Alexandersmap

    Category: Culture

    • Purpose Coming to a Head

      The Universe is but the Thing of things,
      The things but balls all going round in rings,
      Some of them mighty huge, some mighty tiny,
      All of them radiant and mighty shiny.

      They mean to tell us all was rolling blind
      Till accidentally it hit on mind
      In an albino monkey in a jungle
      And even then it had to grope and bungle

      Till Darwin came to earth upon a year
      To show the evolution how to steer.
      They mean to tell us, though, the Omnibus
      Had no real purpose till it got to us.

      Don’t you believe it. At the very worst
      It must have had the purpose from the first
      To produce purpose as the fitter bred:
      We were just purpose coming to a head.

      Whose purpose was it? His or Hers or Its?
      Let’s leave that to the scientific wits.
      Grant me intention, purpose, and design —
      That’s near enough for me to the Divine.

      And yet for all this help of head and brain
      How happily instinctive we remain,
      Our best guide upward further to the light,
      Passionate preference such as love at sight.
      — Robert Frost, Accidentally on Purpose

      A hard frost last night had me thinking about Mr. Frost, which had me looking through some poems and quotes, that delivered this delightful nugget. The poem above was published in the March 1961 edition of The Atlantic, well before my time on earth began. But the universe opens up for those who seek more, or at the very least for those who have a subscription to a magazine that offers its entire archive online simply for the asking. We ought to support independent voices for all they offer, not just in complicated times such as these. As we are reminded of when chaos rules, consistency matters a great deal in our march through a great life.

      I spent entirely too much time ignoring poetry as a younger man. I was simply too busy with clever pursuits—or maybe foolish pursuits, it hardly matters. It was when I began writing every day when I was instinctively drawn to poetry. Call it an aspiration for brevity, or a delight in the dance of words, or simply a logical turn towards that which awes. Whatever it is, I saw what I’d been missing and decided to miss as little as possible.

      What is our purpose? We spend too much time dwelling on it, and not nearly enough time pursuing it. Sure, we ought to think about the heading of the compass, but we must set the sails and get moving before the wind dies and we’re left adrift on a cold, dark sea. Sure, that’s a well-worn analogy tossed deliberately into the mix, but heck, what are analogies for but to use in the most obvious moments?

      That digression aside, the question lingers about intention, purpose and design. Poetry prompts such questions, just as art and prose and science do. Humans reaching for some greater truth than what to should have for lunch today naturally evolves over time to form some philosophical core that snowballs into something approaching sublime.

      We might look around and see that the majority isn’t exactly inspiring awe, they’re simply following the easiest path to get through their days. We all fall into that trap now and then, we just can’t allow it to become habitual. Reaching towards our greatest potential is also habitual. It demands that we transcend the limitations of self and strive for a level of perfection and beauty far beyond the limits of our lifetime. That’s on each of us in our time.

    • Something Tangible

      It ill becomes me: that I’m older,
      Time I should be more sensible…
      And yet the frivolous disorder
      Fills every jitter of my soul.
      — Alexander Pushkin, Confession

      I had the house power washed a couple of days ago. I say this with some chagrin, for I own a pressure washer and generally do such things myself (fancying myself a homeowner for some time now). But I will acknowledge that things fall through the cracks when we get busy living under the robe of identity we weave for ourselves. It was easier to simply pay someone to do what I could well have done myself.

      My job was to remove the screens from the windows. Let me confess that some of those screens haven’t been removed in twenty years. We thought we had clean windows because we could see out of the glass. It turned out we did not have clean windows. But now that we do, the revelation of all that we’d been missing is a little embarrassing. That we can see clearly now makes the time not seeing clearly all the more surprising. There are of course analogies to be drawn between those windows and the current state of things in the world, but really, why go there yet again? Most of us can see it now, but there are still too many blissfully unaware of what they cannot see.

      We all get busy and focused on things that make us not see other things that whisper for attention. Sometimes we have to be jolted into awareness by a check engine light, or the sudden passing of a friend we thought was doing okay because they simply said they were. We ought to dig deeper, we ought to be more rigid in maintaining order in our own lives, that nothing escapes us. But this is folly; the very act of focusing on one thing means that we inevitably take our focus off of something else. We can’t be everywhere at once, we have to trust that some things will take care of themselves.

      So it is that things slip through those cracks. Dirty windows aren’t the worst of things, and I’m pleased that they’re now clean again. It’s prompted me to look at other things that have whispered for attention and to knock off a few other things before the long, cold winter calls. I’m older now, even if I’m not yet old. There are things that must be done to keep order with myself, and not just this house. Disorder is an acceptable condition of youth because there always seems to be more time left to get back on track. In time we either learn to see clearly or have our light dim for want of attention.

      The opposite of frivolous disorder is focused discipline. That may not sound fun at all on the surface, until we put one foot in front of the other and make meaningful progress in our lives. I used to love that line from The Beatles’ song, “Oh that magic feeling, nowhere to go”. But I’m older now, and it turns out that I’m quite fond of having someplace to go, and something to do when I get there. We’ll never have it all figured out, but we ought to find something tangible to call our life.

    • Enjoy Yourself

      Enjoy yourself, it’s later than you think
      Enjoy yourself, while you’re still in the pink
      The years go by, as quickly as you wink
      Enjoy yourself, enjoy yourself, it’s later than you think
      — The Specials, Enjoy Yourself

      Thanks Ted Lasso, for reminding me of this old gem. Joyful noise is my kind of music. I collect it, play it louder than I ought to, dance to it until the knee and ankle remind me that it’s later than I think.

      It’s all going so very quickly, isn’t it? Tempus fugit. Might as well enjoy the ride while it lasts. Sure, the world is a hot mess, the fools will always be foolish, the planet is ready to shrug humanity off for good, but all of that aside, this is the one go at things that we’ll ever have. And sure, the years go fly by. So get up, get out, and dance already.

    • 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.

    • This Might Not Be for You

      This blog isn’t for everyone. Nor is key lime pie or poetry or Ted Lasso or Jazz on Sunday mornings. I have a couple of friends who react negatively to the presence of olives. My only advice for them is to not eat the olives.

      Some people get pretty angry about people who don’t see things the way they see things. Some people demand respect that they haven’t earned, or consensus on divisive issues, or reciprocation on their follows and likes. Remember the reaction to the series endings of Seinfeld or The Sopranos or Game of Thrones? They were memorable because they weren’t what people wanted. Some folks put a lot of their emotional well-being into a better ending of a series that they’ve invested a lot of time watching.

      Sometimes, the answer is simply that it might not be for you. Embrace that and move on. This might not be for you, but it might be for me or them or all of us but you. And that should be okay. The beautiful thing about living in a free society is the freedom to choose what we say yes and no to. It you want a happy ending, write the script that brings you there. And pass the olives if you’re going to pass on the olives.

    • Raising Standards

      I saw some old friends at the farm stand. We used to see a lot of each other, back in the days before, well, you know… Anyway, I still adore them as people. They may or may not think well of me, charming as I believe myself to be. But who’s to say? The only way to know what someone really thinks about you is how often they reach out to be a part of your life. Otherwise, what are they but apart from your life? We all get busy. It turns out we’re busy becoming less attached to one another.

      The most profoundly tragic thing about the world today is the amount of people walking the earth who are largely alone with no capacity to do anything about it. Too many people walk through life without the skillset to talk to other people (which really means being able to listen to other people). I get some grief in the family for talking to strangers, but what is a stranger but a person we haven’t talked to yet? I believe the world needs fewer strangers.

      Six years ago we lost a real character in our family. Since it was in the middle of a pandemic, the opportunity to say goodbye wasn’t available for most people, so that character didn’t have the sendoff he would have had otherwise. We honor him by working to meet the standard he set for us as citizens of the world. We dishonor him by drifting into a lesser version of ourselves than we would be if he were still around. To me, that’s a measure of the person he was, that you wanted to be a better person because he wanted that for you.

      I write a lot about personal excellence (arete) in this blog. I’m under no illusion that I’ve reached it yet. We’re all works in progress, and that goes for the inner self as much or more than the outer self we show to the world. Those old friends at the farm stand are still friends, even if we don’t talk all that much anymore. The least I can do is be the kind of person that they would want to be around more often. To not only hold the standard, but raise it. Isn’t that the proper way to honor those we’ve lost, or those we’ve lost touch with?

    • Where Are We?

      Where were you when the world stopped turning on that September day?
      — Alan Jackson, Where Were You (When The World Stopped Turning)

      25 years. We knew exactly where we were, and exactly what we were doing. The only thing we knew is that things would never be the same again.

      We imagine it was like Pearl Harbor was for the Greatest Generation. Perhaps in some way it was like that moment with COVID when the world realized this was much worse than expected. Except that COVID was a creeping realization, not an immediate jolt of shock and outrage and anger.

      Acts of violent aggression always trigger a response. The world of 2026 is far less trusting, far more ostracized and divisive than the world on that crisp, brilliant blue morning of September 11, 2001. Humans being humans, people are still looking for someone to direct all of their anger and resentment towards. Let’s blame the liberals, let’s blame Canada, let’s blame science. It’s all misdirected anger that’s been playing out for decades.

      Awareness is the answer. Know what the weaknesses are and seek to build resiliency. Not just stocking more missiles and guns, not simply becoming more isolationist and resentful, but increasing intelligence—both in knowledge of what the world is doing and in our own emotional intelligence, that we may think clearly at a time when too many people simply react to whatever is happening in the moment.

      9/11 was 25 years ago. The conflicts it triggered, both internationally and domestically, are still playing out. We may never get back to the relative innocence before the first plane hit, but we may eventually reach a point where we grow into shared wisdom, acceptance and a vision for how we may finally move towards a more unified world, together.

      Where were you when the world stopped turning? Perhaps the bigger question is, are we still there, or are we looking to rise above the ashes? In many ways, 25 years isn’t nearly enough time to really know.

    • Following Your Own Way

      If you want, then start to laugh
      If you must, then start to cry
      Be yourself, don’t hide
      Just believe in destiny
      Don’t care what people say
      Just follow your own way
      Don’t give up and use the chance
      To return to innocence
      — Enigma, Return to Innocence

      This blog is inching along again. Inching towards what, exactly? Proficiency in writing? Show up and create something every day and see where it takes you. If nothing else, we become better at shipping the work, and there’s a lot to be said for doing what we tell ourselves we’re going to do. Keeping promises to oneself matters a great deal in a world of broken promises and shattered dreams. We may not be able to rely on everyone, but we can learn to rely on ourself. The trick is to up the ante with those promises. What got us here is great, but it won’t get us there—and there is where we’re trying to get to.

      Enigma is on my life soundtrack, and when I hear a song like Return to Innocence, I remember exactly where and who I was at the time. It turns out I’ve come a long way since then. We don’t generally leap from untapped potential to arete, we show up every day and incrementally drag ourselves through the good days and the bad, until one day we look around and realize we’ve done what we’d told ourselves we wanted to do and then some. Suddenly, that song means something completely different than it did then. Or maybe it’s us that’s completely different.

      So have we arrived at the place we aimed for when we started? Are we even aiming for the same thing? More likely, we’re still a work in progress, with different goals now than we had then. We are likely better from where we were but with some work still to do towards where we are going. We humans are always moving the goal posts as we grow.

      Don’t care what people say, just follow your own way. We learn that following our own way is a tough grind. Well-meaning folks and more timid souls everywhere are quick to curb our enthusiasm for what they perceive as reckless behavior. Thank you for your concern; but I call BS. Nothing meaningful ever happens without risk. The lesson is always the same: be bold today to reap tomorrow’s rewards.

    • Afterglow

      Just my old guitar and me
      Out to find my destiny
      Nashville is the place to be
      For big dreams and faded jeans
      — Dolly Parton, Big Dreams and Faded Jeans

      Like the rest of the world, I found it easy to like Dolly Parton. She had a gift for lifting people up. Like many, I wonder why people like that pass from this world too soon while the worst characters in history live well past their welcome. Even wondering such a thing makes me a less beautiful spirit than Dolly Parton. Call me a work in progress then. May there be time to reach that kind of potential.

      I wasn’t much of a country music fan growing up, but Dolly Parton was still a large part of my life’s soundtrack. Her songs were seemingly everywhere, and so was she. By all appearances, she got everything out of her 80 years. A candle in the wind that somehow survived the stormiest of times. Someone like that, you just assume that they’ll always be there, doing their bit to light up the world. When they pass, you realize the fragility.

      Still, there’s an afterglow. Like Glen Hanson a few weeks back, there’s a catalog of music, movies and videos to look back on in wonder. The lesson for each of us mortals is to contribute something meaningful to others, that they may carry us with them when we are no longer around. Our time grows shorter, and yet there’s still time enough to make a difference in someone’s life. Those memories, like faded jeans, offer comfort when we return to them again and again.

    • To Rise Above

      “Great minds have purpose, others have wishes. Little minds are tamed and subdued by misfortunes; but great minds rise above them.” — Washington Irving

      It happened again just yesterday. A friend called to use me as a sounding board for a self-described obsession over a shocking trial happening in Massachusetts right now. I listened politely for a while as she failed to pick up on my signals that I was the wrong audience for shock gossip. Eventually I was saved by a call coming in to exit stage left.

      For the record, I’m the wrong audience for any shock gossip. Don’t tell me what the neighbors have done now, tell me what you are doing to rise above it all. Forgive me if I pull away from the misfortunes of the world. One may be aware and empathetic without swimming in a pool of misery and indignation. Call me boring, call me ill-informed, call me no fun at all if it helps, but don’t call me to gossip about the world.

      I won’t apologize for my focus on the productive use of my days. We may debate whether the output is worth the trade-off in precious time, but the point is to be useful doing something meaningful, not gossiping about the folly of mankind. Here is real empathy: We’re all just stumbling around in the dark, trying to find our way in this lifetime. Mistakes and misfortune happen to all of us. It’s what we do about it that will matter in the end. The conversation I want to have is on just how we’re each achieving liftoff in our own quest to soar.