With a wooden palette strapped onto the forks of the tractor, Bob makes a platform upon which to stand for washing the high windows overlooking the river. Hillbilly ingenuity. Not OSHA approved. Tends to be how we do things. And we get them done. I think of all the years we ran the guest ranch business and weekly window washing of these huge picture windows on the south sides of several rental cabins was part of the Saturday morning workout. On second thought, I’d rather not think about that.

Now the windows sparkle and the river course shines luminous, unencumbered. A heron perched in a lofty ponderosa just up and to the right of Bob’s head as we linger at the breakfast table catches my eye. We’re not in a rush to get back out there. It’s cold. Takes a while for subtle winter sun to do its thing. The heron, we notice, is waiting too. He’s up there preening as the sun clears the mountain to the east. Even as I open and close the window between us to take his picture, he’s going no where in a hurry.

Later I sit at my writing table, and with newly clean windows front and center, the view is distracting. Long shadows seemingly dancing through fir trees across frosty ground on the shady path. The radiance of the river. The intrigue of gnarled branches and swollen tips on ancient oaks. Birds. Don’t get me started on them.

Keep your head down, I tell myself, and get back to work. We’re getting there. Writing is slow. Hard some days. Some days I just wish it were done. Not unlike the journey I’m writing about. Well, not quite that challenging. Though it is somewhat amusing that writing about an adventure takes longer than taking the adventure. What’s with that?

It could be easy. There’s an easier way. There’s this tab I could click on my computer screen. It says, “help me write button.” Really. What’s with that? I’m not going to find out what it does, how it works, but even seeing it freaks me out. As in, is this the future of writing? Is this the future of creating? Of art? I don’t like it. I’m not going there. It took me until two and half years ago before I even got a phone. I’m still cursing it, but it’s a mighty powerful tool. Will I one day say the same of AI?

Yet I can’t help but cringe. Can computers be programmed to create? To feel? What about imagination? Art is an expression of the human experience. It is emotive. Are we programming computers to try to do this for us? To express passion and pain, grief and joy, fear and comfort, loneliness and belonging? All of these are shared through art. Can we resort to machines for conveying these universal emotions, this part of the human experience, or the experience we once called human? The uniqueness and best of life lies in our capacity to feel. Feelings are the delicate threads that hold humanity together. They are tested severely right now in real life. Hope lies in allowing our hearts to sense these threads that hold us, weave us all together. Art in all its shapes and forms helps us convey those threads. Seems to me, what we need is more depth and clarity to the real deal, not a quick cop out. We need to both feel deeply and see the humanity in everyone. That is where beauty lies, even in diversity and differences. Or maybe even because of those things.

This is the creative process. Creativity, expressed through writing, painting, music, dance, any of the arts, draws humanity together with these fine threads consciously woven of mystery, wonder and awe. This is a universal truth.

What happens if we take these cords away? Is that where discord arises? Can computers feel? Can they be compassionate? At what point will we draw the line of progress?

I wonder how far from the consciousness of emotions will we wander, and what the threat to their expressions entail. How far we may go? How far from creating, from feeling, from compassion, from the human experience? When will know the limits, know when we are going too far?

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin