Skeptic

Yeah, that's where I'm currently finding myself. For me, right now, mysticism feels self indulgent.

Skeptic AND Mystic

Today I realized, in conversation with a woman younger than I am, that I am BOTH skeptic and mystic.

I have no need to reconcile these two aspects.

I like being thoroughly rational to the extent that I am able to achieve that state.

I also make provision for that huge area called "I do not know."

If through opening myself to what words cannot state and to which reason cannot point, I learn something - call it spiritual or something else - I like that.

All that I ask of myself as a mystic is that I don't go along with what is patently without logic. I cannot accept a god (or God) who would send to eternal torment a human who denies said god's (or God's) existence.

I cannot believe in a morality based on fear of Big Poppa in the sky.

For the skeptic, especially the arrogant "rational hu(man)", who scoffs at the mystical experiences of others, I offer the image of the blind man who cannot understand what "blue" is.

I very much value my ability to reason. I am far more the skeptic than the mystic. Sometimes, though, I want to send a shout-out to The Cosmos, to Life, to Whatever or Whoever is Listening (anyone there???) and say "Thanks" or "Please . . . " Perhaps my prayer is but an internal echo.

And yet sometimes I pray.

If God is or has consciousness, we and all that exists, are God's dream

I Guess I knew It In Nursery School

It occurs to me how naive I am in over-estimating my own intelligence, intellectual depth and/or mental health. I remember from nursery school days the little tune with the words:

Row row row your boat
Gently down the stream
Merrily merrily merrily merrily
Life is but a dream

From the earliest days, I've had this sense of illusion thrust at me. Sometimes this whole Life thing seems so impossible to me that it almost takes an act of faith to believe that there even is an external world beyond my imagining it. Of course, this act of faith is buttressed by the taste of chocolate, the twinges of neck pain that I constantly feel, the warmth from my cats as a nestle in their soft fur, and the warm sense of connection at those times when Matt's eyes meet mine in that oh-so-special way. All these may indeed be the products of my imagination or of some external source playing out this adventure in my mind. However it is, I call such things "Other" and, in so doing, am not alone in the world.

But again, the terrifying thought. If this is the playing out of God's imagination and if All this is, is God, then knowing the truth, really knowing it, would be to acknowledge an Aloneness that seems unbearable to me. I keep coming back to the same points, like a cat chasing multiple tails, all her own. If God is, how lonely, how without peer, God would be. At one level, I certainly don't imput to God, human emotions. On the other, it would seem to me that a God who would feel joy would be a God who wasn't aware of God's own singularity, an ignorant God if you will. Is our (or my) inability to really understand the nature of our (or my) existence a protection of sorts against a sense of utter futility. As long as we (or I) stay locked in our separate egos, we have peers. We can also get a sense of fulfillment when we feel at one with that which we define as God. It would be devastating to be the One and Only God. Except for this: If such an entity became alive Itself through its act of creation. If God is, does God know God's own nature as separate from (or a part of) God's creation. I want to know these things that I am not equipped to understand. Yet I don't want to know these things because the answers might emotionally devastate me. And yet I keep pondering all of this because it is my nature to do so.

In The Beginning

For the sake of simplicity I've been calling the pre-Big Bang Thing/Energy/Entity "God." I don't want to get careless in my thinking by doing so. When I reread what I wrote yesterday, it seemed that I had slipped into personifying God. How did I allow that to happen? I retraced my thoughts.

Whether I go the Cartesian route (I think, therefore I am) or the Einsteinium matter/energy route (to the very limited extent that I understand it), I come back to the mystery of my awareness which is the only thing that I know for certain exists. Where did this awareness come from? And is Awareness THE distinguishing characteristic of God?

As a child of the modern era and with a limited understanding of physics, I accept that matter and energy are transformable; each can become the other. If the Big Bang, or some version of it, is The moment of birth of the Universe, what existed prior to that moment? The Mysterious "It" that philosophers and scientists and ordinary people have been trying to understand for eons. Whatever the nature of "It," "It" had the seeds of matter/energy. Was there a third component, Awareness, such that this "It" had the seeds of matter/energy/awareness? If so, I would call that "It" God. My current view of things, tinged with a bit of faith as well as reason, is in this direction. This may not be the case at all. It may (must) be far more complicated. It is also possible that awareness developed at some point after the Big Bang, that it evolved out of matter/energy or something else. In this case, I'd come down on the side of a Godless universe.

These are my ramblings. For most of my life, I've thought about these things and come up with different answers. I'm not sure if sharing them on a public blog is the wisest idea and I feel like I'm taking a risk in doing so. It doesn't "feel" right, but it seems like something that I "should"do, though I'm not sure why. I don't expect to arrive at an unwavering understanding of all this. I value the process of following these thoughts without pushing them towards any particular conclusion.

Maybe God Wants An Occassional Shout Out

It occurred to me this evening that EVERYTHING that exists is a manifestation of God. This is a thought that is neither new to me nor original with me. It's been a part of my thinking for the better part of two decades. I felt it differently this evening, though its ingredients have been simmering for a number of weeks or months. In recognizing that a pre-incarnated God may have experienced unimaginable despair in God's utter loneliness, I've made room for the possibility of feelings that I'd previously thought God could not possibly hold. Jealousy, for example, the whole "have no other gods before me" thing. The God that postulated, to the extent that I postulated any God, would have had no desire for prayers of any kind. Indeed, that God would be devoid of feelings. I find myself coming to the conclusion that the pre-incarnated God contained at least the seeds of all the flaws of humankind (as well as everything else that is). I continue to wonder if there is a God beyond that which has been created (incarnated). If so, what is that aspect of God like? To what extent has God evolved both pre and post incarnation? Is creation itself, the Big Bang if that theory is true, a result of God's evolution?

These are the thoughts that currently play across my mind.

The Vast Loneliness of God

Suddenly it occurred to me, after drinking some very good Chablis, that God may not be so tormented after all. While recognizing the transient nature of that which followed the Big Bang, God may be glorying in its magnificence. God is still fundamentally and profoundly alone and, when this Creation thing burns itself out, may once again experience the full measure of his loneliness. That is, if the pre-Big Bang Thing/Energy/Entity experiences consciousness. And after that, what then? Will God, if conscious, remember that which has been? Is God, if conscious, remembering now? Will God, if conscious, again erupt into that state which, at least this once, created a universe?

The Old Woman In Purple

Matt and I went to hear the San Francisco Symphony at Stern Grove last Sunday. For Matt, it was a symbol of a "return to normalcy," a return to his pre-Leukemia, pre- tumor on the parathyroid, days. We parked our car in a handicapped zone and waited at the corner for the shuttle that brings "seniors" and handicapped people to the concert area.

We were about third in line at the front of the shuttle bus when I noticed an old woman standing by herself at its rear. She was wearing purple pants, a purple jacket, and a purple cap decorated with flowers. Her beaded earrings were garishly large and predominantly purple. She reminded me of the first line in Jenny Joseph's poem, "Warning:" "When I am an old woman I shall wear purple." Someone ahead of us in line told the driver that the the woman in purple could go ahead of him. "Oh no," said the driver, "we have a special place up front for Shirley." I liked that the driver knew who Shirley was. I liked that she went alone to the concert. I liked her purpleness. Some day, I thought, I shall be the grandly alone in purple Shirley.

Shirley's presence was a peek into only one of my potential futures. I am in no rush to hasten that future. If and when it comes, it will be at the cost of the life that I am now so blessed be living. I embraced it as such and silently cheered Shirley on in her purple aloneness.

Later, as Matt and I waited at the end of a very long line for the return shuttle trip, I saw Shirley sitting on one of the folding chairs that were toward the front of that line. As the line moved forward, I saw that Shirley remained in her seat. When, at last, Matt and I were in the group that would be next to board the bus, I heard the woman who was guiding people onto the bus ask Shirley if she was waiting for someone. I could only hear enough of her answer to learn that she wasn't and that the bus driver would be taking her somewhere. For all I know this "somewhere" could have been only up the hill to where the shuttle route ended or to a bus station or possibly even home. The questioner lightly kidded Shirley about wanting to hang out with the young people. Shirley made some good natured response. I wonder what she was really feeling.

I thought about Shirley on the return drive. Matt and I had plans for a dinner at a local restaurant. I wondered what Shirley was returning to. I imagined that the concert was the highlight of her day, possibly the highlight of her week. I imagined that waiting for the shuttle driver to give her a ride was an event in itself, that it was not something which stood between her and the march of events in a life full of them. Of course, I don't know any of this. Possibly Shirley has managed to arrange for herself a highly fulfilling life with as many events as she could possibly want.

It is only a peek into one of my potential futures. And this is true both for how it is for Shirley and how I imagine it to be.

The Life of A Human Is Sometimes Too Damn Hard

A number of years ago, I decided that I would definitely not choose to be a human the next time around if reincarnation is what's ahead for us. It's just too damn difficult. We're too often powerless to change what's going on in our lives and too often vulnerable to the pains that life inflicts on us. That which doesn't kill us may (sometimes) make us stronger, but it can also eat away at our guts. Maybe we ultimately end up strengthened and blessed in some unanticipated way. Maybe the pain of a divorce, for example, clears the path for the unexpected joy of finally meeting one's true soulmate. Maybe a struggle against unwelcome tides strengthens us to move forward in swampy waters. Even with these sanguine results, many of us would choose to avoid life's hard lessons and make our homes in calmer waters. I think of a recent disruption in a relationship that was important to me. I would easily give up whatever strength I developed for the chance to excise that discord from my life. Perhaps that wound is still too raw for me to think otherwise.

I find myself thinking about this in response to an e-mail from a friend. She was discussing a difficult time when her world seemed to be falling apart. In describing the lack of empathy that she felt from someone close to her she said, "That whole time created some very deep and lasting wounds that have yet to completely heal." In a sense, her words normalized the existence of such wounds for me. I had been feeling that my continued sadness, anger, and detachment towards someone who hurt me was an aberration. We all, or perhaps just many of us, are the walking wounded. If we've risked our hearts in love, if we've wanted relationships that were denied to us, if we needed nurturing that wasn't available to us, we've been wounded. That we (eventually) pick ourselves up and march onward, is a testament to our survival, perhaps better for the experience, but also perhaps worse. At this point, I would slice from my life my most recent hurtful experience, but I'm ambivalent about some other deep wounds. I am largely the product of my experiences and, given a choice, I'd choose to live the rest of my life as the Me that I've become.

On the other hand, if reincarnation is our post-death experience, I would choose to become a mussel on a pier. Or perhaps coral. The environment around me would feed me or not; I'd be relatively passive in the experience. Or maybe not; I don't really know how these beings experience their own lives. My point is that I'd want to take a break from the challenge of being human. After I had a decent enough recovery, I might opt again for the challenge of Homo Sapienness with a caveat: The next time around I want to be an insanely beautiful woman whose beauty is matched by fine character, a sharp mind, and a joyful personality. I'll throw in extravagant wealth while I'm at it.

I Am Learning To See

Since I first posted the photos of daffodils about to bloom in late February, I have become (some would say) obsessed with taking pictures of flowers. Pulling off to the side of the road so that I could take a picture of a tree in glorious bloom would certainly seem to prove this. For an immediate gratification sort like myself, the digital camera has widely opened up the world of picture taking. In the process, or as the impetus for the process, I have created for myself a new project, a circular photo collage. Initially this was to be in the form of a mandala. My intention was to use only parts of each flower picture, perhaps a section of a daisy petal for instance, to create an abstract and balanced design. I jettisoned this idea when I saw how beautifully sharp and detailed the photos were. I became fascinated with what I saw when the smallest flowers were magnified by the camera.The only distortion in my eventual collage will be with regard to the relative sizes of the flowers.

I have discovered a world that has been pretty much invisable to me, or rather blurred, the world of flowers. Prior to my picture taking, I had no idea as to the vast variety of flowers in my immediate world. I saw purple flowers, but rarely the differences that define them. I have a deficit in my language of specifics. I can use the language of the abstract yet don't know the names of the flowers in my own garden.This is an embarrassment to me.
Picture taking has not remedied this deficit. Though bedazzled with the variety of flowers, I still can't name them.

I plan eventually to get a book with pictures of flowers identified by their names. Though I doubt that this information will stick firmly in my mind, it would be nice to have this information readily available. In the meantime, my bedazzlement intensifies as some of the early bloomers begin to fade and other varieties begin to bloom.

As to the flowers pictured, I invite you to identify them in the comments section.

The Colors of Spring

The Daffodils are now in full yellow and white bloom.








Along the road and in the meadows, the grass is a vivid green.









A blossoming tree shimmers in pink.









New leaves burst forth on once bare limbs





And in the distance, the sky is cloudless.

My World Gets Ready for Spring

The daffodils prepare to bloom. Rain has turned the grasses and leaves and bushes green. My world, in beauty, prepares for Spring.

When Is The Last Time?

When do you know that it's the last time that you'll do something? I think that it was after the death of my father that I first thought of this question. Being somewhat outrageous, but I don't think perverted, I had a rather undaughterly thought: My mother, most probably, would not have realized that the last time they'd made love would be the final time. One doesn't usually know this I suppose.

This is not a post about sexuality however. In fact, I'm not sure if this will turn out to be about habitual behavior or about books. This brings me to the stacks of books that have been growing on my desk top over the past 4 years and almost 3 months.


On December 10, 2001, I began a habit, a discipline of sorts, that I continued with until July 31, 2003. (Hmmm this seems to parallel the time when I was disciplined in my eating as well).
Sometimes I fell behind in this habitual behavior, but until August of 2003, I alway caught up.
The habit was to write a brief summary of the books that I had read. I began doing this as a way to remember what I all too easily forgot, not just what the books were about, but also titles and authors. My July 31st entry was about two books by Richard Russo, The Risk Pool and Mohawk, and Before Women Had Wings by Connie May Fowler.

After this last entry, I made no decision to stop writing my little summaries. I faithfully put each book as I completed it on my desk with the purpose of doing a writing up on it.
As the number of books accumulated, I thought it no different than any of the previous times
when I'd gotten behind in my write ups. I don't even remember when (or if) I realized that I'd stopped doing the write ups entirely. Certainly one would think that by the time that I had to begin my second stack I'd have gotten an inkling that I was no longer writing these summaries. Yet I faithfully continued to add to the stacks. When I began stack number three, I was still blind to my own behavior (or lack there of).

How could this be? How could I not know? Certainly I no longer remember what some (many?) of these books are about. Ah yes, now a memory fragment makes itself known. At some point I decided I'd just make a list of the books and their authors. And still I haven't gotten around to even this simple task. It's rather astounding when I think about it. And also not so surprising when I remember that I had on my to do list for many years the reading of my 1984 Camry book. (I finally crossed that off my list after I'd given the car to my daughter.)

The theme that's emerged has been procrastination - surprisingly.

As to the stack of books, I may emulate Cory who write reviews on her blog. I've been meaning to write about Richard Ford's The Lay of the Land since finishing it about a week ago.

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On another subject, yesterday I took down the last of our two hammocks. There may be a relationship here to the discussion above. My favorite place in the entire world is the string hammock that has hung since Spring in my back yard. I am basically a lazy creature. Laying on it with book in hand is one of my favorite activities. And even though my time on the hammock has been limited by the press of other activities, one can easily understand how the stacks of books can accumulate when the choice is between reading them or spending some quality hammock time.

Stump

I wish I'd taken a picture of the Oak tree when it's branches were full and birds rested on it's limbs. For now, all that I have is a picture of it's stump. Shortly after driving or walking through the entrance of my little community, I would see the tree standing proudly, to my right when I was leaving, to my left on my return. I always noticed it. On Monday, I saw chunks of wood in the street in front of it. I saw that it's branches had been butchered. Pruning, I thought, sloppily done. Tusday, as I left to meet my son for lunch in The City, I saw workers around the tree and a truck with the words "Tree Surgeons" painted on it's side. It was clear to me that they were chopping down my tree. I write "my tree" though it was a quarter mile from my property. It was my tree and the tree of all who loved it - or didn't. When I returned about five hours later, the tree was gone and the workers were readying themselves to leave. I paused in sad memory. A worker caught my eye and I raised my hand in friendly acknowledgment. He'd done his job and, as Matt pointed out to me, the tree had probably become a danger to passers by.

I imagine that the wood from the tree will be used. Perhaps it will be processed for ground cover. It will be going through the timeless recycling of material things, in this case aided my Man. The components of that which was my tree will continue on in other forms or energies or even perhaps as consciousness, this last a concept that I intend to explore in future posts. For now I have a sense of loss which I know that I'll release with time. For now I want to honor the tree, value what it was, and be glad that I can hold it in my memory.

Shooting Deer (or not)

This was the view from one of my bedroom windows this afternoon. Shortly before I snapped this picture, mom and her fawn were napping. One or two other deer rested in the shade nearby. I love living where wild deer freely roam. I volunteer with Wildlife Fawn Rescue and I donate money to 11 animal welfare groups, 12 if you count the Sierra Club. I care deeply about animals.

So how should I react to a proposal to shoot deer in Point Reyes National Seashore?

The deer in question are two non-native species that were introduced by a rancher 60 years ago for hunting purposes. This "sport" became illegal at some point, but non-native deer were "culled" by hired hunters until 1994. Once Man's guns exited the picture, these non-native deer expanded their population to an extent that has threatened the existence of the native animals. One of the "exotics", the white or fallow deer, has doubled its population to about 900 animals in the past 4 years. Added to about 250 Asian axis deer, another exotic group, these animals are straining the resources of the park. The native black-tailed deer and tule elk compete for the same food against a rapidly increasing number of the (apparently more prolific) exotics. Additionally, the large number of the non-native species is damaging the meadows and waterways on which all the species depend. Everyone involved seems to recognize this as a problem. The controversy arises with the solution. A panel of experts studying the problem for four years recommended a plan combining sharpshooting and contraception. Some neighbors of the park along with animal rights advocates are strongly protesting the sharpshooting part of the plan. In Defense of Animals, a group to which I financially contribute, is one such advocacy group. The Marin Humane Society is another. I contribute to the Humane Society of Sonoma County.

So how should I react to a proposal to shoot the deer?

One of my first reactions was to wonder what Marjorie Davis thinks about this. She is the founder and director of Wildlife Fawn Rescue and a woman whom I greatly admire. I plan to ask her about this. I wanted to explore my own thoughts, though. One of the first that came to mind was that this planned killing of the non-native deer could be seen as a form of animal ethnic cleansing. The idea repelled me as I thought of human parallels. Yet I found that I was not comfortable with a hands off approach to the problem. After all, it was humans that brought these animals to the ecosystem that they are now destroying. It's 60 years too late to expect nature alone to resolve the problem. On the other hand, the ancestors of these "exotics" have made their home on this land for many many many generations. Perhaps Man should let the future unfold as it will, Man being one of many causes in the evolution of the process.

Ultimately, at least so far, I find myself coming down on the other side. I want the native species to thrive. I personally dislike even the idea of hunting, but I accept the idea of people eating meat. In fact, I'm currently an omnivore. I think a lot about the process which bring meat to me. I'm greatly disturbed about the cruelty of the slaughterhouse and of the factory farms. I think that hunting animals as food is probably more humane. So it makes sense to me for sharpshooters to kill the non-native deer as l0ng as the bodies of these animals are used as food.

The experts say that using contraception alone will not solve the problem of the non-native deer. I'm inclined to go along with them. Contraception might be the "nicer" approach, the one that humans would find easiest to handle. (I don't know how the deer themselves would be effected by having their reproductive ability taken away from them.) Contraception might also be a luxury in the increasingly difficult situation of a deer population that doubles every four years.

Of course what I'm writing about is NIMBY (not in my back yard) - nor anywhere around my house. Leave my Bambi(s) alone!!!

Pete Wilson 1945-2007

Today I learned that Pete Wilson, my favorite talk radio host, had a fatal heart attack on Friday night while undergoing hip replacement surgery. I've been feeling vaguely despondent all day.
This has surprised me. After all, though I've listened to him often, I didn't really know him.

I met him only once, at a public event. He, along with 4 or 5 other KGO hosts, were on stage at the Marin Civic Center. They were answering audience questions and getting into hostile verbal exchanges between themselves. The audience was mostly hostile to Pete, who is not the former California governor though he shares the name, and another talk show host. My experience of Pete was as he portrayed himself, politically moderate and open to consideration of diverse ideas. To some in multi-mega "liberal" Marin county, where "liberal" too often means unavailable to consider alternative ideas, Pete's viewpoints were anathema. The loudmouths in the crowd joyfully shouted him down. It was really quite brutal. He was visibly distressed by the mob mentality, though he didn't back down. I think that aside from the personal nature of the rudeness, he was upset at the mindless arrogance of the mob in full armament against reason. It was an event to which he said he'd never subject himself again. At the end, as people were filtering out, I approached him on stage in a way that now seems stupid. "Yay Pete Wilson," I yelled. He turned to me and we exchanged a few words. In retrospect, I wish I had shared with him my view of the mob in a more adult way, but I think he got the message.

I don't remember whether or not I heard any of Pete's last broadcast on Wednesday. I read that he had some concerns about his upcoming operation and listened to a bit of his opening monologue that was posted on the web. Listening to his concerns about the operation was chilling. He mentioned that friends at the gym he went to told him of a man who had a fatal stroke 2 days after such an operation. Pete was analyzing his anxiety and making fun of it. He pointed out that 300,000 such operations take place yearly in the U.S. and few have any complications.

Pete was probably in the hands of the best and brightest. His operation was done at Stanford Medical Center. For much of the day I've wondered about my sense of loss. I've felt disoriented, confused. I didn't really know him and yet I did. He was a part of my life. I would postpone doing certain routine tasks, such as washing dishes or folding laundry, so that I'd be able to listen to him in the background. In a way, I knew him, though he didn't know me. And, in a way, he knew me in the sense that he knew he had many listeners and tried to make himself understood by them. He knew that people could be "thundering idiots," but he appealed to their intelligence. He was intelligent, knowledgeable, clear, interesting, and funny. Here is another story about him.

I've lost a person who has had a presence in my life.

A Comment About Comments

Thanks everyone for your comments to my last post. It's interesting to me that so many of you wrote about beggars as scam artists. It never occurred to me that the old lady was playing the all-to-common tourist scam. It should have; I'm friggin 61 and should be wiser as to the ways of the world. Also, as we got on the bus to return from the Sagrada Familia, two little girls attempted to pick my hubby's pocket. One diverted attention by trying to get on the bus with a popsicle (not allowed) while the other tried to do the quick (but not quick enough) five fingered pull. The point I was making in my previous post was about my own mental/emotional process, that a couple of statues could elicit so much empathy on my part, while a real person old lady elicited none. When I wrote the previous post, I felt deep down that the beggar lady was as she presented herself. Perhaps I was really seeing her as a fraud and not realizing it.

The Beggar Lady

When I went to Madrid last year, I left the tour group to go to the Reina Sofia Museum. The focus of this museum is contemporary art. While I was interested in such art in general, my specific objective was to see Picasso's Guernica. I don't remember whether it was before or after seeing Guernica that I had the most intense response to a piece of art that I've ever experienced.

I remember walking into a room and seeing two motionless figures, a naked male and female. The female conveyed the impression of unimaginable terror and unmitigated despair. The man stood taking the abuse, powerless to do anything but silently stand there. I had the impression that they were surrounded by their tormentors and that they would be savagely punished if they showed any emotion. They were at the mercy of a merciless mob, vulnerable in their nakedness and ashamed because of it. The mob mocked them. As an onlooker, I was a member of the mob. I was culpable in their anguish. The intense guilt that I felt because of this forced me to look away. I reminded myself that the figures were lifeless museum pieces and turned to contemplate them again. I had the sense that the man and woman had known that the jeering mob would have eternal life through an endless series of voyeurs such as myself. I turned away again, then returned to studying the two figures. This happened a number of times.

A couple of weeks later, I was in Barcelona. Along with hordes of other tourists, I found my way to Gaudi's Sagrada Familia. As my line approached the entrance, I saw an old beggar woman dressed in black. Her hair and neck were concealed, but her face was visible. She brought her hand to her mouth in imitation of eating and spoke in a language that I didn’t understand. But I did understand her plea and I ignored it. When I passed her, our eyes met and I sensed her disapproval. I felt judged as a selfish rich person who heartlessly denied the old woman the few pennies that it would take to buy herself some food. Her look of disapproval angered me and strengthened my resolve to give her no money. My attitude puzzled me. It was as if the old woman didn’t seem real to me. I wondered if she was a prop, a Disneyland type addition to the experience of visiting the unfinished cathedral. Or was she a participant in a research project devised by a sociology student. Let's see how people respond to a beggar when they come as visitors to a cathedral. These musings seem foolish, yet even now I’m not convinced that this was a real woman in real distress.

A little side note here: My daughter was due to arrive in Barcelona about a week after I left. I gave her some money to give to the beggar lady at the Sagrada Familia. As it turned out, the woman wasn't there. Was she really a prop or a part of a social experiment after all? Did she die of hunger? Was she beaten by the person sending her out in the streets to beg? I don’t know.