“There may be a great fire in our soul, yet no one ever comes to warm himself at it, and the passers-by see only a wisp of smoke.” ― Vincent van Gogh
Wildfires are once again turning our New Hampshire skies a milky white overcast, with a burnt orange sun. This looks extraordinary at sunrise and sunset, but never natural. And yet a wildfire is a natural occurrence, I suppose, if unduly influenced by humanity. A reminder of places changing a great distance away, yet close enough to change our place too.
How often people confuse our wisp of smoke for another fire. Though fire reveals itself in both subtle and apparent ways, we never really know what burns inside the soul of another. We often don’t know it ourselves.
Yet writing reveals. Pages become kindling, words provoke and burst into ideas, and passion plays with the muse to light up our minds and dance across the keyboard. We place ourselves into this cauldron willingly, and forge something transcendent by consequence of the heated ritual.
Drawn in by the slightest ember of idea, the writer coaxes it to a signal fire that others may see, if only they’ll turn their attention ever so slightly this way. Still, the beacon indicates nothing more than where we’ve been. For the artist is already gathering tinder to reveal what’s next.
“Believe those who are seeking the truth. Doubt those who find it.” — André Gide
There are a lot of earnest, hardworking people in the world, seeking a better future for themselves and others. And there are a smaller, though seemingly just as many, buzzing cluster of charlatans and false prophets telling all who will hear that they’ve seen the way and all should follow them. Why does it seem that these two groups are equal in numbers? Partly because the earnest and hardworking seekers are too busy getting things done to shout “Look at me!” every waking moment of the day. And partly because seekers are inclined to hear out those who say they’ve seen.
This week I found myself as the senior sage teaching others the way. It’s easy in that position to posture and play the part of all-knowing master. That, of course, would be disingenuous and misleading. We all learn something new every day, at least we do if we’re earnest in our journey to becoming. When you find yourself with apprentices following you, the true leader shows what must be done on the journey to mastery, while also demonstrating the humble quest for improvement lies in each moment. The fact is, none of us ever really master our craft. It’s okay to admit that, for the path to mastery begins with breaking down our own ego.
The trick to growth is learning to navigate our way through those charlatans and false prophets and find the willing mentor who brings us closer to the truth. And our collective future begins when, after we’ve climbed a few steps closer ourselves, we turn and show others the way. We might just discover that that was our truth all along.
“I’ve got a mule and her name is Sal Fifteen miles on the Erie Canal She’s a good old worker and a good old pal Fifteen miles on the Erie Canal” — Erie Canal
For the last three days I’ve stacked up miles walking along the Erie Canal (Nearly 15 miles, reminding me of the old Erie Canal song). Roughly a mile of that walk traverses the Great Embankment, completed 200 years ago this year. Back in 1822 building an earthen embankment a mile long and 70 feet high was kind of a big deal, and so was the completion of the big ditch known as the Erie Canal. It made the young United States less dependent on the St. Lawrence Seaway and the whims of Canada and the Great Britain to give them access. The success of the canal made fortunes in places from Buffalo to New York City.
Nowadays, it’s more of a tourist attraction than an active commercial highway, but you still see a barge or powerboat making its way from there to here. Seeing them is interesting, and reinforces the belief that the Erie Canal isn’t just a big ditch, but a once powerful statement that we’ll make our own way, thank you. When I walk on the path next to the canal I hear the whispers of history and my very brief moment with place. Think of what that mile of canal has seen in two centuries. And this week it hosted me once again.
On my recent walk the path was filled with bicycles, walkers and runners. I make eye contact with most, give a brief nod of hello and march onward. I’m but a momentary close encounter in their lives, as they are in mine. Someday we’ll all be history ourselves, just a flash of movement in the long life of the long ditch. I wonder if they’ll write about us?
“Maybe everyone can live beyond what they’re capable of.” – Markus Zusak
I spoke with a gentleman at a cash register while I was purchasing a new shirt. I was the only customer in the store, he was eager to talk to someone and I had the time to give. We spoke of the future, chasing dreams and taking risks. I spoke as a wise old sage, being neither old nor a sage, but being successful enough in his eyes as he looked at me and the shirt I was buying that he decided I must be both. Perhaps success is in the eye of the beholder, but it rarely stares back at us from the mirror. There’s always more to do.
My advice to this man full of dreams was to chase them. To risk slightly beyond his comfort zone and then a little bit further, for regret is more painful than losing money or a safe job in pursuit of something meaningful. Something beyond the life we imagine for ourselves. Something that brings a tear to your eye when you even dare to imagine it.
The thing is, it’s always easier to give advice, much more difficult to take it yourself. But shouldn’t we? Living beyond what we’re capable of is only possible if we step beyond the place we believe to be a bit too far. But, by all means, step there and maybe another step more. For what’s the worst that can happen? Even the most expensive of lessons are lessons nonetheless.
What is ever more painful than the self-talk of someone who didn’t try to leap when the opportunity presented itself? So leap! We might just surprise ourselves at how far we go.
Autumn, delightful as it is in so many ways, is the source of one bit of frustration: the quickly receding number of daylight hours. Traveling west, the morning becomes more and more difficult to work with if you’re trying to be active outdoors. Sure, you can strap on all manner of lighting to make you more visible and to offer a tunnel of light to walk through. But you lose something in all that battery-powered brightness–a feeling of connectedness with the land around you. And isn’t that the point of going outside to walk in the first place?
Just yesterday I was walking on a warm and humid day on Cape Cod. This morning, I found myself next to an old favorite, the Erie Canal at Bushnell’s Basin. The canal trail here is mostly stone dust, with a few paved places along the way. Familiarity is helpful when you’re walking in the dark, and so is choosing to walk in the early morning. Morning offers hope for improving conditions, something an evening walk would be short of. In a safe area like Pittsford there aren’t a lot of concerns about getting mugged, but in a sketchier area most of the thugs eventually go to sleep, leaving the morning generally safer for wannabee fitness models.
Still, there’s something about seeing that offers comfort. Even on a walk I’ve done a dozen times or so, when you run out of ambient light you’ve got to make choices in life. Press ahead into the dark or return to the ambient light? What are the risks? Walking into a branch? A skunk? The Erie Canal? Getting run over by a random cyclist not using a headlamp? None of those sound particularly appealing to start a work day. So I turned back to the light.
Here’s the trick, you don’t walk all the way back to the brightest parts of your walk. You walk just far enough that your eyes can still see in the dim early morning light, then turn around and see how far you can go the next time. Does walking back and forth on a 1000 meter section of cinder path sound fun? You know what? It actually was. Just me and the ducks and some vehicle traffic on the other side of the canal. Back and forth, a bit further each time, until the scales tipped at 6 AM and suddenly you could see everything clear as… well, almost clear as day.
It might seem ridiculous, this walking in the dark business, but I managed four miles before coffee, and sort of saw the Erie Canal from a different perspective than I’m used to. There’s a lot to be said for checking a few boxes before breakfast–exercise, reading, and writing this blog. The only thing that might have made it better would have been an epic sunrise. Perhaps tomorrow, when I plan to be out there again.
Rail trails offer a great opportunity to walk, skate or ride without dealing with the resentful glare of automobile drivers who believe they own the road while controlling your life in their distracted hands. The Shining Sea Bikeway ups the ante with beautiful views and a diverse landscape. The trick on this trail is to avoid being too distracted yourself as the views stack up one upon the other.
The trail lives up to its name, with views of Buzzard Bay across both of the Sippewissett Marshes (Little and Great—but aren’t they both great?) and of Vineyard Sound and Martha’s Vineyard as it hugs the beach. Shining Sea runs from North Falmouth to Woods Hole, offering plenty of options to linger for time on the beach, stroll through woodland trails, or a visit to the many shops and restaurants of Main Street in Falmouth and Woods Hole.
As a sucker for salt water, it was easy to fall in love with the beachside section of the trail. Here you’re treated to those expansive views, the latest trends in beach fashion, and a monument to the trail’s namesake, Katharine Lee Bates, author of “America the Beautiful”, which ends with the famous line, “from sea to shining sea”. Very few Americans can recite every verse of America, the Beautiful, but everyone knows that last line.
The magic on this trail is in riding through a tunnel of woodland canopy, salt march grass, past that beach sand and finally to the trail’s terminus at the Woods Hole Ferry. For a cyclist with dreams of never getting in a car for a vacation on the Cape and islands, the Shining Sea Rail Trail makes a strong statement of what’s possible. For this cyclist, it was an opportunity to give the feet a break while getting some exercise with a view.
From the North Falmouth terminus, it’s a 21 mile (33 km) round trip. That’s very manageable on a good bicycle. The human body connects with a bicycle in five places, each essential to a great experience. Perhaps none more than the seat. My bicycle seat was apparently designed to maximize suffering, but no matter, a sore saddle wasn’t going to ruin one of the prettiest rail trails in the northeast United States. The seat is replaceable, the memories will last far longer.
There may be no better time to experience the Shining Sea Bikeway than autumn. September is a great time to get the warmth with the crowds, and October should be spectacular for fall colors in that canopy. It’s a trail worth considering if you’re interested in experiencing Cape Cod without the hassle of driving in traffic.
“There is nothing quite so useless, as doing with great efficiency, something that should not be done at all.” — Peter Drucker
“You seem to spend a lot of time worrying if you will survive, and you will probably survive…. It’s the wrong question! The question is how to be useful.” — Peter Drucker to a young Jim Collins (via Nextbigideaclub.com)
In September, Massachusetts’ Buzzards Bay is chock full of bait fish—millions of tiny fish trying to make a go of it in this world, as countless birds and bigger fish attempt to turn that bait fish’s purpose in life to be their breakfast. It’s a fish-eat-fish world on display, and offers lessons for those who witness it. Mostly, it’s a reminder to avoid being a bait fish. For us land-based creatures, the best way to avoid that is to live with purpose.
We all dabble in those questions of purpose, the “Why are we here? questions. But isn’t that too big a place to start? Purpose is an impossibly big scope to answer with such a broad question. We ought to break it down into bite-sized questions that determine our unique value: “What do I do well? “How can I translate that into serving those who need this value the most?” and “What do I need to learn to become even more valuable for those I wish to serve?” are good starting places for building purpose into our lives.
It’s fair to ask ourselves why we’re doing something. It’s appropriate to wonder where our work is leading us. And we ought to do something with the answers when we arrive at them, for our opportunity to do useful things resides in a very brief window of time. Feeling the urgency of the moment and doing something with it begins with knowing what both that something and that it really are for us.
When we leave our lives to chance, we sometimes stumble upon a meaningful life. But more often than not, we end up getting chewed up in the feeding frenzy of life. Purpose brings us higher up the food chain, where we might rise above mere existence to a more valuable destination.
Which leads back to that question of questions, posed so well by Mary Oliver in her poem The Summer Day:
Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? —Mary Oliver
“You are everything that the rest of the universe is not.” — Ogawa (via @bashosociety)
Is it the ego speaking when you reflect on Ogawa’s words? The universe can feel overwhelmingly vast, and we are but bit players in the big scheme of things. Who are we to brashly believe we have a significant stake in the game?
Yet, small as we may be measured against infinity, we’re still…. here. Sure, it’s a bit part, but still we get to play. As Walt Whitman famously answered when pondering this very question, “That you are here—that life exists and identity, That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.”
In a life that may seem a bit overwhelming at times, we each have our verse. We might sprinkle magic. We might add reason in unreasonable times. We might play the game with audacity and hope. And we might concede that our part, however small, is ours alone.
Quietly walking downstairs in the dark, water bottle filled, I opened the front door and slipped outside, hoping the dogs wouldn’t bark. They bark all the time… but thankfully not this time. I get in the truck and begin the drive to the Railroad Bridge (capitalized, thank you). 5:30 AM, it ought to be super quiet there, I think, just me and a couple of fishermen.
Pulling into the parking lot, I see just how wrong I was. The entire parking lot is completely filled with pickup trucks and cars. Every contractor in Eastern Massachusetts must be along the canal, rods protruding from shore in hopes of that big catch. I felt like a single woman walking alone into a bar full of dudes, and like her, promptly turned around and got the hell out of there.
Driving to the Bourne Bridge parking lot, I’m relieved to find it relatively empty, as if the fish don’t like the canal water a mile further. No matter, I’m not here to fish, but to walk. The aim was a bridge-to-bridge walk, but instead of the Railroad Bridge it’s the Bourne to Sagamore Bridge out and back. That net’s me roughly 6.8 miles, and that’s enough for this workout.
Early mornings are a lovely time to walk the canal, and the best time to do it without earbuds in. It’s best to hear what’s happening around you when it’s dark out. Situational awareness is important, no matter who you are. Random cyclists and salty fishermen on old bicycles ride past at various speeds. All I can do is hold my line and keep the pace.
Canal fishermen, and they all seem to be men at 5:30 AM, tend to fall into two categories: those who stay near the parking lots, and those who ride bicycles to their own private fishing spot. The bicycles are an odd mix of cheap mountain bikes and yard sale bikes of all shapes and sizes. Each has a basket for fishing gear and two or three PVC rod holders bolted on. I wondered quietly at the aftermarket potential for a bicycle rod holder business and decided it just wasn’t for me. These aren’t the kinds of customers who are going to go with premium pricing, and I don’t have the heart to sell commodity fishing bicycle accessories.
Mind back to the walk, the bladder begins to call. I promise myself I’m not going to stop until I get to the port-o-potty under the Sagamore Bridge, and, feeling the urgency, push my pace a bit to get there sooner. Just as I arrive another character walking from the other direction sees me and makes a beeline for the plastic throne. I silently grumble, walk beyond the bridge to 3.4 and turn around. On the return the facilities are blessedly empty and soon my bladder is too. Relieved, the walk began again in earnest.
Out and back walks always feel shorter on the return trip, and this walk was no exception. I was a known commodity for the fishermen on my return trip, and ambivalent good morning nods became indifferent been there, done that focus on the task at hand. The fish seemed to win the day, as I only saw two catches on the entire walk, and one of those was a heron catching its breakfast. The only winner, besides the fish, seemed to be Dunkin Donuts, judging from the endless parade of Dunks iced cups passed on the walk. Good coffee stock investment tip for those paying attention.
Finishing a long walk brings with it the satisfaction of clicking that key word “end” on the Apple Watch. Lately I’ve been competing against a couple of women who suffer from the delusion that I’m going to let up and allow them to beat me in a seven day competition. Ha! Competitive banter aside, it’s funny how adding some people to the daily fitness routine can really enhance motivation to do the work. This one in the books, I quietly drove back to the house, waiting for the heckling to begin. And knowing I’m one step ahead, at least for this day.
Not all fishing is done with polesBourne BridgeFisherman’s BikeCanal trafficTurning around to return under the Sagamore Bridge
God it’s so painful when something that’s so close Is still so far out of reach — Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers, American Girl
September conjures up images of red and gold leaves in crisp air. I thought of their possibility while sneaking another swim in water that believes it’s still summer. But what we linger on isn’t always where we are, is it? I reminded myself to savor the water while I was still in it.
We’re often torn between where we are and where we want to be. Between things we’re comfortable doing and things we’d like to try. It’s a fiendish place; nurtured dissatisfaction with one, with a lingering frustration that the other is just out of reach. We reason with the mind to accept one place, while the other place sings its siren song. No matter, were we to reverse our position, we’d likely yearn for the place we just came from. Such is human nature.
The space between seems to be the real issue. We can’t have it all, but we dwell on images of places we’d love to be, or parts of our lives we’d love to return to, or maybe run away from. Surely, it’s there in that between where the devil resides. It’s our no man’s land where dreams go to die if we dare wander into it. And don’t we all stumble into discontent at times in our lives?
All season I’ve been dealing with a garden neglected at the start of the growing season while I bounced around in Europe in June. It never really established itself, then came the drought, and here we are at the end of the season with a sad little garden that’s a shadow of its former self. The garden and I gave it a go, despite it all, and now it will go dormant for the winter before we try again next year. But I wonder, will I be inclined to try again, or leave it for the beauty of another place once again?
Such are the considerations of an itinerate wanderer with a strong sense of place. Making a go of it here, while thinking about there. With American Girl playing in my head as a soundtrack of this life between two places.
