Social Media Can Be Harmful

By Brent M. Jones

Social media can be harmful.  I don't think as many people get addicted to blogs as social media.  Real "face to face personal relationships" with people are hands down better than either blogs or social media. I don't think that would be disputed. 

A University did a study last year on social media's effect on self esteem and anxiety and reported that 50% of the 298 participants said "that their use of social networks, like Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook, made their lives worse". Research shows that they had a false sense of belonging and connecting that wasn't real world based.  One big reason for this is that all those "assumed connections" that people are checking in on out of habit, several times a day, look like they are having the perfect life. It just often isn't real and if your life isn't perfect it can be depressing. People can be whoever they want to be on those sites. Whatever they are doing, it can be a staged situation, not a shared life. Our lives can look boring in comparison. As said it can lead to a lot of stress and anxiety. Not good things. Other peoples passions can be polarizing.

Depression, in part, is a state of not caring. The world turns "black and cold" all around us when were depressed.  Things just don't matter. Anxiety may be the other end of this same spectrum. On that side you care "far to much about everything" and there is no way to accomplish all that you care about. 

Connecting with people can help for either problem. Getting "out of ourselves" helps.  People, books, art, poetry, service, our ancestors, and music can all help us get out of ourselves. If it is people that are going to pull us out they need to be pulling us into the real world not a made up fantasy on line reality show.

Having said this I have to acknowledge the real world. I may wind up using these same social media sites as places to offer some very short encouragement and to try to pull people to this site.  I don't think I originated any of this so I hope you don't want to hang the messenger

What to Read Next

by Brent M. Jones

With the new year facing us, a question is what to read next?  "Fiction is the gateway drug to reading” according to Neil Gaiman, a successful fiction and fantasy writer. He added that fiction drives us to want to know what happens next. It becomes exciting, and it satisfies the excitement, as we turn the pages.

When we read fiction, it increases our imagination and results in our finding something new of interest. The new things we find may lead us in a direction such as science, history or art? Maybe we look for a biography of a person with an area of similar interest to our own.

Often the path to the next book, or even choosing one to re read, is built on past choices. Years ago I watched the movie “Apocalypse Now”. That lead me to reread Joseph Conrad’s book, “Heart of Darkness” set in Africa with very much the same basic plot. The book was considered one of Conrad’s best. 

Conrad's book was critised by some for have a white mans perspective of life in Africa. I wanted to find another perspective.  I wondered if there were good African writers that I could read? At that point in my life I had never looked for African writers. I looked and found many good ones who were respected for their work. I found several authors of interest.  Chinua Achebe, was at the time emerging as a well known African author for his book, “Things Fall Apart”.

It seemed to be the perfect “other point of view” I was looking for. This book is indeed something that should be read by anyone who reads “Heart of Darkness”, and wonder if they have seen Africa correctly.

 

SEE "PAST REVIEWS TAB" TO FIND

REVIEW OF "THINGS FALL APART, by CHINA ACHEBE

HEART OF DARKNESS BY JOSEPH CONRAD

Our Life Story Creates our Identity

by Brent M. Jones

Each time I think back over my life story, I rethink what happened and draw new conclusions. The following story has stuck with me throughout my life.

When I was about eleven years old, I had the unfortunate experience of being chased home each day after school by a kid called Owen who was much bigger than me. One day my mother met me as I was running into the yard. She had probably noticed I was out of breath on my return each day. That day she asked why I was running so hard, and I told her Owen was chasing me. I guess I could have said, “I was running to avoid getting pounded.” That would have been an honest answer.

We lived by a river and crossing the bridge in front of our house meant that I was home. The next day my mother was out front, waiting for my arrival as I came across the bridge. She stopped me there, and when shortly Owen came thundering across, she called him over and announced to us both that the following day we would meet right there in the park across the street from my house, and fight. The announcement surprised me. What surprised me even more was that it was my mother setting this fight up. Looking back, it also surprises me that I didn’t try to get out of it or worry about it. I just figured that was what I had to do. I had to fight him.

The next day at school, word got out. I was asked by some of the kids if I was really going to fight him. I said yes, I was. After school, Owen arrived at the park with a crowd of kids from school, some even before I arrived. My mother was there, waiting. She had all the kids that had shown up form a big circle. Owen and I entered the circle with fists up, ready to start swinging, and Mom was the referee. I still remember looking at Owen, who was much taller and heavier than I was, and not really feeling afraid.

The fight began and I danced around with my fists up, trying to land some punches and trying harder to avoid getting punched. I hit him as hard as I could a few times. I had boxed with my dad in the evenings and understood a little bit about the process, but Owen didn’t look like he even felt my punches. He wasn’t very good at boxing and preferred to just push and shove, several times jostling me to the ground before jumping on me and pounding me. Even lying flat on my back, I would hit whatever part of his body I could connect with. Each time we landed on the ground, my mother had us get back up and continue boxing. It wasn’t a fight I stood a chance of winning. Finally, my mother held up Owen’s hand and said, “There you go, Owen, you won!”

What has always surprised me most then, and ever since, looking back, is that I wasn’t scared. I felt like I did the best I could, and I didn’t hurt too bad. I lost my fear of failing. Life went on. I did get into a fight or two in later years at school and did much better.

When I tell this part of my life story, it seems to be an important connection and even explains many of the future challenges and changes I have had in my life. I have not been afraid of failures over the years and instead have worked through them. For sure, I learned that when you get knocked down you get back up, you keep fighting, and when it is over, life goes on.

By the way, a side note. I have always loved boxing. Watching it, in particular. Muhammad Ali is my favorite boxer, and this quote of his has special relevance for me:

“Only a man who knows what it is like to be defeated can reach down to the bottom of his soul and come up with the extra ounce of power it takes to win when the match is even.”


 

Art is About Connections

By Brent M. Jones

Growing up I did not think I was a good artist but even so I took a art class in the 9th grade.  Many in the class were talented and I wondered if I had made a mistake. Mr. Lampson, the teacher was passionate about art and early in the school year he mentioned a phrase that just drove him crazy.  He explained that when he heard someone say, “I don’t know much about art, but I know what I like”, that he just wanted to scream because he took it very personally and felt offended.

He said it wasn’t really our decision if “Art was art”, adding that, "We don't inform art, that art informs us".

Even though this class and teacher did not set me on the path of greatness in art, it did get me thinking, and over the years many things I learned told me that Mr. Lampson was right. Art does have its own role and purpose, but the question of whether art is a reflection of the artist’s feelings, or if art created those feelings, is still unclear. Maybe it is both?

Oscar Wilde, in his 1889 essay, "The Decay of Lying" said that: “Life imitates Art, more than Art imitates Life, and what is found in life and nature is not what is really there, but is that which artists taught people to find there, through art”.

Do we really see what is there, or what an artist taught us to see? It has been found that people do see what they are conditioned to see.  When people are hypnotized and asked about what they saw when they walked through a room they have very different answers than when not hypnotized. People under hypnosis can remember the number of tiles on the ceiling, or even the faces on the magazines laying on the tables, and they can’t remember those things otherwise.  Their conscious mind was not interested in them.  .

Mr. Lampson also showed us how a lump of clay, spinning on a pottery wheel, grasped by an artists hands changed into what he imagined for the clay to be and said that the clay itself informed the artist through the feelings it brought. He said that the bowls and vases produced were different when finished than what was first intended and that the clay could talk to us. He attempted to teach us how to listen.

Writers and artists reveal much about themselves in what they do but they also find a great deal waiting to be expressed.  

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New Mexico holds a real mystic for writers and they mention their time there often in their stories.  Tony Hillerman, a well known New Mexico author, wrote a great deal about the cultures reflected in the art of its people, especially the Navajo. The stories were told as he saw it or perhaps as other artists taught him to see it.

Art is a path to connections, that can help us see ourselves differently. We can become better than we are by re-looking at the connections.

Loving Fiction

by Brent M. Jones

Fiction is a way to explore the parts of being human that we would never otherwise experience.  All your beliefs can be set aside and you can step inside a new reality.  You will meet people who will inspire you and some who will terrify you. You will have experiences you would never have in your own life. Things will happen that you previously couldn’t have even imagined.

Will these fictional characters and experiences have an influence on your self-identity? I think they will.  Do they have in role in the narrative of how you see your life story? Again, I think they do. Does fiction have any redeeming value? Will it’s influence raise or lower intelligence? There is plenty of evidence that it raises it.

There are lots of suggestions on how to increase intelligence, but one that is common is to associate with intelligent educated people. The reason for this is that you can talk to them about a broad range of subjects. New ideas can be discussed. Different perspectives can be found.  It sounds a lot like opening up a book of fiction.

The first time I read Faulkner’s fictional story, “As I Lay Dying” it took me by surprise. I expected to step into a story line and learn about the people in a part of the country that I had never experienced. That did happen, but it was the language and the tone and sound of the conversations, that was the surprise. The way the characters talked to each other was so very different than anything I would ever have known. I knew I was in a different place, but the way the characters interacted let me see differently.

I read the book, “Still Alice” by Lisa Genova, because I wanted to learn more about what it was like to have Alzheimer’s disease. I hoped to never know for myself and saw this story as a way to have an experience with it.  The story did much more than I expected. When Alice, a linguistics professor, began to lose words and thoughts I felt how hard it was for her.   

Some fiction will just take you to a place you haven’t been with people that are different, like in Faulkner’s story. Some approaches let you feel things that just wouldn’t happen to you. 

Einstein suggested, “If you want your children to be intelligent, read them fairy tales. If you want them to be more intelligent, read them more fairy tales.”  

Neil Gaiman in his book "View from the Cheap Seats" talked about fiction. He is a writer of fiction for young readers and he went to a world-wide meeting for fiction writers held in China. He knew that over the prior years China didn't even allow fairy tales and fiction in their schools, so he was surprised that this event had been invited to China. He asked an official what had happened and was told, off the record, that they had toured all the big companies they did outsourcing work for in the United States and they asked those they met what they read and they all said science fiction. The saw the connection of fiction with creativity.

Even in fiction, fairy tales, and horror stories, good guys win and bad guys are bad. The force in the Star Wars, for some, might be the goodness in the universe, but then what about that goodness?  Will it reaffirm our beliefs seeing it in a fictional plot? Hopefully it will.

Dr. Einstein also said that creative imagination is the essential element in the intellectual equipment of the true scientist, and that fairy tales are the childhood stimulus to this quality.

Fiction is a literary influence that helps us shape our lives. Of course the really good thing is that it lets us step out of our own world for a while. 

 

 

 

Enter Through the Forest

by Brent M. Jones

John Muir said “The clearest way into the Universe is through a forest wilderness.”

This picture below is one I took a few years ago. The trail's name is the "Pipeline" and it offers clarity to Muir's statement. It runs from the top of Grandeur Peak, where you can look West and see the Salt Lake Valley below, and then on the East, to near the top of the Millcreek canyon where, if you know where to look, you can see Park City. 

My own preferred way to enter this trail is at Rattlesnake Gulch. I drive up the canyon, not too far past the entrance booth, to a parking area where the Rattlesnake Gulch trail begins. It goes up the side of the mountain and gains about 600 feet in elevation and is about 0.8 miles up to when you can get on the Pipeline Trail. You can then head east off to the left to Grandeur or west off to the right to Church Fork.

For many years I tried to run that trail as often as I could. The trail is hardly a wilderness. It is however, a first step out of our day to day world, into a place where the natural order of nature does surround you. T

This trail was less than 4 miles from where I lived, and I was always in awe of how different I felt when I left the day to day world to this special place. 

I often saw and heard snakes, even jumping over them stretched across the trail. I saw bobcats, deer and heard larger animals back in the brush.

I have been reading a book about wolves and their lives after being reintroduced into Yellowstone Park. It shows that the balance between the Elk and the Wolves is real, and changes in the balance has consequences.

The wilderness and it's balance point a way into understanding much more. Even more about the universe itself as Muir said. 

I loved my years running on the Pipeline Trail.  I have run it both winter and summer. I look forward to next and to at least walk it again. 

 Review of American Wolf by Nate Blakeslee                    See Past Review Section

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A Thanksgiving Story

by Brent M. Jones

Each Thanksgiving I get excited. Sometimes I think back to 1957 to a very special Thanksgiving day and dinner. My sister was  born that year on Tuesday the 26th of November, two days before the holiday.  My mother and new sister were, of course, still in the hospital and my father, brother, and I had to figure out what to do for a meal on Thanksgiving Day, and I was worried.

This story of that day is one that I have told, over and over again, for the last 60+ years. Looking back at the event this year seems different, and it occurs to me that I have been in a rut. For too long the story has just been focused our special a Thanksgiving day meal. I have been missing the bigger picture. I should have seen how repetitious my story had become.

Oral histories have been a common way families have past on their life stories. My father was one that past not only his own history, but much of his extended families stories this way. He really never could seem to remember that he had told us the stories before. Later in his life I just reached a point where I felt it was important that I listen to him and so I didn't say anything and just listened.

Looking back now I realize that his repetition served to imprint those stories into my memory. So why I have retold the Thanksgiving story of 1957 so many times to my sister is something I really can't explain? 

It was Thanksgiving that year and I learned, after some concern on my part, that a neighbor had invited us guys over for dinner. Even then I wondered why our Aunts, and Uncles or even Grandparents didn't invite us?  Maybe they did, and maybe my dad just thought it would be easier to just go almost next door, rather than across town. I remember worrying about the dinner. At 11 years old I thought having a sister was fine but I have always remembered how much I had looked forward to turkey day.

When the time for the big meal came I remember that we were at the neighbors all siting around the living room table. We waited at the table for what seemed like a long time.  The table didn't seem like the Thanksgiving day dinners I was used to. I figured that when the turkey arrived it would make it all good.  Our neighbor, Mrs Zelner, announced that it was ready and coming. She carried the main course in on a large silver tray with a silver dome cover. I had never seen a large silver serving tray with a cover like this and it seemed exciting She had left the center of the table open with a place to put the special silver tray, and she carefully set it down.

She stood up and I wondered if she would carve the turkey first but she just reached for the silver dome lid. It seemed like she was building up to the big moment, I know I was, and then she lifted the dome. The tray was stacked high and full of hamburgers.

Yes, I was disappointed, and a little shell shocked. The rest of the dinner seems like sort of a blur as I try to recall it. I know I was crushed. Obviously I was so enough to repeat this story over and over, mostly to my sister Trudy over a lot of years. I guess I figured I was passing on my own oral tradition memories to her. I knew I had told her the story before, so I wasn't just retelling it because I couldn't remember. Maybe I have always been trying to get over it. 

Since then, every Thanksgiving dinner has been spent with family.  In the case of my wife's parents those dinners were also spent with a day of football. 

Last year we found ourselves alone in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Each of our now grown children and their spouses had other plans. A member of our church who knew we would be alone invited us over for dinner. What seemed to hit me at that time was how nice it was to have someone do that.  Thinking of others is important and perhaps you notice it more when your on the receiving end.

I realized that so many years ago I had much to be thankful for. A new sister of course, and overlooked at the time was neighbors who wanted to help. 

Thanksgiving 

This is how we have always done it!

By Brent M. Jones

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Is trying to bring motivation, or even just change, to an organization like putting new wine in an old wineskin? The old wine-skin has become brittle and set in place. It had done its job for years with no problem, but new wine hasn’t fermented yet and as it expands it will split the old container. The Bible used this example to teach about dealing with change in Mark 2:22.  

Of course, were really talking about people not wine-skins. People can seem brittle and set in place. The problem is the perception of what is happening. The roadblock is often just the attitude that “this is the way we have always done this”.

When a person has done something the same way for many years they can seem brittle or inflexible. Several years ago, I knew some managers at a distribution warehouse where space was limited. Jim was the warehouse manager and he had a new boss who was expecting things that he was not used to.
Changing things that had always been done one way for years became an obstacle for Jim. The last straw for Jim was an item that had been bought weekly for years 50 cases at a time. The order size was changed to 100 cases. Jim claimed he had no notice of the change and he quit his job that he had spent 35 years working for.  

Change itself was not foreign to the environment for this company that had grown a great deal over the years, but Jim was surprised and mad about recent changes. He complained loudly to his manager telling him that 50 cases were enough and that was what “they had always done”. Jim then quit the job that took him 35 years to work up to.  

Over the 35 years Jim worked for this company had expanded its warehouse and size many times over. He had faced increase reserve levels on many inventory items. When he said that he was mad because 100 cases were brought in instead of the 50 that had always been brought in he wasn’t telling the whole story. Jim couldn’t handle the changes in how decisions were made and felt he could see the ultimate outcome leaving him on the sidelines.  He was upset about how he felt.

The poet Maya Angelou said, “I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” Jim didn’t feel good with his new manager and that reality was far more important to Jim than the challenges of warehouse changes.

 

 

 

Naive, but I Still Cared!

by Brent M. Jones

Life stories are full of surprises and several come to mind. I remember a man who told us his life story and as he progressed to the time in WWII, he mentioned being on a ship that was hit by a Japanese bomber in Pearl Harbor. The ship capsized and sank where hundreds of men, including this man, were trapped, mostly under water, some alive and some dead, for over a week. Most of the time this man had available to tell us his life story was used talking about WWII, and that was normal for those who were in the war we found.

Another friend took time in a similar group setting and told about his life. When he got to the time that he was a senior in high school he told us both of his parents committed suicide. When he said that, we were shocked, and it really had an impact on us. I don't think any of us will forget his story and how we felt when he told it.

Once incident I remember from my own life experiences during the Vietnam War years and Civil Rights protest times had an impact on me. The protests dominated the news every day. I lived in Pocatello Idaho where after finishing high school I went to Idaho State University.  I had grown up right there in this small town.

There were not many Blacks in the town, or even at the University, and I didn't really experience seeing a lot of discrimination. The town had one part where most of the Blacks lived, but I hadn't given a lot of thought to that. The high school had its first Black Student Body President a couple of years before I graduated, and he was very popular.

Many from our high school left for Vietnam after graduation. The protests for both the war and civil rights were what you read about in the newspaper and heard about on TV not what you experienced on campus.

At the University a daily routine for me for the first couple of years was sitting in the Student Union between classes. Often we would see old friends from high school who had been drafted or enlisted in the war, home on leave, coming to the Student Union to say hello. They would sometimes talk about the war and drugs.

It was clear that the war had changed them: they seemed lost and cold and it was hard to keep a conversation going with them. They came and visited but didn't stay long and often it felt like they were uncomfortable sitting with us.

Classmates were the regulars in these Student Union sessions. The classes were hard, contacts and friends were important, and it really helped to become part of the out of class study groups.  An important new friendship I found was a young man from Nigeria who was in one of my classes. I had never had a Black friend before but looking back I didn't feel that I had any prejudges.

My friend and I spent a few months studying together and talking usually in the Student Union.  He seemed so very interesting and I was grateful to be able to hear his story each day.

One day in the middle of a conversation he changed the subject and looked me in the eye and told me that he just did not want to be friends with me anymore? I was really surprised and had never experienced something like that before.  I asked him why, and what had changed. He told me that in America the Blacks were hated by the Whites. When he said that I was surprised and challenged it but his response was to tell me to just watch the TV news.  He then told me that the only reason I had been a friend to him was because I looked at him as an African and not as a Negro? He said that fact had offended him a great deal not considering I assume that what he said was offensive to me. He just got up and walked away and we never visited after that.

It has been 50+ years since this happened.  There is so much about the civil rights movement that impressed me, but I look back and see myself so isolated from those events while they were happening.

Each time we retell and think again about our life stories we see it a little different and that difference changes us. We see the connections in different ways and try to remake ourselves over as we learn from what happened.

This event left me feeling stunned, betrayed and mad, but the event seems important and I have continued look for reasons for why it is important and why it happened.

This friend saw me very differently than I saw myself. With the time that has past I look back and see myself mostly as just naive, but being naive doesn't mean you don't care.

 

 

 

Reflections on Life

By Brent M. Jones

Pat Conroy’s said “The most powerful words in the English language are tell me a story.”

There is no one whose story I am as familiar with as my own. The same is true for you. This seems so obvious, but then what surprises me a little is how I see that story differently almost every time I tell it.

Connections that seemed so important at the time that I told my own story seemed less important over time. Coincidences have become clearer over time. As the story changes as I retell it, I find that it changes me. I become different because of how I see the story. In some ways it seems like we continually create who we are but use the same events to shape our own conclusions. 

I have witnessed how other people seem to change their own conclusions about themselves using the same facts from participating in an event at my local church.

Over a period of about 35 years a men's group I participated in met once a month and one person would take about 45 minutes and tell the group their life story. 

The initial purpose in doing this was to help us get to know each other. We believed that men didn't bond all that easy and they normally were a little shy in a setting like this.  We felt it was important to gain an appreciation, and even love, for each other.

People moved in and moved away over this time. Somehow, we were able to keep this going. It did after a few years lead to recycling some of us. So, we would hear the life stories again. I do have some memory issues, but I usually can remember the details of these type of stories clearly. What was interesting is that sometimes the events of a story heard before clearly was viewed differently by the presenter when re told. I had my own occasions of retelling my life experiences that I felt important and it was clear to me that the same events looked different in retelling. There were times when I wondered if a person who seemed to see the same event differently when retold, was doing so because having told the story he then found different connections to the events. I sometimes wondered if the changes and emphasis was on purpose just reshaping an image?

People do come and go in our lives and it takes some time to see reasons. When a new person comes we take it for granted as coincidence. When we look back and see the full impact of the people we see destiny in action and feel changed by the events.

MY STORY: AS LSTED UNDER AUTHOR

By Brent M. Jones

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I am a reader, writer, listener and seeker of knowledge. I do a lot of a pondering about books, art, authors, music, poetry, service, kindness, and most of all, "people." These are the influences that help us form our identity, change it, even reinvent it, as we go through life.    

I have spent my career, both as an entrepreneur and as a business executive, working with companies and employee groups of varies sizes. Some were large ones. I was successful in building my own company from an idea to a functioning business. For 22 years it was a strong sales company covering 15 Western States and helping hundreds of companies grow their business. 

As an employed top manager, I helped build several independent and corporate companies and helped bring about significant progress in their growth.  It was always the people that made the difference in results and made my efforts rewarding. Those years presented me with some great teaching and learning opportunities. They confirmed my belief that people can and do reshape themselves as they rethink their actions and lives. People want to learn. They are not just programmed to be what they always have been and will grow and rise according to the opportunities they are given.


Connected Events Matter is an effort to explore the influences from our lifetime connections, how they change and impact our development and identity.  The impact is ongoing and is always life altering.  

We have both a physical and spiritual self image.  We have our own intellectual growth. As we look at our experiences, and grow with them, we give purpose to our lives.

Reading and the Arts have a significant influence on our growth. This blog will look closely at these influences and will also present relevant book reviews. We are connected by the events in our lives and we are connected to each other. 

 

Be passionate about improving. Be passionate about helping others. Listen to your feelings