Arete

July 30, 2018

Greetings from its fullness,

I can just make out the shape of the trees, still cloaked in night, clinging to the dreams that trees have.  There is a dimness that fills the air where sound will be soon.  I sip coffee and wait, savor the quiet with the rich flavor in my favorite mug.  A word comes to me, a new friend I feel like I have known forever.

The sky slowly moves from navy to shades of royal, and I look away for a moment and it is rose-tinted porcelain blue.  God is unsealing the day.  Now the trees are lined with light and color, urged by a soft breeze, gently shaking off the sleep-dew.  Choirs of birds gather for rehearsal. 

The miles are lined up where they always are, stacked neatly in the road, dividing the time into sensible sections.  I move from the end of the driveway, already bright with sun, and join the miles.   I take the word with me.  It has been floating around in the background for months and then this morning surfaced to keep me company on my run.  ‘Arete’. 

I had been searching for what I felt about something and met this word and took it into my circle of friends.  We got to know each other, I introduced it to other friends.  Some were curious, some skeptical, because it was foreign.  But in time it fit in, and we began to get to know one another.

My shadow led me past the farm where the rooster bragged about the morning, and past the tracks and past the place where I was noticing the miles.  My body warmed up, forgot for a time that it was not twelve years old, and suggested that we run forever.

I was introduced to Arete by its cousin Excellence.  They share a lot of the same family and so it was a natural thing.  In that moment I had been trying to find a way of saying something else and then here was Arete to inspire what I meant to express.

I run by corn, steeped in the smell of summer.  Rows of giant stalks, proud of their tassels, almost ready to graduate to whatever waits for them.  There is a squeak in my shoe that wasn’t there before the last time I ran in the rain.  It is funny at first and then like all funny things is not after the hundredth time.  And then it’s gone.

I wanted Arete to help me describe what I was chasing.  I wanted to get to know it well enough that I could say to others what it means to seek the potential in any of us, to find what we are capable of.  Arete was patient with me, like a carpenter teaching a novice to shape a piece of wood.  Part of me wondered if there was something I was missing.

The wind was strumming the grass, each blade vibrating differently, like millions of living things wildly waving at the day.  Across the open field is a knot of maple trees, and two deer wait their turn to own the morning.

I told others about Arete and they seemed impressed I was in such company.  I talked about how much I learned about myself because of my new friend.  Some took Arete with them.

The sun has moved higher so it can see where I am going.  The shadows are tilting in a new direction, shrinking into flatter shapes.  The cool part of the morning has slipped off into some other place, and now only heat remains.  The road unspools over gentle hills, into shallow places, leading me between fields of beans, past peeling barns aching with age.

I had long conversations with Arete.  We discussed philosophy, the pursuit of knowledge.  We exchanged thoughts on becoming a better animal, of understanding the physical potential, and chipping away at boundaries.

The pale blue sky is patched with white wisps, made bold by the sun.  I can hear only my shoes crunching the gravel now, and then a dog barking somewhere, announcing whatever news dogs have to share.  I can feel the sweat running down my back, feel the heat changing me.

I am running back into the sun now as it eases its way toward me.  At first I don’t realize what has changed but then I notice that Arete has paused, is not with me.  I look back along the narrow dirt road and see why.

Arete tells me that the excellence, the potential, the fulfillment of purpose, is not always directed by us, that it exists separate from our desires, our will.  It waits in all things.  It is in the scent of summer, the bite of frost, the sunrise giving shape to the day, the movement of the planets.  Arete is in all of creation, the beauty and the shadow, the grace of the deer, the sound of the moaning pine in the wind.  It is in the rich smell of morning coffee and in the full silence before the dawn.  It is in the words not written.  It is in all of us too, but know it is everywhere our Creator touched.

Of course.  Our friends should show us these things, to remind us to be humble, to look to see our place in our world of incredible excellence. 

The next step I take, and the next, are filled with, surrounded by, driven by what is possible, what is made more possible by Arete.

Hope this finds you reaching,

David

Copyright © 2018 David Smith

Brilliant bookmark

July 23, 2018

Greetings from another moment,

More moments have blurred and faded and disappeared.  There is only so much room in my brain.  But not this moment; this one is as clear and pure as a summer sky.

There used to be a sidewalk that sliced through the community college, dropped into the swale between the campus and the high school on the other side.  That’s how we rode our bikes to the fields.

It was a wide green place in the middle of the city, with a place to play baseball and a field to do nothing.  If there was enough time, and there always was because the days were endless, we could explore beyond the end of the field where a stand of woods led into a giant park beyond.

There was a creek that ran along the lowest place and the sidewalk followed the scoop of land across the strip of water over a small rickety footbridge.  From there the sidewalk wound past the high school track, and up the steep bank of the valley on the other side.

This was another of many unplanned afternoons that my friends and I would ride our bikes to the field to goof around.  We raced each other through our neighborhood, through the college, onto the ribbon of concrete that led to whatever adventure was waiting.

The sidewalk dropped into the small valley at such a steep angle that as you crested the top it disappeared below you.  Our tradition was to careen down the hill, which propelled the bikes faster than we could spin our pedals, and hit the footbridge going as fast as we could. 

The rails of the bridge look tiny from the top of the hill.  No one had crashed into them, or into Gilkey creek.  But there were skid marks on the sidewalk where some had ‘chickened out’, an invitation for endless teasing. We rolled over the crown of the hill, one after another, whooping with joy and fear and whatever that light feeling is that mixes with those in the pit of your belly. 

I can feel that air on my face, hot summer air, rushing past my eyelashes, roaring in my ears for the few seconds it took to fly down the hill.  My red Huffy, rattling over the bumps in the sidewalk, building speed under me, rocketing down toward the bridge.

And then there was another sensation which only lasted a fraction of a second, but I still feel as I write this more than fifty years later.  It was something like disbelief, surprise, a fracture in my little boy faith that I was invincible and that sunny afternoons with my friends went on for eternity.  A little vibration and then my front wheel was gone.

The time it took for my front forks to drop to the sidewalk was too fast for my brain to digest.  Even if the connection was better and my body could react and somehow apply the backward pedal pressure to brake the Huffy there was too much forward momentum.

Since I was not going to be involved, physics took over.  The bike cartwheeled, launching me forward, which geometry had already determined was directly at the sidewalk.  If I could have moved my arms faster I might have positioned my hands better but as it was my face met the concrete first.

When my friends gathered around me I was sitting on the sidewalk bleeding into my t shirt.  My arms and legs were scraped raw.  I could not tell what my face looked like.  Someone said; “You should have SEEN THAT!”  Which was followed by “Man, you are bleeding.”  I’m not sure when, but I finally said I better go home.

My Huffy was not rideable.  Compelled by some code only little boys know, my friends walked the mile or so with me back to my street, dragging my bike as I limped along.  I don’t remember anyone really talking, but I had this vague feeling I was going to be in trouble when I got home.

By the time I reached Chandler Street the blood was drying on me.  I was still being carried by whatever adrenaline and the little boy courage that keeps us from screaming when a worm was put down our shirt by our best friend. 

That all came unraveled when I saw my Mom.  When she came into the yard my friends scattered like chipmunks.  I said: “I wrecked my bike.” and dissolved into tears.  And then there was pain and cleaning and bandages and reassurance that everything would be ok.  And it really was.

The sidewalk is gone now.  I know that some engineer walked to the top of the hill and looked down at it and shook his head.  The bridge is gone.  The baseball diamond is gone.  The fields have become parking lots.  The woods are gone.  What’s not gone is this memory, that moment when the wheel came off.   That tiny vibration and then a reality that could not be avoided.  

It is a brilliant bookmark that has remained undiluted by the decades.  It is a wonderful thing; an innocence sacrificed by a loose bolt, a moment of fear and pain and then loyalty and comfort and love.  All of this bound in a few hours of a summer afternoon, which I can visit whenever I choose.

Hope this finds you in the moment,

David

Copyright © 2018 David Smith

Parking insanity

July 16, 2018

Greetings from the red zone,

I am generally a law-abiding person.  I believe if I write this at the beginning here I am legally absolved of any criminal prosecution. 

I live in a small town with a single main street for businesses.  It is rare that one could not find a place to park if you were visiting the local coffee shop or wanted to browse for some ordinary thing you could live without, like a mirror that says ‘Kiss Me I’m Irish’.

At its most crowded I might have to park in one of the free lots that bracket the couple of blocks that make up the ‘downtown’ and might have to walk one minute.  This is the experience to which I am accustomed. 

But I don’t live exclusively in a parking rich environment.  I must sometimes venture out into the world where many people vie for few places to put their cars while they pursue their daily goals.  Here is where I can lose my perspective.  (Experts describe this as ‘going bonkers’.)

As soon as I am immersed in a metropolis large enough to have taxis it seems that the parking rules are open to wide interpretation.  I have had to develop a different philosophy about law, respect for others, regard for safety, and the anonymity of large numbers.

Generally this comes down to what I view as the Choice of Three.  There are parking lots where you pay, spots controlled by parking meters, and then there is what is known as Inspired Parking.

The people who set prices in parking lots are the same people who sell sandwiches at the airport.  They have suspended all sense of decency because they know there is no competition to enforce it.  Some say this is a sign of the end of civilization.  Parking ramps were originally designed as a social experiment to test the limits of sanity, and then the psychologists lost their grants and were forced to charge people $20 to drive around in tight circles spiraling upwards to the last parking place on the top level.

Street parking is usually controlled by parking meters.  I have come to view these largely as suggestions, as opposed to ironclad requirements.  Plus nowadays you can’t just put a penny in and twist the crank and feel like you fulfilled your role as a responsible citizen for an hour; most of those meters are gone.  Now it’s like programming a missile launch; enter your license plate number (who KNOWS what that is?) and your parking spot number (‘Is this 33, or is that one 33?’) and what is your correct BMI and the name of your first pet.  Then be back in 15 minutes to do it again.

Street parking is also controlled by parallel parking, because no one in the universe knows how to do this.  I have taught four people how to parallel park which would lead a casual observer to believe I am an expert.  So for today’s purposes, let’s say I am. I find a rectangle that is somewhat car-shaped and then I put my car in that rectangle, not fretting too much about being inside the lines.

The last three paragraphs are really just window dressing.  I always resort to Inspired Parking.  It’s like a  post-apocalyptic Mad Max movie out there, you have to learn to adapt.  I have a few rules.  I won’t park in a handicap spot or block a fire hydrant.  I am writing that down so you won’t think I’m a complete sociopath.  And to remind myself not to go completely to the dark side.

I can’t give away all my secrets but let me just say it is my philosophy that the more angry the verbiage on the ‘No Parking’ sign the less likely you are going to be towed away.  Also, I think if you can find a doctor’s office or a small hospital to park in and you happen to have a ‘Clergy’ sign you can leave in your window, that sometimes works well. 

Usually I park where I feel like it would be too much bother to enforce whatever parking regulations might prohibit it.  Alleys are usually good, especially near overflowing dumpsters.  Conversely, parking on a sidewalk is more likely to attract citation attention.

Just park with confidence and that usually is all it takes.  People sense that and leave you alone.  Like “Well, this guy must own this building since he parked on the porch.  Better not give him a ticket”.

It’s not my fault that I behave this way.  It’s probably some kind of syndrome that has not been studied enough to earn an acronym.  Where normal, law abiding citizens, members of the PTA and carriers of the Kroger Discount Card, lose their ability to make reasonable, ethical choices about their actions.  Some kind of temporary insanity brought on by driving in circles, perhaps.

Hope this finds you bumper to bumper,

David

Copyright © 2018 David Smith

Comb

July 9, 2018

Greetings from the unmanageable,

It is possible that my ancestors lived in inhospitable climes, the Sahara, the Siberian Steppes, the Highlands of Scotland, and over generations they developed hair that was the consistency of twisted wire to protect themselves from the weather.  There was a brief time in my teens when I thought my hair was developed to protect myself from meeting girls, but thankfully that passed after only 1000 years of fighting the reality.

I have now lived longer without a comb than I have with a comb.  But the muscle memory involved in using a comb is still there.  I can almost feel the shape of an ACE Unbreakable in my back pocket.  (My butt cheek also has muscle memory, evidently)

During my formative years my Dad cut my hair in our tiny bathroom off the kitchen, a towel draped over my shoulders in a vain attempt to keep hair from getting down my shirt where it would itch for 1000 years.  In those days a comb was superfluous given that my Dad’s barbering skills were set permanently at ‘shorn’.

Combs were purchased at the drug store.  They were probably the cheapest thing you could buy there, other than perhaps penny candy, and were supposed to last for eternity.  When you give a young boy a comb he will lose it unless he breaks it first while using it to dig what he thought was a penny out of the crack in the sidewalk.  So the purchase was an exercise designed to create conflict that would ultimately teach the painful lesson of responsibility.  That’s a lot for a three-cent comb.

Combing my hair was not so much to control it as it was to resist its independence.  It was a protest against my hair’s natural tendencies.  There were ‘cowlicks’ which defied any control, in addition to my hair’s previously mentioned genetic steel-wool texture.  Some days the hair had to be beaten into submission with a stiff brush that was also used to clean the hibachi grille.

When I reached an age where was allowed to grow my hair long enough to go to an actual barber, I was given a comb and instructions to keep my hair neatly arranged.  This was probably another life lesson aimed at tenacity and diligence but I have no idea since I failed daily.

At some point I cared about my appearance and so I had to learn how to make the best of whatever direction my hair chose that morning.  There were waves and curls and whorls that refused to be defeated, and the longer my hair grew the more exaggerated the craziness became.  There was a short time I wore a knit hat to bed with the hopes that it might restrain my hair from creating new geometric chaos during the night, and perhaps allow me to comb it like a person.

A few of my friends carried combs and had developed a flair for whipping them from the back pocket of their jeans and swooping it through their hair in one suave action, while perfecting whatever look in the mirror with which they would impress the world. 

I lacked this coordination.  Combing my hair, or rather combing AT my hair, was an activity that seemed more comical than practical, without even addressing the grooming designed to make me more presentable. 

At one point in my adolescence it was cool to have a comb that was long enough that it showed out of your back pocket.  If it was a status symbol it was never explained to me.  This evolved into a comb with a handle.  I went through this evolution of combs, but my hair was indifferent to the changes. 

In the late 60’s and early 70’s my hair was long and the longer it grew the more insubordinate it became.  Combing my hair was like clearing brush.  In my late teens there were days it became an afro.  For a short period I carried an afro-pick with a Black Power fist and a peace symbol on it.  This might be the most ironic thing I have ever owned. 

I won’t pretend not to be vain but at some point I conceded that my comb would not change my hair, and my hair would not change my life.  I was going to look like I look, and however that was it was not going to propel me or stop me.  That was something outside the realm of combs. 

One of my favorite possessions for many years was a small biker hat that held my hair in place while I rode.  It did what the comb could not.  It directed it in a helpful way so I could enjoy my ride without considering my hair.  That became a useful model.

There eventually came a time when combing my hair became a defensive measure.  A well meaning barber pointed out that I was ‘thinning’ on the back of head (something I would have never learned if she hadn’t felt the need to share that happy truth).  And so cutting my hair, and trying to comb it, became making the most of a shrinking resource.  There might have been a brief panic about this, but thankfully I had experience on my side. 

I have not needed a comb or brush or shampoo for over a decade.  I shave my head every day, not at all meant as revenge for the challenges my hair presented while it reigned on my crown.   I think I have a slightly pointy skull, it is hard for me to balance a book on my head.  I try not to think about it, and so far no one has asked me to prove my posture in this way. 

I don’t remember the last time I owned a comb.  I can recall caring about what my hair looked like, but it seems like a silly distraction now, considering what incredible things were happening all around me.  I try to remember that now when vanity pecks at my insecurities, of which there are legion.

I am not denying my heritage, (tempted to use ‘hairitage’ but spared us all that embarrassment) I am proud of my ancestry, including what attributes that manifest themselves from generations of surviving what the world presented.  Whatever we inherit it is always up to us to make the best of it.  We may use whatever combs or hats or blades at our command.

“Experience is like a comb that life gives you when you are bald.” Navjot Singh Sidhu

Hope this finds you parting,

David

Copyright © 2018 David Smith

Leap into ignorance

July 2, 2018

Greetings from the first step,

“…with total ignorance on our side, we hit the road.”

This is a quote from a group of cycle adventurers, it caught my eye and I wrote it down because it inspired me.  At first glance any mature grown up would say that arming yourself with ignorance is …ignorant.  And, say if you were trying to instruct your child on preparing for something big, you would probably not suggest they adopt this philosophy, but rather the opposite.

In truth the quote above was surrounded by serious planning and preparation.  There were routes mapped and equipment chosen and clothing packed.  The kinds of things you would expect at the beginning of an adventure.  But the quote was still true.

“We don’t know what we don’t know”. 

This quote has bubbled up several times in the last several months.  It is a sensible collection of words and dangerous at the same time.  On the one hand it compels us to examine a question or a challenge to be sure we have good information to move forward.  On the other hand it is a mental mobius strip that always leads back to itself.  It is impossible to satisfy.  It can lead to paralysis.

I am not a reckless person, less so with each year that passes.  My days are filled with plans and plans for planning and preparation for whatever I planned.  Somewhere in that process there is an outcome I see as worthwhile, and then in order to achieve it I begin knocking down what I don’t know and filling in what I do know to succeed.  Defeat ignorance.  Create a plan.  Take action.  Move toward the outcome.  It’s a common process.

“We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us.”

John Steinbeck gave me this advice in the context of preparing for traveling, but this week I recognized again that it was a sensible caution against over-planning in my everyday life.   At some point we all face the reality that life will provide some element we cannot see and that will season the day.  For good or bad.

There is a risk in not preparing.  Time is valuable commodity and must be protected with scheduling.  If you were responsible for people’s lives, whether sending astronauts to orbit or prescribing the exact mix of chemo, or landing a plane in a safe manner, there is a level of education and preparation demanded.  There is a standard that does not tolerate ignorance.

The other risk, the one I am thinking of this morning, is what keeps us from risking.  The fear of what we don’t know; how we’ll behave, what will happen, who will react, what failure could come.  Before we set out for what we want, we face our ignorance and become timid.  The unknown, of which there is a never ending supply, cannot be planned into remission. 

“Memories are made of inconveniences.”

My Dad said this to me to help me with my perspective about the moment that ignorance collides with well laid plans.  His point, which helps me here, is that the things you don’t plan for provide you with a rich experience, sometimes deeper than what your plans called for.

This gives me courage to allow ignorance to accompany me with less trepidation.  When I don’t know what I don’t know, that’s ok, and when I can’t control every outcome, that’s ok.  Because when things go sideways, that’s usually ok too.  It gives me an opportunity to exercise resilience.

There will come a day when you will be on the brink of something and this thought will come back to you.  A new relationship.  A business venture.  A huge impractical adventure.  You will be on the edge of deciding, doing your due diligence.  You will look into the future and not know entirely what to expect.  And you will remember those adventurers who took ignorance as their companion.

“A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.”  John Shedd

Hope this finds you leaping without looking,

David

Copyright © 2018 David Smith