Surface

During normal operation, our kayak is situated at the interface of wind and water and subject to the influence of both. The water and the wind are not always in agreement. The waters and their waves have their own ideas about where things are going. The wind is an invisible but independent, insistent current at and above the water. 

Without sails, the wind is simply tolerated. Our hats are pulled down tight against our heads. We squint our eyes, as if the wind were a bright light.

The water can be navigated, of course, but not simply through brute force. Water has gravitas and power, but it can be bargained with. An arrangement must be negotiated: playing for a minimum of friction and a method for force production. The paddles provide leverage and the water provides purchase. The hull and the water seem to readily conspire to grant buoyancy, but awkwardly and grudgingly offer slipperiness.

It doesn’t require much effort to balance—only to sit upright—but more to command where the boat points. It can be like a compass needle searching for North, except North continues to move and drift. The flow of the river might be the boat’s True North at any given moment, but the wind, waves and wakes are like nails and magnets scattered around our two-person kayak-compass: jangling and pulsing, pushing and pulling the needle. (The ducks don’t seem to notice or mind any more than the sunlight reflected on the water does. Show-offs, they are perfectly at home in both the water and the wind.)

The interface—the meeting place of these two elements—is where we sit and paddle. That slightly convex surface is where we brace ourselves against the pedals inside the hull and move from our core. Our core is the only part of us strong enough to brace us against and heave us through the wind and the waves. Movement, intention, resolve, efficiency come from the center, from the core. A kind of understanding about the water, the wind and the kayak must also come from the core. Or maybe that’s just where it’s focused, where it naturally concentrates. Maybe wisdom and understanding work their way in, bit by bit, from the outside and gather there, where the currents sink deeper down, growing in strength and finally providing stability; a place where we can mark our current position at the interface of things.

Lasting Effects

The most obvious and well-known danger of using dull knives is that you’ll have to use so much force to cut something that you’ll slip and cut yourself. But a subtler, more problematic danger is getting used to dull knives.

If you’re used to using sharp knives and you find yourself in the situation of having to use a dull knife, you automatically get a warning when you realize that you can’t cut as accurately or efficiently as you expect to. You can then decide to sharpen the knife, find another knife or even proceed at risk.

But if you’re used to using dull knives and you find yourself in the situation of suddenly using a sharp knife, you may be surprised at how efficiently it cuts. “Surprised” here might mean that you cut deeper or differently than you’re expecting. Depending on the exact circumstances, you may even cut something you never intended to.

Using a dull or a bad tool is dangerous each time you use it. But the lasting effects of using a bad, dull tool over and over again can gradually make even a good, sharp tool dangerous.

Barefoot in the Park

I found not long after the pandemic began last year that since I was spending all my time at home I didn’t need to wear shoes or socks very much. To take out the garbage or get the mail, yes. To make the occasional grocery run or mow the lawn, of course. But spending so much time inside at home, I found that footwear just wasn’t that necessary.

It really isn’t any more complicated than simply not putting on socks and then continuing by not putting on shoes—more laziness than anything. (not as many socks in the laundry, either!) I’ve noticed the differences between walking or standing on the wood floors in most of the house and the tile in the bathroom, or the cement in the basement; not just the textures, but the temperature. The area rugs feel a bit softer and warmer and I notice that I avoid the pronounced thresholds between rooms or the angular metal floor grates—artifacts of our old house. And I can’t help but also notice that I move my feet more, even when I’m sitting still. I can flex them more easily and wiggle my toes and I don’t hesitate to pull my feet up into a cross-legged position when I’m at my desk because, why not? It’s not like I have shoes on.

This isn’t anything profound and, of course, the barefoot movement isn’t anything new—just new to me. But still, the outdoors is another threshold to cross. Exiting the built world without anything on your feet is very different, not only to the person who is barefoot but to everyone else, too.

We took an outdoor yoga class last weekend at a lovely riverside park during our first brief stay away from home since being vaccinated. The morning air was cool but the sunlight quickly warmed us. We hadn’t planned on finding a yoga class, and so I hadn’t brought a yoga mat with me. No matter: I thought I would simply lean into my barefoot experiment a bit more and participate on the naked ground. When we arrived, the grass was more sparse and the litter more abundant than I had imagined. But I was determined to simply power my way through it, wrappers and paper and… whatever the hell that stuff is be damned. The instructor offered to provide a mat for me and I politely declined. She offered again, sent her son to the car and simultaneously produced a blanket that I reluctantly accepted. Very soon after that her son presented me with a mat. It seemed rude not to use them. A year of being barefoot indoors (when it wasn’t cold—c’mon, warm socks and slippers during Winter!) hadn’t quite prepared me to refuse a kind gesture or resist the pull of social conventions. (yoga class = yoga mat) 

The class was great—one of the highlights of the weekend—and I doubt that it would have been any better if I hadn’t used the mat. After all, I could still feel the bumps and unevenness of the ground through the mat. I was still outside in the breeze and the sun and the birdsong. I wouldn’t be any more wise, compassionate or enlightened if I had made direct contact with the Earth for an hour, and my level of practice is shallow and infrequent enough that I probably wouldn’t have been any more grounded if I had been buried in the dirt up to my knees.

But maybe it would have been better to not use the mat, if only to feel how it is to work my feet into the Earth a little; if only to feel how good it is to wash them clean after actually getting them dirty.

Transit/Transition

Sometimes it feels good to just walk; to be in motion and not at any particular location. To be on my way to nowhere in particular. There is a certain feeling I sometimes had when traveling in the Before Times: the feeling of being free from… well, perhaps just being free in a certain sense. Being in transit is like a lens that eliminates most of the distracting clutter of responsibilities and focuses on mostly tangible, tempo-spatial concerns: what do I have to do next to get to Baltimore? The only thing to do is to continue moving toward the destination, some of which involves simply waiting, e.g. for the plane to arrive. A singleness of purpose—unhurried and unforced, if you’re lucky. But even for all the hassles and discomforts, there can be moments of refuge from most other demands. You’re simply en route. On the way. In transit.

Sometimes it feels good to just be still very early in the morning. The relative stillness is invigorating. Stretching out in bed confirms my hypothesis: I am comfortable and cozy. Extending my limbs and twisting my spine back and forth give the pleasant sensation of movement and relief from stiffness before settling back into stillness. I want to remain motionless in order to fully absorb the nothing that is happening around me. The noise from the occasional car, distant and transient, draws my attention to the fact that there is no other remarkable activity. It’s quiet—I can tell by the other quiet things I can hear now, before everything begins making noises. Before everything accelerates into the day.

The seasons are also in transition: it is Spring. Any particular day might be cool or warm (but trending warmer), windy or still, sunny or rainy. The birds are awake and singing earlier each day, encouraging the sun to rise earlier and coaxing the days to stretch out longer, too. (Robins in particular, we noted on a walk one evening, seem to be the most productive North American songbird with their extended business hours. They are up very early, carefully eyeing the ground and hunting worms, and they are still flying and singing even as we return home at dusk from an evening walk. I wonder if maybe they take a long lunch each day.)

Spring’s inevitable destination is Summer. It will arrive after displaying a mix of days that preview heat or hint at snow. The plants and trees are steady and reliable indicators of the journey, pointing their shoots and leaves up toward the sun, or at least out toward the world, after being turned inward during Winter. There is subtle, internal, quiet work that takes place in transition, even in simply “waiting” to arrive. It doesn’t require doing so much as it rewards listening.

A Useful Routine

I’ve mentioned before that we have a pull-up bar. I don’t train with it to be able to do dozens of reps, but I do a few here and there throughout the week. It’s nice to know I could probably pull myself up out of the water if I fall off of a pier, or that I could pull myself over a tall fence if I’m being chased by a dog. Y’know, useful abilities to have if you find yourself in an 80’s or 90’s comedy film.

But another benefit I’ve found of being able to do a handful of pull-ups is that they can act as a diagnostic. There have been days when all of a sudden it seems like I can’t comfortably do as many as usual; sometimes the energy just isn’t there. I’ve come to take this as an early warning sign that, even if I feel fine in every other way, I might not be sleeping enough or that I’m on the verge of getting a cold.

I think because pull-ups demand a bit more intensity of effort than, for example, going for a walk or even a run it’s a little easier to notice when things aren’t quite right. The body can’t help but provide strong feedback when presented with a strong input.

Performance Art

Art is what happens when you make something better than it needs to be. It would have worked well enough before you put some finishing touches on it. It would have been good enough before you decided to put an extra flourish into it. A little extra effort and care can make it more attractive, elegant, robust, capable, efficient: the work of an artisan.

So why go for a run through difficult terrain, like snow and ice? Why split wood by hand; especially when it’s just for the occasional campfire in your backyard? Why even bother learning to deadlift, do a pull-up or tree pose?

Maybe just as an expression of physical potential and agency. Maybe just for the variety: a challenge that breaks up your routine. Maybe doing it outside just because it’s nice to be outside; whether or not the weather is actually nice. Maybe it’s just to have one difficulty in your life that you get to pick. 

Maybe doing things the hard way once in a while makes us a little better in some way: a little stronger, a little more coordinated, a little more aware, a little more alive. 

Maybe it’s performance art.

Wake Up Call

There is a span of time between waking up and getting up: often brief; rarely extended. It is the ordinary, natural conjugate to the time between lying down and falling asleep, but at the same time, it’s markedly different. There is no meaningful decision about when to actually fall asleep, but we get to choose when to sit up and touch our feet to the floor again.

Standing up is the first thing we do when we get up in the morning, after that strange span of time has passed. Strange because it can hold so many things: thoughts of the day ahead and the night before; a daydream on the heels of a night’s dream; the first email of the day; or nothing. Ideally, on the weekends it yields a pocket of idleness. There are so few pockets of idleness left—smartphones fit into them so well.

It feels like a few moments of mindfulness here would be worth cultivating. Noticing that the voice in our head hasn’t started its commentary yet. Feeling the sensations of the body: the full weight of it on the bed, flexing and stretching a little. (Perhaps aching a little…) Hearing the sounds around us. Seeing the ceiling: ceilings are somehow more interesting (puzzling, even) in the morning. All within this interval that trails along in the wake of the pull of consciousness—however strong or weak.

It might be a good time to jot down some thoughts or doodle while your guard is down. It might be a good time to pay close attention to your breath. It might be a good time to roll over and fall back asleep: a luxurious experience that cannot be bought. It might be a good time to simply savor the spare moments before we stand up and find our footing to meet the schedule, the list, the dog, the kids…

Turning

Turning things over—in your head or in your hands—can be contemplative. You might be accused of doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, but I don’t think that’s quite right. It is about expecting something, but expecting something more, not different. It’s about allowing time for things to seep in.

Some things respond easily to that kind of examination, like old furniture or hand tools: weathered and witness to use and carelessness and care. Some new physical things do, too, but many are purposefully designed to be abstract and minimal—merely portals for designed information. There aren’t a lot of obvious features to turn over and examine, because they’re not supposed to be there: they’re supposed to be magic, like a sleek, black, glossy hat.

And yet, when my phone is off (“off-off”: when it is powered down into a sleep mode that means it can’t be roused with a touch or a lift) I can better appreciate its understated aesthetic. (After all, I would never eagerly dismiss or disparage the beauty of a smooth stone.) It bears repeating: it’s not supposed to draw a lot of attention to itself—it should simply be what you need, when you need it. It should provide functions in a way that you naturally reach for them when you want them, but don’t otherwise notice them. And I can still examine the details of its elegant design and the places that dust and lint find its tiny seams and pockets. Tiny imperfections and limitations; an almost microscopic wabi-sabi.

My phone and my coffee cup have more in common than I thought. They are both attractive and well-designed and they both show signs of wear; and my attention is ordinarily drawn more toward what they hold than their affordances.

Extremes

On Sunday morning, the sky was completely clear and the sun reflected off the snow; it was intensely bright. It was also intensely cold this weekend—not a weekend for leisurely strolls or even walks for exercise, but rather efficient, goal-oriented, survival walks: get coffee, get food, get back to the room. Quickly.

We’re capable of adapting to very cold weather. Our bodies will naturally start to burn more calories in order to generate enough heat to keep us warm, but it doesn’t seem to happen very quickly or easily—at least not if you live indoors. I’ve read that you can deliberately adapt to cold weather if you prompt your body by regularly showering with cold water for a couple of minutes. (My interest in this is extremely limited.)

I do notice sometimes in March or April, when I walk outside to get the mail or take out the garbage, that even though there’s snow on the ground I don’t feel like I need a jacket. It certainly feels cool, but 40F in October does not feel the same as 40F in March. Somehow, gradually, I become more acclimated to the cold over the winter. Maybe it’s from shivering in the car before it gets warmed up, or short dashes outside when it’s too much trouble to put on a heavy coat. Maybe it’s from getting up in the morning when the floors are still cold.

However it happens, it happens over time, by degree and with a little discomfort. Even the extreme effort of showering with cold water takes more than one session to adapt. But maybe there is a counter-intuitive comfort to be found in the discomfort, knowing that simultaneously there are deep, quiet changes happening, too.

No Words

We had been chatting, mostly about work, during most of the walk that night until we came to a large clearing. We turned off our lights and stood in the dark for a few moments, listening to the snow laying on the fields, the trees standing in the distance, the clouds above.

We listened to see if we could hear anything, which is different from listening to understand what someone is saying. Peace and quiet are words that feel much different when you hear them directly.

Two Kinds of Careful

If a knife is really sharp, you have to be very careful with the edge: it’s going to efficiently cut whatever it touches. If a knife is really dull, you have to be very careful with the pressure you’re exerting: it’s going to be difficult to stop if the blade slips off to one side or it suddenly plunges through.

The first kind of careful requires you to be attentive and skillful.

The second kind of careful demands much more of both.

The Weight of Things

A cat on your lap.

A heavy coat when it’s cold.

A stout walking stick.

A load of wood for a campfire.

A weighted blanket and a thick book.

A backpack with a picnic inside.

Not so heavy as to be a burden, but rather ballast—a counterweight.

They give rise to a feeling of stability and solidity more than they do effort or strain.

Near Misses

The kitchen is a place of excitement and danger. There are hot ovens, sharp knives, heavy pans which can also be quite hot: basically a lot of very hot, sharp metal things that may also be heavy. And, of course, food. And perhaps a little alcohol because, why not; we’re cooking.

Sometimes there are “near misses”: something hot or sharp or heavy comes very close to some part of you that you’d rather not have burned, cut or smooshed. Near misses aren’t quite accidents; they’re warnings.

They warn you of lack of attention, lack of control, lack of patience, lack of technique—anything you might be lacking except, perhaps, fiber. Near misses show you a glimpse of what could happen if you don’t address the area that is lacking.

They are gifts to be treasured.

Feedback Revisited

Attention to feedback, to what your senses are telling you about what’s happening while you’re moving your arms and legs around, trying to get something done, is the difference between simply following a procedure and mindfully engaging with it.

Sometimes I just want to do the steps and be done. Sometimes I take more enjoyment in observing and feeling the process on the way to the desired result. I suppose with some things I don’t even care about the outcome, I just want to experience the feel of it. The sensations alone are enough.

In any case, the real effort doesn't seem to be in executing each step—it's in paying attention to the feedback and making adjustments as you go. There is real work in both concentrating on the incoming information, which may be quite subtle, and then adapting to it.

Text/Texture

I love books. I am excited by new discoveries, ideas, knowledge. I like learning.

I love the feel of books, too: their weight, the flexing and yielding of paperbacks and the stately solidity of a hardcover. The heft of a stack of books feels like treasure. I was cleaning up broken glass very early one morning and was struck with wonder at how it is that we can feel with our fingertips a single shard of glass—really just a grain of sand—so small that we can scarcely see it. And our sensitive fingertips and alert brains, as Kurt Vonnegut remarked, tell us that books are good for us. I love the feel of the pages of a book: not the glossy, plasticky kind, but the slightly rough, porous kind. The kind that inspires awe when you look closely and consider the typographical outposts imposed on that fibrous terrain.

And you can see on the page and in your mind the weaving of a good story, description or explanation. And in seeing it so clearly, you can almost feel the warp and woof of good writing like the texture of a warm blanket.

Full Swing

I chopped down the old-fashioned lilac. It was probably 50 years old and had become diseased and scraggly. I started out by using a hand saw to take down the smaller trunks around the periphery and then got to the four main old-growth trunks in the center. I needed better access to one of the trunks, so I took an axe to it. There is something oddly congruent, if not quite poetic, about cutting down a tree with a wood-handled axe.

Lilac is either a fairly hard wood or it could be that I haven’t sharpened my axe. In any case, I was working low to the ground, so bending at the knees is required for each swing. But then as I established a feel for this specific task/target it encouraged a bit more force and I found myself really laying into it. I don’t often have permission or occasion to do something as hard as I can, so it’s a kinesthetic treat. The rhythm I adopted was structured by the technique: chambering my arms up past my right shoulder, axe well behind me, spine twisted to the right and legs mostly straightened: coiled clockwise. Then dropping my weight by bending at the knees, sinking my hips and returning my shoulders toward the trunk as my arms pull down at an angle to land each blow at about a 45 degree angle to the trunk. Every muscle involved, producing force to either move or stabilize a body part; continuous feedback from my eyes coordinating the strikes.

If you pay attention, you can feel your body do all these things more or less automatically. You simply run out of strength if you only use your arms to do the work, so if you’re intent on getting the job done, the rest of you gets involved whether you realize it or not.

It’s a gift to be able to bring our whole body to a task, even if it isn’t quite as vigorous or ballistic. Feeling so many different sensations and forces, hands and eyes coordinated—no, more than coordinated: unified. A few moments of flow in a vigorous movement. How often do we get to use our entire body to do something like that?

Ritual

As I’ve mentioned before, I like my coffee ritual. A recent HBR interview with Mike Norton helps to explain part of why I like it so much, and why we might find ourselves engaged in rituals. Regarding what’s important about rituals, he says, “What seems to matter is that you name it as a ritual, and that you actually do the ritual and don’t just think about doing it.” (Emphasis mine)

This, for my particular interests, is the single most important sentence in the article for what it suggests: our physical movements, our deliberate, thoughtful movements are what help us grieve, help us heal, help us keep going. Mindfully enacting a ritual, no matter how contrived, is more powerful than simply thinking about it, or perhaps even watching it. There are, somehow, powerful forces at work within us during rituals—mental and emotional—beyond those needed to simply move our limbs.

Yoga is Wasted on the Young

Well, not wasted, exactly. It’s certainly an enjoyable and beneficial activity in more than one way at any age.

But you really need to be in your 40’s to fully appreciate being given permission (and instruction) to indulge in the luxurious act of moving your body and assuming postures with such care.