Not The Hardest Thing

After the dentist I went home to my daughter who had had trouble with a hawk. Really. Home from school she found a hawk (a juvenile sharp shinned hawk according to a friend who knows these things) sitting in our driveway refusing to move. My daughter was supposed to put the garbage cans in the spot occupied by the hawk but you know how hawks are. I agreed with her not messing with it. No way. She went to have a snack while I changed into running clothes. I had just enough time to squeeze in a run before making dinner.

Ten minutes later I started jogging down the street. The air felt colder than I had expected. Maybe I should have worn the tights and damn, I left my gloves on the kitchen table. I hate running with cold hands. This is going to be tough, I thought.

A quarter mile into the run I felt rain drops. Big ones. Rain plops. Few and far between. Some snow flurried in there too. Wasn't it supposed to be forty-something degrees? Felt more like thirty. The rain plops came harder. The sky was dark, dark grey, like dusk in early afternoon. I had my reflective vest. I wondered if I shouldn't have grabbed my blinking LED lamp. I kept going.

At around three quarters of a mile rain really came down, filling the shoulders of the road and soaking through my vest and shirt. My hat dripped. That rain was cold, let me tell you. It went through me. I blew into my fists but was missing those gloves I'd left in the kitchen. I wondered, how long does hypothermia take? Surely longer than I'd been out, but maybe I should turn around.

I'm trying to accumulate mileage. I want to get in shape and am making a game of how many miles I run this year. I know the average miles I need to run per day. It's not many, but it's more than I had run. A car drove by and I caught some of its splash. I think the driver waved an apology. I waved back: It's fine. I kept going.

I ran through the worst of the rain and what seemed like all of the puddles. By the time I had my miles in the rain had slowed, the sky had turned a lighter shade of grey, and my hands weren't that cold. Maybe it was forty-something degrees again. My feet and clothes were soaked, I was beginning to chafe, and I was still cold. Then this thought came to me:

This isn't the worst thing that's happened to me today. This isn't the worst thing this week. This isn't the worst thing that will happen this year.

Cold, wet, chafed, tired, worried about hypothermia, my job, my weight, and money, I thought, this isn't the worst thing, and felt a little better. I knew I could keep going.

I don't recall the worst thing that happened that day. I don't know the worst thing so far this year. The worst thing didn't happen on that run and isn't happening now. I may never know the worst moment, but compared to whatever it might be most everything feels like something I can survive by putting one wet foot in front of the other. It turns out the puddles aren't that deep and sometimes it's not as cold as it seems.

Robert Galbraith, Lethal White

I really don't know much about mysteries and so am no authority on British mysteries for sure, but as the old Genesis song says, I know what I like and I really, really like J.K. Rowling writing as Robert Galbraith. I've read each of the Cormoran Strike mysteries and they are all a great ride. I just finished Lethal White five minute ago and am already thinking about re-reading the three previous books starting tomorrow and then re-reading Lethal White.

If nothing else, maybe this time I would be able to put two and two together. Though, in fairness, given the complexity especially of Lethal White it's more like putting the limit as x approaches infinity of the quantity one plus one over x all raised to the power of x together with...well, you get the idea, it's complicated.

That complication didn't bother me one bit as I read, racing through the last three hundred pages (and not just because my wife was desperate to get her hands on the book). I was never going to guess the killer or the motive or really understand things even after all was revealed, but none of that matters because I love the characters of Robin and Cormoran and now Sam Barclay. Mostly it's Robin I find enthralling and so very real.

Rowling is brilliant. There is no doubt she's one of the great writers working today. I am simply amazed at her talents and, as it was between Harry Potter books, can't believe that I will now have to wait years for the next installment. I might survive, but it won't be pleasant waiting.

Letter Of Recommendation: Scooping Cat Litter

My daughter has been too busy to some household duties. She's a good kid so I pick up the slack largely without complaint. After all, I was doing these things before she was born and for most of the time she was an infant. (I made her change the motor oil at fourteen months). It's no big deal to take these things on and so each morningI have been scooping the litter box. It has turned out to be at least as good for me as it is for the cats.

Maybe you think scooping cat litter isn't your cup of tea. It's kind of gross to think about. The smell isn't great. Is the litter radioactive or carcinogenic? I still recommend going to the litter box early each morning, sitting on a stool, and scooping the litter with a small smile. Scooping the litter turns may not be the way to joy, but it is surely one way toward contentment.

I scoop litter after morning meditation. That has helped make it a practice rather than a task. It really does seem like raking a Zen garden. I sit on the stool, sift for treasures, drop them into a bag, add clean litter, and drop the bag in the garbage can. I'm in no hurry. There's no reward. Aside from this essay, no one would ever know I'm doing this. (Well, the cats might notice, especially the black and white one who likes to watch.)

Scooping litter is performing maintenance which makes the world go round. Doing the practice every morning means the box rarely smells that bad. The practice is quiet, clear, and done in solitude. I'm not exactly mindful but it is the kind of meditative act in which I'm not thinking to conclusions or to get anywhere. I am simply there, on the stool, scooping the litter, being at peace.

I've had similar experiences doing dishes and laundry but there is something special about the litter box. I think it's that the litter falls like sand through the sieve of the scoop like sand passing through an hourglass. It feels timeless.

This morning, after I had finished scooping but before I stood up from the stool, I closed my eyes and felt myself bow to the clean litter box, to the bag of dirty litter, to the scoop hung back on the wall, and to this daily practice of maintenance in solitude. I hadn't intended that bow, but it felt right and good.

The black and white cat was watching. She stood still, her entire being the very definition of composure. When I moved to the garbage can to drop the bag of dirty litter, she remained still and her eyes did not follow me. It wasn't until I went up and rang a scoop of dry food into the cats' metal bowls that she ran pell-mell upstairs as if I was a monk striking a bell signaling the end of meditation and the beginning of a new day.

Art, Craft & Good Work

I have some trouble talking about this sort of thing because the word I reach for, craftsmanship, is too gendered and sexist, as if woman was incapable of crafting the finest things. Ugh. Rather than speaking of craftsmen I tend to use the term artisan though it doesn't work quite as well to talk about craft and good work. Still, it's something with which to begin and allows me to talk about record labels.

One of the best things about records is their physicality. There is heft and weight to them and they are pieces of art to be held in and manipulated by the hands. They are also wrapped in art and record sleeves are wonders to behold, but there is art pasted directly to the vinyl as well, circular labels. Well, at least they are often art, crafted and designed to be as pleasing to the eye as the music is to the ear. That's why a particularly bad label stands out. Consider three Genesis albums that occur one after another in their catalog.

The first is from A Trick Of The Tail.

Charisma was a label from back in the day and they went in deeply for a look. "The Famous Charisma Label" really was famous with me and the people I knew and respected. There was a beauty to it and a depth that was pleasing to my eye every single time I drew out one of those albums to play. I didn't put it on my wall, but I didn't rush right into spinning it either. There was a momentary and pleasant pause to take in the artwork, the craft of it and that momend still adds to the experience of listening.

It sure beats the hell out of the Atco label on Wind & Wuthering.

That, my friends, is an ugly label. Even the typography is bad and the iconography is worse. I suppose it could be called workmanlike but that's an insult to working people of either gender. How did this get onto a record from a big name company like Atlantic? Was it designed by someone executive's nephew? Did someone lose a bet? I kind of want to know the story of this, but bet it was designed by a committee of middle managers. That's always the best way to develop art.

I'd say more about this but Mom said if I didn't have anything nice to say...

And finally there's this gorgeousness from Seconds Out:

I sometimes put this on the turntable but don't spin it for a few moments imagining that I could go back to 1977 and catch one of these shows. It's another Charisma, but this label also appeared on the Atlantic versions. Thank God it wasn't on Atco.

Good work, artistry, craft, these are things that require care from beginning to end, top to bottom, and right down to the label. I've been wondering why I waited so long to buy Wind & Wuthering when it's a gorgeous album. Could it be the Atco label? It's probably not that simple, but then again, such a blemish is difficult to dismiss on even the best works of art and craft.