Once upon a time there was a greek philosopher who, by persistently asking his leaders questions, was nicknamed the "Gnat of Athens". He did not consider it a perjorative. By his example, all of us should from time to time challenge our core beliefs - asking ourselves what moves us to do what we do. If our fundamental principles include "do no harm" and "protect the weak", are our institutions and our own behavior proof to what we believe?
I picked this sixty year old picture of my grandfather resting with his first grandchild, Susan. Grandpa modelled the art of the storyteller. His seemingly rambling tales included details that wrapped up in a stunning punchline, and usually included a gentle lesson.
He talked about spending the summer in a lumber camp, and the great barrels of salt pork the cook brought with him. In the weeks that followed under the heat of the day, those barrels became more fragrant.
I had to be over fifty to discover the magic of intervals. If I can run for one minute, I can train for any distance.
Cardio responds to encouragement better than any fat cell, which seems bound to add to its community no matter how firmly I deprive myself.
I head out in to the school yard. I walk for a minute, then run for a minute. The landscape governs my course as I run the diamond, score a goal, and weave between the trees. Resident rabbit is spooked. Gulls stare. Every new direction opens up new vistas and new goals. My fifteen minutes are up in a flash.
The magic of intervals is that I get recovery time every minute. Do this for a week and then I can up my game to two minute intervals, then three.
My body responds to the new demands as if it were born to run. The improved cardio fitness puts a blush in my cheek and a sparkle in my eye.
I am grateful for the discovery of intervals and the folks at the Running Room for introducing me.
On preparing this post I have a revelation or two. First, I like things a little rough. Not too rough, mind you, just a few nibbles and nicks to fill the corners of my senses. I like the crust, obviously. Followed by a soft, chewy centre. But not so soft it falls apart in my hands.
There’s the hint of salt of course, and the buttery cream (fully melted, please) that promises satiation.
Even now, in post-coital bliss, there is a hint of salt on my lips. It’s enough to transport me to my countless toast memories.
This bread is my own creation; slow fermented overnight, brushed with egg for a wonderfully crisp, golden crust in a hot oven.
That is a heritage butter knife, an Art Nouveau pattern, “Silhouette”.
Silver patterns. Why pick that rabbit hole now? I must be distracting myself from toast.
If anything, this sensory experience demonstrates the power of mindfulness, in discreet doses.
I have the deepest admiration for those people who live their values and thereby leave a lasting impact on our world. High on my admiration list are Florence Nightingale and Albert Schweitzer.
Dr. Schweitzer walked away from a popular and successful career as an organist - he was very good at it - to live out his highest values of service. He retrained as an (adequate) doctor and opened a hospital in the Congo.
This is what he had to say about his philosophical and ethical journey.
“Late on the third day, at the very moment when, at sunset, we were making our way through a herd of hippopotamuses, there flashed upon my mind, unforeseen and unsought, the phrase: “Reverence for Life”. The iron door had yielded. The path in the thicket had become visible. Now I had found my way to the principle in which affirmation of the world and ethics are joined together!”
Out of My Life and Thought : An Autobiography. [Aus meinem Leben und Denken.] Albert Schweitzer, author. Antje Bultmann Lemke , translator. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press; 60th Anniversary Edition (June 11, 2009). pp154-55. Emphasis added.
That phrase, “Reverence for Life” has stuck with me since I found it, and has caused me to re-think my values and their implications over and over again.
I also permanently associate an unbridled herd of hippopotami, with life and reverence.
No hippopotamuses around here, so I videotaped the closest unbridled creature. Mrs. Sparrow and her mate, making short work of my bird feeder in the quiet of the dawn.
I know this sounds oddly specific. I picked Freesia because it is not a rose. I once spent an afternoon with a florist and watched four men order a dozen roses. I don’t hate roses, but why? The shop was loaded with bright and exotic choices.
I think the failure of imagination comes from a lack of confidence. Better to go with the safe choice. But really, how much work is it to look, really look at what is there?
Freesias cascade along a stem diminishing in a regular way like a fractal curl. Their scent, also, is at once delicate and distinctive.
So today I honour the Freesia. I am grateful they exist.
