A Deep Breath (#21)

I struggled with selecting an image for tonight's post.
My initial thoughts leaned toward "disturbing". Like "Zdzisław Beksiński" disturbing.
That went too far.
So, I decided on "harsh truth delivered in a funny way".
If you have seen Beksiński's artwork, you are probably glad I did.

Lately, I've been taking a lot of deep breaths on this blog. Since the beginning of January. Maybe it's just the post-holiday doldrums. Like a long sigh. Next weekend may break the spell. Because I will be engaged in an experience that will require all my attention, there will be no blogging. It may be the jolt I need in order to transform my writing. That is all I will share about the event at this time. 

Meanwhile, I will focus on tonight's post. This past week, I traded in reading my book for viewing documentaries. The history of Vatican II will have to wait. Last Sunday's foray into one family's living in the Alaskan wilderness sent me down a new path. That's the way my mind works. Watching this couple disassemble nearly twenty years of trials, triumphs, and tragedies, along with the wooden structures they created together, was beautiful and inspiring. It reminded me of how much I enjoy documentaries about nature. So, I followed up Rewilding Kernwood with Arctic Daughter, the life of the mother from the first documentary I saw. There is a third movie, Arctic Son. Unfortunately, that one was not free with Prime; therefore, it will have to wait. By Monday night, I caught a film about the mass migration of animals through the Brooks Range in Alaska. Unfortunately, I went to bed two-thirds of the way through, and have not been able to find it since, in order to finish it. However, on Tuesday night, I discovered the trilogy, Wild North, by Scandanavian photographers. Wrapped that series up by early Saturday night.

A craving for documentaries came over me, and ones about nature were not enough. An entire week of these films stirred up memories of childhood. When I used to devour entire series about Vietnam and World War II. Sure enough, my streaming services delivered. It took some time, but I found one on the Second World War. I gave up after the first few minutes. The footage was reconstructed with cheesy special effects. That inspired me to find a documentary with actual footage from the time period. It took another stretch of time searching, before  I found it. It was from the History channel, which made me wince (a topic for another day--a channel of so much squandered potential). But I put aside my bias, when I learned that the content contained never-before-released home movies from that era. And for over an hour, I was held captivated by what I saw.

And thoroughly disgusted. At least three times I teared up. Several times I paused it, and walked about my bedroom angry. I do that sort of thing when I become emotional. But turning it off was not an option. My childhood is filled with graphic footage from war. That includes, during my preteen years, watching Soviet footage of concentration camps, void of music, or commentary. I could handle it. Just not silently, or without emotion. And so I endured a tumultuous journey through various eye witnesses of Europe's worst civil war.

While I searched for WWII content, I came across I Am Not Your Negro. It is a film about James Baldwin, and I have been meaning to watch it for some time. Besides movies about warfare, I also viewed films about the Civil Rights Movement. By the time I entered high school, I was exposed to the beatings and marches, lynching and riots; the sight of a little girl being attacked by crowds of adults; and the face of a young boy in a coffin, murdered by two adults for something he never did. However, I settled on the History Channel's The Third Reich. James Baldwin would have to wait.

Once again, my life is full of coincidences. On the same day I watched amateur video from German soldiers recording their harassment and murder of civilians, authorities released body cam footage of Tyre Nichols' death. As I saw soldiers march naked people towards open graves where they lined them up and shot them dead, the world witnessed a group of police surround a man and beat him to death.

History does not repeat itself. But some humans seem to wish it would.   

A Deep Breath (#20)

You'll have to read the post in order
to understand their significance.

I am a day late with this post. Yesterday, my daughter's dance team hosted a competition for the first time ever. Overall, it was a success. However, leading up to it, I had many doubts, most of which stemmed from my personal struggles with social interactions, and past experiences with planned events. A week of intense anxiety, ten straight hours of standing, a way too many interactions with strangers, left me exhausted. So, no blogging for me. Instead, I ate a lot of Chinese food (not exactly a good idea on a near empty stomach), and experienced about an hour of an interesting documentary (someday soon I will discuss it), before retiring to bed (I slept well for the most part, except for a strange dream that caused me to wake up briefly in the middle of the night).  

After spending the day doing laundry (a usual Sunday chore), making the weekly trek to my favorite grocery store (a twenty-minute drive both ways), and prepping snacks and meals for the family (an two-hour task itself), I am ready to sit down a write. Yet, my mind and heart are not fully committed. The former wants to analyze all the mistakes I made these past few days, and uncertainties that plagued me this past week. The latter thinks no harm, no foul, and that the slate has been wiped clean, ready for me start anew.

And my gut is reminding me of several punches it has received, some self-inflicted. 

For the moment, I will briefly mention two. The first one came from the direction of a documentary. It was about three adults and a child who constructed over twenty years of life in a remote part of northern Alaska. Actually, the film centered on the deconstruction of those memories. If my own recent foray into a wild life event had not left me drained, I would have finished watching. I have found it that intriguing. That story, and an interesting coincidence. Just last week, I started another documentary about a massive yearly migration that takes place through the Brooks Range in Alaska, the very place where this family discovered a huge part of their life. 

It is another coincidence that brings me to the second punch to my stomach. In the beginning of January, I began reading one of two books from a Jesuit priest. The first focuses on the Council of Trent, while the second on Vatican II. Both are important historical events in the history of the Catholic Church. I have been drawn to this topic since last November, a process worthy of its own posts.  The subject matter and writing style of the two books has me reading at least thirty minutes to an hour a day for the past few weeks. That means a lot to me. 

Well, a few days ago, I decided to purge a pile of books from my daughter's room. The plan was to donate them to the local library. Something inspired me to pack them all into a single bag and walk them to the library. One mile away. Fifteen minutes later, with aching muscles and short breath, I found myself at the rolling cart for book donations. It was red. And empty. Except for two books. Both were thin, old, and worn, piled to one side. I placed my large pile of thick, like-new modern books, most of them teen romance, on the other side of the cart. The asymmetry caught my eye, and I decided to examine the two other books.

Their titles were Called to Communion: Understanding the Church Today and the Spirit of the Liturgy. Both by the same man. Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, who would eventually become Pope Benedict XVI. And both about the same topic. The Catholic Church and how Vatican II changed it. 

There, alone, in that long hallway of the library, standing beside the red painted metal cart, upon which sat two uneven piles of book, I laughed aloud. Then I took a picture, for my blog. I sighed, shook my head, and left.

Despite a now empty bag, I walked home bearing a heavier burden.

Fucking coincidences.      

  

A Deep Breath (#19)

One week of purging and organizing. By next weekend,
that table to the left, and the stuff above and below it,
should be cleared out. 

My basement is split into two parts: finished and unfinished. Both need organization and decluttering. Well, I spent the better part of last week focused on the one half I have come to call my office. It is where many a rushed creative session has taken place. Like for my daughter's sweet sixteen, and the eight Christmas seasons we have had in this house. In addition, this space has birthed several Nutcracker props. Mostly because my garage has no insulation and is not heated. Painting and gluing during the winter seasons requires use of the basement. Hopefully it becomes the permanent center for my writing and drawing goals.

First, I have to transform it into the proper environment. In my last post, I included an image of the mess that overran the space. A few of the boxes already had a home somewhere else--they contained Christmas decorations. I just needed to move them. Some of the stuff was scraps of paper and poster board from finished projects. They went into the trash bin. However, a good deal of items in that photo, demanded more attention. A decision had to be made: save or toss. 

I have a reputation for getting rid of clutter, even sentimental objects. In fact, the day after New Years, my daughters witnessed how ruthless I can be with decluttering. I gathered over six trash bags while ransacking my youngest's room. People will criticize the level of waste I collected, and my child may regret a few of my choices, yet, she felt better immediately. A clear, clean, organized environment fosters a healthier mind and body. And it opens up opportunities, especially to fill the space more effectively.

There comes a time when a physical mess interferes with growth and change. You can promise yourself all you want that you can upcycle those unused items languishing away in some corner of the room. Pinterest is full of possibilities for those slightly broken furniture pieces. Or, you tell yourself that all you need to do is take a few photos, post them on Facebook Marketplace, and those old toys will find a new home. Better yet, share them on free sites, and they will disappear into the arms of more productive, creative people. In the end, you convince yourself that those old drawings, slips of paper from fortune cookies, the canvas pencil case with your name on it will be just fine tucked away into a sturdy plastic box with a tight lid. 

But we all know you end up shoving it all into a torn cardboard box that you do not bother to close shut, or a cracked container with the wrong lid. Because, who has time to run out and buy some quality storage bins. Over time, you pile more receptacles of broken goals and forgotten dreams into those crowded recesses of your room. And if you find it too difficult to look at, eventually you hide them away in the basement.

Yet, a few things are worth saving, if only just long enough until your next burst of productive creativity. Afterall, creation is not consistent. It spikes, then languishes. And you never know when that collection of half-used poster board, pile of cheap fairy lights, or reams of various colored card stock that you have been holding on to since your teaching career ended eight years ago, will come in handy. In your experience, it some times does. Like two weeks leading up to Christmas, and you are stuck on how to wrap up a handmade gift for someone, thinking you will need to spend a good deal of money, or just give up. And then it hits you, somewhere in that collection of loose ends, is the perfect length of corded rope. Your project is saved.

The key is knowing what to keep, how to keep it, and when to let go of it. Well, I like to believe, after collecting and purging for a greater part of forty-five years, I now have a keener eye. I know what size of cardboard or length of wood is worth keeping. What I do not doubt, however, is my ability to organize things and place them in sturdy, well-labeled bins. That comes from my days teaching and stage managing. Hefty makes a great line of plastic containers, and Lowe's continues to restock them. Finally, I need to work on trashing stuff. It has been twenty years, and I have yet to turn that stack of oak cutoffs tucked away along the side of the garage into anything worthwhile. It may be time to clear them out.

So, I found myself, alone, last Tuesday, in the basement, overwhelmed by the sight before me. The ease at which I began my daughter's room a week before, eluded me now. The smaller scraps were easy. So, I started there. Garbage. Then there were the ribbons. Loose pieces. Long enough to make bows. And they had a labeled, plastic bin. Saved, snapped closed, and put away into the unfinished side of the basement, for another day. And that was okay, because I will use them again next year, and they are contained. 

Now I had momentum. I soon discovered more stuff that could be tossed, or had a specific bin that could hold it. Progress! Until, of course, I met an item that gave me pause. Do not ask me what it was. I cannot recall now. But I remember finally throwing it out, and feeling immediate relief. That I have forgotten the object's name and purpose is proof I made the correct decision. More importantly, it inspired me to purge more stuff. 

In the end, what you see in the photo required five days and four trash bags. I could probably have done it in two, but I had other commitments to make and daily chores to finish. Also, cleaning and organizing the basement forced me to tackle another area of my house, the garage. As I was returning some items to the garage, it occurred to me they were of no use to me. So, I tossed them. That led me to look around, and start throwing out other useless objects. I had to stop myself, noting that the basement was priority. There would be plenty of time for the garage (in fact, this upcoming week).

There is still clutter, some of which you cannot see directly in the photo. But it is now manageable, and the end is in sight. But it will have to wait until tomorrow. Today was laundry day, and I decided to tackle other chores as well. Also, the stuff remaining is mostly papers, mementos, and necessary, but uncategorized items. All these require some thinking and planning.

Once I clear off that table on the left, and move it off to the far right (I will have to find a place of a bookcase that you cannot see in the photo, but it has wheels, so I am not concerned), clear off the papers on the black shelf behind it, and reorganize my desk on the left, Phase I of the basement will be complete. Then I can move on...

Wait, I did not mention that this effort was only the first phase?

Interesting...

(To be continued...)    

A Deep Breath (#18)

Sigh.
This is my personal space,
where I want to write, draw, and create.
It did not always look like this. Not before the holidays.

I am twenty posts away from reaching two hundred, and still have not given up this project. However, as I shared before, I am in the process of reassessing my motivation for blogging weekly. Five years had passed since my first fourteen years of teaching ended, and I needed to reevaluate my life choices. When the school closed, I turned to blogging in order to find direction. While that effort failed, it laid seeds for a future attempt, the one you are currently reading. In addition, during those five years, I had built up new friendships and found a place to express my creativity and share my skills. But a lockdown, caused by a world-wide pandemic, inspired anxieties about losing those relationships and my place in the world. So, I turned to blogging in order to stay connected and remain relevant. Finally, writing, as an experience, always held a special spot in my head and heart. Putting my thoughts into written words excited me, emotionally and intellectually. It felt good releasing the jumble of ideas that churned daily in my mind. Also, teasing out those strands, and laying them out in a logical, cohesive structure challenged my analytical and rhetorical skills.

Those were the meta goals of my blogging. They sound deep and significant. Inspiring. Worthy of effort and resources. But abstract goals like those are not capable of changing old habits. And old habits undermined my first attempt at blogging, sabotaged my friendships, and interfered with my writing. Procrastination played a part in the first and third categories, but the wrong expectations obstructed all three. After learning more about building lasting habits and establishing healthy, realistic expectations (thanks to a series of podcasts and books, but also through reexamining past personal failures), I decided to approach blogging, and writing in general, from a different angle. 

After all, the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over expecting different results.

As I approach my two hundredth post and three-year anniversary of this blog, it is inevitable that I should look back on my achievements, and acknowledge my shortcomings. There are plenty of the latter. My daily journaling has been inconsistent, some times absent for an entire week. The novel I worked on fourteen months ago remains untouched. Blogging is reserved for Sundays, when, at one point, I was contributing three posts a week. The content itself is nowhere near what I had planned. There are so many subjects I have not discussed. And that chapter of my life at the dance studio, where I volunteered my blood, sweat, and tears, ended over a year ago (there was an epilogue, but, for the moment, it is too raw to share).    

Yet, none of this has been a waste. As the new year unfolds, I can reclaim those lofty goals. But, now I can change how I pursue them. Journaling and blogging works in tandem. If I am inconsistent with one, I have the other to cover the gap. Each day, I need to find time for both. Even if it is thirty minutes. The muscle memory is there, I just have to get moving. Changing up the blog content requires a new approach. And some courage. Writing down my reactions to things I have read may help. Then I can draw upon them when I sit down to blog. As for my anxieties, well, that requires a different kind of effort. My fiction ideas require me to ignore my expectations about what is good and worthwhile, and just put those thoughts down. I can go back later and fix it.

Finally, there is the matter of my relationships, not just to people, but to my community, and the world. Without a doubt, I have matured. There are things that need work. Communications being one. Maybe one or two expectations. And certain negative thoughts. However, I have changed for the better. In the past I would have clammed up, shut down, and turned away in the face of struggle. Now, I speak up (not as much as I should), or reconsider my own thoughts and actions (perhaps a little too much). 

No one can say that I have not stepped out of my comfort zone. 

Growth needs positive constructive feedback. Therefore, if I want my writing, and ideas, to improve, I need to share it and solicit responses. Asking for comments scares me. Valid criticism I can handle. It is the awkwardness which could transpire after an outright rejection that I fear. In addition, what I write will offend someone. Strangers I can handle. But people whom I respect? I am not sure I can stomach falling from their graces.

Finally, there is the matter of making a mistake, or being wrong. In a circle of friends, it is easier to correct ones self, or apologize. At least, it should be. That is why they are friends. The internet is more hostile, and far less forgiving. Humans have always struggled when admitting faults and errors. Social media has made doing it nigh impossible. Yet, accepting that one is wrong is essential to growth. It is the foundation of intellectual discourse, but also healthy emotional relationships.

With regards to my personal life, I have embraced humility whenever I make an assertion, given the people in my life the benefit of the doubt when I think they are wrong, and tried to openly accept my mistakes and errors as they come up during conversations. I am good with the first two, but still working on the last one.

As for the public sphere, I struggle. If I want to grow, I need to turn that around. That means writing  assertions that may end up being wrong, and sharing ideas that may upset people. Then correcting and apologizing when necessary. It would be easier if I felt more confident about my ability to express myself. My writing skills are still weak. And I have never felt my knowledge on any given subject was adequate. But, none of that will not improve, unless I put myself out there, and analyze the feedback. 

A catch-22. 

As for now, the last load of laundry calls me, as does my dinner. These thoughts will have to wait, along with my goals for reading, drawing, gardening, and woodworking.

(To be continued...)   

  

A Deep Breath (#17)

How did last year end? A week of suffering and recovering from the flu. Followed by a week of baking cookies and fruit cakes (well worth the effort). And skipping out on a lot of writing, including my daily journals. 

How did I spend New Year's Day? A lot of cooking, cleaning, and laundry. At least five episodes of the Derry Girls (when it comes to movies and television, I am always several years behind). And reading up on the history of the Catholic Church.

And the day after? Filling three trash bags worth of junk that accumulated in my youngest daughter's room. Wrapping up the Derry Girls series (many a laugh was had, and many a tear shed). And writing this blog post.

So, here I am, bloated from a weekend of culinary debauchery, tired from two straight days of housework, and disappointed with my failure to maintain my writing goals during the last few months. Yet, I have never been one to despair. Even when the waters of the local river and canal began to collect at the foot of my driveway during Hurricane Irene, I refused to lose hope that they would pour into my basement (eventually eight feet of water would fill the basement). Hence tonight's effort at blogging.

I am also easily inspired. Especially by what I see as timely experiences. For example, there is the book recommendation that I discovered thanks to a recent Google feed (it is always hit or miss: yes, tell me more about best practices in middle school mathematics, but, please, I do not care what Kim Kardashian said about Kanye West's co-parenting skills, or how Margot Robbie's red outfit in the movie Babylon blew people's minds). It was an article about the Vatican II Council. In the past year, I have grown interested in Catholicism, both historically and theologically (I was born, raised, and confirmed a Catholic, but have since renounced the Church). So, I read through it and found a suggested author: John W. O'Malley. Once again, interlibrary loans to the rescue. Within two days, I had two of his books: Trent: What Happened at the Council, and What Happened at Vatican II. I dove right into the first title, because Trent happened before Vatican II, like four centuries prior. And I am loving every page of it.

If you have been following this blog, you will know that reading is important to me. Unfortunately, I struggle to find time for it. But on those rare occasions when I pursue a particular title, I am quickly reminded why I love reading. Even when I find the book disappointing (it happened twice this year). So, following through on the suggested works of Father O'Malley, and finding myself thoroughly enjoying his telling of an historical event, well, it like a revelation. But one I have known many times before. 

Now combine that with a tale about five teenage girls (well, one is a boy, but does not matter, except when it does) living in Derry, a city in Northern Ireland. I must confess, I do not like committing to television series. There are too many episodes and too many seasons. And the worse is when each episode lasts more than thirty minutes. Focusing is not a problem--I can sit through a six-episode  documentary on the history of cinema, or twenty-four lectures on the science of philosophy. But, I have reached middle-age, and my time is precious to me. Like, I do not have time to spend following the rise and fall of a high school chemistry teacher across sixty-two episodes. Or the lives of sadistic rulers in a pseudo-medieval world through six seasons. A part of me regrets ever wasting time sitting through the entirety of Cheers, Friends, and How I Met Your Mother. I mean, I love Frasier, but I was getting sick of hearing "Sherry, Niles". And do not get me started on the Simpsons. Seriously, I gave up a third of the way through its current run.

Nowadays I limit my choices to television series that are under three seasons, with no more than twelve episodes each. Derry Girls fit the bill: three seasons, six thirty-minute-long episodes each (with an extra one for the finale). In addition, it was not an American production. I have always had a soft spot for foreign media, since I was in high school. While their heavy Irish accents forced me to put on subtitles halfway through the series, it was well worth it. These characters and their stories made me laugh, cry, and empathize with their triumphs and struggles. In the end, that is what I loved. I am exhausted with the world-ending plots of superhero movies, and the Machiavellian machinations that modern television writers feel the need to insert into every script. While the political struggles of Northern Ireland runs throughout the Derry Girls, for the most part, it is in the background (except for the last episode), and, more importantly, seen through the eyes of the characters. Otherwise, we are immersed in the lives and culture of regular people doing regular things.

What is so inspiring about experiencing this show? Well, it told a story, a good and simple one, about a place I have never been, with people I will never meet. And it did it well. Which is exactly what I want to do. Share my stories. They are not epic, or groundbreaking. The characters do not change the world. But they are interesting. Well, they are to me anyway. Watching this series, and enjoying it in the way that I did, reminded me how thrilling it can be to write something down and share it with the world.

So, thanks to a book recommendation and a foreign television series, on the second day of the new year, I am having another go at this thing called writing. And I am starting with this blog post.

Hopefully, over the course of the new year, many more will follow it, along with daily journal entries, and a draft of my first novel. 

We shall see...   

A Brief Interlude (#21)

Tonight's post is messy. Many apologies. But then my thoughts have been that way of late, and poetry, even the best of it, is a muddled affair for a slow-minded person like myself. And those are the two things I have for you today: my mind and poetry.

Don't worry, I will not have you experience second-hand embarrassment. There will be no sharing of my own poems, all of which were written in a short period of time, in middle school. 

You're not missing anything.

(Here is a small glimpse into that poetry portfolio of mine: one of my poems was a about a lighthouse. I like how the house stands separate from the lighthouse. There is an interesting relationship going on there.)

A Deep Breath (#16)

Me talking to my faithful reader.

It's almost 6 pm on a Sunday as I sit down to write another blog post. The laundry is done, except for some towels. Those are easy to separate and fold, so I am not worried about them. Dinner is finished, though the leftovers have to be put away. But that is why I filled an entire kitchen cabinet with Rubbermaid containers. Finally, no dishes remain, except for a small pot containing rice, and a slow cooker pot filled with shredded chicken. Now, those two are the kind of things that will weigh on my mind. I would get up right now and put these things away. However, that would inspire me to tackle the remaining load of laundry. Which requires a trip up and down two flights of stairs. Plenty of opportunity for something, or someone, to distract me from writing. 

My procrastination would love nothing more than an excuse not to finish this post. 

So, all that will have to wait while I wrap up this post. At this point, I'm unable to see tonight's entry lasting much longer. I have no answer to last week's query. During the past week, plenty of reasons crossed my mind. The browser on my phone has over one hundred open windows begging to be blogged about. Even today, several strong motives appeared before me. Funny how just a few words from out of nowhere can get you thinking about life. Then there are the two existential threats, from AI projects of all things, that have me questioning why I should bother to pursue my drawing and writing goals. Yet, I can't commit to any one of them. Not at this time.    

However, don't worry, I'm not planning on giving up on blogging. Not any time soon.

After all, I sat down and wrote this post.   

Confessions (#20)

My lantern prototype.

I almost did not blog tonight, and I spent the last hour explaining my reasons. After three-hundred-and -seventy words of complaining, it occurred to me that these were just excuses for my debilitating habits. The same habits I have discussed before: poor planning, procrastinating, overreaching. Tonight's content sounded repetitive. Worse, it was all coming from a bad place. This week was busy, with little to show for it; this weekend exhausting, filled with disappointments. The post reeked of these negative feelings. While writing about pain and suffering is necessary and cathartic, these subjects require careful and deliberate execution. That demands time and focus. Otherwise, I am just ranting and raving, spewing vile into the universe. And the universe needs far less negative expression these days. 

Then it came to me. A question. 

Why AM I still blogging?

Before you panic, dear reader, I do not intend to give it up. Nor do I wish to take a sabbatical, even a short one. However, I felt a need to confess this inner thought. This troubling confession may be the culmination of this past week's frustrations. Like the pangs of indigestion rising up after a holiday of binging, provoking the need to reevaluated your diet, lest you want your body to suffer worse consequences in the days and weeks ahead. Or, it may be the inevitable result of all this introspection. Writing week after week about personal details is like peeling away layers of flooring in an old house. Eventually you will reach the original install. Only then will you realize whether it was worth the effort.  

Why AM I still blogging?

Thirty-one months and one-hundred-and-seventy-six posts later, it is an important question to ask. It is also natural, because the original reasons may no longer apply. In the beginning, there were three.  Two are obvious, just read the first few posts. The third, not so much. I have only alluded to it perhaps once, maybe twice. Unfortunately, for you, I do not have the energy to find it (my guess is I labeled it as a "confession"). After all this time writing about whatever came to my mind on a Sunday night, coupled with a list of failed projects from this past week, I am not surprised that this question showed up.

Why AM I still blogging?

Whatever answers come to the surface right now, are not meant to last. Trust me, my initial responses are quite messy and foul. They are like the proto-DNA strands arising from the primordial soup. Yet, while their presence may disappear from future iterations, their initial existence is necessary in order for the process to begin. And sharing this question is but the first step in search of a conclusion.

Why AM I still blogging?

Sorry, good reader, I do not have an answer. I am not sure when it will come to me. But, rest assured, I will be asking it constantly over the next few weeks. After all, it is an important question.

In the meantime, I have a dishwasher to start, and a load of laundry to fold. Among a million other things.

Why AM I still blogging?

 

My Second and Final Attempt.

 

A Deep Breath (#15)

This past week, I was away visiting family for Thanksgiving. Instead of blogging, I was chilling, eating, and reminiscing. During that time, I also avoided looking at Facebook, exercising, and journaling. I regret that last one more than the others. There was no excuse for skipping that habit.

But I am here now, with a new week starting for me in about eight hours. And I brought along a blog post. It's a start. Let's see what tomorrow has in store for me.  

Tomorrow is a new day.

One day at a time.

It is what it is.

(Me showing off tonight's blog post.)

  

My Weekly Checkup (#33)

I love maps. It may have something to do with my fondness for curving lines and where they lead. Perhaps it is the irregularly shaped spaces and what they may contain. Or maybe the sight of various landmarks and how travelers use them as guides intrigues me. There is plenty of beauty in a page covered with symbols, labels, and negative space.  

I love information. An incredible amount of it is stored within the arrangement of patterns and designs sprawled across a map. For me, deciphering that data has always been a pleasure, never a chore. In the classroom, my history texts were filled with them. That is one reason why I was drawn to that subject. And when that was not enough, the local library provided troves of source material. My book piles always contained two or three books about battles. Fantasy novels also captivated me, in no small part, because of the guaranteed map nestled within its pages.

I love stories. Whether listening to a good friend, watching an informative documentary, or reading an exciting book, I lose myself in the narrative being shared. Maps tell a story, too. Of great armies colliding over rolling hills. Trade routes traversing jagged mountains and thirsty deserts. People fleeing old fears, and racing into new ones. And the location of ancient flora and fauna no human has ever witnessed. Maps are another means of transporting me to where I have never been.  

Maps were always a part of my life. There is a strong memory of me tucked away in a third-floor bedroom, horrified by pages of maps pinpointing the concentration camps and massacres of the Holocaust. And there is clear recollection of an exciting moment, as I opened up JRR Tolkien's The Hobbit only to discover a folded map, four times the size of the pages containing it. My love for a computer game, Pirates!, extended to the beautiful poster-size map of the Spanish Main included in the box. My addiction to National Geographic had less to do with the occasional bare breast, and more to do with the wall maps included with some issues. 

I drew them, too. Maps, not breasts. The earliest ones were the simplest and most prolific. Pages of loose leaf, each containing a large island, with long, rounded coastlines. They were colorful, because I drew them as elevation maps, each color indicating a height above sea level. You can blame my love for another computer game, Starflight. Then there were the battle plans. Some were historical, while others drew from my imagination. Finally, Dungeons and Dragons entered my life, and graph paper, at first filled with squares, and then finally hexes, opened up worlds to me.

Then computers arrived, became powerful, and offered an entirely new experience. I do not remember being much interested in dinosaurs as a child. My love for history focused on the human one. However,  something happened to me a decade ago. While researching information about prehistoric times, I came across a wonderful video on the internet. It showed how the continents drifted, formed super continents, and some times all but disappeared beneath rising sea level. Maps. That moved. Across time. I was in love. And that began a deep dive into paleontology, specifically the geological aspect.

This being a Weekly Checkup, there must be a link that inspired this post, right? Well, indeed, there is, and I discovered it this afternoon. Now, none of my readers, save one, will find the article interesting. But I will include it anyway, if only to share with you the kind of things that excite me. The link covers another childhood fascination of mine, one that has not quite died, but that I have not found time to pursue. It has to do with military board games. I collected about half a dozen of them before I reached high school, and have not purchased any since. Nor have ever played them with anyone. Partly because  I had few friends, and none of them would have been interested. But also, for me at least, it was not about the game itself. These board games were historical, and included detailed maps with stylized counters or pieces. Those beautiful, colorful maps, made of sturdy cardboard, tattooed with symbols for terrain, borders, and objectives, captivated me. Opening those boxes, pulling out the boards, and laying them across the table. Poking out little rectangular pieces covered with unit information. Hundreds of them. Then placing them within various hexes that crisscrossed the map. Set up took an hour or more. Occasionally I would play a round or two, rolling dice, moving counters. Eventually, I would stop, clean it all up, and put it away. That was it. Like I said, I never played any of the games with anyone.

And somehow it was pure childhood bliss.       

So, when I saw an article about board game I grew intrigued. When I discovered that it was about two middle-aged men reviewing it, I was amused. And when I read how moved they were by the map itself, I became nostalgic. 

It inspired me to write this long post about maps.