Little Bit Of The Past

Yesterday I was all sorts of behind. I woke late. It had snowed. I needed to shave, shower, write Morning Pages, dress, shovel, pack lunch, eat breakfast, and get to work. No way could I get it all done and still drive my daughter to school and myself to work on time. Damn it.

My wife rescued me by taking our daughter to school. I paused Morning Pages halfway and shoveled the snow, shaved, showered, threw some lunch together, ate a bit of toast, and walked to work. Fifteen minutes early, I finished the last Morning Page and a half. No harm, no foul, but I knew I had to get up earlier, if for no other reason, then to feel better.

Last night, after Syracuse Women's Basketball in the Dome, we returned home to an inch or snow of new snow. Despite the late hour, I shoveled to save having so much snow in the morning. I considered shaving and showering to get them out of the way, but my daughter was in the shower and I was too tired.

This morning, after a couple snoozes, I got up earlier. I wrote all three Morning Pages, shoveled off a dusting on the driveway and sidewalk, shaved and showered, dressed for work, made lunch and toasted bread. By seven I was ready, but my daughter doesn't need to go until 7:30. Which sent me back to a little bit of the past.

I'm typing in the living room while side three of Genesis' Seconds Out spins on the turntable just like it did most mornings while I was in high school. Side three is comprised of one twenty-four minute song, "Supper's Ready." Each morning I got up at least twenty-four minutes early to listen to that song. It was a comfort before high school, which I thought of as a kind of prison. I'd sit in my room alone with the music playing and...well, I don't even know. I'd just sit and listen. That was good. It was enough.

This morning is a nod to that past. I no longer go to school. The last ten years of teaching were far worse than the years I spent as a student. After dropping off my daughter, I'll go to the community center and it isn't just that I don't mind, it's that I kind of can't wait. I'm happy.

Today is Dad's birthday. He would have been 81 and last night would have gone with us to the Syracuse Women's Basketball game. He would have been happy about my new job. And this morning he would be up early to watch the plow guys do his driveway, have his coffee, and start the day. I'm in the past enough this morning that he's here with me just a little.

Being up early, going back to the past, and Dad's birthday are happy things for me. I doubt it's the same for my mother and brother who wake and remember in their own ways. Me, I'm up early, Seconds Out is into the "flute" solo just before "the gods of Magog," it's Dad's birthday, and soon I'm off to a job I love. All that and I've spent twenty minutes typing this. What a day.

You should see the smile on my face and hear this album. Both of them out of the past and into the morning. Both of them just right.

So Much

All morning I've felt it's too much. The cold beyond the blankets, the dark morning outside the window. The alarm clock's ring. Too much to open my eyes. Out of bed it was too much to boil water for coffee though the gas range does the work. No rubbing sticks or stirring the embers. No wood to carry in from the shed I don't own. Fill the kettle, turn the knob. It's so much. So much. Then the writing. My eyes darting toward the clock ticking down. Three pages, too much this morning. The snow in the driveway demanded shoveling. The shower demanded my presence. The hair on my face screamed for the razor. And then, walking to work, snow shifting with each step, I thought, this is too much. Lifting each boot, again and again, too much and too much. At work I sighed at the thought of plugging in the laptop. There were no tissues for my running nose and email was stacked higher than I could endure. My shoulders fell. I took a deep breath. Held it until it really was too much, then let it out and clicked on an email. The daily poem. David Kirby. "Poking Stuff With Sticks." Not too long, not too much. I read through to the end: "So much stuff out there, just waiting." I looked out the window at snow drifting down and felt my breathing in and out. So much stuff, I thought, but maybe I'm just enough.

The Day Gets Away

I had plans for today to get up, write Morning Pages, then see what I could accomplish. I especially wanted to clean the mess on and around my desk. Typing this now, at nearly four in the afternoon, a book, phone, planner, portfolio, and pack of post-it notes still litter my desk. I don't want to even describe the stacks on the windowsill and shelf or the footstool atop which I've piled papers that surely I'll get to later. (Probably not. And stop calling me Shirley.)

After sleeping past eight, I came down for coffee and Morning Pages but made the mistake of checking email. A notice from Google said some accounts of an organization I used to help manage are sending spam. Those addresses are abandoned by all but a few people. Even the program director and I stopped using them.

Okay, I thought, before I start Morning Pages, I'll just log in and fix things quickly. But I couldn't remember or find my password. I tried one thing, another, and some others. Ten minutes turned to thirty and then an hour. I requested help from Google, closed the computer, and went back to making coffee. Google, a leader in technology and efficiency, won't get back to me for at least a week.

I made coffee but the filter ripped and filled the cup with grounds. I started writing, but only the top half of the cup was drinkable after which I was easily sidetracked from the half page of writing I'd done by a possible way to get into the account. A minute turned into forty-five, but I recalled (lucked into) the correct password then lost another three-quarters of an hour monkeying with settings, reading and deleting old mail, alerting the few users that I'm shutting things down when the domain runs out.

Back to writing. I filled page one and was midway through page two when I remembered that the domain renews and charges my card automatically. I logged into the account again, drilled through menus, and fifteen minutes turned to forty.

Done with that, I made another cup of coffee thinking, I need to order a new chamber for my Aeropress. But I resisted that urge. Focus, I told myself, setting the kettle on the burner, placing a new filter, filling the chamber (which I really do need to replace), rinsing the mug, pressing the coffee. The whole time thinking, there's something I'm forgetting.

The clocked ticked just past noon. I sipped coffee and wrote into the first lines of page three. I finished the coffee and (maybe it was written in the bottom of the cup) remembered my one o'clock therapy appointment. The clock read 12:20. I still had two-thirds of a page to go.

I went up and dressed, told my daughter I was off to therapy, gathered the unfinished pages, and drove to the office. There I finished the last page and breathed a literal sigh of relief. I looked at my watch: 12:57 PM.

Where, I wondered, had the morning gone?

Football, Veterans, And Apologies

I turned to the Sunday evening football game as the National Anthem was being played while a giant flag waved on the football field. I turned the channel.

I'm proud to be a citizen of the country founded on the principles of the Declaration of Independence, Constitution, and Bill of Rights. But I can't abide by the supposed patriotism of the red hat brigade. Nor can I give even tacit support to the current Executive Branch or those who support them.

It's the eve of Veterans Day and I'm divided about that. I respect people who have served but don't support the last two decades of war. I find military personnel equal to teachers, fire fighters, doctors, clergy, and all those caring for those in need. On the eve of Veteran's Day, I'm as unwilling as ever to celebrate or condemn at the jerk of a knee.

Speaking of knees, I'm embarrassed to admit watching the NFL given the hateful history of the management of that organization. I still find the game beautiful and exciting. I just can't quit. That's my fault entirely. I celebrate the players who took a knee and condemn those who so strongly opposed free expression of speech. Still, I watch and am part of the problem.

Tomorrow I'll take a moment to consider veterans, but I can't salute the flag or stand for the National Anthem as if my country can do no wrong. I change the channel, sit out the anthem, refuse to support the current administration, and question authority. I see no reason to apologize for any of that.

But I really am sorry I'm watching the NFL. There's really no good excuse.