Photo: Thinkstock

This Father's Day, let's all take a moment to remember the Bert Dinces of the world. Okay, you might not have known Bert Dince but chances are you know someone like him. As his son (a digital marketing strategist named Adam) writes on his blog, Bert Dince "was a single father who raised his son all by himself.  An old yet gentle soul that was always there for those that needed him.  A humble man that rarely talked about himself.  And a spirit that left behind a legacy that I would learn much about after he passed away."

A musician and teacher, Bert Dince was an ordinary man, like most of our fathers, and like most of our fathers, also the most important person in the world. After his death, his son found himself calling all of his father's students to tell them the news, and "throughout each call, I heard stories about how my dad had influenced so many lives.  About how he helped his students uncover their natural musical abilities.  I learned that my dad was not only a teacher to his students, but also a mentor, a father figure, and an extraordinary example of unconditional love. I know there’s an old adage that says, 'You can’t be all things to all people,' but Bert Dince was." (Read the rest of the blog post for the moving story of what happened at the memorial service.)

"Each man's life touches so many other lives." So said everyone's favorite angel, Clarence Oddbody. (You know, from the Frank Capra movie "It's a Wonderful Life." ) He was talking about George Bailey, but he was also talking about Bert Dince, and he was talking about my dad, and yours, and everyone's.

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A lot of parenting advice stresses me out (baby flashcards! no flashcards!) so I love when someone smart declares that the thing to do to help our kids is to read more. Reading I can do. Filling the house with books I can handle. An excuse to buy picture books, novels, and magazines? Yes, please. The only thing that would be better would be discovering that kids thrive when their parents drink a lot of coffee and wear yoga pants for days at a time. Mothering win!

Last year, Lisa Bloom's book Think: Straight Talk for Women to Stay Smart in a Dumbed-Down World came out, and started a nationwide (and Internet-wide) conversation about how we talk to our little girls, and how simply saying different things to them (and encouraging reading and thinking) can help them grow up to be smart women. Boys, presumably, were doing okay. After all, men have it easy in today's world, right? I mean, they never have to wait in line for a public bathroom. How hard can their lives be?

Well, guess what.  Bloom's new book -- Swagger: 10 Urgent Rules for Raising Boys in an Era of Failing Schools, Mass Joblessness, and Thug Culture (can this lady rock a subtitle or what?) -- is out, and now she is telling us that our boys are in trouble too. (I know. Bummer.) Apparently, we are not expecting enough of our boys, and in this way, undermine their early development. Bloom writes for The Huffington Post, "The new cultural trope is that girls naturally mature faster, that they have better innate verbal skills, and so pushing young boys to read is unrealistic and vaguely unfair to their boyness...Boys today do worse on national reading tests compared to their own gender a generation ago." And what's more, "Poor readers -- mostly boys -- struggle to read textbooks and tests in all subjects. They get suspended, expelled, flunk out and drop out at alarming rates - the majority of our African-American and Latino boys (who have the lowest reading proficiency of all) drop out of high school, with white boys faring only slightly better."

I admit to a sinking feeling of guilt upon reading this. My son is only 14 months old, but I already hear myself saying things all the time like, "Oh no, he doesn't really have any words yet. His sister did by now, but you know - boys!" As if I accept -- even expect -- that this smart kid is nothing more than a hammer-, truck-, ball-obsessed little caveman. How can our low expectations begin so early? Knowing that kids rise to the expectations (or lack thereof) we set out for them?

Thankfully, one of Bloom's solutions is, you guessed it, reading to our sons. "Make your home a reading mecca," she writes. "Kids with parents who read for pleasure are six times more likely to do so themselves -- and their grades shoot up." This I can handle. As soon as my little caveman stops hitting his sister over the head with that board book.

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It was the classic city dwellers' folly: "We need some peace and quiet!" I decreed, whisking my husband and dog up to the Catskill Mountains for a tranquil country weekend. It was quiet all right, there in our rented cabin in the woods. So quiet we were terrified, and spent the night startling at every crack betraying a murderous woodsman creeping closer. Even the dog paced around growling all night. I could practically hear her inner monologue, pitched in a Woody Allen-ish tone: "I can't be out here in the country! There's no where to walk! How will they order Chinese food for me to beg for?" Pace pace pace growl.

It's a strange thing to be so unaccustomed to silence. To associate the sounds of leaves rustling and one's own heartbeat with ominous moments in horror movies. And that's just external quiet -- how many of us can imagine taking a vow of silence ourselves? We so often go through our days in a din, our ears plugged with music, our mouths talking talking talking. Wouldn't silence keep us from communicating, prevent us from connecting with our thoughts, and, you know, scare the crap out of us?

Writer Jeremy Mesiano-Crookston posed this question (sort of) to the Trappist Monks of Oka Abbey, in Quebec. Trappist Monks are known for being the only Western order that practices silence (it's not technically a "vow of silence," as he explains). Mesiano-Crookston explains that it was "their dedication to the enshrinement of silence" that compelled him to reach out to them. He wanted to know how the silence works, and what it does for them. So he interviewed them -- via email, of course.

Their answers are illuminating: "The silence does make me aware of my inner workings, however, what we call in the monastery, 'self-knowledge.'...Silence seems to keep me from idealizing myself...I've become very attuned to the sound of bird-song, the wind, water running through the pipes, identifying unseen monks by the sound of their footsteps—just paying attention to my surroundings."

An unforeseen consequence of becoming an adult (it occurred to me the other day while rocking out at the library sing-along) is that you must regularly act a fool. You HAVE to. And I'm not just talking about parents who find themselves running around as if lobotomized, belting out nursery rhymes into the faces of their fussy children in public. I'm talking about anyone who's ever had to present a possibly-genius-possibly-ludicrous idea in a meeting, give a toast at a wedding, or try out the colorful-skinny-jeans trend. Don't tell those preteens nervously giggling in a self-conscious huddle, but in adulthood, as it happens, you just have to give in and not worry about looking silly sometimes.

Which leads me to this video of Jimmy Fallon, Carly Rae Jepsen, and The Roots performing the song "Call Me Maybe," while playing classroom instruments. (It adds to my enjoyment of this that I have no idea of the context. To me, this appeared in my twitter feed as just some grownups stuffed into a room and rocking out.) No offense to third graders everywhere, but who knew kazoos, bongos, recorders, tamborines, triangles, and rainbow xylophones could sound so catchy? I can't stop watching this jangly, poppy, moment of pure fun. Who needs self-consciousness? We don't have time to try to play it cool. We're grownups. So grab a piano whistle...

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What do you do when people ask you what to do when visiting your town? Do you provide an itinerary of favorite views? A list of the best places to eat? Suggestions based on smell? ("Here's where the chocolate factory is, but stay away from the fish market!") Does it ever occur to you to send them to the places that sound the best? I admit, I'd never thought of this until I saw Nicola Hume's great concept Listen Here. Check it out:

 

Listen Here from Nicola Hume on Vimeo.

Isn't it a lovely idea? And while it might not actually be in production (yet?), it got me thinking about my city in  way I never have before. When people come to stay I'm always wracking my brain for the perfect place for them to have dinner or see a show, but realistically this is information they could get anywhere. It takes a local to point someone towards the strangely peaceful park in the middle of the city, or the cemetery full of cackling wild parrots. And sometimes it takes a concept like Nicola Hume's to get people to think this way about their hometowns at all.

(via Laughing Squid)

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My husband once told me that he pictured my mind as a frazzled guy with a butterfly net, constantly running around and trying to swoop things up into it. It's true. Sadly these are not butterflies of Profound Big Thoughts. It's more like -- fwoosh -- there goes a Thing I've Got To Do butterfly. Flit flit -- that's a Thing I Forgot To Do butterfly. Oh, and look -- the rare Thing I Read Somewhere Once or Heard on NPR and Partially Remember butterfly. And look who's back! Email I Meant to Send butterfly!

But Mr. Rogers, eternal font of tender wisdom, has ambitions for the crowded butterfly pavilion between my ears. See also: this sweet "Garden of Your Mind" video, remixing everyone's favorite neighbor. "You can grow anything in the garden of your mind," Mr. Rogers says. I mean, auto-tune-sings. A garden is good. A garden is ordered, cared-for, a safe and productive place for growth. Here you can still have the butterflies, but they serve an actual purpose. After all, we're always telling our children to be creative, to think big thoughts, to be kind to themselves and others -- but how many of us grown-ups remember to follow that same advice? As always, Mr. Rogers recalls all that is innocent and good. And now, you can dance to him.

 

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Children of hippies (or grown-up hippies themselves) will recall Marlo Thomas's 1974 album Free To Be You and Me, which memorably included football great Rosey Grier singing "It's Alright to Cry." Even if you didn't know who this big tough-looking guy was, you knew he was a big tough-looking guy singing, "I know some big boys who cry, too," and you knew there was something awesome about that. And if you are or live with a Boston Celtics fan or a Los Angeles Kings fan, you've probably had this song going through your head for last few weeks. For it is one of the great ironies of sports that its fans (and athletes themselves), who spend so much time valuing the super-macho and ultra-physical, are often also, let's face it, crybabies.

Bill Simmons, possibly the most thoughtful sports fan there is, wrote an essay on crying about sports for the site Grantland called "The Consequences of Caring." He writes about the first time his daughter, a Kings fan, cried over sports: "I remained sympathetic while being secretly delighted, like she had passed some sort of 'Fledgling Sports Fan' hurdle or something." This is an essay about caring really an extra lot about sports. (Simmons writes, "Of the 75 greatest moments of my life, sports were involved in at least 20 of them") But it's also an essay about a father and a daughter, and about really caring about something, and about caring about what the people you care for care about. (Got that?)

Simmons wants to share his love of sports with his daughter because it's such a big part of his life. He doesn't even care if she latches onto a rival team, because after all, "Sports is a metaphor for life. Everything is black and white on the surface. You win, you lose, you laugh, you cry, you cheer, you boo, and most of all, you care." He just wants her to care, like he does. And when he realizes that she cares deeply enough to cry, he knows that on this level they understand each other.

Whether you and your father root for the same team or for mortal rivals, how nice, how lucky, if you can share an interest, whether it's sports or politics or rococo frescos. Everyone should have something they care about enough to cry over. And having someone who understands that beloved something can be one of the greatest gifts there is.

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A recent trip down an Internet wormhole led me to the excellent Vintage Spirit Photography pool on Flickr. Now, I don't believe in ghosts (or perhaps I should say, I haven't had any experience with ghosts), but I love people who do. Especially the super matter-of-fact ones, like a neighbor of mine who told me, "I've lived in several haunted houses, so I'm glad this isn't one." Right! Me too! Obviously!

And I extra-love any efforts to prove this unprovable thing, such as the Victorian precursor to shows like "Ghost Hunters," AKA, spirit photography. These deeply strange, obviously (to our modern, Photoshop-weary eyes) faked photographs of wispy spectres were the spiritualism-obsessed Victorians' proof that ghosts loitered around the living, trying to chat with us. What an appealing, if spooky, idea! How, like the Fox Mulder of yore, I want to believe!

Whether you believe in spirits or not, the Vintage Spirit Photography pool on Flickr is an engaging way to fill your eyeballs for a time. One thing is certain: these images -- a shadowy child posing pertly on a woman's shoulder; a translucent ex-girlfriend frowning over a proposal -- are 100% verifiable proof that we have always wanted to connect to another realm, to believe that there is, in fact, some there out there.

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During a long ago lesson on tectonic plates in Mrs. Hunt's fifth grade classroom, it was mentioned that due to various tectonicky matters, one day California would become detached from the contiguous United States. The torpid boy who sat next to me shot up his hand with uncharacteristic vigor. "Do they know when that's going to be?" he asked, "Because we are supposed to go there to visit my cousins over Spring Break." Mrs. Hunt had a good laugh at that one, assuring us it wouldn't be happening for thousands of years, but my seatmate still seemed uneasy. After all, we'd only just learned our geography, and now it turned out it wasn't permanent? How unsettling! (And also, why did we even have to learn it, then?)

To be honest, I still find it unsettling to learn that landmarks and places that seem as permanent as California have the ability to up and leave us. And, like that wise fifth-grader I once knew, I like to take into account impending disappearances when planning my travel. Like so many aspiring adventurers, I've had trips to the Alps, the Galapagos Islands, and the Great Barrier Reef planned since I first cracked open a National Geographic Magazine. I just always figured, you know, later. When I'm old. Really old.

Then I saw this somewhat chilling infographic from Earth Xplorer: 10 Places to go Before They're Gone. Some of the most exciting travel destinations in the world are disappearing, some of them shockingly quickly. We might only have 25 years to visit the Congo Basin, 5 years for that bucket-list-worthy trip to the Taj Mahal. So check out this infographic, and map out some life travels accordingly. Here's a hint: visiting the cousins in California can wait.

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I have this friend who is a hoarder of unfinished projects. They all sound great. And she's a smart, talented, creative person. She just...never finishes. Or rather, she's never done. I'm sure when she finishes the book she's been researching and working on (or not working on) for 15 years it will be perfect. But the problem is, she will never, ever be done with it. The problem with perfectionism and procrastination is that they often look very similar, and perfectionism can be a sly fox. You think you're getting something done just right only to realize, 15 years later, you never got anything done. And procrastination can be a shield: "The world will never be able to reject this work as un-genius, because they will never see it, the suckers!"

Catherine Shefski was one such perfectionist-procrastinator. An accomplished pianist, she realized that amidst teaching piano and living her life, she was overlooking her own piano playing. So she decided to start recording one piece of music every week, calling her project Go Play. The results are lovely bits of music (what is it about solo piano that always sounds so haunting, so perfectly happy-sad?) -- and to this (admittedly very untrained) ear, they sound, well, perfect. Shefski chronicles the process on her blog, where she's noted how nervous it makes her to post these songs, which are sometimes, surprise, just not as perfect as she wants. As she writes in one post, "It took a lot of will power this morning not to do 'just one more' recording of this Scarlatti Sonata...  My goal was to finally learn this piece, since I’ve loved it for years. It’s not difficult by any means, but I’m never totally satisfied with the opening ornaments ...But there it is. I did it. It’s the best it is right now. And I’m putting it out there. I’m letting it go." The way Shefksi writes about playing piano makes me believe I love playing piano too, even though I've never mastered much beyond Chopsticks on a toy keyboard. But she loves what she does. And now, with this project, she is actually doing it.

You hear that, procrastinator-perfectionists? Put it out there. Let it go. And play.

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