Alexandersmap

    Category: seasons

    • Conversations and Calories

      “Joy is not produced because others praise you. Joy emanates unbidden and unforced. Joy comes as a gift when you least expect it. At those fleeting moments you know why you were put here and what truth you serve. You may not feel giddy at those moments, you may not hear the orchestra’s delirious swell or see flashes of crimson and gold, but you will feel a satisfaction, a silence, a peace—a hush. Those moments are the blessings and the signs of a beautiful life.” ― David Brooks, The Road to Character

      The last few weeks of the year tend to fly by more quickly than all the rest. Holiday parties, reunions, the rush to get gifts and wrap them—it all adds up to a frenzy of experiences lumped together where one doesn’t stand apart from another, but instead they blend into one. Conversations and calories accumulate in rapid succession, we grow satiated and yet want for more. The shortest days of the year thus become some of our most full.

      To focus on improvement is to step back towards balance, towards that which we aspire to be. Balance is a word that infers we have somehow become unbalanced. But don’t we wish for the richness and delight that those conversations and calories bring us? Sure, moderation is the key to a healthy life, but we starve ourselves all year. A few brief hours of richness and delight offer their own form of balance, should we recognize the moments for what they are.

      We know that those calories add up and that the scale doesn’t lie, and soon there will be renewed focus on moderation. We know that people return to their routines and begin once again to look ahead to longer days. There will be days of quiet solitude that whisper of loneliness, if we let our guard down, if we begin to compare what we have on our busiest days with what we have when the schedule is full of blank spaces. We ought to remember that life ebbs and flows, and the ebb is as natural as the flow. Accepting both is the path to a beautiful life.

    • The Joyful Stir

      “You must learn to drink the cup of life as it comes … without stirring it up from the bottom. That’s where the bitter dregs are!” — Agnes Sligh Turnbull

      Celebrating the holidays is easy when we’re around friends and family. It’s not as easy for those who are alone. Some are blessed with an abundance of people in their lives through proximity and an inclination for connection. Some go out of their way to stay away. Be yourself, but know that you always have a place at our table.

      I have two neighbors who have lived next to each other for a quarter century who won’t make eye contact with each other but go out of their way to say hello to everyone else who walks up the street. Some people are naturally closer than others. Something was said, some point of contention remains, stubborn righteousness kicks in and the years go by with scarcely a nod between them. It’s extraordinary to behold.

      Generational baggage clings to some families. Like my two neighbors, whatever it was that happened, it never fades away. Awareness reveals entire family histories. A family may be at the same Christmas party and be as far away from each other as if they were in separate countries, while laughing and bonding with the rest of us. Why? Only they know, but the holidays are no time to stir up the bitter dregs.

      We ought to learn to be alone, if only to ensure that when we inevitably are, we aren’t so lonely. To be alone in a room full of people is an inclination, as much as not being lonely when there’s nobody there but us and the ticking clock. Joyfulness is an active-participation sport, and we reap what we sow. We ought to learn to let bygones be bygones, even in these contentious, divided times, and find a way back to connection. We must keep stirring joy, for when something is bitter, a little sweetener goes a long way.

    • A Change in Inclination

      Rain and wind, and wind and rain.
      Will the Summer come again?
      Rain on houses, on the street,
      Wetting all the people’s feet,
      Though they run with might and main.
      Rain and wind, and wind and rain.

      Snow and sleet, and sleet and snow.
      Will the Winter never go?
      What do beggar children do
      With no fire to cuddle to,
      P’raps with nowhere warm to go?
      Snow and sleet, and sleet and snow.

      Hail and ice, and ice and hail,
      Water frozen in the pail.
      See the robins, brown and red,
      They are waiting to be fed.
      Poor dears, battling in the gale!
      Hail and ice, and ice and hail.
      — Katherine Mansfield, Winter Song

      With the winter solstice come and gone, I thought it timely for us to consider a winter song. For the days are short, cold and dark, but aye, they are once again inclined towards longer. To be on the other side of the shortest day may mean little when the harshest winter days are ahead of us, or perhaps it means everything. As with all things, the choice is ours. And isn’t our perspective on life mostly based on what we choose to focus on?

      Winter Song reminds us that there are people suffering in the cold and dark of winter. Consider this a call to action to help those less fortunate than we are—surely the world needs more people focused on raising the average instead of spreading the gap. We cannot solve the problems in this world by ourselves, but we can make each person we interact with either colder and darker or warmer and brighter by the way we treat them. Again, the choice is ours to make.

      We may have almost nothing in common with each other, but we have some things in common, and something is a foothold to more things. Footholds lead to connection, so long as we aren’t pushing someone away. Abundance is a mindset, just as scarcity is. As the days begin to grow longer again, perhaps that tilt of the earth may offer a change in inclination within—an inclination towards connection. ’tis the season, after all.

    • To Be Productive and Daring

      Give winter nothing; hold; and let the flake
      Poise or dissolve along your upheld arms.
      All flawless hexagons may melt and break;
      While you must feel the summer’s rage of fire,
      Beyond this frigid season’s empty storms.
      Banished to bloom, and bear the birds’ desire.
      — James Wright, To a Troubled Friend

      Winter is thriving. The darkest day of the year is almost upon us, and then Christmas, and New Year’s, and before we know it we’ll be looking ahead to spring. At least that’s the hope of winter days. We look ahead, placing ourselves in some future place, brighter and perhaps warmer than where we are now. But now is the gift we forever ignore at our peril.

      I want to make something of this day—to be productive and daring. To do the things I promise myself I’ll do in the earliest hours, before the sun rises, before the first coffee bolsters my courage, before this blog post is captured and released for your consideration. Before is now for the productive mind. Now is the time to write and create something, now is the time to do that workout that mocks us. Now is before we get to those things. After is like another season altogether for the busiest mind.

      It’s all a blur of restless productivity towards something beyond here and now. Simply do what must be done next, and beyond will be there waiting. How we like to believe it so! Do with today what we only dream about for tomorrow. For all flawless hexagons may melt and break.

    • Thanksgiving: Our Day of Days

      “You sanctify whatever you are grateful for.” — Anthony de Mello

      Last night, amidst the clamor and turmoil of Thanksgiving preparations, I took the pup for her evening walk. It’s been bitingly cold this week, but a warm front had moved in, making the evening mild enough that I took off my wool hat to cool off. On our return down the street, the pup noticed something I’d seen on our walk up the street and started growling—the neighbors had placed their collection of plastic reindeer out on the lawn, ready to flip a switch and begin the Christmas season.

      The growl was for the appearance of stoic creatures standing the high ground. The pup doesn’t like changes on the street, and her protective concern was reflected in turning back and growling again and again as we completed our walk back to the house. I may accept the efficiency of the act while noting that my favorite holiday of the American year is forever pushed aside in the rush for Christmas. With respect to retailers everywhere, don’t you dare discount Thanksgiving. Nobody puts Baby in the corner.

      The thing is, we don’t all have families to gather with. Or with whom we wish to gather with. We are the average of the people we surround ourselves with, and for some that average isn’t all that worthy of gratitude. They would just as soon skip over it and focus on the lights and music and gifts of that season that follows Thanksgiving. I would suggest that forever looking ahead for some salvation in the future makes for an unfulfilling present. What makes today worthy of lingering with? That’s where gratitude will be.

      If Thanksgiving were mythically created to celebrate the abundant harvest, or pulled together Native Americans with the settlers who would eventually displace them at one table, then it would be just another conditional holiday dependent on buying in to the story. What makes Thanksgiving special is the tradition of putting aside work and political beliefs and the desperate search for meaning in an indifferent world and gathering in appreciation of that which binds us. For we are here once again this sacred day, together, despite all that would pull us apart. So many have left us already. So few are the days when we may gather as one. Be grateful for this day of days when we may acknowledge that which brings us together. Happy Thanksgiving.

    • Leaf Day

      Spades take up leaves
      No better than spoons,
      And bags full of leaves
      Are light as balloons.

      I make a great noise
      Of rustling all day
      Like rabbit and deer
      Running away.

      But the mountains I raise
      Elude my embrace,
      Flowing over my arms
      And into my face.

      I may load and unload
      Again and again
      Till I fill the whole shed,
      And what have I then?

      Next to nothing for weight,
      And since they grew duller
      From contact with earth,
      Next to nothing for color.

      Next to nothing for use,
      But a crop is a crop,
      And who’s to say where
      The harvest shall stop?
      — Robert Frost, Gathering Leaves

      Every year around this time in mid-November, the oak leaves finally, grudgingly release their grip on mother oak and bed down in the yard. I’m that one person in the neighborhood who waits to clean up the yard until we reach peak optimization—meaning most leaves are down. All of the neighbors are out there with their heavy machinery mowing and blowing at the first sign of a leaf dropping. And with their eagerness, the neighborhood roars like a domesticated NASCAR track. No, thank you. I don’t subscribe to the theory that a lawn should be pristine green. It’s not a golf course, it’s a suburban yard! There’s beauty in fallen leaves too.

      Any homeowner in New England knows that once is never enough when it comes to cleaning up the leaves. If you wait long enough, some leaves will blow away onto those neighboring pristine lawns (you’re welcome), but most will pile up into an increasingly-heavy mass awaiting your attention. Yesterday was that day for my bride and me. The plan was to start early and go until the task was completed. Blow, rake onto tarps, drag said tarp into the welcoming embrace of the woods and repeat. Want a great workout? Join us next year.

      The thing is, I could have paid someone to do this work. They’d have arrived with a roar that would have delighted the neighbors, zipped around the yard for two hours and left nary a single leaf survivor. And I would have sipped my coffee, casually watched them and gone off to do a workout on the rowing ergometer or some such thing. To have done the work myself may not be a noble act, or even the best use of my time, but the ritual of yard cleanup has its own reward. I was reminded of this when I limped out of bed this morning. There’s poetry in labor, when the work is tangible and purposeful. Having completed it for another year, the season is almost complete. Yet even now, looking out on the lawn in the growing light of dawn, I see that it’s covered in the holdouts that watched amused at my industrious labor. No, the work is never truly done.

    • A Brief, Salty Moment

      I love a great beach as much as anyone, but given the choice, give me a rocky ledge with an steady ocean roll crashing into it. The bigger the swell, the higher the foamy spray, the happier I am to be there to witness it. This eternal battle between land and sea will go on as long as there’s an ocean. We only get to witness if for our finite moment—roughly equivalent to the time as that foamy spray leaping into the air for a brief, salty moment before returning to the sea. What is a few seconds or a hundred years to infinity? All the same. It is us that feels the thrill of the brief flight.

      Knowing the score as we do, we might choose to be a little saltier today. There is nothing but now. Make a big splash.

    • Busy Got Me

      When I am among the trees,
      especially the willows and the honey locust,
      equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
      they give off such hints of gladness,
      I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
      I am so distant from the hope of myself,
      in which I have goodness, and discernment,
      and never hurry through the world
      but walk slowly, and bow often.
      Around me the trees stir in their leaves
      and call out, “Stay awhile.”
      The light flows from their branches.
      And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
      “and you too have come
      into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
      with light, and to shine.
      — Mary Oliver, When I Am Among the Trees

      Suddenly the leaves have returned to the earth. Tropical rain and gusty wind have done the job, and wet clumps of oak leaves blanket everything like a first snow. I shuffle through the fallen leaves knowing that I didn’t walk in the woods nearly enough this season. Busy got me once again.

      I too am so distant from the hope of myself when I get busy. Too busy for peak fitness or deep work or even to mop the kitchen floor. Too busy to reach out to someone who may need to talk—or maybe it was me that needed to talk. Those moments fall away like autumn leaves in a storm.

      Busy is a choice we make to subtract meaning from our lives for the belief that there is growth in hustle. There’s nothing wrong with filling our days with productive and meaningful work. Just don’t believe that busy is the same thing.

      The answer is to go easier along this path. To back away from the transactional life and choose a new direction while there’s still time. Like tea leaves, those wet leaves blanketing the ground have something to tell us. If not now, when? Don’t let busy rob you of all that is dear. All that is light. All that would fill our days if not for busy.

    • Leaves and Plastic

      Nature’s first green is gold,
      Her hardest hue to hold.
      Her early leaf’s a flower;
      But only so an hour.
      Then leaf subsides to leaf.
      So Eden sank to grief,
      So dawn goes down to day.
      Nothing gold can stay.
      — Robert Frost, Nothing Gold Can Stay

      Each October day the carpet grows. Where once there was grass or pavement, now a fallen kaleidoscope blankets all. The neighbors, eager for pristine green and neatness, rush out with their leaf blowers and oversized mowers to whisk it all away. I will be the maverick in the neighborhood who will wait it out for the love of fallen leaves and pine straw.

      Why do we rush from one thing to the next, never seeing the season we’re in right now? Where do all of the plastic decorations go when their time is up? I believe that storage rental companies conspired with large box stores to create a fear of missing out on molded plastic skeletons and fake cobwebs. FOMO is alive and well in suburbia, just not in me. No matter: whatever Halloween plastic was tempting the masses, it’s too late, because the Christmas plastic is now on display for another week or two before the beachwear is back on the shelves. Blink and you’ll miss it, so buy today!

      Just what do we want our yards to say about us? My own says that my bride loves Halloween while her husband loves to linger with the season a beat longer than the average. In other words, minimal plastic with a touch of whimsy, and a lawn that the neighbors will scorn on a windy day. I like to share in that way. The trees were here before the neighborhood, and their leaves ought to have their moment before being blown away in a roar of machinery.

      Don’t get me wrong, I love a clever Halloween decoration as much as the next person, but everything in moderation people. Running up the credit card on plastic yard bling isn’t a recipe for a happy holiday. Those credit card bills will come due just in time for Black Friday. It’s all a vicious cycle designed to slowly kill the middle class.

      If all this feels like a rant against consumerism, well, I’m glad you’ve been following along. Late October is about that blanket of leaves frozen solid by the first hard frost, that smell of pine straw on a brisk walk in the woods, and the brilliant blue sky conceding to an explosion of stars as Orion hunts Taurus yet again. You can have the plastic—I’ll enjoy the leaves.

    • October Skies

      Well, it’s a marvelous night for a moondance
      With the stars up above in your eyes
      A fantabulous night to make romance
      ‘Neath the cover of October skies
      And all the leaves on the trees are fallin’
      To the sound of the breezes that blow
      And I’m trying to please to the callin’
      Of your heart strings that play soft and low
      — Van Morrison, Moondance

      The October sky in New England is a wonderful thing. Sunrises and sunsets are full of color that somehow match the foliage as it peaks. There is a crescendo when all of the colors are most vibrant and then it all seems to fade away. And so we ought to put ourselves in the way of beauty, just as Cheryl Strayed’s mother suggested. We are either there for it or we aren’t.

      It all goes so quickly. Autumn foliage sprinkles us with magic and all too soon fades and returns to the earth. Blink and we miss it. The lesson is to get out and see what we can while the opportunity presents itself. And we know that the lesson applies well beyond leaves.

      Tempus fugit. Time flies. Dare to use our time, or risk losing it. Every day may be a love affair with life. As with any love, life will only offer to us what we put into it. It’s up to us to notice the details. We may choose to play an active role in the chores that make each day meaningful and productive. We may dare to ask ourselves in those moments of hopeful scheming, how may we extend this magic just a little longer?