Unwatched

 

September 27, 2021

 Greetings from the tempo,

 I left my street and turned west, glancing down at my watch, scowled a little at the screen.

If you had witnessed me passing you might guess I was late for something. 

 In fact, my watch was not cooperating.  It refused to talk to indifferent satellites scoring the stratosphere somewhere above me.  That conversation, which I take for granted every day, was interfering with my ability to compute how far I was running across the planet and how fast.  Even as I write those words, I realize how incredible this is.

 Somehow the miracle of GPS has become ordinary, hence my scowl.  My watch was stubborn, would not behave despite my marshalling my vast technological experience, which involved turning it off and back on again. 

And so, I just ran.  This simple act, so much a part of my life, needs only a few things to happen and the watch is not really one of them.

 I watched the white line scroll under my feet, saw the rise of the pavement become a slope behind me, the shadows danced around me and then were dissolved by the ambitious sun.  Wisps of clouds turned peach and a soft color that may not have a name.  Off to my left the sky appeared in the earth, reflected in a rain pond, a momentary bit of beauty.  Startling blue and wisps of white somehow magically framed in a field of green.

 I ran a twelve-mile loop, and I know the miles well enough, and I know the metronome in my head, which keeps time in my legs.  My feet took turns reaching out, pushing the pavement behind me, propelling me into the morning.  It felt familiar, like singing a song I know all the words to.  I felt like I was running on younger legs. 

 I thought of running with Tom, loping along the sidewalk on Court Street, running a distance neither of us measured, not knowing how fast we were going, or having a strategy or a goal.  Just running, stride for stride, eating up the miles, talking about whatever high school kids talk about.

I remembered running with a pacer at a marathon out west, held with him as a dozen in our group dissolved in the miles, until somewhere in the high teens he turned and said, “And then there were two.”  And ran nearly silently for the last miles, challenging and witnessing, holding each other to the purpose we started with.

 Phil, who I ran with for years, who would push me for ten miles, my legs barely a match to his enormous stride, and then in the last quarter mile, would pour on a finish that I could not answer.  Even on this morning, as I ran alone along country roads, I remember him turning to me on Parkside and saying, “We are not going to forget this run.  We are killing it.”  And I felt him pushing me along the miles.

Running behind the couple at Boston, 2018, The Big Swim, when the rain and wind showed up to defeat us, as if the course wasn’t already providing enough reasons to quit.  Weaving through the crowd a step behind them, letting them plow the thirty mile an hour headwind, watching their shoulders rock back and forth as they churned through the rain, past the straggling racers who gave up around us.  They were courage: their steps gave me the strength to make mine possible.

 I felt those steps.  I felt them and picked up my pace, breathing a little harder, rolling the length of my feet and pressing off and lifting the leg and reaching out, and landing and repeating.  My shoes whispered on the pavement, keeping time, telling me.

 I will admit I pay attention to my watch, to the feedback it gives me as I run.  I take much of my running as serious training for different goals, and so it matters to me how I’m performing.  But I also run for the pleasure of it, for where it takes me, those fringes of my best self.

Last week I might have pushed too hard, and I felt my machine sputter, and so no matter what the watch said, or didn’t say, it was time to ease back.  Maybe the watch knew too.

 I was surprised how the miles melted away, and now I was heading east again, the sun cheering me from its place on the fringe of trees.  I floated past luscious green growth, the rain still clinging to the leaves, all of it holding summer in place so I can run in it.  

 I ran with Tom and Phil and the pacer and the couple in Boston, felt them pull me along, urge me to take a longer stride, to ease up here, to simply be the good animal I am.  The watch didn’t matter.   I ran as I always have, seeking the best in me, finding that thread of my purpose, and living it into existence on the road.

 

Hope this finds you timeless,

 

David

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright © 2021 David Smith

Scree

 

September 20, 2021

 Greetings from where I step,

 Scree.

 It is an old word, something Nordic, with ancient roots, when things and living and words were so close that no one knew which was first.  Or that there was any separation between what was and what it was called.

 I admit I knew the word but probably never used it.  My brother dusted it off and gave it to me, and it lingered in the periphery of my thinking for a few months, looking for a place to land.

 I’m not too proud to confess that, in spite of a well-thumbed philosophy which aspires to rich, joy filled life, it is not uncommon for me to become out of balance.  My intentions are good, but I am prone to stumbling, distracted by the myriad of things in life that conspire to chew me into something smaller.  The real irony is those distractions are absurdly small in comparison to my aspirations.

 Some months ago, I was choosing hiking shoes, getting ready for our climb up Half Dome in Yosemite.  My brother Douglas suggested I choose something that would be good gripping onto granite for some of the ascent, and also for scrambling through scree.  Just dropped it into the conversation, like that.

 I remember laughing, which I almost always do when I talk to my brother, but he probably didn’t recognize how delighted I was with the word.  Scree.

 Most days I am intentional about certain things that I know will fill me up, that will give me the strength I need to withstand the vagaries of the hours before me.  I can go for a run, I can read new things, or my favorite authors, or spend time in quiet.  I make plans to call my children, to meet friends, to write or create, to find ways to do the things that are closest to my best self.

 Ah, but God laughs. I intersect with life, which already has its own momentum, attached to other agendas, and my lofty ideas about seeking the joyous part of the day are reduced to reacting to the next crisis in front of me, or the last exasperating bit of news on the internet.  

 As I trained to get ready to go to Yosemite, I learned what most trail runners and hikers already know; you better watch your step.  It’s different from running the roads, where I can often close my eyes and let my feet lead me.  Hiking on trails, even here in Michigan, meant I needed to pay attention to every place my foot would land.

 In the dark morning hours on June 1, as we started our hike up from Yosemite Valley, I learned how imperative it was to be aware of your path.  The uneven places, the strands of creeks that crossed the muddy paths, the boulders that formed steps, the slabs of granite we used to ascend for the first miles of our climb.  And of course, there was the scree.

 The bits of loose rock that have crumbled and accumulated on the path, in the dirt and on the larger rocks, in some places just patches, in others a virtual carpet of rubble.  It is not a benign part of the climb, because the scree can cause you to slide where you think you have firm footing.  In some places that can be the difference between hiking up or falling down.  These tiny bits of rock are nearly harmless on their own, but gathered with their brotherhood, can change your day.

 And so it is with the other detritus we are faced with.  The angry drivers and sad news and the barista bent on a bad day, and the disappointments and the flawed choices, and whatever else may lay in wait for us in each day.  Tiny fragments of our life that, on their own, have little sway.  It’s only when we allow them to gather under our feet in clusters that we can slip, fall into a place we needn’t. 

 The scree.  The little things we scramble over, and lose traction to, that keep us from achieving the heights we desire.  Even as I write this, I can sense it in my path today.  Unless I do something about it.

 I learned on our climb up Half Dome you must pay attention to where you put your feet.  But if that’s all you look at, you miss the view you are climbing for.  You miss the beauty in each step.

 There were places on that adventure that I was afraid, until I learned to trust my balance, my footing, and my instincts.  It doesn’t mean the danger wasn’t there, that the scree just went away.  It meant that I put those things in their place, beneath my feet, beneath my passion for the day.

 Scree is an old word with lots of history and meaning, beyond its definition.  I know it better now, understand that it can only affect you if you let it carry you away, become more than individual fragments of rock. 

 Our place is looking up at where we want to go, and to lead others there as well.  We are made to be our best selves.  We are meant to see the rich creation around us, to look at the people we encounter, to feel those connections, not to let the tiny things beneath our feet carry us somewhere else.

  

Hope this finds you taking bold strides,

 

David

Selfie

 

 

September 13, 2021

 

Greetings from the awkward angle,

 

I like to think that I am coordinated.  It’s not true, but I like to think it.

 To be clear, I am not referring to being coordinated in the sartorial sense.   As I write this, I am wearing loud plaid pajama pants combined with a garish running t shirt.  And sandals.  One might assume I have been participating in a bizarre triathlon.

 I’m speaking of physical coordination, at least of a particular sort.  I suspect I am not alone in this deficiency, and if it turns out there are enough of us, we can start a support group. 

 I am coordinated enough to get through my day without crashing into the furniture while walking through most rooms.  I’m not going to be doing any complicated gymnastic maneuvers, but I can still bend over to tie my shoes and not tip into the carpet.  Unless I feel a nap coming on.

 My confidence in my dexterity is mostly based on my memory of my twelve-year-old self, which may be a tad optimistic.   I believe I can balance on a train rail, or catch a football, skip, or dance without looking like I’m having a seizure. 

 I probably would not impress you with my juggling ability, or the famous rub your tummy/pat your head exercise.  I suspect I could not pass a field sobriety test, completely sober, since touching my nose or standing on one foot is just outside of my wheelhouse.  And I can’t do the alphabet without singing.

 I’ll admit I am not as agile as I have been, but I have tried to sharpen up.  I have practiced yoga, though no one would recognize it as such due to the staggering and cursing.  My favorite poses are ‘YMCA’ and ‘Sleeping Man’. 

 Fact is, despite my well-appointed ego, I am not as coordinated as I once was, or thought I was.  And so that sets the stage to introduce what I will call Selfie Snafu Syndrome.

 Thanks to the latest developments, (latest on a five-year-old cell phone) it is possible for most people to take pictures of themselves to add variety to their portfolio of various meals, puppies, and political insurrections.  This delighted me until I found that I had SSS.

 If you have ever held up a hand mirror to see the reflection of the back of your head in the wall mirror in front of you, and for some reason you cannot even FIND your head in the mirror, you my have a feel for what I experience taking selfies.

For the most part, Selfie Snafu Syndrome doesn’t impact me since I delete all the photos I take of myself that look like I pushed the wrong button while trying to make a call.  Close ups of my shoulder, or sometimes whatever is behind me.  Once in a while my feet get featured.  No one cares how uncoordinated I am in the privacy of my own home.

 It's when I take a group ‘selfie’ (we can rename that later) that it becomes an issue.  Nearly every group picture I attempt features the lifeline of my palm, or people sitting nearby.  It is a rare moment when I get the friends I want in the picture, and even then, it is an out of focus shot of the tops of our heads.

 I tell people that my arms are not long enough.  My brother likes to pour derision on my substandard phone, or occasionally cast aspersions on my substandard IQ.  Derisive aspersions aside, for some reason, my hands are not in communication with my head; they are simply unaware of each other’s existence.  (By the way ‘Derisive Aspersions’ is a great name for a rock band.)  The truth is I have a disability worthy of a 5k fundraiser. 

 Perhaps there is some sort of complex therapy I could get that will resolve this, or some expensive drug, or maybe a weeklong retreat at an exclusive selfie spa setting that specializes in caring for people with my troubling syndrome.  All I need is to gather financial support to seek answers.  I’m sure others with this heartbreaking disability will want to help fund it.

 I have done some research, (a phrase I like to use which means ‘I made this up while drinking coffee’) and found that Selfie Snafu Syndrome is a relatively new issue but scientists (real ones, not the ones that make vaccines and fluoride or send people to the moon) are already working on solutions to make it possible for people like me to produce forgettable pictures of myself with my friends and family.  I get a little teary eyed just at the thought of it.

 Maybe the day will come when my erratic dexterousness will be matched with my desire to capture myself and friends in awkward poses, some with their eyes closed, but we can only hope.  Until then, I’ll rely on the kindness of strangers and waiters and other tourists, (and my brother) for my group photos. 

 

 Hope this finds you in focus,         

 

David

 

  

Copyright © 2021 David Smith

Curiosity

 

September 6, 2021

 

Greetings from the exploration,

 I wonder about something, and it leads me to pose questions, and then there might be reading, or asking others their opinion, or perhaps I will search for experiences to help me.  In that process there is in me, as it would be in you as well, a sense of passion, a piece of the most critical essence of being a human.  Sounds dramatic, but I wrote it that way because the word we have given it is too ordinary.  Curiosity.

 I have considered happiness recently, not for the first time.  I wonder at its elements, some as nebulous and elusive as mist, some as mundane as simple habits.  I watch others create their own version of happiness and sometimes am amazed, and other times confounded.  I found that I was curious about happiness and discovered that curiosity in itself can create a version of happiness.  Keep that thought for a moment.

 It has never been easier to be curious, and perhaps it has never been as important as now.   We have the ability to travel and discover, to learn, and even when that is constrained, our access to knowledge is nearly limitless, if we are diligent.  Paired with that is the need, the obligation, for us to better understand our world and each other.  And often what stands in the way of that is the lack of curiosity, or more likely, the suppression of it.

 Some of the people I admire most hold curiosity as an imperative of their life’s philosophies.  They do not all put that to words, but it’s obvious in how they live.  Tinkerers, carpenters, teachers, gardeners, parents, writers, all manner of people.  It is not a coincidence that these people, as different as they are, all have in common a love of the world.

 This week I have read about the purpose of curiosity, how it is inherent in all humans and imperative to our development as people.  It is the desire for knowledge, for understanding.  It is the cause of the advancement of children into adults, and it is at the heart of the progression of our species.  There are complex contributors to curiosity, physical and psychological, but I am convinced it is placed in us by our Creator to guide us toward the best versions of us, and in that process feel happiness.

 Walt Whitman said: “Be curious, not judgmental.”  Four words forming such important counsel, I wish it were tattooed on all of our foreheads.  It is possible for us to better understand each other and perhaps respect one another more if we simply followed Whitman’s charge.  The barriers to this, for example, race, religion, politics, and nowadays science, can be disassembled if we are all willing to give way to curiosity about each other, not simply judge our differences.

 Curiosity, like love, is the near opposite of indifference.  We must recognize that like love it requires humility, the admission that we don’t know everything, and that we are willing to at least consider what is unknown.  What complicates this is the hubris, also built into us, offers me the suggestion that I already know everything I want to know. 

 Several years ago, I took up this subject, curious about curiosity, and in those seven hundred words I lifted the thoughts up and gave them form and felt satisfied, and knew better what I meant by curiosity.  But time passed and even my own words convicted me when I read them last night.  And, no surprise, inspired curiosity.  What I found as I explored my own writing over these last two decades was how often the word ‘curiosity’ led to adventure, to new ideas, to new friendships, to great experiences.  And to happiness.

 Some of our happiness is formed by discovering what we are truly curious about, and then allowing that to shape our choices.  The satisfaction of following that path, of discovering and absorbing what your curiosity uncovers, is living out a passion that was created in humans since the beginning of our existence.  That tells me that this is important; pay attention.

 But curiosity is more than learning about what interests us and brings us joy, it is also the strength we have been given to explore each other as people.  I believe that this is as much a reason for the existence of curiosity as any other. 

 On many Monday mornings I will begin my message to you with only an inkling of where I want to go.  What spurs the rest of it, long or short, is my own curiosity.  What will this thinking lead to?  How will these ideas tumble together to matter in some way?   What follows is something that rarely fails to lead me to happiness.  It is the exploration of a gift, through curiosity, that leads to the joy that waits in all of us.

  That may strike you as a little careless, and perhaps you are disappointed that these essays, such as they are, don’t appear fully formed in my mind before I commit them to words.  My answer is that I trust myself, and the words, to form something of value for me and for you.  I believe in myself, in my gift, and I trust in you as readers.  Not that you will agree with all I write, but that you will be curious enough to look, to think, and perhaps be changed.

 How can we explore our world and each other with this same philosophy?  First to believe in ourselves, to have the confidence to be curious about others, and at the same time, the humility to consider what we don’t know.  We owe it to ourselves, and the humanity we love, to find out.

Curiosity can lead us to the passions we were made for, towards the interests that naturally attract us, and that will form the hours and days of our lives that build a happy existence.  And, the same quality can form a pathway between people, one that can create understanding and empathy and, in small ways and large, a better world.     

 

Hope this finds you curious,

 

David

 

 

 

Copyright © 2021 David Smith