Archive for September 2011
Meeting
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nice and easy
just a little at a time
knowing what’s next
blue ice in a glass
a discounting glance
an echoing laugh
hours that pass
with endless dismay
cross-eyed inspection
yet nothing to say
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Last Year
Last year at this time, Cyndie and I were in Portugal enjoying the Rowcliffe family’s Forest Garden Estate. I have been returning there in my mind, frequently this September, to re-live the incredible experience we enjoyed. There are so many special moments and events that deserve noting, but what is on my mind right now is the glorious fresh juice we had, one time out of peaches, and later out of grapes.
Cyndie captured these images of Ian and me processing some grapes for juice. The taste of those fresh fruit juices remains unrivaled for me.
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Flesh Wound
Now this is something that is clearly relative. Yesterday at the day-job, for the first time in a very long, long time, I suffered two separate injuries that drew blood. To me, they were unfamiliar events. I was all thumbs. I ended up with a band-aid on the same part of each of my thumbs from two isolated incidents.
I know that getting a cut on the hand is a very common occurrence for some people. There are folks who hardly know what it would be like to not have a wound somewhere on one of their hands. I tend to reside on the opposite end of that spectrum. To me, a cut is a distinct aberration. It is a luxury I do not want to take for granted.
I don’t like wearing band-aids. They always end up with the edges flapping or frayed. They are like having something stuck in your teeth that you can’t keep your tongue off. I feel a constant need to fiddle with the band-aid, repeatedly pressing it back into place. I’m not used to having them on my hands.
Last night, I decided to uncover the wounds to let them dry out. Peeling the bandage off the more significant wound pulled and stretched the skin just enough to cause fresh bleeding. Suddenly I become an invalid. With no usable thumb, I fumble everything. I can’t hold my toothbrush right. I can’t hardly wash my hands. Getting undressed becomes a fiasco. I’m trying to hold my hand up in the air, thumb out to avoid getting blood on things, and waiting for a scab to develop. What a ridiculous disruption for such a superficial injury.
We are truly lucky and blessed to have these tools on the end of each arm, covered with this amazing regenerative surface that flexes and protects.
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I wonder if things really happen in threes. It just occurred to me that these cuts were the second and third injuries I have endured in the last few days. I forgot, because it didn’t draw any blood, but on Monday, I smashed my finger with a hammer in a scene right out of a comedy routine. It hurt like crazy! At the time, one of my first thoughts was that I hadn’t suffered an injury in a long time. Little did I know what was to come…
Happened Again
Since my travels to Nepal in 2009, I continue to watch the news headlines from the region. I know people there. The news has an added poignancy for me now. I guess it is doubly so when the news involves one of the planes that fly tourists and trekkers into the high mountains. Once again, just such a plane has crashed near Katmandu. I have very strong memory of what flying in one of those planes is like. Reading about these crashes cuts to my core.
I went back to look at what I wrote of my first experience, standing on the tarmac, watching the variety of personnel informally wandering around. I am very happy I knew a lot less about what I was getting myself into at the time, than I know now.
From the article I linked to above:
While it’s too early to speculate on the cause, Kaul said, in general, aviation safety in Nepal is a concern. Many foreign tourists don’t appreciate this, he added, assuming the landlocked mountain nation maintains the same standards they enjoy at home.
“I’m not sure Nepal has the resources to invest or the technical ability within the government to ensure the system is safe,” he said. “Those who use mountain flights take for granted that the airline and the system are safe.”
And here, again, is my description of the time I was there, back when I naively assumed I wasn’t taking quite such a risk:
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When it arrives, the pilots cut the engine on the side where the passengers and bags are loaded, but leave the other one running. We get off the bus and line up to wait for the returning passengers to file out of the plane. I watch for their expressions, but don’t get a clear reading of any particular emotion. Later, I will understand this completely. A guy shows up with thermoses and sets them down on the tarmac to prepare tea for the pilots. The young man choreographing all the activity on the runway begins directing those in our line to climb aboard. He compliments the look of my hair and just as I’m about to feel pleased over it, he says the same thing to Gary, right behind me.
The Twin Otter seats about 15 people including one flight attendant who presents a tray with hard candies and cotton for plugging our ears. Each seat is on a window, with an aisle down the middle. To my surprise, taxiing down the runway brings me to tears. It makes me wonder if this trip means more to me than I am aware. It does bring to mind my mother, since I am honoring her with this trip, and suddenly tears are understandable. I learn later that others on the plane were similarly moved, so there is something dramatic in the moment.
My hope is rewarded when the pilot revs the engines and we accelerate down the runway. It feels like a peak experience, but it isn’t, because it just keeps getting better with each passing minute. Airborne, the visuals are an awesome array of hills, ravines, and terraces as seen out my window from above. Then I turn and spot it through the windows on the other side of the plane… snow-capped mountain peaks of the high Himalayas. It is an indescribable, overwhelmingly mind blowing rush.
This must be what I was after.
Dubious Fame
I did it again. I pulled “a Hays” the other day. It had been a while since the dubious feat that was named in my honor had occurred in our morning Futsal matches. Luckily, just a few days later, another player did the same thing, allowing me to finally enjoy not being the only person to accomplish the act which very quickly became named for me.
Our morning soccer games are played indoors on a wood-floor gymnasium. We set up PUGG® pop up goals on each end of the court and we are ready to go. If enough players show up, our ideal is 5 players on each team. You never know who will be there, so the teams randomly form each morning.
We have found that the number 5 also works well for the number of goals needed to win. First team to 5 is the victor, the score resets to 0 – 0, and we keep on playing. That way, we get multiple games in each morning. If suffering a 5 – 0 drubbing, the quick reset gives a fresh start and opportunity to alter ones fortunes.
In regular 11 v 11 soccer matches on the full-sized pitch, goals come few and far between. One goal takes on greater significance. In our games, played three times a week, for more than a decade, there are a lot of goals scored. It isn’t all that surprising that on a rare occasion the ball might bounce off a player and careen into the very net he was trying to defend. Okay, sometimes a player might even kick a ball that takes an errant trajectory to land in his own goal.
The term, “own goal” has its own Wikipedia entry: An own goal occurs in goal-scoring games when a player scores a goal that is registered against his or her own team. It is usually accidental, and may be a result of an attempt at defensive play that failed or was spoiled by opponents. There are video compilations that celebrate the own goal phenomena. Thank goodness that I don’t find my name associated with such a thing on the bigger stage of soccer.
No, the grand accomplishment named after me is related to the fact that we play our games up to 5. We already had a name for the act of kicking an own goal, labeled for one lucky fellow who demonstrated a penchant for doing so in our games. Then one morning, with my team in the precarious position of having 4 goals against us, I inadvertently kicked the ball into my own net to give the other team their fifth goal, and the game victory.
Not a worry. We just reset to 0 – 0 and play another game. They’ll forget about my gaffe soon enough. Then I did it again. Twice in one morning. Two games lost because I kicked the ball into my own net. The art of losing a game by way of making an own goal on the fifth point is forever referred to as “a Hays” in our morning games.
Unexpected Surprise
From the file marked, “You never know what’s around the next corner,” …I walked into my local auto repair shop to pick up my car that was in for service yesterday and began chatting with one of the friendly technicians. I had my mind on having just left work, getting to the shop before 6 p.m., paying for the car being serviced, and figuring out how to get the extra vehicle back to our driveway.
While the guy behind the counter tended to another customer, I greeted Tom, one of the more social techs, and asked how he was doing and if he was enjoying the weather of this time of year.
He revealed himself to be a big fan and began listing the things he likes about it, like the decline of the pesky mosquitoes. I tossed out another aspect that I liked, the end of mowing season, and he stopped me there. He still has mowing to do on his property. I questioned why he would prolong that chore. Wasn’t it dry enough lately to just let it go? As he began to describe his situation, my eyes opened wide. He has a hobby farm with multiple 1200 pound manure producers, he was telling me. I don’t know what that has to do with needing to mow, but that didn’t matter to me any more.
Manure producers? “Tennessee Walkers,” he explained. I was talking to a guy who works on my cars, and who lives on a horse hobby farm like the one Cyndie and I are dreaming about. I gleefully described our (now somewhat delayed) dream, and then his eyes lit up. He told me that there are three horse properties surrounding his that are for sale and have been on the market for a long time. “It is definitely a buyer’s market right now,” he said.
He seemed so excited for us and the possibilities, that he said, several times, that he was going to stop at a couple of the places on his way home and pick up the brochures for me. I found it interesting that the feature he felt most worth mentioning regarding one of the places, was its driveway that went on and on. It is one feature that particularly appeals to both Cyndie and me. For some reason, we both want to have a long driveway. It seemed valuable to him, but he didn’t know that it held special value to us.
Listening to him talk about the farms was both fascinating and intimidating. I quickly became aware of how little I know about this type of thing. It was also very inspiring, leaving me feeling like we may find it easy to make the move from our suburban home to a rural hobby farm. He said that in his community there are more horses than there are people.
I can’t tell whether this will make Cyndie’s time in Boston go by fast, or seem like it is taking forever. If we find a place that we want to buy before she ends her work out east, it will be a difficult situation. With the challenges we will face if we are to become farm owners, I have a feeling like it will seem like it is coming at me faster than I can prepare myself for, even with all the time we’ve spent lately conjuring up this dream.
To think, all I had on my mind when this started yesterday was picking up the car…
Tennessee Walkers, eh?
Altered Perspective
Nothing is ever really as hard as we make it out to be. It is remarkable, the mental power we have to influence how realities play out. If I think that some task is difficult, and I keep repeating that message to myself, it seems only logical that the perception I develop is bound to make the task more onerous than it would otherwise be. Especially as compared the choosing to entirely refrain from telling myself anything negative, and forging ahead without hesitation to tend to the task at hand, regardless the challenge it presents.
I spent the majority of my life under the duress of a negative perspective. It is a complex collaboration of insecurity and dysfunctional thinking that conjures up a belief that this is a sound and logical manner of reasoning. Yet it is the kind of thing that one defends with stubborn resolve. It is such a misguided effort.
Nothing is as bad as it seems. The pains we cling to, the wrongs that we have experienced, are ours to release at any time. It is absolutely possible to give them up in an instant. Both Cyndie and I have learned to do this. In time, it is possible to become aware enough to avoid even taking on certain mental burdens in the first place. It is something that I wish I had learned to do much earlier in my life.
It was never as hard as I perceived it to be.
Relative Something 