Good Luck

I feel like the poor guy in front of the firing squad. I have been asked if I have anything I would like to say prior to the bandana being tied over my eyes. It is time. This is the hour. This is the finish line, a 365 day assault on complacency and decorum is now at an end. 

What began a year ago as a daily ritual of writing discipline, designed to push my somewhat obscure stream of consciousness journaling towards literary improvement, yet allowing for the transgressions associated with what is called do it fast first, has of course evolved into something completely different and even unexpected. It became fun. It became enjoyable. It became something I began to look forward to and even juggle my other chores and responsibilities around. This is something I find amazing. And tremendously satisfying. I can now, on demand, go back to any day of the now completed year, and take a critical look at what was going on inside my head and around me. 

This is the crossroads. I can hail my effort as a mission completed, call it a plan that contained a start, a middle and an end, and move onwards and upwards. Do something different like paint something every day. Maybe write 365 songs. How about doing an act of random kindness every day? Or, taking the exact opposite direction, head toward another level of what we have begun and try to improve it. I could go back every day and edit the existing. A chore I have never done, and, truth be known, have never wanted to do. 

At this juncture, having already been at the crossroads and offered a last cigarette, it is clear that there is both an opportunity and a calling here. The opportunity is to build. The calling is in my choice of mediums. The pen may be mightier than the sword, but is it my pen or my sword? It those tools are unavailable to me, or if my soul passionately calls for the camera or the Spanish guitar, who am I to disagree? It is like a dog looking at her shadow. 

Therefore I think it is in the structure. What am I capable of creating if I dedicate ONE HOUR of focused work per day to that process? Intriguing no? 

My final metaphor for the day and by proxy, the year, is this: The structure is the package without which one cannot put the creative gifts one holds for humankind to see. Or hear. Or feel. Or share. It is like (oops) having the goal of saving $3,650 in 2019 to buy say, a new Stratocaster. Here is how you do it: Practice scales and chord progressions every day for a year on your current axe. After every hour session place a ten dollar bill in your day-glow painted coffee can. 

On this day in 2019, reward yourself as you reward others with the poetic fruits of your labors. Sing that song!

No blindfold, through the crossroads, with structure, satisfied, rehearsed and ready to go shop. 

Good Luck. 

Listen More

I was considering the other day how much music shapes the experiences of our lives. This rather ordinary opening statement, bordering on the weak, soft and/or silly, is, I am thinking now, something we should examine closer. Perhaps in the same manner that we critique the movies we see, the books we read (or don’t) and the art we admire. A very good friend of mine once went to the extent, on a night of philosophical debauchery, to insist that the only way to really know for sure if a piece of art was good or not, is if it speaks to you. Or not.

Like a song speaks. Or sings, or shouts or uses various instruments to replace the voice. What is it saying to me? What is my emotional response? How deep can I get with it? Or even the most elementary and banal of all methods, can I dance to it?

I am walking the dogs on the beach on the first decent day in two weeks. The wind is calm, the water smooth and the grey clouds are giving way to occasional patches of blue. The dogs are happily moving driftwood to discover the source of whatever scents attract them, and a chevron of geese egg each other further and faster with a series of syncopated honks. Nature’s cacophony adds a worthy score to my beach combing day-dream.

And I wonder, again, if I am missing something. I will admit that I have tried, tried really hard, to ‘get’ jazz, but not even Miles, Coltrane or T. Monk could make it work for me. Brubeck is close, but reserved for the softest, potentially intimate, romantic circumstances.

Rap is too violent and atonal, and not being a fan of the synth or, worse, drum machines, I don’t care if Eminem can adlib lyrics by the truckload, it doesn’t fill my sails. Although I did like 8 Mile. I have never listened to a complete JayZ, 50Cent or Drake song. Maybe I am just not trying. I apologize if this is so.

I like the occasional big band, first hearing its clever nuance in college while a music major, but it only satisfies under a tiny set of circumstances. Like a free lunch concert for example.

I love classical music. Adore and respect it. I am listening right now to our local classical FM station where some tasty violin and cello licks are describing a moon, reflections on still water, birds in flight and star crossed lovers. There might be chocolate mousse in there as well. And champagne.

I don’t need to bore you any longer about my feelings for rock n roll.

With this simple musical landscape as backdrop it could come as a surprise, or not, that my final and official 2019 New Year’s Resolution is, paradoxically, to…

Listen more.

You can take that as a metaphor or accept it as face value. Listen more. And listen better. And listen deeper.

But listen more. (I wonder if that confession implies talking less?)

Audacity and Vigor

Don’t look now but we are almost out of time. Three days left in 2018. If you are considering a new year’s resolution and plan on hitting the ground running with it come Tuesday, the time is at hand.

Interestingly, the odds are very good (a solid lock) that you are among the unofficial 85% of Americans whose resolute commitment for 2019 will fall into the category we call TBT, The Big Three. For your review the three, and in order of importance, are:

1) STRESS MANAGEMENT

2) DIET

3) EXERCISE

Big enough for you? To recap, the reason stress management now sits atop this lofty list is recent medical findings stating that when one is under habitual stress, the body, that miracle of sacred hi-tech engineering, releases chemicals known to have benefit during situations normally connected with the infamous fight or flight syndrome. The two most dominant hormones, adrenalin and cortisone, while dialing up your metabolism for temporary bursts of speed, power and sensory awareness, conduct this emergency response at a cost. That cost has a negative impact on our ability to repair muscle tissue, recover from trauma, it limits optimal access to fuel reserves, mostly fat, and significantly reduces our ability to rest and recover. A heightened state of emergency response to stress takes a lot out of us. Put in simpler terms, it has long been an accepted premise that one cannot out train a bad diet, now however it appears that one cannot out train chronic stress. No matter how much you run, ride, swim, lift, row, race and attempt to recover, and with even the best diet possible for your body type, if you are suffering (as many are) from the ravages of chronic stress, you are doomed. 

Maybe not literally doomed, because certainly there exists hundreds of examples of people succeeding while under continuous stress and strain, but if you are serious about pushing your health and fitness as you mindfully attempt to ‘do everything right’, this could be the one missing piece of the big puzzle.

Manage your stress and everything else will fall into its proper place. For those of you making the same attempt to reduce or stop your dependency of liquid toxins (cleverly disguised as stress relievers) as you did last year (and the year before), consider how reducing alcohol would play a positive role in all three areas. We just need something, a good habit, to replace this one bad habit.

In another article I listed several options. Do your remember when you smoked? How did you kick that habit? Most former smokers will tell you that they just quit, cold turkey, and yes struggled for a time, but found sufficient courage to see the benefits and tough it out until it was no longer an issue. 

Imagine the possibilities if you found a way to reduce, or better supervise, your stress. That alone impacts the quality of your exercise and the very purpose of your fueling. 

I have long practiced a method of dealing with the nagging impulses to sabotage my fitness, training and racing efforts with a two step process. As we cannot keep thoughts out of our heads, the process peacefully acknowledges their presence. “Oh, you think an ice-cold IPA would be tasty, and relaxing right about now?” Thought acknowledged. The response as part two must be immediate and in your best commands voice. “I don’t do that anymore.” Repeat as often as necessary. 

Part three could be your reciting the myriad benefits resulting from your on-going dance with stress management and the new way you envision your success playing out.

For about thirty years it was sufficient for me to hear four words. At the Ironman World Championships held every October on the Big Island of Hawaii, the voice of Ironman Mile Riley would greet every finisher with words that still give me chills, “YOU ARE AN IRONMAN.” I knew exactly what I had to do to hear that voice. 

Please give this serious consideration as we head down the final approach to the 2018 finish line. If you want to see the sunrise you must be up early. 

Plan with audacity and execute with vigor. 

Rather Nicely

They have moved around. No longer safe in their steel file cabinet at the cabin, where they remained since their creation, my journal notes from 1993 and 1997 were rescued from their temporary deep storage yesterday. Those two volumes are especially useful because they each contain field notes from my bike adventures from Los Angeles to Seattle. Along the Pacific Coast. I dug them up as reference. This exhumation primarily for the simple fact that we are planning another adventure over the same terrain. With the main difference that we will reverse the direction and ride from North, from Bainbridge Island, WA to South, final destination to be announced, but somewhere between Malibu and Manhattan Beach, CA.  Here are the most oft asked details, taken directly from my final log on each trip:

1993: Playa del Rey, CA to Bainbridge Island, WA. 1,586 miles in 22 days, 72 miles per day average. 

1997: Same start and finish. 1,602 miles in 23 days, 69.65 MPDA. 

From this historical data alone I think it is safe to consider 1,600 the distance and three weeks the time. That, however, is where the data ends and the fun begins.

In ’93 I didn’t even own a heart rate monitor. EVERYTHING was done by feel, or what we now call RPE, rate of perceived exertion. I was in decent shape at the start of each trip, having just returned from tours as Navy Morale, Welfare and Recreation liaison, but I would really like to see some additional info, such as, elevation gain, average heart rate, power output, resting heart rate, weight loss, and so on. Additionally I was carrying only a small Kodak instamatic camera, not even a cell phone. Stop and consider what updated gear we now have at our disposal as the lap top or phone has all but replaced the analog hand-written journal and the GoPro does more in high-def than even the most expensive camera could do back then. And bikes! OMG. On the ’93 trip I purchased and built up a Raleigh MT400. Dual panniers, front shocks and enough hand positions to make 70 miles a day tolerable. That wonderful ride set me back all of $800. On the latter trip I brought home a Marin Eldridge Grade that I bought in Singapore, and rode joyfully over our Indian Ocean Navy Support Facility for a year, before outfitting it for the Big Trip II.

Now, I am looking at options, most likely a gravel bike, that could end up anywhere from a grand to three. Yikes, will that make me faster? Will it guarantee a more enjoyable ride? Will I be able (as we consider) to do a century a day in relative comfort? 

A thousand additional questions are currently in the process of the planning. There is something very special about this logistical effort. I actually like it. I have an idea, field notes from my personal experience, a bit of data and a few pictures, a map and a plan that is coming together. 

Rather nicely.

This Needs Work

I am anxious. Started when two of the dogs decided to break out and go on a neighborhood terror run. I try to keep them indoors as long as possible but I was overrun this morning, well before sunrise, by their face-licking tactics as I lay attempting to sleep. Meaning, that I was severely tested by their distraction as I, reading the graffiti on the wall, tried to start the day with my ritual breath counting. A challenging chore when two adult labs and an obnoxious, neurotic terrier are engaging you in a dog pile, demanding breakfast. 

Two of the three wear invisible fence collars and the third is fairly docile so I run her up the street to her home base after they have secured the perimeter of our place. But today they, the two, started barking and soon the echo from their bombast was moving further and further away. I decide to take the truck and drive past them on the way to neighbors house and manage to persuade one to follow as she normally does. The other one, and in her defense, an abused rescue dog, has a history of district of authority. She, fence collar or not, will go wherever the heck she pleases, and almost always to choose noise over tranquility. She will not allow anyone close once the canine hormones kick in. 

I decide to head home and as I do I see her trotting down the drive as if it was a sunny summer day with steaks on the barbie. Satisfied, somewhat, I settle into the morning news. 

More irritants. The POTUS is a total embarrassment, a vile, vulgar, self serving and corrupt liar, a habitual cheat and white-collar criminal. This for starters and putting it understatedly. This adds to my anxiousness. 

I have another week with this detail, and as I discussed with two PBers last night, I am thinking of taking a mini-vacation when this assignment has been completed. So I open the flash sale ad from Alaska Airlines and see where they can take me, cheap, to find some relative warmth for a few days of R&R. I give up on San Diego, Las Vegas and Tucson as if seems that you can only buy one one-way ticket at a time. More frustration and more anxiousness.

In my notes I want to research a turntable that will convert vinyl to MP3 files. The good ones are 3-5 hundred and the cheap ones I refuse to consider. I check Crags List and find a decent one, still in box for 45 clams. But it is in Port Townsend a journey I do not want to make today. Dang.

The last thing I have on to-do list is to re-list the RV in the hopes of snagging someone wanting to trade for a van or small delivery truck that I could outfit for SAG duty on the eCOW trip. I say I will do that later and head back to the kitchen for more coffee. I am completely useless. My thinking is stinking. I am almost shaking with nervousness born from my inability to orchestrate a temporary truce on all this trivial trauma. 

The dogs are not the culprits. Dogs bark, as the Arabs say, but the caravan moves on. I am a manifestation of my internal crisis. 

This has helped. It always does. Simply putting my focus on the words that replace the mental consternation, guiding my fingers on the keyboard, as a gifted pianist might, quickly replaces the discordant cacophony of my emotional inflammation. Converting the anxiousness to relative calm. 

A dog runs off barking at other dogs and I crumble in response? 

Morning message and plan of attack? 

This needs work. 

Gotcha!

Did I tell you that my favorite set of headphones suddenly and without warning went kaput? No? 

I am sitting at the marble island counter in the cozy kitchen of the house I am sitting as the owners vacation in Mexico. The three dogs, also under my care, are all sleeping on the couch, the floor bed and the overstuffed chair by the fire. It had been a long day, two spin classes, shopping, a long walk on the beach with the hounds and the official wrap of the latest video. Dinner was over, dishes washed, the next day’s agenda solidified and it was now MY TIME.

I have a MY TIME ritual when things are running in normal mode that consists of three basic itineraries. It is important to recognize before I fess up, that these three are only available as distractions when everything else has been checked off my daily list of world changing chores. The three are:

1) I watch Rachael Maddow on YouTube.

1.a - Sometimes Lawrence O'Donnell too.

2) I watch an episode of a TV series.

2.a - I am currently re-watching Season 5 of 24

3) I read a chapter of whatever book has made it to the top of my read list.

3.a - Currently The Rise of Superman by Steven Kotler.

After that it is official lights out. Interestingly enough, comically so, it should be fairly evident from this ritualistic routine that I live alone. Maybe one day the three things will change to something a little more, how shall I say, romantic? I dunno, tried that a couple of times and I always end up missing my books. (smiley face)

So I am sitting with the cans on watching 24 on my laptop. It is the final episode and things are, as in any good TV drama, out of control. I hear something to my right and turn my head, keeping one eye on the screen, to see what the issue is. I see nothing urgent and return to the small-screen chaos. I hear it again, like when your ears rub the insides of a hoodie and you get that kinda scratchy friction, totally irritating, noise? I look again expecting to see the cats rubbing my leg but, again, nothing. It is the moment of truth as Jack is about to once again save the day (and pay the price) as the entire right channel goes mute. I spew my favorite, go-to expletive and hit the space bar. Gotta figure this out. 

I do all the tests I can without a oscilloscope, change out my cans with some cheap airline crap, try the buds, check the wires and ports, nothing works. Totally unsat. 

I decide more testing will be necessary, but not until tomorrow. I refuse, however, to watch the last five minutes of my favorite show with anything less than superior sound, a level of quality not available from the tiny built-in speakers on my first generation mac book. So I bail on the dramatic conclusion, curse again and log off. 

Politely I ask the dog on the couch to relocate so I can stretch out and read (number three of the routine). She begrudgingly complies and I grab my trade paperback and open it to the bookmarked page. 

The paragraph starts with another of the traits shared by all champions and ultra successful people. It is about instantaneously dealing with minor irritants, like a flat tire, traffic or a some mechanical problem, or as the author calls it, real-time, high-speed problem solving. 

Gotcha!

Beachcomber, Dog Walker, Steward

I am walking on the beach. Feeling grateful and responsible for my share of its stewardship as the winter winds slap my face with a brisk reminder of our interconnectedness. I am you as you are me and we are all together. I take a deep breath and exhale the sadness that comes from a thousand tons of pollution that I have allowed to end here, washed up like the carcass of a dead humpback whale on this pristine natural stretch of magical beauty. 

Sure, it is not all my fault. But it could be my flag to carry. Stop doing this people. Stop dumping waste and toxins in the water. Stop drilling for oil for the sole reason of commerce. And please curtail tossing your expendable plastic into the ocean. These practices, habits, non-thinking destructive actions are literally killing marine life and turning our once pure, life sustaining waters to poison, unsuitable to sustain life in any form. Maybe I should just walk and turn my head to the reality of this, but I cannot escape. It would be so easy to remain simply a beachcomber and dog walker.

We had a monster of a storm last week. It knocked down hundred foot trees onto houses, across roads and on top of power lines. We spent three days in the dark. All the time the accompanying winds crashed the shoreline like a stream of frigid water from a pressure washer. 

Yesterday I took the dogs for a walk at sunset. I hadn’t intended for it to be a damage assessment, but it definitely turned out that way. There was debris everywhere, flotsam and even a yard or two of jetsam. Along with the expected driftwood, was enough dimensional and pressure treated lumber to build a small house. Along with a criminal amount of plastic. Flip flops, fishing floats, gallon milk jugs, rope, plastic bags, clothes, bottles and even a small boat with a rubber hull. 

The dogs are having a blast as they investigate the mess for edibles. The sun is starting to set and I announce we have reached the turn around. Time to head back. For once they obey without argument, come about and head back down the rocky shoreline.

I am still thinking about the damage we are doing to our waters. There is an empty bag of ice floating near the shore so I grab a five-foot washed up cedar limb and fish it out. I stick it in my bag along with the other debris I have gathered. It is full. We have been on the beach for twenty minutes and I have already filled a garbage bag with litter, junk and a few toxic looking unidentified objects. 

I juxtapose this to the eCOW adventure. The eCOW is code for our bike trip down the Pacific Coast come springtime. States covered will be California, Oregon and Washington. The e is for Epic. Why not incorporate some type of beach clean up at every stop along the way? If we manage to attract ten intrepid riders on the trip and collect one bag each per night….that would be a heck of a lot of trash. 

I am walking in the beach, suddenly more steward than beachcomber or dog walker. 

Eight Days

Gottftied Kumpf, Wein, Ballhausplatz

Eight more. Here, Christmas Eve, 2018, we stand at 97.8% of completion. You will recall that the mission was to mash up some prose and post one every day along the path, informally known as the ’whatever the cosmos, our search for meaning, the need for revenue, repayment of debts (both monetary and karmic), the desire to stay somewhat healthy and somehow happier, and of course the easy ones of our relentless search for knowledge, wisdom, peace and love’ road into and out of 2018. We are just 8 days from the (somewhat successful) completion of said goal. 

I will resist the lazy temptation to start the grading process today, because, well, IT’S NEVER OVER TILL IT’S OVER. A lot can happen in eight days. Am I right Yogi? And although the fat lady is behind the stage warming up with a few augmented scales and juicy arpeggios, her time, as my aria, will come soon enough. Be patient grasshopper. 

Quick another story. 

Yesterday Junior texted asking for a ride downtown so he could buy his Mom a Christmas present. Seriously folks, who could turn down a request like that?  I asked him in the truck if he had an idea of what he might like to get, this for parking because I knew it was going to be a festive zoo and we might have to walk some. He said he was thinking about a gift card from the local yarn shop as Mom has been knitting ones and pearling twos a lot lately. We get there relatively easy and as he is making the purchase I am talking with some friends, for despite the recent population surge we remain a small island. Afterwords we decide to stroll the main drag because after all it ‘tizz the season’. We end up at a small kiosk where the smell of fresh pastries and espresso fills the cold air with a delicious and successful marketing campaign. My treat, I announce, immediately spying a almond croissant. He orders a chocolate and I add a dopio espresso  to the order. 

We are standing next to the kiosk, in front of a highly decorated boutique with the square’s looming Christmas tree towering above us, sparkling ornaments and golden garlands sending out disco-ball lights quasars across the winter scene. 

I sip my espresso and begin.

It was this very day in 1993, the 23rd of December. I was in Vienna, Austria, on leave and en route home for Christmas. I was sighting the European capitol cities by train before flying out of Gatwick on Christmas Eve. That scene, I tell him, was very much like this one. I was sipping hot chocolate in the town square, the platz, as the sun was setting behind a fairy tale 17th century castle. There was an ice skating rink to my left and a hundred shoppes on my right, all festively decorated with candles, lights, garlands and wreaths. There were several string quartets playing Mozart and Bach. The smell was intoxicating, chestnuts, fires roasting meats, incense and the unmistakable olfactory delicacy known as unabashed joy. I remember standing there talking all of it in as I took tiny bites from my strudel, wanting to make the special moment last. Forever if it was possible. I can still see that image as if it was a high-def jpg on my hard drive. 

I look at Junior. He is enjoying his croissant and appears to be listening with appreciation. I continue. Ya know what? It is forever. That absolute feeling of happiness, adventure, my place in the time and space of all its beauty, is just as alive in my memory today, here and now, as it first appeared to me, as I participated in its nose-numbing mirth, 25 years ago. 

He gets the chronological time/space spirit of my theory and smiles. 

As we walk back towards the truck he reminds me, in somewhat a ‘did you know’ voice, that there are only eight days left in the year. 

Walking the Walk

Start fast and finish strong. Racing? Training? Testing? Reading? Blogging?

There is truth - at least as far as having a strategy is concerned - in the aforementioned maxim, but there is also a degree of danger. 

What if we start TOO fast? What if we go too hard in the middle and then haven’t sufficient gas in the tank to finish with a kick? 

All legitimate possibilities to which I propose the following scenario:

DO THAT.

Our empirical experience is the best teacher. You can sit and listen to Confucius, The Dalai Lama, Plato, Blake, Whitman or Laozi as long as you like, but you will never get more value or cleaner data from any source other than your own testing. They can tell you of the art of war, of man’s eternal quest, of the here and now or of the value of service, but until that glorious day arrives where you wake up, hit the ground running and risk failure, it is all talk.

And everybody likes to talk. 

But not everybody walks the walk. 

I am going to add a stanza or to to that pithy little ditty in the hopes of further muddying (I mean clarifying) these waters. Polar bear with me. 

You can talk the talk.

You can talk about the walk.

You can walk and talk. 

But you must eventually walk the walk. (Eventually is a drawn out five syllables if you are singing.)

Use your feet more than your gums. Move in the direction of your dreams. Begin right now. There is no need, other than symbolism or procrastination, for you to wait until January first. Do it now.

Start fast: Talk with yourself and address the most important desire you hold in the strongbox of your soul (please do not fool yourself into thinking that this means losing ten pounds), and then follow with the due diligence of plotting out a game plan, something that should take about seventeen seconds as you already know that the most important step in that process is the first one, the fast one, the most crucial one. YOU KNOW THIS. Just begin and we'll make the rest up as we go. Trust yourself - it will be OK. WAY better than OK. 

The middle part is as simple as repetition. Create the good habits necessary for accomplishment of your goal. Do these EFD (every & day - you can figure the adjective).

And  finish strong. Create your flow of energy, keep adding to it. Appreciate and respect it. We call this MoJo. It is attitudinal. It is confidence, it grows and seeks expansion, expression and community. This vibration you can feel so strongly at times that your energy sparks around you, inspiring and motivating others.

It is a rule of the house that once this level is obtained it must be shared. We must show what we know.

Start fast, walk the walk, and finish strong. 

Why Not?

Oregon 1993 trip

Affirmations validate. I will provide an example should you need (an)other one.

As you know I have been working on, considering concepts, running logistics, estimating time and materials, on another epic bike trip. As much as I would love to be talking about an around the world jaunt, the scope of that exceeds my humble means at this point. But from Canada to Mexico could be done (within the framework of some exacting parameters and with details worked down to the dime.)

This is how I understand it to work, a principle I have tested many times and one that has yet to fail me. The moment, I mean the nano-second, that one commits to something, and for our purposes today that means something BIG, in that flash of eternity you are automatically connected to the universal cache of creative possibility. The cosmos steps up and makes subtle, super serious suggestions to offer a partnership. Mostly these suggestions come in the form of thoughts, ideas, plans and possibilities, almost always asking one question in the discussion with their newly formed teammate(s). That question is: WHY NOT?

Why not start the planning on an epic bike trip from Seattle to LA? Why not create a tour package? What not film a doc of the twenty-one days riding along one of the most beautiful stretches of beachfront known to this hemisphere? Why not pull all the stops and lay it out as the journey of a lifetime?

I shopped the concept around a little the last few days, gathering initial reactions to the commitment necessary for successful execution, with the usual plethora of responses, from the wow, to the whew. Mostly there were the hummm. The let me think about, it middle of the road, non committal nothing. The middle is nowhere, it is lost in the shadow of fear and home to apathy, lethargy and stagnation. Yes, I realize that most people have real jobs, real responsibilities and real debts, but were talking about glory here. And with no guts there can be no glory.

I am in the shower after this morning's class, smelling of ammonia and lavender, thinking about how absolutely wonderful it is to be out in the world on a bike, sleeping on the beach, meeting like minded pilgrims from other countries, sipping espresso at sunrise with the hiss of ocean surf just twenty feet away when I get an idea. What are we gonna call this thing? We need a hook of a slogan to kick start the marketing. Pop.

Yo, cosmos? Yeppers. Whaddya got? COW. As in EPIC COW. THE epic Cow.

Epic California Oregon Washington. eCOW.

You like it? I do. A lot? Absolutely, I can see it on the jerseys now and feel the salty air on my face. Then…

Why not?

Nothing

Our power has been out since noon yesterday. Previously I posted about one of my 'more intense' memories of this seasonal occurrence, under the somewhat titular heading of Power Outage. I am used to it. IMHO the most critical tool necessary in coping with this first world problem is having a wood burning stove, a supply of dry fire wood and a sharp axe at the ready. A guy can go without a great number of luxuries with these three. I will assume here that it is understood that matches are an unnamed essential headlining any quality list of emergency tools.

It was with these items successfully employed that I endured many a Northwest winter storm. Now, sadly, in the cabin I rent, built in 1905, the fireplace caved in, they tell me, around forty years or so ago, and I refuse to fill and burn heating oil (owing to my staunch environmentalism) so I am left with two options, electric heat and propane. I have a generator but this afternoon's visit, I am also house sitting, was way too short to bother, meaning that if I wanted to warm myself for the hour I would be there, it was going to be from the propane heater.

So be it. I wanted to write and would not be persuaded otherwise by something as trivial as having no power, wifi or heat.

I grab the heater and it immediately runs dry of gas. I turn on the battery powered lamp and open the pantry door to refill, seeing the torch sit beside a new bottle and remember that the tip needs cleaning. If there is one thing that creates unwanted additional stress under these conditions, I remind myself, it is procrastination. What didn't I clean the valve last week? I look at my phone, which is charging using an auxiliary battery charger, and see that I still have time, but there is little margin for error, so FOCUS. I go out to the deck and find the deep-well 5mm socket and remove the valve, blowing to clean out both ends. Returning it to a new bottle I torch the tip and she whistles a stunningly clear blue flame along with the familiar woosh. All this was to heat my teapot now filled with cold coffee from yesterday's pot. I will be worthless without a cuppa joe to accompany me on this mission. Once begun, it will be easy as pie.

Alright. We have the heater on, the coffee warming, the phone charging and my workout bag stuffed with gear for this evening's scheduled session at the PB, where I am also house sitting. Last night was a long one on the couch in front of the gas fireplace and next to Spike the fearless watch dog who is also under my care and stewardship. He slept with his down vest I with a fleecy blanket. I trust he was warm.

Now for the main directive, to write this entry in the blog. And in doing so keep the streak alive as we are now, officially, down to eleven days.

I reposition the heater, pour a cup of day-old coffee into my favorite mug, double check the phone charger, go into my media room to grab the laptop and set it up at the kitchen table.  I am ready to go. I even have the story out-lined in my head. It will be a microscopically honest account of getting my brother to the ferry through sidestreets, over downed trees and past stalled vehicles in time for the noon sailing. It was harrowing, and I made a couple of on-the-fly decisions that I have been second guessing since yesterday.

I sit, sip and open my laptop, ready to rock.

Nothing.

Honesty and Me

I have never really considered it until now. I suppose that there are things that we take for granted to the extent that they become a completely ingrained part of our being, like a cell, or packet of cells, that assist in the overall day-to-day business of creating ourselves. We trust that the accumulation of this cellular cache will provide the growth, wisdom and acumen we seek. 

It was suggested to me last night in the marvelous book in which I am currently engrossed, If You Want to Write - a book about art, independence and spirit.  by Brenda Ueland, that if one is to fully tap into the magic and marvel of writing that one must, above even mastering grammar and punctuation, be honest with the transfer of words from heart and soul to pen and paper. All this time I thought that this was ‘understood’ as some type of unspoken agreement, a pledge we all make before sitting down to write. I looked very closely at her demonstrations and examples and painfully saw that I have a chronic issue of avoiding the very thing I set out to examine.

The truth.

The best way that I can relay this fundamental value, really what creates quality, is to call attention to the errors I make on a daily basis. This, of course means to do the one thing that I resist almost as much as I resist corruption in politics, racism and cheating. Editing my own work. I have always operated, especially here over the course of these many days, now at 354 with 11 to go, under the informal guideline that this blog is one of binary streaming consciousness, a journal of my daily place in the eye of this social hurricane and my assessment of all responses, not matter how pathetic or unsavory, to all the shit swirling around my poor helmet less head. This built-in fail safe, cleverly disguised as a way out of the responsibility to edit, change, alter, improve, and learn from the obvious errors of my appalling lack of talent, was held to my face like a rear-view mirror last night as I read.

Be honest with yourself and, especially if you plan of writing, be honest with your words, their impact and the truth they hold. You have a responsibility here and do not take it lightly.

I am humbled. I stand before you in the court of blogging opinion asking for mercy and benevolence. I feel contrite. Yet, oddly perhaps, I feel cathartic as well. Like the proverbial monkey hopping off my back in hopes of scoring a bigger banana elsewhere.

She says, thankfully, that this is a skill that can be practiced. Say what you precisely feel and make it as honest as you able, using your words and sentence structures like power tools. Practice. Review and rewrite. You, we, everyone, will know in the instant of first reading whether or not our writing success is honest, truthful, of value, fresh, new, important and real.

All that simply by connecting those cells and noting the results?

Nasty Vipers in Red Hats

If you have ever heard the adage that we learn things as a result of the things being ‘caught’ and not ‘taught’, here is yet another another example. With the preface that what this really means is that we are paying attention to the subtleties that come our way, special delivery, from that magical and mysterious source known as ‘random cosmic input.’

If I was to say to you that I actually enjoy doing research, you might roll eyes or shake heads, and I would understand. Not traditionally considered an overly fun way to schedule an afternoon, but, sometimes one needs to get off the beaten path and explore a little.

So I am off the trail with my headlamp on dodging poisonous snakes and conservative republicans, when I run across a short little video by one of my favorite people.

This favorite person is an author, speaker, former champion gymnast, martial artist and life coach. He has inspired millions, including this hacker,  with his eloquence and ability to clearly state the complexities of the world around us and peaceful options to deal with them. He is one of the amazing shamans who can honestly confirm that everything fits.

I am hurrying through the list of mundane chores so I can get back to the ‘real work’ I have scheduled for the afternoon shift. Already slightly annoyed at the speed, or lack thereof, that my semi-pirated wifi delivers the collected works of man’s knowledge to my desktop, I try to cram in a analog chore while I wait. Laundry, vacuuming and recycling done I return to my desk, eager to pick up where we left off.

But I can’t remember the exact coordinates of where that drop point was. OMG, I wail, I am finally at the intersection of Dementia and Alzheimer streets. I try to retrace steps, starting, of course, with the history tab on my browser of choice, Firefox.

Which (slowly) tells me that I have been randomly, all over the freaking place, from CNN to Sydney, the White House to Rikers Island (they are connected today), and that the most recent visit was to a page announcing an all new video message from…guess who?

My main man Dan! Seems he wants to talk to me. He has an important message sent through him, but from the center of all wisdom, peace, power and love. Whoa! I click and find him casually sitting on a professionally lit stage. He is telling a story, which is his way of doing things. Here is my memory of the story (told from memory because I lost connection again in the middle of it):

I (he) is walking down the street in San Francisco. I (me) am seeing Haight but it could be Ashbury as well, I (he) is walking towards a homeless guy who is carrying his every worldly possession on his back. As we (they) pass, the homeless guy looks at me (Dan) and says, hey I know you. I (Dan) shrug in modesty and say thanks. The homeless guy then says that he has read several of my books and really enjoys them and that, unfortunately, as much as he would like some advice, there is no way that he could afford any. He then reaches into his pocket and asks what he could get for the remainder of his net worth, thirty-seven cents.

I (Dan) consider the situation, reach into my pocket and up his new net by ten dollars and inform him that the secret to everything, the solution and the strategy for happiness and joy is in just six words. Six? he asks. Yes I (he) respond.

Be Here Now - Breathe and Relax.

Caught, not taught by the miracle of mindfulness and a little research. Pay attention and watch out for those nasty vipers wearing red hats.

Leave A Small Space

Leave a small space. 

We were discussing the myriad combinations of flow. More specifically the primary ingredients, that when combined in proper ratios create a state of graceful, aware and harmonious movement through time and space, a result also known as flow. Without too much effort one can quickly recognize the fact it, this flow thing, can have a dramatic effect on both the present and the future. Flow, for our usage here, does not exist in the past. It is a current commodity, you either have it or you should have it. It makes no difference whether you had a monopoly on it yesterday, the market cornered on it last week or stockpiles of it housed in off-shore accounts last year. Flow is always, like mindfulness, right here and right now. 

I am thinking of this condition, seeking new ways to verbally illustrate its power and potential in spin class, as my mobile device tells me that a new communication has arrived. It is like waking up from an erotic dream by an angry and vindictive alarm clock. I quickly regain my emotional stasis, a skill that I seem to be improving, grab the Samsung and enter the five digit security code I have been advised to use and see a text from one of my dear friends. I am no longer irritated by the interruption of my mid-afternoon flow state. 

Seems she is having some boy issues. As in how to entertain, inspire, motivate and/or keep her fourth-grade nephew occupied after school. It seems (get ready for this bombshell) that all he wants to do is ‘sit in front of his computer.’ Have you ever seen or heard such nonsense? Right, me either. 

We share stories, after all I am doing similar with my nephew with the exception that he is a sophomore, but otherwise the symptoms, solutions and strategies are the same. The internet, its peripherals, games, access to information and options for mindless entertainment, is tough to compete with. We mention programs that the park district offers, the opportunities at our wonderful new access for artists, sports, music, martial arts, all the usual suspects of positive chaperoning. 

After an hour and several cups of tea, it is apparent that our reservoirs of creative thought have run dry. Nothing flows from that well intentioned well spring any longer. 

And I blurt, whoa how about this? 

How about we both put together a list of twenty things to do with your pal when your pal is bored? 

Turns out her daughter, currently on another trip to another exotic location, once did that very thing. Excitedly I ask how it worked. She laughed and said not too well as the items on the list included such lofty activities as learning to play the tuba, mastering conversational French and building a human-powered tandem helicopter. 

KISS I immediately reply after drying my eyes from tears of laughter, keep it simple sister. 

It was a good chat. We sat in the kitchen with the oven door open for a meager bit of electric heat. I am in the process of putting the finishing touches on my list, and will share it with you hopefully tomorrow. 

In the meantime I am back with the flow. I want to connect with my class and present yet another way to embody creative balance while working our high-intensity sets, give them something to practice, another method of working mind-body together as we train. It has long been one of my standard talking points that when we succeed with connecting the mind with the body as we train, that one oft misunderstood, or under utilized, by-product of this wholesome activity is that, once in flow, the soul, our very spirit, appears from out of nowhere and announces that she would like to participate as well. Hello Ms Flow. 

And suddenly we see that this is the flow we have been looking for all these long and sometimes tedious sessions. This is it. Flow. Eureka. 

And as with keeping love, we have to practice it. Getting there, finding it. Relentlessly. With patience, gratitude and respect. Because once we have it we have to practice KEEPING it. And to practice keeping it means letting it go. You cannot force it. Try squeezing water and you’ll see what I mean. 

Focus, but practice with relaxation. You must try easier. Let it go and relax into the movement of the moment. Breathe. Acknowledge the presence of your spirit. Appreciate it. Welcome it. Flow so elegantly inspired that powerful new answers to your biggest questions appear like magic. BUT…

Always leave a small space empty for them to fill. 

A Bow for America

It was this time of year, the Holiday Season, in 1998. I was working in a suburb of Venice, Italy for a family that operated three very successful restaurants. As well as being the English liaison for their lucrative and high-profile catering branch, I also served as maintenance man, courier and at night a kitchen sous. It was in the 17th century former grain processing mill, now beautifully restored to house a both fine dining and a pizzeria, that I had the distinct honor of taking a bow for America.

Many weeks prior we had traveled by car, traghetto, the Italian water ferries, and on foot to reach the palazzo where the party we would cater was to take place. In was on the Grand Canal and was handed down to the present owner by generations of what we would call in Seattle, Venice Old Money. It was a palace in every sense of the word, magnificent, charming and oozing history and culture like the smoke that curled from one of the seven fireplaces.

After Marco and the Matron agreed to the six courses, amounts, wine and prosecco, the main chore would be in logistics. How would we prep all that in the kitchens of Ill Tinello, some twenty challenging clicks away and have it arrive in ways both thermal and ascetic?

We managed to pull it off, the holiday party, one of many I would later find out that would be hosted by this well-to-do Italian family. It was a huge hit and fun for everyone including those of us on the labor side. I remain to this day exceedingly proud to have had this royal opportunity.

A couple of weeks later it was announced that the Duchess was going to host another gala at our place. Logistics again, now we needed valets, an army of additional staff, seasoned firewood, new glassware and enough wine to fill the Adriatic.

My assignment that week was in grounds prep. We literally had to create a new parking lot for 100 vehicles (none of them Fiats) with all landscaping trimmed and every building pressure washed and in some cases re-painted and repaired. Then, on the night of the main event, I would report to the head chef for kitchen duty.

And that is how I ended up as lead risotto supervisor. The specialty of the house is seafood so our second course risotto was saffron and clams. Let me stop right here and ask for a show of hands from those of you that have made risotto at home? Cool, now multiply that by 100.

We are slaving away stirring the arborio in giant copper pots as the waiters rush in, fill serving trays, and rush out again. This culinary procession lasts about an hour as the benefactors dine with the local red wine and to the accompaniment of a traditional Venetian string quartet. There are four fires burning on each side of the stone walls, replete with silk tapestries and twenty-foot gold torches. In between stirring stints with the giant spoon, more a shovel, I would peek out of the kitchen at the dining hall and mutter some superlative in appreciation of the spectacle.

Once the risotto course was completed, as the fish and asparagus was being served, I was ordered upstairs to help with the desert, another house specialty handed down from the generation of Vivaldi, Casanova and Alighieri.

Suddenly a call came out for everyone to gather in the main kitchen area. As is custom, the Matron had finished her meal and was coming into the kitchen to personally compliment the staff, from owners to dish washers, for a fine dining experience and overall performance. The restaurant, also being a renown teaching facility, had a multi-cultural staff. The Duchess has asked the bi-lingual owner and my benefactor, Marco to make the brief introductions to her.

And it began. As Marco, with great pomp and ceremony introduces the Sicilian head chef, the Spanish fish cooks, the Japanese prep cooks and the French curator of pastries, all taking bows as they are called out, it is finally my turn and I am introduced as the American director of culinary logistics.

A round of applause from my 'in the know' buddies and a warm smile of acknowledgement from the Duchess ended a very long day.

One I will cherish forever as the day I took a bow for America.

Prove That You Know

If (a BIG if) knowledge is understanding something, and then if (an even BIGGER if) intelligence is knowing what can - or should - be done about it, then wisdom must surely be actually doing it. Or, as Brenda Ueland tells is, we show what we know. 

I was considering this as we walk, me and Spike the old and wise terrier who is under my custody for the next week as his legal masters walk the beaches of Kauai, matching it up with an alert insight from Mihal Csikszentmihalyi's  marvelous FLOW, a titular handbook on sports mindfulness that reads like a Sufi white paper (try writing 400 pages on this subject and let me know when you get to 10), suggesting that every athlete, at some point along their positive trending trajectory of skill, talent and success, will one day realize that the next step, that proverbial step to the next level, will necessitate the mastery of their brain. TRUTH. Luck has a shelf life. You can only fake it so long at the level where all competition is legitimate. No one I have ever met has set their goal as being a sandbagger for life. We have an even worse, yet more accurate, name for these misguided folks, we label them losers. 

Losers because they have failed to understand that it is not the winning that matters most, it is the honest, sometimes painfully so, attempt, intent and raw desire to be the best that they can be. Not simply getting by, as they are accustomed, through a deceptive mixture of good looks, charm, above average athletic DNA and Daddy's money. We know this to be true. We understand the scenario. We get it and we get how to get over it. Ah, but do we have the wisdom to do so? 

We show what we know. Show me that you get it and you have earned my respect. I will cover your behind in even the most precarious and dangerous situations. I will drop everything to come to your aid, no matter what and no matter when. 

This is so basic an understanding, so simple to see, and yet it is filled with complexities, riddles with paradox and bolted to the stubbornness of our hard-wired programming to avoid pain. Pain is still the best teacher in the history of pragmatic learning. It is for this reason, not this reason alone mind you, that we have a powerful learning opportunity. We can practice this.

First, let us agree that we have the secret knowledge outlined above and understand its importance. Second, let us rally around the renouncement of all unnecessary distractions and myths to see that winning is not about a score, but in the attempt, the deep commitment to die for your cause and do what must be done in perfect preparation prior to any canonization through martyrdom. And thirdly and by far the most critical, let us pledge to do so. 

Either way, the path of the hero or in the shadow of the fool, we (parents, coaches, teachers, employers, generals and avatars) watch with hopeful anticipation. We keep the ones that get it, who show what they know in every situation and leave the rest for additional training and testing. Hoping all the while that somewhere along their path, they will get nailed between the eyeballs by a bolt of inspirational lightening. Or maybe by the booming of motivational thunder. Maybe even both. (It is important to mention here that everyone's road to this monumental understanding is a different one. For some it takes an hour, for others a lifetime, and for others still, several lifetimes. It is our responsibility to lead them to water, patiently and lovingly knowing all the while that untimely we cannot make them drink.)

Know. Understand. Do. Show. 

Prove that you know. 

Power Outage

If you are lucky enough to live in the geographic area affectionately known as the Great Pacific Northwest, and more precisely between, say, Portland and Vancouver, B.C., and have been here longer than the latest Amazon migration and subsequent real estate scramble, you know, or now know, about power outages. 

We had another one last night caused by some hellacious gale-force winds that blew boughs, limbs and occasionally entire trees onto the power lines that keep our computers computing, our toasters toasting and our heaters heating. I have been here in the Pugetopolis, since 1974, so as the commercial jingle goes, I know a thing or two about power outages because I’ve seen a power outage or two. 

One of my most enduring memories from my time in the cabin was the winter storm of 1989. I have always taken a great deal of pride in being prepared, and that storm put that emergency readiness plan to the true test. 

Late afternoon, a Friday, I am at work monitoring the radio for updates. The forecast is for a doosie, stay home and batten down the hatches they advise. As I hear this I look out my office window and see that the sky is a dark background with winds pushing snow flurries as big as I have ever witnessed. This, I say to myself, is going to be a mother. 

I grab my coat, announce my departure and run down the stairs to my Blazer. There is already a foot of snow on the streets of Seattle as I race to the ferry terminal in four wheel drive. The 35 minute ride aboard a jumbo Washington State Ferry, wind whipping from the starboard, into the driving snow, tested my sea-legs and my ability to keep the pastrami sandwich I had for lunch where it belonged. 

We finally arrive and I have the 20 minute commute home that I have taken a thousand times, but now it looks more like a mine field on a frozen battle-field. There is debris everywhere atop snow, black ice and downed trees blocking thru traffic altogether, barricades are up. I might not make it and if I do it might be necessary to go the last mile on foot. I am not sure how my cordovan wingtips will fare under this bleak circumstance but we might be about to find out. 

I make it to the cabin where my headlights reveal a cedar tree on the roof, main power and phone lines dangling from it like snakes of obsidian tinsel. 

I make my way to the front door and open it to a chilling darkness as my breath creates a eerie smoke effect in front of the flashlight’s beam. It is a scene I will never forget, set design by Steven King. 

The work begins with starting a fire in the old Franklin and inside of ten minutes it is ablaze. Lamps and candles are lit and a quick damage report filed. Looks like we’ll be OK, minimal roof damage and it is already getting warm and toasty inside. No power? No problem.

I am opening a celebratory beer when I remember my neighbors down the road. Hurriedly I change into my Sorrel boots, don a down jacket, find another flashlight with fresh batts and trudge off to check on Frank & Pat through the now almost knee-deep snow. 

Knocking on the French Door of their beautiful home-made cabin I can see they too are sitting in front of a robust fire and sipping tea. I immediately smile at the cozy Norman Rockwell scene as Frank comes to open the door. He says smiling,

Welcome to the Great Pacific Northwest.

The Worst That Could Happen

Somewhere the other day an interesting (and familiar) quote came floating into the tiny sphere of my consciousness. It caught my attention in that fleeting instant, but when I returned after whatever distraction led elsewhere, I couldn’t find it, its author or even any mention of it via a fairly thorough rev-up of my go-to search engine. 

With that pathetic apology as pretext, following is the gist of the quotation.

“The worst that could happen is NOT the worst that could happen. The worst that could happen is that you fail to forgive and forget the worst that could happen.”

Whoa. I like.

Not needing to bore you today with examples from the many times I have attempted to talk myself off the ledge of overwhelming guilt, let us simply say that to this very day, I suffer from humiliation, remorse and an absolute desire to be free of all associated negative effects from the dirty deeds I have done (and yes, some done dirt cheap.) 

To be fair in the ex post facto ramification, I have spent appropriate and considerable time in repentance. I think the judge assigned to this not-quite landmark case would quickly let me off the hook for time served (it has been 50 years) but it is not the judge, or even the jury of my peers whose absolution I seek. It is my own.

This haunts me. A relentless haunting. In the vivid and convoluted dream that took place just this morning - as I tried to eek out the last hour of my allotted sleep in deep REM - I woke in shock as the surreal circumstance forced a ‘what the fuck were you thinking?’ response. So here I am, I respond, assessing, judging and second-guessing my own actions as they take place in real-time, dream state sub consciousness. YIKES! Let me attempt to put this another way: I am watching myself as an actor through the eyes of the writer and director, as the scene is unfolding. 

As much as I want to scream CUT and suggest more sincerity, honesty and authenticity from the protagonist, it is oddly fascinating to watch this poor slob of a B grade actor struggle through the scene. I suppose we want him to win, find salvation or at the very least learn a valuable lesson, but remembering that he is me, all bets are off as I begin to understand and then acknowledge that I am controlling both the actor and the action. I am responsible for the script as well as the presentation, through completion, and the ultimate resolution. In other words, I see that I am responsible for the success of the scene AS WELL AS THE ENDING of the - MY - film. 

If it is to be it is up to me. I do a quick re-write and ask for quiet on the set. 

I am urging him to let go of the baggage keeping him from peace of mind. To cut the chains that hold him from his freedom and joy. As writer and director I remind him once again that the ultimate success of his abilities, talents and desire to inspire, are all dependent on his purity of heart and sincerity of spirit. LET THAT SHIT GO. Take the lesson and leave the rest. Your dues have been paid. You are free. Free to act the part of the hero, the star, the embodiment of goodness and strength, the one who will (eventually) triumph over the evil of the day. 

Good. Or at least better. I wake refreshed and ready. With a new spin to consider. 

Living happily ever after requires the wisdom to see that the worst that could happen is not the worst that could happen. 

The One Day Intensive

It is more a test tube than a think tank, BUT, let’s flow with it…..

The Big Three thread is now reaching a climax (of sorts) that has seen us go from the sharing of philosophical concepts, their examination, refinement and augmentation into an interesting spin-off, to a completely new, dynamic and useful idea. Maybe even scalable to something being profitable as well, although that is not my primary concern despite the constant pleadings from the chief financial officers in the top floor corner office. Following is the rough outline. 

Whereas we have established the relevance of some combination of diet, exercise and stress management, essential and necessary for the universal goal of good health and grateful appreciation of life, aka happiness, and further, that our latest data and experience indicates that several options in each of the three categories exist, we ask, why not cut to the chase and offer them as a guided package to intrepid pilgrims seeking adventure, experience, change and the potential of monumental, transcendental life enhancements? 

I mean, who would say no that THAT????? 

Here is the plan, the menu, I see as both doable and tasty. 

The working title is The ONE DAY INTENSIVE. I will add a sponsor name as soon as we sell the title rights so eventually this will be franchisable, as an example as, The LIFETIME FITNESS One Day Intensive. Or the AMAZON.com One Day Intensive. (The bean counters really like this angle.) Once the naming rights have been established (and we will return to reality at this time) the ODI experience will consist of the following menu items:

Early wake up and morning meditation > Mindful personal hygiene > Ritual water ceremony > Spin class one > Shower and sauna > Tea > Walking meditation > Lunch preparation and service > Quiet time > Guided group therapy > Nature trek > Massage > Spin class II >  Shower and sauna > Creative session > Tea > Final meditation session > Inspirational message > Group meal > Celebration > Dismissal. 

One Day Intensive. I think we could legitimately consider eight hours. And two-fifty. 

It will be considerable due diligence today. 

This Becomes That

I wonder if this is that?

Stumbling down this path, the same one where we have witnessed so much beauty and so much brutality, we continually add to our bodega of experience. There is good stuff and not-so-good. There is the occasional ecstatic and the dreaded disaster or two. Most of us have, by taking either the high road or the low one, found a conform zone, roughly, somewhere in the middle. The path, our lifetime adventure of navigating through the morass, is at an interesting intersection. I do not know a single person who is immune to the ominous shadow we now are calling physic stress. It is everywhere, and everywhere all the time. It comes from Fox News, the MSM, radios, TVs, mobile devices, newspapers, magazines, tabloids, comic books and graphic novels. It is, literally, the talk of the town. There is no escape from the relentless barrage of bad news. And this sits on our shoulders like snowflakes of lead.

We have been talking about ways and means to deal with the fallout. Constructive steps we can take to avoid the toxic distractions that alcohol, drugs or over consumption offer as relief. Yesterday we even went as far as to say that stress management is now the number one item on the short list (The Big Three) one must successfully supervise if one desires good health and sincere happiness. And who desires anything else?

I added an additional couple of items this morning to the ever-growing list of actions we can preform in the management of our stress, or as I called it, converting the knowing into the doing, known in many circles as a knowledge to wisdom exchange. Knowing is knowledge but doing is wisdom. We all know, we all share the knowledge that one cannot out-train a bad diet, yet we have a national obesity rate that continues to rise faster than banana bread in a pizza oven. I added to the list:

Painting.
Community service.
Reading.
Random acts of kindness.
Mentoring.

And perhaps my two favorites, not solely for the specific purpose of stress management, but for a thousand other reasons, being grateful and putting forgiveness in play.

One thing leads to another, one step further along the path, everything leads up to this day, and bang! It explodes onto my brain that at this very moment I am participating in the voluntary evolution of my soul as I fight the good fight of keeping the demons of stress off of my emotional front lawn.

I write about it. And this becomes that.

A Very Happy Guy

In addition to the broad strokes outline debuted yesterday, there exists, as always, the option for detail. We can dig deeper, or let it ride, take the headline, add it to our ever building cache of data and experience and flow about our business. That is no typo by the way (although I will plead guilty to allowing so many to make it to this space unedited, uncorrected or totally unseen), however, in this usage I take full literary responsibility for the phraseology. Flow about our business. 

We were discussing the role that stress plays in our daily pursuit of health and happiness. Recent data indicates that when under the grip of the hormonal dynamic duo of adrenalin and cortisol, we have one basic biological response: Fight or flight. Hold your ground or hit the road. This response seems to be so hard-wired into our consciousness, acting as a circuit breaker tasked with the protection of the host, that we face a double helix paradox when we take the touted and ballyhooed approach cited in yesterday’s post known as The Big Three. We tweak our diets, exercise more and manage our stress in non-toxic ways. Easy as one-two-three, eh? 

But now, the smart guys in the lab coats are suggesting that unless we measure and manage the raging hormones causing the run or gun syndrome, and especially the effects of a chronic overload of cortisol, we are, we can be, fighting a losing battle. Because, they tell us, cortisol is designed to protect us, some say from the next pending ice age by adding insulating fat to our core, which is, nine times out of ten, THE ONE SPECIFIC AREA WHERE WE WANT TO REDUCE IT. Most of us have accepted the reality that climate change will create almost the exact opposite thermal reaction thereby leaving us with a net loss in what should be a win-win game. 

If we are unable to successfully manage our stress, if it becomes chronic, we simply cannot out train it. The best diet in the world, the optimal daily workout ritual are no match, they indicate, for the physiological power that cortisol holds over us. What the heck is a guy or gal to do facing the reality of this brutal contradiction? Are we doomed to a life of beer and pizza on the couch watching monster trucks? What can we do? 

Manage our stress. 

I listed several options yesterday. Last night as we filed our cerebral shovels and dug deeper into this hard-pan paradox, we uncovered a few more. 

Massage.

Body work.

Sauna, hot tubs, steam room. 

Herb.

Drum circles.

Fasting.

Hypnosis.

Aromatherapy.

Sex.

One would think, as I think, that with so many options we could spend a month of blissful days testing one per day and be healthier and happier as a result, which was, ta-da, the goal in the first place. 

This, dear friends, is what I was hoping for at the start of this long, strange blogging trip. If, I conjectured, we could, I could, note the flow of consciousness every day, for an entire year, SOMETHING OF VALUE MUST HAPPEN. 

It has. 

If the only thing that 365 consecutive days of digital journaling will bring is a better understanding of the many options available to us for stress management, I will retire in less than three weeks a very happy guy.