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    • It’s Probably Magic

      “The appearance of things changes according to the emotions; and thus we see magic and beauty in them, while the magic and beauty are really in ourselves.” ― Kahlil Gibran, The Broken Wings

      Who said that every wish
      Would be heard and answered
      When wished on the morning star
      Somebody thought of that
      And someone believed it
      And look what it’s done so far
      — Paul Williams and Kenneth Ascher, Rainbow Connection

      It took several days, but the bluebirds and cardinals finally found the feeders again. They’ve been elsewhere lately as the feeders came in for the summer. With a bit of short day trickery I’ve moved the feeders closer to the house, that we might see flashes of color and motion during stick season. Attracting beauty is often a matter of simply meeting it halfway. We must do the work to realize it.

      Lately I’m bursting at the seams with magic. I’ve been filled with the stuff from reading a few gorgeous books in a row, meeting with some magical people I haven’t seen in some time, and in conversations with one remarkable woman that I see most every day. Some days you look around and see that life can be truly magical if we just open ourselves to experiencing it.

      Now don’t believe for a moment that I’m not aware of the million tragedies unfolding around us in dark corners around the world. A heart can only break so many times over the foolishness, madness and anger of humanity. To carry on in this world at all we must find and shine a light within ourselves. That light may in turn offer hope for others navigating their own stormy seas.

      Sometimes it feels like so many bad people never seem to get the comeuppance they deserve. But we don’t know what their shriveled up souls are invoking upon them in quiet moments. It’s best to focus on finding the light within ourselves, aware of the darkness but never allowing ourselves to be lost in it. We aren’t here simply to be witnesses to the behavior of others, but to contribute our own verse, if only to tip the scales back to beautiful.

      We come to realize that we’re purpose built for reflection. We shine back on the world what the world gives to us, but this works in reverse too. When we bring light to the world, it comes back to us in spades. When we bring darkness, karma catches up eventually. This is the eternal hope of the universe, that any of this matters, and the person we are gets what we deserve. That belief is deceiving, of course, for so much of the good things in life seem so far out of reach when we always want something more.

      The thing about magic is that it’s found in the leap between what we believed was possible and what we encounter. Sure, sometimes we find it in sleight of hand trickery, but it also applies when we encounter the person we are becoming and the larger work that we are creating. There’s magic in art, and in performance, and when we rise to meet our essential role it’s a beautiful encounter indeed.

      Now I’m no magician, and the jury is still out on the work that I produce in this world, but I love to dabble in light and song and a bit of magic now and then. Life isn’t meant to be a spiral into the abyss, but a climb to possibility and contribution. We play our part in our time, and show the way for those ready to see the magic of becoming for themselves. This isn’t wishful thinking, but purposeful transcendence from the norm. Simply put, we attract what we believe. We know that it’s probably not magic, but surely it can be magical.

    • Another Foray With Writing

      “Mr. Alcott seems to be reading well this winter: Plato, Montaigne, Ben Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, Sir Thomas Browne, etc., etc. ‘I believe I have read them all now, or nearly all,’ — those English authors. He is rallying for another foray with his pen, in his latter years, not discouraged by the past, into that crowd of unexpressed ideas of his, that undisciplined Parthian army, which, as soon as a Roman soldier would face, retreats on all hands, occasionally firing backwards; easily routed, not easily subdued, hovering on the skirts of society.” — Henry David Thoreau, Emerson – Thoreau Letters (VI-X) 1848

      Lately I seem to have drifted away from Thoreau. It’s not a deliberate act, mind you, but a full life. Like close friends, sometimes you drift apart, sometimes closer together. Everything has its time. Like those old friends, when you meet up with Henry again you pick up right where you left off.

      It seems my own creative writing is a lot like Alcott’s was in his day. I revisited some old characters yesterday, rallying for another foray with my own pen. Thoreau’s observation is keen, and as with my rowing friend who inspected my hand to see how much rowing I’d really been doing, the results show far more than a few casual statements about production ever will. We are what we repeatedly do, aren’t we?

      With that in mind, I began again. I’ve always been a streak hitter, and do my best when I have a simple goal of doing something every day without stopping. This blog is as good of an example of that as any, approaching five years of posting every day. It’s a lot like flossing before you brush your teeth—once firmly established as part of your identity you don’t easily let it go. Writing a blog is now easy for me, in a way, in that I simply do it straight away or it nags at me all day until I carve out the time to get it done. You have the right to judge the contribution each day, but not the will to get it out there in the world.

      The thing is, that clever observation Henry made to “Waldo” in that letter stings a bit when you don’t follow through. We’ve got to follow through on the things that are most important to us, or forever be judged undisciplined by that voice in the back of our head. Do the work, every day, until the work is done. The rest is just talk.

    • Letting Go

      To live in this world
      you must be able
      to do three things:
      to love what is mortal;
      to hold it
      against your bones knowing
      your own life depends on it;
      and, when the time comes to let it go,
      to let it go.
      — Mary Oliver, In Blackwater Woods

      This is the time of year when the leaves release from the trees and drift in the breeze in waves, becoming a force of nature in their return to the earth. It’s easy to see them as alive—characters in their freedom from the branches that once held them. The tree lets them go in their time, and releases their burden that they may survive another winter season.

      Humans hold on to their own things. Homes full of stuff, people who sap our vitality, positions of honor that sap our soul. Why do we hold so tightly to things that, deep down, we know must be released?

      Identity. We begin to believe that we are that person with that job, or the one who raises those children. For awhile we may be the soccer parent or the blogger, the hiker or sailor or the life of the party. Perhaps even that crazy uncle who says the most ridiculous things and prods nieces and nephews out of their shells. Identity is a tricky thing indeed. We are grounded in it, and let it drive our every decision.

      Human beings always cling to things.
      Practice begins when you stop clinging.
      — Awa Kenzo, Zen Bow, Zen Arrow

      Those trees offer a lesson, don’t they? The tree is rooted in place, reaching for the sky, making the most of whatever season it happens to be in. The leaves are not the tree, but a part of it, nurtured in one season and released in another. Everything has its time. No, the leaves aren’t the tree at all, simply a part of it. It’s the roots that matter far more for the tree to survive.

      What are we rooted in? What do we hold on to far longer than we should? What do we need to let go of to survive another winter and thrive when the season changes in our favor? When the time comes, let go.

    • Halloween Characters

      Another Halloween is upon us. Frightening how quickly the time flies, isn’t it? How quickly we move through our days. The only proper way to honor that is to make this one special.

      Ah, but there’s work to do. People to talk to and things scheduled. But at least we can get a glimpse of adventure in, yes? What is that one thing that will make today memorable—to set it apart from last Tuesday or next Thursday? Every day doesn’t have to be an exclamation point in a long life, but it ought to be the kind of day worthy of the precious investment you’ve made in it.

      To be fair, I can’t remember most anything about any specific Halloween. I remember wearing ridiculous costumes to a few parties, I remember the years when packs of kids would trick or treat through the neighborhood. And I’ve grown familiar with the lean years, when all the kids in the neighborhood grew up and moved away, including my own. These days, we’re lucky to get eight or ten kids at the door for candy. What are we to do with all that candy if the kids don’t come? Hmm.

      If Halloween reminds of us anything, it’s that we are all playing characters in the moment. We can always put on another costume and be someone else for the next party. We can be a superhero or a bum, a princess or a witch, a king or a jester. Really, anything goes if we want to play the part. So why not the rest of the year? What exactly are we doing with our character development anyway? Isn’t it time to be more creative and fun with our choices?

      The thing is, we can dwell on time flying by or we can simply live each day as if it were our last. One day we’ll be right. But let’s hope for a long future, shall we? Full of many more trick or treaters, and the occasional sweet treat. Maybe even a character we’ve been dreaming of being for too many unfulfilled days. Decide what to be and go be it. That’s the trick to a fulfilling life.

      Happy Halloween.

    • The Vanishing Act

      “All morning I lay down sentences, erase them, and try new ones. Soon enough when things go well, the world around me dwindles: the sky out the window, the furious calm of the big umbrella pine ten feet away, the smell of dust falling onto the hot bulb of the lamp. That’s the miracle of writing—when the room, your body, and even time itself cooperate in a vanishing act. Gone are the trucks rumbling outside, the sharp edge of the desk beneath my wrists, the unpaid electric bill back in Idaho. It might seem lonesome but it’s not: soon enough characters drift out of the walls, quiet and watchful, some more distinct than others, waiting to see what will happen to them. And writers come, too. Sometimes every fiction writer I’ve ever admired is there, from Flaubert to Melville to Wharton, all the books I’ve loved, all the novels I’ve wished I were talented enough to write.” — Anthony Doerr, Four Seasons in Rome

      Doerr wrote this while helping to raise toddler twins in a vibrant and new place completely unlike the place where he normally wrote—Rome as you may infer from the title. I can relate to this, as a restless pup bounces about behind me, chewing on seemingly everything I once held dear. Puppies are a wonder, and fill the room with joyous energy. That doesn’t make them helpful for concentration and immersion into a place where I might meet the work at hand.

      There is a time and a place for everything. A good part of Doerr’s lovely book is about the experience of being lost in an impossible, chaotic world of new parenthood and a new city. A new puppy may feel both impossible and chaotic, but really it’s simply managing our own time in lieu of the commitments made to that outside of ourselves. I simply give the pup an ice cube to work on and meet my writing somewhere closer to where I was before. Temporary relief, to be sure, but relief nonetheless.

      The thing is, the writing is flowing well, despite any distractions I bring in to my world. So well that I feel compelled to open up the spigot and let it flow more freely. The darkness of late October mornings releases this compulsion. Perhaps it’s an underlying fear of missing out when the skies lighten up, but pre-dawn seems to be magic time for the muse in my mad world.

      There are times when the work seems to flow, as every productive person has experienced in their work, and times when I know the muse has thrown up her hands and abandoned me for more dedicated writers. Until we commit to something fully, we’re just skating the line between attention and distraction. The vanishing act is elusive, wished-for but often not earned. It’s on the other side of comfort and distraction, awaiting only the fully-committed. I’ve learned to say a silent plea to myself each morning: may it be me this day.

    • Place and Identity

      Given this day,
      Right now
      To ponder;
      Yesterday will not return,
      Who knows about tomorrow?
      — Awa Kenzo, Zen Bow, Zen Arrow

      Yesterday, in one of those only in New England moments, I cleared the lawn of leaves, mowed the lawn neatly halfway across, and in a glance up and behind me witnessed thousands of leaves raining down at once, literally released before my eyes and twirling down onto the lawn that was pristine moments before. I laughed out loud, shook my head and kept mowing the part of the lawn I hadn’t finished yet. Everyone here knows that clearing fallen leaves is a process. The only folks who clear once are those who wait until December, when the risk of early snow or wet leaves frozen to the grass could well be your ruin.

      I used to pay someone to do fall cleanup. His team did a great job too, but I stopped using him when I started mowing my own lawn. This wasn’t an act of frugality, it was an attempt to get back in touch with the plot of land I call home. For I’d completely lost touch with the place and felt the absence profoundly. No such problem now—I’ve become reacquainted with the land. Perhaps overly familiar at times.

      I’m an avid traveller and aspire to see more of this world, but in each place I’m but another soul passing through, taking some photos to remember the place by and (sometimes) writing about it in this blog. Each day spent in the yard or garden is a day not spent doing something appealing elsewhere. And yet the yard and garden have their own appeal.

      The question is, where do we spend our days? Right now is all we have, so why spend it maintaining a yard instead of hiking a mountain or taking a long walk on the beach on a warm October day? Because this is the stuff of life too. I’m just another soul passing through this plot of land too. But I’m also its custodian. The trees thrive on my watch—who’s to say whether they’ll survive the whims of the next homeowner less inclined to spend their Saturdays clearing leaves?

      Yesterday will not return. Who knows about tomorrow? All we can do is make the most of our today, in whatever way adds meaning to our moments. Even if we have to repeat it all again next weekend. Working to maintain the land honors both place and identity. We learn that it’s not just the land that is maintained in our ritual of labor.

    • Be the Lion

      “Let nothing bind you. Transcend right and wrong, good and bad. Move on like a solitary lion. Make heaven and earth your dwelling. Renew! Renew!” — Awa Kenzo, Zen Bow, Zen Arrow

      I say I don’t pay attention to news, but I’m nonetheless very aware of what’s happening in the world. These things tend to bog us down in anger and grief, frustration and dismay at the folly of others. Sometimes, the world is upside down and it feels like we can’t possibly control anything. When life is throwing hand grenades in one party after the other, we may feel this impossible weight. We must get up anyway. Remembering that darkness is always followed by light.

      When we don’t feel like doing much of anything, the best thing we can do is to just begin. The cobwebs eventually slip away and we find ourselves free again. This is how workout routines begin again, and it serves us equally well in creative work like writing. This is how the world keeps turning despite our best attempts to blow it up. Keep moving. Persevere. Don’t let the bastards drag you down.

      Be the lion.

    • Ten Thousand Things Are One

      “Be in the dojo wherever you are. It is your choice—live like a sage or exist like a fool. — Awa Kenzo, Zen Bow, Zen Arrow

      “Do your best at each and everything. That is the key to success. Learn one thing well and you will learn how to understand ten thousand things. Ten thousand things are one; this is the secret place of understanding you must find. Then everything is mysterious and wonderful.” — Awa Kenzo, Zen Bow, Zen Arrow

      We ought to try to master at least one thing in our lives. Most everything in the world is out of our control, beyond our capability, more than we can grasp. These things may weigh on us heavily, constricting our belief in what is possible. We forget sometimes that what is possible is simply one thing. With focus and effort we may just yet master this one thing, or perhaps we just get good enough at it to learn something about ourselves.

      I dabble in a lot of things, but really try to master very little. I’m a fair gardener, but no farmer. I’m a pretty good manager of people but I’m not exactly giving Ted talks on the role. I can hold my own in chess against most humans but have never beaten a computer set to destroy the ego. I can turn a phrase now and then but read a sentence from Hemingway or Didion and see the journey to better must continue. I can do my best at each of these things and still never be the best at any of them. And that’s okay.

      We all want to be good at whatever it is that we are doing at the time—who wants to fail? But mastery isn’t a game for dabblers and motion going-throughers. Mastery is about paying our penance and focusing on one thing above all other things to reach a level far beyond mere competency. It’s okay to aspire to mastery, but we ought to see that the journal to mastery is a cul du sac on top of a lonely hill. The view may be grand, but we don’t know the neighbors. Knowing our end game is an essential element of the game.

      The thing is, the game isn’t mastery so much as constant improvement and awareness of who we are choosing to become. It’s always been about the journey, not the score. The mile markers on our journey are the level of awareness and understanding we reach at each phase of our life. We know when we’re in the right place, and when we’ve fallen behind. The opportunity in our lifetime is to find the pace that works best for us.

    • Giving Oxygen

      It’s in the stars
      In the sun
      It’s everywhere
      In everyone
      And it will be every day
      From now on
      From now on
      We are one
      And it’s amazing
      — One eskimO, Amazing

      I began today with the horrific news du jour. Generally I avoid news altogether as the quagmire of miserable sensationalism it generally is, but I got caught in it first thing. Bad news always finds a way to us. Good news we have to seek out.

      This isn’t active avoidance, this is an act of preservation in a maddening world. We don’t have to like the ways things are, and we should continue doing our best to make things better, just don’t get swept away in the madness trying to save everyone. Like they say on the plane, put your own oxygen mask on first.

      I don’t know why we’ve become so angry and unfocused. I don’t know where a mindset of scarcity and bitterness takes over feelings of abundance and gratitude in the lives of so many who have so much. Blame it on media, blame it on political and religious leaders inclined to stir for power and influence. Whatever it is, we lose sight of our one-ness when we give oxygen to enflame. That’s not the best use of oxygen.

      So I sought the sunrise, and the gratitude of another day. If fate allows, perhaps I may catch a glimpse of sunset too. It’s all amazing, really, when we stop to see it.

    • Paying Our Dues

      At a reunion recently an old friend I hadn’t seen in years was talking about the level of rowing she’s been doing. She turned her hands palms up and showed me the evidence in the form of blisters. Elite rowers are a tough lot, and this otherwise sweet and warm person is as mentally tough as they come.

      She asked me if I’d been rowing at all, and of course I mentioned some rowing on the ergometer and some such nonsense. She smiled, turned my palm up to the sky and called BS on me, and we both laughed. You can’t fool an elite athlete, they know when someone is paying their dues. A few turns on the rowing ergometer is not properly paying one’s dues. It’s merely a step in the right direction.

      This is true in all of our work, isn’t it? We do or we do not, as Yoda might say it. The trying is nice but we must ship our work daily for it to matter a lick. Everything else is just talk. So my elite rowing friend reminded me that there’s work to do both on the erg and in other areas of my life. When done earnestly and honestly for the time it takes, the results will show. Until then, we must stop talking and keep paying our dues.