Alexandersmap

    Category: Writing

    • A Beautiful Reluctance

      We were born saying goodbye
      to what we love,
      we were born
      in a beautiful reluctance
      to be here,
      not quite ready
      to breathe in this new world
      – David Whyte, Cleave

      I understand this reluctance. I wrestle with it myself. And tackle the moments as they wash over me and undermine my footing like a relentless surf. We’re never quite ready for what the world throws at us, but with a subtle shift and a will to persevere we find a way to keep our footing.

      For all the harshness in the world we learn that, more often than not, the waves come from within. The demons aren’t out there marching towards you in waves, they whisper in your ear. The distractions and busywork and perceived obligations squander our moments and precious minutes. The reluctance pulls at our sleeve, back towards what we are comfortable with, back towards the safe and predictable and indistinct.

      Each step is uncertain, but slowly we move forward. The farther we venture, the harder it is to hear the call to come back. And in the growing quiet we might hear something just out of reach. Just ahead. And we continue towards those who call us, towards the Muse, towards our boldest dreams. One moment, and one breath at a time.

      But it begins, as it must, with goodbye.

    • Myths and Pretty Stories

      “Like the elite of ancient Egypt, most people in most cultures dedicate their lives to building pyramids. Only the names, shapes and sizes of these pyramids change from one culture to the other. They may take the form, for example, of a suburban cottage with a swimming pool and an evergreen lawn, or a gleaming penthouse with an enviable view. Few question the myths that cause us to desire the pyramid in the first place.” – Yuval Noah Harari, Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind

      We all build pretty stories, latch on to myths that align us with a currency, political party, and what we chase in our short time on earth. Since I reached “responsible” adulthood I’ve been servant to my pyramid in New Hampshire, my second pyramid, thank you. I’ve done my part to keep both the economy and humankind going by getting married and having two children, a boy and a girl, to keep the party going after I someday check out.

      Sapiens challenges long-standing assumptions we have about our place in the world: how we got here, what we believe, what we’ve destroyed in the process of getting here and what is being destroyed now as a result of the myths and pretty stories we collectively tell ourselves. And that’s the part that I’ve been thinking about lately. We’ve all seen what collective belief in a myth can do on September 11, 2001 and on January 6, 2021. There’s a very dark side of humanity that emerges when subscribing to certain myths. And there’s a swell of resistance that rises up when confronted with myths that don’t fit our own view of the world.

      It may come as no surprise to any reader of this blog that I’m a romanticist, chasing experiences in this short life. And yet like many of my fellow romanticists I’ve also built a pyramid. And keep adding smaller pyramids around it to make this life more… comfortable? Luxurious? Sure. But every myth has a price, and to function in this society your story needs to align with the larger story of paying mortgages and car payments and working to fund it all.

      We humans are complicated, aren’t we? Life is about the pretty stories we tell ourselves. About where we are and where we’re going. We all tell ourselves and others these stories. I tell myself that I’m chasing washboard abs, but still managed to have a third taco last night. Now I’m planning a long walk and yard work to make up for the three tacos. Washboard abs are just another pretty story I tell myself if I don’t align my habits with the larger goal.

      As an American I grew up believing certain things about our Rights as citizens. We buy into the belief that all men and women are created equal. Over time you learn this is a myth, we aren’t at all equal. Some are dealt tougher hands than others. Some drink the Kool-Aid of scarcity and fear and react to that with aggression and hate. In sharp contrast, may of us subscribe to something bigger. A belief in each other and a better future.

      “Well, big wheels roll through fields where sunlight streams
      Oh, meet me in a land of hope and dreams”
      – Bruce Springsteen, Land of Hope and Dreams

      Inevitably there’s friction and chafing when one person’s myths run into another’s opposing myths. We live in a dangerous time, and a lot depends on how the pendulum swings during our watch. Like Springsteen I’m an eternal optimist, but recognize that’s just the way we frame our pretty stories. Like washboard abs and too many tacos, sometimes pretty stories and reality don’t align and you’ve got to recognize that and commit to changing the story.

      We all have to work for the pyramids we are building towards the sky. It’s fair to question whether we’re building the right pyramid in the first place. Isn’t it?

    • Beauty, Reflected

      “When Narcissus died, the goddesses of the forest appeared and found the lake, which had been fresh water, transformed into a lake of salty tears.
      “Why do you weep?” the goddesses asked.
      “I weep for Narcissus,” the lake replied.
      “Ah, it is no surprise that you weep for Narcissus,” they said, “for though we always pursued him in the forest, you alone could contemplate his beauty close at hand.”
      “But . . . was Narcissus beautiful?” the lake asked.
      “Who better than you to know that?” the goddesses said in wonder. “After all, it was by your banks that he knelt each day to contemplate himself!”
      The lake was silent for some time. Finally, it said:
      “I weep for Narcissus, but I never noticed that Narcissus was beautiful. I weep because, each time he knelt beside my banks, I could see, in the depths of his eyes, my own beauty reflected.”
      – Paulo Coelho, Prologue to The Alchemist

      Great writing reflects. It collects the beautiful essence of living in this world and polishes it up to reflect back on the reader. It’s what any writer worth their salt aspires to. It’s what I aspire to here and elsewhere. Call this blog a work in progress. What is published daily isn’t as polished as a Fleetwood Mac song, you get maybe the second or third draft here. But I try like hell to make it worth our collective time.

      The garden is well past the dance of the Daffodils. Maybe the timing of this quote should have been aligned with their peak, but looking back on my posts from that time I see my focus turned towards other things in this world. Such is the way with writing, you can’t possibly capture it all. The very process of focusing on one thing allows other things to escape notice.

      In all art you hold up the mirror in the moment, reflecting what you can with the tools you have at hand. Developing an eye for beauty is perhaps the most important thing any artist can aspire to, more than a steady hand or a grasp of the nuance of language or paint colors or lenses. An eye for the beautiful allows us to see what others might miss. And in seeing it, attempt to reflect it back on the world.

      Narcissists aren’t generally looked upon favorably. The brilliant turn in Coelho’s prologue is in showing that even Narcissus inadvertently offered something to another. To write at all is to wrestle with the narcissism within. To expect greatness of ourselves is bold, just who are we serving in our attempts? Nothing smacks the ego like the silence of the universe when you say “ta da!”

      The hardest part of creating something is seeing the beauty and not measuring up to it with your reflection of it. But each clumsy attempt brings us a bit closer to the possible. Beauty, reflected, casts a light on both sender and receiver. The best work will come. That which is beautiful patiently sparkles in anticipation of you seeing the best in yourself through your efforts. And, maybe, lighting up the world.

      But do try not to drown in your reflection.

    • Adding Extra to Ordinary

      “A master is in control. A master has a system. A master turns the ordinary into the sacred.”
      – Ryan Holiday

      “The primary math of the real world is one and one equals two. The layman (as, often, do I) swings that every day. He goes to the job, does his work, pays his bills and comes home. One plus one equals two. It keeps the world spinning. But artists, musicians, con men, poets, mystics and such are paid to turn that math on its head, to rub two sticks together and bring forth fire. Everybody performs this alchemy somewhere in their life, but it’s hard to hold on to and easy to forget. People don’t come to rock shows to learn something. They come to be reminded of something they already know and feel deep down in their gut. That when the world is at its best, when we are at our best, when life feels fullest, one and one equals three. It’s the essential equation of love, art, rock ’n’ roll and rock ’n’ roll bands. It’s the reason the universe will never be fully comprehensible, love will continue to be ecstatic, confounding, and true rock ’n’ roll will never die.” – Bruce Springsteen, Born to Run

      I’m beginning to understand the art of weaving magic. I am by no means a master, but each turn in the blog, each tangle with words in other work I’m developing, leads me closer to the sacred. The blog is my apprenticeship, never fully realized because I ship the work daily whether the magic is sprinkled on yet or not. This is a turn of the ordinary, and a march towards something more.

      Routines infer ordinary. We have our habits and generally stick with them, and we feel out of sorts when the routine is broken by happenstance or travel. But routines are where you find the magic, hidden deeply in layers of repetition and persistence. You don’t pull magic out of your ass, you work for it.

      You know it when you see it. Moments crackle with excitement. And one plus one does, for a brief moment, equal three. The greatest artists and performers regularly dance with the extraordinary. But hidden from that brilliant moment of now are the buried hours of falling flat, picking yourself up and trying something else then. You don’t add extra to ordinary without sacrifice.

      I’m well aware of where I am with my own work, and I also know where I’m going. Towards the sacred. Towards three. Towards the incomprehensible and magic and the extraordinary. I hope someday to share that with you.

    • The Navigator’s Station

      “The winds and waves are always on the side of the ablest navigators.” – Edward Gibbon

      Some days everything clicks, and some days it pours stress over you like an ice bucket challenge run amuck. In general we try to steer our lives in the right direction, even when we drift off course now and then. The trick is to know where you want to be go and how to change course to get there. That often starts with sitting in your navigation station and sorting through where you are, where you’re going and what needs to happen to bring you there.

      The writing desk is my navigation station. I normally write at the same time every day, and I’m out of sorts if I don’t do it at that time. The last two days I’ve been out of sorts, writing late in the afternoon instead of with my first mug of coffee for the day. And that makes me feel largely off course for the entire day. This is the combined power of routine and the state change achieved through the flow of writing.

      Over the next couple of weeks I’m going to be challenging that routine trying new habits out for size. I’m also beginning to get out of the house and feeling out the new normal of work away from a computer screen. These forces are already disrupting my state, and I can feel the need to spend a bit more time at the old navigation station to fully absorb the changes.

      Changes are inevitable in life. Really, life is change. Life isn’t all about blind luck and chance encounters, there’s a healthy dose of magic when it’s done well. And that requires execution at a high level and embracing the role of navigator instead of merely being a passenger along for the ride.

      Where do you go from here? Have a seat and sort it out. Invest time where it will help the most – at the navigator’s station.

    • The Battle of Timidity and Boldness

      “Focus your attention on the link between you and your death, without remorse or sadness or worrying. Focus your attention on the fact you don’t have time and let your acts flow accordingly. Let each of your acts be your last battle on earth. Only under those conditions will your acts have their rightful power. Otherwise they will be, for as long as you live, the acts of a timid man…. Being timid prevents us from examining and exploiting our lot as men.” – Carlos Castaneda, Journey to Ixtlan

      I did the math, mentally adding 25 years to my current age and toyed with the idea of being that later age. There are no guarantees that I’ll ever reach that point in my life, of course. No guarantees for any of us marching through time on our annual trip around the sun. But I toyed with the idea of being an old man and wondered at the state of my mind and body. I wondered at the experiences I’d had in the interim, these years between now and then.

      This long sleep we have in store for ourselves is our future, whether a quarter century away or this afternoon, and we ought to live boldly instead of merely timidly existing. I won’t say I’ve mastered this, but I live a better life knowing that the whole dance could end on the next drum beat. But we can do so much more. Simply by living with urgency.

      This theme, the constant reminder of our imminent death, runs through Stoic philosophy. And it runs through this blog. I try, not always successfully, to use it as a cattle prod to my backside. A jolt of awareness that this could all end at any moment, so break free of that routine, break away from the timid existence and live a life of adventure and boldness. It’s the underlying theme of this blog, beginning on the home page with Thoreau’s call to action:

      “Rise free from care before the dawn and seek adventures.” – Henry David Thoreau

      If we accept that we must die, and as improbable as it might seem, at any moment, what might we do to live now? If this is our final act, what will it be? And, if blessed with another, what of the act to follow?

      The answer clearly must be to live the moment with urgency. Say what must be said. Do what must be done. Get out there and live boldly! Pursue the magic in the moment with vigor and a profound lust for life.

    • Ignoring That Other Urge to Merge

      “Death is the only wise advisor that we have. Whenever you feel, as you always do, that everything is going wrong and you’re about to be annihilated, turn to your death and ask if that is so. Your death will tell you that you’re wrong; that nothing really matters outside its touch. Your death will tell you, ‘I haven’t touched you yet.” – Carlos Castaneda, Journey To Ixtlan

      If the measure of a life is our contribution to the larger world around us, should we work harder, or focus on what moves the world through us? Shouldn’t we rejoice in the wonder of waking up this morning, feel the vibration of the world around us (such that it is), and make the most of this one more day? Moving the world through us takes imagination, vigor and commitment to our calling.

      It feels easier to just grind it out, making the most of the path we choose, than to step off that path and try another. It feels easier to just turn on the television and immerse ourselves in something outside ourselves. To meet expectations and be a part of the way things are. Instead of moving the world through us we move through the world as everyone else does.

      And there’s the trap. When we surrender to the world we lose our essence – we lose our autonomy. And, I hate to do it, but I’m going to use the same quote that Jeff Bezos used in his final letter to Amazon shareholders because it hasn’t left me since I read it:

      “Staving off death is a thing that you have to work at. Left to itself — and that is what it is when it dies — the body tends to revert to a state of equilibrium with its environment. If you measure some quantity such as the temperature, the acidity, the water content or the electrical potential in a living body, you will typically find that it is markedly different from the corresponding measure in the surroundings. Our bodies, for instance, are usually hotter than our surroundings, and in cold climates they have to work hard to maintain the differential. When we die the work stops, the temperature differential starts to disappear, and we end up the same temperature as our surroundings… More generally, if living things didn’t work actively to prevent it, they would eventually merge into their surroundings, and cease to exist as autonomous beings. That is what happens when they die.” – Richard Dawkins, The Blind Watchmaker

      Which reminds me of the most famous episode of Star Trek, The Next Generation:

      “We are the Borg. Existence, as you know it, is over. We will add your biological and technological distinctiveness to our own. Resistance is futile.” – The Borg, from Star Trek, The Next Generation

      You and I, we aren’t ready to merge into our surroundings, are we? We aren’t ready to be assimilated. No, death hasn’t touched us yet, not today. And so we must remain autonomous. We must hear the call of our own heartbeat and somehow resist the temptation to just go with the flow. We must learn to move the world through us. To be unique.

      None of this is easy. I struggle with autonomy, influenced as heavily as you might be by family and friends, quarterly numbers that demand attention and the occasional soundbite or affront to humanity making the rounds on social media. It’s hard to remember sometimes that all that is outside of us. All that wants us to merge with it and amplify the chorus with our voice. It takes courage to turn away, see a different path and start down it.

      Your death will tell you that you’re wrong; that nothing really matters outside its touch.

      Ignore the urge to merge. Move through this world in your own way. Down your own path. While there’s still time.

    • The Muse

      There’s a ghost in my head. A story that won’t go away. Compelling and screaming to be written. The boy in the story died over 300 years ago, and he didn’t live much of a life at all. A life of lost freedom and sadness. But his story is screaming out for someone to tell the world about him.

      So the muse taps my shoulder, asking when I’m going to get around to it. Threatening to leave me and take the boy elsewhere. And I feel the guilt of ignoring the call of the dead boy for the obligations of the living. Your story must be told… but not just yet. And the muse grows restless.

      I suppose I could just write about him in the blog. It would serve to tell his story. But I’ve held on to his life as the kernel of a novel that could grow around him. It seems selfish when I write that, holding a ghost boy hostage while I procrastinate on writing his story. Yet here we are.

      The confession serves as a concession to the muse. I’ll get to the boy, one of these days. I’ll write his story as best I can. This year? Yes, absolutely. This year. Just after I finish these other things…

      And the muse grows more restless.

    • The Practice

      “We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.” – Kurt Vonnegut

      “The practice of art isn’t to make a living. It’s to make your soul grow.” – Kurt Vonnegut

      This blogging business can be a grind if you think about it the wrong way. I try not to think about it the wrong way. Still, it pops up in my head in certain moments. What the hell am I writing for? I don’t actively accumulate followers and don’t chase likes. Nor will this site be monetized. So what’s the point?

      The writing is a discipline; a routine of consequence. A practice of art carrying me towards who I fancy myself to be, and I chase it down relentlessly every day. And though I wonder sometimes at what the point of it all really is, I already know the answer. It’s simply to write.

      Kurt Vonnegut was one of those people whom I’d have around that dinner table, along with a cast of characters larger than life through their practice of being what they pretended to be… and thus became. Then again, I hang out with them all the time through their contribution. Or at least the character I think them to be. For they were just people like us, who chipped away at their work until they built something of consequence.

      And there’s that word again: consequence. What are we building in our daily work? Followers, or our souls? I may not ever meet my great-grandchildren if they should ever debut in the world, but I fancy them someday knowing something about me from the way I stack words together… just… so.

      The crew of SV Delos (Brian and Karin) had a live stream conversation on Mother’s Day. For those who don’t know, they sail around the world and post videos on YouTube. They’ve been cranking out videos for years, first as a way to share experiences with family and friends and later as an income stream as it became apparent that plenty of people were interested in what they were doing. Watching their 300+ videos helped me get through the void of travel-less lockdown during the pandemic.

      One thing Brian said caught my ear. He spoke about people who keep working on their boats, project after project, waiting for things to be perfect for them to set out on their own passage. And of course that day never comes because nothing is ever perfect. The point being to just go when things are ready enough.

      On a much smaller scale, blogging is the same sort of passage that Delos is on. You chip away at it, maybe picking up a follower or two along the way (thank you) and see where the passage takes you. And maybe that’s enough. Then again, maybe there’s more.

    • Poems and Cat Puke

      The clouds have left the sky,
      The wind hath left the sea,
      The half-moon up on high
      Shrinketh her face of dree

      She lightens on the comb
      Of leaden waves, that roar
      And thrust their hurried foam
      Up on the dusky shore.

      Behind the western bars
      The shrouded day retreats,
      And unperceived the stars
      Steal to their sovran seats.

      And whiter grows the foam,
      The small moon lightens more;
      And as I turn me home,
      My shadow walks before.
      – Robert Bridges, Dusky Shore

      There’s a moment when expectations meet reality. Certainly we all expected more out of 2020 than we got, and I can say the same about this morning’s blog. It started with a poem – Dusky Shore, as you see. It became cleanup in aisle 5.

      I’ve toyed with Bridges’ famous poem for some time, undecided about whether to dance with the classic romantic lines, or leave well enough alone. It has all the ingredients sprinkled together just so – the moon and the sea, post sunset dusky bliss and a turn towards home… but it still misses the mark for me. And I’m not sure why.

      I believe it’s in the way the words are stacked just so. It feels like he’s playing to the audience a bit to me, instead of mining his soul. But still the words are lovely in the way that a Thomas Kinkade painting is. Pretty, I suppose, but not really my style.

      As I walked down the stairs contemplating this poem and whether to go there, I came across the apocalyptic mounds of yellowish cat puke on the area rug that announced my quaint dalliance with Dusky Shore was going to take a back seat for the moment. As the designated early bird in a house full of night owls, I’m faced with such moments more than I care to remember. You either pretend not to see it or grab the paper towels and deal with it. I’ve learned it’s best to tackle the demons head-on and get on with your life. There’s nothing more demonic than cat puke on an area rug.

      I wonder about Robert Bridges, turning from the white foamy sea towards home, shadow walking before. As he opened the door to his humble home, what greeted him? For all the beauty of the prose, every now and then a little cat puke intrudes upon your Rosebud Cottage. It may be unwelcome, but it teaches you a bit about who you are when the moment of bliss is interrupted.