i am a wheel essay

Nature centres into balls, And her proud ephemerals, Fast to surface and outside, Scan the profile of the sphere; Knew they what that signified, A new genesis were here.

T he eye is the first circle; the horizon which it forms is the second; and throughout nature this primary figure is repeated without end. It is the highest emblem in the cipher of the world. St. Augustine described the nature of God as a circle whose centre was everywhere, and its circumference nowhere. We are all our lifetime reading the copious sense of this first of forms. One moral we have already deduced, in considering the circular or compensatory character of every human action. Another analogy we shall now trace; that every action admits of being outdone. Our life is an apprenticeship to the truth, that around every circle another can be drawn; that there is no end in nature, but every end is a beginning; that there is always another dawn risen on mid-noon, and under every deep a lower deep opens.

This fact, as far as it symbolizes the moral fact of the Unattainable, the flying Perfect, around which the hands of man can never meet, at once the inspirer and the condemner of every success, may conveniently serve us to connect many illustrations of human power in every department.

There are no fixtures in nature. The universe is fluid and volatile. Permanence is but a word of degrees. Our globe seen by God is a transparent law, not a mass of facts. The law dissolves the fact and holds it fluid. Our culture is the predominance of an idea which draws after it this train of cities and institutions. Let us rise into another idea: they will disappear. The Greek sculpture is all melted away, as if it had been statues of ice; here and there a solitary figure or fragment remaining, as we see flecks and scraps of snow left in cold dells and mountain clefts, in June and July. For the genius that created it creates now somewhat else. The Greek letters last a little longer, but are already passing under the same sentence, and tumbling into the inevitable pit which the creation of new thought opens for all that is old. The new continents are built out of the ruins of an old planet; the new races fed out of the decomposition of the foregoing. New arts destroy the old. See the investment of capital in aqueducts made useless by hydraulics; fortifications, by gunpowder; roads and canals, by railways; sails, by steam; steam by electricity.

You admire this tower of granite, weathering the hurts of so many ages. Yet a little waving hand built this huge wall, and that which builds is better than that which is built. The hand that built can topple it down much faster. Better than the hand, and nimbler, was the invisible thought which wrought through it; and thus ever, behind the coarse effect, is a fine cause, which, being narrowly seen, is itself the effect of a finer cause. Every thing looks permanent until its secret is known. A rich estate appears to women a firm and lasting fact; to a merchant, one easily created out of any materials, and easily lost. An orchard, good tillage, good grounds, seem a fixture, like a gold mine, or a river, to a citizen; but to a large farmer, not much more fixed than the state of the crop. Nature looks provokingly stable and secular, but it has a cause like all the rest; and when once I comprehend that, will these fields stretch so immovably wide, these leaves hang so individually considerable? Permanence is a word of degrees. Every thing is medial. Moons are no more bounds to spiritual power than bat-balls.

The key to every man is his thought. Sturdy and defying though he look, he has a helm which he obeys, which is the idea after which all his facts are classified. He can only be reformed by showing him a new idea which commands his own. The life of man is a self-evolving circle, which, from a ring imperceptibly small, rushes on all sides outwards to new and larger circles, and that without end. The extent to which this generation of circles, wheel without wheel, will go, depends on the force or truth of the individual soul. For it is the inert effort of each thought, having formed itself into a circular wave of circumstance, — as, for instance, an empire, rules of an art, a local usage, a religious rite, — to heap itself on that ridge, and to solidify and hem in the life. But if the soul is quick and strong, it bursts over that boundary on all sides, and expands another orbit on the great deep, which also runs up into a high wave, with attempt again to stop and to bind. But the heart refuses to be imprisoned; in its first and narrowest pulses, it already tends outward with a vast force, and to immense and innumerable expansions.

Every ultimate fact is only the first of a new series. Every general law only a particular fact of some more general law presently to disclose itself. There is no outside, no inclosing wall, no circumference to us. The man finishes his story, — how good! how final! how it puts a new face on all things! He fills the sky. Lo! on the other side rises also a man, and draws a circle around the circle we had just pronounced the outline of the sphere. Then already is our first speaker not man, but only a first speaker. His only redress is forthwith to draw a circle outside of his antagonist. And so men do by themselves. The result of to-day, which haunts the mind and cannot be escaped, will presently be abridged into a word, and the principle that seemed to explain nature will itself be included as one example of a bolder generalization. In the thought of to-morrow there is a power to upheave all thy creed, all the creeds, all the literatures, of the nations, and marshal thee to a heaven which no epic dream has yet depicted. Every man is not so much a workman in the world, as he is a suggestion of that he should be. Men walk as prophecies of the next age.

Step by step we scale this mysterious ladder: the steps are actions; the new prospect is power. Every several result is threatened and judged by that which follows. Every one seems to be contradicted by the new; it is only limited by the new. The new statement is always hated by the old, and, to those dwelling in the old, comes like an abyss of skepticism. But the eye soon gets wonted to it, for the eye and it are effects of one cause; then its innocency and benefit appear, and presently, all its energy spent, it pales and dwindles before the revelation of the new hour.

Fear not the new generalization. Does the fact look crass and material, threatening to degrade thy theory of spirit? Resist it not; it goes to refine and raise thy theory of matter just as much.

There are no fixtures to men, if we appeal to consciousness. Every man supposes himself not to be fully understood; and if there is any truth in him, if he rests at last on the divine soul, I see not how it can be otherwise. The last chamber, the last closet, he must feel, was never opened; there is always a residuum unknown, unanalyzable. That is, every man believes that he has a greater possibility.

Our moods do not believe in each other. To-day I am full of thoughts, and can write what I please. I see no reason why I should not have the same thought, the same power of expression, to-morrow. What I write, whilst I write it, seems the most natural thing in the world; but yesterday I saw a dreary vacuity in this direction in which now I see so much; and a month hence, I doubt not, I shall wonder who he was that wrote so many continuous pages. Alas for this infirm faith, this will not strenuous, this vast ebb of a vast flow! I am God in nature; I am a weed by the wall.

The continual effort to raise himself above himself, to work a pitch above his last height, betrays itself in a man's relations. We thirst for approbation, yet cannot forgive the approver. The sweet of nature is love; yet, if I have a friend, I am tormented by my imperfections. The love of me accuses the other party. If he were high enough to slight me, then could I love him, and rise by my affection to new heights. A man's growth is seen in the successive choirs of his friends. For every friend whom he loses for truth, he gains a better. I thought, as I walked in the woods and mused on my friends, why should I play with them this game of idolatry? I know and see too well, when not voluntarily blind, the speedy limits of persons called high and worthy. Rich, noble, and great they are by the liberality of our speech, but truth is sad. O blessed Spirit, whom I forsake for these, they are not thou! Every personal consideration that we allow costs us heavenly state. We sell the thrones of angels for a short and turbulent pleasure.

How often must we learn this lesson? Men cease to interest us when we find their limitations. The only sin is limitation. As soon as you once come up with a man's limitations, it is all over with him. Has he talents? has he enterprise? has he knowledge? it boots not. Infinitely alluring and attractive was he to you yesterday, a great hope, a sea to swim in; now, you have found his shores, found it a pond, and you care not if you never see it again.

Each new step we take in thought reconciles twenty seemingly discordant facts, as expressions of one law. Aristotle and Plato are reckoned the respective heads of two schools. A wise man will see that Aristotle Platonizes. By going one step farther back in thought, discordant opinions are reconciled, by being seen to be two extremes of one principle, and we can never go so far back as to preclude a still higher vision.

Beware when the great God lets loose a thinker on this planet. Then all things are at risk. It is as when a conflagration has broken out in a great city, and no man knows what is safe, or where it will end. There is not a piece of science, but its flank may be turned to-morrow; there is not any literary reputation, not the so-called eternal names of fame, that may not be revised and condemned. The very hopes of man, the thoughts of his heart, the religion of nations, the manners and morals of mankind, are all at the mercy of a new generalization. Generalization is always a new influx of the divinity into the mind. Hence the thrill that attends it.

Valor consists in the power of self-recovery, so that a man cannot have his flank turned, cannot be out-generalled, but put him where you will, he stands. This can only be by his preferring truth to his past apprehension of truth; and his alert acceptance of it, from whatever quarter; the intrepid conviction that his laws, his relations to society, his Christianity, his world, may at any time be superseded and decease.

There are degrees in idealism. We learn first to play with it academically, as the magnet was once a toy. Then we see in the heyday of youth and poetry that it may be true, that it is true in gleams and fragments. Then, its countenance waxes stern and grand, and we see that it must be true. It now shows itself ethical and practical. We learn that God IS that he is in me; and that all things are shadows of him. The idealism of Berkeley is only a crude statement of the idealism of Jesus, and that again is a crude statement of the fact, that all nature is the rapid efflux of goodness executing and organizing itself. Much more obviously is history and the state of the world at any one time directly dependent on the intellectual classification then existing in the minds of men. The things which are dear to men at this hour are so on account of the ideas which have emerged on their mental horizon, and which cause the present order of things as a tree bears its apples. A new degree of culture would instantly revolutionize the entire system of human pursuits.

Conversation is a game of circles. In conversation we pluck up the _termini_ which bound the common of silence on every side. The parties are not to be judged by the spirit they partake and even express under this Pentecost. To-morrow they will have receded from this high-water mark. To-morrow you shall find them stooping under the old pack-saddles. Yet let us enjoy the cloven flame whilst it glows on our walls. When each new speaker strikes a new light, emancipates us from the oppression of the last speaker, to oppress us with the greatness and exclusiveness of his own thought, then yields us to another redeemer, we seem to recover our rights, to become men. O, what truths profound and executable only in ages and orbs are supposed in the announcement of every truth! In common hours, society sits cold and statuesque. We all stand waiting, empty, — knowing, possibly, that we can be full, surrounded by mighty symbols which are not symbols to us, but prose and trivial toys. Then cometh the god, and converts the statues into fiery men, and by a flash of his eye burns up the veil which shrouded all things, and the meaning of the very furniture, of cup and saucer, of chair and clock and tester, is manifest. The facts which loomed so large in the fogs of yesterday, — property, climate, breeding, personal beauty, and the like, have strangely changed their proportions. All that we reckoned settled shakes and rattles; and literatures, cities, climates, religions, leave their foundations, and dance before our eyes. And yet here again see the swift circumspection! Good as is discourse, silence is better, and shames it. The length of the discourse indicates the distance of thought betwixt the speaker and the hearer. If they were at a perfect understanding in any part, no words would be necessary thereon. If at one in all parts, no words would be suffered.

Literature is a point outside of our hodiernal circle, through which a new one may be described. The use of literature is to afford us a platform whence we may command a view of our present life, a purchase by which we may move it. We fill ourselves with ancient learning, install ourselves the best we can in Greek, in Punic, in Roman houses, only that we may wiselier see French, English, and American houses and modes of living. In like manner, we see literature best from the midst of wild nature, or from the din of affairs, or from a high religion. The field cannot be well seen from within the field. The astronomer must have his diameter of the earth's orbit as a base to find the parallax of any star.

Therefore we value the poet. All the argument and all the wisdom is not in the encyclopaedia, or the treatise on metaphysics, or the Body of Divinity, but in the sonnet or the play. In my daily work I incline to repeat my old steps, and do not believe in remedial force, in the power of change and reform. But some Petrarch or Ariosto, filled with the new wine of his imagination, writes me an ode or a brisk romance, full of daring thought and action. He smites and arouses me with his shrill tones, breaks up my whole chain of habits, and I open my eye on my own possibilities. He claps wings to the sides of all the solid old lumber of the world, and I am capable once more of choosing a straight path in theory and practice.

We have the same need to command a view of the religion of the world. We can never see Christianity from the catechism: — from the pastures, from a boat in the pond, from amidst the songs of wood-birds, we possibly may. Cleansed by the elemental light and wind, steeped in the sea of beautiful forms which the field offers us, we may chance to cast a right glance back upon biography. Christianity is rightly dear to the best of mankind; yet was there never a young philosopher whose breeding had fallen into the Christian church, by whom that brave text of Paul's was not specially prized: — "Then shall also the Son be subject unto Him who put all things under him, that God may be all in all." Let the claims and virtues of persons be never so great and welcome, the instinct of man presses eagerly onward to the impersonal and illimitable, and gladly arms itself against the dogmatism of bigots with this generous word out of the book itself.

The natural world may be conceived of as a system of concentric circles, and we now and then detect in nature slight dislocations, which apprize us that this surface on which we now stand is not fixed, but sliding. These manifold tenacious qualities, this chemistry and vegetation, these metals and animals, which seem to stand there for their own sake, are means and methods only, — are words of God, and as fugitive as other words. Has the naturalist or chemist learned his craft, who has explored the gravity of atoms and the elective affinities, who has not yet discerned the deeper law whereof this is only a partial or approximate statement, namely, that like draws to like; and that the goods which belong to you gravitate to you, and need not be pursued with pains and cost? Yet is that statement approximate also, and not final. Omnipresence is a higher fact. Not through subtle, subterranean channels need friend and fact be drawn to their counterpart, but, rightly considered, these things proceed from the eternal generation of the soul. Cause and effect are two sides of one fact.

The same law of eternal procession ranges all that we call the virtues, and extinguishes each in the light of a better. The great man will not be prudent in the popular sense; all his prudence will be so much deduction from his grandeur. But it behooves each to see, when he sacrifices prudence , to what god he devotes it; if to ease and pleasure, he had better be prudent still; if to a great trust, he can well spare his mule and panniers who has a winged chariot instead. Geoffrey draws on his boots to go through the woods, that his feet may be safer from the bite of snakes; Aaron never thinks of such a peril. In many years neither is harmed by such an accident. Yet it seems to me, that, with every precaution you take against such an evil, you put yourself into the power of the evil. I suppose that the highest prudence is the lowest prudence . Is this too sudden a rushing from the centre to the verge of our orbit? Think how many times we shall fall back into pitiful calculations before we take up our rest in the great sentiment, or make the verge of to-day the new centre. Besides, your bravest sentiment is familiar to the humblest men. The poor and the low have their way of expressing the last facts of philosophy as well as you. "Blessed be nothing," and "the worse things are, the better they are," are proverbs which express the transcendentalism of common life.

One man's justice is another's injustice; one man's beauty, another's ugliness; one man's wisdom, another's folly; as one beholds the same objects from a higher point. One man thinks justice consists in paying debts, and has no measure in his abhorrence of another who is very remiss in this duty, and makes the creditor wait tediously. But that second man has his own way of looking at things; asks himself which debt must I pay first, the debt to the rich, or the debt to the poor? the debt of money, or the debt of thought to mankind, of genius to nature? For you, O broker! there is no other principle but arithmetic. For me, commerce is of trivial import; love, faith, truth of character, the aspiration of man, these are sacred; nor can I detach one duty, like you, from all other duties, and concentrate my forces mechanically on the payment of moneys. Let me live onward; you shall find that, though slower, the progress of my character will liquidate all these debts without injustice to higher claims. If a man should dedicate himself to the payment of notes, would not this be injustice? Does he owe no debt but money? And are all claims on him to be postponed to a landlord's or a banker's?

There is no virtue which is final; all are initial. The virtues of society are vices of the saint. The terror of reform is the discovery that we must cast away our virtues, or what we have always esteemed such, into the same pit that has consumed our grosser vices.

"Forgive his crimes, forgive his virtues too, Those smaller faults, half converts to the right."

It is the highest power of divine moments that they abolish our contritions also. I accuse myself of sloth and unprofitableness day by day; but when these waves of God flow into me, I no longer reckon lost time. I no longer poorly compute my possible achievement by what remains to me of the month or the year; for these moments confer a sort of omnipresence and omnipotence which asks nothing of duration, but sees that the energy of the mind is commensurate with the work to be done, without time.

And thus, O circular philosopher, I hear some reader exclaim, you have arrived at a fine Pyrrhonism, at an equivalence and indifferency of all actions, and would fain teach us that, _if we are true_, forsooth, our crimes may be lively stones out of which we shall construct the temple of the true God!

I am not careful to justify myself. I own I am gladdened by seeing the predominance of the saccharine principle throughout vegetable nature, and not less by beholding in morals that unrestrained inundation of the principle of good into every chink and hole that selfishness has left open, yea, into selfishness and sin itself; so that no evil is pure, nor hell itself without its extreme satisfactions. But lest I should mislead any when I have my own head and obey my whims, let me remind the reader that I am only an experimenter. Do not set the least value on what I do, or the least discredit on what I do not, as if I pretended to settle any thing as true or false. I unsettle all things. No facts are to me sacred; none are profane; I simply experiment, an endless seeker, with no Past at my back.

Yet this incessant movement and progression which all things partake could never become sensible to us but by contrast to some principle of fixture or stability in the soul. Whilst the eternal generation of circles proceeds, the eternal generator abides. That central life is somewhat superior to creation, superior to knowledge and thought, and contains all its circles. For ever it labors to create a life and thought as large and excellent as itself; but in vain; for that which is made instructs how to make a better.

Thus there is no sleep, no pause, no preservation, but all things renew, germinate, and spring. Why should we import rags and relics into the new hour? Nature abhors the old, and old age seems the only disease; all others run into this one. We call it by many names, — fever, intemperance, insanity, stupidity, and crime; they are all forms of old age; they are rest, conservatism, appropriation, inertia, not newness, not the way onward. We grizzle every day. I see no need of it. Whilst we converse with what is above us, we do not grow old, but grow young. Infancy, youth, receptive, aspiring, with religious eye looking upward, counts itself nothing, and abandons itself to the instruction flowing from all sides. But the man and woman of seventy assume to know all, they have outlived their hope, they renounce aspiration, accept the actual for the necessary, and talk down to the young. Let them, then, become organs of the Holy Ghost; let them be lovers; let them behold truth; and their eyes are uplifted, their wrinkles smoothed, they are perfumed again with hope and power. This old age ought not to creep on a human mind. In nature every moment is new; the past is always swallowed and forgotten; the coming only is sacred. Nothing is secure but life, transition, the energizing spirit. No love can be bound by oath or covenant to secure it against a higher love. No truth so sublime but it may be trivial to-morrow in the light of new thoughts. People wish to be settled; only as far as they are unsettled is there any hope for them.

Life is a series of surprises. We do not guess to-day the mood, the pleasure, the power of to-morrow, when we are building up our being. Of lower states, — of acts of routine and sense, — we can tell somewhat; but the masterpieces of God, the total growths and universal movements of the soul, he hideth; they are incalculable. I can know that truth is divine and helpful; but how it shall help me I can have no guess, for _so to be_ is the sole inlet of _so to know._ The new position of the advancing man has all the powers of the old, yet has them all new. It carries in its bosom all the energies of the past, yet is itself an exhalation of the morning. I cast away in this new moment all my once hoarded knowledge, as vacant and vain. Now, for the first time, seem I to know any thing rightly. The simplest words, — we do not know what they mean, except when we love and aspire.

The difference between talents and character is adroitness to keep the old and trodden round, and power and courage to make a new road to new and better goals. Character makes an overpowering present; a cheerful, determined hour, which fortifies all the company, by making them see that much is possible and excellent that was not thought of. Character dulls the impression of particular events. When we see the conqueror, we do not think much of any one battle or success. We see that we had exaggerated the difficulty. It was easy to him. The great man is not convulsible or tormentable; events pass over him without much impression. People say sometimes, 'See what I have overcome; see how cheerful I am; see how completely I have triumphed over these black events.' Not if they still remind me of the black event. True conquest is the causing the calamity to fade and disappear, as an early cloud of insignificant result in a history so large and advancing.

The one thing which we seek with insatiable desire is to forget ourselves, to be surprised out of our propriety, to lose our sempiternal memory, and to do something without knowing how or why; in short, to draw a new circle. Nothing great was ever achieved without enthusiasm. The way of life is wonderful: it is by abandonment. The great moments of history are the facilities of performance through the strength of ideas, as the works of genius and religion. "A man," said Oliver Cromwell, "never rises so high as when he knows not whither he is going." Dreams and drunkenness, the use of opium and alcohol are the semblance and counterfeit of this oracular genius, and hence their dangerous attraction for men. For the like reason, they ask the aid of wild passions, as in gaming and war, to ape in some manner these flames and generosities of the heart.

Ralph Waldo Emerson left the ministry to pursue a career in writing and public speaking. Emerson became one of America's best known and best-loved 19th-century figures. More About Emerson

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1342 words essay on Autobiography of a Wheel Chair.

I am a Wheel Chair, an item of great importance and utility for the handicapped. It is me who can provide mobility to the handicapped and disabled people. For those who have lost the capacity to move on their own limbs, I am an asset as, I help them in moving about.

My master is one Mr. Shanker who purchased me from a shop just a few days back, after he met with an accident and lost both his legs. I do not remember when and how I was made, but from the time I came to a shop, I remember my life as it has been.

For quite a long time, I do not remember how much, I stayed with several of my clan at a shop that deals in just wheel chairs. When we were together in the shop, we often discussed our utility. We would often wonder why, anybody would buy us when cycles were available and much cheaper than us.

All this was talked of as, we, the community of wheel chairs did not know about the possible disabilities of man, so we wondered why we were made at all. From the shop during my stay several wheel chairs did go out but, as they never returned to the shop, we all remained ignorant about our very purpose of life.

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However, this shadow of ignorance was after all shed one day. After I had been in the shop for quite many months, one day one Mr. Shanker came to the shop, and at last my turn had now come.

The customer came close to me to see me-I was unpacked and, as soon as I was out in the light of sun I saw Mr. Shanker, my master, Oh! God, this gentleman was without limbs – his legs were just half up the knees. Now, I just realised that, it was men without mobility that is, natural mobility want the help of the like of us. After Mr. Shanker had seen me, I was packed again for him to take to his home, and was loaded in his car.

Now I was very happy on two accounts, one, that I was out of that routine of the life in the shop, and two, I had at last understood my utility for man. I had hardly put my thinking cap on and thought of my work with Mr. Shanker, that, the driver turned into a home, which was obviously the home of Mr. Shanker.

Oh what a home, it was a massive mansion with servants moving to and fro through the house. As soon as the car was parked in the driveway, two sturdy looking men ran to the car, from I don’t know where, to help their master. The doors of the car were all opened and I was taken out from the back seat, while my master was helped out from the front.

I was carried by these two men through a huge sitting room, and a dining hall, and, I don’t know how many bedrooms till the final place of my posting was arrived – i.e. the bedroom of my master, Mr. Shanker.

To this place was also brought Mr. Shanker who came and sat on his bed, while the servants brought me and kept my huge bundle in a corner of the room. Now I realised that, I would be used by Mr. Shanker to enable him to move about in the huge mansion that was his home.

Now onwards, this room was to be my home, and my work to help Mr. Shanker move about in the house. It was really ever so depressing to see such a healthy, hefty, and young handsome man being so handicapped and dependent. Yet, I was glad that, I would get the opportunity of taking him out of this wilderness and loneliness of the room.

I had hardly settled in the room that, another gentleman entered the room and by their conversation I came to know that they were both brothers and they, and their families lived together under the same roof in this same mansion- Now, I was in the charge of this other brother, and the servants who would see that, I was always kept ready for use. Whenever I was required.

Now, my routine had changed from, sitting idle in the shop, just gossiping with my other colleagues, to, becoming an active member of the family of the Shankers and, had to shoulder the responsibility of helping the elder Mr. Shanker to become mobile, alert and friendly.

I now understood what life really was, it had so many ups and downs and so much of change, that, it could never be boring. I also realised that man, who is the highest species of God’s creations, also has to suffer in life, so, what to say about things like us, inanimate and crude compared to man.

Now I accepted life and its challenges and decided to take them as they would come.

Now life had become a disciplined routine and I’d take my master for morning walks, sitting out in the sun, places of worship and also to his business meetings. All this was fine and life became a duty and, I started liking it also till, one day I heard the other Mr. Shanker giving some foul instructions to the servants.

What I heard unnerved me and I wondered what could be my role and I thought that, here is a serious challenge for me. I had heard the other Mr. Shanker telling the servants that, the next day when I would carry the disabled brother, for a walk they should push me with him into the deep ditch that lay ahead of the garden – just a few yards away.

That night I just could not get sleep for, I would not like to get involved in such a nefarious job. I continued to think of how I could try to save my master.

After a perilous night, after all, the morning came and once again the instructions went round that, they must push him into the ditch with me. I was shocked to see that man even giving the servants some money to do this job. Soon it was time for me to move out with my master and, I had still not been able to plan what to do to save my master.

As the servants came out to help me out of the room, I stopped my breath, and this made the wheels get jammed. The servants tried their best but, could not move me an inch out of the room. At once, they ran to inform their unholy master of what had happened, and, in the meantime, I took a deep breath to be able to bear the next blow.

Soon I saw them return and try once again but, once again they could not move me as, I again stopped my breath. In this much time lost, it got dark and the servant were thus instructed to stop as, I would be first repaired and then they could complete the task left to-day.

Hearing this I took a sigh of relief that, I had saved my master at least this day, to-day. Now, as I write this my autobiography, night has fallen and tomorrow the same attempt will be made. I request all my readers to please pray to God that, tomorrow some miracle may occur and my master is saved.

Only with the help of God can my master be saved. How long can I dramatise as I did today? This sort of action could not last for long, and, in the very near future my master will be killed if God does not come to his aid. Oh! God, I pray to you to help my master tomorrow and many days to follow and may he live long.

What more can I do to help him being myself an inanimate object without any knowledge and any power.

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Sample Essay on The Wheel

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Top Inventions

The wheel is the most probable important mechanical invention that was invented; this is evident from the machines constructed since the beginning of the industrial revolution was made on the basis of a wheel. The potter’s wheel is believed to be the earliest wheel which was used in Mesopotamia in the early 3500 BC. The need for development of a functional wheel rose as a result for the need to transport heavy objects from one point to another. From the sledge to the log roller humans came up with fine ideas of facilitating heavy goods, this resulted to development of wheels. As the wood rollers were used, the friction that resulted made the wood to wear which shaped the wood in a round manner and shaping it. Wooden pegs were used to fix the sledge, the axle and the wheel created the movement (Machines & Inventions 7).

The wheel invention brought significance importance in the life of man. The wheel facilitated movement of goods and people from one point to another. It also used as gears in rollers in the various machines. The wheel invention made a great impact in the industrial revolution and led to development of locomotives, clocks, astrolabes, and water wheels among others. The wheel has continued to benefit humanity today, as goods, objects, and people are transported and able to move efficiently.

The Telephone

Telephone was invented by Alexander Graham Bell, it is a device that allows and facilitates transmission of sound from one physical location to another. Telephone can be dated way back to the non electrical string telephone; it was made up of two diaphragms coupled by a string or a wire. Sound was transmitted as mechanical ambiance. The success of Graham Bell came as a result of improving the telegraph, due to his expansive knowledge of the nature of sound and his understanding of music was his invention. This enabled him to come up with a system that allowed transmission of multiple messages over the same wire at the same time (Linder 5).

Telephone has enhanced communication technology, since it allows the transmission of message from the sender to the receiver. It is a source of entertainment and an important gadget to both the literate and the illiterate. Telephone invention has seen creation and destruction of jobs at a go. Through telephony, the art skills of writing were drained since there lacks the importance of writing whereas there is an option for direct communication.

World Wide Web

This is an information structure of interrelated hypertext documents that are gained access to through the internet (Chang 3). It was invented by a scientist known as Berners-Lee and the aim of it invention was to enable automatic information sharing between scientists and institutions around the globe. CERN was the first website and it put the World Wide Web on the public domain and this made the next release available with an open license.

The World Wide Web allows delivery of information in any format and in a wide range of computers. The plat foam provides a client server environment and has greatly enhanced and simplified the access to the internet. World Wide Web provides an extensive and expansive range of information since it contains huge and growing information database.

Were it not for such inventions there would not have been the kind of infrastructure that we have today, technology advancement would be minimal or no, industrialization would not be as successful as it is today. Such inventions resulted to reduced labour force that was used and helps increase the output required hence time and energy conservation.

Machines & Inventions . Irvine, CA: Saddleback Educational Pub, 2008. Print.

Linder, Greg. Alexander Graham Bell: A Photo-Illustrated Biography . Mankato, Minn: Bridgestone Books, 1999. Print.

Chang, George. Mining the World Wide Web: An Information Search Approach . Boston [u.a.: Kluwer Academic, 2001. Print.

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• The Case for Marrying an Older Man

A woman’s life is all work and little rest. An age gap relationship can help.

In the summer, in the south of France, my husband and I like to play, rather badly, the lottery. We take long, scorching walks to the village — gratuitous beauty, gratuitous heat — kicking up dust and languid debates over how we’d spend such an influx. I purchase scratch-offs, jackpot tickets, scraping the former with euro coins in restaurants too fine for that. I never cash them in, nor do I check the winning numbers. For I already won something like the lotto, with its gifts and its curses, when he married me.

He is ten years older than I am. I chose him on purpose, not by chance. As far as life decisions go, on balance, I recommend it.

When I was 20 and a junior at Harvard College, a series of great ironies began to mock me. I could study all I wanted, prove myself as exceptional as I liked, and still my fiercest advantage remained so universal it deflated my other plans. My youth. The newness of my face and body. Compellingly effortless; cruelly fleeting. I shared it with the average, idle young woman shrugging down the street. The thought, when it descended on me, jolted my perspective, the way a falling leaf can make you look up: I could diligently craft an ideal existence, over years and years of sleepless nights and industry. Or I could just marry it early.

So naturally I began to lug a heavy suitcase of books each Saturday to the Harvard Business School to work on my Nabokov paper. In one cavernous, well-appointed room sat approximately 50 of the planet’s most suitable bachelors. I had high breasts, most of my eggs, plausible deniability when it came to purity, a flush ponytail, a pep in my step that had yet to run out. Apologies to Progress, but older men still desired those things.

I could not understand why my female classmates did not join me, given their intelligence. Each time I reconsidered the project, it struck me as more reasonable. Why ignore our youth when it amounted to a superpower? Why assume the burdens of womanhood, its too-quick-to-vanish upper hand, but not its brief benefits at least? Perhaps it came easier to avoid the topic wholesale than to accept that women really do have a tragically short window of power, and reason enough to take advantage of that fact while they can. As for me, I liked history, Victorian novels, knew of imminent female pitfalls from all the books I’d read: vampiric boyfriends; labor, at the office and in the hospital, expected simultaneously; a decline in status as we aged, like a looming eclipse. I’d have disliked being called calculating, but I had, like all women, a calculator in my head. I thought it silly to ignore its answers when they pointed to an unfairness for which we really ought to have been preparing.

I was competitive by nature, an English-literature student with all the corresponding major ambitions and minor prospects (Great American novel; email job). A little Bovarist , frantic for new places and ideas; to travel here, to travel there, to be in the room where things happened. I resented the callow boys in my class, who lusted after a particular, socially sanctioned type on campus: thin and sexless, emotionally detached and socially connected, the opposite of me. Restless one Saturday night, I slipped on a red dress and snuck into a graduate-school event, coiling an HDMI cord around my wrist as proof of some technical duty. I danced. I drank for free, until one of the organizers asked me to leave. I called and climbed into an Uber. Then I promptly climbed out of it. For there he was, emerging from the revolving doors. Brown eyes, curved lips, immaculate jacket. I went to him, asked him for a cigarette. A date, days later. A second one, where I discovered he was a person, potentially my favorite kind: funny, clear-eyed, brilliant, on intimate terms with the universe.

I used to love men like men love women — that is, not very well, and with a hunger driven only by my own inadequacies. Not him. In those early days, I spoke fondly of my family, stocked the fridge with his favorite pasta, folded his clothes more neatly than I ever have since. I wrote his mother a thank-you note for hosting me in his native France, something befitting a daughter-in-law. It worked; I meant it. After graduation and my fellowship at Oxford, I stayed in Europe for his career and married him at 23.

Of course I just fell in love. Romances have a setting; I had only intervened to place myself well. Mainly, I spotted the precise trouble of being a woman ahead of time, tried to surf it instead of letting it drown me on principle. I had grown bored of discussions of fair and unfair, equal or unequal , and preferred instead to consider a thing called ease.

The reception of a particular age-gap relationship depends on its obviousness. The greater and more visible the difference in years and status between a man and a woman, the more it strikes others as transactional. Transactional thinking in relationships is both as American as it gets and the least kosher subject in the American romantic lexicon. When a 50-year-old man and a 25-year-old woman walk down the street, the questions form themselves inside of you; they make you feel cynical and obscene: How good of a deal is that? Which party is getting the better one? Would I take it? He is older. Income rises with age, so we assume he has money, at least relative to her; at minimum, more connections and experience. She has supple skin. Energy. Sex. Maybe she gets a Birkin. Maybe he gets a baby long after his prime. The sight of their entwined hands throws a lucid light on the calculations each of us makes, in love, to varying degrees of denial. You could get married in the most romantic place in the world, like I did, and you would still have to sign a contract.

Twenty and 30 is not like 30 and 40; some freshness to my features back then, some clumsiness in my bearing, warped our decade, in the eyes of others, to an uncrossable gulf. Perhaps this explains the anger we felt directed at us at the start of our relationship. People seemed to take us very, very personally. I recall a hellish car ride with a friend of his who began to castigate me in the backseat, in tones so low that only I could hear him. He told me, You wanted a rich boyfriend. You chased and snuck into parties . He spared me the insult of gold digger, but he drew, with other words, the outline for it. Most offended were the single older women, my husband’s classmates. They discussed me in the bathroom at parties when I was in the stall. What does he see in her? What do they talk about? They were concerned about me. They wielded their concern like a bludgeon. They paraphrased without meaning to my favorite line from Nabokov’s Lolita : “You took advantage of my disadvantage,” suspecting me of some weakness he in turn mined. It did not disturb them, so much, to consider that all relationships were trades. The trouble was the trade I’d made struck them as a bad one.

The truth is you can fall in love with someone for all sorts of reasons, tiny transactions, pluses and minuses, whose sum is your affection for each other, your loyalty, your commitment. The way someone picks up your favorite croissant. Their habit of listening hard. What they do for you on your anniversary and your reciprocal gesture, wrapped thoughtfully. The serenity they inspire; your happiness, enlivening it. When someone says they feel unappreciated, what they really mean is you’re in debt to them.

When I think of same-age, same-stage relationships, what I tend to picture is a woman who is doing too much for too little.

I’m 27 now, and most women my age have “partners.” These days, girls become partners quite young. A partner is supposed to be a modern answer to the oppression of marriage, the terrible feeling of someone looming over you, head of a household to which you can only ever be the neck. Necks are vulnerable. The problem with a partner, however, is if you’re equal in all things, you compromise in all things. And men are too skilled at taking .

There is a boy out there who knows how to floss because my friend taught him. Now he kisses college girls with fresh breath. A boy married to my friend who doesn’t know how to pack his own suitcase. She “likes to do it for him.” A million boys who know how to touch a woman, who go to therapy because they were pushed, who learned fidelity, boundaries, decency, manners, to use a top sheet and act humanely beneath it, to call their mothers, match colors, bring flowers to a funeral and inhale, exhale in the face of rage, because some girl, some girl we know, some girl they probably don’t speak to and will never, ever credit, took the time to teach him. All while she was working, raising herself, clawing up the cliff-face of adulthood. Hauling him at her own expense.

I find a post on Reddit where five thousand men try to define “ a woman’s touch .” They describe raised flower beds, blankets, photographs of their loved ones, not hers, sprouting on the mantel overnight. Candles, coasters, side tables. Someone remembering to take lint out of the dryer. To give compliments. I wonder what these women are getting back. I imagine them like Cinderella’s mice, scurrying around, their sole proof of life their contributions to a more central character. On occasion I meet a nice couple, who grew up together. They know each other with a fraternalism tender and alien to me.  But I think of all my friends who failed at this, were failed at this, and I think, No, absolutely not, too risky . Riskier, sometimes, than an age gap.

My younger brother is in his early 20s, handsome, successful, but in many ways: an endearing disaster. By his age, I had long since wisened up. He leaves his clothes in the dryer, takes out a single shirt, steams it for three minutes. His towel on the floor, for someone else to retrieve. His lovely, same-age girlfriend is aching to fix these tendencies, among others. She is capable beyond words. Statistically, they will not end up together. He moved into his first place recently, and she, the girlfriend, supplied him with a long, detailed list of things he needed for his apartment: sheets, towels, hangers, a colander, which made me laugh. She picked out his couch. I will bet you anything she will fix his laundry habits, and if so, they will impress the next girl. If they break up, she will never see that couch again, and he will forget its story. I tell her when I visit because I like her, though I get in trouble for it: You shouldn’t do so much for him, not for someone who is not stuck with you, not for any boy, not even for my wonderful brother.

Too much work had left my husband, by 30, jaded and uninspired. He’d burned out — but I could reenchant things. I danced at restaurants when they played a song I liked. I turned grocery shopping into an adventure, pleased by what I provided. Ambitious, hungry, he needed someone smart enough to sustain his interest, but flexible enough in her habits to build them around his hours. I could. I do: read myself occupied, make myself free, materialize beside him when he calls for me. In exchange, I left a lucrative but deadening spreadsheet job to write full-time, without having to live like a writer. I learned to cook, a little, and decorate, somewhat poorly. Mostly I get to read, to walk central London and Miami and think in delicious circles, to work hard, when necessary, for free, and write stories for far less than minimum wage when I tally all the hours I take to write them.

At 20, I had felt daunted by the project of becoming my ideal self, couldn’t imagine doing it in tandem with someone, two raw lumps of clay trying to mold one another and only sullying things worse. I’d go on dates with boys my age and leave with the impression they were telling me not about themselves but some person who didn’t exist yet and on whom I was meant to bet regardless. My husband struck me instead as so finished, formed. Analyzable for compatibility. He bore the traces of other women who’d improved him, small but crucial basics like use a coaster ; listen, don’t give advice. Young egos mellow into patience and generosity.

My husband isn’t my partner. He’s my mentor, my lover, and, only in certain contexts, my friend. I’ll never forget it, how he showed me around our first place like he was introducing me to myself: This is the wine you’ll drink, where you’ll keep your clothes, we vacation here, this is the other language we’ll speak, you’ll learn it, and I did. Adulthood seemed a series of exhausting obligations. But his logistics ran so smoothly that he simply tacked mine on. I moved into his flat, onto his level, drag and drop, cleaner thrice a week, bills automatic. By opting out of partnership in my 20s, I granted myself a kind of compartmentalized, liberating selfishness none of my friends have managed. I am the work in progress, the party we worry about, a surprising dominance. When I searched for my first job, at 21, we combined our efforts, for my sake. He had wisdom to impart, contacts with whom he arranged coffees; we spent an afternoon, laughing, drawing up earnest lists of my pros and cons (highly sociable; sloppy math). Meanwhile, I took calls from a dear friend who had a boyfriend her age. Both savagely ambitious, hyperclose and entwined in each other’s projects. If each was a start-up , the other was the first hire, an intense dedication I found riveting. Yet every time she called me, I hung up with the distinct feeling that too much was happening at the same time: both learning to please a boss; to forge more adult relationships with their families; to pay bills and taxes and hang prints on the wall. Neither had any advice to give and certainly no stability. I pictured a three-legged race, two people tied together and hobbling toward every milestone.

I don’t fool myself. My marriage has its cons. There are only so many times one can say “thank you” — for splendid scenes, fine dinners — before the phrase starts to grate. I live in an apartment whose rent he pays and that shapes the freedom with which I can ever be angry with him. He doesn’t have to hold it over my head. It just floats there, complicating usual shorthands to explain dissatisfaction like, You aren’t being supportive lately . It’s a Frenchism to say, “Take a decision,” and from time to time I joke: from whom? Occasionally I find myself in some fabulous country at some fabulous party and I think what a long way I have traveled, like a lucky cloud, and it is frightening to think of oneself as vapor.

Mostly I worry that if he ever betrayed me and I had to move on, I would survive, but would find in my humor, preferences, the way I make coffee or the bed nothing that he did not teach, change, mold, recompose, stamp with his initials, the way Renaissance painters hid in their paintings their faces among a crowd. I wonder if when they looked at their paintings, they saw their own faces first. But this is the wrong question, if our aim is happiness. Like the other question on which I’m expected to dwell: Who is in charge, the man who drives or the woman who put him there so she could enjoy herself? I sit in the car, in the painting it would have taken me a corporate job and 20 years to paint alone, and my concern over who has the upper hand becomes as distant as the horizon, the one he and I made so wide for me.

To be a woman is to race against the clock, in several ways, until there is nothing left to be but run ragged.

We try to put it off, but it will hit us at some point: that we live in a world in which our power has a different shape from that of men, a different distribution of advantage, ours a funnel and theirs an expanding cone. A woman at 20 rarely has to earn her welcome; a boy at 20 will be turned away at the door. A woman at 30 may find a younger woman has taken her seat; a man at 30 will have invited her. I think back to the women in the bathroom, my husband’s classmates. What was my relationship if not an inconvertible sign of this unfairness? What was I doing, in marrying older, if not endorsing it? I had taken advantage of their disadvantage. I had preempted my own. After all, principled women are meant to defy unfairness, to show some integrity or denial, not plan around it, like I had. These were driven women, successful, beautiful, capable. I merely possessed the one thing they had already lost. In getting ahead of the problem, had I pushed them down? If I hadn’t, would it really have made any difference?

When we decided we wanted to be equal to men, we got on men’s time. We worked when they worked, retired when they retired, had to squeeze pregnancy, children, menopause somewhere impossibly in the margins. I have a friend, in her late 20s, who wears a mood ring; these days it is often red, flickering in the air like a siren when she explains her predicament to me. She has raised her fair share of same-age boyfriends. She has put her head down, worked laboriously alongside them, too. At last she is beginning to reap the dividends, earning the income to finally enjoy herself. But it is now, exactly at this precipice of freedom and pleasure, that a time problem comes closing in. If she would like to have children before 35, she must begin her next profession, motherhood, rather soon, compromising inevitably her original one. The same-age partner, equally unsettled in his career, will take only the minimum time off, she guesses, or else pay some cost which will come back to bite her. Everything unfailingly does. If she freezes her eggs to buy time, the decision and its logistics will burden her singly — and perhaps it will not work. Overlay the years a woman is supposed to establish herself in her career and her fertility window and it’s a perfect, miserable circle. By midlife women report feeling invisible, undervalued; it is a telling cliché, that after all this, some husbands leave for a younger girl. So when is her time, exactly? For leisure, ease, liberty? There is no brand of feminism which achieved female rest. If women’s problem in the ’50s was a paralyzing malaise, now it is that they are too active, too capable, never permitted a vacation they didn’t plan. It’s not that our efforts to have it all were fated for failure. They simply weren’t imaginative enough.

For me, my relationship, with its age gap, has alleviated this rush , permitted me to massage the clock, shift its hands to my benefit. Very soon, we will decide to have children, and I don’t panic over last gasps of fun, because I took so many big breaths of it early: on the holidays of someone who had worked a decade longer than I had, in beautiful places when I was young and beautiful, a symmetry I recommend. If such a thing as maternal energy exists, mine was never depleted. I spent the last nearly seven years supported more than I support and I am still not as old as my husband was when he met me. When I have a child, I will expect more help from him than I would if he were younger, for what does professional tenure earn you if not the right to set more limits on work demands — or, if not, to secure some child care, at the very least? When I return to work after maternal upheaval, he will aid me, as he’s always had, with his ability to put himself aside, as younger men are rarely able.

Above all, the great gift of my marriage is flexibility. A chance to live my life before I become responsible for someone else’s — a lover’s, or a child’s. A chance to write. A chance at a destiny that doesn’t adhere rigidly to the routines and timelines of men, but lends itself instead to roomy accommodation, to the very fluidity Betty Friedan dreamed of in 1963 in The Feminine Mystique , but we’ve largely forgotten: some career or style of life that “permits year-to-year variation — a full-time paid job in one community, part-time in another, exercise of the professional skill in serious volunteer work or a period of study during pregnancy or early motherhood when a full-time job is not feasible.” Some things are just not feasible in our current structures. Somewhere along the way we stopped admitting that, and all we did was make women feel like personal failures. I dream of new structures, a world in which women have entry-level jobs in their 30s; alternate avenues for promotion; corporate ladders with balconies on which they can stand still, have a smoke, take a break, make a baby, enjoy themselves, before they keep climbing. Perhaps men long for this in their own way. Actually I am sure of that.

Once, when we first fell in love, I put my head in his lap on a long car ride; I remember his hands on my face, the sun, the twisting turns of a mountain road, surprising and not surprising us like our romance, and his voice, telling me that it was his biggest regret that I was so young, he feared he would lose me. Last week, we looked back at old photos and agreed we’d given each other our respective best years. Sometimes real equality is not so obvious, sometimes it takes turns, sometimes it takes almost a decade to reveal itself.

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I Am a First-Generation American

Posted by Sunidhi Ramesh | Apr 23, 2015 | Opinion , Wheel | 0

Photo courtesy of Flickr Creative Commons: Ana Paula Hirama

My parents grew up in India. They were born there. They went to school there. Their families still live there, and although they have now spent a larger portion of their lives abroad than they have in their mother country, they still call themselves “Indian.”

That being said, I am proud be the daughter of two parents who tried their best to understand the American way of living in order to raise their children as “Americans.” As children raised in the United States, my brother and I believed in Santa. We went egg hunting every Easter. For breakfast, we would have dosas and scrambled eggs.

Regardless of whether or not my friends and classmates thought so, I felt as “American” as an American could get.

Still, there were areas where my family lagged. It took a while for me to understand that it wasn’t exactly the norm to be parading around school in Indian attire. It took me years to shed the thick accent I grew up with. And regardless of how hard I tried and believed, there were moments where I just couldn’t blend in, moments where my Indian-ness undeniably bled through.

But these are all things that I came to terms with as a part of my family’s culture and background. I figured they were a part of making me who I am, and I came to embrace every part of them, having to balance the two cultures on my own.

What I was not prepared for were the subtle effects that being a first-generation student ultimately had on my education.

The system for education in India is entirely different from the system we follow here. The vast majority of students in India select their professions between tenth and twelfth grade. By the time their American counterparts are in their first years in college, hundreds of thousands of Indian students are already halfway towards being trained for their professions.

Now, this is just how the two different countries differ in the way they educate their constituents; the problem with the difference lies in how little it transfers over to immigrant parents.

Last week, a mother living in my neighborhood confronted me about her eighth grade daughter. “I just don’t understand,” she said. “Does she need to know what she wants to do now? What does ‘AP’ mean? [My daughter] never tells me anything, and the Internet is no help!”

This sounded surprisingly familiar. Throughout middle school and high school, I had to teach myself how to navigate through this “foreign” schooling system. My teachers in middle school threw around the words “AP” (Advanced Placement) and “IB” (International Baccalaureate) while I silently Googled the terms from under my desk. I did not know what the SAT was until early in high school. Just this past year, I had no idea what to expect out of the college application process.

Don’t get me wrong. My parents tried their best.

But there’s just so much that two people who have never physically experienced the American education system can do about guiding their children through it. But ultimately, while other parents held their children’s hands through every school-related process, I felt like I was blindfolded in the dark, left alone to fend for myself.

And it’s not just me.

In 2009, researchers Linda Banks-Santilli and Eleonora Villegas-Reimers published a paper titled “First Generation Students and Their Struggle to Succeed.” Within this article is a section that reads “Characteristics of First-Generation Students” followed by this lengthy and relatively unsettling list:

* “Come to college with fewer Advanced Placement courses in high school, lower SAT scores, and having spent less time on homework than non-first generation students”

* “Rank themselves lower than non-first-generation students in writing and math ability”

* “Work many more hours each week while enrolled in college than their non-first-generation peers”

* “Experience more challenges separating from their families of origin than non-first-generation students”

* “Have less disposable income for semesters abroad and service learning trips, trips home on weekends or between semesters, and for daily living expenses including books and computers”

* “Are less likely to engage in extracurricular activities on campus and are more in need of professional mentoring and leadership opportunities”

* “Rank themselves lower than non-first-generation students in assessments of self-confidence”

* “Describe themselves as ‘on my own’ when it comes to navigating the financial aid process”

Furthermore, many first-generation Americans compare their entry into college with visiting a foreign country without a map or the language needed to be successful. In fact, their experiences often mirror those of American immigrants.

Surprisingly enough, the article fails to pinpoint the reasons why this may be the case. In fact, there is little to no research as to why these trends even exist. While the Internet is flooded with information on first generation college students, I could barely find a decent article outlining the experiences of first generation Americans.

Whatever the case, these invisible barriers are so incredibly real.

Recently, a friend of mine spent all of lunch on the phone with a power supply company. I found this strange. Why was a freshman who lived under Emory’s housing system calling in to complain about the power shutting off? Confused, I immediately questioned him when he put his phone down. “My uncle’s power went out, and he does not speak English well enough to have someone do something about it.” When I asked why his parents couldn’t take care of it instead, he answered, “Well, to be honest, my parents can’t do much better than he can.”

It is an unusual situation to be in and one that is not generally seen as disadvantageous or negative; still, it is one that tens of thousands of students face.

So, here is my question.

If college admissions take into account “first-generation college student” status in accepting students, why is there no movement to have a similar process for “first-generation Americans”? Why are these experiences (not to mention the many other byproducts of being the child of an immigrant that are not education-related) given any significance in considering the background of a student?

And most importantly, why is there so little research on the experiences of first-generation Americans? Why is there so little information on the overwhelming number of students who fall under this category?

Why are there no voices to speak for all of these stories?

Sunidhi Ramesh is a College freshman from Johns Creek, Georgia. 

Sunidhi Ramesh

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Pulling together: how Cambridge came to dominate the Boat Race – a photo essay

The race along the River Thames between England’s two greatest universities spans 195 years of rivalry and is now one of the world’s oldest and most famous amateur sporting events. Our photographer has been spending time with the Cambridge University Boat Club over the past few months as they prepare for 2024’s races

T he idea of a Boat Race between the two universities dates back to 1829, sparked into life by a conversation between Old Harrovian schoolfriends Charles Merivale, a student at the time at St John’s College Cambridge, and Charles Wordsworth who was at Christ Church Oxford. On 12 March that year, following a meeting of the newly formed Cambridge University Boat Club, a letter was sent to Oxford.

The University of Cambridge hereby challenge the University of Oxford to row a match at or near London each in an eight-oar boat during the Easter vacation.

From then, the Cambridge University Boat Club has existed to win just one race against just one opponent, something Cambridge has got very good at recently. Last year the Light Blues won every race: the open-weight men’s and women’s races, both reserve races, plus both lightweight races – six victories, no losses, an unprecedented clean sweep. Cambridge women’s open-weight boat, or blue boat, has won the last six Boat Races while the men’s equivalent have won five out of the last seven. In such an unpredictable race, where external factors can play a large part, this dominance is startling.

Thames trials

Rough water as the two women’s boats make their way along the River Thames near Putney Embankment during the Cambridge University Boat Race trials.

It’s a mid-December day by the River Thames. The sky and water merge together in a uniform battleship grey and the bitter north wind whips the tops off the waves. Outside a Putney boathouse two groups of tense-looking women dressed in duck-egg blue tops and black leggings with festive antlers in their hair are huddling together, perhaps for warmth, maybe for solidarity. The odd nervous bout of laughter breaks out. For some of them this is about to be their first experience of rowing on the Tideway, a baptism of fire on the famous stretch of London water where the Boat Race takes place. “Perfect conditions,” remarks Paddy Ryan, the head coach for Cambridge University women, for this is trial eights day, when friends in different boats duel for coveted spots in the top boat.

A couple of hours later these women along with their male equivalents will have pushed themselves to the absolute limit, so much so that several of the men are seen trying to throw up over the side of their boats at the finish under Chiswick Bridge. This may be brutal but it’s just the start. For these students the next few months are going to be incredibly tough, balancing academic work with training like a professional athlete. Through the harshest months of the year they will be focused on preparing for the end of March and a very simple goal: beating Oxford in the Boat Race.

Agony for one of the men’s boats after the finish of the race near Chiswick Bridge during the Cambridge University Boat Race trials.

Ely early mornings

Two of the women’s boats head out in the early morning for a training session on the Great Ouse.

Early winter mornings on the banks of the Great Ouse, well before the sun has risen, can be pretty bleak. In the pitch black a batch of light blue minivans drop off the men and women rowers together at the sleek Ely boathouse that was opened in 2016 at the cost of £4.9m – it’s here that all Cambridge’s on-water training takes place. Very soon a fleet of boats carrying all the teams takes to the water for a training session that may last a couple of hours. Then it’s a quick change, a lift to the train station and back to Cambridge for morning lectures.

The women’s squad head into the Ely boathouse after a 6am drop-off.

As a rower descends the stairs to the bays where the boats are stored, there is a clear indication of why it was built and why they are there. “This is where we prepare to win Boat Races,” a sign says. Since this boathouse was built, Cambridge have won 30 of the 37 races across all categories.

Top: The men’s squad stretch in the boathouse before an early morning training session and a member of the men’s blue boat descends the stairs into where the boats are kept. Below: One of the men’s teams set off for early morning training and the women’s blue boat rows past the women’s lightweight crew during a training session.

It’s a far cry from the old tin sheds with barely any heating and no showers. These current facilities are impressive, enabling the entire men’s and women’s squads to be there at the same time and get boats out.

Top: The men’s blue boat prepare to derig their boat at their Ely training site. Above: The women’s blue boat put their vessel back in the boathouse after a training session on the Great Ouse.

But it’s not just the boathouse that has contributed so much, it’s also the stretch of water they train on. In a year when floods have affected so many parts of the country it has really come into its own. Paddy Ryan, the chief women’s coach, explains: “Along this stretch the river is actually higher than the surrounding land. The water levels are carefully managed by dikes and pumps. As a result we haven’t lost a single session to flooding. That’s not the case for Oxford. I believe their boathouse has been flooded multiple times this year, unable to get to their boats. We’ve had multiple storms but we’ve been able to row through them all.”

The men’s third boat practises on the Great Ouse.

It’s a flat, unforgiving landscape, especially in midwinter, definitely not the prettiest stretch of water, but Cambridge don’t care. Ryan says: “It might be a little dull on the viewing perspective but we could row on for 27km before needing to turn round. We have a 5km stretch that is marked out every 250m. We are lucky to have it.”

The men’s blue boat practise their starts on the long straight on the Great Ouse.

The sweat box

Members of the men’s squad check on their technique with the use of a mirror at the Goldie boathouse.

The old-fashioned Goldie boathouse is right in the centre of Cambridge perched on the banks of the River Cam. Built in 1873, its delicate exterior belies what goes on inside. This is the boat club’s pain cave, where the rowers sweat buckets, pushing themselves over and over again; it’s a good job the floor is rubberised and easy to wipe clean.

A wreath to Charles Merivale, the founder of the Boat Race, and wood panelling in the upstairs room at the Goldie boathouse which commemorates Cambridge crews that have competed in the Boat Race from 1829.

(Top) Seb Benzecry, men’s president of the Cambridge University Boat Club, and (above) Martin Amethier, a member of the reserve Goldie crew, sweat during sessions on ergo machines.

Iris Powell of the women’s blue boat (above) performs pull-ups during a training session.

Above left: Hannah Murphy, the cox of the women’s blue boat, urges on four of her crew (left to right) Gemma King, Megan Lee, Jenna Armstrong and Clare Hole, as they undertake a long session on the ergo machines. Above right: Kenny Coplan, a member of the men’s blue boat crew, looks exhausted then writes in his times after his session on an ergo machine (below).

Brutal sessions on the various ergo machines, where thousands of metres are clocked and recorded, are a staple of the training regime set in place. If there is any slacking off the students just need to look up at one of the walls where a map of the Boat Race course hangs. The “S” shape of the Thames has been carefully coloured in the correct shade of blue and record timings for various key points on the course have been written in for both men and women. All but one record, and that one is shared, is held by Cambridge.

Paddy Ryan, the women’s chief coach, talks to the women’s blue boat during a training session on the River Great Ouse in February.

A key ingredient in any successful team is the coaching. Cambridge’s setup is stable and well established. Paddy Ryan is the chief women’s coach, a genial, tall Australian, he has been part of the women’s coaching team since 2013. The care and devotion to his squad is perfectly clear. “I have my notebook next to my bed so I can jot things down. I wake up in the middle of the night going: am I making the right decisions? I care about them as people and I need to manage them … We joke as coaches that we are teaching some of the smartest people on the planet how to pull on a stick.”

Rob Baker, the chief men’s coach, has Cambridge rowing in the blood. Born and bred in the city, his father was a university boatman for 25 years. He even married into the sport – his wife, Hayley, rowed for Cambridge as a lightweight – so it was no surprise that he became part of the coaching setup way back in 2001. He was the first full-time women’s coach in 2015 then moved to take over the men in 2018.

Rob Baker, the men’s chief coach, talks to his blue boat at their Ely training site.

Apart from an obvious role in the development of rowing skills, a key part of their job is making sure there is a balance for their student athletes. They understand they have to juggle training needs. “Every week we have a general plan,” says Baker, “but then someone might have an extra class or supervision they’ve got to do so we have to move around it. They are studying at one of the most competitive universities in the world with the highest standards so you’ve got to give them space to do that properly.” He goes on: “But when they get on the start line for their race, they’ll be just as competitive as if they were professionals.”

The presidents

Jenna Armstrong and Seb Benzecry discuss their plans in the Great Hall at Jesus College.

Every year one man and one woman are elected presidents to represent Cambridge University Boat Club. They are the captains and leaders, not only responsible for helping design the training programme in conjunction with the coaches but also making budgetary and tactical decisions along the way. This year both of them, Jenna Armstrong and Seb Benzecry, are from the same college, Jesus, which helps the communication between the two of them. They share ideas and knowledge, thoughts and worries. Their lives, for these intense few months, are a juggling act.

Armstrong is a 30-year-old from New Jersey, and doing a PhD in physiology. Once a very keen competitive junior skier she was forced to abandon her hopes of a career on the slopes after a number of serious knee injuries. She only started rowing in 2011 and only became aware of the Boat Race when she saw it on TV a couple of years later.

Jenna Armstrong, cycling down the Chimney, the grand entrance to Jesus College, to go to the other side of the city to carry out more of her PhD research at the department of physiology, development and neuroscience.

The research she carries out at the university labs could be turn out to be life-saving. “I study mitochondrial function in placentas from women from all over the world to learn how genetic and environmental factors during pregnancy can influence placental metabolism and impact the health of both mother and baby. I’m particularly interested in growth restriction which affects about 10% of babies worldwide. That can have lifelong implications for these babies and currently we don’t have any treatment for this.”

Benzecry, 27, is studying for a PhD in film and screen studies, and comes from a completely different rowing background. He grew up just a stone’s throw from the Boat Race course and went to a school on the banks of the Thames. This will be his 14th year of competitive rowing but his fourth and last Boat Race.

“ I remember one year my birthday fell on race day and we watched after my birthday party. Because we live fairly close to the course, I’ve always felt connected to the race.”

Seb Benzecry stands next to an Antony Gormley statue in the Quincentenary Library at Jesus College as he conducts research for his dissertation which forms part of his PhD in film and screen studies.

Talking about how hard it is to get the right balance between academic student life and rowing, Benzecry says: “I guess you have to accept there are many, many things you can’t do, you just don’t have time for during the season. You have to put the blinkers on.”

Armstrong says: “I have to be very prepared, very strategic and organised. I pack everything the night before, and then once I leave my room in the morning, I don’t go back. That allows me to go to training, go to the lab, go to training again. It’s surreal actually, to come to a place like Cambridge, have one of the best educations in the world on top of the most incredible rowing experiences in the world. We have a thing now in the boat, when we are doing something incredibly hard, I say this is my ideal Saturday, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. I would rather be here than in bed or on a date. And I make everyone else say it with me too. I’d rather be nowhere else.”

Benzecry states: “When it’s really bad, when training is so hard, we say Oxford aren’t doing this, they could never do this. It’s an incredibly powerful thing to be thinking we work harder than them, our culture is better than them. They don’t want to go hard as we do – they might think they do but they don’t, they just don’t have it.”

Integration

The men’s and women’s blue boats during a training session on the River Great Ouse in February.

Until 1 August 2020, there were three separate university boat clubs in Cambridge: one for open-weight men, one for lightweight men, and one for open-weight and lightweight women. Since they merged to become one club, it has undoubtedly helped with everyone sharing the same resources and motivating and inspiring one another. No one is more important and everyone has a key part to play in the result. This year, Oxford have followed suit.

Baker says: “I definitely feel, for the athletes themselves, it makes a big difference. They all feel like they’re contributing to one common goal. Every cog in the wheel has to do its job but for sure it feels like one big team on a mission.”

Benzecry explains: “We’re seeing each other train, we’re all out on the water at the same time, we’re supporting each other throughout the season, building a sense of momentum for the whole club towards the races. Everyone’s just inspiring each other all the time and I think that’s been such a sort of cultural shift for Cambridge.”

The men’s blue boat pack their craft on to a trailer at their Ely training site ready for the trip down to London for the Boat Race.

Siobhan Cassidy, the chair of the Boat Race, knows from first-hand how the integration has helped. She rowed for the Light Blues in 1995 and had a key role in the transition. “We could see the advantages of working together, collaborating as a bigger team, the positive impact we felt that could have on performance. But not just the output, actually the whole experience for the young people taking part.”

Siobhan Cassidy, the chair of the Boat Race, pictured at the Thames Rowing Club at Putney Embankment.

This Saturday, if the weather holds, an estimated 250,000 people, the vast majority of whom have no allegiance to one shade of blue or the other, will pack the banks of the Thames to see these races. It’s one of the largest free events in Britain. Broadcast live on BBC One, the race is also beamed to 200 countries across the world.

The starting stone for the University Boat Race and pavement inscription: “The best leveller is the river we have in common” at Putney Embankment.

A map of the Boat Race course at the Goldie boathouse, with the Thames coloured in Cambridge blue and record timings written in for men and women showing almost total Cambridge dominance.

A sporting pinnacle being contested on a fast-flowing, unpredictable river by two teams of university students – it’s pretty bizarre. But maybe it’s that quirkiness that keeps the race, after almost two hundred years, still going strong. And even more bizarre to think that Cambridge, the current dominant force in the Boat Race, a sporting event that can’t shrug off its elitist stereotype, owes so much of that success to such egalitarian principles.

• The Guardian picture essay
• The Boat Race
• University of Cambridge
• Photography

Most viewed

I deleted my email app. My mental health, free time, and productivity skyrocketed.

• I've deleted social media apps from my phone, but was still hooked to my email app. 
• Deleting it freed up time in my day for more meaningful things.
• Checking my email less actually helped me to stay on top of my emails. 

Deleting apps for the sake of my mental health and productivity is nothing new for me. Instagram and TikTok don't live on my phone; they're merely temporary tenants I let stop by on weekends. But as a self-employed writer, there's one app that's haunted me far more than social media: my email app.

Unlike social media, my email is inherently tied to my work. Where TikTok shows me trending dances, my inbox shows me all the people I've yet to respond to. Not to mention, email itself is work. I can dip into social media as I dip my hands into a rushing stream — delighting in the cool waters of a distracting video, then dip back out. With email, I am Sisyphus, desperately trying to scoop the whole stream into little buckets all day while the gods laugh at their sick joke — the stream never stops rushing.

It wasn't until I attended a small business workshop a few months ago that I latched onto a radical idea for curbing my email addiction . Toward the end of the workshop, the host offhandedly mentioned she hadn't had email on her phone since 2020. It had never occurred to me: you could just... delete your email app?

Staying on top of my email had become synonymous with staying on top of my work . But I had to know: what would happen if I ditched my email app and only checked my inbox on my computer a few times a day?

It immediately freed up my time for more meaningful work

From the first day, it became clear just how much time I wasted trying to stay on top of my inbox . Instead of focusing on my to-do list for the day, all too often I'd get sucked into requests from others.

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Over the coming weeks, it became easier to dive into my creative flow and focus on my own priorities when the temptation to check my email app was gone. I was no longer stuck on the hamster wheel of reacting to others' needs and subsequently sacrificing my own.

It transformed my work-life balance

When I first deleted my email app , I decided I would only check my desktop inbox three times a day: in the morning, at lunch, and at the end of my workday. The habit became a powerful signal of stepping in and out of my professional identity. I'd put on my metaphorical Writer Hat by checking my email in the morning, and I'd hang it up again when I checked my inbox in the afternoon.

My work stopped bleeding into evenings and weekends. While it was scary at first, I realized anyone who genuinely needed me in an emergency had my phone number and knew how to use it.

It actually helped me stay on top of my email

Paradoxically, I consistently live closer to Inbox Zero than I ever have. Before, checking my email multiple times an hour was an easy way to get a hit of feel-good chemicals to my brain.

Now that I check less frequently, I'm not browsing for a dopamine hit — I'm really there to check my email. I've been shocked to realize how much easier it is to handle my inbox in a few fell swoops throughout the day rather than sitting and hitting refresh all daylong.

I have more time for what matters

For me, keeping on top of my emails simply isn't as important as other work tasks. So why was I treating my inbox as one of my highest priorities by checking it all the time? My email app had become a facade of busyness and efficiency. By stepping away, I've found greater clarity and peace.

Anyone interested in the same is welcome to message me — just remember, it may take me a little while to get back your email.

Watch: Threads vs. Twitter: What we know about the apps

• Main content

Mental Health at Iowa

Release the Hamster: 8 tips for Embracing the Simplicity of Self-Care

     Today I sat in the waiting room with my tween daughter, hurrying from home to be on time. Normally, I pull out my phone and read endless work emails or scroll through another high-drama news story. 

Sound familiar? I feel like I am a hamster on a wheel, worried if I slow down, I may not be as put together as I hope to be.

I stepped off the “wheel” and looked at her ever growing, sweet face. I listened to her tell stories about her friends, teacher, and the next social dilemma she was pondering. Fifteen wonderful minutes without chores, homework, or email. We laughed and shared stories. When her name was called, she  held my hand,  and she wasn’t embarrassed as she walked toward the nurse. Smiling the whole way. My heart soared. 

“Self-care” sometimes feels like something I need to plan or clearly identify as time for myself. But it can be so simple. There are many precious moments when you can pause to fill your bucket or at least jump off the wheel.

• Give yourself  grace . We don’t have to do it all.
• Take a mental health day, don’t wait for the next holiday break or summer. You don’t need physical symptoms to justify taking care of yourself. A mental health day isn’t weakness or being “unwell.” It is a position of health and self-care.  Embrace it.
• Practice mindfulness:  Be present . Multi-tasking only allows us to be partially involved in several things.  
• Adjust  your expectations. Maybe for today, maybe for the next year. 
• Practice  self-care with someone  else. Step outside for a quick walk, shut off the computer, or walk to a colleague’s office or classroom to just say hello .
• Validate.  We don’t always need to teach or fix. Sometimes we just  need to listen .  This is my favorite teaching video . 
• Find your happy. Know  what brings you joy  and do more of it. What did you enjoy 10 years ago? 5 years ago? What have you always wanted to try? Do it. 
• Time is precious, take advantage of telehealth therapy and doctor’s appointments. Better yet, take the time away from the screen to see someone in person.  Connect .

The Employee Assistance Program is dedicated to supporting the well-being of our faculty, staff, postdocs, and medical residents with confidential, short-term counseling; consultation for supervisors; and referral to community resources. For more information, resources, or to schedule an appointment, visit the UI EAP web page .

Cover image by Oleg Illarionov.

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Meta’s Smart Glasses Are Becoming Artificially Intelligent. We Took Them for a Spin.

What happens when a columnist and a reporter use A.I. glasses to scan groceries, monuments and zoo animals? Hilarity, wonder and lots of mistakes ensued.

Brian X. Chen, left, and Mike Isaac, reporters for The New York Times, trying out Meta’s new Ray-Ban smart glasses. Credit... Aaron Wojack for The New York Times

Supported by

By Brian X. Chen and Mike Isaac

Brian X. Chen is The Times’s personal tech columnist, and Mike Isaac is the beat reporter covering Meta.

• March 28, 2024

In a sign that the tech industry keeps getting weirder, Meta soon plans to release a big update that transforms the Ray-Ban Meta, its camera glasses that shoot videos, into a gadget seen only in sci-fi movies.

Next month, the glasses will be able to use new artificial intelligence software to see the real world and describe what you’re looking at, similar to the A.I. assistant in the movie “Her.”

The glasses, which come in various frames starting at $300 and lenses starting at $17, have mostly been used for shooting photos and videos and listening to music. But with the new A.I. software, they can be used to scan famous landmarks, translate languages and identify animal breeds and exotic fruits, among other tasks.

To use the A.I. software, wearers just say, “Hey, Meta,” followed by a prompt, such as “Look and tell me what kind of dog this is.” The A.I. then responds in a computer-generated voice that plays through the glasses’ tiny speakers.

The concept of the A.I. software is so novel and quirky that when we — Brian X. Chen, a tech columnist who reviewed the Ray-Bans last year, and Mike Isaac, who covers Meta and wears the smart glasses to produce a cooking show — heard about it, we were dying to try it. Meta gave us early access to the update, and we took the technology for a spin over the last few weeks.

We wore the glasses to the zoo, grocery stores and a museum while grilling the A.I. with questions and requests.

The upshot: We were simultaneously entertained by the virtual assistant’s goof-ups — for example, mistaking a monkey for a giraffe — and impressed when it carried out useful tasks like determining that a pack of cookies was gluten-free.

‘Hey, Meta, What Am I Looking At?’

What happens when a columnist and a reporter use A.I. glasses to scan groceries, monuments and zoo animals?

A Meta spokesman said that because the technology was still new, the artificial intelligence wouldn’t always get things right, and that feedback would improve the glasses over time.

Meta’s software also created transcripts of our questions and the A.I.’s responses, which we captured in screenshots. Here are the highlights from our month of coexisting with Meta’s assistant.

BRIAN: Naturally, the very first thing I had to try Meta’s A.I. on was my corgi, Max. I looked at the plump pooch and asked, “Hey, Meta, what am I looking at?”

“A cute Corgi dog sitting on the ground with its tongue out,” the assistant said. Correct, especially the part about being cute.

MIKE: Meta’s A.I. correctly recognized my dog, Bruna, as a “black and brown Bernese Mountain dog.” I half expected the A.I. software to think she was a bear, the animal that she is most consistently mistaken for by neighbors.

Zoo Animals

BRIAN: After the A.I. correctly identified my dog, the logical next step was to try it on zoo animals. So I recently paid a visit to the Oakland Zoo in Oakland, Calif., where, for two hours, I gazed at about a dozen animals, including parrots, tortoises, monkeys and zebras. I said: “Hey, Meta, look and tell me what kind of animal that is.”

The A.I. was wrong the vast majority of the time, in part because many animals were caged off and farther away. It mistook a primate for a giraffe, a duck for a turtle and a meerkat for a giant panda, among other mix-ups. On the other hand, I was impressed when the A.I. correctly identified a species of parrot known as the blue-and-gold macaw, as well as zebras.

The strangest part of this experiment was speaking to an A.I. assistant around children and their parents. They pretended not to listen to the only solo adult at the park as I seemingly muttered to myself.

MIKE: I also had a peculiar time grocery shopping. Being inside a Safeway and talking to myself was a bit embarrassing, so I tried to keep my voice low. I still got a few sideways looks.

When Meta’s A.I. worked, it was charming. I picked up a pack of strange-looking Oreos and asked it to look at the packaging and tell me if they were gluten-free. (They were not.) It answered questions like these correctly about half the time, though I can’t say it saved time compared with reading the label.

But the entire reason I got into these glasses in the first place was to start my own Instagram cooking show — a flattering way of saying I record myself making food for the week while talking to myself. These glasses made doing so much easier than using a phone and one hand.

The A.I. assistant can also offer some kitchen help. If I need to know how many teaspoons are in a tablespoon and my hands are covered in olive oil, for example, I can ask it to tell me. (There are three teaspoons in a tablespoon, just FYI.)

But when I asked the A.I. to look at a handful of ingredients I had and come up with a recipe, it spat out rapid-fire instructions for an egg custard — not exactly helpful for following directions at my own pace.

A handful of examples to choose from could have been more useful, but that might require tweaks to the user interface and maybe even a screen inside my lenses.

A Meta spokesman said users could ask follow-up questions to get tighter, more useful responses from its assistant.

BRIAN: I went to the grocery store and bought the most exotic fruit I could find — a cherimoya, a scaly green fruit that looks like a dinosaur egg. When I gave Meta’s A.I. multiple chances to identify it, it made a different guess each time: a chocolate-covered pecan, a stone fruit, an apple and, finally, a durian, which was close, but no banana.

Monuments and Museums

MIKE: The new software’s ability to recognize landmarks and monuments seemed to be clicking. Looking down a block in downtown San Francisco at a towering dome, Meta’s A.I. correctly responded, “City Hall.” That’s a neat trick and perhaps helpful if you’re a tourist.

Other times were hit or miss. As I drove home from the city to my house in Oakland, I asked Meta what bridge I was on while looking out the window in front of me (both hands on the wheel, of course). The first response was the Golden Gate Bridge, which was wrong. On the second try, it figured out I was on the Bay Bridge, which made me wonder if it just needed a clearer shot of the newer portion’s tall, white suspension poles to be right.

BRIAN: I visited San Francisco’s Museum of Modern Art to check if Meta’s A.I. could do the job of a tour guide. After snapping photos of about two dozen paintings and asking the assistant to tell me about the piece of art I was looking at, the A.I. could describe the imagery and what media was used to compose the art — which would be nice for an art history student — but it couldn’t identify the artist or title. (A Meta spokesman said another software update it released after my museum visit improved this ability.)

After the update, I tried looking at images on my computer screen of more famous works of art, including the Mona Lisa, and the A.I. correctly identified those.

BRIAN: At a Chinese restaurant, I pointed at a menu item written in Chinese and asked Meta to translate it into English, but the A.I. said it currently only supported English, Spanish, Italian, French and German. (I was surprised, because Mark Zuckerberg learned Mandarin.)

MIKE: It did a pretty good job translating a book title into German from English.

Bottom Line

Meta’s A.I.-powered glasses offer an intriguing glimpse into a future that feels distant. The flaws underscore the limitations and challenges in designing this type of product. The glasses could probably do better at identifying zoo animals and fruit, for instance, if the camera had a higher resolution — but a nicer lens would add bulk. And no matter where we were, it was awkward to speak to a virtual assistant in public. It’s unclear if that ever will feel normal.

But when it worked, it worked well and we had fun — and the fact that Meta’s A.I. can do things like translate languages and identify landmarks through a pair of hip-looking glasses shows how far the tech has come.

An earlier version of this article misidentified the blue-and-gold macaw. It is a species, not a breed.

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Brian X. Chen is the lead consumer technology writer for The Times. He reviews products and writes Tech Fix , a column about the social implications of the tech we use. More about Brian X. Chen

Mike Isaac is a technology correspondent for The Times based in San Francisco. He regularly covers Facebook and Silicon Valley. More about Mike Isaac

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