Losing my mind . . . and getting it back

I lost part of my mind this morning for about three hours.

It began when I leaned over to replenish the cat’s kibble bowl.

My Palm Pilot, tucked in my breast pocket, did a half-gainer into the water dish. Fortunately the cat’s dish was only one-third full so my Palm and I didn’t have a full immersion situation. Probably three seconds elapsed between the time the thing hit the water and I snatched it out.

I dried it off and tested it. Everything seemed fine. Password worked, the calendar date came up. I still had my “memory.”

But about 15 minutes later I tried to retrieve the name of a contact and the date showed up as January 1, 2005. I tried a “soft” reset and got an ominously blank and lifeless screen.

The thing was dead.

My God, I gasped, I just lost more than three years of memory, to say nothing of a fair portion of the future.

Patience, I consoled myself, this will work out. These things are built to sustain all kinds of disasters.

I once put my cell phone through three cycles in the washing machine. Sure, the little phone coughed and sputtered a bit and took its own sweet time to dry out, but ultimately its happy little ring tone came back.

All was well. I was in touch with the world again and vice versa.

Nevertheless, the Palm wasn’t cooperating. I tapped it against my real palm, the way smokers tamp new packs of cigarettes. I was trying to jar the water out of the Palm’s orifices. A few droplets appeared in my hand. Why hadn’t I done this before, right after the plunge? For a quarter of an hour, water had been wicking up into the PDA’s electronic innards, flooding nano-circuits, corroding sensitive neurons, destroying synapses and causing all kinds of techno-havoc.

Patience, I reminded myself. Give it time to dry out. I had to drive to Beaverton so I set the Palm lovingly and carefully on the passenger’s seat. As I drove I tried to reconstruct my schedule for the next three weeks. I drew a blank and nearly ran a light.

Caution, I thought. Calm down.

When was the last time I had backed the thing up?

A couple of weeks? What had I entered into the Palm since then? Hmmm. Too much to remember, but a couple of things came back to me — vaguely. Didn’t I have a meeting next Tuesday? And another Wednesday?

When I arrived at my destination, Sunset High School, I sat in the parking lot and tested again. This time the screen started flickering and the little hand-held chirped repeatedly. Screens of dates fluttered by. Were they being purged in retribution?

The thing was clearly pissed, but at least it was showing signs of life. Spunk.

I remember when my mother had a massive stroke and her doctor called to say that I should fly to her bedside immediately if I wanted to see her before she died. I remember how after three or four days of her being in a coma, she finally squeezed my hand in response my gentle questioning and fervent prayers.

Elation!

I was looking for a sign like that from the Palm. The chirping and flickering provided hope. At least the thing hadn’t died on me. My mother lived another six years, weakened and forgetful, but we shared more than a few laughs and hugs in that time.

Today was hot here in Portland so I decided to leave the Palm, shiny side up, on the dashboard/drying rack.

I’d desiccate the baby.

I was scheduled to give a two-hour guest lecture inside the school. The Palm would have to bask, heal, dry out and forgive.

I managed to put its demise out of my mind as I introduced a comparative religion class to the whys and wherefores of Quakers. I didn’t tell the students that I’d left part of my mind in the parking lot.

I shared the virtues of Quaker simplicity, community, peace, integrity and equality and told them about worshiping in silence and consensus decision making. One student asked about sin; another asked about abortion. No one asked about my baking moribund memory out on the dashboard.

Back in the parking lot, settling behind the wheel, I took a deep breath and reached for the warm Palm on the dash.

The screen lit up.

Life!

It still came up January 2005, but it at least it didn’t go blank when I prodded its function keys.

Grudgingly, it allowed me to change the date to the present. Instead of going blank, it flashed, chimed and offered up today’s schedule of events.

At the top of the list was the Sunset High School talk.

The Palm was back! All was forgiven.

In a celebratory burst of technological reconciliation, we checked Sunset High off the “to do” list.

Now my mind is whole — or at least restored to its original condition, such as it was.

And yes, I’ve backed up the memory.

Have you?

Do it before you feed the cat.

High school on my minid

High schools and the high school years are on my mind today.

First, I spent four hours this morning at Beaverton's Sunset High School talking with two religious studies classes about Quakers (I'm a Quaker).

The school is wonderfully multi-ethnic, multi-racial and, of course, a cauldron of adolescent energy. Anyone who needs a boost should join the adolescent throngs between classes as they jam high school hallways. Bizarre, I know, but Sunset High's cramped and jammed halls reminded of the human swirl of Tokyo's subways.

Having a religious studies class at a high school is utterly inspired. Adolescents are fascinated by quests of the spirit. In previous weeks, the classes had been visited by a Muslim, a Christian Scientist and a Mormon. Amazing.

I don't know how much of my Quakerism 101 sunk in, but the questions were excellent. "If you have no pastors or priests, who marries you?" a girl asked. (Answer: True to Quaker form, the betrothed couple exchanges its vows unassisted and from the heart, typically after a reflective period of silence.)

This is the second year that a Beaverton high school has invited me to speak about the Religious Society of Friends. I look forward to returning.

I find it particularly interesting to see who stays around in the brief time between classes to ask more questions. After both classes today Muslim students came forward. One, a girl with a telling gauzy scarf over her hair said that my presentation led her to want to visit our Friends meeting as part of her term project.

The other was a boy, whose questions during class led me to assume he was a fundamentalist Christian, but he came up to say that he was a Muslim and that he was struck by the similarities between our beliefs. That had never occurred to me, but together we quickly reviewed the Quaker testimonies of simplicity, peace, integrity, community and equality — drawing links to Islam.

One other student, a girl who had a beautifully fixed gaze, came up to say that she was a "meditator" and wondered whether the silence of a Quaker meeting was an opportunity to meditate. Meetings by their nature lack the qualities of solitary meditation, I told her, but they were most certainly meditative.

That was Sunset High School. Closer to home, today I receive in my e-mail in-box one of my favorite epistles—Linda Doyle's Wilson Spotlight newsletter celebrating the achievements of the Wilson High School Community. I am not as in touch with Wilson's students this year as I would like to be. but two names jumped out at me in Linda's accounting of honors.

George Wolff, a gifted classical guitarist, won first prize in the state high school competition. George played beautifully at our Hillsdale Book Sale last year and at the Multnomah Arts Center Auction earlier this year.

The other name of note in the Spotlight was Daniel Ronan's. Daniel was acknowledged with an honorable mention in foreign language achievement.

Be it further known that Daniel is also the first Wilson student to serve on the board of the Hillsdale Neighborhood Association and has been active in the peace movement both at the school and in our community.

Both George and Daniel are gifts to Hillsdale. I will follow their paths closely and with great expectation.

Finally, strange to say, my own high school classmates last week enlisted me to be on a reunion committee for our 50th reunion in 2010. Could it be? I went to an embarrassingly tony New England prep school, which I have largely ignored lo these many years. When my principal recruiter, one Wally Winter of Chicago environs, phoned, I saw his enlistment of me as a sign to others that we can bury past angst about our privileged educations and about the pettiness of adolescence to meet in renewed camaraderie.

It will be good, after 50 years, to reconnect with old friends from a vibrant, turbulent time. They have been too long out of my life.