Good Night

A terribly hot evening. I shoot baskets in the driveway. But it's really hot. I go sit in the backyard, read a book, sweat on the pages. Eventually, I shower, the water turned all the way cold. Drying off, I see myself in the mirror. Hey, I know that guy.

Downstairs I set the laptop on the coffee table before the seat between the speakers. I slide a record from its sleeve. Pat Metheny Group's Offramp. I place it on the platter, clean it, drop the needle, and turn the volume up two notches.

On the couch, I respond to email from friends. Hey, I write. How are you? Here's what's doing with me. Pat Metheny Group asks, "Are You Going With Me?". I certainly am.

The window air conditioner rattles cool air across me left to right. My friends' words rise from the screen and pass through me. My thoughts tap out of my fingers. The kitten attacks. Music plays. I open a blank page on the computer and write these thoughts. The sun sets slowly. The heat comes down a degree. Storms arrive tonight. More heat tomorrow.

The dog comes to see me, her panting tongue lolling from her smiling mouth. I smile back and say, "it's a good night, isn't it?" We both know the answer.

Those Mornings

It's one of those mornings. Hot and humid already, yet still climbing. Not much sleep to be had last night. The morning started with conflict and acrimony. Yesterday had too much of that too. And there's lots of work to do.

But none of that makes this one of those mornings.

It's one of those mornings because I'm feeling I can't read enough of what I need to read, learn enough of what I need to learn, or do enough of what I need to do. At work for an hour, I feel I've done far too little.

Why the hell am I writing instead of doing all that stuff?

Thanks for asking.

Here's the thing: it's one of those mornings because I've chosen to feel certain ways about things. The conflict and acrimony this morning? I've chosen to hang onto it, feeling wounded instead of compassionate. That's a poor choice indeed. The conflict yesterday? I've chosen to carry it into today. The lack of sleep? It's not so bad and it's good reason to make a spectacular cup of coffee. The heat and humidity? My office is air-conditioned.

I'm writing to change perspective, to orient myself back to the path on which I do what I need to do, learn what I need to learn, read what I need to read. Writing brings me back. Maybe you go for a run or meditate or sing in the car. I write and a couple hundred words later how do I feel?

Like it's going to be one of _those_mornings.

The kind of morning in which I stop every so often and breathe, in which I remind myself of choices I've made and choices available to me. The kind of morning in which I write a return to my body, mind, and spirit, a return to the path. The kind of morning in which I find myself ready now to ask what's next and then go do it.

It's one of those mornings. The good kind.

Maybe Just Go

You wake and have plans. Sure you do. You write pages of words that would feel like nothing if you didn't know better. Quit your whining, you tell yourself. In the workshop, you apply another coat of poly to a project and wash the brush in thinner. The laundry tub could do with a bit of a scrub. You scrub it but just a bit. You go upstairs thinking you might go for a run. But the cat insists you pick her up. She purrs. You scratching that purring cat. Summer heat is rising. Bugs whir like tiny machines. You move in and out of the world, the whir and purr bringing on a trance. Then the cat has had enough of you. She jumps down. You pull on running shorts and shirt. You take yourself out into the heat, stand in the driveway, the world before you. Infinite choices of direction and distance. The map of who you are and might be. You stand, trying to choose right or left, as if it matters. As if anything matters other than putting a foot forward, bringing the other along, and so on and so forth. You can have your plans, write your words, coat a project in poly, hold the cat while she'll let you, and stand in the driveway forever, but it's getting so very hot, the world is moving on with or without you. Maybe just go. No, really. Go.

Dullness and The Stone

I'm making dinner. Cooked rice and butter are snapping and crisping in the big cast iron skillet. Another skillet holds sliced carrots, a bit of water, salt, and pepper. I'll add butter and spice to that in a bit. Soon I'll cook eggs to go over the rice, douse it with a few shakes of soy sauce and a bit of sesame oil. Our version of fried rice.

While I simmered dried rice in water, I tried once again to sharpen my knife with a stone and oil.

I'm not very good at it.

There are devices for sharpening knives. Friends say they work well. I should probably get one, but I won't. I want to learn how to use a stone and sharpen by hand. I'll likely ruin my knife in the process and have had to work with a knife far from properly sharp, but I want to learn how to do this.

I've watched videos and read tutorials, but sharpening a knife is best learned through a teacher present in the room, who corrects the mistakes I make.

In this, I'm a poor teacher and student at the school of trial and error. I require so many trials to figure out even one of my errors. Learning to refill my fountain pen, I wore ink for years. Sharpening knives, I may not even have the right stone and I'm sure there are whole levels of the process I'm not yet imagining.

However, I sharpened the knife best I know how. Cutting carrots afterward, there was no denying I'd given the knife a better edge than it had and a better edge than I could have given it last year. I'm learning something.

Why not just get the device that will sharpen things properly? Why not go with what works?

I like working things out and, much as I complain, I like the practice of learning through trial and error. I like developing skills even when no one will notice. The knife isn't talking.

There are easy, efficient ways to do things, and then there is oiling a stone and drawing the knife against it, working out the proper angle and best motion. There are the ways that others do things and there are the ways I choose, ways that take me against the current and into strange new worlds.

Later, when the family comes to the table, we will all eat. The food will taste good to all of us — it's one of our favorite meals — but it will taste even better to me as recall the knife slicing through each carrot, the shine on the stone, the ways in which this dull boy is a tad sharper now, and how much sharper I might become.