Many years ago, a dear friend gave me a CD that came with an illustrated book of the song I Hope You Dance, by Mark D. Sanders and Tia Sillers. The story behind the song is not what I expected. As I sit here, on the same Emerald Gulf Coast where Sillers wrote the line ‘I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean,' I am thinking about the child-like wonder that my 80-year-old mother still retains. She is in good health for her age, but is not able to manage the drive to her second home any longer. We have had many discussions about the possibilities of keeping the place, but it just isn't feasible for our situation. So I am here with her for the last time before the real estate transaction that I know will be emotionally painful for her to endure, as she hesitantly hands her keys over to a stranger.
Last night, she gazed at the night sky from her balcony and spoke aloud, "What in the world is that?" She has no filter anymore. Everything she thinks is verbalized. This is not a good thing. But last night, as she gazed at the bright white dot in an ink-black sky, I replied, "I bet it is a planet, but let's find out!" I downloaded a star map app on my phone, pointed it at the area of sky she was talking about, and her mouth was agape as I said, "Oh! It's Sagittarius. It isn't a planet after all, but if we want, we might be able to find Jupiter."
The expression on her face signified she was completely dumbfounded. "How did you do that?"
This senior citizen has been diligent about doing her best to keep up with technology so she can keep tabs on her family. I give her a lot of credit. She has an Apple iPhone, uses Siri, uses speech-to-text for her messages, connects her phone to her car's onboard system so she can talk on the phone hands-free, has an iPad that she uses for playing Words with Friends, watching "Designated Survivor" on her brand-new Netflix account, and paying her bills online. But she hasn't yet realized the wealth of information available by being connected via a server. I will admit that I have a hard time not correcting her when she says, "Suri," not Siri. I try to keep my mouth shut. When "Suri" misunderstands my mother's Southern drawl, hilarity ensues.
To me, finding out which star or planet was so bright was quite simple since we have wi-fi. Want to know something? Go find the information. Where to find the information? Either a query or, better yet, an app that is interactive. Easy! I showed her the app in the app store. Now she is excited about sitting on her patio when she gets home to see what's in the sky. I warned her that she won't be able to see as much because of the significant light pollution where she lives, but it is, for her, another toy to play with. I know I will get a phone call as soon as she tries to use it without me. "I don't know what I did, but I touched something and now I can't get off this *&^%$! page!"
I wanted to somehow capture the look on her face when she held the phone up to the sky for the first time and experienced the AR. And then I thought about the Indigenous Tribes that lived here 300+ years ago. The horoscopes didn't guide their travels. I love the scene in Moana when she "sees" her ancestors using their hands to follow the stars. Many times, I wish I didn't have the constellations as part of my own gestalt of space. If I didn't, how might I imagine the tiny blinking lights that move? (Please don't answer with Pumbaa and Timon.) I hope my mother never loses her child-like sense of awe. She doesn't know the science behind all this technology, but I do. I wasn't awe-struck when I looked at the map of the sky on my phone. It was matter-of-fact for me. All I wondered about was how many satellites are orbiting overhead so that the GPS aligns with the compass made of pixels on the screen.
Another recent time when she experienced AR was when I was playing Wizards Unite. I excitedly yelled, "Hagrid!" She had to come see what I was going on about. When I showed her my screen, she instinctively covered her heart with both hands and screeched, "OH MY GOD! HOW DID THAT GET IN HERE? HE'S IN MY LIVING ROOM!" I laughed and explained the game, and turned off the AR so she would understand. Sometimes, I would like to be able to experience the world without all the knowledge in my head. But I also know that such an occurrence would have to mean something traumatic had happened to my brain, and I don't want that, either. About a year ago, my mother had a surgical procedure and was released from the hospital too soon. As I was driving her home, she had a seizure of some kind. I turned around and went right back to the emergency room. They kept her under observation for three days, never sure exactly what happened, other than she barely escaped with her life. If I hadn't turned around when I did, her doctors say, she wouldn't be here. If I had called and waited on an ambulance, it would have been too late. Based on what has happened to her memory since then, I am convinced she had a mini-stroke. The hospital never definitively confirmed this. They didn't want me to sue for negligence.
But now her short term memory is fading, and the details of long term memories get confused. The information seems to slide off like slime on a whiteboard. It doesn't stick for long. It does give her more moments of awe and wonder, as she learns again, for what is the first time in her mind, what she used to know. Sometimes she is agreeable when I try and correct her recollections, and sometimes she tells me I'm the one who is getting it wrong. I always acquiesce, because does it really matter whether it was her middle or younger sister who drove her somewhere? I have no need to win an argument in which she is convinced her version is the right one. Besides, watching the look on her face as she is experiencing her world is priceless. I am treasuring those moments, since I have no idea how many of them remain.
"I hope you never lose your sense of wonder..."
Last night, she gazed at the night sky from her balcony and spoke aloud, "What in the world is that?" She has no filter anymore. Everything she thinks is verbalized. This is not a good thing. But last night, as she gazed at the bright white dot in an ink-black sky, I replied, "I bet it is a planet, but let's find out!" I downloaded a star map app on my phone, pointed it at the area of sky she was talking about, and her mouth was agape as I said, "Oh! It's Sagittarius. It isn't a planet after all, but if we want, we might be able to find Jupiter."
The expression on her face signified she was completely dumbfounded. "How did you do that?"
This senior citizen has been diligent about doing her best to keep up with technology so she can keep tabs on her family. I give her a lot of credit. She has an Apple iPhone, uses Siri, uses speech-to-text for her messages, connects her phone to her car's onboard system so she can talk on the phone hands-free, has an iPad that she uses for playing Words with Friends, watching "Designated Survivor" on her brand-new Netflix account, and paying her bills online. But she hasn't yet realized the wealth of information available by being connected via a server. I will admit that I have a hard time not correcting her when she says, "Suri," not Siri. I try to keep my mouth shut. When "Suri" misunderstands my mother's Southern drawl, hilarity ensues.
To me, finding out which star or planet was so bright was quite simple since we have wi-fi. Want to know something? Go find the information. Where to find the information? Either a query or, better yet, an app that is interactive. Easy! I showed her the app in the app store. Now she is excited about sitting on her patio when she gets home to see what's in the sky. I warned her that she won't be able to see as much because of the significant light pollution where she lives, but it is, for her, another toy to play with. I know I will get a phone call as soon as she tries to use it without me. "I don't know what I did, but I touched something and now I can't get off this *&^%$! page!"
I wanted to somehow capture the look on her face when she held the phone up to the sky for the first time and experienced the AR. And then I thought about the Indigenous Tribes that lived here 300+ years ago. The horoscopes didn't guide their travels. I love the scene in Moana when she "sees" her ancestors using their hands to follow the stars. Many times, I wish I didn't have the constellations as part of my own gestalt of space. If I didn't, how might I imagine the tiny blinking lights that move? (Please don't answer with Pumbaa and Timon.) I hope my mother never loses her child-like sense of awe. She doesn't know the science behind all this technology, but I do. I wasn't awe-struck when I looked at the map of the sky on my phone. It was matter-of-fact for me. All I wondered about was how many satellites are orbiting overhead so that the GPS aligns with the compass made of pixels on the screen.
Another recent time when she experienced AR was when I was playing Wizards Unite. I excitedly yelled, "Hagrid!" She had to come see what I was going on about. When I showed her my screen, she instinctively covered her heart with both hands and screeched, "OH MY GOD! HOW DID THAT GET IN HERE? HE'S IN MY LIVING ROOM!" I laughed and explained the game, and turned off the AR so she would understand. Sometimes, I would like to be able to experience the world without all the knowledge in my head. But I also know that such an occurrence would have to mean something traumatic had happened to my brain, and I don't want that, either. About a year ago, my mother had a surgical procedure and was released from the hospital too soon. As I was driving her home, she had a seizure of some kind. I turned around and went right back to the emergency room. They kept her under observation for three days, never sure exactly what happened, other than she barely escaped with her life. If I hadn't turned around when I did, her doctors say, she wouldn't be here. If I had called and waited on an ambulance, it would have been too late. Based on what has happened to her memory since then, I am convinced she had a mini-stroke. The hospital never definitively confirmed this. They didn't want me to sue for negligence.
But now her short term memory is fading, and the details of long term memories get confused. The information seems to slide off like slime on a whiteboard. It doesn't stick for long. It does give her more moments of awe and wonder, as she learns again, for what is the first time in her mind, what she used to know. Sometimes she is agreeable when I try and correct her recollections, and sometimes she tells me I'm the one who is getting it wrong. I always acquiesce, because does it really matter whether it was her middle or younger sister who drove her somewhere? I have no need to win an argument in which she is convinced her version is the right one. Besides, watching the look on her face as she is experiencing her world is priceless. I am treasuring those moments, since I have no idea how many of them remain.
"I hope you never lose your sense of wonder..."