Alexandersmap

    Category: Learning

    • Caught a Glimpse

      If nothing lasts forever, babe
      Then can we make a start?
      — Mumford & Sons, Rubber Band Man

      Did you notice Jupiter and Mars dancing between the clouds this morning? One moment they’re there, luminescent wonder planets, the next they’re obscured by clouds; there but decidedly not there. Part of me thought I ought to drag out the telescope, part of me thought it impractical given the abundance of clouds making it all but futile to go to the trouble. I write about it instead.

      Yesterday I raked leaves all morning. The oaks had finally shrugged off their burden and slipped into stick season, coating the yard in a thick coat of wet brown leaves. Rain had made the load unsustainably heavy on Saturday morning. By Sunday they were damp enough to not blow away easily but dry enough to fill a tarp and drag them to the woods behind the house. This is how we do it in New Hampshire when we choose to go without power equipment or hired help. I don’t mind the aid of either, mind you, but sometimes you just need to roll up your sleeves and do the work.

      I worked without ear buds, favoring my own thoughts over those of others. There’s a time for a podcast interview or music, and there’s a time to feel your rising heart rate and listen to the damp slide of a full tarp across the lawn. We ought to listen to ourselves now and then just to remind ourselves that we actually have something to say about the matter. We are here, now, doing whatever it is that makes us alive. The gift of presence is that we lock in amber this moment at hand, that we might remember something of it some other day we’re blessed to arrive at.

      The lawn gradually reappeared, like the clouds clearing just enough to see the planets this morning. In those hours of putting mind and muscle to task I wrote a novel in my head, sorted out a list of other priorities in order, and had a long conversation with the person I once was and the person I’m trying to be just ahead on my development curve. The three of us agreed that there’s magic in productivity and purposeful awareness. We catch a glimpse of where we are in such moments. Nothing lasts forever, so why waste any more time than we already have?

    • Better Than Perfection

      As certain as rain
      will make you wet,
      perfection will do you
      in.
      — Kilian McDonnell, Perfection, Perfection

      I write a lot about arete, or personal excellence. It’s a quest for improvement, one step forward and two steps back occasionally, but generally moving upwards and to the right. We know when we’re getting better, even as most of us without an ego problem know that we aren’t or ever will be perfect.

      This blog post is number 3000 published. That means something and nothing, all at once. Anyone can publish a blog—especially now with AI so ubiquitous. This very post will be scrubbed by AI countless times and mined of anything of value to spit out someone else’s “work” for the day. Copying or iteration has always been with us since humans began putting their brains to work. That it’s infinitely more efficient now than it was when this blog began should be anticipated. We ought to do the work worthy of someone else coveting.

      I’ve aspired to greatness in writing like every other writer has and ever will. That the writing hints at potential now and then is small consolation for the perfectionist in me, but years of effort have largely stifled that particular voice in my head. This post, after 3000 attempts at something better than average, will probably be close to my average. Call me a consistent voice if you will. That may or may not be a compliment, but there’s something to be said for giving it a go every day, just to see where we end up.

      I might have titled this blog post “What I’ve learned after 3000 blog posts” for the extra clicks and views it might have garnered. An earlier version of me would certainly have done it. I’m not that person anymore. I’m better (in some ways), and definitely not perfect, and will move through my day today working to make myself better still. Leave perfection to the gods, for that’s where arete was always meant to be. The moment we believe we’ve reached perfection is the moment we stop getting better.

    • Love Again the Stranger

      The time will come
      when, with elation,
      you will greet yourself arriving
      at your own door, in your own mirror,
      and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

      and say, sit here. Eat.
      You will love again the stranger who was your self.
      Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
      to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

      all your life, whom you ignored
      for another, who knows you by heart.
      Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

      the photographs, the desperate notes,
      peel your own image from the mirror.
      Sit. Feast on your life.
      — Derek Walcott, Love After Love

      Life will change soon enough. It’s always changed, as we learn, as we also learn that some years bring more changes than others. Through it all, there is us. We are the main actor in our lifetime drama (or comedy, if you like), and we are the only one in the audience who sees the entirety of our acutely aware presence amongst the living. That ought to count for something.

      I’m approaching a milestone with this blog, and it may be a great point to call this project done. At what point do you feel like you’ve said enough? At what point do you look for a new way beyond blogging to say what ought to be said?

      The thing is, planning to savor all that we’ve done and have become is a fool’s game. We ought to feast on our life today, while there’s life to savor. Tomorrow is too late and always has been. Pour the wine, break the bread, let’s enjoy this time together now. Rest assured that there are a few more pages in this long love letter, if fate allows.

    • A Trouble of Excitement

      “I think you write only out of a great trouble. A trouble of excitement, a trouble of enlargement, a trouble of displacement in yourself.” — Eleanor Clark

      Do you feel that restlessness, that trouble of excitement, that comes with being fully alive? To do and be more naturally lends itself to conflict, both internal and with people who want to treat us as who they’ve grown to believe we are. Without realizing that maybe that’s who we once were and nothing more. Of course, we ought to recognize this in ourself as well.

      I was talking to an automotive shop owner who replaced the previous owner, since retired. I asked if he still saw the previous owner, and he told me, all the time. He was bored in retirement and visited the shop to stay connected with who he once was. We know many people, don’t we, who are simply repeat who they were day-after-day until one day they’re expected to leave that another may take over and do the same. Human history may be thought of as generation-after-generation of people taking their turn in a job, a home, a relationship, or a voice of reason in the latest chaotic moment in history. We are simply taking our turn at this thing we do today, and then we will take our turn at something else tomorrow. Trouble begins when someone can’t or won’t follow the natural order of things. Does that mean that trouble is a bad thing, or simply recognized as change?

      What are you going to do when you retire? I have no trouble imagining the answers myself. One day, when I’m done with all of this, I will travel and garden and spend time with people inside and out of my current orbit. Perhaps I’ll be a grandfather who disrupts the fabric of a child’s proper upbringing. Perhaps I’ll follow through on bold claims of long hikes and longer passages on a boat that hasn’t been adopted into my current lifestyle yet. Perhaps all of these things or things not yet imagined in the current state of creativity an interesting life demands of us. I believe that whatever the future brings, I will write something about it for as long as my mind and body allow.

    • Buried Deep

      “The friends we have lost do not repose in the bosom of the earth, but are buried deep in our hearts; and it has been thus ordained that we may always be accompanied by them.”
      — Alexander Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

      This may be the last quote I offer from this novel, as I’ve finished it and resolved to move on to the next great read. Having spent a fortnight off and on with Dumas, I believe that his classic will stay with me for as long as my memory does. Great books, like great people, have a way of residing within us even when we’ve had to move on in our lives.

      The quote had me thinking about a few people from my past recently. Some have passed away, some have slipped away. Time marches on, but I can still hear their voices and still smile at something said once upon a time. Those who passed away are locked in the amber of our moment together. Those who slipped away feel like they’re one chance encounter from being back in my life again. But more than likely they’re like the dead: ghosts that we knew.

      Did they recall our time together and smile, or were they simply relieved that they’d moved on? I suppose that depends on how much I held up my end of the bargain in our time together. We all ought to remember that time is short, and to make something of the moment at hand.

      After thinking about past acquaintances, I thought about some people in my present. Some are already receding into memory, some continue to stubbornly hold on (as we hold on to them). Deep connection isn’t mined in a day, it takes a shared history, shared highlights, and yes, shared suffering. The fact is, people come and go, while we keep going. Life is full of loss, but also full of discovery and the occasional happy reunion.

      Then again, they’re all still with us, in their own way.

    • Sagacity

      “It is only with prudence, sagacity, and much dexterity that great aims are accomplished, and all obstacles surmounted. Otherwise nothing is accomplished.” — Napoleon Bonaparte

      Having wisdom without purpose makes us worthy of nothing but trivia night at the local pub. What is the use of being wise if we don’t then use our accumulated sagacity to navigate the complexities of life with greater efficiency and tact? If purpose is our fuel, and action our engine, then wisdom may be thought of as our navigation system.

      We age, acquire knowledge, and fill our cache with street smarts. It’s easy to believe that we have it all figured out. But in a time with so much foolishness in the world, sagacity clearly isn’t a given. Just because our average lifespan increases doesn’t mean that wisdom is keeping pace. To be learned, we must be inclined to learn.

      With that in mind, I’m trying to use my time to advantage. When I tell people that this book isn’t going to read itself , I mean it. Reading isn’t the only way to gain wisdom, but it’s a proven path to greater insight. When we graduate out of the classroom, our path to wisdom is only just beginning.

      In order to finish what we start, we’ve got to persist in the activity to its conclusion. It’s appropriate to then ask ourselves what we’ve learned from what we just traded some of our life to obtain. Each great lesson advances our wisdom, each wasted opportunity stalls our advance.

      As with everything, reaching our potential is largely dictated by what we say yes or no to. We cannot control everything in life, but we do have the agency to choose how sagacious we might become. Rather than hoarding wisdom, sagacity may be a gift we offer to help others rise above the din of dim wit that passes for clever nowadays.

    • 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.

    • 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.

    • Be Inclined

      Had I known that the first was the last
      I should have kept it longer.
      Had I known that the last was the first
      I should have drunk it stronger.
      Cup, it was your fault,
      Lip was not the liar.
      No, lip, it was yours,
      Bliss was most to blame.
      — Emily Dickinson

      Time is quickly devoured, but too seldom savored. Opportunities are sometimes seized, often missed. That’s life; figured out as it’s stumbled upon, scorned when reflected on. Don’t beat yourself up friend, for all of us are figuring it out and being our own worst critic. That’s life amongst we humans.

      Opportunity knocks, daily. We are what we repeatedly do (excellence being a habit). To be better, we ought to work on our inclinations. Be inclined to seize more moments, be inclined to say yes to bold and courageous, even in the face of pragmatism and logic and the biggest enemy of audacity, comfort.

      Fear wears many cloaks. Regrets feed on timidity and indecision. Don’t play tomorrow’s blame game: Be inclined to be bold today.