First Idaho Winter

From my new office I can just see the tips of the Tetons off in the distance to the east. Sadly, my first Idaho winter is nearly half over and I've yet to strap on my skiis and head over to Grand Targhee. Which sort of fits the pattern of my first winter here in Idaho. Too much work and not enough play.

Don't get me wrong. Having a good job and work to do is a nice thing- especially for someone trying to support a large family. And the extra work before me right now is the result of a nice job change and career leadership opportunity. But it has caused a tremor in the delicate work-life balance I've labored to create in my life ever since becoming an adult. Years ago I worked with a man- Ray Larson, who stressed the importance of using leave time as it accrued. Ray regulary golfed, fished, played basketball and spent time with family and friends traveling and being with them. Ray retired shortly thereafter having followed the "use it, don't lose it" mantra throughout his adult life.

The result for Ray was a life full of love, friendship, family activities, hobbies and service. Ray's philosophy was that accumulated leave time was symptomatic of a life unlived. Or in other words, it's important not to put off living today for you never know what tomorrow will bring. Sort of a modern equivalent of the old proverb, "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy". And in the end, living a life that balanced the past, present and future served Ray very well. When a couple years into his retirement he suffered from a minor stroke following surgery (to replace a bum knee from playing basketball into his mid-60s), Ray was quickly surrounded by a loving family and group of friends to help him pass gracefully and quickly through the rehab and back to good health.

My own father lived a well balanced live. At the time I was a teenager he made the decision to step away from his steady 9-5 job and work a small start up opportunity so he'd have more flexibility for family time. We took extended summer trips- many of them to the Tetons, during those years and I was blessed with a rich and wonderful father-son relationship at a key time in my teenage life.

So, back to where this began. My view of the Tetons reminds me of the need for balance. As the Preacher said in Ecclesiastes 3: To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.

The Morning After

Two weeks ago I became a grandpa. Yesterday I became a "former bishop". And shortly I will leave my current employment as I begin the next leg of my professional journey. The end of June we will move to a new town in a new state. The experience of waking up the morning after important changes in life is one worth noting. Others have helpfully suggested how I should or might feel about these important events. I'm still figuring out how I feel about change in general but do have some thoughts accumulated the morning after a couple of these events.

The morning after becoming a grandpa, my first waking thought was that now I am married to a grandma. Yikes! I realize that this means my lovely bride is now married to a grandpa but somehow it felt to me that I was the one that got older while she stayed the same age. My image of a grandma is viewed through the lens of my own experience with my special, old-fashioned grandmothers. They were fun, energetic older women who had long since raised their own children. They were spunky with energy to spare while playing with me as a boy, had endless patience with me as I went through the awkward middle school years, and were there to dispense white haired wisdom as I moved from teenager to adult. For as long as I can remember they seemed to be much older and wiser than I would ever be. So, as much as I have always loved and admired my grandmas, I never in my wildest dreams ever imagined being old enough to be married to one.

I remember once when we called one of my grandmas to wish her well on her 88th birthday. The daughter who just made me a grandpa was just a tiny girl then and she asked my grandma, "How old are you?". "I'm 88 years old, sweetheart" grandma replied, to which my daughter exclaimed, "WOW, that's old!". My grandma chuckled as she always did. The morning after realizing I am now married to a grandma I think I felt a little bit like my little daughter did. Wow!

After being released as bishop a number of people asked how it felt. Some suggested I should feel relieved while others mentioned the inevitable let down to follow. I just went home from Church afterwards, took a nap and then hung out with my family. It was great! One of the new counselors stopped by later in the afternoon with his kids and some "thank you" cookies. I asked how his day was going and he said he was on his way back up to the church to finish some accounting duties. I smiled and wished him well in his new assignment.

And now the morning after I realize that it is time for me to press forward in my own personal spiritual journey. I need to keep doing the small things that bishops and missionaries have ever counseled people to do- pray regularly and sincerely, study the scriptures, honor sacred covenants, be obedient, be humble, seek inspiration and guidance from Heavenly Father, and continue serving others. I look forward to all of these though I realize that during the transition months to come it will be a challenge to maintain any sort of routine.

But hey, regularity seems to be the perfect goal for someone who's now married to a grandma.

A Sorting Hat

A couple days ago I overheard a little boy in Church mistake "Heavenly Father" for "Harry Potter". Worth a good smile and it also started me thinking about fun things I associate with Harry Potter. Like my son Jordan reading all of the books while still in elementary school. His class that year received points for reading. A book was assigned points based on its reading level and on how many pages it had. The Harry Potter books were a big hit and they were worth a ton of points, as I recall; a single Harry Potter book was worth about twenty "Captain Underpants" books. Jordan loved the series and would have read every book regardless, but he also enjoyed the fact that every time he read a Harry Potter book his class' point total about doubled.


From that train of thought my mind turned to the scene in the first Potter movie when Harry was selected to be a part of the Griffendor house. The selection was made by an old floppy, "sorting" hat. The hat was placed on the students head whereupon it would magically determine and shout out the right house for each of the newcomers to Hogwarts' school. Sometimes I wish I owned a sorting hat of my very own. It certainly would come in handy for sorting out the answers to some of life's persistent questions. And it had a great brim that would provide terrific sun protection.

Oops...where'd the time go?

Puxatony Phil just announced there will be 6 more weeks of winter. "If only", was my first reaction; Minnesota winters rarely end by mid-March. My next thought was to realize its been most of the winter since I jotted down a thought or two on this blog. The habit of regular writing has always been a hard one to establish. A couple of years ago a woman I know through work (and riding the bus) began telling me of her interest in writing children's stories. She had recently won an award for one of her short stories and had begun work on her first novel. Her mother was so excited about it that she helped her daughter set up and fund an annual writing contest. The prize is awarded to the best "short story" written on a selected theme each year. "Just write something every day", she would tell me.

This advice echoes what I've grown up hearing in other settings- keep a journal, jot down thoughts and feelings, create a record of experiences and moments of gratitude. Years ago I wrote a series of essays about the 1980s. Reading those now sort of makes me cringe because they were written by a younger me at a time in life when I had a pretty inflated sense of myself. Uffdah! Recently my sister gave me a nice new journal which sits on my nightstand...mostly gathering dust next to a couple other nearly empty journals I've acquired over the years. Each was purchased with similar good intentions. And yet in spite of these good intentions and how inspired I've felt at times to fill these journals with pithy prose, the habit of regular writing remains largely unformed. So I ask myself what my excuse is and where did the time go.

The truth is that my excuses are pretty thin. Part of it may be that I haven't defined my audience. Another may be the unflattering truth that I kind of yearn for an audience to encourage and cajole me to "write me another story". I don't know, but writing for myself seems a little narcissistic as does "writing for my posterity". Call it false humility, but my life isn't really ginning out the kind of experiences or events that make for a real page turner. No close encounters with wandering bandits, international terrorists or laughable comedians. Sure the people I live, work and interact with each have their own rich and interesting lives, with stories that have the normal ups and downs mingled with excitement. But it would take a higher level of skill than I possess to really capture their essence and do justice to their stories.

I'd like to think I have the potential to become a good writer that could tell interesting stories based on my experiences or the experiences of those I've met. Maybe even write a novel someday. And yet thus far I've lacked the fundamental discipline or creativity or inspiration or bankroll or cottage on the lake or driving competitiveness, or whatever else it is that's needed to succeed as a writer a world where "pretty good" writers are a dime a dozen.

Just writing that last paragraph has helped me realize that part of the reason I haven't cultivated the talent or formed the habit of regular writing is fear. Fear of wasting time, fear of writing something truly uninspiring, fear of laying it on the line and putting my heart and soul into something that others then find as stale as day old bread. Which is really a pretty poor excuse if you think about it. Because much of the value of writing comes the same way that learning comes to a teacher. The person attempting to teach regularly learns more than the student. Perhaps too with the writer: he just may learn a thing or two more than a reader could ever possibly do. In the process of creating and distilling and crafting the words into sentences and paragraphs, thoughts connect, themes emerge and direction appears. Finding a way to capture that process and preserve it for future reference is the key.

There is a more subtle form of fear lurking there in the shadows. And that is the fear of being either so boring or so irrelevant that whatever you write really doesn't matter to anybody. I've had the experience of reading my own journal entries from years past and thinking, "that's sure boring stuff" or "what a waste of paper and ink". Perhaps that's why the best writers find new and interesting ways to describe adventurous characters engaged in swashbuckling events. Its much harder to breathe life into the creases of everyday events. Yet there is certainly beauty in the routine and the mundane details of life. The challenge is to find the right words that reveal that beauty for all to see and enjoy.

Against the wind

Last week I found myself paddling "against the wind". Which led me to hum the Bob Seger song by that same name:

Against the wind

I'm still runnin' against the wind

Well I'm older now and still running

Against the wind.


It was while canoeing across a beautiful lake in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area of northern Minnesota up near Ely. The day was windy, gray and overcast. The colors of Fall were beginning to surface amidst the cold green pine forest. And on that day- as often seems to be the case, we found ourselves paddling against the wind on a lake where only days earlier we had paddled against the wind while coming inbound in the opposite direction. Whoever controls the weather up north seems to have an active sense of humor.


I've written before about the times when we experience the wind at our backs. Those moments of rest provide time for renewal and rejuvenation. They are welcome moments that seem to go away as quickly as they come. Running against the wind, on the other hand, seems to be more of a constant in life. The winds of life seem to blow steadily throughout our lives with occasional gusts and lulls that keep us alert. This adversity presents us the opportunity to grow and strengthen our muscles and our resolve to make it to the next shore. And after reaching that next shore we're given a measure of satisfaction.

Paddling against the wind influences our direction. The wind tries to push us to turn back or to one side or the other. And while it's tempting to paddle across or away from the wind, ultimately either of these options presents its own unique perils. Being sideways in the wind makes you vulnerable to tipping or having waves crash over the side of your canoe. Going with the wind takes you towards bigger waves. So- just as in life, short term gains canoeing can lead to long term problems. Paddling into the wind may take more effort, however, it causes you to navigate towards calmer water and minimizes the odds you'll tip or swamp the canoe.


Maybe paddling against the wind isn't so bad after all.

Tares

It was rainy and cool over this past weekend. Even though I'm pretty much a "northerner" at this point it still catches me off guard when the low temps dip into the 40s and the high temps stay in the 50s in June. Cripes, its supposed to be summertime! The sun was out this morning for the first time since Friday. And it was a gorgeous morning (though it was still cool enough to wear a jacket and biking gloves). As I watched a soccer game in a cool drizzle on Saturday I remember wondering why it felt like April.

Writing about weather is mundane and about as boring a topic as you find. So, I'm not really sure why I do it other than that it provides a safe, neutral topic on which to warm up my neurons. With so many prickly topics in play these days, its nice to have a safeharbor where you can say whatever you want without offending anyone. Which gets me to thinking about the topics I find most troubling. And how to gather my thoughts on those topics for the inevitable discussions, debates, arguments and battles that appear to be at the doorstep. Perhaps a cool rainy June is just the wake up call I need to prepare for what lies ahead.

The biblical parable that comes to mind is that of the wheat and the tares. A certain landowner observed that someone had sown tare seeds in his wheat field and wondered what he should do about it. Now, I've never had a wheat field but I know what a healthy one looks like. I've also never had tares growing in my lawn, but I definely have had weeds. And I do have a yard that borders a public park in a city that doesn't believe in treating its parks for dandelions. Over the years I've watched as dandelion seeds drift over onto my lawn. Once they've taken hold its nearly impossibly to eliminate them. As an older farmer friend of mine once said of weeds, "One year of seeds, equals seven years of weeds". And so it goes.

Its amazing that an ancient parable still applies to me and the circumstances in my society in 2009. All around me I see tares being sown by people who are motivated to disrupt or destroy core values and societal patterns. Some sown the seeds for tares in their own gardens, others seek to broadcast and distribute the seeds far and wide. Others use strategem to have others hasten the spread and widen the distribution pattern. And gradually, with each coming gust of wind and wave of seeds, the infiltration grows in momentum.

Lawnowners can spray all the herbicide they want but dandelions seem to persist, leading some to consider using the nuclear, or "Round Up", option which works to destroy weeds for a season but also kills all that is good and beautiful in the process. As the ancient parable teaches, removing tares serves only to uproot and damage the wheat. Better to focus energy on strengthening the wheat's root structure so that it withstands the onslaught of tares, becomes beautiful for all to observe and ultimately is prepared for when it can be sorted from the tares at the next stage of its life.

Overbooked

The merry old month of May is all that and more. Spring has unleashed the full range of beauties, activities and scheduling conflicts. My oh my what a marvelously crazy calendar we have this month. Schools, youth sports, spring concerts, outdoor activities and the chance to release (at last) all of that pent up Winter energy, all conspire to dot the calendar with too many good things to do and not enough, time, brains or organizational skills to do it all.

And every year we repeat the cycle it seems. Wash, rinse, repeat. Run faster, run even faster yet, repeat. If Harry Potter's method of being in two places at once were real and could be bottled and sold someone would make a pretty penny in May. But since it isn't real and we really can only attend to one thing at a time, I do wonder why we insist on overloading and overbooking.

Phooey...time to get onto the next task. :)