“Places”

I’ve been working like a madman these last few weeks. I promise there’s an article in the works about a short little camping trip I went on, and the value of little trips like that. For the meantime however, here’s another little thing I wrote sitting in the break room, wishing I was wandering again.

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Places have always meant more to me than the people in them. They feel more inviting than the conversations that take part inside of them. I’d rather walk into a hotel lobby and find the spot that turns all the sounds into echos and just stand there. The places I go take parts of me and keep it, promising that next time I return I’ll get it back. I never do. They just take more, and promise greater dividends on my next pass through.

These places choose me and as soon as I’ve got the thought of a new place in my head I’ve got to be there. It tears me apart to sit still while this turbulence exists inside my head. I know I need to wait, and I count to ten and tell myself “patience” while my leg bounces in a vain attempt to pull me to the door. I want to go, be in motion, be heading to something new. I want my feet, or the wheels of whatever I can drive to be headed in whatever direction my mind is currently facing. It is abrupt, and  the desires are shifting.

I have never wanted a constant. Why would anyone? Why would you try to bring someone along who would only burn up on reentry? Or become a cracked peg in one of the wheels. There, and holding up it’s end for the most part, but it’s still a loss in speed of some kind. I fear that breaking peg. I fear that constant north. North should exist on compasses and maps. It shouldn’t exist while you’re wandering to a place you don’t know the name of. Places like that don’t have time for attachments that can’t climb to the top of the hill with you.

This is something different. This is north in motion. North shifting it’s own heading. This new North is the constant that not only keeps up, but beats me to the top of the hill. For whatever this is, I’m glad to have had the magnetic pull if only for this quickly passing moment. You can’t keep heading north if north wants to shift its direction without you.

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“I’ve learned”

 

 

There was a man.

He couldn’t tell you much about himself.

Not for lack of trying mind,

He just always seemed to replace the pieces he’d shown you as soon as you’d seen them.

He’d say “I’m not really a sports sort of guy”

Next thing you’d know he’d be next to you at a ball game cheering as loudly as the rest.

I recall a conversation I’d had with him, common interests was the topic.

We’d been on the subject of things that brought us grief. Family we’d lost, friends we couldn’t trust.

And just like that, in the middle of this conversation,

he sluffed off his skin

Not like a snake, or a crustacean shedding it’s skin to get bigger.

He just shrugged, and sort of burrowed into himself,

turned inside out and responded to my latest complaint with a completely sincere

“I’ve learned to let these things slide off me”

I thought he meant the little things, that brought him grief, but I was wrong.

He meant himself, his entire being, the things that made him, him.

And it was in that phrase that I saw his secret,

I understood how I could envy and pity this man all at once.

I pitied him, for his lost friends

Not lost by error, but by giving them up, in a hope for newer cleaner ones.

I pitied his family

For having to deal with this shifting spectre of a son and brother.

And yet I envied him, for he stood in the center of all this mistrust

orbited by abandoned loved ones and betrayed, confused friends.

And he was happy, and when the happiness stopped?

 

He simply turned himself inside out and said

 

“I’ve learned to let these things slide off me”

 

Màthair

From my mother, piety and beneficence, and abstinence, not only from evil deeds, but even from evil thoughts; and further, simplicity in my way of living, far removed from the habits of the rich.

~Marcus Aurelius: Book one; Line Three

Today I’m twenty-six. I’ve been on this wonderful, odd, planet for over a quarter of a century now. This article actually started as something about the odd paths life takes you down, but while writing it I noticed a trending constant. A constant that, to be honest, should have been obvious from the start. That constant is my Ma.

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My mother is something incredible. (I’d never tell her that in person. We’re not that sort of family.) When the issue of my siblings and I’s education arose, she took that burden on herself, homeschooling all of us through all of it up to college. When I say “all”, I mean six. Homeschooling six children with energy levels like ours isn’t something I’d ever have the heart to attempt. We were even referred to as a litter once by a stranger in a pet store. My mother was incredibly upset by the encounter. Little did she know the woman who made the comment had seen me, and one of my brothers trying to climb into a pen filled with puppies ten minutes earlier. (We told her this years later, to her dismay. Or amusement? Could be both)

I make it sound like we were a bunch of wild heathen children, causing havoc wherever we went. That’s somewhat true, and it’s a testament to my ma’s dedication to us that we all grew up with an ingrained desire to learn and to work hard at it, when we started out as a bunch of feral blonde monsters.

I am almost certain I was the toughest of the bunch to deal with. I was her first child, and that combined with a stubbornness and innate desire to do what I want, when I want to, couldn’t have been easy. I honestly don’t know where she found the endless patience to deal with educating me, let alone all six of us.

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                                                   (Still a horde of feral monsters)

And trust me, I know I tried her patience to no end. A favorite story around my parents’ house is the time I built a fort by turning over all her living room furniture, and barricading myself in it because I didn’t want to do a math lesson. (I still hate math. Sorry Ma.) After an hour of me yelling, and not getting anywhere with that stubbornness I mentioned, she finally cracked and chucked an orange off the counter at me. It’s a funny image, but looking back on it I know two things. Firstly, that she immediately felt awful about it, and secondly, that I absolutely deserved it. Hell, I deserved a whole bushel of oranges with an anvil and a really irritated ape of some sort buried under them.

She’s taught me a lot about how to interact with people. She taught a selfish man, how to find more value in what I’ve done for others in a day, than what I’ve done for myself. She imparted to me my endless love of literature and the outdoors. Finding ways to rev up my wandering engine at home through reading classics that are now books I read the way some people use a security blanket, then turning me loose on the woods, parks, and long drives.

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Long drives. Let’s talk about those for a moment. I live for long drives, to places I’ve never been. It’s the closest I get to meditation or prayer. Those long aimless drives that to some people would seem like a waste of time, or gas, or an endless amount of other “commodities”. Not to my mother. When we got to be too much, or life in general got her down, we never saw it. I only see now, in retrospect that all those adventures we went on were her clearing her head. I don’t know if habits can be passed on genetically, but if so that’s one I definitely attribute to her. Not adventure, that’s ALL due to Mr. Jeff Russell. No, what I got from her was the soft parts of wandering. The gentle sense of calm that comes with simply going. Those little moments between destinations where you notice small details of the scenes that pass by. We still make fun of my mother for a

Not “adventure”, that’s ALL due to Mr. Jeff Russell ( I’m sure an article about him is coming in the near future, now that I’m on this tangent)  No, what I got from her was the soft parts of wandering. The gentle sense of calm that comes with simply going. Those little moments between destinations where you notice small details of the scenes that pass by. We still make fun of my mother for a particular summer involving her teaching us geology. When my mother takes an interest in something she’s teaching it invades all her thoughts I think. So our drives from class to class, or anything else really, were invaded that summer by the phrase that still makes my mother turn bright red when we say it back to her. “Look at that awesome rock formation!” It was the cheesiest, most contrived (to my, at the time Preteen mind) thing I’d ever heard.

No, what I got from her was the soft parts of wandering. The gentle sense of calm that comes with simply going. Those little moments between destinations where you notice small details of the scenes that pass by. We still make fun of my mother for a particular summer involving her teaching us geology. When my mother takes an interest in something she’s teaching it invades all her thoughts I think. So our drives from class to class, or anything else really, were invaded that summer by the phrase that still makes my mother turn bright red when we say it back to her. “Look at that awesome rock formation!” It was the cheesiest, most contrived (to my, at the time Preteen mind) thing I’d ever heard.

But that’s the beauty of my mother and her desire to teach. Not only her six maniacs but anyone who’ll listen. She has a way of doing things that stick them into your brain. I hear her voice in my head on every highway that cuts through cliff faces and along hills. I see her in every landscape. Her passion is unabashed. That’s a hard thing to be in a family of people who tend to keep to themselves, and keep what they really feel close to the chest.

That doesn’t stop her though. I’m terrible about texting most of the time, unless it involves work. My mother knows this, and doesn’t care. I still wake up most days of the month to a small something from her reminding me that I am missed, or some tidbit of information she found that she knows I’ll find fascinating. If you read this Ma, I know I don’t always answer, but I always smile when I see them.

Somehow, through all my boar headedness and idiotic desire to march to the beat of a drummer who, I can only assume at this point, can’t keep time and is probably missing at LEAST one arm, all the things Ma tried to impart in me through her curriculum, and simply through the way she lived, stuck. Not that I do them as well as she does, but that I strive every day to do them half as well.

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The biggest one goes without saying. Patience that is fueled by a deep love for others. Lisa Russell is the most patient woman I have ever met in my life, and after twenty-six years I think I’ve ferreted out what lets her be like that. She cares, for everyone, instantly and deeper than anyone else I know. I took it for granted most of my life, that if I really needed something she’d do her best to help me get it. I can’t really ever pay her back for all of it, but I don’t think she’d want that anyway. She’d want me to pass it on. So that’s what I’ll try to do. If I take one thing away from all the things she taught me it’ll be that. At the very least it’ll mean I don’t have to take away algebra.

The line at the top of this page is from a book she “forced” on me at a young age, that I detested at the time but has become the closest thing I have to a bible. I don’t know if she intended it to become so important. It was mixed in with a slew of other greco-roman classics that were part of our curriculum. I can say this without feeling as if I’m bending the truth though. My mother turned me on to stoicism, not only by giving me the book to read, but by embodying some of the ideals it professes without trying, or possibly knowing she was doing so. I am constantly left in awe of her, and the sacrifices she’s made to give my siblings and I the best possible life we could have.

So, it’s my birthday. Twenty-six years ago my mother brought me into this world, and she helped me navigate it through everything that reared it’s ugly head. I miss the hell out of her, and everyone else in my family, and this is the closest I’ll get to ever telling them. If you haven’t called your mother lately, go do it. Hell, go hug her if you can.

I figure if you guys do that, it’ll balance out me NOT calling mine.

Kidding…. Mostly.

 

 

Convergent Thought Evolution.

I’ve been going through a lot of my old scribblings over the last few days and found a short little thing I wrote that seemed like nothing at the time. However, reading it now I was surprised to see a lot of similar thoughts to those Robert Service transcribed in his poem “The men who don’t fit in”. Service’s work has quickly become a staple of mine, so it was an odd thing to see similar frames of mind between them. I hope you guys enjoy it, and if not go read Robert Service. I know you’ll enjoy that.

The more we learn, the harder life gets to navigate.

However, wisdom and knowledge are a less like a burden than I used to think.

I created this image of all the information I had ever learned tied

around my waist while I swam the length of a pool.

The rope was long enough to allow moments where the weight would help me.

As I turned at either end of the pool I could pull myself through the water

Until I passed over the burden. Then I had to start tugging it along again.

This was the wrong analogy.

It’s more like a map of an ancient broken maze that I keep seeing new paths through.

They all end up in the same place

but that’s the cruelty of the maze.

It keeps opening new paths as you head towards the destination.

Each path holds something you think you might want.

Or even just a different landscape to see while you walk.

Some can flow through paths making choices as they go,

not bothered by the plans they’d laid for the path before them.

Not me. I am one who succumbs to the wall’s cruelty.

I see paths sprouting up like weeds behind me,

In front,

below,

and to the right.

It crushes me, the weight of choice.

 

I stop and stare and see so many paths I can’t barrel down just one.

I head down the first for a bit, but I’m so curious about what lays down the others.

So I backtrack, and head down a different trail.

Sampling each of them for a while, then realizing some of them have started closing off,

and new one’s have opened.

This is the beauty and danger of living with an interest in all.

You accept that you will never be truly great at anything, only decent at all things,

but you will see more paths than most,

and that will make it all worth it.

You will die with your name unknown to the rest of the world.

No great paintings, no amassing of wealth.

But you will have seen more than they have,

And that is the cruelty of the maze,

but it is a gift to those of us who prize seeing more than the rest.

We wouldn’t trade it, but it’s going to remind us of the things we could trade it for.

It’ll be constant and keep things raw as long as it can by pointing them out to us

 

The friends that seem put together because they run down one path,

with the veracity and patience of bamboo.

The lovers who crave the stability we detest,

and they grow bored with our inability to sit still long enough to be bored.

Employers, who see something in us we refuse to look at,

for fear it’ll be the last thing we notice.

 

Towns we love and say to ourselves “I could live here”

but as soon as we visit the next one it wins us over,

it eclipses the memory of any other town we’ve seen.

 

So we live with the rawness, and salve it with a change in direction

it lasts for a while

But never long enough to heal.

We’d stop moving if it healed.

We find a new path and press the memories to the wall as we walk.

So they open up and we can treat them with the next twist in the maze.

What you want to do isn’t always what you need to do. 

I’ve been working for my uncle between courses in Maine. I’ve been towing cars, which isn’t exactly in my wheelhouse. It’s good money and physically hard work, but it bores the hell out of me. 

Last week, I stumbled upon an opportunity to work for the rest of the year as a canoe and hiking guide. Of course, this initially seemed like a great idea. It lined up with my time frame before I go back to Maine, I’d be outside every day and I’d be helping other people have experiences outdoors. This is what school for, and it’s what makes me happy. 

Seems like an obvious choice doesn’t it? 

It did to me too. Believe me. At least until I sat down and thought about it.

 

Most of the readers here are a lot like me. Folks that have that hint of wanderlust in our souls that drive us towards the new and exciting. People of our ilk tend to do what we like. It’s a good quality most of the time. We find something we’re passionate about we do it whole heatedly, we don’t know any other way to be. 

Sometimes though, we need to reign that urge in and think about our long term goals. My uncle went out of his way to get me this job, and I owe him for that.

That’s  hard thing tor independent minded people to accept. We don’t live in a vacuum. Other people take chances on us all the time, and if we give someone our word that we’ll do something, we better do it as well as we can.  

That doesn’t mean it’s not a hard thing to make yourself stay somewhere that isn’t a good fit. We’ve all been there. Jobs that drove us up a wall, towns that seemed like we’d be stuck in them forever, relationships that just weren’t right but made us comfortable in some odd way. It’s so easy to just drop out of them in the hope of something better. It’s a part of the human condition I think, to move on to seemingly greener pastures. We wonder what’s over the hill and eventually that wondering turns into action. Sometimes though, it’s good to hold out on those urges and just stick with something for a while. 

(My corvid friends ALWAYS seem to find me, no matter where I am)

There are ways of subverting that feeling of restlessness and being trapped. It’s especially easy if you have a timeline that you know will play out, but it’s doable either way. I know I’m only in Maryland until January, and then I’ll be back in Maine doing what I’ve so recently found to be what calls me. So I’ll make the most of the time I have here. Not just in the work I’m doing, but in my time to myself. 

In regards to the work, it may bore me but it’s a skill I don’t have yet. That’s the important thing to realize when you’re feeling trapped. There’s always something to learn, or improve. If you’re stuck somewhere, find a way to keep yourself occupied and busy. If your job isn’t providing you with challenges and you really are just killing time there, then find something in your free time that will help you once you’ve left. Waiting tables until school starts up? Pick up your text books early and start studying. Working an office job for the summer before you move somewhere else? Find a map and familiarize yourself with your future home and the things to do there. 

I’m lucky enough to be in a situation that allows for both. I know next to nothing about cars, let alone towing them. So I’m throwing myself into this job wholeheartedly while I can. 

(Crab claws are part of a car’s basic requirements right?)

And during my time off? Well, Maryland is a great place to be if you’re an outdoorsy sort. In my time here I’ve hiked every chance I’ve gotten, and continued to study the environment here. It’s a good way to occupy my time, and it’s fun to go out and know everything I can about the flora and fauna I encouter during my hikes. 

It’s also just as beautiful here as I remember from being a kid. There’s something incredible about seeing some of the places I remember from childhood with more mature eyes. If you’re ever around the area drop me a line and we’ll go visit whichever environment you’d like. Ocean? We’ve got it. Salt marshes? Check? Rivers and mountains? You better believe it. 

So, the long and short of this article is this; life isn’t just about doing what you like, or even what you’re already good at. Sometimes it’s about putting your head down, working hard to be better at something you dislike and finding those little moments that remind you that it isn’t forever. That those things you want to do or see will still be there when you’re finished, and the time spent waiting for them will only improve your ability to enjoy them, as long as you keep them in the back of your mind while you work towards them. 

Slainte Maithe everyone. Keep working towards what you want, and I hope you get there soon.