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    • Something Beyond

      What did the tree learn from the earth
      to be able to talk with the sky?
      — Pablo Neruba, The Book of Questions

      I ought to stop while I’m ahead. Quote a couple of breathtaking lines from a poet and leave well enough alone. But this isn’t a quote repository, it’s a blog, so onward already.

      As I wrote this earlier today, a neighbor had an oak tree limbed up. It seems that they’ve had enough of the tree’s relentless elbowing for more room. An oak tree can be a tough neighbor, but we moved into a neighborhood that was once a forest, with a developer who took great pains to keep it as much a forest as he could. The trees act like they own the place, and we mostly let them. Still, I understand the need to preserve the house from bombardment; the acorns are bountiful this year. We do what we must to keep order in the places we call home.

      Living in a valley amongst the trees is an implied agreement. We coexist as best we can. The trees offer beauty and shade and a sense of place literally rooted in decades watching over the land. The implication of being a good neighbor is to simply do no harm while maintaining a tidy yard. We all have done our part in this respect.

      Sure, I may write about trees more than I ought to. I may also quote poems with a frequency that either inspires or repels. I follow the suggestion Cheryl Strayed’s mother once gave her to put myself in the way of beauty. Why then keep it to myself, where it will suffocate and die? Learning was never the point, it’s using what we learn to do something beyond our previous norm. If we reach far enough beyond, we may even reach extraordinary.

    • Tomorrow’s Tale

      I drove past the trailhead of a favorite walking path last week, telling myself I ought to stop for a walk. Instead I kept driving, memories of ghostly trails in long ago Octobers on my mind. ’tis the memories that haunt us, not ghosts. But some places make you believe otherwise, and that trail was one such place. I remember walking the trail one day many years ago, feeling like I was being followed. Of course, there was nothing there but swirling leaves, and yet I’m still being followed by the memory.

      I have no fear of supernatural beings, and I have never heard it said that so much harm had been done by the dead during 6,000 years as is wrought by the living in one single day.” — Alexander Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

      I know people who believe in all sorts of things. Belief is a funny thing, or a tragic thing, depending on where those beliefs lead a person. It’s when someone demands that their beliefs must be our beliefs too that things get rather complicated.

      That trailhead attracted me more for the fond memories of lunchtime walks early in my career, before life got busy and the world got insane. We all have moments in our lives that whisper to us, even something as simply as a trail through the woods on an autumn day. It was the trees that I remember, not as ghosts, but as a welcome respite from an office cubicle.

      The lesson was then, and is now, to get outside and listen to what the universe has to tell us. Tomorrows memories are made today. Whether we make it a fairy tale or a ghost story, the choice is ours.

    • Last Chance

      Look, I want to love this world
      as though it’s the last chance I’m ever going to get
      to be alive
      and know it.
      — Mary Oliver, October

      A hot air balloon landed just down the street this morning. The pup growled slowly, deciding whether to bark or to let it go. I spoke to her soothingly, suggesting now was not the time to bark. She generally goes the way I go on such things (a fact that I’ve abused for sophomoric pleasure). Indeed, it would be a lovely morning for a balloon ride, but I used the morning to browse online for houses or boats instead. One day the world will align on the perfect example of each, but alas, not today.

      Perhaps October was an easy choice to quote from, yet I don’t believe I’ve ever used it in any of the eight Octobers that I’ve been writing this blog, nor in the countless Mary Oliver poems that I’ve sampled from. As its name infers, October was originally the eighth month of the year, and the eighth year of writing this blog ought to inspire me to do something memorable with it. Like new homes and new boats, the chances are good that things will remain the same for a while longer.

      The pup sighs and looks at me again, wondering when we’re going to go for a walk. The balloon people have packed up and moved on to mimosas in some parking lot somewhere. The morning’s browsing has done nothing to move the needle on progressing towards change, so I guess we’ll just need to settle in for another October in New Hampshire. That’s not such a bad consolation, is it? We only have so many magical months to savor. Might as well reward the pup’s patience and have a look about.

    • Once Devoted

      “So, preferring death to capture, I accomplished the most astonishing of deeds, and which, more than once, showed me that the too great care we take of our bodies is the only obstacle to the success of those projects which require rapid decision and vigorous and determined execution. In reality, when you have once devoted your life, you are no longer the equal of other men, or rather other men are no longer your equals; and whosoever has taken this resolution feels his strength and resources doubled.” — Alexander Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

      As I march through a thousand pages of The Count of Monte Cristo, I wonder why I used this book for years as nothing more than a way to lift my laptop up a couple of inches for a better Teams shot. I know the answer already; I simply wasn’t ready to read it then. Now I am and I use the time to devour it. In reading, I mine golden nuggets like the quote above, to ponder and write about.

      Most of us barely scratch the surface of our potential, but the truly great among us reach levels hardly imagined by the average. And thank goodness for that! Who are the average to determine the heights to which the great may reach? Do we wonder at such things as personal excellence nearly enough, or are we content to just be what we’ve always been? Just who are we to wallow in average when arete whispers to us, “Just ahead, if you’ll only keep going beyond this present level.”

      Perhaps we may agree that purposeful action elevates us beyond the norm. We may disagree on whether we ought to be chasing such dreams, when things are comfortable enough as they are. It’s okay to be average, it’s okay to settle; it’s just not excellence. The point is, there’s still time to exceed our expectations of ourselves. At least for now. There’s still time to do and dare, but dare not wait a moment longer.

    • That Dreadful Routine

      “One travels to run away from routine, that dreadful routine that kills all imagination and all our capacity for enthusiasm.”— Ella Maillart

      Two years ago I chose to step away from business travel. I occasionally feel a pang of loss when a trade show in a city I love to visit comes up and I’m not there, but on the whole, I’ve enjoyed the tradeoff of dining with my bride every night and walking the dog with the stars and not-so-distant howl of coyotes for company.

      This week I met with several people who still live the life I walked away from two years ago. It’s reminded me of the old routine, and I find I don’t miss it much at all. Those early morning trips to the airport to make a flight to make a meeting in some faraway place gets old after a couple of decades of doing it.

      The fullness of our lives is in direct proportion to the creativity of our routines. The more we habituate adventure into our days, the more adventurous our lives. Likewise, the more we travel or venture out to meet other people, the more integral a part of the world we will be. We are what we repeatedly do, after all.

      Still, the travel bug never went away, it was simply channeled into travel with people I care about in places I wanted to go. The routine changed to meet new priorities. The routine will change again, no doubt, as I look to the future. We all ought to scrutinize our routines now and then to determine if it’s become a little, well, routine. And then decide what to be and go be it.

    • October Initium

      My life a spreading ring
      of quiet, like the trout’s brief
      in-breath
      at the surface of a river,
      like the slow
      outward movement of a raindrop
      spreading on a still lake.
      — David Whyte, Death Waits

      Initium is the Latin word from which initiate is derived. It simply means a beginning. Today is the first day of October, which seems an appropriate day to begin something beyond a new month. We don’t have to wait for New Year’s Day for such things as life change, we simply need to decide to begin.

      What is a great life but the steady expansion of personal experience? We are collectors of days, filled with that which enriches us. To leave a day empty feels wasteful. Do something with the gift, or squander it. We rise each day facing the same choice.

      Initiative is only the beginning. We must act upon it. On this first day of October, seize what flees. Carpe diem.

    • Lean In

      Oh we’ll talk about
      These days twenty years from now
      Lean in and look around
      The golden days are happening now
      — Layup, Golden Days

      Some days we don’t talk to a soul. Some days surprise us with more souls crossing our path than we ever expected. Today was a surprise, encountering enough old acquaintances to field a baseball team (maybe they would fare better than the one playing the Yankees as this is published). The secret? Getting out there and putting oneself in the thick of things.

      I should be watching that ball game, but instead I’m writing this blog post. I don’t view pro sports the way I used to. Or maybe I simply value my time a lot more now. As Bonnie Raitt put it, time is mighty precious now that there’s less of it to waste.

      What do we make of a day? We see a few old friends, we check off the essential few things that make a day complete, and maybe we add in one or two things that make us feel like we’ve done something more with this one day than we might have otherwise. Lean in and do that which best fills the hour, because when it comes to time, gold is made through what we do with it. Surely making gold is better than squandered hours.

    • Seasonal Ghosts

      Autumn evening sky,
      a single crow returning
      to its distant pine.
      — Masaoka Shiki

      What is autumn to you? Read through a handful of poems and haiku and the themes of falling leaves, harvest and wood smoke come up again and again. For good reason, of course, but there are other themes we associate with autumn: football and crisp air and walks across campus. The return of darkness offers sunrises for late risers and a kalaidescope of stars for those who would otherwise turn in to wonder at.

      In New England, at present, a nor’easter that just won’t quit has brought much needed rain, but a less welcome rain of acorns and branches covering everything. People complained about the rain, forgetting the drought, because they only think of a moment’s inconvenience. Autumn will be remembered for what is memorable in its season.

      Of course, there are seasons within seasons. September is harvest time, October is foliage and Halloween, November is the beginning of stick season and Thanksgiving. Each month brings its own memories, and with it, its own ghosts of seasons past. That feeling we get when we return to a season is not unlike the feeling of stepping back into an old neighborhood we haven’t been to in years. All seasons stir their own ghosts, ’tis autumn that stirs the most.

    • Killing Follies

      “The overflow of my brain would probably in a state of freedom have evaporated in a thousand follies. It needs trouble and difficulty and danger to hollow out various mysteries and hidden mines of human intelligence. Pressure is required, you know, to ignite powder.” — Alexander Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

      Do you wish for a superpower? Learn to focus. Delete the app, turn off all notifications and put the phone away. This, I know, is an impossible ask in this day and age. We are all so very dependent on our phones (perhaps you’re reading this blog on it right now).

      Honestly, I struggle too, to eliminate a thousand follies. We are super-connected, after all. This should in itself be a superpower, but alas, it’s simply a series of distractions that keep us from diving deep into the well of thought and insight.

      How to focus?

      Go analog. Pick up a classic book like The Count of Monte Cristo, a thousand pages of “I’ll read that someday” deferment, and sequester yourself from all that would draw your attention away to immerse yourself in another world. You’ll be in good company. It’s impossible to know how many people have read this classic, but estimates run in the tens of millions over the almost two centuries since it was first published. Truly a novel that stands the test of time.

      Go for a walk. Leave the device behind and listen to the wind through the trees, or raindrops on leaves, or how wildlife reacts to your presence. Sometimes they go silent, sometimes they chirp a warning to others, sometimes they scurry away with a telltale rustle of leaves. To be present with in the wild is to be connected in the best possible way: no power cord required.

      Write. Journal or write a blog or a full novel if you want. The point is to listen deeply to what we harbor within and turn it out onto the page. All the AI mining in the world won’t duplicate what we find within, if we learn to listen to ourselves and find our own voice. To leave our verse unsaid is the ultimate betrayal to those who wish to hear it.

      Practice presence. Like Thich Nhat Hanh washing dishes relaxingly, we may be fully present with the task at hand. I try to practice this in the garden, walking the dog, commuting in traffic and standing in line at the grocery store. Sometimes I get it right, and sometimes I miss badly. Try again, I tell myself, and sometimes I do better the next time, or maybe the time after that. Presence is a lifetime practice. Be patient.

      The trick, I think, is to question everything that would draw our attention away from that which we desire to focus on the most. In order to do anything, we have to say no far more than yes. What will it be for you and me? We should kill off those follies as they try to steal away our attention. For we have bigger fish to fry.

    • As Best We Can

      “I perceive that, when an acorn and a chestnut fall side by side, the one does not remain inert to make way for the other, but both obey their own laws, and spring and grow and flourish as best they can, till one, perchance, overshadows and destroys the other. If a plant cannot live according to its nature, it dies; and so a man.” — Henry David Thoreau, Civil Disobedience

      It’s been a while since I’ve quoted Henry. I think it was the bumper crop of acorns that prompted me to revisit his work. When you live amongst the oak trees, you experience the full gamut of seasons with them, from catkins to acorns to stubborn leaves that hold on long after the maples and ash trees have gone bare. The oaks were here first, and (hopefully) they’ll be here long after I leave this place. I am but a steward of the land in my time.

      We know that time is flying rapidly along, because we experience the fruits of our own seasons. My catkin season is long past, I’m gathering as many acorns as I can before the harvest is over. With any luck, my own leaves will hold as an oaks, and not a swamp maple’s. Time will tell.

      The lesson, of course, is to learn to live according to our nature, but also in harmony with nature. Those who thrive in a lifetime do so with vigor, but also balance. So it is that I got back to my kettle bell workouts, and read in earnest, and yes, write this blog to keep growing and flourishing as best I can. We all ought to strive to deeply root ourselves with a sense of place and time and see just how far we can stretch ourselves towards the light. To exist otherwise isn’t really living at all.