“It takes time for an acorn to turn into an oak, but the oak is already implied in the acorn.” – Alan Watts
January is a funny month. Plans for the year generally completed, we look at the climb ahead and take our first steps into the unknown. Where will it take us? What will we accomplish? How will the world change these grand plans we’ve wrestled with in our minds and on spreadsheets? How exactly are things going to play out?
The future is implied by our actions today. We turn plans into action one step at a time, one toe in the water, one conversation after another, one moment to the next. And in each step, we discover the truth about the world.
I look back a year and laugh at the plans dashed against the rocks in the COVID storm. We all had to bushwhack when the path washed away last year. Extreme, to be sure, but it demonstrated the nature of plans. They do change.
Words we used too much in 2020 included adapt and pivot and new normal. What words will we use in 2021? 2022? What is implied by the trends we see in the world? What is implied by our daily habits? We might not see everything in the future but we can surely see the path we’ve set ourselves upon.
I wonder sometimes at the future, but it isn’t mine to ponder. Plans are made and revised, such that they can be. Focus on the first step, small as it might seem in the moment. And go.
“Our nation will not survive as we know it without an engaged and committed population.” – Dan Rather, What Unites Us
“Once a belief is successfully dressed up as truth… we feel justified in whatever moral judgement or decision we render. When we detect no problem in our moral machinery, we see no reason to expend energy to rebuild it.” – Dr. Jim Loehr, Leading with Character
Americans are in a funny place right now. It’s like a family that got in a big fight right before Thanksgiving, with everyone at the table and hurt feelings all around. Except that it isn’t just America. Russia, China, France, Germany, Great Britain… etc. all going through their own version of family drama right now. COVID has something to do with it, of course, but the events unfolding in the world were a long time coming. Change chafes at some segments of the population more than others.
The two books quoted above are adding context to what I’m seeing, and each offers lessons garnered from individual lifetimes of observation on the part of Rather and Loehr. A nation’s character is defined by its citizens and the leaders who are chosen to represent them. That list of countries facing identity crises has very different ways of choosing leaders. The world is reacting to change, fueled by previously unimaginable levels of communication. Character and truth matter more than ever before in a world where communication can serve or misdirect.
Political leaders are just people with a higher tolerance of, or hunger for, the public spotlight. The very best of them find common ground, the worst fall in line with cliques and party expectations. Which reminds me of the not-so-ancient words of Stephen Covey to seek first to understand, and then to be understood:
“The early Greeks had a magnificent philosophy which is embodied in three sequentially arranged words: ethos, pathos and logos. I suggest these three words contain the essence of seeking first to understand… Ethos is your personal credibility, the faith that people have in your integrity and competency. It’s the trust that you inspire, your Emotional Bank Account. Pathos is the empathic side – it’s the feeling. It means that you are in alignment with the emotional thrust of another person’s communication. Logos is the logic, the reasoning part of the presentation. Notice the sequence: ethos, pathos, logos – your character, and your relationships, and then the logic of your presentation. Most people… go straight to the logos, the left brain logic, of their ideas. They try to convince other people of the validity of that logic without first taking ethos and pathos into consideration.” – Stephen R. Covey, The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People
And here we are, with most people leading with their mouths (or Twitter accounts). Most people go straight to logos, without seeking first to understand their constituencies, their peers, the needs of other countries in a small, frail world. Empathy matters. Character matters. The rest is just noise that works 24/7 in sound bites and tweets to erode the foundation of truth and dignity.
I once had a roommate who would tune in to British Parliament just to watch the room fill with shouts of support or dissent. It all seemed chaotic to me, madness really, with no statesmanship, no decorum on display. I know there’s nuance and behind-the-scenes maneuvering that brings meaning to it all, but it all seemed the opposite of polite discourse towards consensus and progress. Plenty of television programming has adopted this format, for apparently a segment of the population loves shouting and escalation. But what get’s accomplished in the end? Lately it seems largely a stalemate or one party’s slight majority driving policy until the next party takes over and undoes the other’s work. Madness.
The world is changing, as it always has been. We’re all witnesses to massive change, while also actors in that change. The actions of the individual matter more than ever before, and we must find a way to amplify the truth, to rebuild our moral machinery, and to unite despite our differences. The efforts of the individual, without individualism. Without nationalism. For that is the only way forward. The rest is chaos and conflict. Escalating. Ad infinitum.
The thing is, I’m an optimist. I think of the slogan that The Washington Post adopted a few years ago; “Democracy dies in darkness”. There’s truth in those words, and the more engaged and committed the population is in finding the truth and progress towards a common good, the better we’ll all be. The pendulum swung sharply towards ugliness and nationalism for a while there, and it will take the collective will of the majority to pull it back to center.
It’s in our hands. A nation’s character is defined by us. You and me… and them too.
“Sometimes the best writing gets no recognition in its time or gets censored. This is the price of art.” – Neil Strauss
I’ve written a few blog posts over the years that keep popping back up. Someone will like a post I’d written a year or two ago about some place I went or thing I did, click the like button and remind me of that moment when I see the notification. It feels like those moments when you’re having a conversation with an old friend who brings up some shared experience or character from your past and instantly you’re flooded with warm memories of it.
You never know what will resonate with others. That would be a horrible way to write anyway; trying to write something just for the clicks and follows. Writing then becomes a rather cynical job, doesn’t it? I’ve been playing the WordPress game long enough to know immediately what someone is trying to accomplish with their own blogs. Generally I’ll follow people who are trying to capture something meaningful – for themselves first, and shared with the world second.
This entire experience of writing a blog has been about paying the price of art. Some people paint pictures and stack them up in their garage to gather dust, gradually marking the progress of an artist as the pile grows. Writing a daily blog is taking that stack and displaying it for the neighbors. Some art garners attention, some grows dusty and brittle by neglect. But all of it marks the journey, like breadcrumbs on the forest path or footprints on the beach. And like each, art is fragile in nature. Here but for a moment. Mine currently resides in some data center somewhere in the world.
Whatever direction this blog goes in, it always starts with sharing something meaningful, if only to me. Whether that’s grilling a pizza or visiting a battle site from 350 years ago or just a pile of words that resonated with me in a particular way, it’s all just sharing meaningful, and locking it in my own mind for another day. Released by a random like at the most unexpected moments.
Some days nothing much happens. That line a day summary looks very long when you sat in your house all day. Other days you jamb ridiculous amount of activities in a relatively short number of hours. Those days you flop down on the chair, exhale and assess. And that’s where I find myself today.
The morning started with a snow squall and limited visibility that bordered on return home and wait it out intensity. But the radar showed it tracking away from where we were heading, so we pressed on. Sure enough, the snow soon disappeared and we settled into a normal early morning drive. Destination? Mount Agamenticus in York, Maine.
Sunrise on this mountain top has been covered here before, I know. But we were heading to Maine anyway, so a quick hike up an old mountain for sunrise seemed like a good idea. And really, outside of the biting wind chill at the summit it wasn’t a bad way to subtract an hour of sleep from your morning.
Next stop was breakfast at a family restaurant called Lucky Loggers in a Saco, Maine strip mall. This is the kind of place that Google searches are made for, and with 4 1/2 stars it was a no-brainer for a half dozen frozen early risers. Mission accomplished: they thawed out the group, filled our tanks full of goodness and bolstered the spirit for the next highlight in a packed morning: waterfalls.
Hidden away amongst the touristy businesses lining the roads in Saco is a small parking lot in a stand of hemlock trees. This is the parking lot for Cascade Falls, a 20 foot wonder wedged in between granite and forest. There’s a sign that says this particular spot doubled as the Yukon in a 1930’s silent movie. It’s a lovely spot, even with large fallen trees partially obscuring the falls. On a cold January morning, ice lined the edges of the falls and the brook downstream. If you didn’t know you were in Saco you’d think you were deep in the White Mountains.
After Cascade Falls, we drove up to Portland to see Jewell Falls in the Fore River Sanctuary. As advertised, it sits right in the middle of the city, and is a pretty little waterfall that must be really impressive when the water is running high. I’m grateful for resources like New England Waterfalls for pointing out this little gem I’d never have found on my own. For all the trips I’ve taken to Portland, I’d never known about Jewell Falls. Waterfall number two in the books, we turned westward for our third and final waterfall of the morning.
Jewell Falls
Waiting behind door number three this morning was Steep Falls in Standish, Maine. This was the toughest of the three to find, but featured the powerful waters of the Saco River dropping six feet into a churning pool on its way to the sea. This is where a resource like New England Waterfalls really becomes invaluable. Without it I’d never have seen this place in my lifetime. Even with the book it took a few minutes to figure out where the falls actually were. But upon arrival, we were all thrilled with the performance.
Steep Falls, Saco River
So there we are, three waterfalls in a small triangle in coastal Maine. We happened to do them in the order they were listed in the book, but that was coincidence. Having visited a number of waterfalls from the book before and since purchasing it, I can confirm the value of the book and recommend picking it up if you want to start your own New England waterfall adventure.
So how do you cap a morning like that? With a beer with friends followed by a visit with a new puppy in the extended family. Driving back home we saw the sun setting over the Merrimack River and realized it was a very long day indeed. But so full of small adventures and memories. Another day in New England winter, but packed with more than the average.
“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
Enjoying being alive is surely a worthy pursuit, but even Watts, in pointing this out, was achieving something beyond himself. For otherwise, what are we contributing beyond a few laughs over drinks? Unsaid, I believe, is contributing joyful pursuits that create those ripples that live on beyond your lifetime.
I’ve visited the graves of many notable names in history, and generally it’s a chunk of silent stone in a lonely plot. The best graves betray the personality of the person who resides there. A clever line about how they lived, or what they believed. Or maybe it’s the stone itself that signals the character of the person. Ralph Waldo Emerson lies below a chunk of rose quartz, which stands out amongst the weathered gray stones of his family and peers on Author’s Ridge. Whether you ever knew much about Emerson, you’d surely note the personality emanating from his gravestone.
Of course, Emerson left a big ripple well beyond a rock on a hill through his contribution to the world. Did he enjoy writing and speaking? Certainly. Emerson wasn’t running around in a panic trying to achieve something beyond himself. He just did the work. And so did Watts. And so must we.
“Men live in their fancy, like drunkards whose hands are too soft and tremulous for successful labor. It is a tempest of fancies, and the only ballast I know is a respect to the present hour.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nature
There’s a distinction between being alive and achieving something in your life, but they don’t have to be mutually exclusive. And usually the things that make us feel most alive offer more than just a momentary dopamine rush. They’re part of building something beyond ourselves. Family, meaningful work, friendships that transcend convenience, and community. These things aren’t achieved, they’re earned one moment at a time.
In the place that is my own place, whose earth I am shaped in and must bear, there is an old tree growing, a great sycamore that is a wondrous healer of itself. Fences have been tied to it, nails driven into it, hacks and whittles cut in it, the lightning has burned it. There is no year it has flourished in that has not harmed it. There is a hollow in it that is its death, though its living brims whitely at the lip of the darkness and flows outward. Over all its scars has come the seamless white of the bark. It bears the gnarls of its history healed over. It has risen to a strange perfection in the warp and bending of its long growth. It has gathered all accidents into its purpose. It has become the intention and radiance of its dark fate. It is a fact, sublime, mystical and unassailable. In all the country there is no other like it. I recognize in it a principle, an indwelling the same as itself, and greater, that I would be ruled by. I see that it stands in its place, and feeds upon it, and is fed upon, and is native, and maker. – Wendell Berry, The Sycamore
I’ve both loved and resented the roots I’ve grown. A wandering spirit, I’ve chafed at being caught in place for too long. Yet I’ve been deeply nourished by the community I’ve planted myself in. I reach towards the sky, trying to fly. While rooting deeper and wider still. Such is the way.
Roots are built on routines and responsibilities, done with love and established over time. You don’t have to feed the birds where you live, but when you do they reward you with movement and song. They bring life in return for your investment in time, money and persistence. And so it is with a community. When you help nourish the community you’re rewarded in ways you might not have anticipated when you first set roots there.
Old growth trees come in many shapes and sizes. Some grow impossibly high. With others, thick trunks support wide canopies. And those in the highest mountains remain low to the ground, clustered tightly together and shrinking in on themselves, constantly buffeted by the harshest of winds.
The pandemic abruptly stepped into our lives about a year ago and still informs. I’ve learned to appreciate the firm ground I’m rooted to all the more when the storms blow. For here in this place I’ve grown more than I might have otherwise. Here in this place the worst of the winds blow over. Here in this place we’ve built lives for ourselves. Bonded to this place and each other, roots interwoven together.
“However much I may be impressed by the difference between a star and the dark space around it, I must not forget that I can see the two only in relation to each other, and that this relation is inseparable.”– Alan Watts
In the United States, we have this peaceful transfer of power every four to eight years, depending on whether someone was re-elected or not. It seemed a rather ordinary thing until some folks spun up some other folks to attempt a violent overthrow. Most Americans recoiled when they saw that, knowing it isn’t who we are. A few celebrated it for the anarchy and division it created. Such are our differences.
Amplifying our differences became a nagging pursuit over the last five years of Trump. Biden is built differently. Built on empathy and unity and a healthy dose of humility. Strong leaders draw people of strong character to their circle. Weak leaders do the opposite. When you pull back the covers there’s really not much of substance there.
Four years ago I’d hoped the guy I didn’t vote for would rise to the job. I hope for the same for the guy I voted for this time around. It turned out to be a particularly bad time to have a weak, divisive President in this country. But now we move on, with a guy that hopefully doesn’t pose in front of the heads on Mount Rushmore, but instead works to emulate their best attributes.
We all have the best and worst attributes encoded within us, don’t we? With some only the venom reaches the surface. But some are better at drawing out the very best in themselves and others. And that’s where I hope we are now and for many years to come. We’ve seen the relation between our brightest tendencies and our darkest, and it was jolting. Now that we’ve finally all seen how fragile Democracy is, what will we do next?
Ultimately, in the United States we give the new President a shot at leading to the best of their ability. And hope that they might reach beyond expectations. Every four years, usually on January 20th (unless a Sunday), they take the oath, not to lead, but to serve:
“I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.” – Presidential Oath of Office, in accordance with Article II, Section I of the U.S. Constitution
Many will note there’s nothing in that oath about being an ethical, decent human being. But it’s implied one ought to rise up to the responsibilities granted in the role. Some are satisfied with reaching the title and not doing the work necessary to unite and lead the country. But the thing is, something fills the void when character isn’t present. When you look at the stars, take a look at the dark space around them. And note the relationship between the two.
“I have learned, as a rule of thumb, never to ask whether you can do something. Say, instead, that you are doing it. Then fasten your seat belt. The most remarkable things follow.” – Julia Cameron, The Artist’s Way
The hard part about writing every day wasn’t starting, it was mentioning to people that I was writing every day. Writing has always been part of my identity, it was just expressed in other ways for a couple of decades while I busied myself with other things. People tend to assume those other things are who you are. But we know better don’t we? The quiet conspiracy of expressing your identity stays with you always. One day I just started writing again, and remarkable things have followed. And really, I’ve only just dipped a toe in the waters. There’s so much farther yet to go.
“I have seldom conceived a delicious plan without being given the means to accomplish it. Understand that the what must come before the how. First choose what you would do. The how usually falls into place of itself.”– Julia Cameron, The Artist’s Way
We all have bold plans. Some are fully realized, some fall aside in the grind of commitments and pandemics and other things. The world is fascinated with the characters who follow through on their boldness. Elon Musk, Richard Branson, Steve Jobs and Oprah Winfrey followed through on the schemes and dreams and truly audacious whimsies that most of us would gently set aside. First they chose what they would do, and the how fell into place.
I’m watching the kids I watched grow up wade deeper into adulthood. Their own identities are emerging, different from what we might have assumed; thinking them a basketball or soccer player, or perhaps the noisy kids giggling in the basement over a Disney movie they’ve watched a hundred times. If I’ve learned anything on my own wading into the waters, it would be to offer encouragement and support the audacious without being an overprotective “adult”. Maybe offer some ideas about the “how“. Or who they might talk to about the “how“. And then get out of the way.
So the question is, do we do that with ourselves? Do we fully support our own boldness or brush it aside as just so much nonsense? Do we focus on the “how” or the “why we shouldn’t“?
Say, instead, that you are doing it. Then fasten your seat belt... The how usually falls into place of itself.
Don’t just dip a toe or gently wade in the shallow waters. Figure out the hows: how deep is the water? How well can I swim in this? What do I need to know to stay afloat? (all of these questions limit your downside) And then quickly leap. And see how big a splash you can make.
“We have somehow conned ourselves into the notion that this moment is ordinary. This now moment, in which I’m talking and you’re listening, is eternity.”– Alan Watts
Well, we’ve reached it again. Now. Did you expect it to be more?
Now. Such that it is. Our time; our only time. Make it shine.
I thought about Sal and Dean and those other characters moving from coast-to-coast and back again chasing the next thing in Jack Kerouac’s On the Road. In some ways, that’s all of us, isn’t it? Chasing the next thing, always going somewhere else in the future.
I’ve tried to turn that into making exceptional nows out of otherwise mundane nows. Visiting waterfalls is one way, but so is getting up early and watching the sky gradually brighten as the world wakes up anew. And so is walking out in the woods just to see what a winter with no snow smells and feels like out there. Eternity is watching a squirrel sort out how to get into a squirrel-proof feeder. And it’s the next wave swelling to meet the retreating salty foam undermining your feet in the surf. A poem stacked together just so.
This is our little bit of eternity, living this now moment. We either spin it up with wonder and magic or we ignore it at our peril. For it won’t come this way again.
The day started with heavy, gusty rain. The kind of rain that would be a nor’easter had it been snow. The kind of rain that makes you glad you’re indoors looking out a window at it. And paradoxically, the kind of rain I wanted to be outside fully alive in. There’s an edge to any storm, and this one was abating just enough to prompt me to pursue a micro adventure or two. I packed up my rain gear and a water bottle and headed out to visit waterfalls.
First stop was an hour from home, at Willard Brook State Park in Ashby, Massachusetts where the beautiful Trap Falls pour forever over granite ledge. This is a popular spot in the warmer months, but on a rainy Saturday in January I was the only one there. The falls were roaring from the rain, and easily heard from the small parking lot. A brief, shuffling walk on a few slippery spots and I was quickly at the falls, and thought it might be a trick. How could I have this all to myself on this day when the falls were screaming for attention? The answer lies in that moment when I looked out the window and decided I ought to go out in this weather, while the rest of the world thought that would be a crazy idea. Score one for the crazy folk.
Trap Falls
A few pictures and rock scrambles later, I headed back to the car and consulted the maps in Greg Parson’s excellent resource New England Waterfalls, which I’d picked up as a gift to myself while purchasing a gift for kindred spirits. Parson’s recommended a cluster of waterfalls just over the border in New Hampshire. I looked at two in particular as promising and plugged in their coordinates in my Waze app and headed off for more adventure.
Driving towards Milford, New Hampshire, I decided to focus on Lower Purgatory Falls as my first choice, and sought out the trailhead on Wilton Road. The trailhead displayed some icy conditions and I brought my micro spikes with me for this hike. I would soon be grateful for having them.
The walk from the road to the falls is roughly half a mile. Nothing too crazy, really, just an old logging road that carries you to a yellow-blazed trail. And like Trap Falls, you could hear Lower Purgatory Falls well before you got to them. The falls are named for Purgatory Brook, a beautiful stretch of water that was white water after all the rain. Cresting a small rise, I saw the falls ahead and worked my way down to see them.
And this is where the micro spikes were absolutely required. I was hiking solo in isolated conservation land on a day when nobody else thought it logical to be out there. A slip and fall would have been bad news. Micro spikes remain one of the best hiking investments I’ve ever made, and they offered a clear return on investment as I made my way down an ice covered hill with wet roots and rocks making up the better footing.
Lower Purgatory Falls is a triangle-shaped wonder set deep in the woods of the aptly named Purgatory Falls Conservation Area. After the heavy rains and melt-off the falls had a lot to say, and I lingered by them for a bit to tap into their energy. Again I wondered why I was the only fool out there on this day, but I’m grateful I never came to my senses and stayed home.
Lower Purgatory Falls
As I was leaving the car I took a picture of the trail map supplied in Parson’s book. It indicated I could hike upstream to see Middle and Upper Purgatory Falls. The trail seemed clearly blazed in yellow and tightly followed the brook. And so I made my way upstream seeking more adventure. I found it.
Hiking along the swollen brook, there were a couple of spots where it flooded over the trail, making for sketchy crossings. Not plummet into a frozen brook sketchy, for I’m not that crazy to attempt such things, more water deeper than your boot is tall sketchy. I made a few calculated crossings, trail blazed in a couple of spots, but always stayed safe and kept the yellow blazes in sight.
Mossy ErraticsPurgatory Brook, swollen with rainwater and melt-off
Eventually the trail dead-ended at a development with a port-o-potty announcing “progress”. I silently cursed the abrupt ending to the trail, looked around to see if I’d missed it diverting elsewhere, and doubled back towards Lower Purgatory Falls, crossing anew the sketchy water crossings I’d already attempted.
And here’s where it got interesting. I returned to the spot where I’d first seen the falls, looked left and right and saw yellow blazes going off in different directions. WTF.
“Make sure to return on the trail you came in on as there are several official and unofficial paths in the area. Look for the yellow blazes and the junctions you passed through on the way to the falls originally.” – Greg Parsons and Kate Watson, New England Waterfalls
Well, this is where I went wrong. I took the wrong yellow-blazed trail towards what I thought was a return to my car. After a few minutes of walking I was aware that I didn’t recognize any part of this trail. I doubled back and saw a logging road I’d ignored before and started following it until it dead-ended. Damn. And this is where you make choices deep in the woods. I could blaze my own trail through the woods with the compass on my cell phone, a picture from a book and Google maps as my guide, or I could double back once again and find the right trail. I’ve learned to trust my instincts in such situations, and not trust a phone battery. I doubled back.
Finding a junction in the trail, I saw the yellow blazes once again splitting off in two directions. Who the hell blazed this land?? I stuck with the more worn trail and followed it to a place where (surprise!) I’d been before. It seems I’d followed the yellow blazed loop back around onto itself. And this is why bringing a compass and a reliable waterproof map is essential. Having neither, I relied on my experience in similar situations and kept my head about me. Since I was back on a trail I recognized, I simply followed it back to the Lower Purgatory Falls. Once there I saw immediately where I’d gone wrong and followed the correct yellow-blazed trail back to the logging road and eventually to the trailhead. Phew!
This adventure started off as seeking a few waterfalls on a wet day. It became a small test in orienteering in unfamiliar woods on a wet, disorienting day without the proper equipment. And it ended with me deciding that two waterfalls were enough for one day. I thanked my wits and good fortune and headed home. The other waterfalls will have to wait… for now.
