It was a beautiful day in Jefferson, Colorado today. We arrived down in the valley to continue working on the strawbale house at about 7:15 am, about our usual time. The sun was up and warming the cold night air, and eventually it was warm enough to take off my outer-layer sweatshirt and just work away in my brown, familiar wool sweater. By noon some clouds had filled the sky, and a large black one eventually came to hang over our worksite. The wind picked up, but it never rained fully on us. Beautiful layers of storm clouds passed just south, and we could see them blow across the open plains and over the Continental Divide, dumping rain and obscuring the snow-topped peaks in a steely mist. Lightning bolts sporadically came down on the horizon, cutting cool white lines against the gray and leaving no audible thunder behind. It was a great day to stand on the edge of the roof and look out at intense, dynamic nature and wonder what my place is in the world. It got cold again, so I wrapped up in my sweatshirt and kept on swinging my hammer.
These past few weeks I've really felt like I'm beginning to let layers of my "self" or identity fall away slowly. It's fun to let go of aspects of ourselves that we so strongly identify with - a career, a routine, a habit, an addiction, a worldview, whatever. In doing so, we can listen to ourselves better and hear more in the world around us. We can move beyond thinking that we know, or that we have it all figured out, and approach life with more questions and an open mind.
I think of my stepmother who left a long and developed career as a surgeon to develop a new life performing music, first just on flute and now on a variety of instruments. How scary it must have been to leave an established path (even ones which we don't like) and strike out in a new direction! It is tough to give up a feeling of security that comes with routine, and try brave new things.
This is the same as when we let go of old ideas about who we are. What if we are not an athlete, funny, pleasing, easy-going, or a know-it-all? It's scary to think that we might be ignorant about much of the world around us, or that we really do care about our ecosystem enough to make our footprint on the world lighter. What if we're musically talented and like performing? What if we don't like our job but love teaching? What if our passion is to open an alpaca ranch and apiary in rural Montana? That's some scary stuff :-)
It's fun and terrifying to roll with what emerges in ourselves. I'm trying to roll with not knowing about the future, with not knowing what continues to cause pain in my knee, with really wanting to learn to play guitar, with seriously considering becoming a tai chi teacher, with wondering if I want to live in Palo Alto, or anywhere in the Bay Area, or in California at all. I'm trying to smile as often as I can, and let go of taking myself and my life so seriously.
What are you going to explore today? What do you really want to do before you die, or before you go to bed? Sign up for the pottery class, dig out the sketchbook, dust off the chess set, stay home on a Friday night to read, tell the barrista at your local independent coffee shop that she's cute, cook something you've never tried, give up refined sugar for a week, buy a bike. Tell that person you love them, go ahead... now that's scary, but so good.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Futures in big meadows
Walked the Continental Divide this morning, wrapped in the cold flowing clouds that blew in from the eastern side. Damp, white, and swirling, they obscured the peak we were aspiring to climb, so we rambled up and down the trail at 11,500 feet instead, crossing rocky meadows and playing in the snow. Small flowers like forget-me-nots, Indian paintbrush, and miniature daisies are sprinkled among the scruffy pines. We had our Labrador retriever with us for companionship, and breathed the thin air with delight at being alive.
These days I'm hearing the laughter of children - specifically the sounds of Tan, the son of my friend Peggy, and Kai, Peggy's nephew. Full of robust, knockabout energy, they tumble through life bouncing off things and living large, laughing and crying easily. It's nice to be around them, thinking about where they are and where they're headed. What can we do to make the world a better place for them when they are our age? How can we take care of ourselves and our world so that it is a cleaner, safer, more accessible, more reliable, and more sound place than it is now? How can we take more positive action in our lives and rely less on our own rationalizations for why we do the things we do now?
Right now I'm enjoying the clean air and sunshine, honest work and honest play. Looking forward to more living and learning with friends as my journey continues eastward. Thinking about how to settle down, how to be more patient with myself, what to focus on, what to let go of... Looking forward to seeing you soon.
"I won't be asked to do my share when I'm gone, so I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here..." Ani DiFranco
These days I'm hearing the laughter of children - specifically the sounds of Tan, the son of my friend Peggy, and Kai, Peggy's nephew. Full of robust, knockabout energy, they tumble through life bouncing off things and living large, laughing and crying easily. It's nice to be around them, thinking about where they are and where they're headed. What can we do to make the world a better place for them when they are our age? How can we take care of ourselves and our world so that it is a cleaner, safer, more accessible, more reliable, and more sound place than it is now? How can we take more positive action in our lives and rely less on our own rationalizations for why we do the things we do now?
Right now I'm enjoying the clean air and sunshine, honest work and honest play. Looking forward to more living and learning with friends as my journey continues eastward. Thinking about how to settle down, how to be more patient with myself, what to focus on, what to let go of... Looking forward to seeing you soon.
"I won't be asked to do my share when I'm gone, so I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here..." Ani DiFranco
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
hearing the wheels
Sat under a large umbrella along an outdoor pedestrian mall in Boulder today, sipping a smoothie and watching life go by. It was relaxing and sweet to see the dark clouds slowly come over the Front Range of the Rockies, rain for perhaps twenty minutes, and then yield to the sun and leave the fresh rain scent behind. Heard the raindrops, the playful chatter of idle teenagers on summer vacation, the sound of cars nearby, bits of conversations, soft thunder, and running water smoothing over the brick. Humid and familiar...
Had a thought last night that perhaps there is no best purpose or use of my life. Perhaps I can just follow what feels good, keep good intentions at heart, and let go of some of my arbitrary standards that I use to judge my life and the lives of others. Judgement is a tough thing to work on for me. We make small judgements and discriminations all the time in our basic preferences of existence, but then we don't want to be judgemental with other people. It's a fun, long learning process of letting go for me. I once dated a girl, who informed me months after we were no longer dating that I was a much better fit for her than past boyfriends except that I was much more judgemental. Whoa! I've been chewing on that one ever since...
I'm off to hear what is offered to me by the world, as suggested by a few friends. May you be having a good day, and doing a thing or two that challenges your usual routines and comfort zones.
Had a thought last night that perhaps there is no best purpose or use of my life. Perhaps I can just follow what feels good, keep good intentions at heart, and let go of some of my arbitrary standards that I use to judge my life and the lives of others. Judgement is a tough thing to work on for me. We make small judgements and discriminations all the time in our basic preferences of existence, but then we don't want to be judgemental with other people. It's a fun, long learning process of letting go for me. I once dated a girl, who informed me months after we were no longer dating that I was a much better fit for her than past boyfriends except that I was much more judgemental. Whoa! I've been chewing on that one ever since...
I'm off to hear what is offered to me by the world, as suggested by a few friends. May you be having a good day, and doing a thing or two that challenges your usual routines and comfort zones.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
swiftly flowing dream of water
Sometimes it's hard to be patient. I'm waiting and listening, listening as hard as I know how to the world around me. I'm listening for answers to all my questions, but mostly what I hear is the wind in the aspen trees whispering in a language I can't understand in words. I want to know so many things - how much is enough, where to take a stand in my life, what work is worth doing. I like the idea of doing what I love, but I love so many simple things that I can rarely piece it together into a complete life in my mind.
I listen to the crunch of packed gravel trails under my feet - I ruminate as I walk the uneven brick sidewalks in Philadelphia - I try to clear my mind as I hit the hot pavement in New York Augusts - I try to open my mind biking through the old, tired black neighborhoods of north Oakland. Can you strain the muscles in your ears? It's hard when you don't know what you are listening for. I keep telling myself I'll know it when I hear it. Is it the laughter of the children I miss in Palo Alto? Is it the touch of a lover's hand on my face? Is the scent of trees as I ride through early morning cool air? The patterns are there, repeated in endless ways and in countless themes. I know some things that feel good. Where is my internal compass so that I can navigate all these wonderful things in life and arrive somewhere?
I'm trying to be patient. I feel the rush of the currents around me, swirling over rocks and splashing over weirs and full of salmon hurrying the other way. I feel it when my friends get married, go to grad school, buy houses, and many other things. I love them all dearly - it's just hard when I have yet to feel sure enough about one path to take these steps.
tiny blue flowers
fill alpine meadows, bright clouds
roll over my thoughts.
silver dollar leaves
flutter dark before midnight,
blue sky sinking slow.
I listen to the crunch of packed gravel trails under my feet - I ruminate as I walk the uneven brick sidewalks in Philadelphia - I try to clear my mind as I hit the hot pavement in New York Augusts - I try to open my mind biking through the old, tired black neighborhoods of north Oakland. Can you strain the muscles in your ears? It's hard when you don't know what you are listening for. I keep telling myself I'll know it when I hear it. Is it the laughter of the children I miss in Palo Alto? Is it the touch of a lover's hand on my face? Is the scent of trees as I ride through early morning cool air? The patterns are there, repeated in endless ways and in countless themes. I know some things that feel good. Where is my internal compass so that I can navigate all these wonderful things in life and arrive somewhere?
I'm trying to be patient. I feel the rush of the currents around me, swirling over rocks and splashing over weirs and full of salmon hurrying the other way. I feel it when my friends get married, go to grad school, buy houses, and many other things. I love them all dearly - it's just hard when I have yet to feel sure enough about one path to take these steps.
tiny blue flowers
fill alpine meadows, bright clouds
roll over my thoughts.
silver dollar leaves
flutter dark before midnight,
blue sky sinking slow.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Dessicated but grateful
Our silver boxes slid across the landscape with little fanfare, chugging along through mountain passes and valleys from Oakland all the way to Denver. We followed the rivers inland from the sea, until we reached the mountains where the water switches sides and flows to the Atlantic Ocean instead. The train is very quiet inside, so the scenic views do resemble paintings on display in a museum with recycled air.
As we crossed Nevada, I enjoyed looking at the harsh landscape of high desert and mountains. The soil is often white with salt and cracked from the absence of moisture. The hills are covered with loose gravel, sand, and occasional boulders popping up out of the earth. There is almost no shade, as there are no trees either. Occasional remnants of towns lie close to the railroad, marked usually by abandoned piles of scrap metal, forgotten to everyone and viewed only by travelers who will never know their history.
I find Nevada beautiful because it resists us. With no water and no arable soil, we can take root there no better than the basin sage brush which barely holds to the sandy soil and eventually dries up and blows away. Perhaps every 50 miles or so there will be a creek or small river winding through the landscape, and along its banks there may stand a few alder or cottonwoods with pale green leaves looking tired in the sun. The greenery fades to some low grass as you move away from the banks, and within perhaps twenty yards there is only sand again. It gives a nice view to break the stark brown monotony, but there is no hope there under the Nevada sun.
During most of our time passing through Utah, I was pondering the inside of my eyelids. Not much to report there, for sure.
Now I’m in a high valley in Colorado, in a town called Jefferson. Jefferson is a small collection of buildings along a state highway, with thousands of acres of land spread around them. The land is divided into large parcels of 40 acres or more, divided by uninspiring barbed wire strung along small metal posts. Signs prohibit trespassing, but I’m surprised that anyone bothers to walk the fence to put them up. For those of you familiar with the high plains of the west, this is probably a sight you’ve seen before.
Jefferson is nestled right against the Continental Divide, so you can look up from the valley floor at 10,000 ft. and see the surrounding mountains with smears of remaining pure white snow at nearly 14,000 ft. The slopes are covered with aspen, various types of pine, or nothing at all. The sky is large and open (almost as big as Montana), and the clouds are in beautiful, intricate patterns as they blow over the Rockies from the west. The grass waves in the wind, and small creeks cut across the land with bright green reeds all around them. It seems to me a wild, hostile, and often beautiful place, high and dry and far away from the rest of the world.
I reflect on all this scenery as the wind makes another attempt to blow me off the wall I’m working on. I’m trying to attach big 10 inch rafters from the beam of the strawbale house I’m helping construct to the top of the outside wall. If you turn perpendicular to the wind holding one of these 14 foot boards, look out below ‘cause either you or the board is likely to go down. A small saving grace is that the wall is 18 inches wide, exactly the width of the strawbales which we will soon stuff into it. Walking along it is not so bad, and in fact when I’m not carrying something that functions as a sail to lift me off the house, I often pause and gaze out over the valley and mountains and smile out from under my hooded sweatshirt and sunglasses.
As I swing my hammer and help this house to materialize, I find some peace of mind and reflect on life. I’m really enjoying giving my life away in helping a friend to build a high-quality house. I’ve got a comfortable bed to sleep in at night, good food and conversation with some other friends who have come to build, and a dog named Gave that is the Platonic essence of warm canine companionship for all of us who are working. I’m glad that I am here, bundled up to fight the wind and the bright sun, chopping wood and occasionally carrying water. It’s honest work, and I feel honest at the end of the day.
How can we be more grateful more often? If you’re reading this, you’re probably a friend of mine or a friend of a friend (the same thing in my book). This probably means that you’ve gone to college, and perhaps are headed back for more. There’s a decent chance you eat organic food sometimes. You probably try with mixed success like me to get a good night’s sleep. You’ve probably got friends far and near who like to be with you. You live in places like Philadelphia, Berkeley, Austin, Portland, Washington DC, or other cities where the action is at. We all lead full lives, and certainly have plenty of opportunities to enrich them even more.
So what’s life all about? I don’t know at all, but I’m liking the idea of keeping it simple. I’m enjoying building things, helping people talk about difficult questions, volunteering, cooking for friends and new acquaintances, leaving places better than I found them, riding on trains, reading thoughtful books, and plenty of other stuff that I always seem to babble about in these writings (or worse yet when you let me ramble on in person :-). I’m grateful for you, my friends. I’m grateful that I’ve had a chance in life and that I’m trying to make the best of it. Money, security, career, marriage, what movie to rent on Friday night, these are all big questions that are coming, I know. But I’m always glad to be able to focus on the simple, the real, the tangible in front of me, and if it’s not going great today, then I want to make it better tomorrow.
Quote from R.E.M. – “We’re dug in deep, the price is steep, the auctioneer is such a creep…” You can feel that, can’t you? It’s in the world around us. But, we can be different and better. Let’s give our lives away and be loved for it.
As we crossed Nevada, I enjoyed looking at the harsh landscape of high desert and mountains. The soil is often white with salt and cracked from the absence of moisture. The hills are covered with loose gravel, sand, and occasional boulders popping up out of the earth. There is almost no shade, as there are no trees either. Occasional remnants of towns lie close to the railroad, marked usually by abandoned piles of scrap metal, forgotten to everyone and viewed only by travelers who will never know their history.
I find Nevada beautiful because it resists us. With no water and no arable soil, we can take root there no better than the basin sage brush which barely holds to the sandy soil and eventually dries up and blows away. Perhaps every 50 miles or so there will be a creek or small river winding through the landscape, and along its banks there may stand a few alder or cottonwoods with pale green leaves looking tired in the sun. The greenery fades to some low grass as you move away from the banks, and within perhaps twenty yards there is only sand again. It gives a nice view to break the stark brown monotony, but there is no hope there under the Nevada sun.
During most of our time passing through Utah, I was pondering the inside of my eyelids. Not much to report there, for sure.
Now I’m in a high valley in Colorado, in a town called Jefferson. Jefferson is a small collection of buildings along a state highway, with thousands of acres of land spread around them. The land is divided into large parcels of 40 acres or more, divided by uninspiring barbed wire strung along small metal posts. Signs prohibit trespassing, but I’m surprised that anyone bothers to walk the fence to put them up. For those of you familiar with the high plains of the west, this is probably a sight you’ve seen before.
Jefferson is nestled right against the Continental Divide, so you can look up from the valley floor at 10,000 ft. and see the surrounding mountains with smears of remaining pure white snow at nearly 14,000 ft. The slopes are covered with aspen, various types of pine, or nothing at all. The sky is large and open (almost as big as Montana), and the clouds are in beautiful, intricate patterns as they blow over the Rockies from the west. The grass waves in the wind, and small creeks cut across the land with bright green reeds all around them. It seems to me a wild, hostile, and often beautiful place, high and dry and far away from the rest of the world.
I reflect on all this scenery as the wind makes another attempt to blow me off the wall I’m working on. I’m trying to attach big 10 inch rafters from the beam of the strawbale house I’m helping construct to the top of the outside wall. If you turn perpendicular to the wind holding one of these 14 foot boards, look out below ‘cause either you or the board is likely to go down. A small saving grace is that the wall is 18 inches wide, exactly the width of the strawbales which we will soon stuff into it. Walking along it is not so bad, and in fact when I’m not carrying something that functions as a sail to lift me off the house, I often pause and gaze out over the valley and mountains and smile out from under my hooded sweatshirt and sunglasses.
As I swing my hammer and help this house to materialize, I find some peace of mind and reflect on life. I’m really enjoying giving my life away in helping a friend to build a high-quality house. I’ve got a comfortable bed to sleep in at night, good food and conversation with some other friends who have come to build, and a dog named Gave that is the Platonic essence of warm canine companionship for all of us who are working. I’m glad that I am here, bundled up to fight the wind and the bright sun, chopping wood and occasionally carrying water. It’s honest work, and I feel honest at the end of the day.
How can we be more grateful more often? If you’re reading this, you’re probably a friend of mine or a friend of a friend (the same thing in my book). This probably means that you’ve gone to college, and perhaps are headed back for more. There’s a decent chance you eat organic food sometimes. You probably try with mixed success like me to get a good night’s sleep. You’ve probably got friends far and near who like to be with you. You live in places like Philadelphia, Berkeley, Austin, Portland, Washington DC, or other cities where the action is at. We all lead full lives, and certainly have plenty of opportunities to enrich them even more.
So what’s life all about? I don’t know at all, but I’m liking the idea of keeping it simple. I’m enjoying building things, helping people talk about difficult questions, volunteering, cooking for friends and new acquaintances, leaving places better than I found them, riding on trains, reading thoughtful books, and plenty of other stuff that I always seem to babble about in these writings (or worse yet when you let me ramble on in person :-). I’m grateful for you, my friends. I’m grateful that I’ve had a chance in life and that I’m trying to make the best of it. Money, security, career, marriage, what movie to rent on Friday night, these are all big questions that are coming, I know. But I’m always glad to be able to focus on the simple, the real, the tangible in front of me, and if it’s not going great today, then I want to make it better tomorrow.
Quote from R.E.M. – “We’re dug in deep, the price is steep, the auctioneer is such a creep…” You can feel that, can’t you? It’s in the world around us. But, we can be different and better. Let’s give our lives away and be loved for it.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Gathering for travels
I'm taking off on my journey tomorrow, eastward bound on the Amtrak train headed for Denver, then Buffalo, then to Guelph, Ontario by bike. I'm looking forward to listening - to the sound of the big diesel engine, the sound of silence in the wilderness above the Great Lakes, the sounds inside my mind as I sit in 10 days of meditation, the sound of the smile of an old friend. I'm not at all sure what I'm listening for, but I'm hoping that I'll know it when I hear it.
Sometimes I just need to take a step back, 'cause I'm too wrapped up in my own life to see straight. I get too invested in an idea, a vision, a visionary, my own worldview, or whatever. Sometimes I'm too ready to divide the world into black and white, all or none, the perfect or the fallen, the Right Path or some Other Path. This summer I'm looking to chill, and remember that it really is only life after all. I want to develop a clearer sense of what I want, and look at my life as a large selection of choices. They are all possibilities, all with infinitely different possible outcomes, all full of love and sadness and learning and failing and succeeding.
The world is a crazy place, rich and swirling and blending and dissolving with climate change, genocide, meditation retreats, fresh fruits in the summer, really fast computers, alienation, blind faith, innocent children, hopeful lovers, technofixes, silent snowy nights, self-help workshops, digital music, dancing, and everything else... What are we meant to do? I just want to be good to other people, good to myself, and good to the next generation of children growing up. How can we help each other?
Sometimes I just need to take a step back, 'cause I'm too wrapped up in my own life to see straight. I get too invested in an idea, a vision, a visionary, my own worldview, or whatever. Sometimes I'm too ready to divide the world into black and white, all or none, the perfect or the fallen, the Right Path or some Other Path. This summer I'm looking to chill, and remember that it really is only life after all. I want to develop a clearer sense of what I want, and look at my life as a large selection of choices. They are all possibilities, all with infinitely different possible outcomes, all full of love and sadness and learning and failing and succeeding.
The world is a crazy place, rich and swirling and blending and dissolving with climate change, genocide, meditation retreats, fresh fruits in the summer, really fast computers, alienation, blind faith, innocent children, hopeful lovers, technofixes, silent snowy nights, self-help workshops, digital music, dancing, and everything else... What are we meant to do? I just want to be good to other people, good to myself, and good to the next generation of children growing up. How can we help each other?
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