How to be a Hero

I woke up the other night and started to write this, and it got big, and I realize I can’t find the edges of this topic. So I’ll post it, typos and all, and then move on, and will no doubt have more to say later, in and among the brambles of my regular days.

___

What Part of Jesus do I Hang on my Wall?

QUESTION: Should they, the Early Christians, have chosen something else to symbolize God’s love?

God’s son: rendered in wood, and hung upon a cross – that ancient instrument of intimidation, torture, humiliation, and death. It seems at times to me a bit unseemly to remember and announce a transcendent God in quite this way; a rather poor eulogy for His Saviour Son of Man. Jesus had so many better moments in his shortened life.

And yet perhaps no greater moment than this – his last. Would we have remembered Jesus any better otherwise… or still less, or even at all? What if he had died an old man, surrounded instead by loved ones upon his blessed deathbed, after a long, full life of healing the sick, walking on water, multiplying food & drink, challenging authorities, and delivering life lessons in the form of riddles?

Maybe it was that shocking (and, as it turned out, temporary) end to his story that keeps it in my mind, somewhere. Maybe it is that very image of a man hung high for the crime of claiming a connection to the divine – one that he told us we all share – that keeps me longing to take lessons from one sad story of good news.

My Daily Denials

I keep a crucifix in a bedroom drawer – next to my other unmentionables, and additional random remnants I keep as talismans too, inexplicably: a broken shoelace, a ball of wood from some art supply store, and a bookmark (mentioned in another post), bearing the words of another, differently contentious prophet. A curious trove of trinkets and treasures, from the arguably practical to the I’m-not-sure-quite-what. Strings, stones, boxers, briefs, socks, words, and an eternally dying plastic Jesus Christ.

I wonder at times why I don’t have an image of Christ on my wall where I wake up every day, and then I recall what that image is, and what (I think) it represents. I suppose I owe the man that much, to remember his sacrifice, but Jesus Christ (sorry, Jesus)… who wants to celebrate that moment, and see it every day? Is that what God would want? It’s a kind of macabre celebration of a life, to fixate so fully on its last and agonizing moments.

There is of course the sanitized version of this symbol: the crucifix without the dying Word of God upon it. It looks to me like an inverted sword; it has a practical handle for holding up against vampires too. It has an epic simplicity to it, and works as well in rough-worked wood as it does in gold – probably better in wood, all things considered.

But then… would I carry around a tiny noose, or a rack, or maybe a miniature iron maiden – and any of these out of context – as a symbol of my faith in the good that resides at the very kernel of each of us? Of our collective potential to transcend violence and anger and fear?

No, I would choose maybe an acorn, or a bird, or a cloud. Something light, something fluffier, and a wee bit less gruesome. The cross alone was simply an instrument of death inflicted by mortals upon other mortals (and maybe one immortal volunteer). Jesus upon the cross changes its character and meaning entirely. I have never appreciated the meaning of the word sanctify, but maybe this is as good an example as any example could be of a word-used-well.

I have a problem with the suffering in this world, and a problem with being reminded of the suffering of a man who we have since come to remember for his message of healing, compassion, peace, and forgiveness. This contrast is understandably stark, and itself deeply mysterious. At least, it is those things to me. What is the allure of Jesus hung in pain (and presumably some amount of resigned disappointment), alone upon a lonely post?

Maybe it is sacrilege to ask. But then I think the Christian God at least appreciates questions. Maybe even demands them. As long as we’re asking questions about how to better ourselves and others, I’m not so sure any divine creator worth their salt (and our devotion and attention) would care if we at times struggled around the edges of what our faith and devotion to better ideals should look like.

I don’t know about yours, but my God appreciates effort, and understands human minds are capable of only so much wisdom without a good deal of making mistakes in the process of pursuing it.

Choosing a Means to Remember

So given that I have been given the right to choose how best to remember this man Jesus, what would I have chosen, as a symbol to remember Jesus by, if not his execution?

Would it have been his face? And what arrangement of features and skin tones would be sufficient to give credit to every person in every part of the world who would like to see some of themselves reflected in Him, so they could better reflect Him in themselves? I have no answer. Maybe Jesus could be carved to look like any one of us. But then, how would one recognize him?

Would I have chosen his crown of thorns alone, without the suffering skull? Perhaps with a respectful drop of divine blood? This too would be an appropriate symbol, though perhaps might be conflated with a wreath in these modern and commercial times. Also, the thorns would need to be a bit blunter, were one to expect to wear a smaller crown around their neck. Still, maybe the crown of thorns would be the thing I would choose, at least if pressed to choose quickly.

What about the feet of Jesus (with or without sandals)? The objects of reverent kisses; the very members that moved this travelling prophet around the lands he had come to land upon? The ones that touched the now-holy grounds most physically? Are there stones still in the world that were touched by those very feet? The fleshy surface of Jesus that came into most direct contact with our own world: the feet that could defy gravity, and walk on waves. Maybe those? But who would hang feet upon their wall, and where do you cut them off, respectfully? Perhaps just his footprint… but somehow without making assumptions about his size, in any way. It seems a tall order to celebrate God with a pair of feet, in any case.

Would it be a shroud, or a hand, or the tongue which spoke divine words? A tongue alone is probably taking it too far. The hand, but without identifying fingerprints (an invasion of privacy and personal security to be sure)… the shroud, but then it would need a regular washing, and would that require holy water and/or soap? I cannot know these things.

You might begin to get the idea. It is hard to properly immortalize the already immortal, using the common materials and symbols at hand.

Is it one of the many paintings of Jesus, that I might prefer to see when I look at a given wall? No, those are just paintings, and images are a dime a dozen these days. They are sure to only resolve God into a man with a beard of a given length, and a certain eye colour, and some kind of hairstyle. I think there is something to be said for the Muslim decision (as I understand it, which I admittedly might not) to not characterize such an important figure in such a visually literal manner. It collapses something big into something ordinary, regardless of how colourful one might choose to make it.

But the Christian god – my God – does at least put up with this, and would not approve of violence against those who might wish to paint his Son (in various media), out of love or otherwise.

Even cartoons can be a good way to remember, and continue to consider; remembering and considering are considerably better than discounting and forgetting. I think Jesus had a sense of humour anyway. It’s all good, He might say, I’m not entirely in that image anyway, but you go ahead and try and guess what I really look like I’ll still be waiting when you’ve got more questions.

The Power of an Unfinished Story

The Christian faith to me remains a curious personal struggle with mystery and faith. These and others are the words I have been handed by circumstance to consider and repeat, and perhaps to build upon, in my own life.

Christianity to me does not seem to be an immutable set of pat answers to anything, even though scripture is very often accused of attempting just that, and is very often used in just that way.

Look at the man: he did not settle somewhere and build a temple to himself (or his father, Our Father)- he moved around. He followed the roads available to him, moving at what mostly appears to be Human speed. He retraced steps. He evaded pursuers. He stuck to the ground he was given – but he moved. When not welcome in one place, he shook the dust from his feet and moved on. He told others they should do the same. There was work to be done everywhere, just like today, and too little time to do it all. He even lost his cool now and then, and might have even regretted it afterward. He didn’t carve his words or behaviours into stone or dogma: we did that after he was gone.

Today, we remember this mobile man, by affixing his image to the sawn trunk of a dead tree, re-posted in the ground – or itself hung upon a wall, and most often indoors. We place this symbol of a movement in fixed positions in our homes and houses of worship. The physical tokens of Mobile Jesus still get around a lot, captured in that one fixed moment in time and space.

I could go on, finding other symbols that I would prefer to hang upon any given wall, to remind me that Jesus died for the forgiveness of my sins. One might well roll their eyes at my presumption here. After all, there are as many if not more in the world who do not consider Jesus a given, at all. I am only reiterating what I have been told, and continue to consider.

And still, here I am: the hearing of this story, and my continuing consideration of it in light of the things I’ve personally gone through in my life, has been objectively important to me – in saving me from some dark and downward spirals I might not otherwise have escaped.

The story alone carries with it an undeniable Holy Spirit. Jesus, whoever you feel he may or may not have been, did save me from something, and continues to do so. Call that Magic if you will, or call it the power of Faith, or the power of God, or even the Power of Intention if you must – but it manifests as solidly as solid matter, in my heart and mind, and then in the things I choose to manifest in this world.

So for now I peek at my dying Jesus now and then, and say a very-Canadian Sorry for not wanting to put a nail in the wall, so that I can nail Jesus once again to something stationary, trapped in one place and time.

I carry instead the symbol in my heart and mind, and when the Holy Spirit (or whatever you might wish to call it) is suitably stirred up in me, I can see Jesus (that is, God; that is, Love) in the faces of those around me, and in the animals, and in the water and the trees… and even within myself.

The Word is not a dead word – it is animated and fluid, and living, and works its way through how simple people continue to struggle with their own simple selves, in the pursuit of answers that are continuously given through the active asking for them. Nothing is nailed down.

Happy Sunday! I hope you are safe and well and continue on your own better searches.

Routines, Episode… something

This morning, like most mornings, my eyelids fluttered and my body tossed this way and that, and my neck felt a bit sore, and my chest a bit heavy. I was leaving the world of dreams to enter this one. Things here are more-or-less real.

I had breakfast. I had a shower. I answered the varied calls of Nature. All in some kind of order. It involved putting on clothes and gathering things.

I found myself at the wheel of my father’s red truck, having said good morning and see you later to my Mum (often though not always the first one to rise in her household), and with my Dad still asleep and healing soundly.

The truck brought me down the road, while I rebooted my thoughts, dispelled again my inward concerns, and heard the ear worm I had created over the last several weeks playing in a quiet and steady loop at the back of my mind.

Then I was at the gas station. According to a new little sign on the pump, I was supposed to wear a mask even while outdoors now (in “public spaces”). I had rebelled, accidentally. The world for me at 50 is officially changing faster than my habits can keep up with. I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to breathe outdoors the way I had once done, a week ago, and all of my life before that. Now I know. I’ll try and adjust.

I got some coffee, after driving myself in a different direction than I had in the previous week. This, for variety – and to delay the inevitable start of my one-more-day-till-the-curtains-close.

I don’t mean to be morbid, in mentioning my mortality.

It’s Friday, and I’ve survived another arbitrarily strung-together sequence of weekdays. My mood and thoughts are shifted slightly now, knowing the underlying tone of my next two days will be slightly different: I’ll feel more vaguely free – though nothing at all will have changed, and by Monday the cycle will start again. I know this from great experience.

I left out the thousand little details that got me from my leaving last night’s dreamland to sitting here, writing to you, from the passenger seat of a borrowed truck. These unmentioned details are all iterations of what has come to and from me, twenty-thousand times before (or thereabouts). You can fill in the details: towels for showering, opening and closing various doors, tying shoelaces, scarfing down an unmentioned muffin, and so on.

I wish I had never seen the movie Groundhog Day – I would be feeling (I think) a little less stuck in some kind of puzzle right now, had I not. But then again, maybe that movie was a clue to solving something. I’ve had this thought before as well, unsurprisingly.

I am a biological machine, and (thankfully) I don’t run a completely randomized set of instructions every day. Can you imagine? Without any routines at all, we would be utterly inconsistent and incoherent. We might be happy, but we would be alone in that happiness. My routines keep me tied to people and to causes and to places that I care about, for whatever reason. Maybe my reasons for caring are themselves just matters of habit – though I think there’s quite a bit more to it than that. That is what I refer to loosely as Faith.

Writing should have been a better routine for me these last few years, but it has been hard to stick with it, in the face of so many other things to graft onto (or remove from) the routines that make up the person that is me. Regular exercise and better nutrition should have been [could still be] a part of those routines as well. And other things. I’ve still got time, but I never know how much. That’s part of the puzzle.

All those red herrings and paths not-yet traveled. How does a person live well through a mine field like that? Like this? Too many metaphors to mix… so little time to untangle it all.

I enjoy the challenge of life, more days and moments than not. I won’t lie: I can’t take much credit for it, as I was given a good hand of cards from the outset. I had somewhere solid to start from, and return to. I still do. I think I write too much about the guilt I feel about this, though I’d like to believe that this too is a routine I can work my way through, and on to the other side. Maybe through writing, maybe through doing nothing at all except what I’m doing now.

Bill Murray worked though the puzzle, somehow. I don’t remember the details of that story, just that it had some sort of good resolution. He learned something. I forget what… but I remember that he did. I guess it was a good movie after all. Maybe I’m glad I remembered that much.

The clock closes in on what we have come to call 9:30 (at least in this narrow band of our world). This signals some part of my brain to think about wrapping this up, finishing my caffeine drink, and getting back home, where a collection of new and old routines awaits. Side-quests to complete, on the road to somewhere else, slightly different than where I am now.

May you have a surprisingly excellent Friday! I want you to experience something wonderful and new, out of nowhere. It is out there waiting – I know it.

Thank God For Fridays (TGFF?) 🙂

Always Unfinished

Every morning (almost like clockwork), the Universe tells me that I should wake up.

Sometimes a digital alarm is involved, and sometimes it is alarming thoughts about the time I have remaining here, brought on by curious dreams that pursue me as I emerge from sleep.

To know what’s truly at stake, in my effort to fully and finally awake…

I drove around today in a big loop, wondering how to break my cycles of enthusiasm and dread. I’m always too far in my own head for comfort – looking back into shame or regret, or trying to peer forward into the fog of possibility, uncertainty, worry, or inevitability. I can’t determine the nature of the fog – only that it is there wherever I look when I’m not paying attention to the present moment.

I see that our world needs help. I know that I have hands to help, and I try (I think). Who needs it the most? Starting from within, it would be me, so that I can be there for those closest by, and then, for an expanding array of others. The species may though might not matter. Pick someone – regardless of their bipedal-ness – and give them some time. Maybe that’s how the world is made better, by degrees.

Sometimes, that someone who needs your time the most is you. You will know when you’re asking for it from yourself, I think. Don’t ask me how I have come to believe this – I just presently do.

After that, go out and look for another in need of something you might currently have to give. I am speaking as much if not more to myself than to any other ReadWriter who might happen upon these words, after they’ve come to me from somewhere, to put down and then share.

As always, I am journaling sidelong toward something. Maybe some action involving my feet? Maybe something or someone in need of lifting.

I wrote recently about feeling like an adolescent, but there are days when I feel much more like a toddler. The spiritual onion has a lot of layers, I feel – it feels that way at times.

Toddlers are concerned for the most part with walking – taking steps with some purpose. The purpose is sometimes just learning to take steps – sometimes, there’s a real somewhere to go. Only the toddler knows.

I know I’m still trying to toddle to someplace, for somebody… or something.

this.ideas[“art-it-proj_2020”] : {

namespace HR : {

/*
// version 0.0.1
// Hello, World!
// what else should we #include here?
// WHAT SYNTAX IS THIS?
let n = 0; // Getting imperative... 
TODO[n]: check this for:[syntax ideas, anomalies]; parse&&execute;
TODO[++n]:
Write<WL.Fict.Draft, #Collab> (
  "Fast Friends", ["A Big Short Story"], 
  #Friendship#Humour#Efficiency
);
TODO[++n]: 
Write<HR.Opin.Post, #Short> (
  "A Day Without Fear or Shame",
  "[Good Grief - Give yourself a Break",#ImagineThat#SelfLove]
);
TODO[n++]: Create another programmatic TODO;
*/

// The ... is essentially-openly-directionally-declarative...

// Aboot Hardly Regarding (HR)
const<txt> hardly.id : "hardly-regarding";
const<dom> hardly.dom : "hardly-regarding.ca";
const<uri[]> hardly.uris : ["https://hardly-regarding.ca"];
const<txt[]> hardly.types : ["blog_13_en", "podcast_13_en"];
const<dom[]> hardly.hosts : ["wordpress.com","podbean.com"];
const<btc[]> hardly.crypto.btc : /*TODO*/;
const<uri[]> hardly.contacts : [
  "mailto:hardly-regarding@gmail.com";
  "mailto:info@hardly-regarding.ca"
]; 

// Format of a report to HR (Hardly Regarding)
const class Report(input) : {

  // class extensions
  static<enum> TYPE : {0:HELLO; 1:ERROR; 2:QUERY; 3:IDEA; 4:POST; 5:ETC};
  
  // read-only fields
  const contact : hardly.contacts[0];
  const subject : "HR Field Report - {input.from}";
  const submitted : {input.date}

  // user-supplied fields
  var<.TYPE> type; // what type of report is this? 
  var<sName> resp.name; // who are you?
  var<email> resp.email; // how can HR contact you?
  var<txt> body.text: "Hello, HR!"; // What do you have to say?
  
  // optional user-supplied fields
  opt<uri[]> body.links: // links to submission content
  opt<meta> body.tags; // meta-tag your content
  opt<sName> credit.name; // who can HR thank for your report?
  opt<uri> credit.uri; // website, blog, or business;
  opt<btc> credit.btc; // a trusted btc wallet public address
  opt<paypal> credit.paypal; // a trusted paypal address
  opt<interac.ca> credit.interac; // for e-transfer (Canada only)
  //opt<opt.color> answer["What's your favourite color?"].favouriteColor;
}


// This is where the ReadWriter comes in =>
// Example of a politely sugared, empty HR.Report submission: 
public HR.Report => {
  resp.name : "";
  resp.email : "";
  body.text : "";
  body.links : [];
  body.tags : [];
  credit : {
    name : "";
    uri : "";
    btc : "";
    paypal : "";
    interac : "";
  }
};

// Example of a politely compacted, filled HR.Report submission: 
public HR.Report => {
  resp.name : "Joe Sanders";
  resp.email : "TheRealJoeSanders4@someMailService.io";
  body.text : "Hi! I found a typo on page 4, paragraph 11 -Joe";
  body.tags : "#GrammarIsMyPassion#";
  credit : {
    name : "The Sanders Family";
    interac : "TheRealJoeSanders4@someMailService.io";
  }
};

// TODO: eventually create endpoints. For now, old-fashioned email will do.

}} // cont’d…

Being a software nerd, I find myself at times trying to express information in structured ways. This helps computers understand what we mean. Taken too far, it can obscure our meaning from our fellow Humans. Sometimes I think computer nerds enjoy this obfuscation: it can make you feel like a wizard (but you’re not one).

This is probably an attempt to take back some sense of agency lost for (in my case) not understanding how cars work, or how to fix a leaky sink (without consulting Instructables).

The above syntax is not a specific language, but it’s certainly based on various languages I’ve had a chance to use. It is what you might call declarative… meaning, the syntax is all about making statements, but not about issuing orders. Imperative language issues orders/instructions, and can also make statements.

You might think I am about to attempt some clever parallel with how declaring versus commanding works, or doesn’t, in the real world, and you’d have been correct for a matter of a moment, just one or two paragraphs up from here… but I’ve not got the energy this morning, and am typing in a truck (not while moving). I’m also late for something.

Although my “software code” above is not telling you to do anything, it is extending an offer – or extending a request, depending on how you look at it – using statements (and helped along by comments, which are not meant to be parsed by machines, only Humans).

Advancing Into Adolescence

Physically I’m older by the day – intellectually I’m still trying to graduate from some sort of childhood and into some kind of better adulthood. I feel like a teenager gangling along some other dimension of personal growth.

What do I mean? I mean that I’m not ready to leave home quite yet. The job market of Life looks worrying. I haven’t finished all the schooling, and the marks I do have could be better. I’ve failed to complete more assignments than I can count. I’m not so great at remembering my chores. I still need my parents’ patient guidance and understanding.

I’m not ready.

In this world, I have a house (and own a mortgage – a kind of bank loan with additional perceived status). I have a career, and make decisions and products on schedules, with objectives in mind. I buy my own clothes and I successfully pay bills of various kinds, for varying levels of service. I get free small coffees at Wendy’s as often as not, because I have white whiskers, and must look ancient to any cashier under 25. I have been permitted to operate dangerous machinery (cars) at highway speeds for well over half my life.

I am 50 years old. When I was a child, I assumed all 50-year olds were by then more than fully grown. They had different, alien, adult minds, in my mind. They were not the selves they once were – not a single atom (this is perhaps true, I think, but not in the way I might have imagined). At least, these beliefs were some of my many a prioris back then; when you are young, most things are necessarily independent of experience. You take things on faith. You make the necessary assumptions to pin your backdrop in one place, so that you yourself can make some forward motion against a more stable and static set of assumptions about how the world is, where you are going, and what or who might be around for you to hang onto when you feel you’re about to topple.

Now, my experience has confirmed that only this shell (and some of its habits) is rapidly aging. My need to climb into my bed every night, safe from monsters and the mayhem of the world, hasn’t gone anywhere at all. I still speak to God, as though God is most certainly there and definitely listening. I continue to practice faith, and continue to hope that the responsibility of fixing everything in the world is not mine alone. The grown-ups have this. And when I find myself successfully asleep, they mostly do.

My father is at this moment having some of his most important pipes cleaned. Bypass surgery: a now-common procedure, and no less sobering for a son not yet ready to stand on his own feet. I have so many things I still want to accomplish as the child somebody else brought into the world. For one, paying my parents back for all the years of sacrifice and support. I fool myself at times that this is a kind of debt that can even ever be partially repaid. I want another couple of decades to try though.

I lucked out when somebody matched me to my family, and I know that’s not at all how it goes for everybody. The unfairness of this world is in starkest contrast to its beauty – you only have to look around.

When you believe in worlds beyond this one, it is possible to believe in a Long Game of the Spirit being played out elsewhere. We are in some sense not at all old, wherever the greater parts of us reside. I think I visit this place in dreams at times, and feel it in my physical bones at others. That Longer Mike is not getting grizzled in quite the same way where they are, and has more extensions on their homework. They are still in college (or trying to get accepted, depending on the day here on Earth), and are not yet expected to be an actualized, mature being. I am still at Home there. The metaphor of course (to me) explains where the idea of other, higher-dimensional parents comes from. For better or worse, many of us feel this same thing. I come down on the side of it being better. I believe I always have, and always will.

I don’t know how long I have the right to want to stay young here in the important ways, and I don’t know how long it might take to then mature in those others. I can at times only have faith, and then believe that this faith is real. The world has this. God has this. I can still take my time growing up for a little while longer.

My 50-year old self has work to do – the clock now tells me that this is true.

I love you, Dad. and I know that I will see you soon. We’ll go for a drive while your perfect heart is still healing.

xo

HRe: Badgery

https://www.pluralsight.com/achievements?badge=dfdcd1c4-c188-41e2-95ca-29cdcb85851a

I won a badge for starting something on Pluralsight. If I won a badge every time I started something, well… I could start an online badge shop. I could make entire outfits out of badges. I could decorate my office walls with mementos of all the things I decided to begin. Each of these endeavours would score me another badge. I’d be off to the races.

And hey, I love a good badge. I might hang them on a virtual wall here somewhere, if I accumulate enough.

Re: Drafting Things

[unrelated to the racing tactic, which I only know whatever Mario Kart has taught me]

Drafting words is like sketching pictures; you get your clean medium ready, then you start messing it up with symbols. Maybe the medium becomes more interesting than it was back when it was still empty, and full of limitless potential. Have I followed the potential, or simply scribbled all over it?

Does a toddler ask themselves this question after having fun smearing paint all over something? What’s good enough for the creative toddler is good enough for me, despite the whiskers.

I often read and hear that one should do one’s thing on a regular schedule, if one wants to get better at that particular thing. Practice makes perfect, and so on.

There are days when I have Nothing To Say, but a Nagging Desire to Say Nothing Anyway. I need a category for this, so that these moments may live forever, categorized as:

TL;DR: I have nothing to say. That’s all I had to say, today.

This makes me think harder about categorizing My Things.

Let’s see what we’ve created together so far:

  • Something about Missing Cats, and their relationship to practicing Faith
  • Something about writing, walking, and mixed metaphors
  • Something about emerging technology
  • This, whatever it is becoming

This is currently what I imagine also writing about here:

  • Something about finding mentors everywhere. (featuring TwoSetViolin)
  • Politics and current events (sans Trump)
  • Bold-Faced Opinions
  • Other

I believe these are good Categories, to start:

  • Faith
  • Evolution
  • Technology
  • Mentorship
  • Sketching
  • Opinion
  • Etc.

~~~

Re: Writing for a Living

There. I said it.

I have been and continue to be a professional software developer, but my dream is to express myself openly and creatively, in order to pay the bills. Why do the same thing your entire life?

This dream involves having some plan, where I can conceive of trading words for financial tokens. I don’t yet have such a plan, but I suppose that’s a thing I could attempt to fix.

While I’m at it, I want to create some kind of brand. I don’t really know what that means. Do I need one of those?


Many mornings, I start the day by waking up, rolling around for a while in protest of the waking, and then finally getting up to do bathroom things and putting clothes on myself. This is Phase 1 of the New Day, most days.

Phase 2 most often involves leaving the house, and going for a walk, so that I can collect my thoughts, before “going to work”. The walk I often take brings me up a hill and back down again.

This journey is an metaphor for any given day, or week, or year, or project – forward progress does not get made at a constant rate, but instead at a rate according to the weight one carries, and the inclines and terrain features one encounters.

I carry a backpack most places I go, when I’m not in the house. My laptop and assorted things take up a good portion of the backpack’s space – the rest is extra clothes, towels, and random things I might need. It’s usually pretty full, and I enjoy the extra weight on my back as I move.

You pack things with you on all sorts of journeys – concerns of the day, responsibilities, mental or physical health issues, TODOs… that’s your weight.

You encounter challenges and tasks of all different levels throughout your journey… sometimes the challenges are easy (flat ground, downhill), and sometimes they’re harder (uphill in the heat of a Summer day)… that’s your route.

This morning walk reminds me that life is a journey – that’s why I choose that route over the easier, quicker one. My body enjoys the challenge, as well as the scenery. I pick my route, for the challenge as well as the scenery. I don’t like starting the day’s Phase 3 (work) until I’ve had a chance to walk that reminder.

Can a person pick their weight and their route in life? Through a single day, a week, a year or more?


I have too many things to say and a great many more to hear.

I think the learning and the progress happens in those transitions between.

The Journey Begins

The Journey Begins” is apparently the Hello, World of the WordPress domain.

It’s short and to the point. Is this thing on? Will I be able to make it go?

And now it’s going.


Dear Mrs. Butterwell,

I found four boxes of letters and sketches in Bent’s old shed. Didn’t want to pry, but I think they belong to you and your family. What should I do with them? I can put them on Sig’s truck next time they’re around. Just let know, via the Crow.

One of the boxes had a note attached. It reminds me of the short poems you used to pass to me when you should have been doing your maths. You always got me in trouble with those. You know that’s all forgiven now. I just like to bring it up.

Again and again, we begin from within the spot we’ve found ourselves as already in.
-B.B.

-Hardley