Alexandersmap

    Tag: Robert Frost

    • That’s Not Me

      With apologies to the rest of the Starks, the best character arc in Game of Thrones is Arya’s. Beginning way back in season one when her father Ned talks about how she’ll grow up to marry a high lord and rule his castle, and she looks at him and replies, “No, that’s not me”. It’s the beginning of an amazing journey for Arya.

      That line stays with me, as it stays with many people.  But will you listen?  Just yesterday I opened a trade magazine and scanned their list of 40 under 40 up and comers, and thought of how this might have driven me at one point in my life, but no longer. Taking nothing away from the accomplishments of those forty, and I know a few of them, I’m happy to reply; “No, it’s not me”. I stepped away from the management track 12 years ago and haven’t looked back. Knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.  Don’t live your life based on the expectations of others, choose your own path.

      “Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
      And sorry I could not travel both
      And be one traveler, long I stood
      And looked down one as far as I could
      To where it bent in the undergrowth;

      Then took the other, as just as fair,
      And having perhaps the better claim,
      Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
      Though as for that the passing there
      Had worn them really about the same,

      And both that morning equally lay
      In leaves no step had trodden black.
      Oh, I kept the first for another day!
      Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
      I doubted if I should ever come back.

      I shall be telling this with a sigh
      Somewhere ages and ages hence:
      Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
      I took the one less traveled by,
      And that has made all the difference.”  

      – Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken

      It turns out the path I chose was full of twists and turns and hard climbs.  The path itself diverged a few times along the way.  Financially not as lucrative at times as the original, but time is a more valuable currency than income, and I’ve followed a path that gave me a hefty time raise over the previous path.  And interestingly enough, the income hasn’t been all that far off the other path either.  Keeping score of your life using income, position, clicks and likes is a trap.  It’s nothing more than trying to meet the expectations of others.  Be yourself, and grow organically.  The path will get you there eventually, and even if it turns out to be longer and harder than anticipated, the view is better. And that will make all the difference.

    • Bury the Bright Edge Deep

      “The cold smell of potato mould, the

      squelch and slap

      Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

      Through living roots awaken in my head.

      But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

      Between my finger and my thumb

      The squat pen rests.

      I’ll dig with it.” – Seamus Heaney, Digging

      Jim Rohn said that we are the average of the five people we associate with the most. I tend to agree with that, not just in people but in authors, media, podcasters… etc. Influencers on our outlook should be scrutinized regularly at minimum, and wholly changed over now and then just to keep your mind sharp. There’s nothing like a different perspective to floss the brain. And lately I’ve been sprinkling in more Seamus Heaney, Mary Oliver and Robert Frost. When life throws political chaos, war and social media trolls at you, turn to the poets to re-set the sail.

      The garden is done for the year, other than a few mums and asters and one lone fuchsia blossom that stubbornly holds out hope for company. But harder frosts are coming, and with it the growing season ends. Heaney’s words sprinkle memories of planting in my mind, of burying the bright edge of a spade deep to turn the soil, and I smile at the thought. There’ll be no planting for six months to come. But Seamus points to another digging tool in writing, and that seems a good place to spend my time as well. Pull out the weeds that work to root in your mind, turn over the fertile ground to aerate it, and plant some new ideas to grow and ripen.

    • Stargazing

      “But let’s not talk about fare-thee-wells now
      The night is a starry dome
      And they’re playin’ that scratchy rock and roll
      Beneath the Matala Moon” – Joni Mitchell, “Carey”

      These particular lyrics jump out at me every time I hear this song.  The spell of a starry dome night on a beach in Mexico with rock and roll music playing.  I’ve done my best to duplicate that portrait many times over the years, sometimes on a beach somewhere, sometimes just in the backyard around a fire pit, and sometimes on an island on a New Hampshire lake with loud music, fire and friends.  Stars over water, stars high on mountain tops, stars in the desert…  always stargazing in the darkest corners I can find.  Epic bonding time with my dog for years before he couldn’t go on our stargazing walks anymore…  and it seems I wouldn’t without him.

      The days grow shorter with the tilt of the earth away from the sun in the northern hemisphere.  Better suited for seeing that starry dome overhead.  A good reason to get back to nighttime walks, head tilted up for constellations, satellites, and the occasional shooting star.  There’s so much going on up there, and we sit in our houses unaware of the dance happening above the roof.

      “You know Orion always comes up sideways,
      Throwing a leg up over our fence of mountains,
      And rising on his hands, he looks in on me
      Busy outdoors by lantern-light with something
      I should have done by daylight, and indeed,
      After the ground is frozen, I should have done
      Before it froze, and a gust flings a handful
      Of waste leaves at my smoky lantern chimney
      To make fun of my way of doing things,
      Or else fun of Orion for having caught me . . .”

       – Robert Frost, “The Star Splitter”

      Orion returns to the dance soon.  I’ve missed this sky dancer most of all these summer months.  I smiled reading Frost’s description of Orion throwing a leg sideways over the mountains.  Were I that clever with a few choice words!  I’ll get there, or at least enjoy the process of trying to get there.  We can’t all be Robert Frost or Joni Mitchell spinning magic in words.  But they weren’t that once either.  Just get out there and do your dance under the stars.  They won’t judge you.

    • I Mourn for the Undiscovered

      Up early, reading some Robert Frost poetry I don’t remember reading before.  I’m mesmerized by a line and read on.  I get like this.

      Millions of songs on iTunes, and I’ve barely scratched the surface of what’s out there despite a lifetime focus on music.  I’ve spent huge chunks of my time exploring new music, Shazam’ing songs in loud bars and quiet coffee café and back in the day hanging out in used record stores in Harvard Square trying to find that one gem, that magical song.  And I’ve found many over the years.  Eclectic collection perhaps, but dammit, interesting.

      A bucket list of places to see, and slowly I chip away at it.  My list grows shorter, not because I don’t want to go to all the other places, but because I want to focus on the specific few.  Linger in special places, like listening to a song over and over until you really know it.  Instead of trying to chase everything in a spin of futility.  No, not that.  Give me Thoreau at Walden or Hemingway in Key West.  Or Frost in Derry.  I’ve visited each of these places and understand the power of immersion it had on them.

      I mourn for the undiscovered songs, poems, books and places.  The conversation you never had with a grandparent.  The sunrise you slept through, the lonely beach you didn’t stroll on in winter, the ridge line you didn’t cross, the Northern Lights that danced unseen, the big city that woke up without you, the swims in bracingly cold water and salt on the tongue that you’ll never taste; the places you’ll never be.

      We can’t be everywhere of course.  But I’ll do my best to be present in this moment at least.  Tomorrow will come and I hope to see it.  But don’t mourn for losing today if I should get there.

    • The Yin and Yang of New Hampshire and Vermont

      “She’s one of the two best states in the Union.
      Vermont’s the other. And the two have been
      Yokefellows in the sap yoke from of old
      In many Marches. And they lie like wedges,
      Thick end to thin end and thin end to thick end,
      And are a figure of the way the strong
      Of mind and strong of arm should fit together,
      One thick where one is thin and vice versa.”

      – Robert Frost, New Hampshire

      New Hampshire and Vermont are Yin and Yang.  Almost flipped mirror images of one another, as Frost describes.  The people are similar in so many ways, and different in so many other ways.  Generally, Vermont is a “blue state” while New Hampshire is a “red state”, traditionally voting Republican (much to the chagrin of Vermont and Massachusetts).  New Hampshire has a certain active principle, Live Free or Die vibe going, while Vermont embraces a more receptive, Freedom and Unity vibe.

      The Connecticut River defines the border between the two, as determined by King George III in 1763. Vermont didn’t exist back then, the land was deemed New York’s. But that didn’t last very long; about the time it took for New York to try to collect taxes from the people there. Ethan Allen and the Green Mountain Boys chased the tax collectors right out and Vermont seceded as the American Revolution was ramping up. That’s a very New Hampshire thing to do! And ever since, these two states have been locked in an eternal embrace; interconnected yet independent. White Mountains and Green Mountains, conservative and liberal, two of the smallest states in size and population; wonder twins holding up the northern border and hugging each other for eternity.

    • Handshake with History

      Handshake with History

      Whenever I visit a place, I try to understand a little bit about the place.  Who came before me?  What happened here and how has that changed this place and the world we live in?  You stumble on ghosts walking through quiet woods when you come upon a stone wall running straight as an arrow left to right.  Or an old logging road cutting through the forest.  Dimpled rocks betray the hundreds of micro spikes that gripped this granite before you came along.  Statues and monuments tell one story, but so too do the buildings and canals and cobblestone streets.

      I’ve visited Mark Twain’s house in Hartford, Robert Frost’s farmhouse in Derry, New Hampshire and Ernest Hemingway’s house in Key West, Florida.  I ran my hand up the stair railing in each and stood in the doorways they would have been standing in as they looked out on a different world than the one I live in.  Dancing with ghosts.

      I once helped a friend tear down an old shed that had seen better days.  Hammer and pry bar in hand, I stripped layers of plywood and siding off the walls until we were down to the studs of the shed.  This was no Home Depot special.  The studs were old growth wood, hand sawn and straight.  They’d been quietly doing their job for a hundred years or so.  I gave a nod to the craftsman who built it.

      I visited the Duston Garrison in Haverhill, Massachusetts last year, the day after visiting the island that Hannah Duston escaped from between Concord and Franklin, New Hampshire.  In walking around the garrison, built by Hannah’s husband Thomas, a brick layer and farmer, I came across a pair of thumb prints in the brick.  Were they his thumb prints or those of someone who worked with him or re-pointed the brick wall somewhere else in history?  I don’t know, but I do know that whoever it was came before me and I put my thumbs in those compressions in a moment of solidarity across the centuries.

      Thomas and others built this garrison in 1697 for protection from the indians who attacked Haverhill, killing members of his family and his neighbors.  This was the frontier, and I often think about that time in history, so close to where I’m living my own history, and yet so different.  321 years later, this is our time.  That’s not some bullshit motivational slogan.  We’re alive today while the vast majority of people who have lived aren’t.  So many others came before us, and so may more will come after us.  I quietly make my handshake with history when I feel it.  And I feel it a lot in the places that I go.