Alexandersmap

    Category: Writing

    • Honor

      “The shortest and surest way to live with honor in the world is to be in reality what we would appear to be; and if we observe, we shall find that all human virtues increase and strengthen themselves by the practice and experience of them.” — Socrates

      The world is full of honor, but it is also full of people who fall short of honorable behavior. We may be rightfully outraged by the dishonorable, but we ought to remember that we live in a glass house before we throw stones. The question of honor always begins with the one person we can control. When we realize this and begin to hold ourselves to a higher standard, we tend to rise to meet it.

      To simply do what we tell ourselves we’re going to do is so very easy, and so very hard all at once. I’m still writing every day, not because I aspire to clicks and comments, but because I promised myself I’d do it. On the flip side, I have a rowing ergometer gathering dust because I can’t seem to find the time to row for a few minutes in my busy days. There’s honor in showing up. There’s no honor in finding excuses. And still there’s hope for us if we’d only try another day.

      The act of being is a journey of discovery. We learn something new about ourselves every day. Sometimes we like what we see, sometimes we recoil in disgust, but we ought to learn to be patiently persistent with the student. No matter what the world does, we may become more honorable every day, so long as we keep showing up aspiring towards improvement. Personal excellence demands our best. Our best begins with honor.

    • Gaps Closed

      “How can you love someone whom you do not even see?”
      ― Anthony de Mello, Awareness

      Sometimes having something to say doesn’t mean we ought to say it. Sometimes keeping those thoughts to ourselves is the best contribution we can make in the moment. A great filter has saved me countless times. A poor filter has derailed me more often than I care to admit (imagine what an unfiltered mind would do if it were running the world? …uh, never mind).

      Writing this blog will not change the world. It’s currently clunky to navigate, impossible to categorize, has horrible SEO, and, if we’re being honest, is a bit repetitive. But it quietly navigates time at its own pace, like its writer, being what it is. And it will be what it will be. With so many choices of which information to digest, you the reader may choose to read or ignore it. Playing with the law of small numbers, we learn to keep score in our own way with the success of any given post. My way is measured in gaps closed.

      This odd little writing habit keeps on going, even when I decide it ought to take a break for a while. Does its quirkiness and place in this world make it a waste of time? Who’s time is being wasted in writing it? Each post is a revelation at best or a meditation on the moment at worst, but they’re each a declaration of who we were when we clicked publish. Writing doesn’t keep us from something else, it’s a path towards a greater self. The more we look the more we learn to see.

    • No Straight Road

      Oh what a crush of People
      Invisible, reborn
      Make their way to into this garden
      For their eternal rest

      Every step we take on earth
      Brings us to a new world
      Every foot supported
      On a floating bridge

      I know there is no straight road
      No straight road in this world
      Only a giant labyrinth
      Of intersecting crossroads

      And steadily our feet
      Keep walking and creating
      Like enormous fans
      These roads in embryo

      Oh garden of white
      Oh garden of all I am not
      All I could
      And should have been

      I know there is no straight road
      No straight road in this world
      Only a giant labyrinth
      Of intersecting crossroads
      — Federico García Lorca, Floating Bridges

      Oh, the twisting, turning road that brought us to here! We believe it would have been easier to have the straight path from there to here, and here to wherever there might be, but that’s not the life we humans have signed up for. We’re here to meander and discover the truth within us, the plot forever thickening, until one day we surprise even ourselves. All we can do is work to make it a real page-turner.

      There are a few turns we ought to have made, it’s clear now. The road looked easier the other way. Easy, it turns out, wasn’t the road to take. Complexity may perplex and frustrate us, but we gain so much for having gone through it. Tell that to the person we once were, as if they’d listen! But that whisper applies to the road ahead, friend. Just what kind of life do we want to look back upon anyway?

      We ought to glance back, but focus ahead. Remembering that we are not just travelers, but builders. We build our life with every choice, one action taken or deferred at a time. So move forward on the path we believe to be right, trusting the choice but verifying we tread on solid ground with each step.

      Tempus fugit, friend. Look up and a third of the year has flown by. How are we filling the time? What kind of road are we on anyway? Knowing the truth that time reveals, be deliberate with these steps ahead, lest we lose the ripe potential of this time forever. There’s still so much yet to be revealed in this epic adventure we call our own. And the road never will be straight or clear. Doesn’t that make it a wonder?

    • A Series of Somethings

      No one can change everything, but everyone can change something. If you choose to live a life with impact, it’s in your control to do so.” — Seth Godin, Powerlessness

      Godin’s post yesterday offered this nugget of wisdom as a reminder that we have agency. We may change something, should we choose to. Don’t ever tell yourself otherwise, for to do so is to rob this world of one more voice of positive change.

      What does change look like? It’s how we treat people. It’s how we treat ourself. It’s holding a standard for how we’re going to move through this world and holding the line on that with every interaction. We’ll fall short of those standards more than we care to think about, but we’ll also rise to meet them. And we’ll realize now and then that we’ve exceeded the old standard and set a new one. In this way we learn and grow and become something more than we were before.

      That person, the something more person, has momentum and influence. We float through life leaving a wake behind us—a ripple if you like. Each day we impact the life of someone. We may impact them, not directly, but by the impression we made on another, who in turn influenced that person—and so on across time. That’s the ripple of influence we may hardly be aware of in the moment. Each is a series of somethings we made out of what would otherwise be nothing. We must not simply fill the void, but fill it well.

      Writing this blog, I may reach a few people I’ll never meet in my lifetime. The intent isn’t to influence you, dear reader, but it also isn’t to shut you out of the conversation. Every day, flying by as they do, the blog is a postcard to the world. Read by some, glanced at by others, ignored by the vast majority. And that’s as it should be. This is part of my something, even if it isn’t everything.

    • No Small Thing

      What does one do with the post after 2500 posts? We begin again, naturally. For what are we to do with the next but demonstrate that we’ve grown a bit in these hours? To spoon away at infinity is no small thing. And perhaps stop carrying on about numbers and immerse in poetry once again. Here’s one by Pablo Neruda that left me awestruck and stays with me still:

      I am one of those who live
      in the middle of the sea and close to the twilight,
      A little beyond those stones.

      When I came
      and saw what was happening
      I decided on the spot.

      The day had spread itself
      And everything was light
      And the sea was beating
      Like a salty lion,
      Many-handed.

      All that deserted space was singing
      And I, lost and awed,
      Looking toward the silence,
      Opened my mouth and said:
      “Mother of the foam,
      Expansive solitude,
      Here I will begin my own rejoicing,
      My particular poetry.”

      From then on I was never
      Let down by a single wave.
      I always found the flavor of the sky
      In the water, in the earth,
      And the wood and the sea burned together
      Through the lonely winters.

      I am grateful to the earth
      for having waited
      for me
      when the sky and sea came together
      like two lips touching;
      for that’s no small thing, no?—
      to have lived
      through one solitude to arrive at another,
      to feel oneself many things and recover wholeness.

      I love all the things there are,
      And of all fires
      Love is the only inexhaustible one;
      And that’s why I go from life to life,
      From guitar to guitar,
      And I have no fear
      Of light or of shade.

      And almost being earth myself,
      I spoon away at infinity.

      So no one can ever fail
      To find my doorless numberless house—
      There between dark stones,
      facing the flash
      of the violent salt,
      there we live, my woman and I,
      there we take root.
      Grant us help then.
      Help us to be more of the earth each day!
      Help us to be
      More the sacred foam,
      More the swish of the wave!
      — Pablo Neruda, This is where we live

      I realize I haven’t posted any of Pablo Neruda’s poetry on this blog before this one. It’s an oversight on my part, partly because of an inclination to post the entire poem, partly because I don’t speak Spanish and rely heavily on the translation. But what a translation! And with that in mind, I hope to explore more of his work in future posts. Semper discens, semper crescens (always learning, always growing).

    • Where Do 2500 Blog Posts Bring Us?

      “You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment. Fools stand on their island of opportunities and look toward another land. There is no other land; there is no other life but this.” — Henry David Thoreau, The Journals of Henry David Thoreau, 1837-1861

      This is the 2500th blog post published. Countless others never made it this far, but surely influenced me just the same. The process of writing informs, whether the world sees what we write or not. But to publish is to be bold, today, at least for one audacious moment.

      I ask myself, sometimes, what took me so long to come to blogging? I ask myself, why I would ever write another? Each post is a minor victory in productive ritual. Each underscores a strong desire to learn and grow and become something more. A late bloomer coming to a dying art just as reading seems passé to the hip crowd. And yet, once in a while some words resonate with another.

      The thing is, I began writing thinking I might change the world, I ended up changing myself. Talk of heaven and hell is often nothing more than deferring our one and only opportunity to live and be what we will. There is no other life than this, and I’m inclined to go and do and see and be while I can. We know what’s coming for us, and ignore it at our peril.

      So where have 2500 blog posts brought us? It’s always been a call to action to go forth and see new places. And the places! Faraway and deep within, forever seeking the new and interesting. Forever changing, forever changed, with an eye on personal excellence (arete) that will be just out of reach but worth the effort. To make the most of every day we’re blessed with and write a few words about it again and again until one day it ends. One step closer to knowing with each blog published.

      Postscript: In a moment of humbling realization, 2500 blog posts brought a typo in the title, since corrected but forever locked in on social media and emailed articles. We must laugh and toast to nothing. I’m a long way from arete but trying just the same.

    • Feed that Flame

      “I think of mythology as the homeland of the muses, the inspirers of art, the inspirers of poetry. To see life as a poem and yourself participating in a poem is what the myth does for you.”
      — Joseph Campbell, The Power of Myth

      Tell me we aren’t collectively living in an epic poem at the moment. These are tragic days. These are comic days. These are the days that test our character and faith in humanity. And we are not just the actors—we are the heroes on this journey of a lifetime. And so we must play our part. And so it is that some people rise up on the suffering of others, and some people rise up to defend all that is good in this world.

      The power of mythology is that it stirs something within us. When we listen, we connect with the timeless truth it conveys, and having made that connection, hear the call to contribute. Writing and poetry, painting and sculpture, photography and cinematography, theater and dance, music and performance—all are expressions of myth and a perpetuation of something greater than ourselves. Something the trolls fail to connect with and thus seek to destroy. Collectively we bring the beautiful to light.

      Myth works from the inside out as a spark of recognition as something ancient and profound within us that must grow and find expression. We all want to think of ourselves as heroes. The miracle is that this truly heroic character is hiding within us, waiting for oxygen and fuel. We must feed that flame and see where this epic journey takes us.

    • The Call to Creative

      “Et ignotas anuimum dimittit in artes” (“And he applies his mind to the obscure arts.”) — Ovid, Metamorphoses, VIII., 18.

      The great conversation brought me to this phrase. Joseph Campbell quoted James Joyce’s use of it as the epigraph of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and now I bring it to you, dear reader. Always find the primary source, the historian in me demands, even if that makes for an odd first paragraph. But here we are.

      But wait, there’s more. Ovid added, “naturamque nouat” (“and alters nature.)” in Metamorphoses, pointing to the transformative potential of creative work. It wasn’t that Joyce wasn’t showing the way, it was more an expectation that the reader would complete the assignment. In a world where so many are a bit lazy in following through to the end, isn’t it a jolt to find artists who expect us to keep up?

      Ah, but what are we doing here? Just what kind of blog post is this? Are we diving head first into latin? Are we indicting the general state of things today where so many don’t go deeper than the surface? Or are we doing what Campbell and Joyce did, and using Ovid to point to a life of creative work? Let’s call it an open-ended question as we walk the path of discovery together. And isn’t that what creative work is?

      Apply your mind to the obscure arts and alter nature. Be bold in this choice and find transformation, or bow to the demands of those who would have us follow the rules laid out for us. What shall it be, for you and me? Be bold, friend, and see just where it takes us. For we only have this short time together to make our dent in the universe.

    • What Belongs to Us?

      “Everything comes to us that belongs to us if we create the capacity to receive it.” — Rabindranath Tagore

      We know when we’re clicking on all cylinders just as we know when things aren’t going our way—by how we feel. We forget the physical sometimes when our brains try to dominate the conversation. It’s a good idea to take a deep breath now and then, if only to come back to our senses.

      There are days when I’m grateful that I write this blog, because it starts my days with thoughtfulness and random scraps of beauty collected along the journey. There are days when I consider doing something else with my time—usually when my ego gets in the way of reflection and deep thought. But writing is my way of opening up the receivers and letting in that which I wish to experience in this world. We can’t write about that which we haven’t first wrestled with. Artificial Intelligence (AI) may be a transformative force multiplier for searching and categorizing information, but wrestling with the truth within us is still the work of poets and philosophers.

      So what belongs to us? The stuff we accumulate? It will all be divided amongst our survivors one day. The things that matter most are the moments of truth and beauty we wring out of our time dancing with life. Being aware of this and going deeper still is where things get real. All the meaningless stuff swirls about us making noise for attention is just a distraction from the realization that this is it: we are here now and must do the best we can with what we have.

      So breathe deeply, feel the possibility of the moment and recognize the fragility of what we’re so often cavalier about. We’re all just borrowing moments from infinity. What belongs to us is now. What might we do with it?

    • The Visit

      Early last week, mentally tapped out and in need of consultation, I visited Author’s Hill at Sleepy Hollow Cemetery in Concord, Massachusetts. I’ve been there many times now, and the experience has grown from initial discovery and delight at finding the graves of Thoreau, Emerson, Alcott and Hawthorne in such close proximity to each other to visiting to simply say hello again. In a world full of useless noise, sometimes we find inspiration in the quietest places.

      Thinking it clever at the time, I once brought a water bottle filled with some water from Walden Pond to give Henry another sip. There are no such moments of gimmickry nowadays. Now a quiet nod is enough. They and all of their neighbors do whisper: memento mori.

      And isn’t that enough? They did their part in their time. We may choose to do ours now. One day soon enough we’ll join them in infinity. But now? Now is the time to live, friend.

      “Oh, for the years I have not lived, but only dreamed of living.”
      ― Nathaniel Hawthorne

      “If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.” ― Henry David Thoreau, Walden

      “I’ve got the key to my castle in the air, but whether I can unlock the door remains to be seen.” ― Louisa May Alcott, Little Women

      “The voyage of the best ship is a zigzag line of a hundred tacks. See the line from a sufficient distance, and it straightens itself to the average tendency. Your genuine action will explain itself, and will explain your other genuine actions. Your conformity explains nothing. Act singly, and what you have already done singly will justify you now.” ― Ralph Waldo Emerson, Self-Reliance