Alexandersmap

    Category: seasons

    • Changing Seasons

      “There is nothing permanent except change.” — Heraclitus

      Somehow cycling season is drawing to a close. Sure, there are plenty of nice days to ride all year, but the challenge is finding enough daylight to ride safely. I’m more grateful for rail trails as the days get shorter. But there’s something to be said for those favorite routes on narrow country roads on a warm, sunny afternoon. I’ll remember a few rides fondly on those cold and dark winter afternoons.

      The obvious thing is that when we spend more time outside, we become more aware of the weather, but also the seasons themselves. A slow turn towards autumn is detectable well before September, a bite to the air in late November will signal a turn towards winter, and so on. Having experienced the seasons, we feel it when there’s a change in the air. Some of us quite literally feel it in our bones. Old injuries become reliable harbingers of a variation from the norm.

      We learn to celebrate every season for the change it brings. We may have our favorites, but there’s joy to be found in each. Often it’s just a matter of stepping outside to see what greets us. These are days we’ll remember as the good old days one day. Days when maybe everything seemed so upside down, but still present the gift of people and places in our lives that one day won’t be. We realize over time that a bit of gratitude for whatever season this happens to be in our lives is what changes everything.

    • The Like of This

      “There is a season for everything, and we do not notice a given phenomenon except at that season, if, indeed, it can be called the same phenomenon at any other season. There is a time to watch the ripples on Ripple Lake, to look for arrowheads, to study the rocks and lichens, a time to walk on sandy deserts; and the observer of nature must improve these seasons as much as the farmer his. So boys fly kites and play ball or hawkie at particular times all over the State. A wise man will know what game to play to-day, and play it. We must not be governed by rigid rules, as by the almanac, but let the season rule us. The moods and thoughts of man are revolving just as steadily and incessantly as nature’s. Nothing must be postponed. Take time by the forelock. Now or never! You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment. Fools stand on their island opportunities and look toward another land. There is no other land; there is no other life but this, or the like of this. Where the good husbandman is, there is the good soil. Take any other course, and life will be a succession of regrets. Let us see vessels sailing prosperously before the wind, and not simply stranded barks. There is no world for the penitent and regretful.” — Henry David Thoreau, from Thoreau’s Journal

      A long quote to start the blog today, and not really a quote at all but Thoreau’s entire entry from April 24, 1959. He wrote this for himself, of course, but like Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations we’re left with his words as guideposts for our own lives. Thoreau reminds us to up our game. Henry never had a 401(k) to consider, this is true, but consider this: He’d be dead three years after writing this journal entry at the shockingly young age of forty-four. What’s a 401(k) to someone who would never live to realize the savings? Today is our day of reckoning, Thoreau implores to himself and now us.

      Lately the world is reminding me that we all have an expiration date. People come and go from our lives all the time, and phases of our lives are merely seasons we scarcely pay attention to until they’re slipping away. To live a long life is to find ourselves navigating many such seasons, and if we pay attention, learning a thing or two from each. Our greatest lesson is the one we’ve been hearing all our lives: There is no postponing life, we must do what calls to us now.

      The trick is to actually do that, isn’t it? The days fly by fiercely, with no apologies from eternity on its march. We are the only ones who are audacious enough to believe that we have the agency to do something in our time. We either rise to meet our days or regret their passing. There is no other life but this, or the like of this. Indeed, we shall never see the likes of this season again in our own lifetime. Will it be remarkable or fall with all the rest?

    • The Beauty in Fragility

      I’m stubborn in some ways, no surprise to anyone who knows me, but sometimes I admit it to myself in quiet moments such as the one just before this one. I was thinking specifically about the beautiful Douglas fir beams that I turned into a pergola back in 2007, rotted now and about to be replaced by new fir beams that I just cut yesterday. My bride suggested PVC or some other engineered product that would ensure it would be resilient. A friend told me to just use pressure treated lumber so I never have to do it again. But I have enough plastic in my life. I have enough chemicals swirling around in my microclimate already. I chose like for like.

      When I built it the first time, I looked into cedar or redwood, but the price tag was prohibitive. Honestly, having replaced the wood a couple of times now, I should have just invested in redwood then, but 17 years isn’t bad for painted fir standing against the elements in New Hampshire. How has the last 17 years treated us? When I think about the wooden pergola that I built with my own hands back then, I feel something differently than I do about some more permanent building materials. There’s beauty in fragility. We know it won’t last forever and look at it differently than we look at something that we know will outlive our grandchildren.

      Working with the fir yesterday, I honored the wood and the tree it came from, with careful measurements, deliberate cuts with a jigsaw and slow turns as I moved the beams around to cut the other end. I’m 17 years older than the guy who did this the first time, after all, and slow and deliberate meant I could get out of bed without feeling like I was run over by a truck. I’m not so stubborn that I don’t see I’m fragile too. But more than that, I know this is the last time I’ll ever rebuild this particular pergola. I’m not just honoring the wood and the tree, but my own moment of youthful vigor. For time conquers all, friend, even this amateur craftsman whose seeing the truth in every project.

      Raw cuts awaiting further attention

    • Thou Hast Thy Music Too

      “Give me books, fruit, French wine, fine weather and a little music.” — John Keats

      Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?
      Think not of them, thou hast thy music too
      — John Keats, To Autumn

      Keats only lived to 25, but his life was memorable because he had productive energy and talent and used it to churn out enough poetry to capture the world’s attention. Had he lived another few decades, I wonder where his voice might have taken him. Perhaps less flowery and more pointed? Our voices change with time, having lived beyond the illusions of our youth to a place more… earthbound.

      I’ve long ago abandoned any idea that writing a blog post every day would net a million followers. That’s Seth Godin territory. Blogging is a daily practice in writing, and thinking more deeply about consequential things. The idea of advertisements and diligently churning other platforms for clicks is not my game. Frankly, it’s not a game at all anymore, it’s simply the practice of writing every day. A steady climb to a better place.

      If life is short, but hopefully not as short as Keats’ life was, then to live it with joie de vivre seems vital. Ah, the poet has joie de vivre—but does the blogger? I think so, friend, but taking oneself less seriously and learning to enjoy the discoveries one makes about the universe along the way would surely carry us to a more joyful place than overanalyzing one’s key performance indicators (KPI’s) ever would. We don’t always have to know where we’re going or even why, but we ought to feel something stir deep within us when we move through our days. For ’tis true, thou hast thy music too.

    • September Song

      Oh, it’s a long, long while from May to December
      But the days grow short
      When you reach September
      When the Autumn weather turns the leaves to flame
      One hasn’t got time for the waiting game
      — Frank Sinatra, September Song

      Labor Day Weekend in the United States is the unofficial end of summer. That in itself isn’t particularly remarkable, but I feel compelled to remark on the fact that it’s now September. In general I love September for the crisp air and epic sunsets that seem to come with it, but that’s tinged with the reality of shorter days and a realization that we never really do everything we wanted to do with summer before it’s gone. Alas, we can’t do it all. We must simply be deliberate about doing the things we most want to do with the time we have.

      There’s a Latin phrase that is often found on sundials, “Serius est quam cogitas”, which means, “It’s later than you think.” We must remember this and live with purpose each day, that we may look back on the season recently passed and feel we didn’t miss the boat. We can’t change seasons already passed, but we can feel the urgency to do something with today. We’re all familiar with that other Latin call to the moment, carpe diem, and ought to embrace it more for the desperate call to pay attention it was meant as. Indeed, we must seize the day before it fades away in our memory with all that is lost.

      Yesterdays carry us to today, either as a stepping stone or a slide into oblivion. I’d rather be climbing, wouldn’t you? Writing saves more of my days than reminding myself to get to it already. Writing anchors me to the moment, forcing me to pay attention to something tangible in the time I have available and do with it what I can. Last week was a series of late, often frenetic posts inserted into spare moments in airports and hotel rooms. Finding something that anchors us to the day makes the day less likely to float away like all the rest. A blog post, a moment shared with people of consequence, a bold act of self-determination and a nod to the time passing by are things we can hold on to.

    • Forever and Always Now

      Reflecting on the moment

      You said time makes the wheels spin
      And the years roll out and thе doubt rolls in
      In the truck stops, in the parking lots
      And the chеap motels
      When will we become ourselves?
      — Gillian Welch and David Rawlings, Hashtag

      The other day I was talking with a coworker at a hotel bar in Washington, DC. He’s a few years closer to retirement than I am, doesn’t travel all that much anymore in his current role and isn’t the picture of health (probably related to too much time in hotel bars). He mentioned that he’d never visited the Lincoln or Washington Memorials before, let alone the war memorials on the National Mall. He wasn’t sure if he would have the time on this particular trip either. I looked at him, said “why are we sitting here now?!” and summoned an Uber. For the next couple of hours we visited memorials to those who exemplified greatness in the United States. I took a few pictures of and with him and shared them with him afterwards. Memories must be built, not stumbled upon.

      I’ve reached a point in my life where, when I compare the former me to the current version, I usually forgive that former guy for not being better at the art of living than he was. We must figure things out along the way, or be lucky enough to have a guide to show us the ropes. We become ourselves through deliberate acts more than stumbling along through life. When we do stumble, we figure out a way to get back on track again. Being human is full of opportunities to learn and grow.

      The thing is, we must keep challenging ourselves to step out of the box we’ve grown into. It may be bigger than the one we were in before, but it’s still a damned box. The answer to “when will we become ourselves?” must forever and always be, now.

    • The Present Hour

      “I follow you whoever you are from the present hour.” — Walt Whitman, Song of Myself

      As small as we are in the vastness of the universe, we each nonetheless leave our mark on history. Every interaction stays with us, every poem read, every sideways glance, every hint of fragrance in the air are a sum of our whole. We may make a big splash or a minor ripple, but we all have our verse to contribute. The magic in writing is carrying that verse across time.

      We are a collection of hours arranged as a lifetime. We whittle them away as if they were unlimited. We learn as we grow older that each had value, but some shine brighter than others. Applying this realization to the next becomes ever more essential. Whoever we are in this moment, whatever we make of it in the now, will indeed follow us for the rest of our days. Our ripple, through those we encounter, is carried further still. What will we lay upon the shoulders of those who will carry us with them from this moment on?

      Autumn is in the air. Harvest time is well underway already. The seasons signal that time is flying along, with us in tow, ready or not. What will we remember of this time in our lives? What will people we encounter remember of us? May we smile recalling the gift we gave in this present hour.

    • Wild, Valorous, Amazing

      “Don’t we all, a few summers, stand here, and face the sea and, with whatever physical and intellectual deftness we can muster, improve our state—and then, silently, fall back into the grass, death’s green cloud? What is cute or charming as it rises, as it swoons? Life is Niagara, or nothing. I would not be the overlord of a single blade of grass, that I might be its sister. I put my face close to the lily, where it stands just above the grass, and give it a good greeting from the stem of my heart. We live, I am sure of this, in the same country, in the same household, and our burning comes from the same lamp. We are all wild, valorous, amazing. We are, none of us, cute.” — Mary Oliver, A Few Words

      There are no doubt days where we don’t feel inclined to do much of anything at all. To bear witness to the passing of time seems quite enough some days. Yet we do ourselves a disservice in the absence of personal valor. We mustn’t be timid. Life is far too short for timidity. Tempus fugit! We must be bold.

      How many sunrises are we to witness in a lifetime? how many sunsets before we see our last? We cannot abstain from living our best day in this one. Planning for the future is responsible, respectable and admittedly quite necessary, but capturing memories and experiences is our essential mission in the now.

      How many ways have we heard the message from those who have faded away beyond the horizon? We must feel the urgency of this moment, and fill each with our full attention. Life is Niagara, or nothing. Carpe diem!

    • Screens and Stars

      I scrolled through Facebook this morning. Not a proud moment in productivity but there it is. It occurred to me that the platform is now a lot like living in an empty nest. Where once you could easily get caught up with all your friends and family in one place in pictures and comments, now it’s nothing but endless videos and advertisements cultivated for your perceived tastes, mostly because you happened to click on one and now they dump them all on you. Like an empty nest, there’s nothing there to hold on to but memories of what once was. A great reminder to fly away more often and live our lives instead of lingering in the nest.

      The easiest way to fly is to walk right out the door and keep on walking. I walk the dog every night just to get away from the collection of screens that would otherwise call to me, and really, because the dog insists on it. I’ve trained her too well at this point. She serves as my catalyst for action: get up and move! Get outside and let’s see what’s new in the neighborhood! Good pup.

      The days are getting shorter again, and the air feels autumn-like after the thick tropical air we just had finally cleared out. The pup and I have an unsaid agreement where she covers the ground level quite well, and I tilt my head up and assess the evening sky (This works until she bolts for bunnies, but I’ve learned to sense those sudden energy bursts before they erupt). The waxing crescent moon clears out just as it’s getting dark, and the stars emerge to remind me that there’s so much more to life than lingering in front of screens.

      Look at the stars
      Look how they shine for you
      And everything you do
      — Coldplay, Yellow

      We are what we repeatedly do. We can dwell on the empty nest or immerse ourselves in the cultivated media feed that serves as a time-killer (quite literally), or we can step into something more with our minutes. Social media platforms and streaming services are no substitute for interaction with people equally invested in the interaction. The right people in our lives are like stars, shining for us as we shine for them. Together lighting up the eternal void. We may fill that which is empty with something that brings us to life. Fly amongst the stars.

    • Turning Into

      Each summer brings with it something new. Perhaps its travel or a new hobby or a significant event that will forever be associated with this season in our lives. So what will mark the summer of 2024?

      This summer I’ve rediscovered the thrill of cycling. It’s not that my road bike wasn’t available to me before this summer, it’s that I walked past it saying “not today” for years. Now that I’ve been accumulating miles on the bike instead of dust, it’s changed my way of looking at this time in my life. I feel like a kid again when I’m riding, and then I profoundly feel my age again when I get up in the morning after a long ride. And that’s okay too, because it’s my body telling me that I did something more than sit on my ass in front of a computer screen all day.

      When we do things we’ve always told ourselves we shouldn’t do because of time or age or maybe what the neighbors will think, we’re putting ourselves in a smaller box. Like a potted planted, we become root-bound when we force ourselves to skate our lane, not trying new things or returning to old things with the enthusiasm of our youth. When we stick to the familiar life becomes quite routine, doesn’t it? We ought to be shattering our self-expectations of what is possible more often. There are no do-overs in this life.

      A couple of rides ago, I reached a point where I could either stay straight and cruise back home after a great ride or turn right and face a steep climb up an unforgiving hill. There would be no shame in sticking to the road I was on (I’d already done a long ride), but I knew the hill would mock me for avoiding it. So I turned right and began a lung-popping climb up the hill. The thing is, it was as hard as I expected it to be but nothing insurmountable. I simply climbed and enjoyed the reward of a more gradual descent down the other side.

      At some point this year the bike will be hanging back on the garage wall, dormant until I rediscover it again. We only have so many rides in our time so it’s essential to know the season we’re in and take full advantage of it. As this summer winds down, what will we celebrate turning into? There’s still time to shatter those expectations we have for ourselves.