Alexandersmap

    Category: Community

    • Meet Me on Common Ground

      Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing
      and rightdoing there is a field.
      I’ll meet you there.

      When the soul lies down in that grass
      the world is too full to talk about.
      — Rumi

      There’s no secret that the world feels more divisive, more aligned against the perceived slights, threats or opinions of another group. But then you read a Rumi poem and see that none of this is new. The divisions are merely perceptions, a game of king of the hill gone wrong.

      It’s so much harder to meet halfway when the stakes feel so high. To find the things that we have in common, the things that unite us in this fragile dance with infinity. We’re all in this together, whether we like it or not.

      Compromise is perceived as weakness by some people on the edges. Their strength, if you want to call it that, comes from the extreme. What do you do with such people? It’s easy to say we’ll meet halfway, but what do you do when you get there and they haven’t budged? Do you cross that halfway line and step to the other side? I think you have to agree to disagree on the point of contention and find another place to meet. We must find common ground. For it’s always there if you look for it.

      The real power lies in numbers. At the heart of it, we’re all humans, dancing alone on the edge of the abyss. Connection is all we have to hold this all together. Step away from the edge, meet me halfway. Maybe not on everything, but the most important thing. Our shared humanity.

    • No Time for Tired

      Mais où sont les neiges d’antan! (Oh, where are the snows of yesteryear!)
      – François Villon, Ballade des dames du temps jadis

      We’re all a bit tired, aren’t we? Tired of the pandemic, tired of political deviants and extremists, tired of people not caring about the environment or really anything but themselves. Tired of things the way they are now. Tired that New Year’s Eve plans were scrapped because Christmas turned into a super spreader event, with half the vaccinated family getting COVID. You think maybe that booster will put you over the top and find your trail leg caught the hurdle.

      Villon was a rogue. He spent time in prison, and spent time writing poetry. He’s a complicated footnote in history. This poem, reflecting on the great women of the past during his time, lives on centuries after he too passed like the snows of yesteryear. And the analogy reminds us we too must pass from this moment. Our time here is short and not meant to be devoid of suffering and the occasional inconvenience.

      All we once knew has changed, all we know now will change again. Tomorrow, should we indulge in the folly of being there for it, will bring more change still. This is the way. Tired doesn’t matter. Billions of people had it worse than we do, right now, right here. Did you do a face plant on this hurdle? No? Then get over the next one. For the universe moves on with or without you. There’s no time for tired. We aren’t done with this race just yet.

    • Destinations Are Where We Begin Again

      Ships go sailing
      Far across the sea
      Trusting starlight
      To get where they need to be
      — Josh Groban, Believe

      A challenging couple of years brings us back to Christmas morning 2021. We know it’s not over just yet, this pandemic, but we have optimism for the year ahead. Tempered by other challenges in the world, other realities at home. Life isn’t easy, it was only framed that way by our support system of family and friends and community. Generous spirits that touch our lives at just the right time. Helping us navigate the stormiest of seas. Relationships make life worthwhile. Belief in ourself begins to develop in our tightest circles, and carries us to destinations we never imagined when we began.

      May you have the opportunity to spend time with those who love you most today. Merry Christmas.

    • I Guess I’ll Have to Do It While I’m Here

      And I won’t feel the flowing of the time when I’m gone
      All the pleasures of love will not be mine when I’m gone
      My pen won’t pour a lyric line when I’m gone
      So I guess I’ll have to do it while I’m here.
      – Phil Ochs, When I’m Gone

      It’s that time of year—the mad shift towards Christmas and New Years Eve and all that represents for us. There’s a natural and sometimes confusing triangulation of planning for the future, wrapping up the present and reflecting on what’s done and gone. I’d suggest that listening to this 55 year-old Phil Ochs folk song is a great way to pause and reflect on what might be prioritized from this moment onward.

      Ochs would end up committing suicide a decade after singing this song, with a family friend commenting in a New York Times obituary that “Mainly, the words weren’t coming to him anymore.” We all have our timeline and our perceived value to the world, the demons caught up with Ochs before he could climb back out of the darkness. The word “prescient” is used a lot when When I’m Gone is introduced, usually dropped right before telling people of Ochs suicide, as if it isn’t prescient for all of us.

      That’s the relentless message in this smooth folksy song: Stop waiting and do it while you’re here. For we’ll all be gone soon enough. Plan for the future, as we must, but live now.

    • What Shapes Us

      All that passes descends,
      and ascends again unseen
      into the light: the river
      coming down from sky
      to hills, from hills to sea,
      and carving as it moves,
      to rise invisible,
      gathered to light, to return
      again. “The river’s injury
      is its shape.” I’ve learned no more.
      We are what we are given
      and what is taken away;
      blessed be the name
      of the giver and taker.
      For everything that comes
      is a gift, the meaning always
      carried out of sight
      to renew our whereabouts,
      always a starting place.
      And every gift is perfect
      in its beginning, for it
      is “from above, and cometh down
      from the Father of lights.”
      Gravity is grace.
      – Wendell Berry, The Gift of Gravity

      Splitting firewood over the weekend, I swung the axe down upon a log with a previous split running partially down the oak fibers. The axe shattered the log into three pieces, one of which flew directly into my shin just below my right knee. Ouch! Of course it was the right leg–its never the left leg that gets injured. The list of “gifts” is long: Broken leg (car), sprained ankle (basalt), bruised heel (beach), torn calf (crosswalk) and a previous shin injury (steel pole on a wet deck) that looked like a second knee all assaulted the right leg. The left? Blissfully spared such assaults. By comparison this latest incident was just a small bruise and another story to tell.

      We all work to make sense of the gifts we’re given, welcome or not, they shape us. We’re molded by the world, branded by others, given a big break now and again, twisted by fate, fallen in love and gutted by loss. Our shape is our injury, accumulated over a lifetime.

      It’s not just injuries that shape us, but travel and poetry and great books and a song at just the right moment, by quiet persistence and chance encounters and dumb luck. In quiet moments I linger on conversations I had years ago with people I haven’t spoken with since. The way I see the world, phrases that I use to this day, all came as a gift from a place long ago, silt and debris carried in the current of my life and washing over others before continuing onward to eternity. We carry more than we ever realize, and reveal it to the world one small splash at a time.

      A blog is accretive. We observe the world and the gifts we receive–like a snippet from a long Wendell Berry poem–turn them in our minds and release them to wash over others. Some make an impact, most flow unobserved to eternity. Such is the way.

    • Returning to November Stillness

      Walking along the edge of the woods through a thick blanket of fallen leaves, I noted the changes in the landscape since I was last home. New Hampshire is well past peak now, and recent wind and heavy rain coaxed some holdouts down in my absence. The hardscape is glaringly obvious now. November in New Hampshire offers a cold stillness that can be jarring for the uninitiated. But I love it for all that it offers.

      No doubt the pandemic made everything different for all of us. Collectively we might never be the same, but this is the natural state of the world, isn’t it? The one thing the pandemic did, aside from all the horrific stuff, was alter our perception of the world. For if there’s one benefit to what we’ve collectively gone through, it’s acquiring a heightened sense of change. We were forced to slow down and look around at the circle we placed ourselves in. And reflect on whether that was where we wanted to be.

      Bouncing across the country these last two months, I’ve savored some incredible regional food that’s as much a part of the uniqueness of a place as the language and landmarks. I’ve had sourdough bread in San Francisco, popovers in Vermont and biscuits in the Carolinas. Breaking bread offers lessons. The food tastes amazing whether you lean to the right or the left. We’re all human, we just forget that sometimes in our race to categorize others. There’s nothing like a face-to-face conversation to define the common ground between us. And this is one of the primary benefits of travel — getting out of your circle of influence into something wholly new. And seeing that we’re not all that much different from each other after all.

      When my son was two months old I went away for ten days on a white water rafting trip through the Grand Canyon I’d had booked for well over a year. As funny as it seems, I felt in that time away that I’d missed a lot of him growing up. But in going away, I learned to pay more attention to the moment-to-moment changes when I was back home. Sometimes you don’t know what you’ve got until you’re gone. Returning to the stark woods of New Hampshire this November, I’m aware of the changes I’ve missed here. And the changes that have taken place within me while I’ve been away. In the stillness of November, I celebrate both.

    • Make it Now

      How have I not made a note of every word
      You ever said
      And time, is not on our side
      But I’ll pretend that it’s alright
      – Mumford & Sons, Beloved

      Each conversation, each moment of insight and full awareness of another’s presence is a gift twice given; now and in our memories. Life is a series of such exchanges, one after another from our earliest recollection to our last fading moment before we leave this world in the hands of those who carry on without us. The people who make us feel most alive are those who embrace this exchange, leaving us more energized than we were in the moment before.

      Our time together is brief and fleeting, and each moment matters. When we finally see this, we squeeze as much meaningful engagement as we can from our relationships. For some, it’s too late in the game. So why not begin immediately, with the urgency that life demands?

      We tell each other to stop to smell the roses, but what of lingering in conversation a moment longer? What of hugs that take the breath away and smiles that spark the light in another’s eyes? What of quick notes and calls out of the blue? Time is not on our side, friend. If not now, when?

      Make it now.

    • Hearing Our Music

      “Those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.”
      – Friedrich Nietzsche

      When is it easiest to hear your own music? When it’s quiet, of course. When you pull yourself away from the madness of the world, find the stillness and listen.

      When it is easiest to hear the music that others are dancing to? When you break bread together, gather around and listen. And after the last couple of years you’ll hear all sorts of things.

      Being out amongst the masses again, seeing many old familiar faces that have weathered differently in the storms of the last few years, prompts reflection on how I’m weathering the storm myself. You see quickly who has struggled, who has pivoted to find a different side of themselves, who has stuck to old beliefs or abruptly changed to new ones, and who has opted out entirely. And you see yourself in each of them.

      This is a particularly noisy week, at an industry event full of people with diverse opinions, stemming from equally diverse backgrounds, information sources and social reinforcement. In this environment you hear some of the music that others are dancing to, even if you don’t always find it dance-worthy yourself. I think the important thing is to hear their music anyway.

      And then reflect on what you’re currently dancing to. You might like it more. Or maybe less. But either way you’ll hear it differently.

    • The Widest Helpful Influence

      “There is no wealth but life. Life, including all its powers of love, of joy, and of admiration. That country is the richest which nourishes the greatest numbers of noble and happy human beings; that man is richest, who, having perfected the functions of his own life to the utmost, has also the widest helpful influence, both personal, and by means of his possessions, over the lives of others.” – John Ruskin, Unto This Last

      It’s no surprise to learn that Gandhi was strongly influenced by John Ruskin when you read something like this. The ripples of Ruskin continue to reverberate in Liberal thought. By Liberal I’m not speaking of foolish political labels, but in the concept that life and liberty for everyone matter. Matter, in fact, more than the political ambitions of some autocrat or profiteer.

      Think about this: who has the loudest voice in the room? Does that person hold the most influence? It seems so, doesn’t it? But it’s generally the person that influences them who has the most power. It’s the person behind the spotlight who has the power, not the person who the light is being cast upon.

      So how do we develop the widest helpful influence over the lives of others? The obvious answers are to build wealth, a powerful network, and a base of followers. And there’s no doubt that these will reverberate the loudest. But nothing is more powerful than developing the right story and the commitment to having it heard. And that starts with us.

      Gandhi, Ruskin, Thoreau, Nietzsche, King, Emerson, Seneca, Aurelius, Carson, Oliver, Goethe, Montaigne… all are just people who developed a story and a voice. All found an audience over time. So why not us? What story will we tell?

    • The Barista, the Barber & the Waitress

      My well was running dry. Mentally I was beating myself up over tasks and shattered illusions. Some days go exceptionally well, some days nothing goes well. The former are days when you double down and ride the wave. The latter, sometimes, require a reboot.

      There are two ways to reboot. One is through exercise and activity that draws you out of your own head long enough to see that the world is what it is and you’ve done your part. Walking often does the trick for me. The other way is through interaction with others. Call friends and family to catch up, or better yet, meet with them somewhere. Some days you just need your core group of professional relationships to pull you through.

      I began the morning with a latte. I’ve gotten out of the habit of stopping for a coffee and instead make it at home. As a result I’ve missed out on banter with my favorite barista. She asks me where I’m traveling to this time, used to my answers of faraway places. When there’s no line behind me we talk of gardening and what our kids are doing. For all the turnover in restaurants, she’s been a barista here for years, and I go out of my way for these brief conversations. The jolt of espresso secondary to the banter.

      Later in the day, I stopped for lunch at a local Chinese restaurant. Another place I’ve gone to for years, but haven’t gone to in months. The staff there commutes from Boston up to Southern New Hampshire every day, works their shift and returns home late in the night. Six days a week for years on end. The waitress knows my name, and I know hers. Not just the “American” name she introduces herself by, but her real name, which apparently is too complicated for some folks to bother with. She already knows what I’m having, just like the barista did, but confirms before placing the order with the kitchen.

      Due for a haircut, I went to the local barber on a quiet part of their day. He smiled and sat me right down, and we talked of football and the return of mask mandates. He confided that he doesn’t know if they’ll make it if there’s another shutdown, and I responded that it was unlikely this time. Enough of us are vaccinated, right? … right.

      Three people that I have a professional relationship with, each offers just enough of themselves to make my day and reset my outlook for the rest of it. Each deeply impacted by the pandemic, each vaccinated (all Pfizer, like me) and cautiously optimistic about the future. If I ever hit the lottery I’d walk in and give each of them a million dollars, because that’s what they make their customers feel like. Since I haven’t won the lottery, I pay them a million each in installments, one tip at a time. Knowing that it’s not enough for the boost they’ve given me.