Alexandersmap

    Category: Lifestyle

    • Time Travel on the Rail Trail

      I took a walk on a local rail trail during a lunch break.  The trail brought solitude occasionally interrupted by fellow walkers, joggers and cyclists. But not really solitude.  There were glimpses of frogs warily looking back at me, chirps of chipmunks announcing “here’s another one.” as I walked by, and a distant hum of traffic in the distance.  But I was alone with my thoughts.  After cutting way back on listening to podcasts and music on most walks and rows, I’ve realized a net benefit in improved creativity.  Everyone has their thing, mine is quiet.

      An acorn stood in the middle of the path, shed of its cap and firmly on its fat end seeking perhaps a bare foot.  But likely hoping for a kick to the grass where it might take root. Asphalt is no place for an acorn with aspirations.  The remains of hundreds of its kin lay massacred on the trail, victims of bicycle tires and shoes alike.  Looking back, I regret not kicking that acorn into the grass.  It might have stood a fighting chance.

      I paused at a wall, built of granite by hand. Dimpled from the stone cutter, lichen and moss-covered from a long watch under a canopy of oak and maple trees.  The wall has stood here for at least 170 years, and aside from a crack or two looks like it could stand for three times that.  If a generation is 30 years, the man that built this wall could well have been my great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather.  I wonder if he thought of that when placing these stones?  Turning back the way I came, I thought the wall could easily stand for another ten generations if left to itself.  Perhaps they’ll stand where I stood today, thinking as I do of those who came before and those who belong to the future.  My moment with the wall was just a glimpse of a time machine passing from then to there, with a brief visit with me along the way.

      That acorn is a time machine as well, waiting to find the right landing place to take root and grow.  It too could outlive all of us.  And a part of me hopes that it does.

    • The Land Informs

      In New England in the spring of 2006 it started raining and never stopped. The rivers soon overflowed their banks, creating lakes where there was once roads, parking lots and lawns. The Spicket River closed large sections of Salem, New Hampshire and downstream in Methuen and Lawrence, Massachusetts. Ponds too were overflowing, and dams were reaching a breaking point.

      It was at this point that officials in my town decided it was best to release the floodgates on the dam on a pond not far from me. Releasing the water would immediately relieve the pressure on the earthwork holding back the flood waters, which may have been catastrophic had it burst. I live downstream of this dam. When the flood waters were released the stream quickly became a churning serpent racing downhill, picking up momentum in a race to the Spicket River. It reached its first choke point at a culvert up the hill on my street, filled rapidly at this new dam and flowed sideways across a neighbor’s lawn onto the street, which became a riverbed. The crest on the road soon channeled this river onto the lawns of each neighbor in succession until it reached mine.

      When we built this house in 1999 I planted a rugosa rose at the end of the driveway. In seven years it had filled into a fragrant shrub occupying a challenging spot where not much else would grow. It served as the perfect dam for the raging white water racing to meet it. The water swirled around the shrub creating an eddy, which quickly started working on the driveway before continuing on to the end of the street into Hog Hill Brook, which in turn flowed to the Spicket River, then the Merrimack River and finally to the Atlantic Ocean.

      When the rains stopped and the waters receded, a chunk of the driveway was gone. The street fared worse, with long sections of asphalt peeled away. And the bridges downstream still worse than that. But the houses were spared and nobody died, so all told it could have been much worse. As events go it was memorable for those who witnessed it, a triviality to those who hear the stories of that day.

      Memories fade, people move away. but the land often informs if you pay attention. Today that resilient rugosa rose still stands watch at the end of the driveway. The street was repaired and you can still see those patchwork repairs as you walk up the hill, tracking the path of the water that day. The town put in a larger culvert and dumped a pile of dirt leading to it to channel future floods better. My neighbor plants tomatoes on top of it. He’s moving soon, another memory of that day moving away from the site. There are now three bridges dated 2006 or 2007 spanning the Hogs Hill Brook and the Spicket River that betray what happened that spring. The driveway is patched but has never been quite the same. When I walk on the beach near the mouth of the Merrimack River I wonder sometimes if I’m walking on bits of that driveway mixed in with the sand, reunited once again with my feet.

    • Viewing Hedonism Through a Stoic Lens

      I was making coffee with the AeroPress this morning. I’ve quickly grown to love this coffee press for its ease of use, quick cleanup and the great cup of coffee it produces. It got me thinking about this concept of hedonic adaptation I’d been reading about, where we quickly become accustomed to new things that once excited us. Every iPhone owner has experienced this the day a new iPhone was introduced. The trick is to not to allow stuff to dictate your mood. Easier said than done, but there’s value in trying. Will I eventually take the AeroPress for granted? Probably, but Stoicism offers a path.

      “Regularly reminding yourself that you might lose any of the things you currently enjoy–indeed, that you will definitely lose them all, in the end, when death catches up with you–would reverse the adaptation effect.” – Oliver Burkeman, The Antidote: Happiness for People Who Can’t Stand Positive Thinking

      There you go: Memento mori. Stoicism taps me on the shoulder once again telling me not to worry about all that stuff, you’ll lose it all in the end anyway. Your happiness can’t be dependent on the newest shiny toy you buy. None of that stuff matters. Does that mean I can’t enjoy that AeroPress? Not at all, just don’t depend on an object for happiness. That’s a fools game, and expensive to boot.

      According to Wikipedia, “The hedonic treadmill, also known as hedonic adaptation, is the observed tendency of humans to quickly return to a relatively stable level of happiness despite major positive or negative events or life changes. According to this theory, as a person makes more money, expectations and desires rise in tandem, which results in no permanent gain in happiness.”

      I’m watching Sunday football as I finish writing this, tolerating the endless stream of commercials promising me happiness if I buy this car or that, order pizza from that delivery place, or buy that latest iPhone with the cool-ass camera(s). All designed to trigger desire for what you don’t currently have. And all nonsense when you view it through a stoic lens.

    • Lost in an Autumn Playlist

      Autumn. Smell the pumpkin and ripe apples and decaying leaves and wood smoke. Late September through Thanksgiving in New England offer vibrancy with the fourth sense fully engaged in the game of being alive. I could live in many places in the world, but these crisp nine weeks are when I appreciate living in New Hampshire most.

      Autumn. Blue jeans and long sleeves, the heat radiating through a mug warming your hands, wiping dew off the chair before sitting down in the backyard writing chair. Blankets pressing you down into the mattress like you’re a panini. Socks. The days grow shorter and cooler, and the wardrobe changes with the tilt of the earth. We’ve been here before, and we grow reacquainted once again with fabric on our extremities. The dance with Autumn inevitably means literally feeling her on your skin.

      Autumn. Yellow and red waves sweep first over the highlands and wetlands, moving southward and finally capturing the strongest holdouts in between. Northern vistas so stunning you can’t help but stare, and apologize profusely for being so rude. I confess my productivity decreases when I travel to Vermont or northern New Hampshire. Like stained glass in a church, the leaves demand your attention.

      Autumn. Sweetness of apples and the omnipresent pumpkin spice. Last of the harvest turned to cider and preserves. Lighter summer fare giving way to richer dishes that warm you inside out. If you haven’t lost those few extra pounds by now you face an uphill battle as caloric intake holds the advantage. Baked goods take the place of salads, rum gives way to scotch, soups and stews and casseroles tempt and delight. The scale be damned.

      Autumn. The fading crickets song grows sadder while the crows caw grows bolder. Soon the red-winged blackbirds and other transients fill the trees with a cacophony of excited conversation. The hiss and pop of an outdoor fire. And always, a playlist of standards for Autumn. There’s a soundtrack for every season, and Autumn is when my playlists grow reflective.  In the spirit of the senses, I’ll limit myself to five standards that set the tone for Autumn in New Hampshire:

      Philosophers Stone by Van Morrison (King of Autumn music)

      The Long Day is Over by Nora Jones

      I Was Brought to My Senses by Sting

      You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me by Shelby Lynne (sorry Dusty)

      Deacon Blues by Steely Dan

    • Stargazing

      “But let’s not talk about fare-thee-wells now
      The night is a starry dome
      And they’re playin’ that scratchy rock and roll
      Beneath the Matala Moon” – Joni Mitchell, “Carey”

      These particular lyrics jump out at me every time I hear this song.  The spell of a starry dome night on a beach in Mexico with rock and roll music playing.  I’ve done my best to duplicate that portrait many times over the years, sometimes on a beach somewhere, sometimes just in the backyard around a fire pit, and sometimes on an island on a New Hampshire lake with loud music, fire and friends.  Stars over water, stars high on mountain tops, stars in the desert…  always stargazing in the darkest corners I can find.  Epic bonding time with my dog for years before he couldn’t go on our stargazing walks anymore…  and it seems I wouldn’t without him.

      The days grow shorter with the tilt of the earth away from the sun in the northern hemisphere.  Better suited for seeing that starry dome overhead.  A good reason to get back to nighttime walks, head tilted up for constellations, satellites, and the occasional shooting star.  There’s so much going on up there, and we sit in our houses unaware of the dance happening above the roof.

      “You know Orion always comes up sideways,
      Throwing a leg up over our fence of mountains,
      And rising on his hands, he looks in on me
      Busy outdoors by lantern-light with something
      I should have done by daylight, and indeed,
      After the ground is frozen, I should have done
      Before it froze, and a gust flings a handful
      Of waste leaves at my smoky lantern chimney
      To make fun of my way of doing things,
      Or else fun of Orion for having caught me . . .”

       – Robert Frost, “The Star Splitter”

      Orion returns to the dance soon.  I’ve missed this sky dancer most of all these summer months.  I smiled reading Frost’s description of Orion throwing a leg sideways over the mountains.  Were I that clever with a few choice words!  I’ll get there, or at least enjoy the process of trying to get there.  We can’t all be Robert Frost or Joni Mitchell spinning magic in words.  But they weren’t that once either.  Just get out there and do your dance under the stars.  They won’t judge you.

    • Funny that Way

      Few things get the eyes rolling faster on those who Know me best than me mentioning my indignation over ambient light and noise. Both topics play on my greatest hits collection of irritants for only me. Each is a consequence of proximity to… neighbors.

      Don’t get me wrong, I like my neighbors. Until they do things that normal people do that encroach on my world. Things like mowing the lawn, vacuuming, or the worst offense, leaving a light on. Nothing encroaches on an evening outside by the fire pit like a neighbor’s floodlight illuminating your backyard. Nothing illuminates that feeling of waking up with the world like a neighbor’s floodlight shining in your window shouting “Are you up yet??” But there I go again; greatest hits of irritants.

      Ultimately it comes down to living on the edge of solitude but not quite far enough into the deep end. My desire to see the stars runs head-on into their desire to feel safer on a quiet street at night. And so I grumble a bit to myself and a few trusted advisors and move on. I don’t really want to live on an island out in the middle of the ocean, but I do want to visit once in awhile.

      I spent the night on the Cape last night to visit my parents. I live on the edge of the woods in New Hampshire, this is the edge of Buzzards Bay. Both are blessings. Middle of the night I woke up to the rain pelting the roof and window panes. Got up to slide the windows closed and went back to sleep until the storms passed. Got up as the sky lightened to crows and crickets deep in conversation and the slap of waves on the jetty. Sitting down on the deck to take it all in a mosquito cozied up for a drink before meeting my right hand (her Maker, apparently). This kind of encroachment I can take. So why not a little ambient light? I’m funny that way.

    • A Day at the New Hampshire Highland Games

      This weekend the New Hampshire Highland Games take place at Loon Mountain in Lincoln. Want to feel like you’re in the Scottish Highlands in America? Go to Lincoln. The games seem to grow more popular every year, now a 3-day event peaking in popularity on Saturday. Saturdays bring a crush of people soaking up all that is Scottish culture, sampling whiskey, buying kilts and t-shirts, watching the games and the pipers, listening to lectures and traditional music, and of course eating; eating fish and chips, haggis, meat pies and the like.

      Advice for anyone going: Friday and Sunday are less crowded and less expensive. Purchase tickets in advance and bring cash. Both help you avoid long lines for those using plastic to enter. Almost everything is cash only, so come with plenty. The ATM line was as long as the beer line, and three machines were down to one for a time as they struggled to keep with demand. And by all means get there early! The lines to get on a shuttle bus were extremely long. From parking my car Saturday morning (when admittedly I got a late start) to when I finally entered the games was just north of an hour. As with the ATM’s, the shuttle buses struggled to keep up with the hordes of people. Get there as early as possible!

      The New Hampshire Highland Games are spectacular, and no surprise it grows in popularity every year. Blessed with good weather, I soaked as much as possible (lot happening this weekend and I only had the one day). Waiting in lines is a requirement, but simply staking a claim on the ski slope and watching the caber toss and stone press was easy enough, and wildly fun. The crowd roared when Steve Schmidt set a world record in the stone press, and was abuzz when the announcer pointed out a bear passing by further up the slope. The crowd was here for a good time and they found it. And so did I.

      In just over a month I’ll be visiting Scotland for a week. Thats not nearly enough time to see everything, but it just means I’ll have to go back. The Highland Games were a good primer for that trip, but they certainly stand on their own as a must-do event. I’m already planning for a return next year.

    • Frogs and Acorns and Autumn Joy

      I’m not going to sugarcoat it, the garden is fading fast.  Sure, there’s crisp fall air to appreciate if you must.  Autumn is my favorite season, and particularly this year I’m excited about an upcoming trip to London and Scotland.  But this year summer ended abruptly with two events changing the backyard paradise I worked all spring for.

      The first affront to summer was having the roof done.  A new roof is a lovely thing indeed, but the damage done to the summer garden was catastrophic.  Some of it was my own doing of course – strategic weed wacker work through the faded bee balm and daisies to carve a path for the inevitable tarps and plywood needed to catch the roof debris.  But alas, a few prized perennials caught errant shingles as well.  The garden will rebound next year, but it may hold a grudge.

      Second, the pool is covered over for winter weeks earlier than normal.  I can hear the condensation drips splashing into the pool now, saying “What happened to the sky?” while frogs circle the perimeter wondering where the trendy amphibious nightclub went.  I expect I’ve ruined a lot of frog dates closing shop so early.  Sorry frogs.  Not seeing the water hurts me too, but not as much as watching acorns ricochet off the deck, bounce across the patio and splash into the pool to serve as beach balls for coy frog daters.  Autumn is called fall for a reason, and we’ve got some serious fall happening.  Something had to give and this year it was pool season.

      So what we’re left with is a few survivors dancing in the garden, faded potted tropicals wondering where they went wrong in life, and the extraordinary Sedum ‘Autumn Joy’ standing proudly amongst the destruction in the garden; a miracle of color in an otherwise sad garden.  Even the roofers seemed to be rooting for it, and I appreciate their protective efforts as so many of her neighbors fell.

      So here we are.  Autumn in New Hampshire.  A bit different this year, but autumn nonetheless. September eases you into it, with apples and pumpkins and outdoor evening fires.  October will bring the foliage and then the leaves grudgingly join the acorns scattered throughout the yard (there’s no walking barefoot at night in September when you have oak trees).  Autumn joy indeed.

       

    • I Mourn for the Undiscovered

      Up early, reading some Robert Frost poetry I don’t remember reading before.  I’m mesmerized by a line and read on.  I get like this.

      Millions of songs on iTunes, and I’ve barely scratched the surface of what’s out there despite a lifetime focus on music.  I’ve spent huge chunks of my time exploring new music, Shazam’ing songs in loud bars and quiet coffee café and back in the day hanging out in used record stores in Harvard Square trying to find that one gem, that magical song.  And I’ve found many over the years.  Eclectic collection perhaps, but dammit, interesting.

      A bucket list of places to see, and slowly I chip away at it.  My list grows shorter, not because I don’t want to go to all the other places, but because I want to focus on the specific few.  Linger in special places, like listening to a song over and over until you really know it.  Instead of trying to chase everything in a spin of futility.  No, not that.  Give me Thoreau at Walden or Hemingway in Key West.  Or Frost in Derry.  I’ve visited each of these places and understand the power of immersion it had on them.

      I mourn for the undiscovered songs, poems, books and places.  The conversation you never had with a grandparent.  The sunrise you slept through, the lonely beach you didn’t stroll on in winter, the ridge line you didn’t cross, the Northern Lights that danced unseen, the big city that woke up without you, the swims in bracingly cold water and salt on the tongue that you’ll never taste; the places you’ll never be.

      We can’t be everywhere of course.  But I’ll do my best to be present in this moment at least.  Tomorrow will come and I hope to see it.  But don’t mourn for losing today if I should get there.

    • Move to Live

      “To be human is to be on the move, pursuing something, after something. We are like existential sharks: we have to move to live.” James K. A. Smith

      Early start today, and my routine was subsequently turned upside down. Writing and exercise were postponed for commuting and work tasks. And so be it, here I am writing, and the exercise will happen this evening instead. We all need a little agility to effectively navigate life’s twists and turns.  If I look back on this summer, I’ll say I regret not swimming more, not hiking more, not taking more late night star gazing walks….  but also not meeting with more customers, not writing more, not reading more.  I do something, but I could do more.

      It all counts. Do more. Keep moving forward or we atrophy and die. Existential sharks… moving to live.  Write the book, start the business, ask for the date, take on the project, take the chance today on something bolder than you might have done yesterday.  Fortune favors the bold, after all.

      “Make mistakes of ambition and not mistakes of sloth.” – Machiavelli

      James Clear highlighted this Machiavelli quote in his weekly newsletter and it hit me like jumping into a cold lake early in the morning (something I’ve been known to do):  Boom!  You’ve got my attention!  I’ve made many mistakes of sloth over the years – we all have, but use Machiavelli’s advice and choose your mistakes wisely.

      “Some say risk nothing, try only for the sure thing,
      Others say nothing gambled nothing gained,
      Go all out for your dream.
      Life can be lived either way, but for me,
      I’d rather try and fail, than never try at all, you see.

      Some say “Don’t ever fall in love,
      Play the game of life wide open,
      Burn your candle at both ends.”
      But I say “No! It’s better to have loved and lost,
      Than never to have loved at all, my friend.”

      When many moons have gone by,
      And you are alone with your dreams of yesteryear,
      All your memories will bring you cheer.
      You’ll be satisfied, succeed or fail, win or lose,
      Knowing the right path you did choose.”

      – William F. O’Brien, “Better To Try And Fail Than Never To Try At All”

      Well, there it is; Go all out for your dream.  ’tis better to try and fail than never try at all.  Make the mistake of action instead of the mistake of sloth. Keep moving forward. Be an existential shark already.