake substantially during those two weeks to counteract the salt-induced swelling in my fingers.

Photo my husband took in Crete: 3,000 year old “Monumental Olive Tree of Vuves”

It is not the simple joy of eating olives that has drawn me to the Bible and back to my poem (or not) starter. I am discovering new meaning in the Psalms, and not necessarily for reasons that could be defined as holy. I feel tuned into the way the authors – David, Solomon, Moses. Asaph, and others – don’t seem afraid to say it like it is. They recognize times and people in Israel’s diverse history that were both tragic and filled with hope. While some of their words are quite colorful, critical, and harsh about the actions of their fellow man, they also express a deeply-rooted longing for what is divine and true. 

I limit myself in what I express out loud about the world, its leaders, its politics, and its problems. After all, everyone is entitled to their own opinions, and I try to be very respectful of that. Those who know me often accuse me of being “too nice.” Yet, I should not have to apologize for striving to be someone who always seeks the good in others and places high expectations on herself to model that good. That is not to say, however, that my resolve does not waiver at times. For example, these lines from Psalm 73 also recently caught my attention: “How good God is to the upright, to those who are pure of heart: But, as for me, my feet had almost stumbled; my step had nearly slipped because I was envious of the arrogant, when I saw the prosperity of the wicked. For they suffer no pain, their bodies are healthy and sleek, they are free of the burdens of life, they are not afflicted like others…They say, ‘Does God really know? Does the Most High have any knowledge?’ Such then, are the wicked, always carefree.” (Asaph).

The trunk of an olive tree at a winery & olive distillery I visited in Calabria, Italy

I cannot even remember the last time I felt carefree. When I read that psalm, I do not visualize Israel. Rather, I see and hear the news broadcast from every channel on my television. I witness the incessant “breaking” updates that flash across my phone’s screen. I cringe at the arrogance and skewed statistics barked from the mouths of those we elect to be our voices as they interrogate those who have chosen to serve their country. I cannot escape what I observe. My “feet almost stumble,” my “step nearly slips.”

But then…olives.

Olives I could not resist in the Holy Land!

I reflect on the olive tree in my Arizona backyard. I see me – still green in so many ways – in this garden of God. I observe the sturdy trunk that has thickened over the years, the fragrant blossoms persistently hanging to the branches despite being battered by desert monsoons, the gnarled roots continuing their journey outward and downward. I whisper a prayer of my own design, sending words to play among wind-tossed leaves – “an SOS” to our ancestors. Like that olive tree referenced in Psalm 52, “I trust in God’s mercy forever and ever…. I will put my hope in your name – for it is good.” Thank you Asaph, David, Moses. Thank you dear ancestors.

Conversation with AI

May – Easter

I wanted to compare an article I had written myself with one generated through artificial intelligence, so I prompted ChatGPT to draft a blog for me on my recent trip to Israel. My parameters were simple: write from the perspective of a former Catholic school educator who went on a pilgrimage. Within seconds, this latest of all headline grabbers spun a well-written account of “my” trip in “my” voice about many of the sights and wonders I experienced in “my” two-week visit to the Holy Land. Thus began my conversation with Artificial Intelligence (AI).

Compare Chat’s first sentences with the original blog I previously posted on this site.

Me: Visiting the birthplace of Christianity proved to be as disconcerting as it was inspirational. I felt like I had jumped into the pages of a book I had been required to read my whole life but still didn’t fully comprehend. As a Roman Catholic, the sacraments of baptism, reconciliation, communion, confirmation, and marriage have put flesh on the bones of my very being. 

AI: As a Catholic school educator from Arizona, I have dedicated my entire career to nurturing the hearts and minds of my students. While my passion for teaching is unwavering, I am always seeking new opportunities to learn and grow myself. That’s why, when I had the chance to embark on a trip to Israel, I seized it with open arms, excited to explore the rich history and cultural diversity of the Holy Land. In this blog post, I’ll share some of my most memorable experiences and takeaways from my journey.

Immediately, I felt defensive – quick to point out that the last sentence of Chat’s first paragraph should be deleted. Just tell the story…don’t tell me you are going to tell the story! One point for me, one less for AI!

Then, I asked Chat to turn the blog into an assignment I could use with middle school students. The bot proceeded to chop the blog into manageable chunks, turn it into third person, and generate a list of questions. While I might have edited the pronouns, I’ll give this point to AI…I used to spend hours scavenging for ideas to help me develop engaging assignments for my students.

AI assignment: A Catholic school teacher from Arizona recently visited Israel to learn more about the history, culture, and religious significance of the region. This trip allowed the teacher to visit important sites for Christianity, Judaism, and Islam, as well as experience the beauty of the Israeli desert and the Dead Sea.

During the trip, the teacher visited Jerusalem’s Old City, where they felt a deep connection to their faith while standing inside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. They also visited the Western Wall, where they saw Jewish worshippers placing handwritten prayers into the ancient stones. In the desert, the teacher learned about the resilience of the human spirit at the ancient fortress of Masada. Finally, they experienced the serenity of the Dead Sea, floating effortlessly in its mineral-rich waters.

Throughout the journey, the teacher engaged in conversations with locals, fellow travelers, and tour guides to gain new insights and ideas. They plan to use these experiences to inspire their students to develop a global mindset and a lifelong love for learning.

Questions:

Name two religious sites the teacher visited during their trip and explain their significance.
What was the teacher’s experience at the Dead Sea, and why was it important?
Why do you think engaging in conversations with locals and fellow travelers was valuable for the teacher?


Optional Activity:

Imagine you have the opportunity to visit a foreign country with a rich history and diverse culture. Choose a country and write a short paragraph explaining why you would like to visit that country and what you hope to learn from the experience.

This entire conversation with and about AI evolved over lunch with one of my former students who now lives and works in Washington, D.C. While my husband and I chatted with him across the table over wood-fired pizza and a tossed salad, I reminded him about our first encounter about a decade ago at St. Augustine Catholic High School in Tucson, Arizona. It was my first year at the school. He was a junior. He came to my office inquiring about an online Latin class he might take in lieu of the on-site Spanish classes we offered. Less than 10 years ago, accredited online classes were just becoming viable options for students searching for curriculum beyond our course catalogs. I called him my “test pilot.” Little did any of us know how vital online learning would become over the next several years.

“And now,” I said to him, “we have artificial intelligence. Enlighten us.”

Apologizing to us for taking his phone out at lunch, he said it would be easier to show us some examples rather than trying to explain. And just like that, we had the blog post on Israel, the middle school assignment, and before we could get a refill on our iced teas, we also had a Shakespearian sonnet based on the blog:

Upon the Holy Land our teacher flew,
From desert sands of Arizona’s clime.
To learn of sacred truths and stories new,
In Israel, they ventured for a time.

In Jerusalem, where ancient echoes ring,
The teacher stood within the hallowed place,
Where once our Savior’s cross and tomb did cling,
And felt connection to His love and grace.

At Western Wall, the prayers of faithful rose,
And in the desert’s heart, at Masada’s peak,
Resilience of spirit our teacher knows,
And Dead Sea’s waters gentle solace seek.

So read this tale and ponder questions wise,
For in these words a world of knowledge lies

Okay, that is kind of amazing! Another point for AI!

How many more plays could Shakespeare have written if he didn’t have to concentrate so hard on the syntax!?

While I could easily feel intimidated – even existentially challenged – by this technology, my educator mind has kicked into high gear. It is true that students are probably “writing” everything from five-paragraph essays to AP compositions with ChatGPT, but this may finally be what we need to inspire a huge shift in how we teach and learn. Imagine using AI to assist students in their research and then assigning those students to act on what they have found through a performance-based assessment. Think about generating examples of thesis statements and asking students to debate the effectiveness of those samples. Instead of spending two weeks on “how to write a thesis statement,” we can now potentially re-direct that time into developing, supporting, and refining the thesis. And when it comes to iambic pentameter…the possibilities are endless! How many more plays could Shakespeare have written if he didn’t have to concentrate so hard on the syntax!?

Of course, there are negatives and positives – certainly fodder for stories circulating by the dozens in news and social media. There are and should be debates on ethical use of AI and beyond-the-Jetsons (remember that television show?) implications of a society potentially manipulated by non-human forces. I have participated in the information revolution since joining the career force during the late 70s. AI is re-igniting my curiosity.

In my heart of hearts, however, I believe that AI will never destroy humanity’s greatest gift – the one that allows us to nurture and build relationships with one another. We do this by embracing our God-given talents that will always include hands on expressions through the arts and sciences. If isolation during the pandemic taught us anything, I hope it is that while we can physically survive without each other, we need human connections to bring dimension, meaning, and purpose to our lives. 

To all my students, especially those who have reached out over the years since their graduations, I say thank you for allowing me to learn from you too. God created an amazing machine when he made us…there is nothing artificial about that!

The Road to Oracle

November – Ordinary Time

Less than an hour from our home in Tucson, Arizona where we have lived for more than twenty years, we took a right turn. I glanced over at my son who was driving. It was 6 a.m., and we were on our way to the Town of Oracle where he was set to time the Oracle Run, a 5/10K race that was marking its 40th year on this “sky island” perched at about 4,500 feet at the base of the Catalina Mountains. I am not a runner, but after years of being a track mom, I continue to volunteer to assist when needed. I was also looking forward to seeing our daughter-in-law and grandbabies when they would meet us an hour or so later. 

“Why have I never been on this road?” 

My sister, also in the car and preparing to run the 10K, sipped her Starbucks coffee and noted that I should prepare myself to step back in time and simply enjoy the morning. She first ran here a couple of years ago and came from Phoenix the night before to participate in this iconic race in this equally iconic town.

I have lived in nine states and two countries and have traveled through several more on various adventures. But just then, as has happened a few times in my life, I was physically steered away from a road I have driven many times and onto another that significantly jostled my perception of where I have always lived, worked, shopped, and eaten. How could I be so oblivious to potential experiences hidden “just around the corner” from my established routines?

“Walk around and explore Mom,” my son advised while he was setting up his timing equipment. “Everything begins and ends in the museum over there,” he said, pointing to the weathered ranch-style building with a huge wrap-around porch adjacent from where we parked. I knew he meant that the race’s base camp had been set up at the entrance of the museum, but as I discovered, there were lots of beginnings and endings to explore up the wooden steps and through the front door.

The museum is operated by the Oracle Historical Society and is housed in what used to be the Acadia Ranch, built in 1882 by Edwin and Lillian Dodge. It not only served as a boarding house and guest ranch, but also as a tuberculosis sanatorium. According to information posted on the museum’s website: “It was at the turn of the last century that Oracle gained international fame as an ideal cure for those suffering from ‘consumption,’ the name given to tuberculosis and other lung afflictions at a time before penicillin. After an article was published in the leading medical journal, many came to Oracle in the belief the fresh air would restore them to good health.”  (There is a wealth of information about the museum, history, and culture of Oracle to be found on the museum’s website: https://www.oraclehistoricalsociety.org).

Each room of the inn opened my eyes to not just time gone by, but time eternal. The first room was dedicated to a mixed display honoring the tradition of Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead). Photos of family members were interspersed on tables laden with colorful representations of papier maché food, painted skulls, sheet draped ghosts, and lanky skeletons. Perched against a wall was an unrelated sign outlining Mine Rules dating back to the early 1900s from the nearby San Manuel copper mine.

The adjoining rooms led to a kitchen, dining hall, sitting area, and guest quarters, complete with a metal framed bed and assorted medical instruments for those in treatment for their lung ailments. I couldn’t resist lifting the heavy kettle from the kitchen stove and trying to put myself in place of those who came before me. The best part of this museum is the ability to touch and feel the history – hardly anything is locked under glass, including shards of pottery that date even further back to when the Hohokam and Apache settled in the area a thousand or so years before the inn was even conceived.

I wandered the grounds surrounding the main building and discovered the ranch’s tack room and icehouse. In the time before the starting gun fired, I found a quiet spot on the porch to sit and enjoy my own cup of coffee. I have always loved those gliders that go back and forth on rusty springs. I filled my lungs with the cool morning air and completely understood the healing energy to be found in this mixed climate of desert and mountain currents. I marveled at a landscape that not only nurtured cacti, but also pine trees.

I didn’t run the race, and I honestly didn’t help my son with any of his timing duties, but I did rack up nearly 5K worth of steps running a “race” with my three-year-old grandson and guiding our one-year-old granddaughter over the bumps in the road she toddled over. I felt totally justified in buying the t-shirt!

Proud of my sister for winning her age group in the 10K and just as proud of my son for timing with no glitches, I thanked them both for inviting me along. “Glad I could help,” I said, acknowledging their eye rolls with a smile. 

I felt revitalized not only by Oracle’s healing breezes, but also by the gift of being nudged, via a right turn, toward a new road on my own personal odyssey.  There are so many treasures to discover just “around the corner.”

Note: So what is a sky island? A sky island is defined as an isolated mountain range separated from other mountains and surrounding lowlands of a different environment – such as a forest surrounded by desert. There are several examples of these sky islands in southern Arizona and northern Mexico. (Find more information at https://skyislandalliance.org).