by John

Something Yellow

Yellow is a vibrant color associated with sunshine and happiness. So, don’t let this close-up of a Yellow Spiny Lizard frighten you.

Its scaly skin mirrors the colors of the desert, making it almost invisible against the sandy and rocky terrain and safe from predators. And its sharp scales provide additional physical protection. Yellow spiny lizards are not dangerous to humans. They are non-aggressive, do not possess venom, and rarely bite unless provoked. This one didn’t seem to mind being photographed at eye level from three feet away. So yes, despite its appearance, sunshine and happiness is what this creature offers to us humans.

Granddaughter Brynna, holds a yellow Frangipani in Barbados. Native to the Caribbean, the genus Plumeria is named in honor of 17th-century French botanist and Catholic monk Charles Plumier (1646 – 1704) who traveled to the New World documenting plant and animal species. Perhaps he also smelled its sweet perfume as he held a similar blossom in this region three-hundred years ago.

If yellow is the color of sunshine and happiness, this was a good choice for an outdoor circus performance I watched fifteen years ago. It featured acrobatics, aerial acts and live music. What most appeals to me is its low-tech traditional approach to family entertainment. No AI nor sophisticated stage-setting, no animals, no complex engineered structures. In some sad way, a lost innocence.

A sunflower in our garden. It catches our attention as much as it inspired William Blake in 1794

Ah! Sun-flower, weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun;
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveler’s journey is done;
Where the Youth pined away with desire,
And the pale virgin shrouded in snow,
Arise from their graves, and aspire

And even earlier, in 1530, Thomas More would perhaps look out from his prison cell in the Tower of London and write about the sunflower. (Portrait: Hans Holbein the Younger)

The sunflower turns on her god when he sets,
The same look which she turned when he rose

Like William Blake and Thomas More, Charles Darwin also wrote about the way in which the sunflower follows the sun. The phenomenon is known as heliotropism and allows plants to track the sun’s motion throughout the day, optimizing light capture for growth and reproduction.

He bows in homage to the rising dawn;
Imbibes with eagle eye the golden ray,
And watches as it moves the orb of day.

Equally inspired by the sunflower, I took a photograph and cropped it into twelve 8×10 images then mounted them in cheap plastic frames and hung them on a wall. Voila!

But, Mama,
What does heliotropic mean?

It means that you are special, dear,
among all the flowers.
It means you look on the bright side
And never look back,
It means you turn your face to the sun
And avoid looking down.
It means you keep your eyes on the heavens
And your feet on the ground.

by John

Something Red

Like it or not, the color red makes its presence felt. Associated with love or anger, pain or pleasure, it evokes an emotional response.

Here, after a fourth spine surgery, Lilian walks towards the setting Arizona sun. There is very little red in this image but, against the darkness of the photograph, it draws our attention to her pain.

Pain clinics are quite places.

In the desiccating heat of the Sonoran Desert, a Barrel Cactus blooms.

In the desert, we provide water. In the snowy north we fill the feeder with sunflower seed. The cardinal comes to us, a red reward: A living valentine’s card, if you will.

Cornell Lab of Ornithology

Each heart inside each bird, though smaller and faster beating, is similar to ours. And we share in the electro-chemical miracle that produces an electrical current from the movement of sodium, potassium and calcium ions through the heart cells. And these electrical signals keep us alive and keep the birds flying. All of us.

In the image below, there are several colors, black, green and red, but the red stands out.

Josef Albers (1888 – 1976) was a prominent figure in color theory and art education. He is most well-known for his work on color perception and interaction. He emphasized that color is a relative medium, influenced by context, light, and surrounding colors as is the case in this image of a red amaryllis.

This amaryllis was a gift in 2025, a bulb in a pot. It flowered in January. In the spring, we planted the bulb the garden then brought it back inside in September. In January 2026 it was in full flower again. Today the flowers are gone and the plant is patiently waiting to be planted back in the garden again when the danger of frost is past.

What do you see in the image below?

Yes, a red barn and a red shed. Even though there is as much green, we see the red. If a three-month-old infant looked at the scene, what would he or she see? Certainly not a red barn but rather shapes and colors. Perhaps the child would be attracted by the red, as we are. It is sometimes good to imagine seeing in the way of a child.

n the early nineteenth century, a non-objective art form emerged, art that does not attempt to accurately represent a visual reality. It is characterized by the absence of recognizable objects or figures, focusing instead on elements such as color, shape, line, and form to create a purely visual experience for the viewer. Pioneered by artists like Kandinsky and Malevich, the objective of non-objective art was to evoke emotions, sensations, or ideas, independently of the constraint of representational art.


Mark Rothko and Donal Jud are just two contemporary non-objective artists who make frequent use of the color red. It is unsurprising that they and other artists, who goal is to provoke an emotional response to their non-objective work, would work in red.

Vir Heroicus Sublimis Museum of Modern Art in New York.

Here is Lil walking past Barnett Newman’s (1950-1951) work at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. Because this work falls into the category of non-objective painting, some would say that it should not be judged but only experienced subjectively. This raises the interesting question of how a museum decides what paintings to add to its collection.

Off the cost of Quepos, Costa Rica

Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.
Red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning

A red flower in the desert blooms.
It blooms for just a day or two.
It blooms for you the passerby
So, pause and look while on the path.
You’ll both be leaving soon.

by John

Something Black

It is strange to talk about black or blackness when the color refers to the absence of visible light. In a sense, we know it through absence. If black is the absence of light, it’s difficult come up with an image of it. We ‘see it’ best only in relation to things we can see such as the saguaro cacti in the image below.

I used a digital infrared filter for this photograph taken near my home in the style of Anselm Adams. The sky appears black because the filter blocks visible light, something we see only because of the earth’s atmosphere. Once an astronaut leaves the earth’s atmosphere, space looks very much like the sky in my photograph.

One clear night in the Sonoran Desert, I pointed my camera up towards the dark sky and took a photograph without any special telephoto lens. The result was a black image with thousands of scarcely visible pinpricks of light. These faint pinpricks were stars in the 13.5-billion-year-old Milky Way galaxy, the galaxy within which I stood. The sky appeared black because in space there is no atmosphere to scatter light.

To produce the image above, I cropped out a very small part of my original photograph then enlarged it very significantly and increased its brightness. The result was this collection of different colored circles of light against a black background. These are about twenty of the more than 100 billion stars in the Milky Way Galaxy which is only one of more than 100 billion galaxies in the universe. The different colors of stars are a result of their temperatures, chemical compositions, and the physics of light. Cooler stars appear red, while hotter stars can appear blue or white. The gold color of stars is a result of their composition, which includes heavy elements like gold and platinum. These elements are produced in supernovae and neutron star mergers, a process known as the r-process. The gold-rich stars today are essentially the remnants of ancient galaxies that merged with the Milky Way over 10 billion years ago.

This is a Phainopepla. The word phainopepla comes from Greek meaning “shining robe,” referring specifically to the male birds sleek, reflective black feathers.


Phainopeplas are primarily found in the deserts and arid regions of the southwestern United States, from central California in the north to the Baja peninsula and central Mexico along the interior Mexican Plateau in the south. Their movements are influenced by the availability of berries that they find in desert washes, mesquite groves, and oak and sycamore woodlands. They are common in our Southern Arizona neighborhood, distinguishing themselves from other birds by the black color.

Here’s another black creature found in nature. The skunk’s black color is accentuated by its white stripe. It is a nocturnal animal and difficult to see at night. The word “skunk” was used in the Algonquin language in the early 1600’s. A description can be found in the Jesuit Relations, chronicles of the Jesuit missions (Relations des Jésuites de la Nouvelle-France) in the mid seventeenth century:

“It has black fur, quite beautiful and shining; and has upon its back two perfectly white stripes, which join near the neck and tail, making an oval that adds greatly to their grace. The tail is bushy and well furnished with hair, like the tail of a Fox; it carries it curled back like that of a Squirrel. It is more white than black; and, at the first glance, you would say, especially when it walks, that it ought to be called Jupiter’s little dog. But it is so stinking and casts so foul an odor, that it is unworthy of being called the dog of Pluto. No sewer ever smelled so bad. I would not have believed it if I had not smelled it myself. Your heart almost fails you when you approach the animal.”

This sculpture in Michigan in the United States has its origins that date all the way back to 1482! Leonardo da Vinci first envisioned a horse sculpture for the Duke of Milan and sketched a rearing horse with a rider. Despite years of preparation, da Vinci’s designs for the towering bronze piece never materialized and the bronze originally intended for the sculpture was repurposed into military cannons in 1494.

In 1977, American art collector Charles Dent embarked on a 15-year journey to complete da Vinci’s vision and bring this masterpiece of a sculpture into existence. The sculptor Nina Akamu redesigned the piece creating two casts for the final bronze sculpture after Dent’s death in 1994. In 1999, the first bronze cast of Akamu’s stunning black beauty design was placed in Milan and the second cast was used for the American Horse sculpture depicted here with my son.

In the bright afternoon sun, the interior of the parking garage looks black. There seems to be a complete absence of light inside the building. Unless one has entered previously, one has no idea what the garage looks like inside. In prehistoric times, an early human might have been fearful about entering a dark cave, not knowing what danger to expect. Today, we generally know what to expect in a parking garage, but a deep-seated fear of the dark lurks somewhere in our inherited psyche.

And now for something different. In this photoshopped image of mine, three witches scurry away in a desert wash. In the foreground, a dark shape broods menacingly.


Black was one of the first colors used by artists in Neolithic cave paintings. It was used in ancient Egypt and Greece as the color of the underworld. In the Roman Empire, it became the color of mourning, and over the centuries it was frequently associated with death, evil, witches, and magic.

We may not have any good reason to fear the dark as our neolithic cave-dwelling ancestors might have. Black is often used symbolically or figuratively to represent darkness, the opposite of good, evil. Even though this image is simply a photograph of a motel, my treatment of it introduces something sinister, something we know nothing about, but which leaves us feeling uneasy

Not wanting to end this post on such a dark note, here is something more upbeat:

The sky is black. Ideal for watching the fireworks over the Danube on St. Stephen’s Day in Budapest.

by John

Something White

My previous post focused on the color blue, so this image provides a nice transition from blue to this post’s subject, something white. The photograph was taken in White Sands National Park in New Mexico and is completely surrounded by White Sands Missile Range. The white material in the photograph consists of gypsum crystals, and the dune field is the largest of its kind on earth. Fossilized footprints found here are dated to the earliest arrival of humans in North America around 20,000 years ago.
For some, the color white is a symbol of innocence, purity and peace. It is ironic and sad that this beautiful place is surrounded by a missile range where instruments of war are tested.

This Gardenia blossom surprised me as I walked past a small tree in the Louisville Zoological Gardens. Native to Asia, Gardenias were introduced to the southern United States in the 18th century but are relatively uncommon in Kentucky. The last time I had seen one was in the 1960’s in South Africa. To make sure that this was a Gardenia, I stepped closer to smell it. Yes, the intoxicating fragrance confirmed that this was the real thing. The scent of the flower plays an important part in attracting pollinators especially at night, appealing to nocturnal insects like moths who are also attracting to the white flowers discernible in the dark.
Is the image just a pretty photograph, or does it remind you of a time and place? Can you remember the fragrance?

Snow is actually translucent or clear because it is made of ice. But, because of the crystalline nature of ice, when light is reflected off the ice crystals, it breaks up and all the colors of the spectrum shine equally. Our eyes perceive all these colors colliding as white. The philosophical and scientific moral of the story is that things are not always as they appear, but in the case of snow let us embrace the appearance.

What does this little sign have to do with Something White? Well, the lacquered white base on which the black letters are printed is white. The hand that holds the sign is White. The second line is written in Afrikaans. Translated, it reads “Whites Only”. That’s how things were in South Africa before the end of apartheid. Our small group of anti-apartheid activists removed these signs from park benches in the city, an inconsequential gesture that may not have even been noticed. But there are times when one cannot remain silent. This was a beginning.
Living at peace with our Whiteness is not always easy.

Here is Lucy who brought much happiness to Lilian and me during our retirement. We have been “dog people” for most of our lives with canine members of our family that include golden retrievers, labradors, border collies, spaniels, and an assortment of mixed breeds. But it was Lucy who stole our hearts. Maltese dogs have a rich history that dates back over 2,500 years, originating on the island of Malta. They were popular in ancient Greece and Rome (catuli melitaei) and were even linked to the goddess Venus who was said to have kept them as pets. We like to think that Lucy is now with Aphrodite on Mount Olympus.

When one starts to think about white, a person becomes more conscious of it in our everyday lives. In the diptych above we see toothpaste and facial tissue. In much of Africa, the word for toothpaste is “Colgate” and in the United States and Canada, the word for facial tissue is “Kleenex”. Good examples of metonymy, the phenomenon that occurs when a brand name is so widely recognized that it is used in place of the product itself.

This flower can teach us something. It is the Trichocereus Candicans, also known as the Argentine Giant, native to Argentina. It thrives in arid climates and full sun, so it wasn’t surprising that it bloomed in our Sonoran Desert home. It is a night flowering species and although it blooms for only two days, it leaves an indelible impression. May our two-day lifespan leave its own beautiful mark.

by John

Something Blue

Lake Erie is one of the five Great Lakes in North America and the fourth-largest. It straddles the international boundary between Canada and the United States. The Canadian province of Ontario occupies its northern shore while to the south and east the US states of Michigan, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New York occupy its shores. But none of that matters.

Have you noticed that standing on a beach looking out over water reduces one to silence?

The ocean is blue because water absorbs colors in in the red part of the light spectrum leaving behind colors in the blue part of the spectrum for us to see. The universality of this phenomenon is born out in this pentaptych that is a compilation of photographs I’ve taken: The Pacific Ocean off the coast of California, the Indian Ocean off the Southeast coast of South Africa, and the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Massachusetts. Among my photographs, I find images of the Caribbean, the Adriatic and the Mediterranean. And I remember my grandmother in 1967 as she looked out over the breaking waves of the incoming tide, and her words to me, “I wish I had your faith. Your grandfather and both my sons have died. And, you know, the waves will keep rolling in long after I have gone.”

For about ten years, we made cross-country trips from Arizona to Ohio. The allure of the open road begins to wear a little thin, however, on the fourth day of driving. This photograph taken somewhere near the New Mexico / Texas border is illustrative of the sense of alienation from everyday life that the long journey creates. Even the welcome lack of traffic is somewhat surreal. Out of sight, but close by, migrants make their journey too. Under the baking sun, we are reminded of our common origin in the solar nebula.

Stepping out of the theater after a brilliantly choreographed matinee performance of Ballet Tucson with music, movement and color, I paused in the quiet shade of the building. Looking up, I saw the contrails of a jet bisecting the deep blue sky with the modernistic architecture of the theater in the foreground. I sensed the presence of Darth Vader, cyborg commander serving the Galactic Empire in Star Wars.

Jeans is the name of a style of trousers made with a heavy blue denim fabric strengthened with copper pocket rivets and patented by Levi Strauss in 1883.
Originally designed for factory workers and miners, modern riveted blues jeans were popularized as a fashion item by Marlon Brando and James Dean in their 1950s films. Initially, jeans became a symbol of rebellion among teenagers. Today, perhaps this eighty-four-year-old is still a rebel as he throws his pair of jeans up into the air for a photograph.

This post started with a photograph of Lake Erie and ends with an image of a woman reaching into the water of the same lake.

My photograph is modified to give it a painterly impression in the style of Andrew Wyeth’s 1948 work, “Christina’s World”. Anna Christina Olson had a degenerative muscular disorder, which left her unable to walk. She refused to use a wheelchair, and she would crawl everywhere. When Andrew Wyeth saw her crawling across a field, he was inspired to paint his famous work.

by John

The Winter of Our Discontent

Looking out at the falling snow here in the Northeast United States, a thought comes to mind: “Now is the winter of our discontent.” The thought is accompanied by feelings of sadness, bordering on outrage, about what is happening on streets in many of our cities, and feelings of embarrassment at the behavior of my countrymen in Davos.

Now is the winter of our discontent

Where did this expression, this quote come from? Margaret Thatcher referred to the “Winter of Discontent” when addressing the British Conservative Party in 1985, but she was borrowing a phrase that had been used during the chaos of a strike in Britain in late 1978. But I doubt that this where the seed of the phrase was planted in my psyche.

Perhaps I was recalling the final novel written by John Steinbeck in 1961, “The Winter of Our Discontent”.

There is some logic supporting this. The novel tells the story of a man from a once-wealthy family in a corrupt, post WWII American town, as he abandons his integrity for wealth and status, exploring themes of ambition, disillusionment, and the erosion of traditional values, and ultimately questioning the nature of success and self-worth.

As I look out the window, the falling snow blankets the countryside but is insufficient to conceal the moral corruption among some in our country so well expressed by Steinbeck in his novel. But where did Steinbeck find the quote? Now it becomes clear; he borrowed it from another story about ambition, power, and corruption.

“Now is the winter of our discontent’ starts the soliloquy by the young Richard, in the opening line of Shakespeare’s play, Richard III. It serves as a poignant introduction to his character and the themes of ambition, power, and moral corruption that permeate the play. It highlights the contrast between the external appearance of peace and the internal struggles of those who seek power at any cost. This soliloquy remains one of Shakespeare’s most quoted lines, reflecting its enduring relevance in discussions of political and social dynamics.

The fact that this phrase is among the most famous and most quoted opening lines of any Shakespeare play, probably explains how and why it came to mind as I turned away from the TV news to sadly watch the falling snow.

The phrase has transcended its original context and is often used to describe periods of social or political unrest. So, it is understandable, then, that as I watch the snow falling, falling over our cities, falling over those in hiding, falling over the armed, masked, federal police officers, falling over the protestors braving sub-zero temperatures, and falling over the White House, we find ourselves in a bleak place, the Winter of our Discontent.

Exposed

by John

Season’s End

To be interested in the changing seasons is a happier state of mind than to be hopelessly in love with spring. George Santayana

Cleared for takeoff. Farewell Autumn

It seems as if all the flying things are leaving our garden, including this Cabbage White Butterfly

And the Bumblebee Moth disappeared a few weeks ago.

Over the summer we watched the Monarch Caterpillar feeding in our Butterfly Bush:

And then, after pupating, returning as a beautiful Monarch Butterfly

Not all the Monarchs survive. In the following image, a yellow garden spider, the Argiope aurantia, has captured a butterfly and wrapped it in a silk sheath.

Ten days ago, the last few Monarchs visited our garden. They had just flown south from Canada over Lake Erie and settle on our zinnia flowers to build up energy for their long flight to Mexico.

The Swallowtail butterflies have also left

The Spicebush Swallowtail

And the Yellow Swallowtail sharing a viburnum blossom with a Bumblebee.

As the butterfly bushes start going to seed, we noticed Milkweed bugs (Oncopeltus fasciatus) on the pods. They are part of the milkweed ecosystem, we left them alone.

As summer slid into autumn, we watched the goldfinch plucking petals off the zinnia flowers to access the seeds.

We had bid farewell to the Ruby-throated Hummingbird that was with us all summer, and a few weeks ago a juvenile hummingbird passing through on its migration to Southern Mexico and Central America.

We still see Dragonflies, but they too will soon be gone.

We were fortunate to be able to retire in the country and align ourselves with the changing seasons. At our advanced age we have learned to say goodbye, which we must do every autumn. But we haven’t been completely abandoned. Here are some of our friends who will remain with us over winter

Racoon

Red fox

Skunk

Eastern Grey Squirrel

Chipmunk

White-tailed deer

The Possums and Groundhogs will be nearby, but underground. We’ll see them in the Spring.

by John

At the End

Photo: Mauro Manca

Step into the boat.
No, you don’t need to bring anything with you.
You can leave your things behind.
Your pictures, books, clothes;
Even your phone.
Your shoes.
The plastic glass of apple juice with a bent straw.
You don’t need to bring anything with you,
Not the sun warming your face,
Nor the rain, softly falling on your hair,
Nor dreams of the ocean,
And your special places.
You don’t need to bring any of that with you,
Nor anyone.
Not your children.
Nor even your wife.
Let the memories and the music
Of days when you were young
Disappear into the nothingness,
Like the sigh and sudden emptiness
In the bed where you no longer lie.
Leave them weeping there.
Come, hold my hand.
Step into the boat.

by John

Views from a Chair

Despite the heat and humidity of the last weeks of summer, we look out at a blaze of color in the gardens surrounding our little sunroom.

Yesterday afternoon, sitting with my camera for less than an hour and, without leaving my chair, I took the following photographs. The quality isn’t great: There were reflections in the windows and several of the pictures were taken through window screens. But I wanted to share the sensibility of being surrounded by nature’s beauty on a hot, muggy day.

There are over twenty species of this perennial. In this blurry image seen through the screen window we have a Heliopsis, Tuscan Sun.

Turning in my chair and looking behind me, I see the Honeysuckle vine against a white wall. Sometimes I may see hummingbirds feasting on the flower’s nectar, but not this afternoon.

As I look to the front again, I catch a glimpse of the Ruby-throated Hummingbird at our feeder. Even though our garden has honeysuckle, verbena and monarda, our summer visitor will often take the line of least resistance by taking nectar from our feeder. In fact, if the feeder runs low on sugar-water, the hummingbird will sometimes hover just outside the window to remind us to fill it. Like the butterflies, the hummingbirds will soon be flying south.

Speaking of butterflies, here is a Monarch settled on a Zinnia flower. Over the past few days, we have noticed lots of activity as the fourth generation of butterflies prepare for their long migration to Mexico.

We planted Zinnia seeds in the house in April, transplanting them to pots in May and taking them out to the patio when the danger of frost had passed. They are a tall-stemmed plant known for their twelve petal flowers.

Close up to one of the windows is a tall tomato vine. We planted this several months ago and its fruit is only now ripening. This is the large ‘Beefsteak” tomato, a delicious, juicy, variety that we use for salads and sandwiches.

Turning around in the chair, I look out at another tomato vine. This one produces smaller slicing varieties in abundance

This Cana plant isn’t in the flower bed but in its own pot next to a tomato vine. We planted it in spring and expect it to continue enjoying its tropical-like green foliage and brilliant flowers until the first frost of autumn. Like the tomato vine, the Cana is so close to one of the windows of the sunroom, it could almost be in the room.

There is some shade under the old oak tree behind me where Hosta plants do well. But by this time of year, the flowers begin to wilt, and the leaves are losing their vibrancy. Earlier in the summer the several varieties in our garden created a luxuriant display of different textures, sizes and shades of green.

A variety of miniature Hostas in a blue pot keeps color in the garden.

The birdfeeder to my right attracts several species: chickadees, nuthatches, cardinals, bluejays, sparrows, finch, grossbeak, starlings, blackbirds, tufted titmouse, a variety of woodpeckers, doves, and goldfinch. This afternoon, only a male house finch makes an appearance.

Looking through the glass door, one is struck by the bright yellows and pinks of a Zinnia and a pot of Petunias.

This Lantana plant is a nice addition to our pollinator garden. The species proliferated in our Arizona garden when we lived there but now are confined to a pot for their summer appearance in Ohio.

A blurry image through the window-screen of the tall, slender, stems of a Verbena with its cluster of purple flowers. It is a nectar source for butterflies and hummingbirds. A late-summer bloomer, it brings some nice color to the garden as other earlier blooming flowers begin to fade.

The Mandevilla is a subtropical vine native to the Southwestern United States, Mexico, Central America, the West Indies, and South America. We buy a small potted vine each spring and plant it next to an old lattice frame that it quickly covers, producing bright pink flowers. We can see one of its flowers sharing space with a Zinnia

Beyond our own flower garden, a few sunflowers that our neighbor planted in her vegetable bed adds to the color of our surroundings.

This the chair from which all the photographs were taken during an hour on a hot, muggy end-of-summer afternoon

For I have learned

To look on nature, not as in the hour

Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes

The still, sad music of humanity,

…. And I have felt

A presence that disturbs me with the joy

Of elevated thoughts, a sense sublime

Of something far more deeply interfused,

…. A motion and a spirit, that impels

All thinking things, all objects and thoughts,

And rolls through all things

William Wordsworth

by John

Thoughts While Flying

The danger of flying is the sense of detachment it brings from life on the ground

In 1953, I flew in a Pan American World Airways DC-6 from South Africa to Boston. It was the first of many long-distance flights that included flying on a BOAC Comet to Heathrow, and with Air China on an old Boeing 747 from Los Angeles to Shanghai. There was one memorable east-to-west around-the-world flight mainly on Quantas and north-south flights to Jamaica, Mexico, Brazil, Barbados and South Africa. And too many flights to Europe to count. One thing didn’t change: The view of the sky and clouds.

I liked a window seat so that I could turn away from the coach with its crush of passengers and video screens and look out at the clouds, but often with the guilt that sometimes accompanies the feeling of detachment from the real world below.

I recall flying home late one afternoon and, on the final approach, looking down at the little houses in the blue-collar neighborhood laid out on a grid of tree-lined streets squeezed in between highways and runways.

In an instant, I saw a family in each house with each member bringing home a sliver of the multiplicity and complexity of their lives outside the home: The teenager, a mother, a father. And a great compression of the larger worlds of which they are a part into the little structure that for now is home. Each house, a different family; each a little world to itself. A few hundred homes.

And from the plane, I watched cars moving on the streets, most coming home, some leaving: Each story the same, but different. Beyond the streets and trees and houses, the highways came into view with rush-hour traffic heading west and east and branching off to the south.

And, in that instant, I saw a sense of purpose in all the vehicles speeding in opposite directions, and all cars turning into the driveways of different houses in the little neighborhood.

And in the sky above, an unseen network of satellites provides location guidance to the drivers and the ability to call home to say that one will be late. And as a look down, I see a dynamic system at play, not comprised of autonomous agents, but a system of interdependent elements whose very existence is contingent on the system as a whole.

And I become conscious of the approaching runway and the other aircraft, some departing and others at the terminal, and I recognize that I’m not an observer of the scene below, but a participant in it, an element in the larger self-correcting system that shapes and is shaped by its parts.

And the words of my uncle George come to mind as he describes his experience looking down from a mountain at the village below:

And the streetlights come on, and a kettle whistles on the stove, and in a home a small child feels safe and secure. And yet … and yet.