No Need For The Rain

There is no escaping from problems we let grow until they get too big to solve without hurting some one

Some questions don’t have answers that are either wrong or right

There is no solution to a puzzle that keeps growing as each generation adds another pile of pieces

Some battles are already lost in the minute when you fight

If there was a god who could wave a magic wand and bring about a peace of mind that would destroy all pain

There would be no need for the rain

Fresh Air

Maybe next time

I didn’t hug the tree. It seemed a little needy. But I sat under an old tree for a while today, back up against the trunk, bare feet in the dirt, looking up at patches of sky between the leaves. There were a few ants crawling on my journal, and a very young bird who had not yet incorporated a fear of humans.

There is a forest on the northern tip of Manhattan (“hilly island”) that covers a couple hundred acres and ends in Muscota (“place in the reeds”) Marsh, the last natural salt marsh in Manhattan. Because the Hudson River (Mahicantuck: “the river that flows both ways”) flows both ways, the salt mixes with freshwater and the Muscota is an unusual combination of salt marsh and freshwater wetlands.

Between the forest and the marsh is a field, surrounded by trees that started growing before we were born and will continue after we are gone. A warm day rises from the pit of a pandemic and warring versions of reality in America. It feels good to walk across an open field, maskless, in Manhattan, seeing nothing but grass and trees and sky. That fresh air is the smell of life returning and it smells so good.

New York City in all her glory

Bach

In February of 1685, James II became the last Catholic king of England when his brother Charles II died. To historians, and to those living under the rule of kings, it was a momentous event, but it was nothing compared to what was coming. The next month, in Germany, a child was born who would change the world more than any mere monarch could. That child would plant seeds that are still blossoming today. He gave people new melodies to hum as they struggle under the burdens of their kings, prime ministers, and presidents, and rhythms to dance to when their working days are done.

71 years before Mozart was born, and 85 years before the birth of Beethoven, Johann Sebastian Bach brought his unique sensibility to a planet that has not been the same since. Words are cheap, and as Kurt Vonnegut once said, “Virtually every writer I know would rather be a musician,” so I will let some of the man’s music speak for itself, starting with this piece from one of his minuets:

I am (obviously) not a classical musician. Classical music is for perfectionists and I am an imperfectionist. But every musician, regardless of genre or instrument, would do themselves a favor by learning how to play a few pieces of Bach’s music to get inside the mind of one of the art form’s great minds. Here is my take on part of his Bourree in E minor:

On Balance

Balance becomes measurably more valuable as you age. When you are young it is easier – even advantageous – to spin wildly beyond the reach of balance. It is exciting to feel the pull of assorted centers of gravity and if you fall, what is the worst that can happen? A bruise or cut that will heal completely within a week. When you are older, that slip on the border of balance can cost you a bruise that will last a year, if you are lucky enough to avoid a broken bone.

Wednesday

When I travel I anticipate what each destination will be like before I get there. I imagine what each place will look like, sound like, smell like, and feel like. I am always wrong, which is part of the excitement of travelling. I have anticipated other things in life too: what it would be like to be a lover or a dad, what it would be like to lose a friend, get married, or take on any of the jobs I have assumed. At least, I used to; I don’t see the future anymore.

I don’t see retirement or old age, the 2030s or a new president. I don’t see death. My curiosity about the future has evaporated, leaving me in a small pool of the present with no faith in memories of the past and no vision of what lies ahead. It turns out that the land of the ever-present is a barren place.

The dance of days is over. Today is Wednesday.