from this moment looking at the clock, I start over
So much time has passed, and is equaled by whatever split-second is present
from this moment this moment is the first” – Wendell Berry, Be Still In Haste
Two weeks into the New Year. About as distracting a beginning to a New Year as I can ever recall. We know where we’ve been, where we’ve come from. But what comes next? We change from moment to moment with the ticking of the clock, but what do we do with that change?
Start over. Again.
“Time does not exist. There is only a small and infinite present, and it is only in this present that our life occurs. Therefore, a person should concentrate all his spiritual force only on this present.” – Leo Tolstoy
Sometimes it feels like we’re marching on a treadmill, especially during a lockdown, but you look back and see progress despite the illusion. A pile of actions that didn’t work. A few, sifted through the remains, that did. What do we make of it? All that has passed, has passed. This moment is the one that counts. This moment is the first.
“Don’t call this world adorable, or useful, that’s not it. It’s frisky, and a theater for more than fair winds.” Mary Oliver, Where Does the Dance Begin, Where Does It End?
When the world show you more than fair winds (this week surely did that), a sprinkling of Mary Oliver poetry soothes the soul. Don’t think I don’t recognize the tendency to turn this blog into a Mary Oliver fan page, and really I’ve tried to move to other things, but too often Oliver seems to have the words readily available. Funny how a few words piled together just so seems to center you. To harden your resolve to get through the darkest days with an eye towards the light.
“Doesn’t the wind, turning in circles, invent the dance?”
I don’t suppose the angry mob has time for poetry. It’s clear they aren’t dancing joyfully through life either. Spun up in conspiracy and hate, and believing false gods. They can’t see beauty when they’re blind with rage.
But we can. So long as we continue to look for it. Hate burns out when it runs out of fuel.
The plan was to drive out to the wrist of Cape Cod for a sunrise picture. I’ve patiently waited for the right weather window to appear, and when my head hit the pillow it seemed all was a go. But the weather always has other plans, and teaches you to listen even when you want to hear something else. And at 5 AM the clouds obscured everything above Buzzards Bay. A check on cleardarksky.com confirmed that my destination was also overcast with transparency rated as too cloudy to forecast. And so I wrote instead.
I’m working on my own forecast. Specifically the ten year plan, for the influencers I read tend to recommend thinking in decades not years. Seth Godin just had a great post about it yesterday, which likely planted it front and center on my brain. But he’s not the only one thinking in ten year chunks, and I’d like to be more forward thinking myself. Ten years seems about right for me too.
Does creating a ten year plan run counter to living in the now? I don’t believe so. I believe it sharpens the focus on now. Instead of going with the flow you’re making the most of the opportunity that now creates. And you’re more inclined to check boxes you might have otherwise put off for some date in the future.
Ten year thinking involves calculus on maintaining good health and fitness, mental sharpness, financial responsibility and investments to achieve goals, relationships and career. What kind of person do you have to become not so far from now? What do you need to do today to move you closer to that? What do you need to stop doing?
The future tends to be too cloudy forecast, but we can always move to clearer skies. Or bide our time. As the last year has taught us, the unexpected will surely surprise us, but if we build enough resiliency into our plans we can get beyond even the deepest valleys. We can only see just so far of what lies ahead of us.
But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men Gang aft agley, An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain, For promis’d joy!
Still, thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me! The present only toucheth thee: But Och! I backward cast my e’e, On prospects drear! An’ forward tho’ I canna see, I guess an’ fear! – Robert Burns, To a Mouse
Last night I saw the potential for a nice sunset down Buzzards Bay. I walked down to a better viewpoint and waited it out in the gusty wind. I thought it would make a nice bookend with the sunrise this morning, but since that never materialized the sunset turned out to be the only picture. I’m glad I didn’t hold out for just the sunrise instead. It serves as a good reminder to enjoy the moments along the way even as you plan and scheme and guess at the future.
“So long as I am hanging on I want to be young and noble. I want to be bold.” – Mary Oliver, Desire
There’s that word again. Bold. I chase it down, let it challenge me. Take a deep breath and get after it yet again. To rise free from care before the dawn and seek adventures, as Thoreau put it so well.
Latin words for bold translate to audax, confidens, fortis, and they all fit. To be a bit audacious, confident and fortified are generally celebrated in this harsh world. We all aspire to a bit of boldness in our actions, don’t we?
It’s the last day of the year that most everyone would love to see go away. And yet great things happened despite it all. I started to take stock of the exceptions to the general malaise that was this year and generally the ones I had any control over started with a bit of boldness. Deciding what to be and then going out and being it. I save the selfies for others. Ego is my enemy. Instead of celebrating those mountains climbed and the waterfalls sought out I’m quietly putting them in my memory bank with a smile. That’s what archives and search are for.
What have we done with our time this year? What will we do today? Next year is upon us, what shall we make of it? Begin in earnest, today.
I have places to be and I’m excited about the future. That begins with celebrating the last day of the year and finding the next micro adventure to fill the days with wonder until the world opens up again someday. It begins with a measure of boldness.
“The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Don’t go back to sleep.
You must ask for what you really want. Don’t go back to sleep.
People are going back and forth across the doorsill where the two worlds touch.
The door is round and open. Don’t go back to sleep.” – Rumi
The moon’s luminescence cut long, deep shadows from the trees across the frozen tundra we call the backyard. I took the binoculars, slipped on some boat shoes and a warm coat for a closer look. Boat shoes generally aren’t the best footwear for frozen tundra, but there’s no ice to navigate. They’ll do.
I was out the door, gazing at the moon and the constellations around me. The trick is in the order, of course. If you stare at the moon through binoculars first your night vision is shot. But it was the moon that called me outside, and so most of my attention went to the Siren.
The thing is, you don’t read a poem like Rumi’s the same way after you do something like that. You read that first line and it means something entirely new to you. But then peel back the layers on the rest of this poem and the world opens up in new ways. And there lies the case for blending experience with tapping into the well of thought from those who came before you. You aren’t the first. You’re just carrying the torch on this day.
Grasp the moment. Grasp the enormity of it all. The door is round and open.
Some days I’ll write a blog post and it will immediately take off, receiving a ton of views and a fair share of likes. Nice! But then there are the other blog posts that fall flat, barely registering a couple of views and no likes. Hmm…
Of course I love them both, as any parent might love their children, just the same. For ultimately I’m just working things out on my own, sorting out what I learn, see and do on my own terms. But that’s blogging for you: Sorting it all out, hits and misses, one post at a time. Like days stacked one atop the other.
“Still, I ponder where that other is – where I landed, what I thought, what I did
what small or even maybe meaningful deeds I might have accom- plished somewhere among strangers
coming to them as only a river can” – Mary Oliver, A River Far Away and Long Ago
Sometimes I’ll look back on a blog post from a year or two ago when someone likes it, drawing my attention back to the person who wrote it. I’ll ponder the words, remember who I was then and what I was doing and thinking. People who were everything who are strangers now. Strangers who have become everything. How I sorted things out then, and how I do now.
“find beauty in each day a small beauty works fine
bask in it then let it go
other beauty awaits you” – Kat Lehmann, Stones from the River
Last night I finished my fourth book in four days. That sounds like I’m reading a book a day, which is inaccurate. No, I’m merely whittling down the stack of books read throughout this year at around the same time. But I’m pleased to close them each out. When I read on the Kindle app I then go back and review the highlights once again, just to understand the salient points to make sense of the whole. No great surprise to anyone: some of those highlighted passages end up in this blog.
If you take the micro poem by Lehmann and insert the word “book” where “day” is, well, you get an entirely different micro poem, and yet very much the same. Or insert “journey” or “conversation” or “decision” where “day” currently resides and… you get the point. There’s magic in words, and our choice of words.
But to stay with the original word just a bit longer, I established this habit of writing down a summary of each day in one line in a journal. Sometimes this isn’t easy when all you did in a day was write a blog post, work and eat a pizza for dinner. But other entries offer more emphatic moments of consequence. I start/stopped this habit early in the year, and then it became an every day thing in June. I’d say six months officially makes it a habit.
This micro poem sums up the exercise quite well. Find something notable or beautifully commonplace that occurred in a day and write it down in one line. And like a micro poem there’s joy in its simplicity. You only have one line. Write small if you will, but get right to the point. What happened? What did you do? What was the beauty you found in this day? One line.
As with re-reading the highlights in a Kindle book I look back on months of single line entries and I see moments come alive again. Celebrations, mountains climbed, loved ones lost, friendships rekindled, and yes, an occasional pizza. I’m grateful for having written it all down. One line, for one day, at a time. For there’s magic in those words.
“in other breaking news a silver moon sailed above the world and the only ones who knew it were the ones who looked up” – Kat Lehmann, Small Stones From The River
The skies cleared in New England after a day of heavy snow, allowing the few who ventured outside to see the waxing crescent moon looking like a giant in the western sky. A bit further along in their dip towards the western horizon was the equally stunning dance of Jupiter and Saturn. They’re slowly moving towards each other for the “Great Conjunction” on December 21st. Last night the moon was at 10% illumination, giving Jupiter and Saturn the spotlight. The three together made for a magical picture.
I witnessed this dance across a field that cows graze on during the day, on days when it isn’t coated in snow. Last night the cows were huddled in their barn and the field sloped down towards the west, giving a wonderful view of the dance. I wonder if the cows took turns sneaking a peak through the barn door at this once in a lifetime event? Probably not. Most humans pay no attention, who can expect a cow to grasp the significance?
Monday, December 21st seems to be trending towards rain and cloud cover. That’s par for the 2020 course, as we seem to have cloud cover for most of the celestial events this year. So maybe having the opportunity to witness something that hasn’t occurred at night since the year 1220 will be next to impossible here in New Hampshire. But we can hope for clear skies, for we’ll never see it again in our lifetimes.
I wonder why more people aren’t lining the roads in wonder at the universe. But every day is a once in a lifetime event for each of us. Maybe we’re used to squandering moments? And maybe the world is too complex and broken for such things as great conjunctions. But I’d like to think that, maybe, they just haven’t looked up yet.
“a small change in rudder affects both the journey and the destination” – Kat Lehmann, Small Stones From The River
There is no doubt that the year brought unprecedented storms that have collectively altered our course. But what of the set of our sail? What of the rudder? The world in all its maddeningly unpredictable ways will be what it is, but our course is largely set by us.
Ultimately we control very little in the world but how we react to it. We change course in countless ways all the time. This year offered many lessons. And choices: Alive time or dead time? Some may say it was a lost year, but I would argue it informed us greatly about our resilience, our priorities, and our adaptability. And with that hard-won knowledge, where do we steer to now?
A small change, consistently acted upon, determines where we go. Small, constant changes lead to a zig-zagging, undetermined course. Which is better? It depends on where you want to be and how quickly you want to get there. Both bring you places. But we don’t want to be rudderless.
I prefer to have the tiller and a compass heading I’m confident in. React as we must to the conditions we find ourselves in, but generally keep steering towards our destination. And discover what we may. For the journey is underway.
“I am grateful for what I have not yet completed” – Kat Lehmann, Small Stones from the River
With an eye towards the weather the plotting resumes. Conspiracies of wonder, awaiting launch orders, sit at the ready. Waiting to begin again.
I’m sometimes vexed at peaks I haven’t climbed, countries I haven’t visited, waterfalls unseen, books I haven’t read…. and words I haven’t written. I dwelled in one such moment yesterday. And then I looked out the window at a Bluebird on the feeder staring in indignation at a Downy Woodpecker who wouldn’t get off the suet already. I stifled a laugh and whatever irked me faded away.
Of all the birds who visit the yard, the Bluebird is the most aware of where I am at any given time. When I’m outside they’re high up in the tree canopy awaiting the all clear. But they also know when I’m at the window watching them at the feeder. They’re hyper-aware creatures who visit on their terms. So I observe them from a step behind where I might observe other birds. Their visits are a gift subsidized with dried worms and suet.
They remind me to be patient; for the world will come to you if you remain at the ready and open to it.
…
A side note: If you really want to wade into it, tap into the debate over whether common bird names are considered proper nouns and thus warrant capitalization. I’ve been known to stretch the rules of proper English in my blog, and though Wikipedia might refer to Sialia sialis as the Eastern bluebird, I’m just going to call it Bluebird. I always did enjoy stretching the rules.
