nourishncherish

Weather Warnings

I peered out into the window wishing and hoping, and skipping, and sighing for the past week for one of the scariest storms of California to materialize. Really! The media when bored can really get going. The storm may be wreaking havoc in the mountains up in the mountains of Northern California, but here in the Bay Area, there was no need to send people scuttling in with flash flood warnings, gale-like wind warnings, or any warnings at all for that matter.

It turned out to be a beautiful set of days – a bit wind-blown, but not too cold. I set out on walks with gusto hoping to brave the gusts of winds. There were no gusts or gales. Just winds. All perfectly normal.

Atmospheric rivers indeed – I watched the sad trickle of water in the stream that masqueraded as a river next to our home, and sighed a bit.

Even as I write this piece, I understand the true luxury of walking-weather in late November. It was amazing to see how the birds took flight and staggered a little as they got used to the thrusts of the wind. I must say watching pelicans change flight in windy weather is a marvel. Geese – so perfectly blase and arrogant in their daily demeanors, looked a little comical as they squawked to each other and determined direction for their little flocks.

One day, I took refuge in a copse of trees and listened to the winds howling just around them. Trees provide such marvelous wind barriers, and I felt a strange sense of being protected in the little clearing amidst them.

I took my cup of coffee out at mid-day, and found the first few fat droplets of water descend. They sprinkled about a bit, and then decided that it wasn’t worth the effort.

It was just another November Day – with a promise of rains, winds : heavy and gusty.

P.S: The rains have just started: I sat cradling my cup of tea: hesitant at first and then a little more insistent. Time to start dancing in the rain!

November’s Purpose

The world seemed to be buzzing with purpose, and I set out thinking about lofty human ‘angsty-things’ as the children called it too. What was our purpose – is there such a thing? Did ducks, hawks, deer, dogs pander after silly existential questions? We would never know!

It was a beautiful November day – one of those days that poets and artists can spend all their lives dreaming about. It truly was a delight to step out into the sparkling cold air, raise your head to take in the glorious panorama of the skies above through the glorious reds and yellows of the maple, beech, sycamore and willow trees.

As long as autumn lasts, I shall not have hands, canvas and colours enough to paint the beautiful things I see

– Vincent Van Gogh

The yellow leaves were looking golden in the sun’s rays, and the reds were nothing short of royal. We took a dozen pictures but knew there was nothing to be done but to sit and soak into the world around us. So we did.

I set about closing my eyes to try and capture the day in my memory under a particularly fetching set of trees – it was after some time that I found myself called back by a bird. It wasn’t the shrill call of the california blue jay or the titter of the wrens, or the frenzied call of hummingbirds. Curious, I opened my eyes to see which bird it was. Imagine my surprise when I saw it was a woodpecker. It swooped low by me and flew to an adjacent clump of trees, and I followed as silently as I could. Though I realize that for birds and animals I must sound like a stampeding rhino.

There – up above the smooth branches of some beech trees were a whole family of woodpeckers. They weren’t hammering their heads as they were known to do. The baby woodpecker’s downy feathers were still growing, and the sight made my heart still – more effective than any form of meditation I have ever attempted.

It was like an invitation to witness the simple pleasures of nature on a glorious day. I don’t know how long I stood watching the woodpeckers, but the head’s questions of purpose and meaning seemed rather meaningless just then, for the simple beauty of being alive on a beautiful day like this and being able to bear witness to the passing seasons with a heart full of gratitude felt like purpose enough.

Peeking out after the rains

Novembers in the Bay Area are beautiful. It is the time when the world around us turns colorful – assures us that the seasons are turning. The fall colors, never as resplendent as in the East Coast, are inviting, and the son & I spent more minutes walking gleefully into crunchy leaves in the past few days than was necessary. We also gazed upwards into maple trees – the greens, yellows, reds and maroons like a beautiful artist’s palette in the world around us.

Regardless of how we started out, we’d come back smiling widely and happy to be out in the world. The days drawing in closer also means that we had to really try to catch all of this in a narrow window before the skies draw the screens on them. That sense of urgency adds to the thrill.

“She had always loved that time of year. The November evenings had a sweet taste of expectation, peace and silence.

And she loved most of all the quiet of her house when the rain fell softly outside.”

– Louisa May Alcott’s, Little Women.

The squirrels, deer, water rats – they all seem to be more at ease with the time-change than we are. Probably because they don’t peer at the clocks before heading out for a walk. They rise with the sun, and rest with the dark. There is a profound kind of philosophical simplicity there.

Yesterday was Veteran’s Day and a holiday for schools. So, we decided to make a song-and-dance of it, and headed out for a walk after lunch. The rains had lashed down all morning – the first rains in November in the Bay Area always make me feel warm and special. By afternoon, the clouds were scuttling away, leaving a delicious moist, clean Earth behind. We walked around a lakeside – watching the pelicans, sanderlings, geese and ducks catch the sunshine after the rains too.

There is a strange solidarity amongst creatures in that simple act. Peeking out after the rains.

Multi-Generational Family Sagas

I read two family sagas this year spanning multiple generations, and several decades each.

Both were highly acclaimed books, and written well. However, both of them suffered from meandering plots, and unnecessary diversions. Making them swollen at least by a few hundred pages.

“It was a bit like listening to my father tell a story about some character in his village. He’d tell me all about this character, his relatives, his relative’s friends, and the marriages that made the whole thing impossible to untangle, and so much more. By the time he finished the story, you’d be wondering what the point of it was.” I said to my friends after finishing The Covenant of Water.

I understand too how that can be a daunting task. The mother had seven siblings, the father nine. Their parents, I am not even sure, for I might have switched off in between.

The Covenant of Water – By Abraham Verghese

The writing is beautiful – lyrical, and his characters have endearing qualities to them – resilience, love, grace, flaws. Abraham Verghese is also a doctor by profession, and therefore the details of all the medical terms made for a depth even if the average reader does not need as much information (ex: how a particular surgery was being performed, or how the stent would have served better from a particular perspective)

Set in Kerala, South India, the book spans the family of Big Ammachi (the matriarch of the family) between 1900 and 1977.

covenant_of_water

It would also have been nice to know a little bit more about the living conditions and life in that time period. For instance, there is a character, Uplift Master, who derives his purpose from getting the village around Perambil (the ancestral village in which the whole saga takes place) developed and to march into the twentieth century in style. Knowing the problems Uplift Master faced in terms of discrimination by the British Raj, or bribery would have been useful.

Casteism is touched upon, the perils of life as a leper is well depicted.

The plot itself could have been condensed. That apart, it is a good book.

Pachinko: Min Jin Lee

Pachinko is set in a similar time period in Japan(1910-1989). It outlines the generational problems existing between Koreans and Japanese.

The story also spans multiple generations and revolves around the life of Sunja – a poor Korean who moves to the city with her husband, Baek Isak, and child from a previous tormented relationship.

pachinko

Reading about the effects of racism, poverty and war is never easy. Writing about them keeping the humanity of the characters intact is even harder. Min Jin Lee manages to do that with ease. It would have been nice to see how things were changing as the century progressed, but we do not see too much of it.

The Tides of Humanity

The tides of humanity are apparent even if there are literally oceans separating the stories.

The Covenant of Water is set in Kerala, South India(1900-1977).
Pachinko is set in Japan(1910-1989)

They both deal with matriarchal characters (Big Ammachi alias Mariamma & Sunja) who do their very best by their kith and kin in difficult times. Providing love, trust, and hard work as tenets to a good life.

I think this line from Noa (Sunja’s firstborn) in Pachinko, outlines the angst of humanity pretty well:

Noa didn’t care about being Korean with anyone. He wanted to be, to be just himself, whatever that meant; he wanted to forget himself sometimes. She could not see his humanity, and Noa realized that this was what he wanted most of all; to be seen as human.

– Min Jin Lee, Pachinko

There is plenty to be learnt in life as a human, wherever one lives.

In the Covenant of Water, Philipose (Big Ammachi’s son) says it best:

“Ammachi, when I come to the end of a book and I look up, just four days have passed. But in that time I’ve lived through three generations and learned more about the world and about myself than I do during a year in school. Ahab, Queequeg, Ophelia, and other characters die on the page so that we might live better lives.”

― Abraham Verghese, The Covenant of Water

Exploring Deepavali Through The Firework Maker’s Daughter

I glanced around me – it was Deepavali, and all of us children, parents, and grandparents at the party, looked delighted. Who wouldn’t be? Many of us were clutching sparklers, and watching the tiny stars produced by them in awe. The beautiful fountain pot spouted its joy towards the world a few feet away, and the oohs-and-aaahs were enough to melt hearts. Deepavali fireworks, especially in the US, are not exactly spectacular, but it is joyful all the same.

Watching fireworks has always been magical. The little sparks ignite something else altogether in our spirits. Watching everyone around me, I could well imagine the children of ancient China watching in wonder as the first gunpowder produced magical effects. Or the hobbits as they all watched Gandalf’s spectacular fireworks in Hobbiton. Every time we go to DisneyLand, waiting for the fireworks in the cold, with thousands of people, it is magical.

I was so glad to have an equally delightful book to read that week-end, The Firework Maker’s Daughter – By Philip Pullman.

The Firework Maker’s Daughter – By Philip Pullman

A delightful tale of adventure, replete with a plucky heroine (Lila), a hero (Chulak) with gumption, and a talking elephant (Hamlet, who is in love with the elephant at the zoo, named Frangipani).

In the Firework Maker’s Daughter, the firework maker, Lalchand’s daughter, Lila, wants more than anything to become a fireworks maker. At a young age, Lila invented Tumbling Demons & Shimmering Coins.

“My father won’t tell me the final secret of fireworks-making, “ said Lila. “I’ve learned all there is to know about flyaway powder and thunder grains, and scorpion oil and spark repellant, and glimmer juice and salts-of-shadow, but there’s something else I need to know, and he won’t tell me.”

firework_makers_daughter

But of course, the poor girl is not allowed to become a firework maker, for her father intends to get her married off. So, with the help of the white, talking elephant, Hamlet and his keeper, Chulak, she takes off to find the secrets of firework making all the same.

It is a whimsical book, and the descriptions of the fireworks in the end makes for a marvelous read.

If only the joys of learning to do these things (like making fireworks), were still available to us, instead of being locked behind factory doors, how wonderful it would be. As I remembered all the different types of fireworks – the ones that burst into a thousand patterns in the sky, the ones that take their time like a rocket lift-off, the spinning chakras, the little pops of bursting noises, the ‘Lakshmi bombs’ ( the loud bombs), and the serial-wallahs,(the strings of explosive that went off for minutes at a time) – the imagination took off with the fireworks too. How could it not? How inventive these firework makers must be.

I sat down willing to write about the marvelous joys of fireworks, but came up wanting. How can you capture the soaring of the heart in words? How can show feel a definite lifting of the spirits when only you can feel it?

The Goat

“So, how was your day?” I asked the son as I picked him up from school a few weeks ago. He drooped, looking shriveled from the heatwave outside.

“P.E at the worst possible time of day!” , he shrugged. My heart went out to the fellow and well, all of the students really.

Bay Area had endured a heat wave of 100 degree days for two weeks, and if I did not record the following, I’d be remiss in my writing as the Jotter of Events in the nourish-n-cherish household.

“Come on! It can’t be that bad! How about we get some ice cream?” I said.

His eyes shone. “Really?”

I nodded and asked him to invite his friends too. Afterwards, I asked him what the most exciting part of his day had been aside from the ice-cream (“Awwww!”)

“Nothing really!” he said, looking as morose as it was possible to look, with ice cream dripping on his fingers on a hot day in an air conditioned car.

The Goat Story

“Oh come on! It can’t be that bad- the most exciting thing of my day was when I saw a herd of sheep on my walk today. One of them had managed to slip out of the electrified fences. How it managed it, I don’t know. Maybe climbed too high up a tree and flipped over either side. Poor thing.

But you should’ve seen the panic! The sheep dog was going crazy seeing one of its wards had escaped. The other goats were all in a titter, all of them baying and boo-ing. The anxiety in the air – the poor things all wanting to help, shouting directions, and the lost goat all alone on the other side of the fence. It was heart-wrenching to see them all like that.

Then another dog comes on the trail, and this poor goat almost jumped through its own skin. The dog is excited to chase a goat on the trail. The owner of the dog is nervous that she can’t control her dog if he decides to lunge for the goat. The sheep dog is nervous and barking to high heavens at the excited dog, “Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare! My goat!”

The goats are all frisky and baa-ing away. All of them shouting instructions to the poor misplaced one – Keep left, go that way, try doubling back in this way! No! Not that way! This way!

The poor lone goat who escaped the fence, the poor goats fenced in and trying to help the escaped one, the poor sheep dog trying to find a way to bring in the wayward goat who is feeling more and more lost and panicked by the second, the poor dog owner on the trail trying to restrain her own dog, the dog clearly being stopped from doing the thing it most wants to do which is to chase the goat, and the onlookers all of us desperate to help the poor animals, but unable to do anything. The noise is incredible, you can pluck the emotions out of the air.”

I stopped to look at the son. He swapped his intent listening face to his mischievous laugh, “Are you kidding me? Huh! Get it? Get it? Lost goat? Kid? Never mind. But really amma! As far as exciting things go, this is much better than mine. I had to listen to teachers talk about transformative functions all day! So even if you had nothing else happen to you the rest of the day, which I know is not the case, you still win!”

I laughed. “Hope the little fellow got in with his pals. Never have I seen such panic in brown rectangular pupils.”

“I am sure he did – that goatherd comes by every hour or so, doesn’t he?” said the son. He looked marginally better having heard the goat story, and then went on to tell me about his day in a little bit more detail.

Halloween’s Influence: Understanding Fear in Stories

“Arrgh!”

“Gosh! Dude! You scared me!”, I said, leaping neatly into the path of a bewildered looking biker on the trail. His eyes grew wide, and he wobbled spectacularly before regaining his poise and balance, and then smirked.

I suppose it was funny. A scrawny fellow like the son is hardly the sort of fellow to make their mothers leap out of trail paths with their scary stories. But it is nearing Halloween and we were discussing the themes of horror in their English Literature class.

“What are the elements of a horror story?” I asked.

His answer made me jump, leap into biker’s path, earn b.look from biker as he regained balance and then a smirk for additional points etc.

I must admit that when it came to quakey finds, horrors take the biscuit. Stephen King is all very well in the daytime, with soothing cups of tea, warm music etc. But otherwise, no thank you! I still prefer the glow of humor, the comforts of friendships and love, good old fashioned topics like (science, nature, history, psychology, travel), and mild adventure in my reading fare.

Horror in Literature

What made the class interesting was their discussion on not just horror, but how it affected the different parts of our brains. The amygdala (the small pea sized piece of our brain) is known for the fear response – that is the piece we share with reptiles, he went on to say and I listened in awe. Our prefrontal cortex is where we process what the amygdala sends us, to appropriate a response.

“I think you should research it up a bit more before quoting me though!” he said, giving me a stern look.

“What if I wrote that you asked me to research it, so folks know it isn’t the Gospel of NeuroScience instead?” I said, rolling my eyes, and he laughed at that and agreed. So here goes, folks: please research this piece on your own.

How interesting to sit in a class, watching a 90’s cartoon show about Courage, The Cowardly Dog in the Chicken From Outer Space.

Then to analyze how the different parts of the brain were affected by the fear response? I can’t think of a better way to spend a Wednesday afternoon. I would have loved to be a fly on the wall in that class (risking a horrified teenage set of kids screeching and swatting at flies notwithstanding), and I was full of admiration for their teacher who had taken the trouble to come up with a lesson like that close to Halloween.

Boggarts & Dementors

The whole conversation on fears and the horrors of our psyche reminded me of another conversation from a few days ago on boggarts and what shape each of ours would take. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban has always been one of my favorite books – it addresses so many themes – how not to judge someone based on first impressions, how the truth can be life-altering, the importance of friendships, conscience, etc etc. But this book specifically addresses fear and our worst experiences in the form of boggarts and dementors.

This YouTube video on the SuperCarlinBrothers Channel on Why It Is Wise to Fear Fear is an amazing one in this context:

Harry’s WORST FEAR Explained | Harry Potter Film Theory

Halloween is the one time we acknowledge fear as a society. It also comes with a good antidote to fear: the ability to allow for whimsy and creatively live our lives.

We turned around after our walk, and the biker, much fortified after his own little fright, gave us a wan smile as he made off in the opposite direction too.

The Shape of Ideas: Creativity Unveiled

“What is nice is knowing that there is a fount of ideas – and even if many ideas seem taken, there is always a variation in the workings of the human brain to make it different.”

“It is astounding – the volume of work produced.”

The husband and I were taking an evening walk discussing creativity, imagination and the origin of ideas. He was talking about one of the musical maestros of Tamil cinema and their seemingly eternal bouts of inspiration.

“I wonder if they worry about it running out on them, though.” I said, looking contemplative as I admired nature’s work around me. No lack of inspiration there! Every tree a different shape, every plant a different marvel, every soul a different temperament.

“I suppose they would have the same trepidation or initial hurdles when they set out to create, and then obviously their levels of genius means that the ideas that do come to them are a class apart, but I suppose they must have their moments of doubt. “ said the husband looking thoughtful.

I hmm-ed at this. I do feel that just like the intelligence factor, there is an ingenuity factor (You have what you have and then those who work with it, sit with their abilities, nourish it, develop it, and try to wrangle it into industry reap the benefits).

When I saw this book, The Shape of Ideas – An illustrated exploration of creativity – by Grant Snider , in the library, I picked it up. Partly because I expected it to be whimsical but also because the origin and nature of ideas has always intrigued me.

The Shape of Ideas: An Illustrated Exploration of Creativity: Snider, Grant: 9781419723179: Amazon.com

51kUrTbxX0L._SY522_

How many of us have wondered about the origin of ideas? It is marvelous when we are graced with an idea. Especially one bursting with imagination, but for all the good and bad ideas humanity has come up with, we don’t really know the origin or the process to generate more of them. It is almost as if the unknown is bordering on the magical.

Sometimes, we need a chock full of ideas to pull out a good one. Sometimes, it is the joy of an do-nothing day that gives you an idea that makes you smile.

This book is a marvelous read – it is full of whimsical ideas, endearing comic work, and neatly classifies the different areas that the shape of ideas tread: Inspiration, Perspiration, Improvisation , Aspiration, Contemplation, Exploration, Daily Frustration,Imitation, Desperation and Pure Elation.

As an example of the kind of art you can expect to see in the book – here is one on Drawing the Moon

We have all heard or understood various versions of the inspiration vs perspiration speech from our teachers, mentors and parents.

On some level, we understand that being smart or talented or intelligent means nothing unless you are also granted opportunity, have perseverance and cultivate intellectual development.

But how do each of us use all of this to create a rich inner life that translates to one of beauty and enriches the life of those around us?

“The most regretful people on Earth are those who felt their own creative power restive and uprising, and gave to it neither time nor power.” – Mary Oliver

Numinous Navarathris

Navarathri

The Navarathri season is behind us. That is to say, the garba dances, the spontaneous bursting into carnatic music, classical dancers getting their Vijayadashami classes, the crowded shamiyana’s with pujo crowds, the golu hoppers, and the first wave of festive wear for the fall season is all behind us. The statues that got to come out and get put on display are all wrapped up, and put away in their cozy confines for another year.

There are many golu aspirants who raise the bar every time. One particular household we enjoy has a side-show gleaming with inventive playfulness. In every golu display there are stories jostling on the orderly steps waiting to be told, but skipped over – possibly waiting for the next year. For there is too much going on for dolls and their stories to be told and listened to. I can imagine and appreciate the whimsical nature of life wanting to be preserved as tradition. Then again, for a country such as India, there is rarely the time for slow pursuits such as mythical story telling sessions over long evenings these days. What was earmarked for that, has morphed into rushed sessions, oodles of food, music and dance bursting at every corner, and like life itself the dolls with the good stories sit quietly – watching, waiting their turn. Ready to amuse, educate and entertain if asked, but purely on stand-by.

The Golu Tradition

Golu – as the tradition of the display of dolls is known, is rumored to have started in the 14th Century during the height of the Vijayanagara empire. The royal families of the era particularly around the Thanjavur region were taken in by the opportunity to display their dolls, host gatherings, etc. Slowly, they had musicians and dancers from the local temples over for performances, and it became a time when children were initiated into the Arts. Vijayadashami became a day of artistic beginnings and blessings.

In many of the homes we visit, we hear stories of the dolls being passed down from generation to generation. One friend told me that her vegetable set came from her great grandmother – handed down to her grandmother, who brought it to the US in the 60’s, and then passed it to her mother and how she plans to give it to her own daughter one day. I peered at the misshapen vegetables and felt a stirring for why the tradition appeals to so many. There were no perfectly preserved, larger models there. The vegetables had warped surfaces much like the farmers of the time might have produced them, and an artist had rendered them with the best clays and paints available to them. The greens were greener than the vegetables could achieve, and the reds made them look like they were blushing. Very fetching.

Why tradition settled on 9 days for Navarathri, I am not sure. But I presume it had something to do with the agricultural cycles of the time. A lull in the work periods between harvest and planting cycles when the plants were at their strongest, and therefore a time for a bit of fun.

What I Wish It Could Be

As a child, I longed to take the golu dolls down from their shelves to play with. But of course, we weren’t allowed to do so. My own grandmother had given them to my mother. It seemed so pointless to have this many dolls all sitting there, waiting to be played with, but out of reach. This many stories waiting to be enacted. We were only ever to touch them the day they were taken out, or the day they were wrapped back in old newspaper and stowed away. A touch of pathos about the way they’d have to nestle back into the wooden crates in the old garden shed about them.

It has been a dear wish of mine to one day make a puppet based theatrical show of this. You know – properly make the dolls come alive, hop off their little shelves, and have them enact their stories. Vishnu’s avatars don’t need another year of standing there – they need to be out there telling you how much one ought to be doing in the face of evil vying and holding power. So what if you have to impersonate half a lion or a fish or turtle for noble purposes? That would be an apt election-time story wouldn’t it?

Make a funny skit or two about how the demon Ghatodgajjan ate his way through the season, or the din to wake Ravana’s brother, Kumbhakarna from his 6-month slumber to fight the war in the Ramayana. Enact the wars with paper mache swords, and bubblegum shaped missiles that could be eaten afterward. That would be cool.

A silly song about the cricket playing Ganesha statues maybe?

Wrap the session with all the Lakshmis being totally brave, daring, intelligent and charming. That would be brilliant.

Exploring Happiness: Is It in Our Genes?

In what was an intriguing chat with the son last evening, we poked around the ethics of genetic modification. Apparently, that had been an area of discussion in their classroom, and the son was keen – the novelty of a discussion with multiple viewpoints at that age is amazing. I smiled and listened to him talk offering a question here, a hum there, an insight elsewhere.

“What do you want to do with human-beings if we are smarter?” I asked him.

“We could fly.”

“Cool! But then what?”

I took a deep breath and said as casually as I could. “Everyone wants to be smarter, for things to come more easily to them. So we wouldn’t have to spend so much time figuring things out. But – the thing is, if everything came easily, we would not know what to do with all the time we have on our hands. What do they say? An empty mind is a devil’s workshop? I don’t know – I think it could lead to more mental health issues – what do you think?”

He pondered this for a while, and said it was an intriguing thought.

Who Survives?

It reminded me of another chat the husband and I had a few months ago – on the larger theme of the future of humanity. With smarter, faster, stronger, what would happen to humans? The husband took a moment to gather his thoughts, and said, “Well – it will come back to good old basics then, wouldn’t it? Survival of the fittest. Those humans who can learn to be peaceful with themselves will ultimately win out – that is the strain that will survive.”

I was impressed – yes, no matter what we had, it ultimately came down to temperament, attitude, and the ability to be happy, didn’t it?

Generosity by Richard Powers: The Happiness Gene

Incidentally the book I am currently reading: Generosity by Richard Powers, talks about a variation of this: The Happiness Gene.

The story tries to figure out the reason for Thassa’s happiness. Thassadit Amswar is a refugee who has fled the Algiers region. Her brother is still under house arrest in a totalitarian regime, her parents are dead after years in which they were stuck in the midst of a civil war that raged around them, and any which way you look at it, she should be morose, sad – not chirpy, cheerful, and full of light.

The whole set up reminded me of one of Rumi’s sayings that have been making its way around the instagram world: something to the effect of:

When the world around you is dark, you could very well be the light.

Rumi

In any case, somehow Thassa’s ability to be happy attracts attention – first from local friends, then a policeman, a local news report diagnoses her as having ‘Hyperthymia’ – a condition of overwhelming happiness, and goes on to attract those who want to auction and buy her eggs, decode her DNA, figure out the happiness gene. She finds herself unmoored by how people feel bad because she is happy, and having to navigate the horrors of fame.

In Essence

Is there a genetic component to being happy?
If so, can that be picked and chosen for our offspring in the not-so-distant future?
What issues would that create for mankind? For just as sure as we are of creating solutions, so too can we be sure for creating problems for ourselves, isn’t it?

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Multi-Generational Family Sagas

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