There are always some things we would like to see stopped, but only just a little. Like when someone else's favorite team is getting thrashed, or a person you know to be difficult is getting his/her comeuppance. Or even when the guy who tailgated you for miles then zoomed around you, when you see him stopped by the police, you wouldn't be ok with their shooting him, would you? Sure, a couple of taps with the nightstick, but .... stop, just a little.
Or, perhaps it's when someone is complimenting you a tad too much. "Oh stop, just a little," you say. Or when someone walks on your back, or squeezes your shoulders. You know it should be stopped, but it feels so nice. In the back of your mind, you recognize that things will get out of balance if you don't stop.
Too much of a good thing? Sure, that can happen. I read a piece the other day by a man berating his fellow countrymen for the fact that too many of them are obese. Oh, but those Angus burgers (or that Gino's deep dish pizza or Blue Bell ice cream or homemade blackberry cobbler, or shamrock shakes, or white chocolate cheesecake, or macadamia nut white chocolate chip cookies) are delicious.... I have found the only way I can stay away from those things is to quit, cold turkey. I am in day three of my latest effort to avoid sugar. I have had no candy, cookies, cake, pies, cobbler at all (yeah, great accomplishment--THREE WHOLE DAYS! Seriously?) But, ignoring the doubters, I know that I will lose some weight if I stick with this complete abstinence for a few weeks. I cannot touch them, however. If I start trying just one, I know I will wind up burying myself in sugar.
All things in moderation, you say? The only people who say (and actually live up to) those words are the ones that never had a weakness for a certain treat You can usually tell them by the fact they are SKINNY. Fat people don't employ moderation in nearly anything, except for dieting and some forms of exercise. They are able to walk away from a diet, saying "this is just too much dieting, my life will soon be out of balance if I don't quit this diet, or too much exercise just increases my appetite, so I'm going to cut back." Now there's some moderation for you.
But let's get back to that "stop, a little." If you feel the need to say it, try French, they might just not understand it, especially if you purr.
P.S. That fattest country, I bet you were thinking "Aha, it's those fat Americans!" Not so. It was Australia. They are the fat ones. Here it is: *Today the Australian Bureau of Statistics announced that 63% of Australians are over-weight or obese; a new record." Hah, they are the fatsos! (Oops, "Arrete un peu, mon ami.)"
Monday, October 29, 2012
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Read, Travel, Read
If you have followed some of my earlier posts, you know I have started to search out books and stories set in the locations I plan to visit. This time around, I visited San Francisco.
Picking a book or two of fiction set in the location you will visit turns out to add layers to he experience. This time, it was San Francisco and two mysteries. One related the tale of the murder of a man so obsessed with Sherlock Holmes that he renovated two stories of his townhouse as if they were in 19th century London. Even more interesting, homicide detectives discover that he had found a story for his collection purportedly written by A. Conan Doyle during an actual visit to SF in 1924. His body was found in the Marin Headlands in the exact location in which the fictional victim in his story was found. The other novel is a story of blackmail, politics and murders among people at the top of the political machine in San Francisco.
I read the story about the Sherlock Holmes collector before I visited SF, and learned the history of the Marin Headlands, where the Golden Gate Bridge lands after crossing the Golden Strait. I also learned about Russian Hill, and other neighborhoods in the city. Once there, we rode the hop on-hop off tour bus across the GGB, and cable cars up and down Telegraph Hill and walked Fisherman's Wharf, all of which were part of the story. It gave me a small edge on the sense of the place, but there was little that made it personal.
After coming home, I began the second book and found it chock full of references to places I had seen--Haight-Ashbury, Fisherman's Wharf, the Sausalito Ferry, Nob Hill, CIty Hall, the federal court house and more. Now, I have a story or a scene associated with many of these places in my head. Once again, the trip is enriched by sandwiching it between the two books I read. I have a story associated with many of the places I saw. I guess some day in my old age, I may even confuse the two and "recollect" a much more exciting story of my visit--not that the place needs to be enhanced--it was a great visit.
We have only one trip planned for certain the rest of this year--to St. Louis. Now the challenge here will be to really find a story that enhances that trip, since I know that city very well already. I am thinking something historical may work, but I am starting the search with an open mind.
Picking a book or two of fiction set in the location you will visit turns out to add layers to he experience. This time, it was San Francisco and two mysteries. One related the tale of the murder of a man so obsessed with Sherlock Holmes that he renovated two stories of his townhouse as if they were in 19th century London. Even more interesting, homicide detectives discover that he had found a story for his collection purportedly written by A. Conan Doyle during an actual visit to SF in 1924. His body was found in the Marin Headlands in the exact location in which the fictional victim in his story was found. The other novel is a story of blackmail, politics and murders among people at the top of the political machine in San Francisco.
I read the story about the Sherlock Holmes collector before I visited SF, and learned the history of the Marin Headlands, where the Golden Gate Bridge lands after crossing the Golden Strait. I also learned about Russian Hill, and other neighborhoods in the city. Once there, we rode the hop on-hop off tour bus across the GGB, and cable cars up and down Telegraph Hill and walked Fisherman's Wharf, all of which were part of the story. It gave me a small edge on the sense of the place, but there was little that made it personal.
After coming home, I began the second book and found it chock full of references to places I had seen--Haight-Ashbury, Fisherman's Wharf, the Sausalito Ferry, Nob Hill, CIty Hall, the federal court house and more. Now, I have a story or a scene associated with many of these places in my head. Once again, the trip is enriched by sandwiching it between the two books I read. I have a story associated with many of the places I saw. I guess some day in my old age, I may even confuse the two and "recollect" a much more exciting story of my visit--not that the place needs to be enhanced--it was a great visit.
We have only one trip planned for certain the rest of this year--to St. Louis. Now the challenge here will be to really find a story that enhances that trip, since I know that city very well already. I am thinking something historical may work, but I am starting the search with an open mind.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
How Do You Do "Being?"
A friend of mine recently lamented she had been a "do-er" all her life, but she was being advised that she should shift from doing to being. She just isn't sure how to go about it. Lots of people feel her pain, it seems. I googled "being vs. doing" and, I am not making this up, it yielded 930 million entries. I spent an evening dabbling in the entries and it was an experience I won't soon forget (I hope). It helps to clarify a few things for me and offers a glimpse ahead I think i will like. Just for a moment, look at defining your life not by what you do for a living, but by who you are. When you strip away all the doing, there is an inner power of some sort that makes you keep ticking. Who is that? I know it is there, and that I don't let it out nearly enough, but I think it says more accurately who I am than what I do does.
But back to the problem, how do you get in touch with that which remains when the doing is stripped away? It's been said we cannot "be," to the exclusion of "doing" in its entirety. It's a contradiction in terms. if we cease to do EVERYTHING, we cease to be. Therefore, this being has to be a way of doing, doesn't it? If I cease to do breathing, I will cease to be. Another obvious point is that you cannot "do" if you don't continue to "be." Therefore, doing remains a way of being. The "being" I am talking about seems (to me at least) to arise from awareness. If you are so caught up in the doing that you are unaware, you have lost the being side of it.
It's been said that being means to take life as it comes, and that doing is making things happen. Sometimes life seems to be a tug of war between making it happen all the time and taking it as it comes. You simply cannot control everything, so some part of life has to be taken as it comes. On the other hand, is it possible to take everything just as it comes? I suppose it might be, but the quality of a life where, for example, one never steps up and lets his actions tell his/her loved ones how he feels doesn't sound like one to which we should aspire. In his goodbye letter written near the end of his life, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the famous Latin American author found a profound way to say "do it today" when he said:
(Let me stop for a brief commercial. If you haven't already, google "A Genius Says Goodbye" and read/watch a slide presentation of Marquez' message, you won't regret it.)
That is just one example of how we must "do" some things. Taking things in an entirely passive way is unsatisfactory, it is not a life. It's been said that "life takes place in the balance between making it happen and taking it as it comes."
So what is it that is calling out to my friend? She has concluded that the balance in her life needs to be tilted away from doing and toward being. This is hard to get a grip on, of course, but we see an occasional example. We sometimes see people in their best moments, when they are genuinely calm, peaceful, loving and caring. They seem to have gotten in touch with who they are, not simply what they do. They have ceased to work on filling their time with things to do, and are more focused on becoming more caring, compassionate, generous, etc.
No, they are not perfect, this is a moment, after all. But more of that awareness of how they are going about their lives seems to show through in those moments, and they are not in a hurry. It brings to mind another quote I ran across. "Standing still, you overtake those who run"--the Upanishads (Ancient Indian philosophical discourses). My sense is you need more standing still to get there, but in this hectic world, we have all learned that we rarely have time to stand still. If you want to do this standing still, you have to put it on your schedule. Oops, there I go again, "doing."
So, the question remains--how in the world do you do "Being?"
But back to the problem, how do you get in touch with that which remains when the doing is stripped away? It's been said we cannot "be," to the exclusion of "doing" in its entirety. It's a contradiction in terms. if we cease to do EVERYTHING, we cease to be. Therefore, this being has to be a way of doing, doesn't it? If I cease to do breathing, I will cease to be. Another obvious point is that you cannot "do" if you don't continue to "be." Therefore, doing remains a way of being. The "being" I am talking about seems (to me at least) to arise from awareness. If you are so caught up in the doing that you are unaware, you have lost the being side of it.
It's been said that being means to take life as it comes, and that doing is making things happen. Sometimes life seems to be a tug of war between making it happen all the time and taking it as it comes. You simply cannot control everything, so some part of life has to be taken as it comes. On the other hand, is it possible to take everything just as it comes? I suppose it might be, but the quality of a life where, for example, one never steps up and lets his actions tell his/her loved ones how he feels doesn't sound like one to which we should aspire. In his goodbye letter written near the end of his life, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the famous Latin American author found a profound way to say "do it today" when he said:
Tomorrow is never guaranteed to anyone, young or old. Today could be
the last time to see your loved ones, which is why you mustn't wait;
do it today, in case tomorrow never arrives. I am sure you will be
sorry you wasted the opportunity today to give a smile, a hug, a kiss,
and that you were too busy to grant them their last wish.
That is just one example of how we must "do" some things. Taking things in an entirely passive way is unsatisfactory, it is not a life. It's been said that "life takes place in the balance between making it happen and taking it as it comes."
So what is it that is calling out to my friend? She has concluded that the balance in her life needs to be tilted away from doing and toward being. This is hard to get a grip on, of course, but we see an occasional example. We sometimes see people in their best moments, when they are genuinely calm, peaceful, loving and caring. They seem to have gotten in touch with who they are, not simply what they do. They have ceased to work on filling their time with things to do, and are more focused on becoming more caring, compassionate, generous, etc.
No, they are not perfect, this is a moment, after all. But more of that awareness of how they are going about their lives seems to show through in those moments, and they are not in a hurry. It brings to mind another quote I ran across. "Standing still, you overtake those who run"--the Upanishads (Ancient Indian philosophical discourses). My sense is you need more standing still to get there, but in this hectic world, we have all learned that we rarely have time to stand still. If you want to do this standing still, you have to put it on your schedule. Oops, there I go again, "doing."
So, the question remains--how in the world do you do "Being?"
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Light and Water
There is a lagoon behind my house. It's home to several alligators, but this year they have made themselves scarce. I went looking for them this morning, and it was like one of those painted landscapes with a reflecting pool. The water was perfectly still, and everything across the water was reflected in the water between. Nothing moved in the water, and the water itself, a kind of dull brown, showed the trees, the grass and the sky without distorting the colors. The mirror image was just that.
It was the second unusual water scene in two days. Last night we walked the beach around sunset. The sun had set away from the ocean, leaving shadows and dark sand. The water, in contrast, stayed light, holding the reflected light even with the sun away behind the trees. In this case, the water was not reflecting an image. Instead it clung to the light, or the light clung to it. So the darkening sand sat alongside the bright water, a reversal after a long day of the sand showing bright in the sun while the deep green and blue of the ocean absorbed it.
Something similar happens in the morning. The water notices the light first and glows with a light that seems to come from within it. As the sun makes its appearance, the water darkens to its deep blue green for another day.
How does the water change itself? It uses the light, the same light that surrounds us all day, making it possible for us to see what is around us. The light leaves us at night, and, as it comes and goes, the water is the first to receive it and the last to let it go.
Between the time the light arrives and departs, the water offers us a true reflection.
It was the second unusual water scene in two days. Last night we walked the beach around sunset. The sun had set away from the ocean, leaving shadows and dark sand. The water, in contrast, stayed light, holding the reflected light even with the sun away behind the trees. In this case, the water was not reflecting an image. Instead it clung to the light, or the light clung to it. So the darkening sand sat alongside the bright water, a reversal after a long day of the sand showing bright in the sun while the deep green and blue of the ocean absorbed it.
Something similar happens in the morning. The water notices the light first and glows with a light that seems to come from within it. As the sun makes its appearance, the water darkens to its deep blue green for another day.
How does the water change itself? It uses the light, the same light that surrounds us all day, making it possible for us to see what is around us. The light leaves us at night, and, as it comes and goes, the water is the first to receive it and the last to let it go.
Between the time the light arrives and departs, the water offers us a true reflection.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
The Suffering of Tides
Living near the Atlantic Ocean, I am aware of the tides, if for no other reason than deciding when we can best take a walk. I have heard that the tides are influenced by the gravitational pull of the moon. I have also heard it said that the phases of the moon influence emotions. But I have never connected the two, until today. I can feel the tide draw us in, crowd us out, and believe we all face the same rotation. As I walk along I see the water wash away sand castles, names and messages inscribed there. It pushes us away and obliterates whatever it wants in its path. It even claims huge chunks of the land at its peak. As the tides recede, walls of sand remain, offering the illusion of strength in the absence of the water. If you were there at the height of the tide, you know the tide seized sand at will, and the walls are really jagged remnants. The high tide of human emotions can seize territory as well, and be just as destructive.
At low tide, the water has receded and calmed. It is quite rare to see large wave when the tide is out. Even a windy day will not produce more than a two foot wave at low tide. We stroll out and enjoy the illusion that the tide has been tamed. Things seem calm and easy for an hour or two. You even watch the sand suck in water as it tries to escape by rolling back as the wave recedes. The high tides overwhelm us some times, but the low tides let us rest. We spread out across the open space, and build our castles, park our shelters and chairs. We buy the illusion again, twice a day--the water is gone.
This lull allows us calm and rest, with nothing ominous until the tide begins to run at us again. It's not the wave motion that shows the teeth of the sea. Each wave has its moment, but it eventually outruns its water supply, collapses and recedes. It's the inexorable tide that makes us wary and ready to move. Each time we are sucked in and then chased away. We know it will happen twice a day, and we run back and forth. It is a model for suffering in the sense of the human condition. A few natives develop the clarity of mind to choose their times and places. They see the source of suffering, the breathing of the mighty ocean, but the mass of people are infrequent visitors and are driven. It is said that once you see the source of suffering, you have the key to its end. But few who see the tides and the tide charts that predict them act on the knowledge and develop clarity to end the to and fro.
But this is only the shore view. From the safety of the shore, we watch the beast and feel safe, once we see the limits of the tides and waves. But what of those who ride those seas?
At low tide, the water has receded and calmed. It is quite rare to see large wave when the tide is out. Even a windy day will not produce more than a two foot wave at low tide. We stroll out and enjoy the illusion that the tide has been tamed. Things seem calm and easy for an hour or two. You even watch the sand suck in water as it tries to escape by rolling back as the wave recedes. The high tides overwhelm us some times, but the low tides let us rest. We spread out across the open space, and build our castles, park our shelters and chairs. We buy the illusion again, twice a day--the water is gone.
This lull allows us calm and rest, with nothing ominous until the tide begins to run at us again. It's not the wave motion that shows the teeth of the sea. Each wave has its moment, but it eventually outruns its water supply, collapses and recedes. It's the inexorable tide that makes us wary and ready to move. Each time we are sucked in and then chased away. We know it will happen twice a day, and we run back and forth. It is a model for suffering in the sense of the human condition. A few natives develop the clarity of mind to choose their times and places. They see the source of suffering, the breathing of the mighty ocean, but the mass of people are infrequent visitors and are driven. It is said that once you see the source of suffering, you have the key to its end. But few who see the tides and the tide charts that predict them act on the knowledge and develop clarity to end the to and fro.
But this is only the shore view. From the safety of the shore, we watch the beast and feel safe, once we see the limits of the tides and waves. But what of those who ride those seas?
Horseshoe Crabs
We walked the beach today, and it's the season for horseshoe crabs to molt. changing their shells for the year (with that said, horseshoe crabs do not observe the Julian calendar, in part since they have been around long than we have--approximately 300 million years. Horseshoe crab Mom to child: "In another few million years, humans will show up and try to impose a calendar. Do not worry, this too will pass.")
Anyway, we saw dozens of their shells, discarded along the beach. We have seen shells as big as 15" in diameter. Today we saw the smallest shell we have ever seen, it was no more than 3" wide. Knowing these are long-lived animals, we wondered about how the progression took place. It is said that horseshoe crabs grow 25% each year. So, after they shed that snug-fitting old shell, they are fitted for a new one 25% bigger. I had a mental picture of my mother's twice a year trip to a discount shoe place on Taylor Street in Chicago. She would have been pleased to make this trip just once a year, but with three growing boys, we had to be fitted with new "shoes" twice a year. I know we drove her crazy in those years, growing our feet as we did. She was glad to be getting those shoes at discount, but she would have been happier if we weren't growing as quickly as we did.
Back to the crabs, they molt 12 to 16 times before reaching adulthood. If the math is right, they grow up to at least 15 times their size. I don't think human shoe sizes are proportional. but growing 2 sizes in a year was not unusual for us. I think we wound up 11, 12 and 13 in shoe sizes. Ultimately, I don't think mama horseshoe crabs have to pay for the kids new shells.
I don't know if horses have to be fitted for larger shoes as they age, maybe they do. But, I know they don't get to swim out into the ocean to change their shoes, and neither do us humans. Remembering those trips to Taylor Street, I think we would have rather gone to the beach for our shoes, but my Mom would still have been crabby about the cost. Love you, Mom.
Anyway, we saw dozens of their shells, discarded along the beach. We have seen shells as big as 15" in diameter. Today we saw the smallest shell we have ever seen, it was no more than 3" wide. Knowing these are long-lived animals, we wondered about how the progression took place. It is said that horseshoe crabs grow 25% each year. So, after they shed that snug-fitting old shell, they are fitted for a new one 25% bigger. I had a mental picture of my mother's twice a year trip to a discount shoe place on Taylor Street in Chicago. She would have been pleased to make this trip just once a year, but with three growing boys, we had to be fitted with new "shoes" twice a year. I know we drove her crazy in those years, growing our feet as we did. She was glad to be getting those shoes at discount, but she would have been happier if we weren't growing as quickly as we did.
Back to the crabs, they molt 12 to 16 times before reaching adulthood. If the math is right, they grow up to at least 15 times their size. I don't think human shoe sizes are proportional. but growing 2 sizes in a year was not unusual for us. I think we wound up 11, 12 and 13 in shoe sizes. Ultimately, I don't think mama horseshoe crabs have to pay for the kids new shells.
I don't know if horses have to be fitted for larger shoes as they age, maybe they do. But, I know they don't get to swim out into the ocean to change their shoes, and neither do us humans. Remembering those trips to Taylor Street, I think we would have rather gone to the beach for our shoes, but my Mom would still have been crabby about the cost. Love you, Mom.
Saturday, October 20, 2012
No More News (week)
If there were a time when one might expect the news media would be performing an essential service, it should be during America's presidential election years. They should be covering the candidates like a swarm, holding them accountable, asking the tough questions, investigating background and history of the candidates and their organizations. Following the money, for heaven's sake. 2012 is historic--it will be the most money ever raised or spent in a campaign season. As an observer, I have largely withdrawn my attention from what the media has offered--for two reasons.
One reason is I simply cannot shake the perception I have that most of what passes for news is opinion. The facts are not allowed to speak for themselves, they are spun. The spinning takes place at the point the newsmakers choose, for the most part. It appears there is always some schlub ready and willing to report what the people they are reporting on are saying about themselves (yes, schlub is a word--see your Merriam-Webster). Worse yet, I sometimes get the feeling that occasionally some of those doing the reporting are spinning what they see and hear to serve their own opinions. I just don't have confidence in any of them any more.
The other reason is the very media that are supposed to be the watchdogs are the recipients of all that campaign money in the form of advertising. There is almost a conflict of interest built into this dynamic--report misrepresentations, accept advertising money to air commercials aimed at correcting the matter. Or, make it more innocent. Just keep accepting money for airing some of this tripe that passes for campaign ads until the public's appetite for any political discourse is exhausted. I know mine has been overwhelmed. I can barely stand to turn on the TV or radio for fear that I will hear another commercial depicting a candidate as a liar (it's a congressional election in this case). So now, I find myself driven away from the one estate that is supposed to be keeping the process honest.
Which brings me to what prompted this little piece--the death of the paper version of Newsweek, the premier news magazine of the last century (sorry, Time, I haven't really checked the peak circulation numbers historically, if you were number one, I apologize). Newsweek has disappeared in a presidential election year, announcing they will become a digital-only magazine. I don't know of a successful digital news magazine, so I am guessing this may mark the end of Newsweek altogether. I guess I should be sounding the alarm about who will keep the politicians honest, but.... Who cares?
One reason is I simply cannot shake the perception I have that most of what passes for news is opinion. The facts are not allowed to speak for themselves, they are spun. The spinning takes place at the point the newsmakers choose, for the most part. It appears there is always some schlub ready and willing to report what the people they are reporting on are saying about themselves (yes, schlub is a word--see your Merriam-Webster). Worse yet, I sometimes get the feeling that occasionally some of those doing the reporting are spinning what they see and hear to serve their own opinions. I just don't have confidence in any of them any more.
The other reason is the very media that are supposed to be the watchdogs are the recipients of all that campaign money in the form of advertising. There is almost a conflict of interest built into this dynamic--report misrepresentations, accept advertising money to air commercials aimed at correcting the matter. Or, make it more innocent. Just keep accepting money for airing some of this tripe that passes for campaign ads until the public's appetite for any political discourse is exhausted. I know mine has been overwhelmed. I can barely stand to turn on the TV or radio for fear that I will hear another commercial depicting a candidate as a liar (it's a congressional election in this case). So now, I find myself driven away from the one estate that is supposed to be keeping the process honest.
Which brings me to what prompted this little piece--the death of the paper version of Newsweek, the premier news magazine of the last century (sorry, Time, I haven't really checked the peak circulation numbers historically, if you were number one, I apologize). Newsweek has disappeared in a presidential election year, announcing they will become a digital-only magazine. I don't know of a successful digital news magazine, so I am guessing this may mark the end of Newsweek altogether. I guess I should be sounding the alarm about who will keep the politicians honest, but.... Who cares?
Friday, October 19, 2012
Go Long
I have a
favorite shirt store. Yes, and, knowing I’m no clothes horse, you probably know
it's nothing fancy. I have just grown to like the way the shirts fit me—I
like the fabric, the colors and I even like their label. There’s a
message on it, usually accompanied by a stick figure depicted engaged in one
form of recreation or another. It's "Life is good." I
know, I know, it sounds trite. But just
reflect on it with me for a bit.
I don't
need the shirts to tell me—life is good and especially for me. I live in
a beautiful place, a place I hope never to leave. How did that happen?
I have no clue. I certainly didn’t
set out to land here. It was just
serendipity, I guess. I have managed to land in the right place.
But that's peripheral, really. I have been given two precious
grandchildren, and I don't know what I did to deserve them. They are a
delight. In recent years other family members have begun migrating here
to join us, either part time or permanently. Not because we are so
wonderful, it’s just that we have found a place where life is indeed good, and
they know it when they see it.
I have
found dear friends here whom I will always treasure, wherever they roam.
Some are like me and will not willingly move away, others have dreams to
pursue. In today's small world, thanks to blogs, email. I can probably stay connected to those who
wander. Maybe some day we’ll even resort
to social networking if I ever find a way to get comfortable with Twitter or Facebook.
Other
friends have begun to gather here, college friends who can't explain exactly
how they wound up here either. So, I don't need my shirts to tell
me--Life is good.
But
recently, the message on one of those shirts hit me right between the eyes.
Do you remember playing touch football in your younger days? I do,
and don't pretend you never heard about the younger members of the famous
Kennedy clan when they played. Anyway, I grew up in a neighborhood where this
was the premier Fall pastime (in those days, major league baseball didn’t run
on into November). Touch football games didn't require as many players
as tackle, since blocking was not really required. Defensive rushers were just required
to count three seconds (one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand,
three-one-thousand). So touch football is usually played with three or
four on a side. All that was necessary
to stop the player with the ball was to touch him, pretty much anywhere.
Huddles consisted of the quarterback telling his top two choices what to
do--e.g., “Rich, you take 5 steps out, then buttonhole toward the center,” and
“Eddie, take 3 steps then slant toward the end zone,” and so forth. By
the time the quarterback got to me (the youngest and slowest), he'd say,
"Jimmy, you go long." I would dutifully run out there and “go
long." Most plays the QB never threw it to me, or even looked.
But I, along with my counterpart on the opposing team would run around
out there and wave our arms, enjoying the state of "going long."
Once in a great while, a ball would float out in our direction, and one
of us would catch it or bat it down--we were suddenly game
changers,
and, guess what? Life was good!
You see, “going
long,” if you have the patience, can be rewarding, and if life is good, you
just might want to “go long” in more ways than one.
Back to
that shirt that hit me right between the eyes. It said, "Life is
good." Below that was a simple drawing of a football, followed by
the words: "Go Long." Sounds good to me, I bought the
shirt.
Friday, October 12, 2012
Trips and Tripping
Are those two words in the title related, I wonder--tripping is a miscue, and a trip is a planned venture, right? Well, I hope you can trip over things while on a trip. That's part of the joy of travel, I think. With the right approach (which I would define as not much of a rigid structure or schedule), you can stumble across people and things you didn't plan on. It is usually the unplanned sights, sounds and situations that delight me. I was at the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland on a rainy day and it was a marvel, even the rain. Until I stepped out of the van there and looked about, breathed and felt the rain on my face, I would never have agreed if you had told me visiting such a place in the rain would be such a delight. I was not alone in that point of view. While half the people there scurried around with their heads down, a portion of the crowd was like me, "soaking" it all in. Having it rain was not in the plan, but somehow it made the moment.
On another trip, I agreed to a tour of a dunes preserve--totally unplanned. My sister, my wife and I just showed up at the far end of the parking lot at the appointed time and met a strange old woman who professed to be a mover and a shaker in her little town. To hear her tell it, she was the person who started the ball rolling in this multi-million dollar project of creating a nature preserve along the shores of Lake Michigan and the Kalamazoo River. I will remember the walking tour she gave us for a long time, and I think it is because of what a strange character she was. I just stumbled over her and it made that little walking tour memorable.
Similarly, looking for a book of poetry written by a local person and published by the University of Michigan Press took me into a little place I would never have stumbled across there. What sticks in my mind was a remark made by the person manning the register in the little bookstore that day. I had run across the poet in an essay the poet had written about a local political storm centered around that nature preserve I mentioned above. Tracking her down, I found her little web site and she named that bookstore as one of the places selling her book of poetry. When I told the man tending the register in the bookstore, he said. "Our little 500 square foot bookstore on the Internet?" Stumbling into that man and circumstance made the visit to that bookstore stay with me. There were thousands of books, seemingly stacked randomly on desks and tables and bookcases jammed into that little room, yet he quickly told me. "if it's poetry it will be in that bookshelf atop the table on your left."
It's what and who you trip over that makes tripping worthwhile--or is it tripping over people and places that make trips worthwhile?
On another trip, I agreed to a tour of a dunes preserve--totally unplanned. My sister, my wife and I just showed up at the far end of the parking lot at the appointed time and met a strange old woman who professed to be a mover and a shaker in her little town. To hear her tell it, she was the person who started the ball rolling in this multi-million dollar project of creating a nature preserve along the shores of Lake Michigan and the Kalamazoo River. I will remember the walking tour she gave us for a long time, and I think it is because of what a strange character she was. I just stumbled over her and it made that little walking tour memorable.
Similarly, looking for a book of poetry written by a local person and published by the University of Michigan Press took me into a little place I would never have stumbled across there. What sticks in my mind was a remark made by the person manning the register in the little bookstore that day. I had run across the poet in an essay the poet had written about a local political storm centered around that nature preserve I mentioned above. Tracking her down, I found her little web site and she named that bookstore as one of the places selling her book of poetry. When I told the man tending the register in the bookstore, he said. "Our little 500 square foot bookstore on the Internet?" Stumbling into that man and circumstance made the visit to that bookstore stay with me. There were thousands of books, seemingly stacked randomly on desks and tables and bookcases jammed into that little room, yet he quickly told me. "if it's poetry it will be in that bookshelf atop the table on your left."
It's what and who you trip over that makes tripping worthwhile--or is it tripping over people and places that make trips worthwhile?
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Saved by the Book (the Notebook, that is)
I was struggling on Sunday, when all this came along to do in a short time. Frank set the wheels in motion with a phone call. After some back and forth, we had a deal, and a great deal to do. My struggle has been a sort of detachment, a feeling at a loss, like swimming in a tub of jello. I knew I had things to do, and I meandered through them, putting off what I didn't feel like doing and feeling as if I was letting myself put off living. Beyond that, I didn't feel productive. Things got done, or they didn't, without much consequence. There was always tomorrow, even if I wasn't sure what day today was. Yeeech! It all seemed so boring, and a lot like wallowing it it, so to speak. Is that what depression feels like?
So when Frank visited, and we started signing things, I went looking for something to write on. A sheet of copy paper would have done (remember when we called it typing paper?), but I grabbed a spiral-bound notebook, and that seemed to change everything. I started jotting things down, and I knew where I'd find them if I couldn't bring them to mind at once later. I started noting things I had to do, and I knew where to find them later when I started to feel like tackling them. I started doing what I needed to do, and, even as I was stymied at one step or another, I just noted what I had done, and what I was waiting for next. I knew where I'd find what I needed to get caught up and to start again.
By Tuesday night, I had filled four pages, and I knew what I had done and what I had thought of and not yet tackled. So far, I had left nothing out, had put off nothing, and ducked none of it. It expanded to cover more than what Frank had handed us, and I did some planning on other things. They will all fit there, and will be there when I get up. I don't need a calendar to make appointments in, and I have a low-tech place to store my to do list. Not that I object to technology, but it wasn't helping me. I was letting it pile up, and not feeling that subtle little sense of satisfaction--crossing one off the list, making a little progress, taking the next step.
My guess is I would have found it again anyway, but I give credit to this notebook. I was lost without it, and, coincidence or not, I feel like I am alive again. In terms of life's geometry, the spiral notebook has me spiraling upward again. Simple, aren't I? Thanks.
So when Frank visited, and we started signing things, I went looking for something to write on. A sheet of copy paper would have done (remember when we called it typing paper?), but I grabbed a spiral-bound notebook, and that seemed to change everything. I started jotting things down, and I knew where I'd find them if I couldn't bring them to mind at once later. I started noting things I had to do, and I knew where to find them later when I started to feel like tackling them. I started doing what I needed to do, and, even as I was stymied at one step or another, I just noted what I had done, and what I was waiting for next. I knew where I'd find what I needed to get caught up and to start again.
By Tuesday night, I had filled four pages, and I knew what I had done and what I had thought of and not yet tackled. So far, I had left nothing out, had put off nothing, and ducked none of it. It expanded to cover more than what Frank had handed us, and I did some planning on other things. They will all fit there, and will be there when I get up. I don't need a calendar to make appointments in, and I have a low-tech place to store my to do list. Not that I object to technology, but it wasn't helping me. I was letting it pile up, and not feeling that subtle little sense of satisfaction--crossing one off the list, making a little progress, taking the next step.
My guess is I would have found it again anyway, but I give credit to this notebook. I was lost without it, and, coincidence or not, I feel like I am alive again. In terms of life's geometry, the spiral notebook has me spiraling upward again. Simple, aren't I? Thanks.
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