Alexandersmap

    Category: Lifestyle

    • The Migration

      The skies are filled with masses of migrating birds this time of year. They pirouette in sky dance, beautiful shape shifters creating momentary sculpture of black on blue. Where they’re heading from here I don’t know, but I’m grateful for our moment together before they bring their art show to another stage.

      Another migration takes place on the highways below. Masses of SUV’s heading home from soccer and lacrosse tournaments, or leaf peeping long weekends in the northern states. If the birds offer coordinated air shows that inspire, the highways offer myriad close calls and highly questionable driving behavior. I’ve witnessed multiple tragedies that almost happened today, and can only shake my head in wonder at the decisions of others. But to them I’m an obstacle, driving in a long line of cars at frustratingly variable speed. This isn’t driving that lulls you into meditative bliss, it’s hours of ‘pay attention or suffer the consequences‘ power commuting. And today my migration took me across I-90 West from Worcester, Massachusetts to Batavia, New York with the most distracted, irritable parents and empty nesters Columbus Day Weekend could muster.

      Driving is a pleasure when the environment you’re driving in is predictable and the drive is at highway speed. When one or both condition becomes highly variable, well, it becomes less of a pleasure. But most of us got where we were going without incident, which isn’t exactly shape shifting sky dance, but hey, it’s something.

    • More in Less

      Recently I’ve begun limiting myself to one cup of robust coffee when I brew it with the AeroPress, where I’d previously indulge in a second and often a third. It seems one does the trick, and one more would be too much. The net benefit is less money spent on coffee, fewer trips to the bathroom, and ironically, sharper focus.

      There’s merit in avoiding the things that dull the senses, and embracing the things that electrify the senses. You’ll be the better for having done so. Take for example, a glass of single malt scotch.  It offers so much more in less. Savor it, reflect, take another sip. A little sip of Scotland to brighten your day. And an example of more in less. So I’m trying to take a similar approach to coffee.

      Today feels like a good opportunity to practice brevity.  I’m averaging a little over 400 words per post.  Today’s contribution will lower that average a bit.  So be it. I chip away at it nonetheless. Sometimes less is more?

       

    • A Walk in Time

      Too much indulgence at dinner drove a desire to move, and I went out in the dark night to walk the street.  I’ve walked this street many times over the last twenty years, thinking  too much at times.  For fifteen of those years I had a loyal companion, Bodhi, who was patient with me even as I wasn’t always patient with him.  Labradors want to explore the world on their own terms, and when he was younger I wrestled with his instincts and my selfish desire to keep moving.  As we got older together I learned to slow down, and regret not giving him enough time to linger on the neighborhood dog message boards he inevitably sniffed and marked along the way.  Perhaps he was complaining about the short leash I’d give him, but he wasn’t one to complain much.

      The neighborhood has changed in twenty years.  People come and go, usually from the same houses, while the rest of us anchor the cul du sac with memories of block parties, eventful storms, swarms of kids trick-or-treating on Halloween, and the occasional scandal.  Some quirky people, some gossiping and manipulative hens, some hard chargers, and at least one oddball who walked in the dark at 10 PM every night with his dog.  But we all tended to look out for one another in some fashion.

      Of the hundred or so people who have lived on this street these twenty years, we’ve seen our share of drama.  Three couples divorced, two people went to prison, two women had breast cancer and one man chopped his fingers off trying to clear his snowblower.  They stitched them back on, but it dominated conversation for a few weeks.  But there’s plenty of good on the street too.  Kids who grew up, went to college and became contributing members of society.  Successful careers, at least one book published on the street and one aspiring author working to add another, a locally famous weatherman, and a few recent retirees checking the box on a career.  The American dream, and some of the drawbacks to pursuing it, all on one street.

      The biggest, most expensive home on the street is directly behind my own house.  The cul du sac loops around like a “j” with a long driveway leading back to the big house, creating a “u”.  It’s twice the size of my own home, with a five car garage, movie theater, fitness room and a stunning view of rolling fields of a horse farm.  The long driveway is lined with light poles on either side, which we derisively call the runway when lit up.  The house has changed hands three times in twenty years.  The first owner was a crooked chiropractor who went to prison for a large scale insurance scam he orchestrated.  He built a flashy house, drove both a Hummer and a Dodge Viper and trolled for young women on the streets of Lawrence, Massachusetts while his wife was home raising children.  His house of cards came crashing down and his wife and children had to move out of the neighborhood to a condo in another town while his accommodations were more sparse.  That house has turned twice since then but we still refer to it as the original owners house.

      Walking the street alone at 10 PM doesn’t feel quite right anymore.  The street is the same yet everything is different.  Late evening walks are best done with a companion.  Bodhi is gone, the kids are in different corners of the world, and my bride has surrendered to prime time television.  But I walked anyway, if only to digest a bit, to think, and in the futile hope of seeing a few shooting stars.  Streaky overcast skies offered a glimpse of a few stars and a hazy moon, but wasn’t going to pull the covers off for a proper show.  Just me and the acorns falling.  And memories of twenty years on a single street in New Hampshire.

    • Let the Clamor Be

      Wednesday afternoon I found myself in a customer’s Audi driving to lunch. His customer in turn was also in the car (my role being “vendor”). The 15 minutes spent in the car was spent listening to the driver’s pro-Trump diatribe on the impeachment investigation and his firm belief that anything he said would result in strong nods of agreement from the two passengers in his car. He didn’t notice that neither of us said anything. I don’t know the political views of the end user, but I do know mine. More importantly, neither of them know my political views. I happen to have strong views on this topic, but those views had no place in a business meeting. Aside from lack of professionalism, it’s unnecessary noise that distracts from purpose. Me jumping in on this topic would have created more rather than relieved tension.

      “Learn to stop trying to fix things, to stop being so preoccupied with trying to control one’s experience of the world, to give up trying to replace unpleasant thoughts and emotions with more pleasant ones, and to see that, through dropping the ‘pursuit of happiness’ a more profound peace will result.” – Oliver Burkeman, The Antidote: Happiness for People Who Can’t Stand Positive Thinking

      I’m not seeking “happiness” (that’s akin to playing Whac-A-Mole) but I do have a fair amount of restlessness I work through. So it’s interesting if only to me when two books arrive at the top of my stack of real and virtual books at the same time. Burkeman’s and Ryan Holiday’s latest, Stillness is the Key. Both tackle similar ground – with focus on the value of Stoicism in particular, but common themes in Buddhism and (in Holiday’s book), other world religions and philosophies.

      Burkeman throws out a nugget in his book that struck me as profound: “Let the Clamour be.”  In American English we’d spell that ‘clamor’.  But no matter, the point is made.  I’ve worked on that for years, sometimes successfully, sometimes not so.  What I don’t do is actively meditate.  I take my meditation in turning off the noise and doing yardwork, or gardening, washing dishes or simply taking a quiet walk.  Am I missing out on something significant by not meditating?  Probably, but I feel better about myself for getting something done while I’m in my mind.

      Which brings me to the acorns.  I’ve got 10’s of thousands of them sitting on my front lawn right now, just waiting for me to rake them up.  Just me, a rake, shovel and barrel, and endless acorns.  I can feel the stillness already.

    • 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.