I am not known for being a particularly passionate guy. Emotions exist, of course, but they’re typically kept well inside.
Imagine my surprise when, in the days after my fall and surgery, I was frequently, unexpectedly, weeping. My mind would touch on a topic and all of a sudden … tears.
I have two theories: reality and “the excuse”.
The same day I was released from the hospital, Joan Westenberg posted an interesting essay, “The Harvest Will Come,” on downtime and the cyclical nature of creativity.
We accept that the world needs rest periods built into its operating system.
But when it comes to our own sense of meaning and purpose, our work, our lives, we expect constant summer.
The catch, particularly for our own sense of purpose, is that “downtime” is often frowned upon and even considered a form of failure, if not by others, then by ourselves.
Westenberg’s perspective is that of choice and/or the inevitability of going through less-than-creative periods, and of learning to accept them as not only inevitable but also healthy and restorative.
We’ve been in our home for almost 29 years as I write this, and we’ve long known we want to stay here as long as possible. Of course, it’s a two-story home, which our knees and hips have often reminded us of.
A couple of years ago, we had the chair lift pictured above installed. It’s for the dogs, honest. Well, at least initially.
To be clear, I’m writing this for myself, first and foremost. It’s how I process things, and I have a lot to process.
I’ve been overwhelmed at the number of people who’ve reached out with support (truly … more on that later). I know there are questions, and rather than repeat myself ad nauseam, I figured I’d make this little writing exercise/record public. Ignore it, or read it, or something in between. That you’ve cared enough to read even this far has already made my day. I’ll update it from time to time.
Two versions: TL;DR: WTAF! summary of the events of the last week, followed by OMG! TMI! gory details/trigger warning, etc. No blood, but there is poop.
The word “ritual” has interesting overtones.
I know for many it has very specific religious meanings. For example, having grown up Catholic, I get that. I’ve lived it. Catholicism is full of rituals.
But I love when people expand their view on what it means, particularly in a more secular direction.
I was recently chatting with someone, and the topic turned to a business trip to Munich I’d taken many years ago.
One evening, I encountered a street performer playing an accordion in an archway near one of the city plazas. The acoustics were amazing. He had chosen his location well. He was selling cassette tapes, so I bought one. I thought I’d digitized it, but for the life of me I’ve been unable to find the result.
SO. Internet to the rescue, I hoped.
The Breukelen cemetery is one of the few locations on the planet that has lasting meaning for me. It’s a place to which I make a pilgrimage each time I’m in The Netherlands.
This year’s pilgrimage had an additional agenda.
It was 35 miles round trip by bike.
This was never the goal, but when it became clear that it was within reach, it became a “stretch goal”. I wanted to be able to say I’d lost 70lbs. 256 to 186. Over a quarter of my max body weight. It’s interesting – there have been several stops along the way on this journey. … Read more
One year ago I made a decision.
A decision to do something that, in the past, I truly believed was impossible for me to do.
And yet here I am.
Earlier this year I stumbled into a very serendipitous series of news reports. And I spent a few minutes visiting a new web site. And I made a new friend.
More importantly I made a decision.
As a result, I have become my own 80/20 rule.
Vague enough? OK, here’s what happened.
The address on the driver’s license made it pretty clear: the home of the woman pictured no longer existed.
I’d volunteered to spend a day at the Oso slide area working on what was called “property reunification” – essentially bagging and tagging items that the search and rescue crews had recovered and identified as potentially valuable in the hopes their owners – or surviving family members – would be able to identify and claim their belongings. Even though no radio work was involved, having been previously vetted when I joined my emergency communications group allowed me to volunteer to work at the site.