I'm Going

I wrote Morning Pages with my fountain pen like every morning for almost ten years. I've refilled the pen from glass bottles of ink for going on five years. It saves money and feels good to use less disposable plastic.

It's the same with my morning shave. I use a shaving mug and brush, safety razor, and metal blades. No plastic involved. Again, it's more frugal than canned shaving cream and crazy-expensive plastic razor cartridges. Feels good to poison the world that much less.

Yay, me.

Writing all that, I thought two things: I should get everyone to do this, and I need to do more.

"Get" everyone to do this? I hate holier than thou preaching. No evangelist convinced me to take these paths. Instead, someone told me their story and I felt inclined to move toward these practices. Now I write and shave in these ways. Simple as that.

As for needing to do more, part of the practice is learning the next thing. Twenty years ago, I used a fountain pen with disposable plastic cartridges. That led to a pen refilled from bottles of ink. And that led to a refillable and repairable pen. One thing leads to another. It was the same with the practice of shaving.

These thoughts had me wanting a heat pump, induction stove, solar panels, and another electric car. There's so much more to do that I felt a little anxious.

I finished Morning Pages and then read this from Jane Dobisz in Daily Doses of Wisdom:

I'm not a perfect bodhisattva I have a long way to go, but it's all right. I'm going.

I am going. If it's not too holier than thou, I'll imagine this brings others along. If it doesn't, maybe I can be satisfied to just go\ on my way, imperfect and incomplete as everything in life must be.

Only A Game

Starting in 2012, Dad and I bought season tickets for Syracuse University Women's Basketball. We went to most every game for three years, but then Dad died toward the end of the 2015 season.

I've kept the season tickets. My wife and girls attend almost every home game. We stay 'til the final whistle no matter what.

This year, SU was a top-four ACC Tournament seed, riding a double-bye. They came into tonight's game rested, but sleep-walked through it.

They got crushed and I'm crushed with them.

I should know better. It's only a game, but it hurt. SU Women's Basketball can do that to me.

Back in 2015, on a Wednesday night in February, Dad called to check what time to meet for Thursday's game. I told him, same time as usual. He said, okay. "G'night, Dad," were the last words I said to him. He died the next morning.

That night, my brother took me to the game. SU against North Carolina, who was good that year. Not much chance for the Orange, but they won anyway, as if just for me. The final whistle, I almost felt Dad with me.

SU Women's Basketball can do that to me too.

So maybe I shouldn't know better. Maybe it's more than just a game. Right, Dad?

Let's go Orange.

Okay

Okay

This morning, I've thought about how anxious I get because things change slowly. Our checking account feels too low, bills feel too big, things at work feel like they need to be fixed immediately, I need to lose twenty-three pounds before noon, and so on. Each thing requires time, lots of it, but I'm in a hurry. Anxiety has that effect on me.

Here's the thing: it's okay.

Our checking account is okay. We have money. It'd be nice to have more and someday we will.

The bills are okay too. Really, they're small enough and we have a plan to pay them. We have no bad debt. We're in better financial shape than most people I know.

At work, I'm dealing with big issues. Even if it doesn't feel okay, it will be soon. I have good systems in place. I'm working hard to make things better.

My weight is okay. It's not dangerous anyway. I wish my clothes fit better, that I didn't flinch at my reflection in the mirror. That's okay. This old body has changed. It will change more.

Okay is a sign of acceptance.

Okay is not surrender.

It's nine in the morning. The day lies ahead. There are many things on my to-do list. That's okay. Some things won't be done today. I'll be working on them for days, weeks, months, and years to come.

It's okay that mine is a life in progress.

If you're wondering, I'm mostly trying to convince myself. If you're convinced even a little, that's a nice bonus for both of us and it's even better than just okay.

Don't Be Bill

I have this idea for a piece of writing based on the intersection of a line from a Food Network show and the bumbling work of our contractor, Bill. In the show, a chef told a sloppy, hapless contestant, "Your station is bumming me out!" The contestant is voted out of the contest shortly thereafter. That chef should have seen what Bill did to our house.

The piece has been stuck in my head almost as long as Bill disrupted our home. For 98 days, I wondered if he would ever finish and despaired at the work he was doing. It all made me anxious and desperate.

With this writing idea, I've tried typing, handwriting, leaving it for a week, coming back, but still it won't come. Yet, I'm not anxious. I'm certainly not desperate.

I'm also not Bill.

I am still cleaning Bill's mess, finding his mistakes, recovering from the job he did so poorly. Bill is still bumming me out.

Work on this piece of writing has gone almost as long, but unlike Bill, I'm proceeding with skill. My station is clean. The chef (someone who looks remarkably like me) is nodding for me to proceed. You're on the right path, he says, and then boots Bill from the contest.