“The meaning of life is just to be alive. It is so plain and so obvious and so simple. And yet, everybody rushes around in a great panic as if it were necessary to achieve something beyond them.” — Alan Watts
“The sound of the rain needs no translation. In music one doesn’t make the end of the composition the point of the composition. Same way in dancing, you don’t aim at one particular spot in the room… The whole point of dancing is the dance.”— Alan Watts
If there were ever a counterargument to an overt focus on productivity and shipping our work every day, it would be these two quotes (and just about every Thoreau quote I draw upon). Life is about the dance, not about arriving at a place. To be alive is the whole point. Knowing that, how are we doing? Do we greet today as a new song to dance to, or as “Monday”? If every day is a new song, what do we hear when we wake up? Do we go immediately to our to-do list or simply begin to dance?
“On every side, the eye ranged over successive circles of towns, rising one above another, like the terraces of a vineyard, till they were lost in the horizon. Wachusett is, in fact, the observatory of the State. There lay Massachusetts, spread out before us in its length and breadth, like a map. There was the level horizon, which told of the sea on the east and south, the well-known hills of New Hampshire on the north, and the misty summits of the Hoosac and Green Mountains, first made visible to us the evening before, blue and unsubstantial, like some bank of clouds which the morning wind would dissipate, on the northwest and west. These last distant ranges, on which the eye rests unwearied, commence with an abrupt boulder in the north, beyond the Connecticut, and travel southward, with three or four peaks dimly seen. But Monadnock, rearing its masculine front in the northwest, is the grandest feature.
As we beheld it, we knew that it was the height of land between the two rivers, on this side the valley of the Merrimack, or that of the Connecticut, fluctuating with their blue seas of air,—these rival vales, already teeming with Yankee men along their respective streams, born to what destiny who shall tell? Watatic, and the neighboring hills in this State and in New Hampshire, are a continuation of the same elevated range on which we were standing. But that New Hampshire bluff,–that promontory of a State,—lowering day and night on this our State of Massachusetts, will longest haunt our dreams.” — Henry David Thoreau, A Walk to Wachusett
Mount Wachusett is a glaciated monadnock, standing 2006 feet tall. Like her neighbor to the northwest, Mount Monadnock in New Hampshire, Mount Wachusett stands watch over the landscape that bows before her. You can’t talk about one mountain without mentioning the other, for they are forever kindred spirits in the landscape. Both mountains are uniquely positioned so that their waters flow to the Merrimack River from one side and to the Connecticut River from the other. The waters from each river run in my blood, which made a hike to the summit a sort of homecoming for me. And yet, for all the hikes I’ve done on Monadnock, I’d never hiked Wachusett.
This was a month where the weather continued to disappoint those who dream of deep snow drifts, while thrilling those who pine for a mild winter. Count me in the camp of the former: I wanted nothing more than to fly across snow plains this winter. A heavy snowfall the day before offered one last chance for the month. But it was quickly apparent that this was a micro spike hike, and the snow shoes were left behind yet again.
From the Visitor’s Center, you can easily summit Mount Wachusett in under 30 minutes. But that wasn’t our goal. Instead we took the Bicentennial Trail around the eastern slope to High Meadow Trail, up through a stand of Hemlocks to the Pine Hill Trail. Fluffy snow over ice creates uncertain footing, and we slowed our pace to mitigate the risk of injury. For a time, the only break in the trail ahead was from a porcupine, who’s distinct tail marked the trail in footprints and swirly plows. It seems most people cut to the chase and scramble up the mountain. We were more inclined to linger with it, to get to know it better. To feel what Thoreau felt when he and Richard Fuller hiked here from Concord, set up their tent atop the lonely summit, and had the place to themselves for a night.
Wachusett’s summit has changed since Thoreau’s time. There’s a ski slope on one side, there’s a mountain road you can drive up in the warmer months to see the view without earning it, and there’s ample parking for those cars. A few towers, including an observation tower, complete the scene. I wonder, reading Thoreau’s account, where did they pitch their tent and read Virgil by the light of a summer full moon?
Winter snow obscures much of the impact of man, but you’re still clearly in a manmade world when you’re on the summit of Mount Wachusett. To return to nature you must seek the trails that criss-cross around the reservation. But the views are largely the same as they were for Thoreau’s 180 years ago. Just as it was for him, Monadnock stands prominently as the grandest feature of the 360 degree view.
Inevitably we left with more to see, trails and old growth forest to explore another day. For this day I found what I was looking for. Time with an old friend hiking trails I’d always meant to get to one day. And a glimpse into a world Thoreau would find both foreign yet comfortably familiar. Wachusett is timelessly accessible, but somehow always felt apart from the mountains I sought out. We finally got acquainted with one another.
Summit tower, Mount Wachusett Distinctive porcupine tracks mark the trailPlenty of exposed granite despite the snowWhich way do we go? Plenty of choices.
“Do you know that even when you look at a tree and say, ‘That is an oak tree’, or ‘that is a banyan tree’, the naming of the tree, which is botanical knowledge, has so conditioned your mind that the word comes between you and actually seeing the tree? To come in contact with the tree you have to put your hand on it and the word will not help you to touch it.” ― Jiddu Krishnamurti, Freedom from the Known
I encountered a stand of hemlock trees shading the path I walked. Combined with the crisp breeze I was quickly chilled. Not five minutes before I’d contemplated taking off layers and just like that the trees stole whatever warmth was radiating down from the sun and left me with nothing but cold. Yet the trees stood indifferently to my comfort.
Walking through the hemlocks, feeling their silent majesty, I stopped focusing on myself and appreciated the stoic beauty of the trees. These trees touched me, even as I felt their indifference. And I wanted to linger even with the cold wind relentlessly driving me to find a sunny spot on the trail. Now mind you, I don’t go around hugging trees. But I do exhibit what might be considered by some to be an unusual fondness for them. And these trees, red bark and green needles, are survivors. It’s not easy growing on a mountain, and my moment of cold discomfort was a good reminder of their toughness. For even now they stand together in the dark of a winter night, while I retreat to the comfort of home.
It’s funny, you can leave a stand of trees, yet they stay with you still.
“It was Sam’s first view of a battle of Men against Men, and he did not like it much. He was glad that he could not see the dead face. He wondered what the man’s name was and where he came from; and if he was really evil of heart, or what lies or threats had led him on the long march from his home; and if he would rather have stayed there in peace.” ― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings
What do we make of war? What do we make of people who don’t interpret it as the horrible failure of diplomacy that it is? As you get a bit older you recognize that most people are winging it, no matter what their title. A few people push harder to get their way than the rest of us. And a rare few rise to the top through burning singular focus and a bag of tricks. We see people we’d never want to associate with in real life rising to powerful positions in business and politics, and we’re left to deal with the consequences. History taught us this in the two World Wars, didn’t it? How quickly we forget when those who fought those wars pass on.
J.R.R. Tolkien fought in World War One and lived through World War Two. The Lord of the Rings is derived from his experience in war. It’s a book worth investing the time in, for it brings us into a world we can’t imagine living in for the weakness of character and selfish power grabs of those in leadership positions and the unrelenting misery for those who do the dirty work. The books should be required reading. Add it to your list of banned books to get through before the hordes of fascists begin burning the next pile.
The tragic events unfolding in Ukraine were highly predictable and likely avoidable. But it all started much sooner than 2022. In a way, there was a ticking time bomb released since Boris Yeltsin expanded the powers of the Russian Presidency, and handed over the reigns to Vladimir Putin in 1999. It surely accelerated the moment Donald Trump became the Republican nominee for the American Presidency, shifting the party of Ronald Reagan to whatever it’s become since then. If you want a close look at long view power grabbing, look no farther than Putin. Over 23 years he’s worked to eliminate or mitigate the checks and balances meant to curb the power of an autocrat, both domestically and abroad, and here we are.
I joked when Trump was elected that I hoped the world wouldn’t crumble in on itself with him at the helm. It wasn’t worse than I expected, but it’s on pace to be. The only way to fight an autocrat with a long view is to swing the view of the people against them. There’s darkness in the world that can only be eliminated by putting a spotlight on it. And just as we saw in every other tragic example in history, we are the ones who have to clean up the mess.
There’s a tricky thing in writing—deep introspection is conveyed through outward expression. When you read a lot you stumble on some deeply damaged characters who had the courage to put it all out there on paper for others to see. I’ve mined myself similarly, but I don’t have the deep scars that others seem to have. Blame it on a good family growing up, but the fuel for the writing isn’t to draw out the pain of the past but rather to tap into the experience and intense gratitude of being alive at this time. That doesn’t mean there aren’t scars, how does anyone live an unsheltered life without scars? That which you once were is a memory that haunts you or spurs you towards becoming a better person. I’ve long ago buried the character I hated in myself, though he keeps trying to crawl out of his grave.
Decide what to be and go be it.
There’s a feeling that comes over you when you decide what to be. It’s like a magnet that pulls you in the direction you want to go in. My sailor and hiker friends know this, for it relentlessly pulls them towards their True North. I smile when someone questions why someone would put all their eggs in one basket. If you haven’t found your basket you can’t possibly know why others do what they do.
“I don’t want to swim in a roped off sea.” — Jimmy Buffett, Cowboy in the Jungle
We all have our calling. Do we listen to it or to the helpful guidance of others? When you find that direction, killing time on other things feels like you’re strangling yourself. Urgency and purpose demand your attention. The only way forward is deliberate action. Growing outward requires we stretch ourselves beyond what we once were, and then to keep doing it over and over again. To reach out towards where we want to be often means pulling away from what we once were.
“You once told me that the human eye is god’s loneliest creation. How so much of the world passes through the pupil and still it holds nothing. The eye, alone in its socket, doesn’t even know there’s another one, just like it, an inch away, just as hungry, as empty. Opening the front door to the first snowfall of my life, you whispered, ‘Look.’” — Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous
We write to express ourselves, don’t we? But also to see. For the writer observes the world. Otherwise what do we hold on to, in the end? Memories and the occasional catchy phrases. For a moment to last we must create. I think all artists work to share a vision with the world. Their work naturally exists after the vision the artist is sharing, and thus becomes a way to retain that which would have otherwise disappeared.
A photographer snaps a picture that represents an instant in time. Immediately it becomes a historical document of what once was. It becomes a way of holding on to the past. We can all play this game of looking at pictures and remembering moments that had otherwise slipped to the recesses of our minds. People and objects that once were but are now just memories and memorabilia. All art drives a similar stake in the ground, capturing that moment in the artist’s life expressed in their creation. Art captures us as we once were.
What do we hold on to? What do we let go of? Some moments are forever locked in amber, some drift away immediately. What we experience and what we hold on to are never the same thing. Think about the things we’ve all experienced over the last few years. We can’t agree on what we all saw, how could we possibly agree on how to capture this moment?
Art is always subject to interpretation. It captures a moment through the perspective of the artist, and is received by the audience with their perspective in their moment. Life, and art, are indeed fleeting. The world passes through us, and we all disappear into the past together. All we can hold on to is the moment. But the artist tries to share it.
There’s a feeling that lingers in you when you finish a magnificent book, a glow that feels a lot like the feeling you have when you’ve had a wonderful conversation with an old friend, returned from a beautiful vacation, or still feel the magic stay in the air well after a stunning sunset slips beneath the horizon. For all the bickering and sickness and change in the world, we know delight and wonder when we feel them. For it makes us forget everything else in the world and celebrate that one brief moment for all it brings to us.
“Alexander Rostov was neither scientist nor sage; but at the age of sixty-four he was wise enough to know that life does not proceed by leaps and bounds. It unfolds. At any given moment, it is the manifestation of a thousand transitions. Our faculties wax and wane, our experiences accumulate, and our opinions evolve—if not glacially, then at least gradually. Such that the events of an average day are as likely to transform who we are as a pinch of pepper is to transform a stew. And yet…” — Amor Towles, A Gentleman in Moscow
It would be a disservice to you to offer more than this. Like life itself, this book unfolds before you, revealing wonder and delight and frustration and finally that lingering affection for a novel that has no right to grab you by the shoulders, spins you around and firmly shouts, “Look! Do you see it now? This is how it’s done!”
When you finish a book that completely captures your imagination, that becomes an old friend in the span of a few days, you want to raise your own game. You feel the stirring warmth and the catch in your throat from the magic you’ve been breathlessly consuming. You see once again just what is possible should you commit yourself to it. If you’re wise, you surf that swell of emotion to places beyond the pages of the very book you’ve finished. The very best storytelling lingers, and it inspires greatness within us.
“Calling yourself creative doesn’t make it true. All that matters is what you’ve launched. Make finishing your top priority… When you’re gone, your work shows who you were. Not your intentions. Not what you took in. Only what you put out.” — Derek Sivers, How to Live
“When you ship, you silence the lizard brain. You beat the resistance and your ideas get out in the world. It’s not easy, but it’s very important. I am shipping because I don’t want to create art for art’s sake; I want to do work that matters, that makes a difference in people’s lives. Not tomorrow, today.” — Seth Godin, The Practice: Shipping Creative Work
Anyone who does anything creative knows the scorecard. What you intend to do has no place at the table: The only thing that matters is what you produce. If you don’t put it out there you aren’t a part of the Great Conversation.
I focus a lot on productivity in this blog. More than some think I ought to. For me, productivity is the natural outcome of habits and routines and the gumption to click “Publish” every damned day. The lizard brain is a very real struggle, so is imposter syndrome, and so is the relative comfort of low agency. To overcome each of these hurdles, you must learn to be audacious. For most of us this doesn’t come in a spark of magnificent insight, it comes through incremental daily actions: teaching the brain that this is what is expected of it today and every waking day from here to the very last.
This daily routine of writing profoundly changes you. I’d read that for years in Seth Godin blogs before I finally started posting regularly. I don’t look at my early posts often, for they’re full of typos and grammatical errors and run-on sentences (some things don’t change). But each brought me here. And here brings me to whatever comes next.
What you consistently put out builds boldness and audacity and a blatant disregard for keeping up appearances. What I’ve learned during this dance with daily productivity is to avoid telling the world what you’re going to do. All that matters is what you have done. So by all means: ship it. Lizard brain be damned.
My spouse recently deprioritized potato chips and Diet Coke from her life. For me, I could pass the rest of my days without ever consuming either of them, but for her these were a big part of her eating ritual. You make a sandwich for lunch, you need something crunchy and salty with it. And of course something to wash it down with. Dropping each was hard for her but she’s finding her stride.
I’ve got my own demons. A love of great cheese, pasta, rice and beer — wonderful foods that I’ve largely eradicated from my life in 2022. In previous years I used to have cheat days where I’d eat all of this stuff in a binge of epic proportions. Now I let things drift away. I’ll have an occasional beer with friends, and I’ll sprinkle a bit of grated cheese on a meal now and then, but surprisingly I don’t miss it much.
Food in this way is like old friends you don’t see anymore, you just fill the void with other things that bring you delight. Jennifer Senior wrote an article calledIt’s your Friends Who Break Your Heartin the latest edition of The Atlantic that speaks to the drifting away of friends in your life. We’ve all experienced it: In school or in your career you collect friendships. When you’re a parent of active children you tend to collect fellow collaborators who become friends. It’s only when the nest empties and a pandemic grabs a couple of years of your life that you look around and find that only a small core group remains. The great reckoning of what’s really important in your life is a harsh judge.
I have long work relationships that fell away like a bag of chips with lunch. I have some people in my life that I haven’t talked to since it became clear how different our worldviews were on science and politics. Friendships of convenience always drift away with physical or emotional distance. The ones that stand the test of time are honed on common interests, deep roots and a shared commitment to keeping it going.
Lately I’ve been struggling with my daily rituals. The morning has always been about writing, but work increasingly pulls at me, prompting me to cut short my writing and jump into the fray. The workouts and long walks became a casualty too frequently. This won’t do. We become what we prioritize, and you must fold positive habits into your daily life or you’ll eventually find yourself overweight, unproductive, uneducated and void of meaningful relationships.
We are what we repeatedly do.
You are what you eat.
We are the sum of the five people we hang around with the most.
There’s truth in these statements, which is why we all know them by heart. So why don’t we do more to prioritize the positive actions, food and people in our daily lives? I believe it’s because we all live in a whirlwind, and sometimes it just feels easier to turn on the television and distract yourself with other people’s problems than to deal with your own. Grab a bag of chips and beer while you’re at it. Habits and rituals work both ways. We’re either improving our lot or slipping sideways down the cliff. You just don’t notice it right away until there’s some tangible negative momentum in your slide.
Maybe the answer really is all things in moderation. But you know even saying that that it isn’t really true. The real truth is some things in moderation, some things not at all. Some things in abundance, and nothing in excess. We ought to stop drifting through the whirlwind of life and decide what brings you closer to who you want to become. In doing so, we must allow some things to drift silently away from us. And hold on to other things for dear life.
Wellthe road rolls out like a welcome mat To a better place than the one we’re at And I ain’t got no kinda plan But I’ve had all of this town I can stand And I got friends out on the coast We can jump in the water and see what floats We’ve been saving for a rainy day Let’s beat the storm and be on our way — Chris Stapleton, Starting Over
There’s an interesting twist to writing a blog every day; you start having conversations with friends and family who know perfectly well that you write a blog every day, may read the very words that you write and offer commentary on those words the next time you see them. And what, dear writer, do you do with that? Do you carefully edit your blog posts? Shut it down and write anonymously? Or just say the hell with it and write whatever you want to write about? The answer, I think, depends on who you’ve become during your passage through time. This blog isn’t a journal, definitely not a diary, but well-meaning friends and family interpret each post in whatever way they will.
With that in mind, beginning this blog post with the lyrics to Chris Stapleton’s Starting Over might seem risky, inviting all sorts of interpretation about the restless state of my wandering soul. This is the latest in a string of “hit the road” songs that stir the imagination, right there with Bob Seger’s Roll Me Away and Lord Huron’s Ends of the Earth. I could write a blog post on escapist songs that carry you from here to, well, there. The reason these songs stick is because they resonate. Secretly, we all want to fly, don’t we?
This month the house was turned upside down as a few rooms are getting painted. One room grew to two, and now a third (it’s a slippery slope, this home remodeling business). When you start moving your collection of things, you get a sense of time spent in limbo. Some of that accumulated stuff has grown a thick layer of dust that you weren’t aware of. The funny thing about dust: it collects on the things that feel most permanent to you.
Travel is a way of clearing the dust that accumulates on yourself. It sparks the imagination, changes perspective, and informs you about the world outside your comfort zone. Staying in one place just gives the dust a place to land. You ought to fly away now and then, just to feel the changes that have come over you.
This week my father was moved from his home to a care facility to assess his dementia. It seems the accumulated dust in his brain is getting worse, and the only viable answer was for him to leave his nest and land somewhere else for a little while. It serves as a reminder that none of this is permanent, everything changes, and if you want to fly from the nest you’d best do it while you can. Every day you can start over, until the day you can’t.
