The Collapse CCII: White Out

 09 December 20XX+1

My Dear Lucilius:

Snow again.

By snow I mean a sheet of snowfall so constant and so white that it completely blanks out any attempt to see more than a few feet. It roared in last night, borne on a wind that howled not so much with the souls of the damned as much as the souls of civilizations that have disappeared.

Going outside is useless beyond a few feet. I have tied my ropes to the outhouse and green house as I do every Winter; this time I do not know that I could make it back without them. I also essayed getting out to try and check on others, but gave up within twenty feet of the house; I had no idea if I could find my way back.

There will be not much of anything done until this blows over.

I have endeavored to keep the front door clear and enough around the Cabin that I can use a rake to pull the snow off from time to time, and have tried (not very successfully) to clear paths to the outhouse and greenhouse. To both; I have tried to not enter the greenhouse at all to preserve whatever residual warmth may be left. This has left me frozen, sweaty, and hot at one or more points during this exercise.

On the way to the outhouse one can see the beehives, heavily wrapped for Winter and standing like lone sentinel rocks in a bay. They, too, need their snow occasionally removed.

Heavy snow was not a thing I had ever seen growing up. You remember as well as I do our childhood, with its occasional few inches or even foot of snow that was enough to slide on or perhaps coax a small snowman out of, snow that was good for a day or two and then melted to slush, retreating to the shadowed corners of yard and house.

Not now, Lucilius, not now.

I have driven Pompeia Paulina to distraction with my pacing and worrying to the point that she actually ordered me to sit - quietly – for 20 minutes to give her some peace. I sat of course – never before have I seen such a side eye from my wife – but the worrying did not stop.

Has snow happened here? Of course it does; every year. Sometimes heavy snow. And even with power outages at times. But between that snow and those power outages were things like power that came back on and places one could go to restock and refuel. There is none of that now, of course.

And nothing to be done for it.

I write this, bundled up even with the stove radiating heat. In a bit I will go back out, clear the paths again, pull what snow I can down, bring in more of the wood – and we will hunker down. Again.

Outside, I can hear the howl of the wind. It is ridiculous to think that I can hear the snow borne on the wind as it crashes into the house or piles on the ground, but I swear I do.

Your Obedient Servant, Seneca

2025 Cambodia And Vietnam: Singapore Airport (II)

 One of several ponds with fish in the aiport:

Their indoor airport carts had light bars that showed how long and wide the cart would be to passers by.  Why is this not a common thing?

Pedal stations to power phone or laptop recharge:

There are also several different indoor gardens:

2025 Cambodia And Vietnam: Singapore Airport (I)

 The Singapore Changi Airport is approximately 25 square kilometers (9.7 square miles) and is rated as the 15th busiest airport in the world, handling 67.7 million passengers in 2024.  It is also the recipient of numerous "Best Airport" awards.

Looking outside. Outside of Costa Rica, I do not think I have ever been in a tropical country.

It has a huge amount of shopping, as you might imagine.

And a butterfly garden!

A And J At Home

The Ravishing Mrs. TB is currently staying with her mother as she has had her second knee surgery (which is going splendidly).  Fortunately for me, I have roommates to come home to in her absence:

You may wonder about A's shaved side.  He had a growth that had to be removed.

Why fill a bookshelf with books when a cat needs a place to read?

A Year Of Humility (XXXIII): Simplicity

 One of the things that has surprised me as I have written about humility for an extended period of time is the number and variety of ways that humility manifests itself in so many other aspects of our lives:  because of humility, other things happen and/or manifest themselves.

Another one that inserted itself into my consciousness this week was simplicity.

Simplicity is something which minds and voices far more melodious and mellifluous than mine have spoken on with great authority.  I can only speak to the effects of simplicity on my own life; theirs the reasoning of it and benefits behind it.

If I think on it, simplicity is often connected with humility although perhaps somewhat by accident:  those that live simple lives are often humble, and we in the West at least (but also, I think elsewhere) associate those that sworn to live humble lives of service - such as monks and nuns - are associated with simplicity.

I sit here, writing this on a Saturday morning, hardly in a setting of simplicity by simple examination.  I live in an urban area as I have for most of my adult life, which is by default is neither associated with simplicity or humility. I have a home, which has things - many things, it could be argued - that I really do not need or need only in specific situations.  

And yet, my life at this moment radiates a certain simplicity - and with it, a humility that is unexpected.

This is the first weekend in over a month that I have not been training, traveling, or scurrying around trying to catch up on the weekends.  It is hot (for here, anyway) this weekend, so my plans largely involved "staying in".

I have had the simple luxury of slightly sleeping in, of multiple cups of good coffee not slammed down between meetings, of being able to read at a relaxed pace.  I have made cheese already with yogurt planned for tomorrow.  A the Cat has taken to napping on a box of photo albums in what is officially called The Rabbit's Room; J The Rabbit is here in her cage with the cage door open, not feeling the need to come out but aware that she can, cleaning herself (a sign of trust; no animal cleans themselves when they feel unsafe).  

These strike me as simple things in an age of media and frenzied activity and InterWeb wonder and the idea that "out there" is where enjoyment is.

But here is the funny thing as I sit and think about the situation: the sense of serenity and peace and, dare I say, humility, that comes from all of this.

Inherently there is nothing pride inducing about a cup of coffee or a napping cat or the words of Epictetus, of doing laundry or cleaning house (later today, of course).  They is nothing inherently glamourous or glorious about them, nothing that possess me to brag on them.

There is a connection I can intuit here but not fully make. This sense, at this moment...I do not fully have the words for it. It is the sense one has when it is raining and one is inside with a hot beverage and a book, watching it all.  It is the quiet awe that sits on one when, miles and miles from civilization, one looks upon a wilderness and wildness largely untouched by humans.

Perhaps it is the peace of simply being in the moment, of enjoying the sense of simple pleasures or simple concepts or even the sense of simply being.  But nothing about any of the moments suggests pride or ego or advertising to the world about myself and the greatness of me and my accomplishments.

I cannot fully define it. But if simplicity brings humility and this is indeed the outcome, I desire more of it.

My Leadership Style

(Apologies, this week has been consumed by a work investigation.  That said, this is really how I run my life and my department.)

Essentialism (XXIX): Execute: Focus

"Life is available only in the present moment.  If you abandon the present moment, you cannot life the moments of your life deeply." - Thich Nhat Hanh

Greg McKeown starts this chapter with a story of Coach Larry Gelwix, who coached the Highland High School Rugby team to 418 wins, 10 losses, and twenty national championships over 36 years.  Coach Gelwix has a simple question which, conveniently, is a simply acronym for win as well:  "What's Important Now?"

This helps his players focus - instead of getting caught up in what just happened (the past) or worrying if they will win (the future), it helps them focus on the play they are in "right now" (McKeown's emphasis).  It also allows the players to stay focused on how they are playing:

"Larry believes a huge part of winning is determined by whether the players are focused on their own game or their opponent's game.  If the players start thinking about the other team they lose focus.  Consciously or not, they start wanting to play the game the other team is playing.  They get distracted and divided.  By focusing on their game in the here and now, they can all unite around a single strategy.  This level of unity makes execution of their game plan relatively frictionless."

Coach Gelwix makes a difference between being beaten and losing.  Being beaten means they were better than his team.  Losing means that the team lost focus on what was essential.

To operate at your highest level of contribution, says McKeown, we have to deliberately tune in to what is important in the here and now.

For the Essentialist, there is only the now.  There is not the past with its mistakes and errors or the future with its possibilities or worrying about the things we cannot control.  There is only being focused and present in the current moment and on what we are doing now.

He revisits the Ancient Greek concepts of time, something we have touched on before here as well:  chronos, the simple passage of time, and kairos, those moments in time that are right, opportune, different.  The way of the Essentialist is to tune into the present, into the kairos moments, to those things that are truly important right now.

To be focused is to be present in the moment.  To this end, McKeown points out that while some multi-tasking may be possible, what is not possible is multi-concentration or multi-focus.  We can only focus on one thing at a time.

So how do we focus?  How do we be in the now?

- Figure Out What Is Important Right Now: "When faced with so many tasks and obligations that you can't figure out which to tackle first, stop.  Take a deep breath.  Get present in the moment and ask yourself what is the most important this very second - not what's important tomorrow or even an hour from now.  If you're not sure, make a list of everything vying for your attention and cross off anything that is not important right now."

- Get The Future Out Of Your Head:  A helpful practice McKeown mentions here is taking a moment and listing things which are essential - but not right now-  out of his head and onto a piece of paper.  This helps him to focus by not losing the ideas and knowing that these were now things that he did not need to act on.

- Prioritize:  After prioritizing the "Right Now" list, work on those first, one at a time until they are done.  This allows focus on those things.

McKeown quotes the Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh, who spends an hour a day drinking tea with other monks:

"Suppose you are drinking a cup of tea.  When you hold the cup, you might like to breathe in, to bring your mind back to your body, and you become fully present.  And when you are truly there, something else is also there -life, represented by the cup of tea.  In that moment you are real, and the cup of tea is real.  You are not lost in the past, in the future, in your projects, in your worries.  You are free from all of your afflictions.  And in that state of being free, you enjoy your tea.  That is the moment of happiness, and of peace."

Pay attention, says McKeown, to the kairos moments of our day.  Write them down, think of what triggered that moment and what you brought from it.  If you can recognize that trigger, you can try to re-create it.

---

Application:

Typically at this point I would write "As long-time readers of my blog know...".  But that would yet another rehashing of a comment that we have discussed for a long, long time: I have trouble focusing.  Instead, it is perhaps more useful to consider the wider world around us.

And how that world does everything in its power to prevent focusing.

We live in an age of distraction. Mathew Crawford in his book The World Beyond Your Head refers to the loss of what he calls The Attention Commons, that space that used to exist where people were effectively free from having their attention grabbed by advertising or a constant stream of noise and images.  Nicholas Carr in his book The Shallows quotes research that notes that at the best of times, our minds can hold 3-5 thoughts in working memory - and thanks to the wonder of the InterWeb and the plasticity of our brains, we are literally becoming unable to concentrate on deep issues.  The very fact that we can be in a meeting with people speaking and a computer and two cell phones in front of us, checking each for updates as we move from screen to screen, never really in any one conversation - and that this is acceptable behavior - should give a clue about how the modern world values focus.

With this sort of avalanche against us, the ability to focus in the modern world is almost a superpower.

What is the best way I have been dealing with it?  Very old methods.  Do one thing at a time and, to the best of your ability, remove all other options to multi-focus (e.g., write and check e-mail or even, for me, write and listen to something).  Do things via analog (which almost by default is doing one thing at at time).  And try, more and more, to do less and less via the InterWeb.

Focusing in the modern environment is not impossible.  It is just very, very hard.

The Collapse CCI: The Second Advent Candle

 07 December 20XX+1

My Dear Lucilius:

Today was the lighting of the second Advent candle.

Pompeia Paulina was patiently waiting for me when I came out into the early morning grey that constitutes daylight in Winter here. It is one of the things that I had underestimated when I first relocated here, the true shortness of the days of Winter. Especially in a world without power, one can work before the daylight, but one’s effectiveness can be serious curtailed – who wants to risk an injury just to get a 20 minute head start on something in the dark?

The Advent wreath was there, along with its for candles. The match sparked; one candle, then another candle glowed in the early morning gloom.

The second candle, she said. The Candle of Bethlehem, of Preparation and Peace.

Bethlehem in our day was one of the most well known small towns of history; we had the benefit of 2,000+ years of Christian history behind us. And while even leading up to Christ’s birth it undoubtedly had some fame as the birthplace of David, one of Israel’s great kings, it (like many other birthplaces) had slipped into backwater status; were it to have happened now, likely there would be some small sign commemorating David’s birthplace and perhaps a small museum preserving David’s birth house, manned by volunteers and preserving his parents’ memorabilia (all of the good stuff would undoubtedly be at the museum in Jerusalem), selling post cards and bumper stickers that read “I felt Bethlehome in Bethlehem”.

It was a small place, that history seemed to have moved on from. And yet Scripture promised that something amazing would happen there:

“But you, Bethlehem Ephrathah,

Though you are little among the thousands of Judah,

Yet out of you shall come forth to Me

The One to be Ruler in Israel,

Whose goings forth are from of old,

From everlasting.” - (Micah 5:2)

It was almost 1,000 years between David and Christ and almost 700 years between the prophet Micah and Christ. What did people do?

They waited. They prepared.

They prepared for the coming of Messiah. They waited. They kept the laws as they were given and looked to the future and God – sometimes a God that was not speaking to them at all. They prepared their hearts for the Promised One.

And then, in the fullness of time, Mary and Joseph prepared themselves for a journey they did not intend to make under circumstances not of their choosing to this small, backwater town. Where something which had been prophesied – but was still very unexpected – happened.

We sat in the candlelight as Pompeia Paulina read and then just watched the candles burn for a bit in silence. And then, in silence, blew the candles out and began the day.

Even with the promise, Lucilius, there is still preparation – and waiting – to be done.

Your Obedient Servant, Seneca

2025 Cambodia And Vietnam: Flying High

One of the impediments of getting to Southeast Asia, and likely why it is not on many American's destination list, is simply the amount of time it takes to get there.

From the U.S. West Coast (Los Angeles in this case), it takes 17 hours to fly not to Cambodia or Vietnam, but to Singapore, where one can then take a second flight to Cambodia or Vietnam (for Cambodia, another 4 hours).  Never in my life have I flown so long.

Fortunately for me, The Ravishing Mrs. TB had a plan.  In her case it was the use of credit card points (the credit card point arena is something I neither understand nor wish to understand, but there is a huge subculture for it) to purchase two business class tickets on Singapore Airlines Business Class for something like $200 for fees, at least to Singapore.

They certainly feed you well.

Snack

Dinner Salad

Main course

Dessert

Second Dinner

Second Dinner Course Two

Dessert!  Because nothing screams "Dessert" like a cheese plate.

Laydown seat.  This was a lifesaver as I actually slept.

It certainly made for a relatively pain-free start to the trip.

2025 Cambodia And Vietnam: An Introduction

And so, we arrive at the start of my trip to Cambodia and Vietnam.

(Cambodian Royal Palace - Phnom Penh, Cambodia)

If you had asked me a year prior to selecting this trip, I would have told you that these areas in particular and the region of Southeast Asia in general was never one that I had any strong urge to visit.  I had the basics of geography of course, a class in Communist Government Structure that likely including Vietnam, and at least one graduate class in ASEAN (Association of South East Asian Nations).  I also had the tail end of an American's knowledge of Vietnam and the Killing Fields of Cambodia, fueled by vague television pictures and the knowledge that at least one of my cousins had died there.

(Angkor Thom - Siam Rep,  Cambodia)

Yet somehow, I ended up in Cambodia and Vietnam.

(Angkor Wat - Siam Rep, Cambodia)

I believe that when The Ravishing Mrs. TB asked me if I was interested, I surprised her as much as myself in saying yes.  In a way, it was the perfect trip:  I really had no historical basis beyond a very hazy one and so no impressions either way about going.

(Hanoi/Ho Chi Minh City - Vietnam)

There places I had heard of, of course:  Phnom Penh, Angkor Wat, Hanoi, The Mekong Delta, Ho Chi Minh City.  I had seen various pictures over the years and perhaps a documentary or two.

Like most things, of course, pictures and documentaries do not do things justice.

(Mekong River - Vietnam)

It was different - probably the most different sort of tour I have done to date.  There is always a veneer of Western Civilization - it is hard to escape that anymore - but behind that veneer was a layer of reality that is sometimes hidden from places that are more used to tourism.  In some ways, these were not the picturesque villages of Europe or the carefully excavated cities of Rome and Greece.  Yes, there were elements of the picturesque there, but it was also the reality of societies in transition between the modern and the traditional.

(Imperial Citadel - Hue, Vietnam)

I know for past series I have usually given a run down of history before I have launched into tour itself.  That said, I do not know that this makes sense this time.  These, at least for me, were very different histories with players and movements and people groups that were unfamiliar to me and I suspect unfamiliar to many.  It perhaps makes the most sense to just holistically roll in the history as we go.

(Ha Long Bay, Vietnam)

Was it what we expected?  I do not know how to answer that questions, because I do not know what I expected.  I do know that it by far was one of the most different places I have visited with a very different history that does not lean much into or rely much on what I have studied and read on most of my life.

("Train Street" - Hanoi, Vietnam)

But scenery was beautiful, the food was good, and the people universally friendly.  If it was not what I expected, it was certainly memorable and exciting in its own right.

(Water Puppet Show - Hanoi, Vietnam)

Welcome, friends, to a slice of Southeast Asia.

 

Letting Go Of Things

I find myself challenged to let go of things.

One of the realities I am forced to face is that - like it or not - I am reaching the point in the program where many of the things I currently own have a limited use or even no use by me at this point.  That perhaps seems a bit hyperbolic, but in point of fact it is also true:  while the end is not nigh, it is definitely in the far horizon. Add to that a double reality of small living space of an unknown duration and two locations besides that where things are stored, and suddenly one has a lot of things that one needs to address.

I am at least grateful for the stopping point of an apartment rather than a house, because that meant that I could not just move all my problems from one place to another without thinking about them.  And with the impending sale of The Ranch and the wholesale removal of items that I might have dithered about, I am not confronted by another huge hoard of items that need assessing.  For better or worse, our current "store" is determined.

That said, it is likely still too much. Which means I get to ask questions like "How likely is it I will ever use this again?" and "Would I miss this if I let it go?"

Yesterday's example was a simple one, sorting T-shirts.

This is the second go I have had at this, as I already did this once during my move last year and donated a pile.  They are all in a single drawer, but my semi-organized system was breaking down, so it was time to reorganize and reduce again.

Again, everything came out.  Again, I looked through it all and asked "What will I never wear again?"

A few are a victim of a "sizing difference" from which I first bought them.  But others?  I have not worn them in years; the likelihood I will wear them in the next twenty or thirty years is almost nil.  And so, into the donate pile they will go.

I need to get better and more active about these kinds of activities.

This always raises an interesting and secondary question in my mind, of course:  as we are society of retail and services and, as I go on, I and a great many people like me require less and less (or like some younger generations, are actively choosing less and less), where does leave an economy that is largely dependent on such things?

It remains secondary, of course.  I should not keep buying that which I neither need nor will use.  And I certainly can benefit from subtracting from that which I own instead of adding to it.

A Year of Humility (XXXII): On Apologizing

 I have been wrong in my life more than I care to admit.

There are, at least that I can think of, at least two different ways to be wrong.

The first way is, for lack of a better term, simply being wrong. This can be due to a number of factors - lack of knowledge, lack of facts, lack of key information - but the outcome is the same:   we do or say the wrong thing.  We give the wrong answer.  We choose the wrong next action.  It can be born of pride, a great belief in our own knowledge or giftedness, or of innocent assumption that we knew something that we really did not know.

The second is choosing wrong.

Choosing wrong is not acting from a lack of knowledge or understanding, it is actively selecting to do wrong.  Sometimes the thing is subtle, like choosing to not let go of an argument or secretly watching someone founder that we hold a grudge against.  Sometimes the thing is not so subtle, when we know the correct action to take and we do not take or instead we actively choose the wrong answer.

Beyond the path back from this point, which most likely involves some level of asking for God's forgiveness and possibly the forgiveness of others, comes that most difficult of acts: apologizing.

Apologizing is easy if it is is in the first category; one can plead lack of knowledge or just a plain mistake.  Most of us have done this many times over the course of our lives - it is the higher level equivalent of "excuse me" after we bump in to someone (it turns out that such a simply apology as "excuse me" in a native language goes a long way towards smoothing uncomfortable situations over).

Apologizing in the second category can be much more difficult.

Why?  Because in the second category, to apologize is to admit that we actively choose wrong.  We chose the harsh words or anger or mocking or the thousand other sins that can infest our lives.  We knew better - than God, than His word, than others that may have tried to counsel us otherwise.  

In perhaps the most memorable example (not original to me), it was we that chose to drive the nails into Christ's hands and feet on the Cross.

What does any of this have to do with humility?  Because, in both cases, it takes humility to apologize.

To apologize - in either case - is to admit that there is something about me, greater or lesser, that is wrong.  That I do not know as much as I think, that I am not as skilled as I thought, that I did not read the relevant document, that I actively chose something that physically or psychically impacted others.

Sometimes - at least for me - apologizing is far more difficult than asking for forgiveness from God.  Apologizing to God is a personal transaction between myself and Him.  Apologizing to others involves the same concept - making ourselves humble enough to admit our mistakes - but doing it to our fellow humans, sometimes fellow humans of which we may vehemently disagree or even actively dislike.

The odd thing?  Apologizing - at least in my own life - always puts me in a better position.  Maybe not directly with the person that I apologized to, but often with others around them.  Why is that?  I wonder if it perhaps the demonstration of the fact that someone - a peer, or perhaps even someone who is in a position or place of greater responsibility - can be wrong and, seeing that they are wrong, have the strength of character to admit it.

The proud can never admit they are or were wrong.  It is only the humble, who see themselves accurately, that are able to do so.

Be At Peace And Call Upon God

 

Or as been said by an unknown poet:

"I asked God for strength that I might achieve.

He was made weak that I might learn humbly to obey.

I asked God for health that I might do great things.

I was given infirmity that I might do better things.

I asked for riches that I might be happy.

I was given poverty that I might be wise.

I asked for power that I might have the praise of men.

I was given weakness that I might feel the need of God.

I asked for all things that I might enjoy life.

I was given life that I might enjoy all things.

I got nothing that I asked for - 

but everything that I had hoped for...

Almost despite myself, I my unspoken prayers were answered.

I am among all men a man most richly blessed."

Essentialism (XXVIII): Execute: Flow

 "Routine, in an intelligent man, is a sign of ambition." - W.H Auden

Greg McKeown starts this chapter with a story of Michael Phelps, the multiple gold-winning medalist in Olympic swimming. He goes through a series of activities - a routine - that he applied not just on race day, but every day of training.  Leg placement, stretches, how he mounted the block - the same.  Along with this physical routine, his coach  Bob Bowman gave him a mental routine - "The Videotape" - which was visualizing swimming the perfect race.  In slow motion, with every detail, every morning and every evening.  

His routine had become his habit, so when he raced, he was not acting in any different way than he had envisioned acting a thousand times before.  The habit had taken over; he was just executing a program.

The Nonessentialist, suggest McKeown, only thinks of the essentials when they are forced to do something about them using raw effort and labor and a push. The Essentialist, on the other hand, "...designs a routine that makes achieving what you have identified as essential the default position." There may be labor involved, but it is effort in the right places through the right routine.

"Routine", he says, "is one of the most powerful tools for removing obstacles."  Enshrine the essentials in a routine and after that initial burst of energy, there is nothing left to do except follow the routine which drives the essentials.

Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (The author of Flow) states that "Most creative individuals find out early what their best rhythms are for sleeping, eating, and working, and abide by them even when it is tempting to do otherwise. They wear clothes that are comfortable, they interact only with people they find congenial, they only do things they think are important.  Of course such idiosyncrasies are not endearing to those they have deal with...But personalizing patterns of action helps to free the mind from the expectations that make demands on attention and allows intense concentration on matters that count."

40% of our choices, suggests a Duke University study, are unconscious - which means that we develop routines that we execute without thinking. Reprogramming is possible, but unless we consciously choice our internal programming, we run the risk of doing routines that are not helpful to our essentials.  How do we get there?

Overhaul Your Triggers:    McKeown borrows heavily here from Charles Duhigg and his book The Power of Habit (an excellent read). In short, Duhigg notes that each habit we have is made up of a cue, a routine, and a reward.  The cue triggers the brain to go into automatic mode, which then engages the routine, which then delivers the reward - which reminds your brain why this habit (and not another one) is worth remembering.  Changing our routine, then, is not so much changing our habits as it is changing our cue from triggering a non-essential activity to an essential ones

Create New Triggers:  McKeown uses himself here as an example.  Wanting to journal, he failed miserably on a regular basis - until he tried putting his journal in his bag right next to his phone, such that when he pulled his phone from his bag to charge it every night, the journal was right there, cuing him to write in it.  Once the habit was established, he trained himself to write in the journal as soon as he saw it.

Do the Most Difficult Thing First: McKeown looks at Ray Zinn, the (then) CEO of Micrel who at the time of writing was 78 years old and had been CEO of the company for 35 years.  The company's stock never dropped below its IPO value during that time except for one year.  He credits his success with an iron routine (rising at 0530 every day, exercising for an hour, eating breakfast at 0730 and arriving at work at 0815, having dinner with his family at 1830, and then going to bed at 2000).  At the time of writing, he had done this for 50 years.

On top of all of this, he credits the fact that his highest contribution is governed by a single rule:  "Focus on  doing the hardest thing first".  "After all", Zinn says, "we already have too much to think about.  Why not eliminate some of them by establishing a routine?"

McKeown suggests the same: Find your cue, do the hardest thing first thing in the morning, and see how the day goes from there.

(The motivational speaker Brian Tracy had a similar concept:  Eat the frog.  As, of course, if one ate a frog the first thing in the morning, everything else would be easy.)

Mix Up Your Routines:  Routine can become, well, routine.  Thus, suggests McKeown, it is okay to mix up your routine for different days of the week.  This allows the mind to spend time on different areas, thus allowing some variety and avoiding "routine fatigue".

Tackle Your Routines One by One:  Try to implement multiple routines or multiple changes to multiple routines, and you are likely to fail.  Instead, McKeown suggests starting with one routine and one change.  Embed that, then move from there.

The changing of routines, especially Nonessential ones, can be hard, says McKeown.  We have invested considerable emotional energy to develop them. But once we can master our routines, make them essential rather than non-essential - then, says McKeown, we have won a great victory.  Because once something is routine, it becomes "the gift that keeps on giving".

---

Application:

I am a creature of the morning routine.

For years now, I have risen at 0500. I read the Bible, pray, read a few pages in a theological book or philosophical book, and journal.  I then study language for approximately 30 minutes, then change and do calisthenics, then walk.  I return home, shower, make breakfast, and catch up on blogs and comments and start writing (or completely write) a post.  I brush my teeth, grab my lunch, and am usually out the door by 0730-0735.

My evenings are less routine, but by the time I go to bed my lunch is made, my breakfast laid out, my clothes picked out, and my exercise clothes ready.

The morning routine varies a bit on the weekends - maybe a little less language or more focused language, less or more of a walk, definitely more coffee. But they are largely the same.  But the evening routine always happens.

I cannot say this is a perfect set up, but I do seem to make time to at least do every one of those things in the morning - and am enabled to do more in the morning because I have prepared in the evening.

My struggle is applying that same logic and practice to my evenings.  But I am working on it.

The Collapse CC: Bicentennially Yours

 06 December 20XX+1

My Dear Lucilius:

I note by the count that this appears to be my 200th letter to you since this situation more or less started.

I say “200th”. In point of fact I do not know that this is precisely true; this is based on my count – which to be fair, has often been off in the past; as I like to say I am accurate but not always precise.

Still, let us assume that – for better or worse – this is indeed letter 200.

I have to confess to you (you will already know this, of course) that most likely these are more letters than I have written to anyone ever, perhaps even as many as I have written in my life. That strikes me as a rather odd thought.

Even when we were growing up, letters were still something that were “done”, even if not to the frequency of the previous two generations (by our time phone calls were a regular thing, even if there was such a thing as “long distance charges” – how strange that sounds now). And we, in turn, were building on a tradition that went back in some form to the Roman Republic, where we still have the correspondences of Seneca and Cicero.

I remember writing in high school to our friends that were slightly ahead of us in college, the anticipation when sending the letter off and the pleasant surprise when the letter returned. And not just any sort of letter: decorative letters in calligraphy or the text written in a spiral or wave or even with elements of foreign languages.

That age, at least for us, passed too quickly. Letters became small notes in cards and then just cards on holidays – and then almost nothing at all, as e-mail and text messages overwhelmed even calling someone else.

And then, of course, The Collapse. And up to 50 years of electronic records were wiped clean.

Buried in a small chest somewhere I still have the letters I received and in some cases those that I sent to my grandparents and parents and family members. It is odd, looking at them now, the cramped pen style and the thoughts of a boy and teenager writing about far away places that likely none of them would ever see. Beyond that, I have nothing except what I may have downloaded on a computer that I begrudge the use of for the power drain it represents.

Except for these letters now, of course.

They are perhaps not as remarkable or meaningful as the letters written in the past and savoured by generations, but perhaps also they represent yet another small way to push back against the entropy of a civilization that, having placed all on an altar that was more out of control than it believed, suddenly consumed it all.

Cicero and my namesake, I suspect, would probably be pleased.

Your Obedient Servant, Seneca

Series' End

FOTB (Friend Of This Blog) and resident optimist Ed of Riverbend Journal had a though provoking comment on my post yesterday about packing up the last items at my parents' place:

"With many experiences, when we close out a chapter of our lives, we are already seeing the upcoming chapter ahead and that can help us bridge the gap emotionally.  But in this case, you can't see the chapter ahead and indeed it may look more like the end of a book, which I'm sure makes it heavier on the mind."

Pretty smart fellow, that Ed.

If I am truly honest with myself, this last bit of packing and the oncoming sale of The Ranch is the end of what will likely turn out to be two of the most change packed years of my life with a lot more emotional events than I care to admit.

Somehow in the past two years ending this December, I was laid off (for the second time) and got a new job halfway across the country which entailed a move, an effective severing of almost all aspects of my social life and connections and saw me spend less time with my wife in person than before we met each other, effectively reached the end of the active parenting era, lost my surviving parent, arrived at a decision to do something (sell The Ranch) which completely change the last 25 years of planning, and then had to establish a new life and new connections where I had literally none (which is still in progress).

And, I had to buy a new car.

If I look at all of it spelled out that way, I can imagine the response I would have to a friend if they brought that list of items to me. 

It has not been all bad of course, and by writing all of that out I do not intend to make it seem so.  My job change has been for the better and New Home 32.0, for all that I do not have the years of activities and social network I had there, has its own charms and adventures.  I can still train in Iaijutsu.  I can still work out. The Ravishing Mrs. TB is here permanently (more or less).  There are rabbit organizations nearby.

But for all of that, there is a heaviness and an emotional weight I am not fully aware of.

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Growing up, I read a number of books series.  Most memorable in my mind were the original books written by Frank L. Baum about OZ, Johnny Gruelle's Raggedy Anne and Andy series, and the then de rigeur Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew (mostly the originals, before they got up to then 1970's modernity).  A treat series - which I have not looked for the way I should but enjoyed greatly - was the Tom Swift series (1960's science had the ring of science fiction to a lad who did not know better).

Later, my series became all Fantasy and Science Fiction - Tolkien, Edgar Rice Burroughs (John Carter, Pellucidar, Carson of Venus), Andre Norton (Witch World), Robert E. Howard (Conan the Barbarian).  You will note these are are older writers; around my post-teenage years I found less and less series and more and more stand alone books (although Jerry Pournelle's series about Falkenberg's Legion was a fabulous late find).

The great things about series - good ones, anyway - is that one gets to visit and revisit characters and places that one enjoys.  Sometimes they are clear laid out in terms of their paths throughout the series. Sometimes they start strong and then end up wandering, the latter books being lesser than the former.  But always, one had a sense of where the overall plot was going - after all, if the book is a series, that means that the characters survive and continue their stories.

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The saddest part of any series, of course, is when it ends.

The end of series tends to be from one of two causes.  The first is that the author dies.  The second is that the author loses interest in the characters and wanders off to different shores.  Of the series above, both happened (along with - sometimes - the least desired option of other authors picking up the series with greater or lesser success, usually lesser).  

Either way, the story ends.

There is a certain subtle sadness when one closes the back cover on a series for the first time.  Prior to this point, one always could look forward to the next adventure, the next story - now, there are no more.  In the best of endings, the characters never die at the end.  The series just ends; the characters are free to go on to other adventures in one's mind.

The series are never quite the same after that - certainly, the stories are still there, the remembered parts that bring us joy or tears, the lands that we had come to love ever fresh for our return visits.  But always in starting, we know that there is an ending, a wall beyond which the characters will not go.

The Never Ending Story has reached its border.

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It appears -using Ed's metaphor - that this particular series has reached its last book.

That is not to say that my series has reached its last book (well, hopefully anyway).  But it appears that this particular series - which was originally intended to continue for several more volumes - has met its end.

And maybe that is okay.

As I have written before, the last book in this particular series has not lived up to earlier volumes.  Perhaps that is to be expected:  the last book dealt with a very different set of circumstances and adventures than the previous books, and there was definitely a change in the plot and tone.

It was, arguably, lesser than its predecessors.

Like all good series, it will go up on the shelf - in my case a bit more literally, as so much of what has happened in and about that era of my life is entered here on the blog or in my journals.  I can go back to re-visit it in my mind any time I want - but I wonder when I will do so.

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There comes a point in every reader's life where the old books no longer speak in the way they used to.  Sometimes that is maturity, sometimes that is a change of taste, sometimes...well, sometimes things do not resonate with us as they did of old.  And at that point, we have only one choice.

It has been long years since I have picked up the first book of a new series.  Who knows what wonders await in the pages yet to be written.

Packed Up

This Saturday saw the last of the items that we were keeping removed from my parents' house.

The house is empty, completely empty outside of appliances.  Having not seen it when my parents moved in, I think this is the first time that I have observed it largely as it looked when we moved in.

It is odd:  the remaining items that I agonized over whether to keep or let go - all gone.  It is as if there was never a decision to be made about it.

The house was also professionally cleaned; I do not know that I can ever remember the house looking that clean.  Cobwebs are gone, flat surfaces are dusted, the carpet looks fresh and plush.

The last few things - a set of dishes I needed to repack to make them more manageable, the last piece of furniture - were moved down to the barn for safekeeping.  The numerous keys that were located on the keychain I borrowed four years ago were gone through and compared with existing locks, some to be thrown away and some to pass back to my sister.  The last sets of pictures that my Uncle had requested were taken up to him.  Other than towels and curtains and a single item to be donated to the local historical society, it is over.

In theory there should be no reason for me to have to go up to attend to the house now, although I plan on going on my monthly rounds at least for now:  there are still people to visit and at some point all of the things in the Barn have to make their way to a more permanent storage locker.  

But I have to confess that, sitting in the airport going and coming again, waiting for another round of flight delays, the inevitable shuffle of masses of people on and off of planes and through terminals and getting picked up, made me realize that I will not miss the portion at all.

Maybe some day in years hence, I will look back on photos or think on experiences and feel sad.  But more and more what I remember is the weird twilight of this preparation, of efforts and time expended for a thing that is rapidly passing from view.

Summer Rain

 

This past Thursday morning it rained.

Growing up in Old Home, rain was thing that never happened in Summer - if it happened it was so infrequent that it was to be commented on for years.  Rain only happened from October to perhaps April or even May.  New Home 2.0 was different as well - we learned that rain did come in Summer, but it came in bursts that were warm and overwhelming and often for short period of time.  And then, of course, the clouds would clear and the Sun would come out and Summer would return with a vengeance.

The Summer rains here in New Home 3.0 are very different.

Although they seem (in theory) not common, they are not unknown.  Their force is no more than any other time of the year:  often a soft and almost mystical fall, the sort of rhythm that I remember for Winter rains as a child.

This is an interlude of course:  Summer is still here and we will lurch back to it next week with a vengeance.  But even in this, the whisper of Autumn is in the wings:  looking back on historical records (what I have at this point), early August is the high point of Summer here and, fitfully at first and then picking up in speed and intensity, the temperatures will fall.  In two months it will be as if Summer had never come at all.

And for me, happily, the pattern and rhythm of the rain will return.

A Year Of Humility (XXXI): Correct Yourself

What if one of the best roads to helping the Church was to work on ourselves?

I have to admit this is not a thought I am particularly fond of.  That might seem a surprising thought; after all, I seem to write a great deal about working on myself.  However, I suspect if I got one level down from that thought, I would realize it is not "working on myself" that is the issue in that sense, because what I think of as "self-work" and what God thinks of as "self-work" are two different things.

The "self-work" I enjoy most are the things that make me a better person, too often in all of the wrong ways - the ways of the world.  The "self-work" God wants are the ways that make me more like Him, the grinding down of my sin and selfishness in the relentless pursuit of making my soul the equivalent of a mirror that reflects Him.

Were we to do that, what would His church look like?