In which Nathan considers his good fortune

Recently, I was sitting with nine good friends and I was trying to articulate a principle of life.
"I am beset by trials," I began, "but I seek to keep life in proportion by kindling gratitude in my heart for the simplest things."
"Such as?" my friends inquired.
"The smile of my sleeping child; the accident of birth that makes me Australian; the laws of physics and mathematics."
I encountered consternation. "Physics? Maths?"
I explained, "Did you know that you can zoom into a Mandelbrot set so deeply that if the original was as big as the entire universe and you zoomed in so that what you were looking at was smaller than a quark, you would see a tiny little simulacrum of the original shape, repeated anew? There it is, woven into the fabric of reality. Like a signature."
The purpose of our gathering was philosophical, and just as well. Such observations rarely travel well at the pub.

And why not choose to feel some sense of wonder and gratitude at both sunsets, and the laws of physics that make sunsets possible? A few nights ago, I told my son to regard his upraised hand.
"Many of the atoms in your hand, your body and everything you see around you were made in a Supernova, before the Solar system was even formed. What planets did that star keep warm, I wonder?" I explained.
His eyes widened. I love doing that, and we enjoy many such moments as I deliberately inculcate a love of science in my son.
Carl Sagan's observation that "We are made of star-stuff" stands to me as one of the most wonder-inducing and humbling statements we can reflect on. To think that the glint of gold on my wedding band came from the core of an exploding star 5 or more billion years ago is a fine reminder of both our transience, and equally our participation in the Universe. I give thanks for that. That the Universe is interrogable by Human intellect at all (a situation in which the Universe could equally have felt no obligation)... that is grounds for wonder and thanks.

Strangely, these are among the thoughts that sustain me in my earthly trials. Family, yes. Friends, of course, but some sense also that the world is full of hidden joys and marvels that we miss through harried inattention. When my 7YO son has built a Lego model of the Yamato because we're watching Star Blazers on my laptop together at bedtimes (one episode a night. "Hurry, Star Force! There are only 315 more days to save the Earth!"), and he wants to explain how the guns work at exhaustive length; that moment has as much significance as any could in history. Making my son feel listened to is as profound a purpose I have as I can conceive.

How easily I could have missed that. Or to let my other trials wear at my soul until the bone shows. The best philosophy is to expect a better day and to not be idle in the meantime.
To get to that gathering of my friends I recounted, my brother in law had dared me to ride from Oakville to Wilberforce, some 28km round trip, and I had acquitted myself. It was further than I had ridden since High School.
Yesterday, I sang at a good old fashioned Australian bush dance (My big number was The Wild Colonial Boy. Did you know that song was considered seditious in the 1890s and banned?) We wheeled and cavorted, my son partnered by grandmas and aunties alike through the heel-toe polka or the Drongo, now inducted like his immemorial ancestors into the courtesy of bowing and asking girls sweetly if they will dance. I beamed.
 Today, I constructed the frame of a grand new cubby house for my boy while the family gathered in the back yard. Sprinklers were jumped through. Balls were chased by the dippy Spaniel. The BBQ setting was repainted, largely to cover the sins of a previous artistic painting afternoon 7YO son and I had in which the garden furniture came off second best.

Tonight, I cleaned the study. As Satie's Gymnopédies shuffled through iTunes, my hand chanced to rest on the volume of Marcus Aurelius' Meditations I borrowed from my friend Grant years ago and haven't quite managed to return yet. As it fell open, there it was. What I'd been trying to say to my friends that night:

"Be like the headland against which the waves break and break: it stands firm, until presently the watery tumult around it subsides once more to rest. How unlucky I am, that this should have happened to me!' By no means; say rather, 'How lucky I am, that it has left me with no bitterness; unshaken by the present, and undismayed by the future'. The thing could have happened to anyone, but not everyone would have emerged unembittered. So why put the one down to misfortune, rather than the other to good fortune? Can a man call anything at all a misfortune, if it is not a contravention of his nature; and can it be a contravention of his nature if it is not against that nature's will? Well, then: you have learnt to know that will. Does this thing which has happened hinder you from being just, magnanimous, temperate, judicious, discreet, truthful, self-respecting, independent, and all else by which a man's nature comes to its fulfillment? So here is a rule to remember in future, when anything tempts you to feel bitter: not, 'This is a misfortune,' but 'To bear this worthily is good fortune.'"

This neatly encapsulates the view I want to have about life. This is what I would like others to say of me. Stoicism has always had a strong appeal, but this passage is beautiful in its truth. To be sure, recent loss gives my son and I, (and others in the family) a sadness that sometimes verges on the inconsolable, and an anger as well, and a railing at injustice and helplessness. But equally, I carry a sense that if I keep my nerve... if I focus on my family, my community and my study, then our satisfaction and happiness will be inevitable.

A personal interlude

I worked for a long time at a private School. I was always flattered when colleagues said “You ought to teach”, but I was happily in a groove where the technology I managed dominated my sense of identity. I was happy to pour myself into work where the satisfaction I gained was from enabling others to teach well. I got a real thrill when I saw people using technology to educate better, but there was always something else lurking at the back of my mind.

You see, I was always something of a "Philosopher-IT Manager", and friends became used to a lecture in politics as I fixed their email, or a spirited debate on the interface between Science and Religion while I fixed a printer (especially when I was cruising the Science faculty), or perhaps a bon-mot from my slightly warped sense of humour. If you passed my cramped but familiar office you may have heard me quoting Carl Sagan as likely as Augustine, while my walls were a shrine to photos of my beloved wife and son, salted with dog-eared sheets with quotes by Teddy Roosevelt, XKCD cartoons and a huge, byzantine map I had made of our burgeoning network. For those who looked closely, the map included several easter eggs, like a Where's Wally figure, or the USS Enterprise tucked into a corner. Yes, I was chronically overworked and under-resourced, but for the most part, I felt appreciated and the time, ten years, just kind of blissfully slipped by. It was the ideal life. I was blessed beyond measure. I was paid what my skills deserved. Until nearly the end, I loved what I did. I was among friends, and I had any number of outside interests, like my local dramatic society The Richmond Players, a place of respect in local politics, welded-on friends, and material and spiritual richness in my life.

I could have joyfully seen my days out doing that, regarding my service as worthy. But I had a growing conviction, starting a few years ago, when I realised that my real passions lay with ideas. The prospect of a life where debating bigger questions was not just an amusing adjunct to work or evening avocation seemed like an impossible dream. Imagine being paid to think and argue! Or teach! Colleagues, mistaking my intentions said, "Oh, you'd make a great computing teacher." Frankly, the idea of teaching computing now makes my skin crawl. I'm still a tech-fanboy (or it's sub-specie, the Apple fanboy), but I'm done with that. Something else has taken a hold of me. Exactly what direction I'm being led in isn't clear yet, but I am now enjoying the journey again. I'm back at University, and my recurring thought is “I should have done this years ago”.

I won't pretend that the decision came easily. This year has been the most challenging of my life, but I'm amazed at the serendipity of life. That security of circumstance which I feared most to lose was precisely what held me back. Anyway, I can’t abide self-pity. You get back up, shake the dust off, and you get on with things. The best is yet to come!

I've been into my new degree for a couple of months now, long enough for some distinct impressions to crystallise. Studying History, Politics and Philosophy has plunged me right into the debates that interest me most. Despite initially chafing at the absence of choice in the first year, doing subjects regarded as "foundational" like Media and Visual culture, or Australian History, I’m hugely enjoying having my beliefs subjected to the need for analysis, emendation and proof. When I get time, I’ll share some vignettes with you.

Welcome to the University of Nathan.

Normal Transmission Will Resume Shortly

I always loved the story of the British journalist William Connor, who enlisted during World War II. As a consequence of that catastrophic tumult which killed millions, wracked the world and changed its shape, his regular column in The Mirror was absent for some years. In 1946, resuming his column under his byline of Cassandra, he dryly began "As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted".

Indeed. I'm sorry I've been away.

The anecdote is ironic and tragic, too, since I am presently fated to have a Cassandra in my life as well. But that is a story for another time.

In the last six months I've quit my job of ten years, changed houses (and as a corollary, acquired a new station in life as a Landlord), changed my son's school, endured personal tragedy, and confronted malevolent forces at play contending for the happiness of my family. On the upside, I have decided to return to study (after an absence of 16 years) and that's an exciting opportunity I'm lucky to be able to take.

I've decided to take a degree in History, Philosophy and Politics, with the option of a Masters in Teaching in the last year, should I choose it. Needless to say, gentle reader, I insist you come along for the ride.

Life throws us googlies occasionally (I almost said "curveball" but find the Anglo term more satisfying), and the rational man looks for answers. If answers are not readily at hand, a quest is in order. Several friends have pointed out that not all men choose to take a degree in Philosophy in order to answer a personal question, but that's just me.

Although we're diametrically opposed on matters of faith, I'm reminded of Betrand Russell's view:

"The man who has no tincture of philosophy goes through life imprisoned in the prejudices derived from common sense, from the habitual beliefs of his age or his nation, and from convictions which have grown up in his mind without the co-operation or consent of his deliberate reason...while diminishing our feeling of certainty as to what things are, [philosophy] greatly increases our knowledge as to what they may be; it removes the somewhat arrogant dogmatism of those who have never travelled into the region of liberating doubt, and it keeps alive our sense of wonder by showing familiar things in an unfamiliar light."

Lastly, I've been noting things that strike a chord with my current state of mind. I thought this was a gem (having studied and worked in a technical discipline for 15 years, I was starting to feel like this):

Attribution (highly recommended webcomic)

Hang on, folks. We're in this together.

This Made My Year And It's Only April

At the suggestion of me-ol-matey John, the ADHD Librarian (I was about to use the term "spoon-friend" but there are those out there who just wouldn't get that), I went to the MyHeritage site to waste a few minutes on the entertaining distraction of uploading a photo of myself and seeing which celebrity the computer thought I looked like.
Well, am I well-pleased...

I am my childhood hero Carl Sagan, and my son is, as those who know him well can attest, a walking wardrobe malfunction.
Now that's artificial intelligence research at work.

The gene for L33tness is isolated

We often look at the younger generation and nervously ascribe their innate proficiency with technology to something genetic. (I for one welcome our new preschooler overlords). Just occasionally, they let their guard down and we see the proof that this ability is truly, frighteningly, fundamental to their very being.



...Without any tuition, or indeed knowledge of the Internet subculture, my son Liam speaks fluent l33t with his fridge magnets.

A Bouquet for Jacarandas

Has anyone noticed it's been a glorious year for Jacaranda flowers? Jacarandas are native to South America and I'm not sure how widespread the species is elsewhere, so I'll describe them for my overseas readers. Jacaranda trees grow to a prodigious height of over 20m. The bark is flat & silvery on the boughs but rough at the bole. Leaflets are only 1cm long but are arranged into compound fronds up to 40cm, giving the tree one of its alternative names, the fern tree.

For maybe eight weeks a year, in late Spring, the Jacaranda blooms so heavily it's branches are bowed. Clusters of amethyst flowers shaped like long, curved bells change the complexion of the whole tree. Deciduous, the tree looks spare and skeletal over winter, but come Spring, I have always taken Jacarandas as the very harbinger of happy, outdoor times, warm afternoons and new growth. Then, in December, she sheds her mauve dress and it lays on the ground like a discarded shawl.

In my town, whole streets are lined with Jacarandas and for whatever reason they are a sight of special magnificence this year. It warms my heart to see them, for I feel a special connection with the Jacaranda.

When I was small, I grew up as much at my Grandparent's home as in my own. The family property at Glenhaven used to be a farm and orchard and my great-grandparents were the local postmasters.

Glenhaven Post Office, painted 1973.

Over time, urban development encroached and the property was whittled down from scores of acres to a single acre by the time I was born. But at the centre of that acre, imperial and defiant, was a giant Jacaranda.

This tree was so big people used to park outside the fence and paint it. She was a local landmark, a queen, and she marked the seasons of my life with her blooms from ages nought to fifteen, when my grandparent's ill health forced us to sell up the remaining plot after over 120 years. My sister and I had climbed her trunk and lain along her lower branches since we could walk. The dog's kennel was at her buttressed feet.

By the time we had to sell my Grandparent's property in the late 80's, even our acre was an aberrant luxury, an anachronism of lawns and groves, surrounded by grotesque McMansions on a quarter-acre or less. When we sold, it was on the condition that the property kept its boundaries, and that special features like our Jacaranda would be saved. This softened the blow. In fact, it was the real-estate agent himself that bought the property. Assurances were made. They were lies. All lies.

Naturally, within a short time the Jacaranda was chopped down and three more houses were built on the acre, with the real-estate agent laughing all the way to damnation.

We had taken some seedlings of the original tree and planted them at my parent's property, and a row of them line our front fence and are dotted elsewhere on the property, along with a real prize, a rare white Jacaranda.

A rare white Jacaranda

These trees are now about my age, 30+, and are doing well. I've noticed with some satisfaction that their blooms are deeper, more numerous and superior to those of some other Jacarandas that were already on the property, and in time will also make excellent climbing trees.

Jacaranda flowers give way to disc-shaped seed pods. When they are dry they open like bivalve molluscs to release their seeds. I've seen millions of such seed pods, but once, and only once, something different...

A regular two sided Jacaranda seedpod

Bizarro mutant three sided Jacaranda seedpod.

Years ago, the big Jacaranda threw a seedpod with an extra side, a "trivalve symmetry", if you will. We've kept it all this time, like a four leaf clover. I've never seen a mutation anything like it before or since.

- Nathan Zamprogno

Toddlers, Wood glue, Leprosy and Weltschmerz

I've always been brought up to believe that if something is worthwhile then you need to participate in it and not just attend it. Thus, my wife and I involve ourselves in the life of our local Church. Last Sunday I was on the video desk and my wife was running the toddler's program. Problem was, my wife was sick and no one could fill in for her. As I got up that morning, my wife gave me plaintive looks between bouts of volcanic upchucking, and she just knows I can't resist her when she does that. Metaphorically I felt tiny hands dragging me inexorably into the land of drool. I found someone to fill in on the computer for part of the service.

"These kids are between 2 and 4. I can do this", I thought. The children's program does run with a program from week to week, a glossy workbook with a dozen lessons drawn from the Bible, illustrated with "Miffy" style cartoons, and accompanying line templates for use in colouring in, games and so on.

It is entirely saccharine, and unbearably American, but it was the program and blast it, I was going to do my best to present it. Now where were we up to? Ah. Lesson Eight. I read the first line of the lesson plan, and no, I'm not making this up.

"Imagine Naaman's terror as he realised that the patch on his skin was Leprosy. It was a sentence to slow death (2Kings 5:1-16)"

Oh...Kay... It took me a minute to realise that this line is actually part of the teacher's preamble to the lesson, but really and truly this was the foundation of the study itself.

I ended up winging it and getting the kids to make crowns out of paper plates with the centres cut out and paddle-pop sticks glued around the edge like the Statue of Liberty. My scripture was "Receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised those who love Him" (James 1:12). I was pleased.

Observation which is undoubtably true for all time and across the Cosmos: Small children and PVA wood glue do not mix. Which is to say, they do mix, and all to well. Toddlers should come with warning labels for things like that.

I've got to say that the intellectual stimulation I got from wrangling that scripture with a bunch of three year olds had more meat to it than I've gained from a lot of paid pastors.

Take my three year old, for example. He's got absurdism down cold. When most of us argue with our kids then it's over something. My boy has grasped the nettle of the Nihilist Weltschmerz, even at his tender age, and has completely surpassed the need for an object to debate.

His new game goes like this:
(toddler walks into lounge room with revalatory sparkle in eye)
"Daddy?"
"Yes, my boy?"
"OK. OK. OK..." (pauses to draw breath for most important utterance ever made)
"You say 'No', and I say 'Yes'."
Me: (digests abstract significance of this suggestion) "...and, that's the game?"
"Yes. Go!"
Me: (sighs) "Ahem.... 'No.'"
Him: (delightedly and loudly) "YES!"
Me: "No."...

And so we go until The Wife is holding her ears and telling us we can stick our Weltschmerz where the sun don't shine. I don't know. Why can't I get my boy to take an interest in something useful, like superstring theory? I suppose there's always next week.