There Is No Place Like (New) Home For The Holidays

For Christmas this year, I was able to head back to New Home (many thanks for your patience in my responses to comments).  It was good, but it was definitely not the visit I had anticipated having.

Christmas itself was delightful and leisurely as they have come to be.  We were up far earlier than Nighean Bhan and Nighean Dhonn (not sure when that reversal of rising happened, but it is real) and unpacked our stockings - in a first, Old St. Nick was helped by each family member choosing another family member for a stocking, which resulted in some nice surprises.  Breakfast was our traditional monkey bread (biscuit dough covered in brown sugar and baked) and quiche, followed by the opening of gifts and a conversation with Nighean Gheal in South Korea - this year's gifts included long sleeved shirts (for New Home 2.0), books (what a surprise), and various and sundry small surprises (including a portable CD/DVD drive for my computer so I can watch movies and play games).  The afternoon passed with off and on Christmas special viewing, reading, and general lackadaisical behavior.

But the real surprise - when it hit me, sometime on Christmas Day - was that this was really going to be my last visit "home".

Oh, not home in the sense I am never going back (I have a graduation to attend in May).  But "home" in the sense that the next time I go back, it will not be the place that I and The Ravishing Mrs. TB will dwell.

Part of that was hinted at through the week:  all the empty space in the house where our furniture now in New Home 2.0 used to be, things missing there that I used to use regularly, the pickup of the car by the third party (leaving me effectively car-less, a true visitor relying on others for transport).  Part of it was looking around and seeing things that I had worked on removed:  The garden area has been stripped of its fence and posts with nothing growing there, the garage half empty with a very few things that I needed to decide on, my closet space already beginning to occupied by Nighean Bhan's clothes once we move out.

On one hand, it prompted me to take care of some outstanding issues that had really waited for months or years for me to resolve:  packing up seeds and grain into Mylar pouches with oxygen reducers to transport, identifying the few things in the garage that I needed to make sure were either retained or thrown away, finding all the work that will need to be done on the house after we leave, work that I had kind of "let go" and not attended to during my time there.

On other hand, it left me with a sense of finality.

Given my experiences to date, it is likely unwise of me to proclaim we might never live there again:  Nighean Bhan may very well make her home there and the attraction of potential grandchildren may be too much to resist for The Ravishing Mrs. TB (well, to be fair, maybe for me as well).  At the same time, the paucity of visits being reduced to once every six months or so left no other conclusion that the reality that in a real sense, I was no longer a resident.  I was a visitor.

I am not sure why this discovery surprised me, but it did.  The math has all been there - I had not been back since July of this year to move the rabbits and would not be back again until May of next year.  But somehow,  despite all of that, I still somehow held in my soul that this was still in some way my "home".  It was not, really:  life had moved on and somehow I had not moved with it.

Perhaps it was because the only other experience I have had is Old Home, which is where I grew up and so somehow never felt like I had left.  But that is not really true of New Home:  it was a place I lived and had a lot of good experiences in but where I do not live anymore.  

What a surprise to go back and find out that the uprooting you have felt over the last 9 months really was that:  an uprooting, not just a change in scenery.

Tuesday Morning 0930

I write this from the comfort of a house warmed with fire as the rains drizzles down outside.  It has drizzled down since around 0230 as I recall; the forecast calls for the same most of the day.

Today is an odd bonus day, the sort of day that only periodically appears:  unplanned, unexpected.  Back at The Ranch, I find myself with almost nothing on my calendar for the day:  some picture selections for the upcoming funeral, a visit with The Director this evening, cleaning for my early morning departure tomorrow.

I have consciously made a decision to temporarily halt any packing or additional moving activities, partially because we will return in about two months for the funeral (and more packing for Na Clann to take things home) and partially pending the settlement of the estate:  any move to rent the house now will wait pending final settlement.  And if we are not going to sell the house, keeping some of the furniture that we might have gotten rid of makes perfectly good sense.  

It also represents a sort of last moment:  after this, all trips here will originate from New Home 2.0, not New Home.  The locus of all originations and returns shifts.

This is now third Spring since my parents left, but life here know nothing of the ultimate arrival and departure of humans.  The cattle slowly move through drizzle, eventually ending up under the cover of trees.  The turkey flock that was in the Upper Meadow this morning migrated back into the forest, their daily rounds curtailed by the wet.  The jack rabbit I surprised in the front of the house this morning fled to the back of the house and down the slope, black tipped ears erect.

The plants, too, are in their awakening mode.  The daffodils so beloved by my mother have erected their heads and are blooming, weighted down this morning by rain drops; behind them the poppies have begun their climb to glory.  The Meadows are themselves turning green as this year's new growth slowly overtops the remaining stems from last year.  The irises, remnants from my maternal grandmother's garden, stand with their leaves sword-straight, waiting for their turn to shine in the sun.

The mist obscures the mountains beyond but they, too, register little of the mortal lives of humans.

I have written before that one of the things that marks a transition between immaturity and maturity is the realization of kairos, those specific called out moments of time which were originally "the right or critical moment" versus chronos, the simple passing of time.  A useful distinction, that: as with many things, Ancient peoples had a way with things that we moderns lack.  

When we are young our world seems to be filled with chronos moments, the passage of time that seems to go on and on. At some point - early for some, later for others - we realize that things end and we had not been conscious of that ending.  Certainly, we recognize some things:  the graduation from our various stages of education, the beginning of a married life (or the end of it), the birth of child, the death of our parents.  But these are hardly the sum total of all the chronos moments:  they exist far more often than we think, often only caught out of our eye as they pass (if we are lucky) or in the rearview mirror of life as we realized the last time we did X or saw Y was many years ago.

This - this day, this time, I suddenly realize - is such a moment.

It is of course not "a moment"; there are still things that need to be done and events that need to occur.  But this time, this day or even series of days and weeks even to the end of the year, represents multiple transition points.  It is the beginning of a change for the ownership of this place and this land, of the assuming of responsibilities and active management in a way I have not done before.  It is the beginning of a new job (well, in less than a week) and the beginning of a new locus of focus in my own life, as New Home 2.0 becomes "home" and New Home becomes a place I have a house and where some of Na Clann and The Ravishing Mrs. TB dwell (for now).  

In a way - even though in some ways this has been true for the last three years - this is the beginning of my life with almost of all of my parent's generation gone in my family. In the cycle of life, we have now assumed the position that they, in turn, inherited from their parents.  

I remember that transition for them.  I can scarcely think of a time I realized the burden would fall to us.

I realize with a start as I write this (12 March), is is birthday of my father.  He has been gone almost two years now.  That seems like forever and yet no time at all.  The moment he left was kairos, the time after has been chronos.  The difference has suddenly never been clearer in my mind.

Sighing, I look outside.  The rain has slowed to a fine mist, a sort of falling haze seems almost as timeliness as this moment, a continuous motion machine as the drops hit the earth and flow down the sidewalk or stems and into the grasses or streams below.  Heaven and Earth seemed joined for a moment in a sheen in which can only detect motion if one closely examines it.

The fire quietly sighs and pops, a reminder of the passing of all things.

2024 Goal Setting (Or, An Exercise In The Unknown)

 Long time readers of my blog may recall that in years past, December is the month that is typically filled with me writing and re-writing (and re-re-writing) my goals.  In fact, I suspect it tended to eat up a lot of valuable electron space.

That exercise last year - as it turns out - was an exercise in futility.  Not completely my fault at all, of course - one could not have predicted Hammerfall 2.0 and Hammerfall 3.0 were not anticipated in the December prior and the impact of those in time and money turned out to be significant; it is hard to discuss things like increases in the load of weight lifts when you lose access to the gym or doing other activities when your life focuses to finding a job and then keeping said job. 

 At the same time, I am a great believer in having goals even if you do not hitting them:  as the saying goes, if you aim for the stars you will hit the moon (or a mountain, or an inconveniently placed electric pole - at any rate, you will hit something).  

Some years ago I adopted the Rule of Five for Goals (like I do for almost everything else, as five is simple and I can count it on my hand).  I even came up with a catchy Acronym, GGGII, which stands for "God, Girls, Gold, Iaijutsu, and Ichiryo Gusoku (well, perhaps not so catchy.  This is why I am not in marketing).

"God" is, I suspect, pretty self explanatory. "Girls" is really family, as (with the exception of myself, I-Bun, A The Cat, and M the Guinea Pig), this house is run by females.  "Gold" is simply career in its various manifestations.  "Iaijutsu" refers to my sword art, but encompasses things that support it like physical fitness and Japanese language.  "Ichiryo Gusoku" (Literally "One plot of land, one suit of armor") refers to the concept of providing for one's self to the best of my ability - philosophy is here and [theoretical] goals are here.

So I have a desire to have goals, and I have a structure to create them.  What I need now is the actual goals.  

Which is, of course, the most difficult.

Difficult not in the sense that it difficult to come up with them - I can always come up with something - but difficult in the sense that I need to have goals which are both reflective of my current situation (and, whatever happens next year, slowly rebuilding from the current situation) and are items that are mostly in my control to achieve.  This was one of my weaknesses for 2023:  the goals were based on things outside of my control.

For example, under "God" I simply have something like "Find a ministry to get involved in" and "Greater time in prayer" - yes, I will continue to look for longer term church home, but where we end up is not clear to me now.

Under "Girls", it looks a lot like a regular date night (something the last year has not been kind in) as well.  Finding ways for all of us to spend time together as we can is there passively as well, as we are reaching the point where paths are separating farther and farther.

Under "Gold", I have a single primary - Find a full time job - and some smaller goals around either industry certification (to make myself more valuable - after all, this industry is a skill) or generating other income.

Under "Iaijutsu", it is simply "Train harder in preparation for testing for certification".  I would also like to test for the N4 Japanese certificate through JLPT, although this does not really impact my life except personally.  Personal training has become a floating target as the equipment I have access to has changed - so Olympic Style lifts (and the weights involved) are not really possible).  That said, I will need to find some target - as well, I suspect, of more aerobic related goals (as those are effectively free except for the cost of a pair of shoes).

"Ichiryo Gusoku" is pretty vague at this point.  The reality is that - likely barring a miracle - The Ranch is going to be something that might delayed for five to ten years realistically (which means I have to put my nose to the grindstone and my pride under my feet and finish cleaning the house out).  Which means that New Home and its environs are the canvas I have to paint on, at least for the foreseeable future.  That limits some potential items  and, given the unknown length of my unemployment, means I need to focus on things that are low cost or essentially free - which in turn, means likely supplying finished dairy products (cheese and yogurt), expanding and managing the garden, and other small self sufficiency projects for which I already have the items/materials to perform (darning socks, anyone?).

The great news about all of this is they remain almost 100% within my control (with the exception of "Find a Job", of course).  The more humbling news for me is that in some ways, this represents the least aggressive set of goals I have had in many years.

But perhaps that is okay.  Given the state of the world - given the state of my world - perhaps a series of low, slow balls over home plate is just what needs to happen this year.  After all, there is nothing like success to breed success.

A License Plate And An End Of An Era

 This week, after a month's wait and a frantic back and forth to the repair shop to get a copy of an inspection report, we finally got my parent's car registered in New Home with new license plates.  I was taking the plates out to screw them on as The Ravishing Mrs. TB and the household ensemble rolled up.  "Here they are" I said, most directly to Nighean Dhonn, the youngest. "You can take it to school and get your parking permit."

The Ravishing Mrs. TB looked a little sad at that. "I will miss driving you to school a bit".

As she said this, I had one of those moments, the moments I keep capturing only after the fact that they have happened:  the quiet turns in the road.

By my calculation (as I slowly screwed the plates onto the car), we have been transporting children to school for over twenty years.  Originally it was not every day of course:  first periodic morning classes, then a Pre-K class, and then finally school every week day.  As the children continued to arrive, we added on trips and times, sometimes to different locations until finally we managed to get them all at the same place (only for a few years as it turned out, as then they slowly started passing into high school).

My experience growing up was completely different of course:  we attended a small public school and high school and rode the bus.  In my early years my mother worked at the same school I did and I assume, although I do not clearly remember, that we rode with her; by fourth grade we walked down to the end of the road and waited with all the other kids on our street, a practice which continued all the way through the beginning of my junior year (and the appearance of the coveted driver's license).  But we made a conscious choice to enroll our children in private Christian school and thus, we drove up to the point in high school that their own coveted driver's licenses appeared and transportation became available. 

The Ravishing Mrs. TB and I swapped off driving responsibilities as the location of work and school changed.  For many years she did it until we moved to New Home, when after some time and her securing of her current job, it was more convenient for me to drop them off and her to pick them up.  This happened as well in high school for all of them - right up to 2020, when I no longer went and The Ravishing Mrs. TB did.

And now, in the simple act of screwing on license plates, that time has passed.

I cannot specifically recall a discussion or conversation from those years of driving, partially because my memory has a thousand things packed into it and partially because I tend not to talk when I drive.  The Ravishing Mrs. TB was far better at it of course, and used the time to download their days and what happened and perhaps any other tidbits she could extract.

It is a bit of an inconvenience of course, as parking lot efficiencies have not made their way to schools in large numbers yet and the having to leave and be there at a certain time always put some level of fetters on what could be going on in the morning and afternoon.  The humdrum existence of negotiating the car lines, wishing them a good day or asking how their day went, and then driving on.

All that, now, is largely history.

This was going to happen of course; it was always going to happen.  And in some senses I cannot say I not pleased by it, both for the freedom it represents to a parent as well as the simple fact that, as with a child getting a driver's license, the convenience of having them do a driving chore instead of you is immeasurable.  At the same time, I was struck by the moment which was entailed in those license plates:  before they drove up at home, things were one way.  As I screwed them in, things were different.

There is a quiet sense of mourning, I suppose, in the passage of such things.  As some genius has said, One day you and friends went outside to play, not realizing that it was the last time you were ever going to do that.  It is exactly like that:  the sudden realization that a thing that had been a practice and habit for years was only ever a transient thing, more like a butterfly than solid stone.

And like a butterfly, one notices its liftoff not by the loss of pressure on one's arm but only in sudden flash of movement as it flies away.

Seasons Of Change And How Now Shall We Live

 OldAFSarge over at Chant du Depart has written a very thoughtful piece about the changing seasons in Where Did The Summer Go, which he very cleverly (and subtly) transfers over from the actual seasons to the seasons of life without letting the reader know until they are already engaged (well done, Sarge).  In it, he transitions from the changing seasons ("It hit me Friday morning, well, it was close to morning, when I awakened from an exhausted, dreamless sleep.  It's mid-September, past mid-September really.") to the changes in his life from the passing of his beloved companion cat to upcoming changes in his career that he may be considering (Yes, I know - I just summarized it in one sentence.  You should go read it anyway.)

It is an odd thing, to wake up - as he did, and I did recently - and realize that the year is already effectively 75% over.  And then to start doing the math and realize - like every year - that it only picks up speed as one gets closer to the end of the year:  At work, everything that needs to get done for the year suddenly is compressed into the fourth quarter; at home and in life, the competing realities of a change in season (here in the Northern Hemisphere, from Summer to Winter) means that many outdoor projects and activities will wind down even as time for those activities competes with the upcoming rush of Thanksgiving and Christmas.  Life in these last three months picks up speed, and that rather precipitously.  

Add to that the math (for me) of travel, both to The Ranch and (hopefully) vacation, and the year is closing down very quickly indeed.

Last night at dinner with Uisdean Ruadh and The Accountant - both friends from High School - I made the comment that, statistically, if we had 30 more years of relative active and health, we would all be beating the curve.  There was an awkward silence and then a reluctant acknowledgement that yes, this was likely true.

And that is given current history.  What I know of my own family, at least, is that it is probably shorter than that.

In light of all that, as Francis Schaeffer might ask, "How Then Shall We Live?"

It is not just in the realm of what we do, but how we are.

For most of us - myself included - something like an "early retirement" is not possible in the way that we imagine.  That said, neither is the concept of continuing to work in a career field or job field which, at some point, bears no evidence of ultimately getting us to where we would like to be.  If you do not enjoy work your work at some fundamental level, continuing to climb the career ladder in your 50's, 60's, and 70's offers little to no incentive.  That is not to say that most would -or should - just "drop out"; research is pretty clear that some level of involvement is necessary and beneficial.  But at some point, one would like the option to choose or to work in a job which keeps the hands busy and the mind active, but does not necessarily require meeting quarterly and year end deadlines.

But such a change should not be limited to only what we do.

A tendency - I can see it in myself - of getting older is locking one's self into patterns of thought and patterns of behavior and belief.  We do what works of course, and when one enters the Autumn of a life, the fact that one is still above ground and functioning in society gives us a sense of "Yes, that worked - because here I still am."

I am not suggesting merely jettisoning all our accumulated thoughts, behaviors, and belief because it will make us more "hip" or more able to communicate with the young - if anything, I would argue that those patterns are in many ways more necessary than ever.  But what I am suggesting is that we need to get into the habit of examining ourselves - our thoughts, emotions, practices - and see what needs to change.

I have more than a fair list of issues.  I am too often proud, too often fearful, too often motivated by things that are base rather than noble.  I too often focus on myself and my plans for my life and my world.  As a result I struggle with apologizing when I should and confronting when I should.  I will avoid conversations that may be difficult but necessary or present a plan and proposal as if it is a done deal.  I worry a great deal about making things convenient for my life; I worry not so much about making things convenient for others.

This is hard work - harder when one is in one's mid 50's and uprooting what amounts to decades of behavior in some cases.  But we cannot simply be satisfied with ourselves as we are, anymore than we can or should be satisfied with our outer lives as we are.

My example is old acquaintances.

When one is with old acquaintances - from high school or college or previous work experiences - one sees a pattern of behavior that is not present in the friendships that are current and living.  In those friendships there is indeed the joy of old memories and old jokes - and nothing is funnier than 30 year running joke! - but there is also the discussion and interaction of things that are happening recently. 

In old acquaintance encounters, this hardly seems the case.  Yes, there is the initial catch up - friends, children, relationships, careers - but after this it seems very often (at least in my experience) that the interactions seems to devolve to what they were in the past. We act out those roles of high school or college or previous jobs because that is the only touchpoint we have to deal with the encounter.  Too much water has passed to quickly build up points of reference in the recent past and, frankly, we at least subliminally recognize that it may not be worth the effort as how likely are we to see his person again?

Not everyone can make this transition - not everyone I know has.  For those that have not, they become locked into a way of looking at the world that by default keeps many others out - the old cranky man shouting "Get Off My Lawn" is funny because there is truth to it.  And it is hard to accept and realize that one needs to work on one's self, perhaps even harder now as things start to wind down.

But I would argue it is important work none the less because - based on the increasing speed of the years and change of the seasons - things are winding down more quickly than we know.

Only You Know What Dwells In Your Heart

 

A Slight Lurch In The Right Direction

So the relocation plunge may be accelerating slightly faster than I had anticipated.

I spoke with The Ravishing Mrs. TB two nights ago about it.  To be perfectly honest with you, I think she may be more fed up with the whole thing than I am at this point (which is saying something).  Yes, traffic is appalling and yes, in two years our traffic patterns should reduce once again when Nighean Dhonn is finished with her current school and we only have one school to drive to - but that does not fix the underlying problems that exist here.

What does that mean?  It means a minimum of 6 years suddenly shifted to 2 years.

That includes a number of assumptions of course, like college will continued to be covered and I can find a job somewhere else if needed (and in all fairness, in two years I should have a much clearer picture of how my current job is going) - or I figured out something else that can support us somewhere else (unlikely, but possible).  It also assumes that the economy here will stay at or above what it is now such that our home value will give us something when we sell.

But it is important because it can help to frame discussions, about what we have and what we do.  Certain things - like continuing to reduce debt and become more frugal - take precedence as a required item (that ship is turning - slowly, but it is turning).  Actually setting aside and saving money specifically for the purpose of (ultimately) not having to work becomes an item of discussion.  And a discussion about what we have and what we need also becomes an increasingly relevant discussion (one I have struggled with for years but now am finally having some clarity about).

It is still potentially a long way hence and fraught with possibles and maybe-nots.  But just the hint of change has a surprising power, a hint of energy I had not anticipated.  Perhaps after feeling being in a rut for so long has left you with few options, the whiff of a different future is enough to waken long slumbering dreams, like the sun on February's daffodils.

Frustration in Weightlifting

Today was a back to back lifting day:  bench press and deadlifts.
My bench press has proven to be the most disappointing part of my weight routine.  I simply feel like I am making no progress in it - or if I am, it is very slow progress indeed.  It frustrates me because progress in my other lifts - deadlifts, squats, push press - has been steady and demonstrable.  But bench has been almost impreceptible - my best single was 1 x 160 lb in November; I just managed 2 x 160 lb last week.  That is close to my body weight but hardly the sort of the thing I was hoping.

My deadlift was frustrating today as well. Deadlifts have shown a much steadier improvement over time but today was not as good as I would have liked - max of 5 x 220 lb and a downgrade of 3 x 175 lb.  My form was terrible - my stance is (I think) too narrow and my knees are going askew in ways that are not all that grand for me.  I have gotten 5 x 240 lb in the past, but today was not the day - the  5 x 220 lb barely recognizable as a finished set.

This whole thing is something which I have not yet fully come to grips with yet in lifting:  the fact that it does not seem to be that linear of a process.

I want Personal Records.  Everyone, I think, does.  But as sometimes these get knocked down almost week by week, in other cases they linger for weeks at a time.  And other cases (like today) things take a backwards step in ways that I do not fully understand.  I would think that the ability to lift would increase in a linear fashion:  more weight over time would equal heavier lifts.

Apparently I think wrong.

I will be back in the gym on Friday for another back to back - Push Press and Squats - and will probably hit some of the same frustrations.  But it is at moments like these that I have to go back to my workout book (yes, I have become enough of a meathead to keep one of those now) that I can look and see that while I may not feel like I am making process, I have in fact made a great deal of progress since I started in July.

Eyes to the sunrise, keeping them on the prize.

Moths and Flames

I realized today that people are either moths or flames.

Most people are moths: they are irresistibly attracted to the lives of others.  They cluster around the lives of those that are flames, basking in the warm glow of their lives and their existences, which at some fundamental level they substitute for their own.  In fact, they are so entranced by the lives of others that they build their lives around them to the point that their interests, their live, their thoughts are merely the imitation of the flames that they dance about.

But a few people are flames:  they burn brightly with the light of inner achievement and activity.  They are not overly entranced with the lives of others; instead they are comfortable with the fact that they can define their own interests and desires, not have to adopt them whole cloth from the lives of others. They may be bold or subtle, bright or subdued, but they definitely - in their own way - light up the night.

I suppose at some point in life we are either one or the other, either drawn to the lives of others in imitation or burning brightly for ourselves.  Arguably we should always seek to achieve more the status of flame and less the status of a moth.

 Why?  Because when we are so entranced by the flames of our lives that we do not pay attention to how close we are getting to them - and so we are consumed by them.

Obstacle Run

This weekend, as I mentioned, I participated in an Obstacle Ru:n, Conquer the Gauntlet:

4.1 miles.  28 obstacles.  Prizes consisted of a shirt and medal:

What did I do?  I moved 4.1 miles. I climbed walls including a 12 foot one, humped through and over mud, climbed out of a 10 foot pit, tried swing across water obstacles (and failed miserably), crawled on my face in mud, climbed a 15 foot tire chain and then back down, climbed a slanted wall with rope, carried a 40 lb bag for a lap, hammered a block of wood with a sledge and back, and ran and walked through mud.  And more mud. 4.1 miles worth of mud.

And all I got was this T-shirt and medal.

One might wonder why a person would do such things.  And it would be reasonable to wonder.  Even if one was to win the competition, the purse probably pays for the race (just).  I finished tired and sore and covered in mud (showering was an hour long affair).

Why do it?  Bragging rights, for sure - I finished.  I made it.  I tried every obstacle (although I failed at a number of them).  But I can hold my head up high.

More importantly, I found out I can do things I did not think were possible.  I climbed a wall with help and then helped other climb.  I heaved myself over and through and under is ways I could not expect.  I managed to do one or two obstacles - the 15' tire climb and the slanted wall with the rope -that I not think that I could do.

And most of all, I finished.  I kept moving.

How did this change anything?

Because today when I hit a problem I could not solve or something that bothered me instead of getting worked up over it I simply said  "I climbed walls and things and crawled through mud this weekend - if I could do that, I can do this."

Maybe I did not find my outer limits this weekend, but I sure got a little closer.

When The Life Change Dost Not Come

And then the life change does not come.

The notification is innocuous enough, of course:  "Dear TB:  Thanks very much for our interest in our company.  We enjoyed our time together and wanted to let you know that everyone like you.  However, we have decided to go with a candidate which more completely matches the requirements of the position.  Kind Regards, X".  And there it sits, blinking on your screen.

You attempt to be somewhat philosophical about the whole thing, of course.  Had a feeling it would come nothing.  Knew that that the fit was not really there.  And, after all, you are still currently employed.  You were not really counting on this anyway.

And yet nagging thoughts appear at the back of your mind.

It has happened.  Finally.  You have been put into a slot that is neither in one side of your industry or the other, but rather a middle ground where everyone feels rightly that you do really do what they do and so, though your experience is "good", it is just not really right.  But the reality is that it will never really be right at this point.  You can only retool so much - the barriers that always seem permeable have suddenly, almost inexplicably, hardened.

For me at least, I try to take refuge in the fact that God is in control, that God promotes, and that for whatever reason He has determined that I need to remain here.  I would love to say that this is a totally comforting fact but if somehow it does not feel so.  It feels more as if I have been placed into a holding tank for some kind of opportunity that is never really going to materialize.

So what to do next?

I really have no idea.  For various reasons, relocation at this point is not really an option, which severely limits my opportunities.  Certainly there seem to be no real opportunities around here, or if so they are cleverly disguising themselves as something else.  Another industry?  The concern, of course, is the retooling comment above - and its corollaries time and money.

I would like to that somehow all of this is going to end well, that somehow this constant sense of "No" is because somewhere there is a greater "Yes".

I just wish I had the eyes to see it.

A Little Country Road

When I can, I take a little country road back towards my house.

Where we live in New Home is a combination of built out areas and original native landscape.  This particular road, which moves along the side of a light industrial buildout is, one of those areas.  To the left on this little one lane road are concrete blocks and parking lots while to the right and North are overgrown pastures and fields.

I like to drive it in the dark because the local wildlife is out.  I have seen possums and a skunk and baby bunnies scarcely larger than my hand.  One time, a buck right at the road line, almost ready to hop out and into my car.

When I get to the top of the initial straightaway and make the right turn, I briefly find myself moving back through time to when there was nothing but cattle ranches and small acreages here.  One cannot see the city or the suburbs or the freeway that dominates the part of the city.  One can just see the trees overhanging the road and the grasses on the side that wend there way through the sagging rusty barbed wire fences.

Another turn North and I already find myself back in the 21st Century with the water structure looming on the horizon overlooking everything; another turn East and I face the Freeway that dominates my drive five days a week, sodium lights flickering as I see the bar at the corner peering out at me from the other side of the freeway.

I am always glad to drive this way home whenever I can, and worry that at some point it will disappear, being sucked up into yet another housing development or industrial thing that simply does not need to happen.  It saddens me because it will mean that those that come after will never get a sense of what the landscape used to look like before everyone came, and what wildlife was here on a daily basis.

It saddens me because a little more of the beauty around us will be stripped away and never return.

No Caffeinated Coffee

We are out of caffeinated coffee this morning.

Interestingly enough, I was not a coffee person for a long time - well into my Master's degree, as I recall.  I was primarily a tea person - coffee held the same attraction to me as many other perceived adult items: something adults did which almost most seemed more as a marker of adult status than done for actual pleasure.  The times I had it was overly hot and tasted burnt.

And then, one day, the heavens opened and wonders of coffee were (apparently) revealed to me.

Now, coffee is a daily occurrence.  I have it a cup in the morning at home, and then I follow up with a cup or two at work (really, never more than three - I am done by 0930 or so).  There are few things more pleasurable than a hot cup of coffee that has just bee brewed.

I am somewhat choosy about my coffee - I do not, for example, care for the Large Green Mermaid's coffee all that much.  It seems (again) overly burnt and certainly overly expensive.  At the same time, I am not so much of a connoisseur that I will only drink one kind of coffee or need a particular coffee machine and grinder - we have a reliable "Mr. Coffee" that has worked for more years than I care to remember and a French Press if we are really feeling snooty.

The best kind of coffee, in my opinion, is the Cafe du Monde's Coffee And Chicory  which is a dark roast with ground chicory in it.  It is intensely strong - so strong in fact that The Ravishing Mrs. TB will scarcely drink it when I have it which means all the more for me, I suppose (and, it still comes in steel cans which are great for all kinds of uses and projects).  For years I was sad because it was a special order item; it is now available in lots of places, which just makes my life better overall.

All of this is moot, of course, because there is no caffeinated coffee right now.

We have some decaffeinated coffee.  It is actually what I am drinking right now.  It meets all the requirements, of course:  hot, brewed, not tasting burnt.  No caffeine, of course, but that is more of physiological problem rather than matter of taste or habit  (although I will say in passing that the availability of different kinds of caffeinated coffee well exceeds that of decaffeinated coffee).  It is just more a matter of concept, much like non-alcoholic beer:  if there is no particular reason (medical or dangerous habits) that I need to do it, why?

I have contemplated such things as the fact that caffeine falls into one of my "Bad Four" food habits (Sugar, Fat, Alcohol, Caffeine) - not that I am probably terrible on any one but these are the ones most likely to cause problems and therefore the most likely to be surrendered at some point.  Of all of them, caffeine would probably be the one most difficult to surrender.  A man can life without alcohol and even without most kinds of sugar. (yes, I know fat is required - but not nearly so much as most eat).  Caffeine - coffee - is the one thing on that list that represents a pleasure for which there can be limited bad health effects but provides a mental balance and tradition in starting my day.

None of which, of course, helps me at the moment.  Sigh.  Well, I foresee a stop at a store in my near future...

Seeing the Potential

What is your core?

This the question that Santa Claus asks of Jack Frost in The Rise of the Guardians:  what is your core, the thing that you are ultimately about?  Figure this out, understand what it is that truly motivates you beyond all the things that you think motivate you, and you can find the thing that will empower you to move forward.

I have been pondering this thought in the back of my head ever since we saw the movie, not so much for the profundity of thought as for the simple acknowledgement of the fact that such a concept exists - and I do not know what the answer to it is for me.  If the core is really the gifts God implants in all of us, that one thing or even things that He has given to us to do, what is it?

I think I may have finally figured my own out.  It is trying to help others be better.

If I look back over the course of my life - the attempts to enter seminary that lead nowhere, the short gigs of teaching, leading a study group, my oft-marred attempts at leadership, even my writing - all of them revolve around some level of trying to help others figure out what they should be doing with their lives and then trying to figure out ways to get them there.

It is like a puzzle.  I see them, see their interests and talents, and somehow see their potential - what they could be doing if they could (fill in the blank here). It is then my "job" to help them to see the potential that I seem to see in them and to get them moving in that direction.

There is little that brings me more joy that the notice that a friend or acquaintance has succeeded, especially when they have done so in a way that uses the gifts they have.  It is like seeing the bloom of a flower which you knew was going to be beautiful  finally appear to the world around it that never gave it a second glance.

I have seen it with my friends; I have seen it with The Ravishing Mrs. TB; I am even beginning to see it with Na Clann as they begin to reach the point that their own gifts are appearing.

But what do I do with this?  I do not really know.  It is not as if there is a job category for "Potential Seer", and I have no initial thoughts on how I could apply this in a way that would significantly help others and let me make a living at it.

But I have found this upon reflection:  my core, my gift, is seeing what is possible for those I know - and then helping them to see that is as well and launch towards it.

You see what you do.  I see what you can do.

That Was The Year That Was

I write late this morning thanks to a vacation, looking out the window at a sea of gray clouds and the damp of rain.  It's a very fitting end to the year - very fitting because we find ourselves desperately in need of rain.

A very fitting end of the year as well because it represents the forces that have played out of the course of the year, a combination of the drought of some things and the refreshing rain of others.

It has been an interesting year, with many things that I had not anticipated happening.  I had not anticipated writing and publishing one book, let alone two.  I had not anticipated actually finishing Nanowrimo with a 50,000 word novel in 30 days.  I had anticipated competing in one Highland Games; I got two.  I had anticipated writing in another blog; I had not anticipated finding a theme in that blog that would sustain multiple posts.

But there were other things as well.  I had not anticipated the fact that Na Clann would all do so well in sports, or that Nighean Gheal would have such a lead role in the school musical.  I had not anticipated my cheeses would do so well - or that my garden would do so poorly.  There was much to be grateful for.

It was also somewhat disappointing in all that did not happen.  A career change that didn't happen though I tried.  A number of personal goals which I thought would be achievable which were not.  The purchase of a new house which was delayed by the sale of the house in Old Home.

But in a sense that's all irrelevant at the moment:  it is 31 December 2012 and the year has about 14 hours to run.  Nothing new is going to happen today that did not happen up to this point, but neither is anything likely to fall apart that has not already done so.

All in all, a satisfactory year.

One of the great benefits of the end of the year is the following year, of course: the fact that 365 days of golden opportunity await us upon rising tomorrow, filled with the promise of reaching for even higher achievements, better developments and greater joys.

This year is now past,  Enjoy what one can, let the rest go.

The New Year is coming.  It will be a good one.

The Firm Revisited

Yesterday as I was driving about doing errands I heard part of The Dave Ramsey program in which a wife was discussing her husband and a friend’s desire to go into business together.  Dave’s attempt was to encourage her that while the two of them might help one another, the idea that both of them should ignore the advice of others and continue on represented more of an act of selfishness or neediness on their part than a real business opportunity.

Suddenly I was swept away back to a day in February a long time ago when I made the decision to stop what I was doing and go to The Firm.  All of a sudden, as if the final pieces of a lock were sliding into place, I realized the last aspect of what I had done which I had never realized before:  it represented the ultimate act of selfishness.

Going to The Firm was ultimately about me.  It was about my needs – not so much the state of my life (yes, the commute was terrible, but otherwise everything was okay) as the need for me to be my own person.  To be in control of myself.  To satisfy myself.   Perhaps even to shortcut years of plodding along to leap to the head of the line.

What did it cost?  Well, we are still continuing to recover from that particular decision.  Costs include (in no particular order):

-         Being 12 years paid off on our mortgage instead of not owning a home and having lost our investment.

-         A cash count  from borrowing money other places to supplement the money I never realized.

-         Ultimately (perhaps) moving; certainly an argument could be made that the past seven years would look very different careerwise.

-         A fair amount of personal and relational stress as things slid downhill.

-         At least one friendship.

Was the cost of being my own person, of indulging my penchant for not being under the thumb of another and “doing my own thing” worth it based on these numbers?

And what does this mean for the future?  It’s a poorly concealed fact that I don’t really embrace that which I have continued to make my vocation – both where I am as well as what I am doing.  And somewhere deep within me (still) is the need to start something of my own, to be in control.  But at what cost?

I cannot allow the desires and perceived needs of my own psyche to put my family at risk again.  Even if that means plodding for another 20 years, it is not a thing that can ever be allowed to happen again.

Sometimes we tend to put a fine covering on painful memories to prevent that reality of what caused them from coming to the surface.  The sad part is it prevents us from learning all the lessons that we might gain from them.

Yes, The Firm made me grow.  It also cost me a great deal of financial security and ultimately freedom.  Was it worth it to make myself feel in control?

Old Planners

Today I was struggling for a quote.

Oh, it happens from time to time, this need for something to post in the morning - two somethings, really - and not having one worthy of quoting.  Sometimes I am able to find one on the spur of the moment, sometimes I find something inside of myself that is worthy of quoting.  But because of the lassitude of vacation or the fact of luxuriating in writing from bed, I could not find any.

Then a thought occurred to me:  I have written them down in old annual planners.  Let me go draw them from there.

I have annual planners dating back almost 10 years at this point.  They are not the thin planners that so many use; instead, they are accounts payable books, thick with pages and plenty of space to write and paste in meaningful things.  Proud of my sudden thought and use of my work from the past, I hurried to the closet to grab a couple.

And sat down.  And was drawn away.

Here was everything I thought about The Firm.  Here was my justification to leave my career and start another.  My thoughts - in terms of the thoughts of others I saved.  Small e-mails from friends from jobs I had left, encouraging me.  Recurring goals I keep putting on year after year, and never reaching.

Here were my dreams and aspirations, frozen in time.

It made me pause a bit.  From 2003 - when I was unhappy in my career and looking to the Firm to now, when I am back in the career and still not terribly happy.  In one way, how little has changed.

In another, how much.  Those volumes do not display in the least the amount of life that went on during that period of time as well.  They do little justice to the depth of life that has been lived around their pages.  It's almost as if I was holding a Reader's Digest book summary of my youth and reading the abridged version, knowing that a much larger book was out there waiting to be read.

I found my quote and carefully the planner to the side.  Interestingly enough, it was Seneca - "We learn not for school but for life."  The irony was, I hope, not lost on myself.

I need to take some time over the next few days and wander through these old planners of mind.  It would be an interesting exercise as the end of the year approaches and the new one begins.  I will need to make myself a new planner, of course.

Perhaps the experience of my past will be willing to speak to me.

The Mighty D.

I had the privilege of attending a funeral today.

A privilege?  Yes.  There are two kinds of funerals: those that are filled with sadness and yet hope and those that are simple sad.  I have attended both kinds.

Today's was one of the former, for a woman I only knew briefly and in passing.  Her son and Nighean Dhonn shared a class for 3 years.  I would not have met her except that I ran in a 5k in October for a fundraiser for her.  She passed on Saturday night.

To listen to those that spoke - her father, her brother, her friends, her husband - was to listen to the story of a woman who knew what she believed and firmly lived it out, even in the face of living with the specter of and then the actual event of cancer.  To hear of someone who lived their their life to the fullest to the very last moment possible.

She died at 38.

It was a thing to think of as we wended our way back to the car after the service and after-meal.  The winter sun had heated the air a bit and the day was quite pleasant.  I had fully intended to return to work but the hour had grown too late for any productive work, and suddenly the reality of life made this seem to be not the most important thing in the world.

As I went about my business in the afternoon I did not plan of having, I found my thoughts drifting back to the morning, trying to distill what I had heard and experienced into something I could apply.  Truths are seldom presented more clearly than in the light of death - the challenge is to determine what do with them.

1)  We are never more than what we give of ourselves to others.   What came through the conversation and the stories of the afternoon was not what others had done, but what D had done for others.  Even in her pain.  Even in the uncertainty of dwelling under the Shadow of Death.

2)  We are never more ourselves than when we live for Another.  Specifically one Other - Christ, the Son of God.  Only through living out Him in our daily lives, by being not only those hands and feet of service but the eyes and ears of listening and compassion, the voice of life and encouragement, the brain of planning and executing the Plans of Another.  What we do here for ourselves stays here.  What we do for others in the name of Christ and for Christ Himself goes farther our eyes can ever see.

In reality, we all live under the Shadow of Death.  Most of us choose not think of it unless it is thrust into our face, but it remains true.  We would be wise to consider how we spend our lives in light of that fact.

Requiscat in Pace, Mighty D.  Your race is run.  May you inspire those who remain behind.

Tuesday Morning, 11 December

One of the great privileges of being an early morning riser is the opportunity to be an early morning writer.

That's not always the case, of course.  There are plenty of mornings where the "privilege" feels quite similar to a form of punishment as one staggers out of bed and tries to avoid the slalom of furniture in the bedroom as one careens to the stairs hoping (in the still semi-comatose under brain) that one does not careen down the stairs.

But this is not one of those mornings.

The temperature has fallen here in New Home to some of the coldest we've had this year:  slightly above freezing.  That makes the fact that I finally turned the heat on all the more inviting as I sit here.  A cup of fresh coffee sits beside me, the heated cup warming my heart almost as much as the coffee does (ah, coffee - what won't it solve?).  Yesterday's pumpkin muffins, cold from the room temperature but with the advantage of having a day to slightly compress, promise a delicious breakfast.

These are the mornings that it is a privilege to write - not just from the fact of being able to write, but the fact that appreciates all the things that go with being up early in the morning to write.  That seemingly rare convergence where the mind and the will coincide with the words and the physical sensations (ah, coffee) to make the inner space and outer space as one.

These are the times when the words just seem to bubble up from inside, not dragged from the mind kicking and screaming but willingly yielding themselves to the process.  The sense of stress is gone, replaced by a sense of being at peace with one's self and the practice of what one is doing.  This is one of those moments where one can really use the words "The Craft of Writing" and not feel as if one is mouthing a phrase for others, not one's self.

What is being written about is less important - indeed, one could probably just write about writing and the physical environment around one.  Those words of direction, of import - they will come in their time as well.  Once the streambed is prepared, the stream will come.

But every now and again it is simply good to stop, take a look around, and realize that such moments are out there and available to us - with the sincere hope that, like other exquisite moments, they will come to more a part of our daily lives.

Solitude

With An Teaglach gone to Old Home, I've been spending a great deal of time by myself.

It's interesting to hear the reactions of others.  They seem to fall into one of two categories:  either I'm out living it up or I'm incredibly lonely.  While option 1 sounds exciting and option 2 sounds depressing, the reality is that neither one is particularly true.

Solitude is not something that frightens on either of two levels.  On the first level, it does not frighten me as being without things to do - in this modern age with electronic items and books and writing and 10 projects I always seem to be needing to see to, I hardly find myself at a true loss for something to do.

It's on the second level that it become more interesting, however:  the thought of facing long periods of time by one's self.

It's interesting to me that some people cannot deal with the true concept of being alone.  I'm not sure whether it's the concept of having no-one around or the more profound concept of coming face to face with your own self, but it seems alarming to many people.  Perhaps it is the fear that in being alone, I'll have to start thinking for myself.  Perhaps it is the fear that in being alone, I'll have to deal with the thoughts that start to come bubbling to the surface, things that get submerged beneath the incoming tide of daily dealing with people.

Perhaps it is the fear that I'll simply have to think.
Solitude  for me is a time to find my bearings, to think deeply on things, to take the time to do the things that I believe are important but somehow convince myself are not important enough to deal with in my usual life.  Solitude for me is not an enemy but an old friend, a place retreat to and find strength the face the world.

All solitude ends of course, and I'll not be sorry to see this one go for the reason that I miss The Ravishing Mrs. TB and Na Clann.  I'll see them, hear their stories, and become re-immersed in that bustle and general noise level that constitutes my family life.

But inside, part of me will be waiting for the next chance that I have to re-engage with the gentle silence of solitude.