Instant cure for the transitional blues

Mom and baby elephant in the Serengeti

I've been dying to write about baby elephants.  Now seems to be the right time.  Is there a wrong to write about baby elephants, you may reasonably ask?  Of course not.  However, now is also when the school year is winding down accompanied by typical short tempers, final testing days and  alternate-schedule stress.  There's also a "lame duck" transitional vibe, the middle school version of "senioritis" when the next grade seems close enough to touch--and yet so far away.   Teachers could get rich if we had a dollar for every time we asked, a little more wearily with each repetition, for focus, attention and quiet.  It's no mistake that Teacher of the Year awards are handed out before May.

Add this to personal transitions like, say, moving back to California, just to name one, and you have a perfect storm of stress with an 80% chance of full-blown angst by evening.

So, now is the perfect time to write about baby elephants.

As baby animals go, baby elephants wouldn't rank on a scale of pure cuteness.  They are not fluffier, softer or more dew-eyed versions of the adult model.  In fact, they look remarkably like the adult model, only miniature, right down to their miniature wrinkles, sags and head bristles. But baby elephants have something that other baby animals don't, namely a really big brain and a personality to match.  There is tons of research out there that shows elephants are among the most intelligent of animals, complete with their own  language and a complex social structure.  Baby elephants gestate longer than any other mammal. (Elephant moms are pregnant for 22 months!) That, combined with the fact that most female elephants are fertile only a few days a year, makes the arrival of a baby elephant a very big deal in the herd.

I've been lucky to observe elephants in the wild, once in Cameroon and several times in Tanzania.  Each occasion has been a memory of such unmitigated joy that I call it up anytime it feels like the world is ending. Which is why I want to share them with you.   Baby elephants absolutely shine with intelligence and carefree exuberance, as any youngster would who is long-awaited and lovingly nurtured.  And they spread that joy to anyone watching them.

The twins in the flowers

Two memories come to mind, and they happened within minutes of each other in Tarangere National Park in Tanzania.  The first involved two baby elephants who looked about two or three.  They were playing in a field of white flowers that stood about five-feet tall (just over their heads).  The guide said they were twins, rarer and more special than even a solo baby. These two were a long way from full grown, but big enough to not need constant supervision--and they were making the most of it.  Using their trunks, they would bat down the white flowers then--I'm not making this up--squeak adorably when the flowers bounced  back into position, usually smacking them on the forehead.  They did this tirelessly, as kids do, sometimes bopping each other, sometimes bopping themselves.  At one point I swear they both collapsed with laughter, falling onto the ground and rolling over, crushing the plants and knocking into each other.  Then they bounded up and started again. It was so delightful I forgot to take a picture until the very end. 

The second memory I don't have a picture of. It happened just down the road from where the twins were playing, perhaps sent away to amuse themselves so the following scene could take place. Five or six full-grown elephants stood in a circle, facing out on the banks of a small river.  I didn't understand why they were hanging around like until I saw what they were surrounding.  There in the center of the circle was a very small elephant, no more than a few months.  Now, grown elephants in the wild have almost nothing to worry about as far as predators are concerned.  (We humans are their biggest threat by far.) But babies, especially when they are very young, are vulnerable.  So, for example, when the baby takes a bath in the river, then wants to roll around in the mud (who wouldn't?), the adults indulgently form a barrier while the kid is defenseless on its back.

This baby was going to town, kicking up small puffs of dust as it squirmed with delight.  It was also squeaking preciously as it bounced up and flopped back down.  Finally, one of the adults (mom?) nudged it a little (time to go...).  It bounced up, but before the circle could break up, it tumbled back down again for another round of adorable wiggling, causing one or two other elephants to exhale pointedly.  Another nudge got it on its feet, then the herd formed up in a line with the tiny baby in the middle.  (And, btw, you might be surprised to learn that a herd of elephants (I've witnessed one as large as 40 in Cameroon) travel in absolute silence, demolishing the "loud as a herd of elephants" cliche. If you closed your eyes, you wouldn't know they were there.)

It's no surprise elephants symbolize wisdom and memory.  In children's literature, they are often the smartest, most community oriented characters, solid in their beliefs and ready to offer support. (Horton Hears a Who by Dr. Seuss!  Babar!)  If you ever get a chance to observe them in the wild, take it.  (Not that you need convincing...)  You will feel immeasurably happier and grounded for the experience.  As for me, I'm keeping my elephant memories extra close these days, knowing they'll last well beyond the May blues...

Only connect

Stuff has been on my mind lately.  My Stuff and our collective Stuff that is currently cluttering our homes and apartments. This weekend, I started packing for my move back to the Bay Area, which will occur in a terrifyingly short amount of time.  I have reserved a U-haul and am psyching myself up to drive said truck with my car hitched to the back. (Stay off I-40 during the weekend of June 8.  Just saying...)  I'm sorting my closet and packing my books. (Thank you, Kindle!  The 115 books I've acquired in the past two years weigh less than a pound and all fit into my purse!) This is what we do when we move.  We pay money to transport our Stuff from one place to the other.  We sort and purge--and keep only what is "necessary."  Yet we still find ourselves becoming a hazard to road-trip vacationers everywhere driving a truck we have no business operating, not to mention the hitch trailing behind.

My relationship with Stuff has been always been somewhat aloof, more so in the past than now.  For an unusually long time as an adult, I owned hardly a stick of furniture and could (and did) move across the world with a couple boxes and suitcases.  I liked it that way.  I now find myself in possession of a couch, table-and-chairs, bed, dresser and various smaller accoutrement like end tables and Ikea lamps.  I've thought about leaving it all in Austin and starting fresh in Berkeley, but I'm not going to.  Abandoning this load will only mean I have to acquire another set, which leaves me just as cold.  Moving or not, we own Stuff.  When people come to my apartment, they will expect to have a place to sit, vessels to drink out of, a table to rest their plate on--and I, as their host, want to provide this for them.  This is a perfectly reasonable expectation, but it is one that requires advanced planning and an outlay of funds in a way we hardly think about (or at least until we have to pack it all up and move it somewhere else).  

Someone has thought about it, though.  His name is Daniel Suelo, and journalist Mark Sundeen has written a book about him called The Man Who Quit Money.  Suelo is neither homeless nor possession-less, yet he doesn't use money in any way. Consciously.  On purpose.  When he's not house-sitting for friends, he lives in a cave on federal land within walking distance of Moab, Utah. He dumpster dives, works in a community garden, forages and volunteers.  He doesn't accept any assistance (like food stamps/welfare) or handouts.  At this point, he doesn't even carry an I.D. Yet his life, as recounted by Sundeen, is abundant in a way that is hard for us to imagine.  For example, people visiting his cave don't expect to have somewhere to sit, but they find places. He eats well from discarded food and garden produce.  Found items like sleeping bags, clothing and tarps keep him warm.  Like the hunter-gatherers of old (and some tribes in the Kalahari to this day), he has plenty of free time after his foraging is finished for the day (or week).  He isn't a hermit, and he doesn't have a political agenda.  (He's not on a "money strike" like a hunger strike to make a point.)  He has chosen to live outside the economy because it aligns with his carefully reasoned ideals and allows him to do the work he chooses.  Not surprisingly, his life is centered on doing good, in the tradition of Buddhist sadhus. He is certainly not the only person in the world who considers the current flavor of American hyper-capitalism to be spiritually bankrupt and soul-crushing.  But his solution is remarkably unassuming and totally non-violent in every sense of that word.  According to Sundeen's account, Suelo is deeply content and at peace, and the way he fully lives his beliefs brings a sense of peace to those he encounters. It's wonderful to read about. 

What's most striking about the book is actually not the fact that Suelo lives without money (but like any good journalist, Sundeen knows a good hook when he sees it).  I mean, the whole book could be about the mechanics of not having a dime in your pocket (This guy uses no money! OMG! How does he do it?!).  The most striking thing about the book--the thing that makes it a literal page turner--is the difficult and fascinating journey Suelo took to arrive where he is today.  Hint: it involves a lot more than closing a checking account.  It touches on so many aspects of life that we all struggle with: identity, relationships, family expectations/influence, the meaning of work, the meaning of money, developed world vs. developing world, religious ideals vs. religious dogma, the list goes on and on.  I have a feeling that anyone who reads Sundeen's book will take something different away from it. 

So what are you waiting for?  Seriously, go read it now.

What has stayed with me most is the way we all remain connected under the surface of our fractured, pay-for-services-rendered modern world. Time and time again, Suelo recounts acts of generosity and community by complete strangers from all backgrounds and walks of life.  When the things that keep us apart--and money is a big divider--are subverted, as Suelo has done, it doesn't take long for these connections to become visible. They have not been gobbled up by partisan politics, Great Recessions, housing crises, the 1% or the bugaboo of the moment.  They are there, just waiting to emerge when the artificial barriers we create are broken down. Suelo is a living, breathing subverter of one of these barriers.  When he refuses payment or direct handouts and instead gives away his found bounty rather than return it to the dumpster as so many of us do, he interrupts the system.  What takes its place is stunning in its genuine depth.  When you can't pay someone, what do you do?  You thank them sincerely.  You smile.  You feel lighter and freer.  They smile back.  You establish a connection that would not have existed otherwise, even if it is short-lived. Exposing and building these connections is the way Suelo lives--all the time.  Living without money allows him to do it. 

It is a profoundly hopeful message, and it is so important to keep in mind, whether you are living in a cave or moving from Austin to Berkeley in a few weeks.  It has made me start looking for other ways to subvert the system in personal, meaningful ways, to break down what divides us and allow all that humanity to come to light.