The cry of the cicada
Gives us no sign
That presently it will die.
— Matsuo Basho
Summer slipped away quickly this year. It always does, really, but especially when the weather is uncooperative for large swaths of outdoor living time. So it goes.
The cicadas signal the dog dats of summer but also its end. We know the signs of autumn by now, and it begins with that uniquely mournful song that they make from the trees. Their time is now, the cry, and so too is ours.
This is the bright home
in which I live,
this is where
I ask
my friends
to come,
this is where I want
to love all the things
it has taken me so long
to learn to love.
— David Whyte, The House of Belonging
The house is full more frequently now. Filled with pets and friends and memories. The nest is empty and yet it’s not, all at once. This is how we do things, you and I. The walls echo with memories of a house full of people who filled our hearts and danced with their moment in our lives. We built this house hoping for all that has transpired in the days that followed, and the days to come.
Soon the leaves will fall again, blanketing the landscape indifferent to my pleas for relief. They’ve always reminded me in such times that they were here first, and most likely will be here when I’ve moved on again. The trees drew us to this plot of land, and root us to it, even as I grumble at them I know this to be true: they will carry on without me one day.
The perennials come back every year, rising in the spring to look around at the world. Each year I’ve been here to greet them, as I do the hummingbirds and bees that know a reliable garden when they see it. Seasons come and go, and still we remain, doing our part to make this plot of land sing. Some things remain resilient, other things return to earth sooner than we’d want them to, and we remain to do with it all what we can. At least for now.
Lately we’ve danced with the idea of beginning again in a smaller place, leaving this place for others to build their own lives. We both like round numbers and feel we might pull off three decades in this home, just as we said we would when we built it for the baby we knew and the one on the way who would only know this house as her home. She reminds us of this still, far from home but still everywhere within it. They’ve both left their mark here, as their parents have. As the circle of family and friends and pets have. We’ve met the years with love and purpose.
We’ve seen what decline looks like, in loved ones old and young alike. None of us were born without an expiration date. These are days to remember, and to hold on to for as long as there’s another season. Our lives, like this house, are only as full as we make them. All the things that make up our days dance in our memories. Each has made us who we are, together.
“It occurred to me that there were two sets of virtues, the résumé virtues and the eulogy virtues. The résumé virtues are the skills you bring to the marketplace. The eulogy virtues are the ones that are talked about at your funeral — whether you were kind, brave, honest or faithful. Were you capable of deep love?” — David Brooks, “The Moral Bucket List” The New York Times
Do you ever wonder, what people say about us when we pass? Isn’t it directly related to how much we lean into the right virtue? We might work hard all of our life, focused and disciplined, and successful by most any measure of that word, and still not live a life that is fulfilling and meaningful to others.
Is striving to be virtuous about resume building or character building? Are we building a list of career highlights and an office in the C-suite or are we building a moral foundation that others will point to as a model for living? Just what do we want to be remembered for anyway? A life of meaning and purpose is a life of service to others.
How is someone developed in such a way that they’re a contributor and builder instead of a corrosive sapper of joy and trust? It begins with flipping attention from ego to empathy. Easier said than done in a world where the self is so celebrated, but absolutely essential to growing into a person who is reliable, trustworthy and willing to roll up their sleeves and do the hard work.
There is a recipe for building a strong character. It begins with the way we’re raised and the social network around us. In the way others perceive the world and how they in turn influence how we perceive it. Stir in a proper informal education: being well-traveled and worldly, and well-read and articulate surely help build empathy and understanding. Developing strong listening skills and the inclination and moral courage to rise to the moment when nobody else will.
When someday we pass from this world, what do we want people to say about us? Will anyone remember the extra work we put in to finish that project, or will the memory be about being fully present for our children and significant other at the most important events in their lives? Will we be remembered as being a good friend or sibling, a great neighbor who looked out for others, or as that person who was never really there when it really mattered?
A life of service to others isn’t always easy, but it matters a great deal. These moments add up, and will create a ripple that will be felt by others. The person with the most toys in the end doesn’t win, they’ve simply gathered a bunch of stuff that will end up in an estate plan for someone else. Isn’t the real goal to have our lives resonate for those around us, that we’ll be deeply missed when our time comes to an end?
“Like silence after noise, or cool, clear water on a hot, stuffy day, Emptiness cleans out the messy mind and charges up the batteries of spiritual energy. Many people are afraid of Emptiness, however, because it reminds them of Loneliness.” ― Benjamin Hoff, The Tao of Pooh
I picked up a beautiful stone on a rocky beach the other day, as I often do in such places, to add it to a pot of stones I’ve got from around the world. I realized that most of the stones I’ve accumulated while doing this mean nothing more to me than curious novelties, yet I keep acquiring stones from places I’ve been just the same. It’s not logical, but it is my way of saving a piece of each beautiful place I’ve been. Better than a shot glass or a t-shirt, I suppose.
Lately I’ve been working to reconcile the fact that I’ve been adding more than subtracting. This is a natural activity for many people in the western world: more stuff, more experiences, more accomplishments, more, more, more… We pick up stuff as casually as we load food on at the buffet table. And it’s not just stuff, it’s responsibilities and commitments, work load, home improvement projects, and on and on. We pile on all of these things as we accumulate experience and live our lives.
When we fill our lives we leave little room for ourselves to emerge. We’re in there somewhere, under the pile of stuff we’ve heaped on our shoulders. A boat needs an anchor to hold it to solid ground, but if you add enough anchors the boat will sink. Do you ever get that sinking feeling? Let something go from your life and feel released.
Recently I added a puppy to my life. This can be seen as another added responsibility and maybe one anchor too many. Then again, maybe it was the anchor I needed. What’s clear in getting acquainted with her is that other anchors may need to be tossed aside that this ship may stay afloat. And this is how we grow in new directions in different seasons of our lives. We encounter new and different things that carry us to new places.
August of another summer, and once again
I am drinking the sun
and the lilies again are spread across the water.
I know now what they want is to touch each other.
— Mary Oliver, The Pond
As we head into the dog days of summer, I find myself with a good dog to share walks with. Puppy walks are wonderful too, but the longer walks are mine alone. Walking for distance solves many problems for me: general fitness and quality time with the occasional long-form podcast, but mostly it offers the opportunity to reacquaint myself with the world.
One of my favorite things about this time of year is the abundance of flowers dotting the lilies in the ponds I walk past. Each is a marvel, and each is just far enough away that I can’t possibly get a good picture with my phone’s camera. But that’s just the way it is. After all, this is a written blog, not a first-rate photography blog.
About that drinking the sun business Mary Oliver speaks of in her dance with words: We haven’t had all that much of it this summer in the northeast. Not at the frequency that we wait for all winter, anyway. So on a stunningly beautiful weekend what are we to do but get out in it? To be with others outside invites conversation and smiles, and like the lilies, we are drawn to each other on warm summer days. We want these days to last forever, but know they’ll be gone too soon. Savoring summer days with all our might is the very best way to pass this time. So forgive me if I step outside once again.
“Five decades ago, some very kind people in Japan slipped me the secret: you can dramatically extend life—not by multiplying the number of your years, but by expanding the fullness of your moments.” ― Shinzen Young, The Science of Enlightenment: How Meditation Works
“Pay more attention to every moment, however mundane: to find novelty not by doing radically different things but by plunging more deeply into the life you already have.” — Shinzen Young
I don’t meditate, not in the traditional sense anyway. Instead I remain present with whatever the world offers me. With a new puppy I’m very much in her moments as she learns her new environment and sorts out the complexity of living with two cats who aren’t yet pleased to share the limelight with a new being. Some things take time.
The trick is in savoring our presence right here and now. We ought to immerse ourselves in whatever we’re doing, but we get caught up in the minutia of everyday living instead. We react instead of absorb, and in doing so, sometimes miss the nuance of the moment. But seeing how a new puppy navigates the garden changes how you look at it yourself. Zooming out a bit, you also see how the world reacts to the new puppy. Fellow humans gush, while felines feign annoyed indifference. House wrens chirp threateningly when the pup gets too close to their nest, betraying something else happening there that I wasn’t previously aware of. When we pay attention to the world it opens up for us in fascinating new ways.
The other day I sat in the sun while my brother slept, exhausted from sleepless nights from the pain he finds himself in as he undergoes a third round of radiation. He’s got limited time now, and the quality of the time he does have is greatly diminished by the treatment plan he’s chosen. Despite the underlying tragedy of his situation, my own in that moment was rather pleasant, and I was struck by the contrast as the two of us occupied a small corner of the world in very different phases of our respective health spans. Contrast aside, or perhaps serving as an amplifier, I found myself very much in the moment.
It isn’t lost on me, the end of life struggles of one person against the beginning of life awakening of a puppy. And me? Somewhere in between, living day-by-day and doing my best to savor the plunge.
So easily forgotten are the most important things
Like the melody and the moonlight in your eyes
And a song that lasts forever, keeps on gettin’ better
All the time
— Keb’ Mo, Life Is Beautiful
Walking a lot of miles lately, I’ve come to see the town I live in at ground level, turning corners into places I haven’t been in a long time, or ever before. I see the changing nature of things, and I’m reminded of a time not so long ago when it was my own children at beginner’s summer soccer camp or at baseball practice. These stages of life fly by quickly, but the next generation steps right on to that field to build someone else’s memories. Our own will inevitably fade, perhaps, but the foundation laid in time and presence is strong.
I walk to cover miles, deliberate and at the fastest pace I can sustain for 5-7 miles. I’m not a speed walker but I have a long stride that helps when the aim is fitness and mileage. Countering this pace, a couple of times a day I take the new puppy for a walk. She’s finding her courage in a strange new world, and the pace is much slower than my normal stride. My favorite Navy pilot once told me that when you’re walking a dog you aren’t walking, the dog is walking. You’re just keeping it company while it experiences the world. So rushing that experience does the dog a disservice, but it does for us too. Like those children growing up way too quickly if we aren’t paying attention, puppies grow up too. Embrace the pace you find yourself in, for one day it will change again.
For all the changes happening all around us, some things remain the same. It’s easy to forget the people and routines that hold us to solid ground when life does cartwheels. They offer something tangible and meaningful for us in good times and bad, through the dizzying pace of rapid change and the dullest days of stagnation and limited progress. We ought to celebrate our quiet anchors, even as we explore the changes life takes us through. They are our most important things as we sort out the changes and find our stride for what comes next.
“Mortality makes it impossible to ignore the absurdity of living solely for the future.”
― Oliver Burkeman, Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals
“We’ve been granted the mental capacities to make almost infinitely ambitious plans, yet practically no time at all to put them into action.”
― Oliver Burkeman, Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals
“We all have at least the potential to make more money in the future, we can never go back and recapture time that is now gone. So it makes no sense to let opportunities pass us by for fear of squandering our money. Squandering our lives should be a much greater worry.”
― Bill Perkins, Die with Zero: Getting All You Can from Your Money and Your Life
This blog may feel like a one hit wonder, dancing around the twin themes of memento mori and carpe diem. This is a reminder to myself, blogging steadily along through the living years, to “not squander Time; for that’s the Stuff Life is made of” (as Ben Franklin put it). Stuffing a blog post chock full of quotes is no way to write though, is it? ChatGBT could probably summarize all of my posts into one grand idea, and perhaps one day soon I’ll accept that challenge. But for now you’ve got the single content of a guy finding his way in the world, just as you are and everyone else is, even those people who say they have it all figured out (don’t ever believe them).
I’m pondering that elusive re-design of the blog, finally implementing the things I’d envisioned all along, finally re-introducing email subscriptions and a more elegant reader experience. Then again, I’m pondering finally pulling that novel out of forever draft form and doing something with it (the Muse gave up on this project long ago). Then again, I’m thinking about doubling down on work and really making the next five years something special. And then again, I’m thinking about just renting a cabin in a remote corner of Labrador and watching the Northern Lights all winter (at least until the polar bears eat me). Such is the thing with then agains: they keep on coming up.
Then again, and at the very least, fill this particular time bucket with the stuff that makes the most sense for now. Make something special out of the work that resonates for you, or get off your complacent behind and go find work that feels special. Then again, go use the body your blessed with in this moment for all that you can get out of it. If we’re lucky our minds will be with us until the end, but our health could go at any time.
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
—Mary Oliver, The Summer Day
This is the season. It’s not or never for some of those essential experiences. Go dance with life, and make it a song you really love. I’ll do the same. Carpe diem and all that. Let me remind myself and you if you care to listen: some day we’ll run out of thens, so once again, seize the day.
“You’re alive only once, as far as we know, and what could be worse than getting to the end of your life and realizing you hadn’t lived it?” — Edward Albee
“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven” — Ecclesiastes 3:1-8
Sometimes we find ourselves stressed out and distracted when we’re pushing through activity for which the season is wrong. Sometimes this is out of our control, and often it’s just us doing more than we ought to be doing in the moment. It would be helpful to remind ourselves that everything has its time. Even when we don’t want to hear it.
The idea of distinct time buckets isn’t new, it’s just another way of describing seasons of our lives. They were talking about this thousands of years ago too. We live in a world where we want it all now, and surely technology enables us to achieve far more than we might have in the past. But there’s still truth in the words.
So how do we reconcile the urgency in Albee’s words with the reality of not being able to do everything at once? Find the season for the activities that matter, and forget the things we’ll never get to. Easier said than done, perhaps, but the only way to savor the season we’re in.
We must be present in this place and season in which we find ourselves, do the work to make the most of this time, and position ourselves for the brightest possible future. We can’t take it with us, but we can plan for the best time to dance with life. The saddest people on earth are those who realize that they didn’t seize the moment in a season that has passed them by. We must prioritize for regret minimization as much as future security. Embrace moments with the people, places and purpose that align best with the season we’re in, and position ourselves to optimize experiences in their best season in our life to come.
They don’t tell you this when you first see the picture of a puppy looking for a forever home, but maybe they ought to: You’ll quickly forget you were ever puppy-less at all. And your new puppy will quickly forget that once they didn’t have a forever home. It will seem like it’s always been this way right from the first day.
The process of picking up our new rescue puppy began with an alarm jolting us awake from a deep slumber at 0430. I’m not generally an alarm person but then I’m not usually waking up at 4:30. We did this to meet the saints who save puppies when the van arrived at 0730. We had it relatively easy: others picked up their puppies at midnight, 0330 and 0545. The van was jammed with empty Red Bull cans and snack bags. Whatever gets it done. It seems nighttime is the right time to find your canine soulmate. Really it was about minimizing time in a hot van for furry friends. Being the last stop was like hitting the sleep lottery. And they arrived right on time.
Most dogs being adopted seem to come from the south, where attitudes about spaying seem lax. Less birth control means more puppies needing rescue before they run out of time. How many dogs are put down before they find a home? Too many. That’s no way to begin a life. Birth control for pets and people shouldn’t ever be controversial. Without it things become a bit more complicated than some people are willing to step up to meet head-on. In the absence of personal responsibility bad things happen in the world. But hey: thoughts and prayers while we pick up the slack.
So once again I have a dog in my life. Am I ready? Are we ever ready? Each chapter is an epic adventure in this lifetime. We turn pages at our pace, skimming over some chapters and lingering with others. Sometimes we like a chapter so much we read it again and again. Finding joyful nuggets balances out the dark and tragic bits. If we’re lucky anyway. And of course, we rise to meet the moment.
