Alexandersmap

    Author: nhcarmichael

    • The Grinch Seeks the Seashore

      “The sea-shore is a sort of neutral ground, a most advantageous point from which to contemplate this world.” – Henry David Thoreau, Cape Cod

      I’m a bit of a contrarian in this family. While others are planning to transform the house into a Christmas wonderland, I’m thinking about cold and isolated beaches. Don’t get me wrong, I like warm beaches too, but they’re in short supply this time of year in New England. And when they’re warm they definitely aren’t isolated.

      I saw some of the extended commercial they call the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade on NBC yesterday while prepping for Thanksgiving dinner. The best way to watch the parade is standing on a street corner in New York. But maybe not in a pandemic. The second best way to watch it is on mute so you don’t have to hear all the breathless commercials for each sponsor as some designated singer lip syncs their cover of a holiday song that will be featured on some rom com special on… NBC. But really, I love the holidays.

      Christmas decorations are lovely, the problem is me. I don’t turn on a dime like that. I don’t rush out to grab whatever is on sale, I don’t flip a switch to start Christmas the moment the Thanksgiving dishes are cleaned, and I don’t have all my gifts purchased yet either. I like to ease into the holidays one at a time, thank you.

      So while the holidays are ramping up in this New Hampshire household, I’m thinking about staring at the ocean. Perhaps too many SV Delos videos? Too much time away from the sea? Really, it could be any number of things, but mostly I think I’m not ready for the crush of Christmas. And yet here we are anyway.

      I’ve plotted an escape. A quick weekend on Cape Cod next weekend to stare at Buzzards Bay, feel the brisk wind on my face, and mentally shift gears from Autumn to winter. Cape Cod in early December is wondrously quiet, which is just what the Grinch needs before he switches to Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.

      But that’s next weekend. Today the Grinch strings Christmas lights on dormant trees. After all, it isn’t all about you. Right? Happy Holidays.

    • Thanksgiving 2020

      This morning would normally be abuzz with Thanksgiving runners scrambling out the door to run the Feaster Five in Andover, Massachusetts. They have a virtual race this year, I’m told. I’m not the runner in the household. Normally I’d wish the runners good luck and focus on other things. For I have other obligations on this day.

      I am the designated turkey escort: I escort it from the refrigerator to the sink to the counter to the oven to the table. It’s fair to say I get to know the turkey more than the turkey gets to know me. Cooking turkey is relatively easy compared to other meals, but the timing matters a lot. And so does the preparation. And so my morning is spent honoring the poultry despite the indignities I put it through.

      This year features a sharply smaller group, yet a turkey similar in size to other Thanksgivings. It seems you can’t ask the turkey to shed the pounds after they spent all year bulking up, and so there was a serious shortage of smaller turkeys available for the suddenly smaller gatherings. I hope the really big ones find a good home with those in need.

      Often this year I’ve wondered at the world we live in, and why the dynamics of human relationships seem to divide on what media source you consume. Politics, belief in mask-wearing, vast conspiracy talk… At times this year I’ve walked away from it, dove deep into the middle of it, and tried to mediate it. And all of that has reinforced for me that you can’t live happily in a pile of “it”.

      The beauty of a smaller gathering is we can ignore all that and focus on what matters. We’re all just a little bit world-weary and shell-shocked from absorbing what was lost this year and on edge about what might still come to pass. And yet we still have so much to be thankful for. The world wallows in self-pity, but it turns on hope and love and generosity. And so we celebrate our short time together on this earth and count the blessings we’ve had in a most challenging year.

      Happy Thanksgiving.

    • Graced with the Ordinary

      “Let the world
      have its way with you,
      luminous as it is with mystery
      and pain –
      graced as it is
      with the ordinary.”
      – Mary Oliver, Summer Morning

      Today, for his birthday, I used the camel hair shaving brush while shaving. He gave it to me in a ceremonial way, as if turning over command of the Bridge, about eighteen months ago. Hard to say when, really, but it was clear it meant something to him and he wanted me to have it. And to use it. Well, old habits die hard, and when you shave your face every day you form deep habits. Still, I’d use the brush now and then because it performs. Nothing lathers your shaving cream like a good shaving brush.

      The small, ordinary things stand out for me. Maybe it’s the writing that draws my eye to the commonplace, but honestly I think it may be the other way around. I’ve always had an inordinate focus on the small things around me, and those small things seek a voice in the universe. We honor the things we amplify.

      The old Navy pilot would pull me aside and talk of my writing, such that it is, and encourage me to keep going with it. He read a lot, he knew good writing, and he saw something in mine that sparked his interest. It was shortly after that that he gave me the shaving brush. Maybe he had it in mind for me all along, but it felt connected. And I feel the connection with him when I use it to shave.

      Happy Birthday Pops.

    • Agamenticus Sunrise

      “It is a serious thing
      just to be alive
      on this fresh morning
      in this broken world.”
      – Mary Oliver, Invitation

      I woke up twenty minutes before the 4:30 wake-up call and contemplated skipping the planned sunrise hike. But I wouldn’t skip an early morning business flight, so why skip on this? With no good answer I got up and dressed in the dark.

      Driving an hour, it stuck me how many people were already up. Cars lined up at a traffic light heading to some job or other, while I drove the opposite way. I had work to do today as well. But first this. Arriving at the access road, I read the sign informing me the gate wouldn’t be open until 7 AM. I was the only car in the lot next to the gate to start this sunrise trek. Others would follow soon enough.

      I geared up and started hiking the half mile up the road. Hard to even call it a hike… a brisk walk up the hill? Semantics don’t matter, the destination did. It was already brightening enough that I could slip my headlamp into my coat pocket. This walk would be just enough to warm my core for the cold breeze at the summit.

      Mount Agamenticus is an old mountain, worn down by time. It’s more of a hill now at 692 feet, but does have a prominence of 522 feet. But 220 million years ago it was part of a 20,000 foot tall volcano. They say it was once part of Africa. Now you look out and see the Atlantic Ocean and a long way to the continents that were once joined. A lot can happen in 220 million years; continents shift, mountains erode, people come and go. That’s what? Eight billion sunrises? For the sun and for this mountain it was one more in a long string of greeting each other.

      This morning it was my turn in a long succession of people standing atop this old volcano gazing out at the sun rising to begin another day. Billions of sunrises and this morning I got to share the reunion between the mountain, the ocean and the sun. And it was indeed a serious thing just to be alive to see it.

    • Breaking the Norm

      I’ve been skimming the surface with the French language for eleven months now. Eleven months of daily lessons on the Duolingo app, making sure I hit the bare minimum and some days a little bit more. And as you might expect I’ve learned the basic words that they repeat in their lessons, struggle a bit with the same hurdles, and plod along in language limbo.

      I’ve noticed a similarity with the writing, where I write the blog and a little bit more most days, but then switch off to my job or chores or some distraction like computer chess. As with learning French I know that the writing would benefit deeply from immersion, but when you stack up other things that draw your attention you remain in writing limbo.

      It seems to me that there’s never been a better year for deep work than 2020. We’re all stuck here in this strange, socially-distanced limbo. Home improvement projects have skyrocketed. Hiking and biking have become hugely popular, and pool and hot tub sales have broken records. Binge watching programs took over where going to the movies left off. There’s never been a shortage of distractions in 2020, the only shortage is focus.

      If immersive, visceral experience triggers deep learning, then wouldn’t it make sense to place yourself in an environment where this can be achieved? Well, sure. I’ve watched my nephew become deeply proficient in Spanish through immersion after years of studying it and now teaching it. There’s no doubt that immersion is better than independent study. But what if you don’t have the time and agility to pluck yourself out of your current life into another? Are you doomed to living in limbo with the thing you wish to master?

      I think the answer comes down to commitment level and grabbing the opportunities that come your way. Break the norm! Don’t skate through life. We let many opportunities slip away in a lifetime, don’t we? But when we really want something we find a way to get it. When the student is ready the teacher will appear. Being open to immersive and visceral experiences while investing more deeply in the experiential track we’re on seems the answer. Do the work necessary to get where you want to be. Make methodical progress with an eye towards diving in the deep end when the opportunity arises.

    • Scenes from a Wildlife Camera

      The young buck appears on the screen for a total of five sequenced pictures. He’s making his way through the woods. I count the points and it appears that’s he’s legal for hunters. I think about him when I hear the guns fire in the distance in the next few days. November is no time to be straying into open woods with a rack. I hope this guy makes it through to see another season, for I’d like to see what he looks like in a year.

      Nearly in the same spot a coyote nested a week before. I wondered if the buck smells the coyote when he walks by. But this time of year scent changes quickly as leaves stack up and the rain washes everything down. Strangely, there’s only the one coyote on the camera. I thought they were social animals, yet here he was alone in the woods. He took a quick nap under this tree on at least two occasions.

      Of course, not everything happens in the night. The wild turkey roam through the scene in large numbers during the day. This is so commonplace now that it hardly warrants a mention, but even now there’s something interesting about watching these large birds. There’s clearly a pecking order in this rafter, coordinating movement through the woods and spooking would-be predators like that coyote.

      I put up the wildlife camera after years of wondering what walked unseen through the woods behind us. I’ve seen plenty over the years from the yard or from an upstairs window, but hearing that bear crunch through the woods last month finally inspired me to get the camera up and running. To find what defies the eyes peering into the darkness. And it hasn’t disappointed. It’s a bit like Christmas morning walking out to see what it picked up every week or two. Isn’t it always interesting to see what the neighbors are up to?

      We had a fire again on Friday night. I could hear something crunching in the woods. Not as loud as the bear, not as stealthy as the deer. I wondered what it might be? This morning I may take a walk out to the camera to see who our visitor was. I’ve come to enjoy solving a good mystery.

    • Good Forever

      “There is no past and no future; no one has ever entered those two imaginary kingdoms. There is only the present. Do not worry about the future, because there is no future. Live in the present and for the present, and if your present is good, then it is good forever.” – Leo Tolstoy

      Here is the present, such that it is. On the whole you’d call it good (we woke up didn’t we?), yet more challenging than other days we might remember. But that’s the trap, isn’t it? Comparison to fond memories robs the present as much as dreams of the future does. There’s only today, buttercup. Dance to the song the band is playing now.

      I walked outside to a red dawn and a chorus of nuthatches noisily haw-hawing their way up and down the tree trunks. They know where the party is: it’s right here, right now! Nothing lives in the moment like a wild animal. It’s the humans who get all wound up in past moments, or stirred up about what may come to pass in the future. These are stories we tell ourselves. If I’ve learned anything balancing 5-6 books I’m reading at a time, it’s that you can’t read them all at once. So stick to the story of the present.

      The flip side of the present being good is that it isn’t very good at all. If that’s the case, then it seems we must accept what we’ve got and work on making something of this moment that is better than it might have been. Those nuthatches would probably prefer an endless summer of warm days and tasty bugs. They woke up to a leaf-less, cold November morning. But they were singing away in the trees this morning like it was Whoville on Christmas morning. You can learn a lot about living from a nuthatch.

    • Norumbega

      “Not on Penobscot’s wooded bank the spires
      Of the sought City rose, nor yet beside
      The winding Charles, nor where the daily tide
      Of Naumkeag’s haven rises and retires,
      The vision tarried; but somewhere we knew 5
      The beautiful gates must open to our quest,
      Somewhere that marvellous City of the West
      Would lift its towers and palace domes in view,
      And, lo! at last its mystery is made known—
      Its only dwellers maidens fair and young, 10
      Its Princess such as England’s Laureate sung;
      And safe from capture, save by love alone,
      It lends its beauty to the lake’s green shore,
      And Norumbega is a myth no more.”
      – John Greenleaf Whittier, Norumbega Hall

      Norumbega; the mythical city of gold in the northeast corner of North America. The name most people today have never heard of. But you see hints of it to this day if you look around enough. around the Wellesley and Newton, Massachusetts area. This poem above was from the dedication of the huge building that was College Hall at Wellesley College, which say on Norumbega Hill until it burned down in 1914. There never was a city of gold in the northeast, but the legend lives on anyway.

      The name became associated with this place we now call New England, but this place could easily still be Norumbega if the French had been more successful in their first interactions with the Native American population living in New England at the time. But the French Commander Jean de Poutrincourt was afraid of the Native Americans, and they in turn deeply distrusted him. Conflict and a hasty retreat north of the Penobscot River, and an opportunity lost. Instead they left an opening for the English. In 1620 Pilgrims arrived, found the local population decimated by disease likely from interactions with other Europeans, and settled into our familiar narrative about New England.

      The name preceded the French. Norumbega appeared on maps by a couple of Dutch cartographers, who situated this lost city of gold south of New France but north of Florida. Maps weren’t especially detailed back in the 1500’s. Abraham Ortelius published his famous Typus Orbis Terrarum in 1570, which shows far greater detail in the areas Spain had conquered than in the northern half of the Americas. But there’s Norumbega, tantalizingly real on a map, ready for the taking by some enterprising conquering nation (the Native American population apparently not a strong consideration).

      Norumbega, depicted in the 1570 Ortelius Map

      Cornelielius van Wetfliet seemingly had Norumbega situated where present-day Washington, DC in his 1597 atlas that, at the time, was the most detailed map of the northeastern coast of North America. But Norumbega was generally accepted to be far north of the Potomac, perhaps the Hudson River but most say it was either the Charles River or the Penobscot River. When you don’t really know the lay of the land you mush it all together into a general blob. Such were the early maps of North America.

      So, since the mythical city of gold in the northeast never really existed, Norumbega became the general place name for New England for a time. That time ended when the English put a stake in the ground at Plymouth Colony in Massachusetts and the eventual settlement of what would be called New England. By the time my old friend Alexander’s map was published in 1624 the place was firmly established as New England, and Norumbega faded into history like the people who lived and explored this place long before the Mayflower set sail. But pull back the covers of history and there it is: mythical, elusive, fascinating. Norumbega is a myth no more

    • Towards Remarkable

      “What is the purpose of writing? For me personally, it is really to explain the mystery of life, and the mystery of life includes, of course, the personal, the political, the forces that make us what we are while there’s another force from inside battling to make us something else.” – Nadine Gordimer

      I don’t know much about Nadine Gordimer that you can’t find in her obituary or on Wikipedia. She was a South African writer who helped expose the darkness of apartheid for the world to see. She won a Nobel Prize for her writing and was on the short list of people that Nelson Mandela wanted to see first when he was released from prison. By all accounts she was a pretty remarkable woman.

      “…with an understanding of Shakespeare there comes a release from the gullibility that makes you prey to the great shopkeeper who runs the world, and would sell you cheap to illusion.”

      You know remarkable when you see it. There’s a life force exuding out of certain people that pulses. It’s not celebrity, though some celebrities, athletes and leaders have it (certainly not all). You learn to spot the authentic energy from the great shopkeepers and cons. It’s an intangible force from inside that is magnetic but genuine. People are drawn to them, because they see something in them that they haven’t quite let out of themselves.

      “If I dreamt this, while walking, walking in the London streets, the subconscious of each and every other life, past and present, brushing me in passing, what makes it real? Writing it down.” 

      I understand Nadine Gordimer better through her words. And in her words she shows us the way. Learn from the great observers of the past. Write it down (Rolf Potts recommends a “commonplace book” where you can record the best ideas you find – blogging certainly helps achieve this too). Keep improving over time. With patience but earnest effort.

      “Your whole life you are really writing one book, which is an attempt to grasp the consciousness of your time and place – a single book written from different stages of your ability.” 

      I’ve come to focus on remarkable recently. Having come across a few people with that extraordinary life force exuding out of every pore, you begin to think about how you might reach some level of that yourself. Gordimer hints at the journey we’re all on with this last quote. We’re all climbing at different paces, at different stages of our ability, towards our own peak. Towards remarkable.

    • Bold Living

      “There is freedom waiting for you,
      On the breezes of the sky,
      And you ask ‘What if I fall?’
      Oh but my darling,
      What if you fly?”
      – Erin Hanson

      Salto mortale, means the dangerous or potentially lethal leap. Mortale is the potentially bad outcome. Salto is the tricky part: the leap. We humans tend to dwell so much on bad outcomes that we never get around to leaping. And then we regret the leaps we didn’t take more than we celebrate having not leaped. And that suggests another Latin phrase that stirs those quivering leaping muscles: Quam bene vivas refert non quam diu, or “It matters not how long but how well you live”.

      “I don’t believe people are looking for the meaning of life as much as they are looking for the experience of being alive.” – Joseph Campbell

      Alive time means being out there, taking chances, doing things that make you a little bit uncomfortable but thrill you just the same. Not frivolous risk-taking, but leaping into the calculated risk of bold living. The art of being alive while you’re here and vibrant enough to spring to action.

      Live boldly. Leap. Fly.