For those of us fascinated and captivated by history in general, some of the most interesting things to see are the first maps created depicting any region. 

We're all used to seeing these old drawings with their rough geographical accuracy and sparsely filled-in areas as more and more of the "undiscovered" regions of the world came to be known.

Seeing for the First Time
Of course, we all know that each of these undiscovered regions were already populated at the time the Europeans first began to explore them, but for most of us that is where our knowledge of these areas ends; with the simple understanding that - yes - someone had already been there.

So it was an amazing experience for me the other day to see - for the first time in my life - a detailed map of exactly who was in the New World of the western hemisphere - and exactly where they were, long before the first European foot stepped onto these shores.

And not only do these maps show who and where these peoples were - but equally important, what their real names were. Not the names imposed on them by the butchered pronunciation and derisive attitude of the "discoverers" - but the names they actually called themselves. Their true identities.

Are We There Yet?
After my first ten minutes of perusing these maps for the very first time, I nearly had tears of joy in my eyes from the feeling of spiritual liberation they gave me. I felt as though a giant tarp concealing a deep and beautiful truth had finally been removed from a scene of indescribable beauty and richness. 

In fact, that is essentially what these maps signify; the first - as far as I'm aware - look any of us have ever had at a true and accurate map depicting what, and who had been in this land - before it was overrun, and changed forever.

And as I sat there, somewhat stunned that I was only now seeing this magnificence for the first time - I had to ask myself, is what replaced this richness better? Most modern people tend to look at things like this and then casually dismiss what was lost as the price of progress. But is that true?

Is what replaced that world, and others like it, progress? Progress is defined as the forward movement toward a destination. Is that what we have seen since Europeans changed this land, and erased these cultures forever? And if so - what exactly is this destination?

The question itself reveals the prejudice of perspective that came with the European conquest. Is more - better? Is the culture of money, and technology aimed at acquiring more money, really progress? 

Maybe. But as I stared at these maps, looked at the names revealed, and imagined the richness of the lives they lived, I was left with one haunting question. Progress for who?

These magnificent creations are the work of Mr. Aaron Carrepella, a self-taught map maker who after searching for them for years - and realizing they simply did not exist - created them himself. And in doing so, he has made one of the most significant contributions to American history ever. Ever. 

You can find his Maps of Tribal Nations here.

It's a funny thing about life - how much time we spend lost in thought about the future, or musings about the past. Wondering how tomorrow will look. Reflecting on what yesterday has taught.

Planning and remembering are really two sides of the same coin; yet neither one is the coin itself. And as we flip from one side to the other, the coin constantly remains in the middle - never changing.

The Past Arrives
We lost a cherished member of our family this week, and for the many lives he touched this has been a time of somber remembrance; looking hard at what was.

When someone we love and value leaves us, our contact with them seems to be rooted in the past. Moments of every description are remembered as we reach to touch them again.

Yet - in the end - we are always left with the finality of the inevitable arrival of absence. The reality that what was, is no longer.

The Imminence of the Future 
Of course, our gaze cannot remain directed behind for too long before we must again turn to what approaches. The coin is flipped. How do we get there? What must we do? 

The rhythm of treading the path to tomorrow takes the place of reflection - of remembering - and life continues on. The past slowly begins to fade.

Yet in many respects, when the coin is flipped to what lies ahead - and our thoughts once again become focused on how to get there - in a very real sense we are in the same place as we were a moment before.

Trying to envision what will be is actually quite similar to the effort we make when venturing into what was. In both cases, we are fully absorbed in trying to grasp a now that does not exist.

Spending the Present
What should we take away from our reflections on what is gone? When we try to look into the eyes of those we will never see again - what do we hope to see?

While I accept that there probably is no answer to a question like that - I also realize that knowing this doesn't mean we have nothing to learn from asking.

Perhaps it is nothing more than realizing that what will always lie delicately between the what was, and what will be - is what is. And maybe knowing that that is all we will ever truly have, is as close to an answer as we'll ever be.

I recently went to see the new Spielberg film Lincoln. This is, of course, the sort of subject that really only appeals to a certain type of person. The majority of the audience, when I went, were definitely over 40, with that history buff glint in most of their eyes. A quiet, thoughtful audience that seemed to laugh at the same things I did, and sagely nod at the same points too.

I was struck by the depth and detail of this film. It demands a lot of the audience, and even though I thought I knew a good deal about Lincoln and the Civil War, as the movie progressed I steadily became aware that I didn't know as much as I thought I did. Oh, I  could keep up with the thrust of the story - but I could also tell that there was a lot of detail there that I just wasn't fully appreciating.

So I went out afterward and bought the Doris Kearns Goodwin book Team of Rivals, which reportedly served as a primary source for the script, and read it. It's a wonderful book, very rich in details about Lincoln as a politician and a man. And while the Civil War is delved into in some depth, almost none of the narrative is about battles - at least - not the military kind. But it is filled much detail of the political battles both before, and during the war. No one can finish this book without having gained a much greater appreciation for the role and significance of the politics during this time.

Two Giants Emerge
But what struck me the most about reading this book was the portrait of Abraham Lincoln as a real person, in a real time, that emerges from its more than 700 pages. By the time you reach the end, you've seen quite a journey of transformation unfold before your eyes. And it's a journey at once profound and sublime. One that affirms every hopeful feeling you've ever had for the possibility of human growth and personal development.

The book is filled with fascinating characters and personalities, completely captivating stories, and themes that leave you deep in thought hours after finishing many chapters. Names that are vaguely remembered suddenly become full formed figures that will never be forgotten. William Seward, Edwin Stanton, Salmon Chase, and on and on - they're all there. Each fully alive for your mind to meet.

But of all the relationships experienced in this book, none caught my imagination and fascination more that that of Lincoln and Frederick Douglass. They didn't meet until well into the Civil War, and that's almost certainly a good thing. Had they met as younger men, the odds are high that they wouldn't have been able to absorb each other like they did as more mature men.

Their story is quite interesting, and illustrative of not just the potential for intellectual and spiritual evolution in people, but of the very unique American form of that general human characteristic. Characteristics framed by culture and history. I will be writing more on this special relationship soon. Stay tuned. 

One of the most striking aspects of the film Lincoln is the attention that is given to the human relationships that impacted the course of the Civil War. There are wonderful scenes conveying the intimate intellectual connection between the President and Secretary of State Seward, along with several others, and we see the importance of these bonds in driving both the war, and the people involved, to new, usually unforeseen places.

With the 2nd inauguration of President Obama just completed, it set me to thinking about another Civil War relationship of note, and how it culminated at Lincoln's Second Inauguration in an episode that was unimaginable when he was first elected, a scant four years earlier. It was a rare moment of historical evolution made manifest in a flash, and more profoundly than any conscious attempt to do so would be likely to achieve.

A Harbinger of Change
Frederick Douglass and Abraham Lincoln first met at the White House in the summer of 1863, when the abolitionist leader came to the White House to ask Lincoln to support equal pay for black Union soldiers, and to seek his condemnation of the summary execution of many captured black soldiers that was part of a new Confederate policy of treating Union POWs quite differently according to race.

Douglass was struck by how welcoming Lincoln was. "I was never more quickly, or more completely, put at ease in the presence of a great man than in that of Abraham Lincoln," he later recalled. Lincoln explained to Douglass that he was aware of both the unequal pay issue, and the Confederacy's criminal treatment of black prisoners, but had waited to publicly address these issues until black combat units had distinguished themselves in battle - as they recently had during several engagements. He thought that only then would white Northerners be receptive to a Presidential appeal for equality of treatment.

Douglass left feeling he'd learned a lot about the breadth of considerations great leaders must take into account before taking actions that seem like "no brainers" to outside observers. And he also left with the distinct sense that this man - Lincoln - possessed a "humane spirit" which drove all his actions. "I tell you I felt big there!" he said of their meeting.

A Sacred Effort
The two men met again just before the election of 1864. Lincoln feared he would lose and wanted Douglass to help in a campaign to get as many slaves as possible to leave their plantations before a new President would take over, and possibly retract the Emancipation Proclamation. They talked for hours.

Lincoln, of course, did not lose the election, and it was at the Inaugural Ball held at the White House that they saw each other for the last time. The inertia of racism, though, almost prevented this meeting. Guards stopped Douglass as he attempted to enter the executive mansion, telling him that their orders were to admit no "colored" people. 

Douglass had a white friend go inside and tell Lincoln that he was being denied entry. Within minutes word came that he - and any other blacks wanting entry - were to be allowed inside. This alone was an astounding development since, other than as servants, no blacks had ever been allowed into an inaugural ball before.  

As Douglass entered and stood in the grand ballroom amidst hundreds of other well wishers, Lincoln suddenly spotted him and said in a loud voice for all to hear, "Here comes my friend Douglass." As he reached the President, Lincoln clasped his hand and said, "I am glad to see you. I saw you in the crowd today, listening to my inaugural address; how did you like it?". Douglass, thinking it a rhetorical question, mumbled an appreciative bromide, and aware of the throng seeking the President's attention, began to move on.

Lincoln, though, stopped him from departing so hastily and said, "You must stop a little, Douglass; there is no man in the country whose opinion I value more than yours. I want to know what you thought of it?" There then passed a few moments in which the two men stood regarding each other - the throng around them now suddenly grown quiet - realizing that Lincoln was being completely sincere. Lincoln knew that Frederick Douglass, thus prompted, would speak his mind. Those listening knew this too.

Finally Douglass said in a loud, deep voice, "Mr. Lincoln - that was a sacred effort." Lincoln's face came alive with happiness. "I'm glad you liked it," he said, as the two men appreciatively looked deep into each other's eyes. And then the festivities continued.

Two Paths Crossed
Frederick Douglass had traveled a long path to that exchange. Having, on more than one occasion, questioned Lincoln's abilities and commitment to freedom, he now knew that this man had grown into a true friend, and a champion of racial justice. Whereas just a few years earlier such an exchange would've been an impossibility, the route they had both traversed to this night of triumph now made their words seem almost preordained. They had both matured and evolved into men that foreshadowed the emergence of an entirely new nation than the one they had both grown up in.

We are certainly still on that path toward the racial justice that each man so clearly perceived in the other that night. Tremendous achievements have been made, yet few would dispute that there is more work - more growing - to come. But what that brief public meeting signaled to all who witnessed it - then, and now - was that people really can learn, and grow. That evolution is about more than learning to walk on two feet, but also about learning how to live with each other - how to become humane - how to become one. And never has there been a more sacred effort than that.

                                                            

Message heard
Take the very title and first line of the French original: Minuit, chrétiens - c'est l'heure solennelle (Midnight, Christians - it is the solemn hour). Here we have a reminder - a call - a marking of a point at which things must change. The moment of action - for doing something has arrived. 

Whereas the English version begins: O holy night, the stars are brightly shining; a simple act of beholding - to remain kneeling.

The declaration Il voit un frère où n’était qu’un esclave - organic to the spirit of 1848 Europe - is an unimaginable inclusion in an American version of the same period.

And the difference in the two version's final exhortation could not be more striking. In English we have a sterile declaration: Christ is lord - praise his name forever. But in the original comes: Peuple, debout! Chante ta déliverance! (people, stand up! Declare your deliverance!) In one a hope to be saved - in the other a call to make it happen through human action.

Minuit, chrétiens is a manifesto - a demand - a call to activity. O holy night - a supplicant's plea - a submission - an admonition to wait.

It's interesting to note that the first singing of Minuit, chrétiens was followed within a year by a strident, purely secular observation that A spectre is haunting Europe; this from a pen that held "waiting" to be pure anathema. Is there really any doubt that this "spectre" is the power of kneeling transformed into standing? 

What is the message of Jesus Christ? Is it to merely behold him - or to heed his call, and to follow? One is done from the knees - the other while firmly on two feet. Is his an urging to meekly submit, or to embrace the power to act? Is it - as the last lines of O Holy Night proclaim - about his power - forever; or, as the final lines of Minuit, chrétiens suggest, of ours?

Merry Christmas.

I enjoy being alone. And one of the first things I noticed about living in a big city again is how rarely one gets to indulge in private time when you walk out your front door.

When I'm in Mill Valley California, there are a zillion places to be alone with nature and my thoughts. You just relax in a different way when you're not surrounded by people - and forced to wear the "social mask", and navigate the space of other people.

Montréal is much different - even than San Francisco. There are people everywhere. It just isn't possible to be out of doors here and really enjoy being truly alone. At least - not until it starts to get really cold. And then, a wonderful thing happens; people disappear from the normally crowded outdoor public venues.

I take a daily walk after writing in the morning. It's my zen time. A respite from working, worrying, practical planning - a chance to let my mind go where it wants, in its own way, at its own pace. But to truly free my thoughts and musings, I need to be alone during my walk. And that's hard to do in a city like Montréal.

The other day, though, the temperature dropped to a quite nippy -4 centigrade, and as I bundled up and set out for my daily jaunt, I was suddenly struck by an unusual sight. I was walking through a park that is usually bustling with activity of every type when I slowly realized that I was completely alone. Not another person in sight. No readers, sun bathers, dog walkers, children playing - no one.

It was one of my best walks ever. I covered a couple of miles, and even when I did encounter other people, they were in a hurry to get where they were going - because it was cold. But I wasn't bothered by the chill in the least. I was too absorbed in something that had accompanied the drop in temperature; solitude.

Most people speak of winter in Montréal with a sense of enduring a trial by nature. An ordeal of sorts. And while it is a quite different experience than life in California, when I see the weather forecast for Montréal, and it calls for bone chilling cold, I now have one consistent reaction. Yes!

It's my first year away from California in a long time, and one of the biggest differences I notice is that the Canadian east has seasons. And one of the first things I notice about seasons is that each one has its own special light.

Of course, now that fall is slowly giving way to winter, you have to be quick if you want to experience the light - because the sun starts to go down noticeably earlier here than on the west coast. 

The sun is at a different angle too; lower in the sky throughout the day, shadows are longer, and hues decidedly muted. The overall effect impacts everything from the way I look at things, to how I think about them.

It got me to wondering about the significance of light for how cultures evolve. People tend to be in a bit more of a hurry in Montréal than in San Francisco. It's as though they realize that in these late fall and early winter months, you've got to maintain a brisk pace if you're going to get anything accomplished during daylight.

The odd thing about this is that this northern light has the opposite effect on me. I find myself so taken with the altered shades and tinge of things that I wind-up moving slower since I spend more time captivated by the differences. But I also seem more reflective and thoughtful as a result of my slightly slower pace.

They say that "beauty is in the eye of the beholder". What I'm learning as I watch the seasons slowly unfold is that this is also true of light. And one's perspective on it can change so much.

As part of it's 400th anniversary celebration, a 1.5 mile long landscaped promenade was built along the St. Lawrence River in Québec City. It's a lovely space, filled with interesting architectural elements and sculptures - paths and picnic areas.

But one of the more unique items there is this unusual fountain I stumbled on one morning. It's a "fog fountain". 
Take a look.

To those of us who live in temperate patches of the planet, winter always seems to be a time when we're especially glad not to reside where that word has serious meaning. In Northern California's coastal regions, winter brings wet and gray into our lives, but rarely anything so extreme as to affect our daily activities. For us, we need merely find a few more sweaters and some rain gear in-order to navigate our daily routines. For us, winter is occasionally discussed - but almost never is it the main topic of discussion.

Bright and Early
Montréal is now part of my life. My life in California has become one that I view in portions; it's a nice slice to have, but hardly the whole of my existence. The upcoming journey to Québec has long ago stopped being my next trip - and evolved into a return. A trip is something you may never do again. A return signals permanence.

I always look forward to being there - but rarely to getting there. Three o'clock in the morning is not so much a time as it is a state. Each of my returns normally begins in that realm since in-order to arrive at anything close to a reasonable time, I must begin my day then. I mechanically maneuver through this state until I am at last en route. And then my thoughts turn to what we who face the Pacific know exists, but face so rarely; winter.

La Nuit Blanche
Montréal embraces winter. And nothing illustrates this more than the combined winter festival of Montréal en Lumière and its signature event, la Nuit Blanche. It is a time when the people and city of Montréal celebrate the joy of winter living. And it's now one of my favorite times to return

This is a city that really knows how to throw a party - and these are people who really know how to enjoy one. On the night of nuit blanche, nearly the entire city becomes part of a grand winter display. The center of Montréal and many of her neighborhoods remain open  all night - and hundreds of thousands partake in displays of art, food, music, poetry, literature - indeed, of everything that makes a city alive.

At a time when we on the left coast imagine the inhabitants of snowbound environs locked snugly away - the streets and venues are filled to overflowing. Celebrations are everywhere. Outside displays of street art, dancing, eating, listening to music, visiting ice sculpture gardens - there seems to be no end to it all. 

And inside and under the city, in the tunnels and walkways linking buildings, and in the buildings themselves - everywhere - Montréal celebrates its place - its circumstance - its self.

And so I return - and join this wondrous spectacle. And even on lovely sun filled January days facing the Pacific, I often eye the goose down coat in my closet and a sense of excitement and anticipation fills me as I contemplate my next 3am state - and my winter return.