Alexandersmap

    Month: February 2020

    • Miles of Crunch

      The math adds up, mostly. When you walk 4.25 miles in one direction on a rail trail, you should get the same number coming back in the other direction. Except that I took a couple of detours on the walk north, exploring side paths that I’ve previously marched right by. This wasn’t a timed walk, it was all about being outside, alone with the ice. Well, mostly alone; there were the seven other people I saw, shufflers every one. The iciness of the rail trail made it unsafe for walking without micro spikes strapped into your hiking shoes, but crunchy ease with them.

      That crunchiness. The quiet solitude made the crunch, crunch, crunch of my every step echo off the frozen landscape, and I paused now and then to listen to the stillness I was disrupting with my walk. The crunch was caused by my micro spikes biting into the two inches of frozen carpet atop the rail trail, sprinkled on top with bits of broken ice accretion fallen off the branches above as the trees shrugged off last week’s icy embrace. Snowflakes drifted silently to the ground, not in an accumulating way but in a complete the scene way. I welcomed them and noted their progress along with my own.

      The ice crunch was my companion the entire afternoon, the chatty hiking partner with a lot to say, but not the only ice talking to me. The ponds on either side of me also spoke, in sustained, low rumbles and pops as the ice sheet on the ponds came alive in the relative warmth of the sun. For those in places where ponds don’t freeze, it’s a fascinating rumble, almost like a serpent is brushing against the icy ceiling, looking for a place to break free. It’s particularly exhilarating when you’re standing out in the middle of that frozen pond, with your body weight adding to the groaning of the ice. These are days when you forget the rest of the madness in the world, and it’s just you and the ice.

      I reached the depot on the north end of my walk, looked around a bit, seeing only two cars in the parking lot and knowing the three people who they belonged to whom I’d see on my return south. And I began the four mile walk back, walking with purpose, focused on getting back in a little more than an hour. That’s a good clip marching on ice, but my meandering was for the northward leg of my walk; it was time to accelerate on the return. Frozen footprints in the ice make fast walking challenging and a bit dangerous in the middle of the rail trail, and getting injured alone two miles from help wouldn’t do at all, but the sides of the trail were generally footprint-free and I made the desired progress. Walking for speed offers a different reward than meandering, this was more workout, less pondering the world. But I made it back to the southern parking lot pleasantly surprised by my speedy pace, finding my car alone in the icy parking lot, patiently waiting for its own chance to move.

      Ice offers its own rewards, if you’ll only look for it. This winter has been uncommonly warm, and the ice was a welcome return to winter for me. A well-prepared walk on a frozen carpet of wonder, surrounded by ice sculptures and rumbling ponds. That’s the February Sunday afternoon I’d been hoping for, an exclamation mark on the weekend and a chance to pivot into the week with a clear head.

      Frozen pond with a lot to say
      Ice sculptures change daily on the trail
      Broken bits of ice accretion sprinkle the landscape. These still show the curve from the branches they hugged

    • The Sorting of Stuff

      “Every book is a quotation; and every house is a quotation out of all forests, and mines, and stone quarries; and every man is a quotation from all his ancestors.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

      We’re all built on the stuff of those who came before us. We inherit the good and the bad stuff, and become who we are based on how we sort it out. Some sort it out quickly, some never quite get there. We’re all a work in progress.

      Whenever I feel a little tapped out on the writing, I fill the bucket back up by reading more, or getting outside. It’s no secret, really, every creative person says this. They say it because it’s true. I don’t believe in writers block, I believe in closed-mindedness, distraction, laziness and apathy. Those are the Four Horsemen I struggle with, and the best way to shake free of their grip is to move the body and move the mind. I have curiosity, patience, persistence, and empathy in my favor, if I just feed them.

      Reading and then quoting Emerson sparks the imagination, which in turn primes the writing pump. The writing in turn is a sorter of stuff, stuff like the quotations that I picked up from my ancestors, stuff like an antagonist when I was 13 who had some twisted quotations in his own life manifested in targeting fellow students, stuff like the picked up pieces from reading and encounters with people over decade after decade on this planet.

      There are other stuff sorters. I’ve sorted a whole lot of stuff walking. Steps stacked on top of each other sort stuff as well as anything I know of. Maybe you meditate, or go to therapy, or talk to a close friend about your own darkest stuff, and that’s good. Everyone should sort their stuff in their own way. Mine is walking and writing. That’s my quotation from my ancestors I suppose, all gift wrapped in a baby blanket. God knows it could’ve been a lot worse.

      Here’s the scary part: I’m passing my own quotations on to the next generation, mixing sorted and unsorted stuff alike into my marriage, parenthood, and the relationships I have with friends and coworkers and siblings and random strangers and blog readers. I feel compelled to sort as best I can in the time I have. We’re all wading through the muck in our own way. Sort it out or get stuck in it. Pass on the best quotations and try to leave the worst behind.

      The world is full of loud people sorting their stuff out in public. The people who have sorted things out a bit better in their lives tend to avoid that kind of look at me spotlight. Which makes the world seem quite mad if you look around at all the screamers, zealots and provokers prodding for your attention. I’m inclined to tune out the noise, seek out the well-sorted souls and build my house of quotations from better material. A foundation built in muck will only sink. Climb to the higher, more solid ground, look around at the better view, and set your foundation there. If nothing else it makes for more stable ground for those who follow you to build on.

    • Room for Wonder

      “What is this life if, full of care,
      We have no time to stand and stare? —
      No time to stand beneath the boughs,
      And stare as long as sheep and cows:
      No time to see, when woods we pass,
      Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass:
      No time to see, in broad daylight,
      Streams full of stars, like skies at night:
      No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,
      And watch her feet, how they can dance:
      No time to wait till her mouth can
      Enrich that smile her eyes began?
      A poor life this if, full of care,
      We have no time to stand and stare.”
      – William Henry Davies

      Life is surely for living and getting things done.  And yet it would be meaningless without a healthy dose of looking at the world in wonder. If this daily exercise in blogging has done anything beyond strengthening a habit, it’s prodded me to look at the world in new ways. It’s not like I was closed-minded before, but writing seems to widen the path just as Instagram and an iPhone got me looking at flowers and sunrises differently.

      But what do you drop for this new perspective? Does the mind expand? Sure, I’ll go with that. But does it expand from the writing or from the experiences you’re adding to fuel the writing? Does it matter?

      This morning my cat and I are looking out the window at the steady stream of birds going to the feeders and poking about on the dormant shrubs and vines, looking for leftover berries and seeds or a bit of shelter from predators like the one sitting with me. The cat’s interest is betrayed by her tail swatting me in the head as each bird or squirrel comes onstage. My interest is more subtle, but it’s there just the same. Winter is not the barren landscape people think it is; life goes on all around us. Putting a feeder out surely pulls in more of that life than there would otherwise be. Writing is like that feeder, and it gets filled with observations, poems and quotations and strung-together thoughts. And just like the bird feeder the writing pulls life out of an otherwise barren landscape of a more closed mind.

      Up again for another slow dance with caffeine, I look out the window and notice a doe a hundred meters out in the woods, seemingly staring back at me. Scanning the woods I see a few others scraping at the snow looking for acorns or other edibles. But this doe seems to be looking right in the window at me. Standing and staring, just like me. Beauty’s glance, right there in the woods, and I’m grateful for the opportunity to see it. And that’s life, one moment of beauty at a time amongst the stark and barren. You just have to look for it.

    • What a Turkey

      I watched a pair of turkeys walk through the woods, hop the fence and beeline right for the bird feeders, where the buffet of dropped seed from smaller birds is readily available. As they walked across the frozen backyard one of the turkeys slipped on the icy ground, jerked awkwardly and recovered. “Nothing to see here”, it seemed to say. I did a similar move yesterday in dress shoes on a patch of ice. It seems I’m not the only turkey trying to walk on ice.

      Once, wild turkey were a novelty here, perhaps
      twenty years ago, or so. You’d see them now and then, but now…. To see thirty turkey dominate the front yard? Gobbling and bickering, like they own the place? Commonplace. And so is the evidence of their visit, in tracks all over the yard and turkey turds everywhere. No, this won’t do. When Bodhi was alive he’d keep these turkey at bay, but nowadays there’s no deterrent for them. My yard has become free range for poultry.

      I suppose others thought the same thing when we moved in, acting like we owned the place. Cutting down trees, putting up sheds and fences and dropping swimming pools into the ground. Our tracks are more permanent than these other turkeys. So who am I to complain about these characters coming into my yard? It’s only mine because a bank and lawyers say it’s mine. I’m just a turkey with a mortgage. These other turkeys? They might just be smarter than me.

    • Living the Second Life

      “We have two lives, and the second begins when we realize we only have one.” – Confucius

      This might be the most Stoic quote ever attributed to Confucius. Epictetus or Marcus Aurelius or Seneca danced around this same concept: Life is short, we only have today, do something with this gift. Words, really, until you truly realize it… and live accordingly.

      I’m well into my “second life”, but for me that hasn’t meant dropping everything and sailing around the world. I have friends doing that and believe me, there are days when I’d like to. But I’m deep into the life I’ve built and living means something different to me at the moment. Last night I watched another close basketball game as my son’s team pulled out an important win. He’s down to his last four regular season games in his college career and it’s not lost on him that one way or another there just aren’t many more opportunities to play left for him. And he’s rising to the occasion, playing meaningful minutes, playing big and being a leader on the court. It meant another late night of driving for me, but I wouldn’t want to have been anywhere else in the world.

    • The First Cup Is The Deepest

      Yeah, I know, the lyric is the first cut is the deepest, not cup… but it applies equally well to both. Hear me out. I’d contend that there’s far more meaning, more depth, in the first cup of coffee, tea or alcoholic beverage than there is in any subsequent cup. Let’s use coffee as our example. It’s dark outside as the sun catches up with the early risers. I’ve just brewed my morning coffee, robust dark roast, thank you, and carefully monitor the temperature for that magical first sip. This is the most zen-like moment of the day for coffee consumption, and a moment when my mind is most open to new ideas. This is the magic cuppa, the most clear-headed and open my mind will be all day, undistracted by the clutter of life. This is where the deep thoughts happen.

      This morning I’m re-assessing my daily routine after the magic hour. The first hour of the day is by far the most productive, and I push to do everything that must be done before the muse fades into the ambient noise of life. For me that means writing, reading, and a quick survey of the bullet journal tasks I need to accomplish that day. That “magic hour” tends to be more like 90 minutes, and then I’m feeling the restlessness build with the volume of the ambient noise around me.

      The coffee cup is empty, the darkness of the morning has given way to light, and any moment now the night owl’s alarm clock will chirp upstairs. It’s time to shift gears to that first bullet in the journal, and the game of putting an X through as many as possible before the day ends. The ambient noise kicks in: What’s the weather today? Who won the Iowa Caucus? Why did the Red Sox trade one of the best players in baseball? Do I even care about the Red Sox anymore after the off-season they’ve had? And so on. Noise.

      I consider another cup of coffee, but I know it won’t be the same. Better to get moving, literally and figuratively, and get into the flow of the work day. Such is the daily battle. I feel the crush of things to do, sigh and get on with it. I wish that first cup would last all day.

    • Truck Day

      It hasn’t been a normal winter. Temperatures are milder, early winter snow has largely melted, ponds are at best unsafe to walk on. If Australia is burning, New England is experiencing one of the warmest winters on record. The world is unsettled… but small signs of familiar are out there if you look for them. Even if these too have an odd twist to them.

      Yesterday was Truck Day in Boston. That probably means nothing to most people in the world – and why would it? Truck Day is the first sign of spring on a normally cold and relentless winter, when snow storm after snow storm batters our very souls. And while the winter hasn’t spun into soul-crushing yet (there’s still time), Truck Day still highlights the rite of passage from thinking of winter to Hey! It’s almost Spring!

      Truck Day is when the Boston Red Sox roll their trucks full of baseballs and uniforms and God knows what from Fenway Park to Fort Myers, Florida to be unloaded and ready for Spring Training. It’s a light at the end of the tunnel, hope for better days ahead. Dreams of green in a brown, monochrome world. But even Truck Day feels different this year. The Red Sox fired their Manager in the midst of a cheating scandal, there’s talk of trading star players instead of excitement about the pitching rotation and the outfielders. No, it’s an unsettled winter on Causeway Street, which makes Truck Day just like everything else this winter; a bit off. Like waking up the first day you have symptoms of the flu off. And this winter, of all winters, comparing an event you normally look forward to to the flu isn’t the kind of light at the end of the tunnel that you want to see. It might just be that speeding train barreling towards you.

      But that’s pessimistic talk, and Truck Day, even with the chaos in the world and on the Red Sox, is a good sign. Maybe this will once again be their year. If they can find a Manager anyway. And then it hit me, this is how we used to think before the Red Sox started winning World Series. Jaded optimism disguised as pessimism after getting beaten down year-after-year by the Yankees or (going way back) the Orioles. Yeah, that’s the feeling I was trying to place, the feeling of dread hiding behind hope, as another season begins for The Olde Town Team. Buckle up everyone.

    • Meeting Luck

      Last night I won $225 in a Super Bowl office pool I didn’t participate in, from an office I don’t work in, and had little knowledge of before I was told I’d won. My wife picked a random square at her job, wrote my name on it and the score aligned with that random number. That’s random luck for you.

      Saturday I watched my son’s basketball team pull out a win as they broke the press in the final minutes and hit clutch free throws as time ran out for their opponent. The game could have gone either way, but key individual matchups and years of practicing how to break the press (get to the ball!) and shooting free throws made all the difference when the game mattered most. That’s making your own luck for you.

      It’s now Monday morning, the sky is slowly brightening, and I‘m well into the day already. I have a morning routine that, like practicing free throws, becomes muscle memory. If luck is random, it’s also fickle. I’ve never won millions of dollars in the lottery, but I know good luck when I see it. Like breaking the press, you’ve got to get up and meet it.

    • Palindrome

      02/02/2020 is almost over in this time zone, and it’s worth a mention before it passes by. Read it frontwards or backwards and it reads the same. Surely a novelty of the calendar. It hasn’t happened since 11/11/1111 and won’t happen again until well after all of us leave this planet (probably along with our grandchildren) on 12/12/2121. That’s an interesting date itself, and I wonder what the world will be like in 101 years? A better place or an environmental wasteland? At war or finally, blessedly at peace? The future holds the answer, and all we can do is influence it in some small way. Our token ripple on the pond of history. What shall that be?

    • In The Here

      “Stress is caused by being “here” but wanting to be “there,” or being in the present but wanting to be in the future. It’s a split that tears you apart inside.” – Eckhart Tolle

      If there’s a cause for frustration, resentment and dissatisfaction in life, it’s this battle between here and there. The have’s versus the have-nots. There’s a lot to be said for aspiring for more. After all, if we don’t have a vision of where we want to go, how do we find the most efficient path to get there? But when you focus too much on “there” it just makes you miserable inside. And who wants to be a miserable snot?

      No, the better approach is to practice gratitude for what you have now, in the here. Several people I follow advocate for writing down what you’re grateful for every day, to reinforce that spirit of gratitude and appreciation for what you have. And most of us have a lot. We’re truly wealthy, yet focus on what we don’t have. What a waste. Give me gratitude, and a focus on what I have today, even as I steer a course for tomorrow.