Alexandersmap

    Month: May 2020

    • Drink Up

      “The cup of life’s for him that drinks
           And not for him that sips.” 
       – Robert Louis Stevenson, Away With Funeral Music

      I read through several poems this morning, finding them all falling flat for me.  Same with the books I’m reading.  I know I have a few stand-byes I can call up, but I resist the urge to tap into Henry and Mary and Hafiz this morning.  I welcome them all, but today I want to explore new places.  And then Robert Louis Stevenson tapped on my shoulder.  Here was a fascinating guy; Scottish (good start), prolific writer and adventurous soul who suffered from respiratory issues but pushed through them anyway to travel the world.  Look at a picture of Stevenson towards the end of his life, while he was living in Samoa, and you see a twinkle in his eyes.  This was a guy who was drinking from the cup of life right to his abrupt departure at the age of 44.

      So what of us?  Why take little sips when you don’t know which will be your last.  Drink with gusto, maybe with a little dribbling out the corner of your mouth.  Get out there when the world opens up and experience all that’s available to us.  I’m not talking about debauchery here, but living larger.  Doing more with the time you have.  Now.

      “Good is the enemy of great. And that is one of the key reasons why we have so little that becomes great. We don’t have great schools, principally because we have good schools. We don’t have great government, principally because we have good government. Few people attain great lives, in large part because it is just so easy to settle for a good life.” – Jim Collins, Good To Great

      It’s so easy to settle for a good life…  because it’s pretty good.  But Stevenson had a good life in Edinburgh too, and he still got up and got out there to see the world.  And to write timeless work.  And live with a twinkle in his eye right to the end.  So drink up.  We’ve got work to do.

       

       

    • Not an Anchor but a Mast

      “Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral. But you, children of space, you restless in rest, you shall not be trapped nor tamed. Your house shall be not an anchor but a mast.” – Khalil Gibran, The Prophet

      “Restless in rest” sums up my weekends, and my time on Buzzards Bay, and sailing, and in the garden and in the house… and in stillness. I need to keep moving and doing things. I’m not much of a meditator. I calm the mind through doing things. Meditate? Do the dishes! Weed the garden! Paint something!  Trim the hedges!  That’s my meditation. Rest is not in my DNA.  Even at my desk I had to put in a sit/stand adapter because I can’t sit still all day.  I guess that makes me a child of space, like a worker bee.  Worker bees don’t sit still. They fly far away, find and collect beautiful bounty, and return it to the nest.  They simply… work. And so must I.

      This concept of your house as a mast mesmerized me, for uh, verily, I’ve long thought of it as an anchor.  In normal times my career takes me to faraway places to busily go about my work and then to return home to the nest with whatever I earned along the way.  Home was an anchor that held me to a certain place, the opposite of a mast.  Wandering souls need masts and disdain anchors, like a dog tied to a tree gnaws at the rope. But don’t we need both?  A place to ground us and fair winds to fly before?

      Every night I lie down in bed with a Groundhog Day feeling.  That feeling of doing the exact same thing that you did the night before and the night before that.  That’s what staying home does to me.  And yet every day is different, full of progression and setbacks and new discoveries and familiar faces seen in a new way.  And I wake in the morning and set the sails and find new ways to move forward.  Shunning comfort.  To be hungrier.  To run lean and with an eye to the horizon.  But you’ve got to weigh anchor before you set the sails, even if it’s only in your mind.

    • Consider The Hummingbird

      “Consider the hummingbird for a long moment…. Each one visits a thousand flowers a day. They can dive at sixty miles an hour. They can fly backward. They can fly more than five hundred miles without pausing to rest. But when they rest they come close to death: on frigid nights, or when they are starving, they retreat into torpor, their metabolic rate slowing to a fifteenth of their normal sleep rate, their hearts sludging nearly to a halt, barely beating, and if they are not soon warmed, if they do not soon find that which is sweet, their hearts grow cold, and they cease to be… The price of their ambition is a life closer to death; they suffer more heart attacks and aneurysms and ruptures than any other living creature.”

      “Every creature on earth has approximately two billion heartbeats to spend in a lifetime. You can spend them slowly, like a tortoise, and live to be two hundred years old, or you can spend them fast, like a hummingbird, and live to be two years old.”

      “No living being is without interior liquid motion. We all churn inside.” – Brian Doyle, Joyas Voladoras

      I get a bit breathless when I read something as stunning as Joyas Voladoras, and perhaps I share too much of it here.  It’s from a collection of essays by Brian Doyle in One Long River Of Song.  I’ve been saving it until I saw my first hummingbird of the season, figuring it would be a nice way to mark the occasion.  Well, that happened over two days ago, and I’m happy to share the sparkling light of Joyas Voladoras with you now.  Welcome back, hummingbirds, I’m glad to see you return to the garden.

      I play my part in keeping them from retreating to tupor with as many hummingbird-friendly plants and flowers as I can justify cramming into the sunniest corners of my backyard.  And in return they keep me from returning to tupor, if only for this short season.  For that I’m grateful, and I keep finding more excuses to add maybe just one more plant.  The bees return first, followed by the hummingbirds, and soon the butterflies will return too and the garden will be complete.  Or maybe it’s me that will be, or maybe all of us, in this together with our collection of heartbeats thumping to the song of today.

      Reading an essay like Joyas Voladoras swings the spotlight onto my own work, and I recognize that I have a ways to go in the writing.  But the blog serves as my apprenticeship and I keep putting it out there even if it misses the mark or is welcomed with grateful indifference.  I’m silently plotting an escape for my ambitions, one post at a time.  Words and structure of sentences are one thing, but weaving sparkling light and magic into those words is another.  What makes you breathless as a reader?  We all churn inside, don’t we?  How do we share that with the world?  Bird by bird, today and tomorrow too.  There’s enough tupor in the world, we all need a bit more warmth.

    • The Forest For The Trees

      “Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured. And every young farmboy knows that the hardest and noblest wood has the narrowest rings, that high on the mountains and in continuing danger the most indestructible, the strongest, the ideal trees grow.” – Hermann Hess

      This is the time of year when I slightly resent the trees around me.  I recognize the love/hate relationship I have and let it be.  The trees that surround me offer shade and shelter and song.  For these things I’m most grateful.  But they also offer a level of constant maintenance that wears me down at times.  The trees want to reproduce, and so they cast thousands of seeds and clouds of pollen at the time when I’m most eager to just be at ease for awhile.  And then just when I grow fond of them again we do it all over again in the fall with leaves and acorns and hickory tree nuts.  Nobody said it would be easy.  But I’ve chosen this place by the edge of the woods to live.  The trees were here first and I learn from them while they tolerate me.

      Those farmboys Hess writes about were cutting down that hardest and noblest wood to build sturdy ships and homes and barns and furniture.  Walk into an old Colonial-era home built three hundred years ago and look at the wood that makes up the structure of that building.  Look at the floors.  This was old growth lumber, not the young fir and pine forested today.  Today’s lumber is from relative teenagers by comparison.  And we know how teenagers can be: mind of their own, and they appear strong but are a bit fragile inside.  Nothing toughens you like enduring time and hardship, as Hess points out.  And we’re all enduring a bit of that now, aren’t we?  But it’s nothing compared to what our ancestors went through, and its good to look back on history and the hardships that our grandparents and grandparent’s grandparents endured.

      Still, we’re being tested nonetheless.  And like the tight rings that mark challenges that tree endured, we’ve slowed down in 2020, turned inward and are weathering the storm as best we can.  The collective memory of this will mark a generation, just as those trees clustered on a mountaintop somewhere collectively endured.  But when you’re in the middle of it its hard to see the forest for the trees, isn’t it?  Those tree rings offer another lesson though, for after enduring hardship for a season or several seasons the trees experience a period of rapid growth and the rings widen again.  This too shall pass, and we’ll once again begin a period of sustained growth and recovery.  Everything has its season.

       

    • The State of Things

      “For to be idle is to become a stranger unto the seasons, and to step out of life’s procession, that marches in majesty and proud submission towards the infinite.” – Khalil Gibran, The Prophet

      I paid a friend to mow my lawn for ten years. I traveled often and didn’t have the time to keep up with it, so I’d simply throw money at the problem and it would be done. Something happens to your yard when you aren’t out in it doing the work. It pulls back from you, feeling shunned perhaps, or maybe reasserting the wild tendencies that were always there, but corralled in suburbia. Walk in the woods and count the cellar holes and stone fences and you’ll know the truth: The land has a longer memory than our lifetime.

      Over the last few years I’d walk about the yard on some gardening task, looking at the state of things. The lawn was cut well, with fine lines at expert angles, but the lawn itself was in a sorry state. So we’re the beds and walkways. In fact the whole yard was feeling a bit worn down and neglected. Sure, I’d rake or spread mulch or pick up the fallen branches after a storm, but the land was slowly returning to a wild state. I’d spent all my time at home on the garden and potted plants, and was getting the cold shoulder from the rest of the yard. No, this won’t do.

      The first step in repairing a damaged relationship is to put in the time building trust back. So I bought a Honda push mower that forces me to walk every step of the land and with the warmer weather I’m out there walking the property. You notice things when you walk every step of the land, things like the quality of the soil in certain places, and weeds you don’t have a name for, and chipmunk holes, and roots and stumps from experiments gone bad. Each step brought me closer to the truth, and forced me to reconcile my decade of indifference to the land. I’d have to do better.

      Eventually travel will return, and weather windows will make mowing an inconvenience. But other excuses like soccer games and basketball tournaments and dance recitals have given back time I’d used to justify the hired help now that the kids are adults. And I’ve found that I enjoy getting to know the land again. It keeps me honest with myself. It’s a form of penance for a decade of neglect, and I don’t seem to mind at all. There’s work to be completed, seasons to mark, tasks at hand, projects to do. A slow march to the infinite, one step at a time. The land might reject me still, but I’m back on it anyway, trying to keep up with the state of things and learning lessons along the way.

    • The Tickle of a Spider on the Tongue

      This is the absolute truth.  This morning I poured myself a glass of water and started writing a post that will have to wait for another day.  I’d set the kettle and heard it starting to boil as I was writing, so I took my glass that had been sitting there and walked into the kitchen.  As I stood in front of the kitchen sink waiting for the kettle to whistle I took a swig of water and felt a clump of something on my tongue.  I spit out the water onto a plate in the sink and there was a spider, equally stunned by how its day had started.  I laughed (what else can you do?) and carried the plate outside and brushed the spider off into the holly bush.  After taking stock of my tongue, I rinsed out the glass and poured myself another one.  I’m fairly sure that the day can only get better from here, and I’m guessing the spider feels the same.  You never know what the new day will bring you.

      Yesterday I tackled yet another project that’s been nagging at me; a river stone bed that had accumulated years of dirt and bird seed and all manner of tree debris.  I spent several hours pulling out every stone, cleaning out the bed and putting the stone back in (If this seems like the perfect way to spend a Saturday, you must be a gardener too).  It’s a meditative process, and I managed to transform the bed from an eyesore to something beautiful that nobody else will ever notice but me.  And it seems that this river stone bed was the perfect place for giving birth to the next generation of spiders, as I disturbed 4 – 5 spider moms with white egg sacks.  In each case I tried to sweep the spider gently into a dust pan and relocate it to another part of the yard.  That was supposed to be my good spider karma for the weekend, and I felt I’d done my part for humanity’s ongoing tenuous relationship with them.  And then I drank their cousin.

      After this enlightening moment I decided to look into what species of spider I almost consumed.  It was your typical wolf spider, which are hunters who don’t spin webs (I feel I might have noticed a web before drinking the spider).  Living next to the woods you see a lot of spiders.  I don’t believe the other family members are as unconcerned about that as I am.  But then again I’m at a point in my life where I don’t worry about such trivial things as spiders on my tongue.  You’ve got to roll with whatever life throws at you.  I don’t ever expect to experience such an epic moment again, but you never know.  I’ll make a point of checking my glass before drinking next time around.  The entire event reminded me of the fable about a ham and egg breakfast.  Sure, the chicken is involved but the pig is invested.  It seems I was the chicken this morning and the spider the pig.  A near-miss breakfast and a moment to remember.  So how’s your day going?

       

    • Catching a Scent of Kiwi

      A flash of memory and I was suddenly on a 28 foot Islander motoring into the mouth of the Merrimack River late in the night after a long, wonderful evening ’round Isle o Shoals, music playing loud and rum flowing freely. We were lucky that night, reckless as we were, but all highly focused when it counted.  And entering the treacherous mouth in the dark is one of those times when it counted.  The entire night is a shared conspiracy between the three of us, and the stories usually come out with the rum.

      That sailboat was full of challenges and maintenance issues and most of all an unplaceable odd smell we just couldn’t get rid of. The smell was the deal breaker, and we finally sold her to an eager gentleman with resolve to bring her back. I recognized that resolve, but that boat broke me just as it probably broke him. I hope not though – I’d like to think that she got a complete facelift and is defiantly darting across the waves as she once did.  She was a great sailor, that Islander.  She had a great name too: Kiwi.  But her body odor was just too…  off-putting.

      Like a bad relationship you can’t get past, I’d like to sail again, but I’m scarred by the first one.  I know the cost of a big boat. Money is one thing, but time is another. There’s nothing wrong with spending either if you’re all in, but I’m not all in. Not now anyway.  And so I crew on other boats in normal times.  And I sail on small boats when the opportunities come up.  And I scheme and plan for ways to get back on the water again.  And follow the adventure of others who do.  When the respiratory vapor settles on this pandemic I’m picking up a small boat to sail around the bay.  One small way to stay in the game.  I know the logistics of that aren’t small either, but nothing meaningful is easy.  And sailing is meaningful.

    • Pressing On

      “The opposite of quitting is rededication. The opposite of quitting is an invigorated new strategy designed to break the problem apart.” – Seth Godin

      “For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.” – T.S. Eliot, East Coker

      These times challenge all of us, but some more than others.  Perseverance seems a quaint notion, but really what else do we have but the courage to press on in the face of it all?  I write this knowing I’m less challenged than some, more than others.  I’m one of the lucky ones, it seems, and yet life keeps throwing curveballs at me just as it does to you.  I believe the way we react to anything is just as important as that which happens to us.  Short of an abrupt ending of our existence, we have this choice of how we deal with the cards we’re dealt in any given moment.  I hope to play my hand well today and in the one to maybe 16,000 days I have left (That’s a lot of blog posts: I hope I don’t repeat myself too much).

      I pulled this Seth Godin quote out of a draft I’d done six years ago, well before I started writing every day, well before COVID-19, well before the current political climate, and well before I became the current version of myself.  We’ve all changed, really, some in profound ways, others less so, during the last six years.  In some ways the world is worse, in others it’s steadily improving.  We can say the same of ourselves.  And for all my tongue-in-cheek humor about repeating my blog posts, I won’t be the same person next week, let alone in twenty years, so I figure the material will change accordingly.

      The other day I had a great idea for a novel.  I immediately started writing down the core plot and completed a first paragraph that stirred me.  I’ve been waiting for the muse to tap me on the shoulder and offer up a nugget like this for some time, and I hope to do it justice.  But I know it will die on the vine if I don’t chip away at it every day.  And so I’ll keep writing, keep researching, keep reinvigorating and breaking it apart.  You’ll know when it’s ready – this one will take awhile to get it right.  Anyway, I believe the idea came to me because I’m showing the world and those random muses flying by that I’m committed to seeing it through.  To doing the work that matters.  Ultimately life is about showing up, and I’ve been doing that for 702, er, 703 posts now.  And I’ve got my eye on 1000 and beyond.  Whether anyone reads it hardly matters, it’s transformative for the author.

      Shortly after that idea for a novel, I had another idea for a business.  Not a leave my career business, but a nice side hustle business that would be complimentary to my life after work.  Funny how these things all come up like this, fully baked in the mind.  It makes you wonder what else is up there between the ears, waiting to be set free.  I do know that the reading and thinking and writing all open the trap door, letting ideas out and capturing a few along the way that would otherwise drift on by.  The rest is just persistence.  Showing up and doing what must be done, today and those tomorrows too.  There are plenty of quotes out there from Seth Godin, Tim Ferriss and others about the tremendous value of blogging every day.  I’m finding that value compounding, not financially, but in creative output and opportunities that open up from the consistent effort and the openness to receive the world.  That’s reason enough to press on, writing today and tomorrow too.

    • Sharing Light

      “Let tenderness pour from your eyes
      The way the Sun gazes
      warmly on the earth.”
      – Hafiz, If It Is Not Too Dark

      There’s enough darkness in the world. Enough anger, accusation and bitterness. Outraged darkness. Indignant darkness. Resentful darkness… it’s not for me. I prefer to share light.

      Have I been outraged, indignant and resentful? Of course! There’s plenty of material out there to work with. But why throw yourself into that toxic bonfire? Trolls need people to pay attention to their fire to fuel it.  But don’t follow them into the flames, or you’ll just burn up with the others.  Their bonfires don’t warm, don’t sustain, don’t comfort.

      The alternative is sharing our light. Light is energy, just as the sun casts warmth and vitality on the earth. The friend offering reassurance and the resolve to stick with you through it all. The parent offering unwavering patience and love to a child. Seems a better place to be.  And that’s where I tend to roam, quietly pouring tenderness from my eyes and doing what I can to brighten things up.

       “We live in a flash of light; evening comes and it is night forever.” – Anthony De Mello, Awakening

      Life is a short little burst of energy followed by darkness, or if you will, the unknown.  All we have is this little sprint we’re collectively running together.  Some fall by the wayside, others think they can win this race by tripping others up or taking a shortcut.  But most of us just sprint along at the best pace we can, full of all the human reactions to the challenges and surprises along the way.  It seems that we ought to dance and sing a bit more on this march across time instead of grumbling the whole way. Inspiring and building each other up, and lighting the way for those who are lost. It seems a better path, don’t you think?

      “Let us hope
      it will always be like this,
      each of us going on
      in our inexplicable ways
      building the universe”
      – Mary Oliver, Song of the Builders

      I had one more sunrise by the bay before I make my way back to the northern woods. I debated whether to post a picture or not, but ultimately reminded myself I post pictures that highlight the beauty I see in the world. When you find something beautiful, shouldn’t you share it?

    • Making a Splash

      “Let us also produce some bold act of our own – and join the ranks of the most emulated.”
      – Seneca

      I felt the sting immediately.  Cold skin, chilled by the steady wind and the unusually cold temperatures, meeting warm air as I came back inside to start the coffee ritual.  Hands stiffly assembled the AeroPress and scooped coffee.  The price of another sunrise?  I could have watched the sunrise from the warmth of the house.  No, the sting comes from putting yourself out there, and receiving whatever comes back at you afterwards.  So be it.  I decided long ago to put myself out there, and to hell with the stings.

      This morning I stood on the cold jetty awash in strong, biting winds awaiting that sunrise.  The approach of dawn is my favorite time, whether I’m being stung by biting winds or bitten by no-see-ums or some other such thing. It’s the price you pay for the moment at hand.  And this morning was particularly biting.  But I embraced it anyway.  The pandemic has kept me away from this place all year, and I’m not going to let a few minor irritants ruin it for me.  Before dawn the voices are my own, telling me to do more, and it’s when I’m most ready to hear the call.

      Sunrise was still some time away, and I found myself drawn to a rock just off the jetty, awash in chop as the waves pounded and swirled around it.  I found it more compelling than the approaching sunrise and watched the wave action pound the rock as the wind action pounded me.  The rock stoically holds ground as wave after swirling wave slap at it.  It seems timeless, and will surely outlast me in this world, but eventually the waves will win out.  Time washes over everything eventually.

      But isn’t that liberating in a way?  Time washes over us but still we must stand our ground and make something of ourselves, to share the light we see and produce something bold despite the wash and swirl and pounding.  We either stand up to the pounding or go with the flow, but where do we make our mark in this world?  The way to make a splash is to make a leap into the unknown or to hold your ground as the waves crash over you. Either way you’re paying a price.

      Today is another day in a long string of days.  Its the only one that matters, really.  Despite the frenzy and the swirl and the biting winds and general indifference of the world, there’s that choice to let it sweep over you or to make your splash.  I’m not ashamed to say I’ve often gone with the flow because it’s easier than taking the pounding.  But I’m standing now.  Trying to produce some bold act of my own. Trying to make a splash. Shining a bit of light on the world, and to hell with the swirl.