Alexandersmap

    Category: Travel

    • We Must Be Still and Still Moving

      Old men ought to be explorers
      Here and there does not matter
      We must be still and still moving
      Into another intensity
      For a further union, a deeper communion
      Through the dark cold and empty desolation,
      The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
      Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.
      – T.S. Eliot, East Coker

      Beginning at the end as I do in quoting this masterpiece is admittedly the easy path, but seems appropriate given the context. I’m roughly where TS Eliot was when he wrote East Coker – middle of life (hopefully). Or maybe just past the middle. But who’s counting? Days are days, and here and there does not matter. Time will tell, as it always does.

      This blogger has settled into this rhythm of still and still moving. Moments of quiet contemplation, deep reading and exploration interspersed too infrequently with mountaintop adventures and faraway places. Thoughts of past exploration and schemes of future possibility fill the mind, and are betrayed by more than a few posts. We aren’t sharks, always moving, but humans immersed in life in all its complexity. The thoughtful wrestle with the same ideas, the masses distract themselves with media and games.

      Old folks ought to be explorers. And us not-so-old folks too. We ought to be out seeing the world, exploring vast waters and rounding bends. Bridging gaps in language and understanding and toasting the folly of it all with old and newfound friends. Catching a sideways glance and throwing it back. Dancing in celebration and settling into deep conversations. We will again, we see that now. Where will you go? What will you do with the time you’re given?

      This human journey leads to another, more intense place, or perhaps merely to stillness. Who are we to know, really? Do you choose logic or faith? Which is the real leap? Our path is one of tapping our potential, to struggle and explore the darkest and brightest days alike. To make the best we can of ourselves. To turn it all over and understand where we came from. This seems to me the way, for the end is the beginning. In some ways, we’ve known that all along, haven’t we?

      Beginning

    • A Visit with Benjamin Church

      A seasonably warm Sunday lured me from a visit with friends in Mattapoiset, Massachusetts to Little Compton, Rhode Island to finally meet Benjamin Church. Church was appointed Captain of the first Ranger force in America in 1675 by the Governor Josiah Winslow of Plymouth Colony. He was famous for being the guy leading friendly Native Americans that finally killed Metacomet (King Philip). His greatest innovation was in imitation: adopting the Native American style of fighting to allow his forces to survive and find success in battles with the French and hostile native population.

      What made Church honorable was his respect for the native population and his desire to coexist with them. While many around him were inclined to encroach and eventually push aside native tribes, Church wanted to coexist and work with them. This led to recruiting friendly tribes to assist in King Philip’s War and in later battles with the Abenaki and French in Acadia. War is a dirty business, and there was plenty of atrocity committed on both sides, but Church seemed to live by a code of honor untarnished by historical perspective.

      Today Church lies in rest in a quiet triangle-shaped graveyard in the middle of Little Compton with his wife buried next to him. A monument honoring him stands at his feet, and someone glued an Army Ranger tab just above his engraved name. That engraving is fading away now, barely legible after 300 years of exposure to the elements. If you asked a thousand people in New England who Benjamin Church was, maybe one or two would know. Time fades memory faster than it does engraved stone.

      Here lyeth interred the [body]
      of the Honorable
      Col. Benjamin Church, Esq.,
      who departed this life, January 17, 1717-8 in
      the 78 yeare of his age.’

      On a beautiful Sunday afternoon I was the only visitor, but a group of teenagers were playing basketball nearby. I wondered if they knew the story of the soldier buried nearby? Does their local school teach children about the war that happened right across the river, or about the man quietly marking eternity in a faded grave in the middle of town? I hope so.

      Fading history

    • Discharging The Loyal Soldier

      “Odysseus is a loyal soldier for the entire Odyssey, rowing his boat as only a hero can—until the blind prophet tells him there is more, and to put down his oar.” – Richard Rohr, Falling Upward

      Richard Rohr planted this seed of discharging the loyal soldier in my mind. He described the ritual used with Japanese soldiers returning from World War II being thanked for their service and discharged to focus on the next stage of their lives – to be productive members of society. I’ve read a fair amount of history of that war and know the fanatical intensity of the typical Japanese soldier, so to shed that character and assume some level of normalcy on a mass scale is itself impressive and instructive. If your only path was total victory or death, how do you process defeat and going back home? So ritualistic discharging saved what was left of a generation of soldiers to rebuild Japan from the ashes.

      “This kind of closure is much needed for most of us at the end of all major transitions in life. Because we have lost any sense of the need for such rites of passage, most of our people have no clear crossover to the second half of their own lives.” – Richard Rohr, Falling Upward

      We’re at a time in our collective lives where we need this ritual for society. Thank you for your social isolation, for your mask-wearing and countless hours trying to keep people alive. Thank you for your passionate political opinions and protests on both sides. Thank you for voicing your opinions so forcefully on social media. You’ve done your service for society. It’s time to focus on rebuilding now, for the world needs you for another mission. To save the planet and humanity.

      I recognize the transition happening in my son’s life – graduated from college, finished with organized sports, and now what? With the pandemic they didn’t even have a graduation ceremony, let alone a discharging of loyal soldiers. Here’s your diploma, mailed without pomp or circumstance. Good luck! No wonder this generation is looking around and saying “What next?” You learn that they aren’t ready to hear everything yet, as you weren’t. But they’re definitely ready to hear the message that they’ve done well fulfilling the first mission – we’re proud of you, now go forth and find the next mission.

      I’m in my own transition, of course, with the responsibilities of parenting shifting to sage advice strategically inserted whenever a teaching moment arrives – sometimes validating, sometimes contradicting the advice from the other parent. But what of us? We’re stepping into the second half of life when we start filling the proverbial container we built in the first half of life. So what do you fill it with?

      “Discharging your loyal soldier will be necessary to finding authentic inner authority,,, When you first discharge your loyal soldier, it will feel like a loss of faith or loss of self. But it is only the death of the false self, and is often the very birth of the soul. Instead of being ego driven, you will begin to be soul drawn.” – Richard Rohr, Falling Upward

      Discharge that loyal soldier and become “soul drawn“? That’s a bumper sticker or a name for an IPA if I ever saw one! The coolest cat surfing life, dispelling timeless wisdom in clever soul drops as you serve your new guiding light.

      We’ve all been in a period of forced transition, timed for some of us in a period of natural transition. It’s time to focus on what comes next, and do the work you were honed to do during the previous you. Time to put the oar down and follow through on that next mission. That soul drawn and fulfilling mission.

    • The Rhode Island Red Monument

      One of the joys of travel is stumbling upon roadside curiosities. On my pilgrimage to visit a favorite hero of King Philip’s War I came across a monument to the Rhode Island Red that drew my attention. The Rhode Island Red is a hen, of course, that famously and productively laid eggs particularly well, which led to breeding of this particular character to make eggs a common and reliable staple of our diet. It seems the Rhode Island Red was first bred on a farm in Little Compton, Rhode Island.

      In 1925 a group of Rhode Island Red enthusiasts erected this monument to the hen, commissioning an artist named Henry Norton to make it. But here’s where the story gets interesting. One group wanted the monument to be erected at the actual farm where the hens were first bred. Another group wanted it in a more prominent location in town (where I came across it, validating their choice I suppose). For a small town, this was pretty heated, with both sides trying to establish a pecking order. At the unveiling of the first monument the opposing group didn’t show up, apparently feeling the location was pretty… fowl. A year later they erected their own monument at their preferred site. The 1925 monument features a rooster, the 1926 monument features a hen. But a well-placed hen. They really showed ’em.

      The 1925 Rhode Island Red Monument

      The inscription on the 1925 monument reads:
      “To commemorate the birthplace of the
      Rhode Island Red breed of fowl which
      originated near this location
      ___
      red fowls bred extensively by
      the farmers of this district and later
      named “Rhode Island Reds” and brought into
      national prominence by the poultry fanciers
      ___
      this tablet placed by the
      Rhode Island Red Club of America
      with contributions of Rhode Island Red
      breeders throughout the world
      on land donated by
      Deborah Manchester
      1925″

      This entire incident is described in the monument’s Wikipedia page in delightful detail. Not having the back story when I came across the monument, I wasn’t aware of the other monument. Now I feel compelled to return to Little Compton again sometime to find it. In the meantime, Norton’s 1925 monument quietly marks time, closing in on its 100th birthday. Placed on the National Register of Historic Places in 2001, this monument to a chicken has secured its own place in history.

    • 7 Observations on Reaching 1000 Blog Posts

      We all write for different reasons, and my observations might not be yours, nor should they be. But reaching a milestone like 1000 blog posts deserves some measure of reflection. As I look forward with anticipation to post number 1001, I pause to give you seven observations about the journey to this point:

      1. The well never runs dry. You just run out of time. Writer’s block is a myth. If you’re earnest and curious you never run out of things to write about. But you will wrestle with perfection and trying to make a post reach its potential. When you post daily you learn to love it as it is and know when it’s time to let it fly. No, it’s never perfect, but you post it anyway.
      2. Everything becomes a potential blog post. I started writing Alexanders Map intending to have a local travel blog with historical sites with visits to amazing places. The name itself infers this. But it quickly expanded to include a diverse (some would say eclectic) mix of topics. You learn to listen to the muse, and embrace the new. And in the unexpected you find your own voice. You are the link between each post, and part of you reflects back on what you’ve visited.
      3. This business of blogging is your own business. You can quickly grow your blog follower list by playing the game of actively following and liking other bloggers. Or you can do the opposite and grow organically. I choose the latter: I’m very selective about who I follow, I “like” what I actually read and appreciated, and I don’t follow to gain followers. You choose what you want to be in the blogging world. I didn’t even mention I had a blog to family and friends until I’d written a hundred or so posts. I do link to Twitter, but rarely on other media. Choose what works for you, because your blog is how you present yourself to the world.
      4. One sentence at a time, you become a better writer. Let’s face it, none of us start a blog thinking we’re bad writers. Bloggers tend to believe they’ve got some skill for writing or they’d start a YouTube channel or build an Instagram or TicTok site. But the craft of writing develops through the daily struggle. I’m nowhere near the writer I thought I was, and I’m nowhere near where I want to be. But I keep chipping away at it, day-by-day. Blogging is an apprenticeship in writing, but you never meet the master.
      5. Some of your favorite posts will be completely ignored. You will work on a blog post that stirs something deep inside you, feel a wave of emotion crash over you as you click publish, and see the world react with complete indifference. Write these posts anyway, and write them often. Because when you tap into this well you aren’t blogging for instant fame, you’re writing to find something inside yourself that you thought, maybe, was there all along.
      6. You develop an eye for the interesting and an ear for the hidden stories. You stop more frequently in fascinating places, detour to find and celebrate the obscure and forgotten, and do things you might not have done otherwise. You become a ghost whisperer, visiting old graveyards and monuments to the past engraved by some soul long forgotten, who was honoring something of note that brought us to where we are today. You learn poetry and philosophy and Latin phrases and stir up the magic in an old pile of words. You hike to places of wonder and seek adventures. In short, you become more alive, and you appreciate this journey more than ever before.
      7. You learn to follow through on the promises you quietly make to yourself. You want to be a writer? Then write, no matter how you feel, and post that work every day, no matter what. Keep that commitment to yourself today. And tomorrow too. As James Clear puts it, every action you take becomes a vote for the type of person you wish to become. Your blog is a stack of votes for your identity. So craft them as best you can and set them free for the world.

      So there we are: 1000 blog posts. As I mulled over this one the last few days, I found myself in a corner of New England I don’t visit enough and chanced upon a couple of roadside wonders I might never have seen had I not set out for an old grave I wanted to visit. And just like that I’ve got three more blog posts in my mind. The world is funny that way – it opens up for the curious observers. I can’t wait to see where the next 1000 take me.

    • The Heart of the Bay

      Nobody owns the sky or the trees.
      Nobody owns the hearts of birds.
      Still, being human and partial therefore to my own
      successes—
      though not resentful of others fashioning theirs—
      I’ll come tomorrow, I believe, quite early.
      – Mary Oliver, Winter and the Nuthatch

      Oliver writes of building trust with a nuthatch that eventually learns to eat out of her hand. One morning she arrives later than other mornings only to find her nuthatch friend eating from another person’s hand. And thus she resolves to arrive earlier the next morning. I’ve felt this myself, not with birds in the hand so much as places of solitude.

      Early Spring is still a time of hard frosts and temperature swings. Maple syrup weather – when the sap flows and gathers in buckets around Maple trees throughout the region. But not here. Cape Cod is more temperate, not subject to the extremes that draw the sap out. And then there’s the trees themselves, which seem to prefer the other side of the bridges. No, here we have a different sap drawn out in the early mornings. And I’m drawn to the light and the chorus.

      Buzzards Bay, well before the dawn, is awash in deep blues and burnt orange and the calls of thousands of Eider Ducks off in the distance. They have a lot to say to each other. It must be breeding season for these migratory birds. They didn’t pay much attention to the stranger on land, and I let them alone in their banter and flirting. The chorus felt altogether different from the bay in warmer months, when outboard engines of fishermen roaring off to favorite holes pierce the silence. Eiders quickly become white noise as I refocus on the task at hand.

      I crunched across a deep frost, leaving footprints in the grass on my walk to the shoreline. Low tide drew me out further into the bay, right to the waters edge quietly lapping in quiet surges like a heart beat. The bay is alive in this way. Alive in its vibrant, nutrient-rich, welcoming way. It pulls at me as it pulls at the Eider ducks, down from northern regions for their version of Spring Break. I suppose I am as well, looking for a change of scenery from New Hampshire to Buzzards Bay. For a return to salt water reflections and big skies.

      The chorus of Eiders ends with the sun breaking the horizon. Mating time gives way to feeding time. I leave the shoreline myself, for I’m not adorned in the down of a duck and the morning chills me in lingering too long. Hot coffee and inadequate words await me, with the glow of the morning alive in my mind.

      Buzzards Bay

    • The Intersection of Passion and Talent

      “Our visions are the world we imagine, the tangible results of what the world would look like if we spent every day in pursuit of our why.” – Simon Sinek, Start With Why

      Sinek’s talk is one of the most watched YouTube videos of all time, largely focused on business’s asking this critical question, “Why are we in business?” My own company is focused on this very question at the moment, prompting me to finally read Sinek’s book a few weeks ago. But you can’t ask why of your work without asking the same question of yourself. What is our purpose in our work, and in our lives? Why are you doing this? Think carefully, for it means more than a paycheck and a Netflix subscription when you get home.

      Every now and then we find ourselves stumbling upon a place where ideas converge, and where the path ahead divides into any number of directions. Which way do we go? If we all agree that life is shorter than most of us want it to be, doesn’t it make sense take the path that offers the greatest opportunity to fulfill that personal mission? Defining that mission is the tricky part. A mission that requires deep thinking.

      “What are you chasing? Why? Is the chase aligned with your deepest values and Ultimate Mission?” – Dr. Jim Loehr, The Personal Credo Journal

      We all have talents. But we can be pretty good at something and not be all that passionate about it. And you never really master something that you’re subconsciously going through the motions with. Whether career, art, relationships or athletic pursuits, if it doesn’t whisper to our soul we simply aren’t going to thrive in it.

      “Ikigai (pronounced “eye-ka-guy”) is, above all else, a lifestyle that strives to balance the spiritual with the practical. This balance is found at the intersection where your passions and talents converge with the things that the world needs and is willing to pay for.” – Chris Myers, Forbes, ‘How To Find Your Ikigai And Transform Your Outlook On Life And Business’

      Call it your “Ultimate Mission”, your “Why”, “Ikigai” or simply purpose. What you call it doesn’t matter so much as what it is, and what you do with it. These are powerful questions that demand deep thought. Determine where your passions and talents converge. Envision the world as you’d like it and set about making it. Align your chase with your deepest values. And perhaps the deepest question of all, determine what exactly you’re living for and do something about it.

      “It’s not enough to have lived. We should be determined to live for something.” – Dr. Leo Buscaglia

      I’ve re-written this particular blog post seven or eight times. Work is piling up in the in-box while I re-read it once again. Do I publish or just keep editing this indefinitely? Who really cares? Well, I do, and that’s as good a sign of where my passions meet my talents as anything. Who else would obsess over a bunch of words on a random Monday post? Maybe this is my something after all. At least a good chunk of it anyway.

      The things we do for love…

    • A Good Map and a Compass

      “A map in the hands of a pilot is a testimony of a man’s faith in other men; it is a symbol of confidence and trust…. A map says to you, ‘Read me carefully, follow me closely, doubt me not.’ It says, ‘I am the earth in the palm of your hand. Without me, you are alone and lost.’” – Beryl Markham, West With The Night

      We use maps less in everyday life than ever before in modern times. It isn’t that we aren’t going someplace, it’s more that we have devices that keep track of where we are for us. And we lose something in ourselves when we aren’t part of the conversation between that GPS and the satellites silently flying above us. If maps represent faith in others, those “others” now extend to the network of technology that swirls around us, landing in our pockets with an advertisement when you stop at traffic lights.

      There’s something elegantly beautiful about a great map or nautical chart. Far more detail than the average person would ever notice, with lines and numbers most ignore. But for all the detail, a map is just a representation of what the world is, not the actual world. It can’t account for weather and downed trees and bad judgement and other such variables. Just the facts as they were, and might still be. We can be sure that the path shown on the map took somebody from here to there. Most likely it still does, but you can’t be sure until you get there. Maps represent the past in this way, but also our future as we place ourselves on them in hopes that our physical selves meet the expectations represented inside the grid.

      “We need maps and models as guides. But frequently, we don’t remember that our maps and models are abstractions and thus we fail to understand their limits. We forget there is a territory that exists separately from the map.” – Shane Parrish, The Great Mental Models

      It’s one thing to use someone else’s map to figure out where to go. It’s another thing entirely to map out our own path through uncharted territory. Where do we go from here? This thing we’ve grown familiar with has changed, we’ve changed, and now we wish to go in a different direction. Where to begin? Choose a direction and set your compass. Map it out. Figure out what the obstacles are and how to get around them. Use the paths others took to your advantage until you jump off in a new direction.

      “Every man has to learn the points of the compass again as often as he awakes, whether from sleep or any abstraction.” – Henry David Thoreau

      The fact of the matter is that most of life happens to us. We might diligently map out our career path and pick a major based on where we think that might take us, but much of life is about seeing the terrain we stumble upon and figuring out where we’re going to go next. Few of us get the map completely right, we sort it out as best we can along the way. And that’s where the compass helps set our direction or brings us back on course when we deviate from the path.

      “Don’t mistrust the compass — your judgement will never be more accurate than that needle. It will tell you where you ought to be going and the rest is up to you.’” – Beryl Markham, West With The Night

      The problem for most of us isn’t the absence of a good map or compass, the problem is abstraction and having too many directions to go in. With so many options, which do we choose? You can’t just walk in circles of indecision. Pick the most logical direction, map it out as best you can, and go. But bring that compass too. You’ll need both to get there.

    • Wandering Souls

      “Why am I gazing at this campfire like a lost soul seeking a hope when all that I love is at my wingtips? Because I am curious. Because I am incorrigibly, now, a wanderer.” – Beryl Markham, West With The Night

      Doesn’t it feel a bit like the world is about to explode into an orgy of mad travel and celebration? We’ve already seen misguided souls partying like it’s 1999 in maskless rebellion, imagine when the adults in the room assess the situation and determine that we’ve reached a tipping point with vaccinations and – dare I say it? Herd immunity. Of course, the common cold and influenza will each dance a happy dance. This pandemic hit them hard too. But we’ve danced with each plenty of times, right? Still, we all talk a good game, but what happens when someone sneezes without covering their mouth in a crowded space? Are we ready for that moment?

      Passport stamps stopped abruptly in 2019. A lost year for ink pads and border agents and wandering souls alike. I’d like to get another stamp or two in the passport before it expires. Before I expire. To hear the thrill of rubber stamp meeting paper once again! It’s tantalizingly close now, isn’t it?

      Where do you go when the borders open up? Does the list of places you’d built up over your lifetime just resume now, or did all of this open your eyes to new possibilities? Do crowded streets in Venice carry the same appeal yet? Will remote beaches and quiet mountaintops still draw you the way they always have or have you had enough isolation? Just how much has this pandemic changed us in ways unseen?

      I don’t have the answers, of course. But I know that I’m a wanderer myself. I have places to go in this world, places to meet people (like you!) in solidarity and celebration. For life is out there as much as it’s in… here. And like you I’m about ready to get out there and mingle with kindred spirits in faraway places.

      We aren’t there just yet, but we must get ready, mustn’t we? Mastering phrases like Excuse me, where is the restroom? and Where can we get the best tapas and Sangria? and Do you know the way to San Jose? and of course, Cheers! To break language barriers we must meet the locals more than halfway.

      And then there’s our fitness level. Let’s face it, there’s been way too much Zoom and sitting around in close proximity to the pantry for our own good. We must get fit and toned for those long climbs up ancient steps, those walks through ripening vineyards, or simply those forever walks through international airports. The world is waiting for you, will you be ready when it opens up?

      Tonight, with the temperatures moderating just enough for respectable conversation, I’m going to light a crackling fire outside and inevitably be drawn into the embers as the night progresses. We may contemplate the changes of the last year, but we’ll also scheme about the future. It’s out there, waiting for us. Should we be ready to wander once again. Etes-vous prets?

    • The Next Thing

      Some ideas grab you and you can’t put them down until they’re finished, and then you sense them glowing in the fibers of your being like the smell of ozone after an electrical storm. Sparks of imagination fire off in your brain like lightning in a summer storm.

      Inevitably in writing I get so excited about a concept I’m contemplating that I’ll want to jump immediately to write about that one instead of the topic I’d originally pursued. This is maddeningly distracting, of course, and I force myself to stay on point with whatever I’d started down the path on in the first place. But first, to stop the nagging I get it out of my head and summarized the thoughts on paper or in a few key words in my drafts to return to again another time.

      Does a million thoughts in your head indicate an active mind or a distracted mind? I think both, if you let the thoughts pull you too far off that path. Each is Frost’s path less taken, tantalizingly close to being realized. But if you stray too far down that way you’re not going very far at all on the one you started on. So which is the right way? Both can be. Or neither.

      Books are the physical representation of this phenomenon. That book started then put aside in favor of another that strikes your fancy. Then you hit on one that stirs your soul into a frothy latte of inspiration with an extra shot of espresso emphatically pounding passionately in your heart. You eagerly chase this one to the end, throwing aside all the partially completed tomes. Before you know it you have a pile of books (or drafts) stacked up in need of reckoning with and you’re bouncing off the walls.

      Next things offer hope. Next things stir the soul. Next things excite the senses. Next things spin up anticipation. Next things are our possible future cresting in our imagination like a wave, on the verge of being fully realized in the break.

      But first, there’s this other thing. Commitments to follow through on. Things started that we honor with focused effort. For to finish what you started honors more than the work. The work we choose to finish leaves a legacy of promises kept. Promises to ourselves and others. The next thing must wait until this thing is finished. For all the paths we might roam, it’s the only way we’ll ever get where we’re going.