Alexandersmap

    Category: Poetry

    • The View of Here

      Gratitude—is not the mention
      Of a Tenderness,
      But its still appreciation
      Out of Plumb of Speech.

      When the Sea return no Answer
      By the Line and Lead
      Proves it there’s no Sea, or rather
      A remoter Bed?
      — Emily Dickinson

      As I write this, my daughter has moved twice to put some distance between herself and the wildfires raging in Los Angeles. She is now thankfully in a safer place, but it was a stark reminder of just how fragile our days are. I read about people losing everything but what they carry with them and I look around and wonder what I’d grab on my way out the door should it happen here. The answer is both everything and nothing at all but the souls who orbit my world.

      It’s no surprise that this blogger leans into productivity and improvement. The question we must always ask ourselves is, towards what? Where is all the hustle and effort bringing us? When we read a book, is it for the simple pleasure of reading that book or are we trying to glean something out of it to help move the chains down the field? We ought to remember the simply pleasures in our march, and learn to savor the view of here.

      The things we are grateful for generally outweigh the things we find lacking in our lives, but humans have a way of focusing on the latter anyway. Constant, never-ending improvement is a blessing and a curse, for this march to personal excellence means we’re rarely satisfied with where we are. Simply taking stock of all that we have already clarifies exactly how deep our blessings run. We don’t need a crisis to clarify, we simply need to stop forever chasing the promise of potential to swim in the abundant depth of here and now.

    • Like Wind Blowing

      “Things don’t have purposes, as if the universe were a machine, where every part has a useful function. What’s the function of a galaxy? I don’t know if our life has a purpose and I don’t see that it matters. What does matter is that we’re a part. Like a thread in a cloth or a grass-blade in a field. It is and we are. What we do is like wind blowing on the grass.” — Ursula K. Le Guin

      It is and we are. What matters is we’re a part. We need not make sense of it all, for who can possibly know? What matters is that we are playing our part in the universe in our time.

      This echoes of Walt Whitman’s famous answer in O Me! O Life! which will always be read with the voice of Robin Williams in my head:

      “That you are here—that life exists and identity,
      That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.”

      Some of us forever dwell on the why. Some descend into nihilism, as if a why matters a lick, for existence itself is folly. And some simply get straight to work, believing action creates a why. The only thing we control is our reaction to the world we find ourselves dropped into. What do we find when we break down the word reaction? Google AI to the podium:

      “The Latin word reāctiō is the origin of both the Old French and Middle English words, which comes from the verb reagō. Reagō is made up of the prefix re- meaning ‘again’ and the word agō meaning ‘to act’.”

      To act again. Like wind blowing through the grass, we stir meaning out of the inanimate and create a life for ourselves. This is what it means to be alive. To play a part infers action, for which we must boldly embrace our agency. Life has purpose or it’s meaningless—we play a part in determining which it will be. Who says we can’t make our part a thrilling page-turner?

    • Forever Our Measure

      Forever – is composed of Nows –
      ‘Tis not a different time –
      Except for Infiniteness –
      And Latitude of Home –

      From this – experienced Here –
      Remove the Dates – to These –
      Let Months dissolve in further Months –
      And Years – exhale in Years –

      Without Debate – or Pause –
      Or Celebrated Days –
      No different Our Years would be
      From Anno Dominies –
      — Emily Dickinson, Forever

      The last few days of the year are upon us. Honestly I’ve felt the days a blur for months. Even now the rush to fit it all in before the year is over weighs on me. Another year almost in the books—doesn’t it all fly right by? We know that the calendar was created to organize our lives around our place in the heavens, with a trip around the sun marking the year, the turn of the planet marking the day, and so on. But I’m convinced it was really created to remind us that we can’t possibly fit everything we want to do in to the time allotted to us.

      Is it any wonder we turn our attention to time and our place in it as we approach the New Year? How did those resolutions turn out? I’m a couple of posts away from blogging every day of the year, but ten books short of a reading goal I’d set for myself. Is such scorekeeping necessary to live a life of purpose and excellence? Of course not. Like the calendar itself it’s merely a tool for keeping us on track. We all want to see progress for ourselves in whatever pursuit matters most for us.

      Knowing our place in history and our short shelf life available with which to work creates a burden to perform. As the year ends, we either like how we measure up or we don’t. The time has slipped away in any case. But we have this new calendar year just ahead, calling our attention. A new hope, if you will, to make things right. But we lucky humans don’t live a lifetime in a year—we bridge years. The way we keep score ought to be measured in progress across our entire lifespan. Personal excellence is always and forever our measure. Now is our time.

    • The Side of Good

      When we fight with our failings, we ignore
      the entrance to the shrine itself and wrestle
      with the guardian, fierce figure on the side of good.
      — David Whyte, The Faces of Braga

      I have work to do. I’ve promised myself I’d row every day this month to counter the accumulating calories of the holidays. It’s the 23rd day of December and that promise mocks me like all the broken promises I’ve made before. When you break a promise to yourself the dark mind piles on, bringing up other promises unkept. We are our own worst critic, as the saying goes. We tell others that nobody is perfect while beating ourselves up every time we fall short.

      Still, we are good despite our failings, and better at some things than we were yesterday. We are each on our climb to personal excellence. Nobody said this would be easy, friend. Like the trail to a mountain summit, we must remind ourselves that the path is never straight, often descends and turns away from the goal, but will always carry us to our destination if we just put one foot in front of the other and stick with the path that brings us there.

      Our aim isn’t that evasive perfection but a good life, full of meaning and contribution and direction. Washboard abs might bring some of us happiness, but chances are if our habits aren’t supporting those abs it isn’t a summit we really want to climb. The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time, as James Taylor put it. Being fit is certainly going to make our passage easier to navigate, but we mustn’t forget that the secret is the enjoying part. Sure, the rowing hasn’t been there, but the walking has, and presence with people who matter a great deal. We all have our collection of daily wins and shortcomings. Which way the scale tips is often a matter of perspective.

    • Stepping Into Change

      So let this winter
      of listening
      be enough
      for the new life
      I must call my own.
      — David Whyte, The Winter of Listening

      I met a friend for a pint yesterday. It turned into a small pub crawl between two breweries as the crisp air filled with swirling snow. We talked of the familiar and the forever changing as the snow accumulated and the town roads clogged with drivers uncertain about what to do when the world turns white again. With a nod to the familiar we needed to return to, we cut our reunion short and joined the other drivers while our heads were still clear enough to join the fray.

      Snowflakes melt on the back of my neck as I moved the brush around the truck, feeling my footing on snowy concrete with the anticipation of slippery roads. Like any skill that’s been dormant for some time, walking and driving on icy roads is muscle memory. It all comes back quickly, we just need to take it slowly while the rust clears. We’ve been together before, the winter whispers reassuringly, and sure enough one tentative step brings us to the next and soon we’re safely home again.

      December often hints at changes to come in our lives. Mine is no exception; change has whispered in my ear for months. When the world starts swirling with the forever changing, we may carry the reassurance of having been here before. The landscape may change in disorienting ways, but we’ve developed the skills to navigate this new world safely on our journey of becoming. Keep a clear head and listen for what whispers. Stepping into change is nothing new for us.

    • That Which Brings You Alive

      Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
      confinement of your aloneness
      to learn
      anything or anyone
      that does not bring you alive
      is too small for you.
      — David Whyte, Sweet Darkness

      I’ve been on the receiving end of a few calls in the last week. People who I’ve worked with, befriended and sometimes mentored. I tend to listen well when all someone wants is for someone to listen. We all need that now and then, don’t we? The world is full of people who call out in the darkness. I believe that it can always use more people who answer that call.

      We’re closing in on the darkest day of the year in the northern hemisphere. I don’t mind darkness so much. I wear it like an old flannel shirt that becomes a part of us over time. I view the seasons for what they are and the changes they bring, and work to be present in it. Still, the days are very short this time of year. And for a lot of people, all that time in the dark makes the absences feel more apparent. What is missing is as much a part of who we are as what we have.

      We make the most of our situations, hopeful that things will somehow change, looking for a spark in the darkness from which we may find our way. Sometimes we overstay our time in the dark, simply because we get used to living in it. We forget sometimes that this is our one go at things. If something or someone isn’t making us feel alive, surely it’s slowly killing us. That lesson is apparent when we escape the darkness, but hard to see when we’re in it.

      Just as a match requires friction to create a spark, choosing joyful connection over isolation is a path to the light. Like attracts like, the law of attraction insists, and we find that we aren’t so alone after all. That which brings us alive is our lifeline to enlightenment and fulfillment. We shouldn’t waste a second holding on to anything else.

    • Buried Treasure

      I know, you never intended to be in this world.
      But you’re in it all the same.
      so why not get started immediately.
      I mean, belonging to it.
      There is so much to admire, to weep over.
      And to write music or poems about.
      — Mary Oliver, The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac

      I know that there’s darkness in the world. I know that my time in it will draw to a close one day. I can hope that day is long from now, but really, who knows? And so I work to make something beautiful of this day, even if the world never finds it—it will be my buried treasure awaiting discovery. Perhaps this blog post, perhaps a photograph, or maybe the way a passage I underlined in a book long ago, that escapes even me.

      The snow is accumulating, layering above the frozen lawn, hiding those stubborn acorns and oak leaves that fell after the very last cleanup. There is never a last cleanup, they whisper. Life is a cycle and we are merely surfers catching a wave in our time. We aren’t meant to wrestle with infinity, it’s always had the advantage of waiting us out. Those holdout acorns have become buried treasure too.

      Each day I find some small project to finish. A book I thought would never end, a bit of paint on the wooden trim, a call I’ve been reluctant to make, a paragraph written and re-written in hopes of being published one day. Maybe, like those acorns buried under the falling snow, our work will be frozen in time awaiting some moment in the sun. Our best treasure still hides within. We must stop hiding and venture out into the world, while there’s time for such things.

    • By Whatever Name

      Every day I’m still looking for God
      and I’m still finding him everywhere,
      in the dust, in the flowerbeds.
      Certainly in the oceans,
      in the islands that lay in the distance
      continents of ice, countries of sand
      each with its own set of creatures
      and God, by whatever name.
      How perfect to be aboard a ship with
      maybe a hundred years still in my pocket.
      But it’s late, for all of us,
      and in truth the only ship there is
      is the ship we are all on
      burning the world as we go.
      — Mary Oliver, On Traveling to Beautiful Places

      It’s late for all us. We can see this when we pay attention to such things. We can see the world burning as we go, we see the games of distraction that keep the masses occupied while the power brokers pad their pockets, and apparently we can’t do all that much about it. As I’ve said before, all we can really do is build resiliency and beauty into our own lives. But maybe we can do a little more. Maybe we can help others, lost in the darkness, find their way to beauty too.

      To be aboard a ship with maybe a hundred years still in my pocket… Ah the places we’d go! We’ve only got this one go at things, and it’s late for all of us. Where shall we go today? The more I see, the more I come back to where I started. Our life’s work is ourselves, and as Michelangelo put it, seeing the angel in the marble and carving until we set him free. Yes, it’s getting late for all of us, but we may still keep carving to release the angels.

      I’m not particularly religious (when you see the power brokers for who they are you see them everywhere), but there’s an undercurrent of spirituality running through me that is best expressed in empathy and reverence. Perhaps you feel that too. What’s beautiful in this world is realizing the connection. We’re all in the same boat, spinning through the universe, infinitesimal yet infinite all at once. Isn’t that miraculous?

    • Source Material

      “Who are you? They called out, at the edge of the village. I am one of you, the poet called back. Though he was dressed like the wind, though he looked like a waterfall.” — Mary Oliver, Pen and Paper and a Breath of Air

      This morning there was a hard frost on the lawn, and a bit of sea smoke mingling with fog across the bay. The sky was pastel and postcard perfect. Why do we leave such places? Because life happens beyond the bliss of the comfortable moment. There’s so much more to discover and do, just over the bridge between here and what’s to come.

      Scanning the headlines it was evident that the doom cycle is in full gear. Wars, accidents, murder and a heated national election. It’s all a hot mess. No wonder so many people are irrational and afraid. No knock on responsible (and absolutely necessary) journalism, but there are those who seek profit in rapt attention. Shame on all of them, they who profit on dissent and tragedy and the misery of others, for they serve the darkest depths of human instincts. We may acknowledge the lessons without slowing down to have a good look. For all the madness that pastel sky indicated another perspective.

      It’s all source material for how we live our own lives, and for what we produce ourselves. Do we carry light or darkness with us in our oeuvre? To produce anything in this noisy world that may resonate with another is challenging, and leaning into formulaic and familiar may feel like a shortcut to acceptance in a fickle world, but aren’t we simply a part of the choir then? Where is our own voice? What differentiates us more than marching to our own beat? We may choose to be the source material for those who would follow. We may choose to be true to ourself.

    • Stories to Tell

      He who does not travel, who does not read,
      who can not hear music,
      who does not find grace in himself,
      she who does not find grace in herself,
      dies slowly.
      He who slowly destroys his own self-esteem,
      who does not allow himself to be helped,
      who spends days on end complaining about his own bad luck, about the rain that never stops,
      dies slowly.
      — Martha Medeiros, Die Slowly

      Sure, this blog is one big reminder to live in the moment and to savor it all. Amor fati already! The aim is a counter narrative to the relentless soundtrack of outrage, nihilism and distraction found in most media platforms nowadays. Be the change you wish to see in the world and all that. In this way the blog is a lifeline to anyone who needs to hear it, beginning with the author.

      What became clear a thousand posts or so ago is that writing a blog is a solitary act of self reflection shared with the world, or at least the few that seek it out or stumble upon it. Travel, reading, music, gardening, hiking—whatever it is we’re exploring in the season and discovering within ourselves ought to be fair game. Every day is a statement of here we are.

      We are alive today, and maybe not tomorrow. We must heighten our appreciation for that gift and find within ourselves the grace to accept and carry the weight of our brief shelf life. Not to dwell on it, just to acknowledge it as a compelling reason to jump back into the dance with life.

      So bravo to the adventurous spirits who seize their precious lives and get after it. We all should be so bold. You do you, I’ll do me, and perhaps we’ll meet on the dance floor one day soon. If we are blessed to meet again, may we each have our share of intriguing stories to tell.