Determinism vs Free Will

There is no mind absolute or free will, but the mind is determined for willing this or that by a cause which is determined in its turn by another cause, and this one again by another, and so on to infinity.

(Benedictus de Spinoza, 1673)

It's an age old question. Do we have free will? Or are our actions predetermined by conditions of our environment, genes, and prior events?

It seems an easy analogy between these two situations:

The first - Waking up on a given day, we remember it is trash day, get dressed and proceed to collect and distribute the trash to the curb.

And the second - Tripping at the top of the stairs, we tumble down, step by step and are predictably in pain.

While we will readily acknowledge the second of these scenarios as lacking choice, we are less apt to do so with the first. The argument might go something like this...

I choose to take the trash out because otherwise it will accumulate and smell. Or I may choose not to take the trash out because there is a small amount this week and it's cold outside.

Both of these elements of reasoning include a 'because' factor which effectively determines our actions. Continue in this line of logic and one can readily come to the conclusion that all of our actions are predetermined.

Modern quantum physics suggest that there only exist probabilities of actions happening. For example, whenever we knock a cup off the counter, it has a very large likelihood of breaking into bits when it hits the floor. However there is an infinitesimally small chance of it actually passing through the floor! This may suggest that while it may seem that our actions are predetermined, that in fact there is are small probabilities for some actions occurring while others have a bit larger probabilities.

Like whether we take out the trash on a cold day... :)

The Path to True Happiness

Everything in life changes. The path to true happiness is one of integrating and fully accepting all aspects of our experience. This integration is represented in the Taoist symbol of yin/yang, a circle which is half dark and half light. In the midst of the dark area is a spot of light, and in the midst of the light area is a spot of darkness. Even in the depths of darkness, the light is implicit. Even in the heart of light, the dark is understood, acknowledged, and absorbed, If things are not going well for us in life and we are suffering, we are not defeated by the pain or closed off to the light. If things are going well and we are happy, we are not defensively trying to deny the possibility of suffering.

–Sharon Salzberg, from Loving-Kindness: The Revolutionary Art of Happiness (Shambhala)

Rain

Listening to the rain outside is somehow comforting. I can hear the hollow sound of the gutters collecting it and ushering the water away from the house. The spattering on what few leaves are left in our yard joins the ambient noise and with the cloud cover makes for a quiet day. Makes you want to stay inside, sitting in a soft chair and dozing in and out while sipping something warm.

I so prefer to be alone. There are few people I'd rather be with more than simply be by myself. It's for days like today that I yearn for it. The quiet times to think and ponder, mull and analyze. It's habitual and a reaction impossible to quell.

Structure has again returned to my life. It crept in slowly, my propensity for order which had been suppressed for so many months of my son's illness, dealing with whatever life threw at us any given moment, has resurfaced with unscathed. But now bound to it is a realization of the general futility and lack of substantial fulfillment which had previously been a motivator. This sounds like a bad thing at first blush, however, it has been liberating, allowing me to at once be engaged in productive activity, while also accurately measuring its meaning. In other words, I'm not idolizing the objective of being productive. It is what it is. It's a process that we've been programmed for over millennia. Produce or die.

Produce or die. It's a powerful drive in us, but a misguided one at times. In the age of plenty we strive for more and for better. I've struggled against this for much of my life. Realizing that no fulfillment lay in it, but compelled to it just the same. But now, the realization of it's futility sits upon me and I accept it. When I feel productive, I produce. When I don't, I don't. Both are fine, neither says anything about my self-worth.

So on a rainy fall day, sometimes its OK just to sit quietly and listen to the rain fall.

Intolerant of Intolerance

I was watching television last night, one of my favorites, John Stewart's Daily Show. I was tired and apparently easily annoyed because some of the news clips he had on, which were admittedly funny because they were so ludicrous, were fiercely grating on my nerves.

One of Stewart's techniques is to cull through old clips of some politician or talking head and then compare them with a recent one. There is a particular profusion of these lately with the change of administration and complete shift in the balance of political power nested within the disaster of social and economical issues the current administration is now wading through.

Perhaps the technique has been overused, which only implies that there is too much of the flip-flopping going on, not so much a commentary on Stewart's diversity. It's just becoming commonplace to find the political mouthpiece speaking only within the context and fervor of the immediately adjacent 72 hour period. It galls me to no end that even such previously admired figures as Rudolph Giuliani are willing to throw down the respectable reputation he garnered during late 2001, for the politically convenient stance that we should circumstantially abandon our higher morals.

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c
Law & Order: KSM
www.thedailyshow.com
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I'd love to be able to legitimately claim that Stewart's hackneyed performances in this arena are quotes taken from their original contexts, but honestly, if it weren't for this satire, there would be little left to challenge cable news to become worthy of its title.

Committing to Write

Over the last two years, I have been compelled to write for a reason I could have never imagined. My son became ill with a brain cancer and the ensuing days, weeks and months were filled with unusual and life-altering events. These required communication to various points around the country while trying to salvage what remaining energy my wife and I had for our family.

The by products of this habit were plentiful, if not unexpected. I spilled my emotions onto the keyboard and in lieu of talking about our plight with strangers, I wrote for anyone who would read it. It drew in a support group of people from all over. Those that knew us personally passed the information on to those that didn't and before long, we had a long list comprising a support community.

While the most outwardly tangible effect, it was hardly the most pronounced. I knew that regardless of the outcome we faced with my son's cancer that the record I was creating would serve as an archive for his sisters and our extended family, not to mention posterity. Then there were the psychological effects of writing.

Forcing my emotions into structure on a regular basis allowed my subconscious to quiet down and imbued me with peace for a time. When I felt emotionally bound up again, I would return to the computer and hammer out what was on my mind. It became therapy.

Our experiences lately have been horrifically and uniformly uninteresting. Days are similar in a way that will never change. We cannot reverse the outcome that we've lived through. We lost our son almost 9 months ago. Daily we awake and are struck over and over with that reality. Our daughters age, our nieces and nephews grow, the seasons change. But he will always be gone. It's sad. Devastating. Worthy of being mourned over and over. But it's also very circular. I come back to the same realities time and again. Having a mind that perseverates on issues until a solution is found leaves me mulling this reality like a tongue probing the empty socket of a pulled tooth.

So I have decided to write. I'm not sure about what all the time. But I know its been a helpful habit in the past and I'm searching for a bit of something to lighten the burden of our reality. It seems that in the absence of a solution, discovering ways to cope is our only alternative.

To Be Or Not To Be

Lately I've been faced with several life-altering decisions. They are of varying degrees of magnitude, but life-altering just the same. I suppose one could argue that each decision one makes could be life altering, in fact every decision forms the life we lead, whether it be the choice to cross the street at a certain intersection or to abandon one's job to pursue a life-long dream. Only the effects of the latter are far more evident at the onset, but perhaps just as formative of our future course.

I know from experience that each decision carries with it pros and cons. I know that I cannot possibly imagine all the outcomes, all the variables, all the emotions and reactions that I'll have or how those decisions will affect those around me. I only know that they will. I only know that whether I choose to take the high road or the low, that my path will be altered permanently. Not choosing is still a choice, time will not pause for me to persist in my indecision. I can only wait a little before being pushed off the edge of the present into the unknown future where, whether I select or react, events will proceed.

The problem of choice is one that has perplexed philosophers, theologians, physicists and everyman for ages. As for me, what will be or what will not only exists my head. The only 'real' is what actually happens and is determined by all those myriad events that pass before and shape the velvety contour of the present landscape like so many mountains that direct the passing water. Rivers flow along the path of least resistance, they do not flow up the hill, nor do they 'decide' to flow elsewhere. They are pushed and pulled by forces beyond their control while at the same time themselves shaping the very landscape that shapes them, carving new paths for the rivers that follow in time.

"To be or not to be"

Now, that is the question isn't it?

Carpe Diem

In October 2007 my son was diagnosed with what turned out to be a fatal brain tumor. After 16 months of long hospital stays, chemotherapy, radiation, stem cell transplants, remission and palliative chemotherapy, the tumor overtook his 4 1/2 year old body. He died at home in our family room.

For a very long time now, I've listened to the words that others issue regarding the comfort they find in God's plan. I translate the religious into the cosmic, God into the Universe, intention into randomness. I know they care and are struggling with what to say and I appreciate the efforts.

Lately though, it's dawning on me that there is no public paradigm that families like ours can attach to help us steer through the grief and loss. We've taken deliberate steps to avoid 'hope'. Hope carries with it an expectation of what will happen. We've avoided 'knowing' that he'll make it. We focused instead on the daily tasks we needed to perform to keep him alive, comfortable and happy for the duration. We steered clear of language like 'Cancer Fears Me' or 'battling' or 'fighting'. We turned instead to a metaphor of guiding the boat down the stream, avoiding the rocks where we could and preparing for those we couldn't. We looked directly into our situation and accepted it for what is was. We worked to accept the reality of what was happening instead of looking for it to be different.

And now he's gone. No action we could have taken would have ultimately changed that. We do not have expectations to adjust. We do not have regrets about not enjoying or making the most of each moment with him. Our daughters are dealing with this well. We're sad but not angry. We miss him desperately but do not await any sort of reunion in heaven. If we were focused on preventing the inevitable we would not have been able to attend to the most important time we had with him.

To be clear, we did not expect him to die either. We suspended looking too far and pinning any sort of expectations of what we wanted or thought should be. Did I expect him to be good at sports? at school? Did I expect him to marry? All of those had to be abandoned. If they happened, great. But being tied to those was folly in the face of what we had to endure. Instead we awoke each day and were grateful for it. Each night as we lay down with him to sleep, a sadness for the day spent attended our thoughts, but not regret. Only wanting more.

So if you read this and you wonder if God has a plan and ask why He may have picked you or your son or daughter. Consider for a moment that there is no intention in the Universe. Only random faults and mutations in genes. Some are wonderful and are the reason I can write and think these very words. Some are terrible and are why I now have no son. Consider that perhaps wishing and hoping is harmful, not helpful. Consider that keeping your eyes focused on what is occurring in front of them may be the most wonderful gift you can give yourself. Consider that being grateful for what you have is a far better mental attitude than worrying about what you don't. Consider seizing this day, this day only. Yesterday cannot be changed and there will be time to take care of tomorrow then.

Carpe Diem.

Belonging

"Why should I feel intrusion?
Why be afraid of what we do not understand?
To eliminate exclusion
Cut out the differences to feel like we belong."

Dave Matthews Band From Squirm: Big Whiskey and the GrooGrux King

I do a fair amount of reading about evolution and behavior. One of the questions that is often asked by evolutionists for a given characteristic of a species is "What advantage does that characteristic give to that species?"

In the case of religion, for example, why is religion so pervasive across the globe? It has come into existence independently in almost all cultures. Richard Dawkins suggests in 'The God Delusion' that it was a perhaps a function of safety. As children our minds are given to believe whatever our parents tell us without much question. What advantage is this? It keeps us from wandering out into the forest at night, from crossing the street, or from doing any other number of otherwise dangerous things of which we'd be unaware at a young age. This prepares our minds to accept religion as children and, while we stop believing in Santa Clause and the tooth fairy, we are taught the stakes of stopping our belief in God to be much more ominous.

So why is it that we feel a need to belong? A need to find a cause bigger than ourselves? One theory is that as our species became migratory and increasingly became more effective at hunting in groups versus alone, that our ability to communicate and work together evolved alongside. It is an easy extension to imagine that those who cooperated well and contributed the most to the group were valued and tended to survive and thrive. Additionally, as we migrated it was inevitable that we encountered others and classified these groups as 'them'. How can we identify 'them'? We look for differences between our group and theirs. Different became threatening. Different became 'bad'. The corollary is that the similarities became 'good'.

I believe that this persists today. People are no longer necessarily threatening, but we seek in-group identification in evaluating others. We may see ourselves as white or black, upper or middle class, women or men. He's tall, she's fat, those boys are jocks, those kids are geeks. When you meet someone, similarities are focused on. You may have the same hometown, your children may be the same ages, you may have the same favorite band, or the same hobby, or you follow the same sports team. We seek similarities and undervalue or flat out dismiss someone that is different.

In reality, the differences are what adds value to our lives. This sounds cliché but consider, really consider, that there can be no white without black. No tall without those that are short. In evolution, if things didn't change randomly, an environmental change could spell catastrophe for a species. If the peppered moth didn't adapt its color to match soot-covered industrial England, it would have been snatched up by it's predators. The same holds true for the finches on the Galapagos Islands. Threatened by drought and famine, the birds without the tools to survive died out. The total population plunged by 85% and the remaining birds were larger with deeper and longer, basically stronger, beaks. This advantage allowed them to eat less accessible seeds which became their sustenance. Nature selected them to live. Their differences became their survival.

So now our challenge as the human species is to use our wonderfully adaptive brains to realize that our survival depends less on identifying 'us' and 'them' now, but seeing that we are all 'us' and lending our efforts to cooperation and compassion rather than differences and division. We can still seek to belong, but we just need to extend the membership of the in-group to include everyone. We're more similar than we are different anyway and that's what matters. The differences just keep things interesting.

Got Inspiration?

What is your daily metaphor? What helps you to understand human behavior and why things happen? What serves as your manual for life?

For many it is their holy book; the Bible, the Koran, the Talmud. Maybe it's the more modern book of Mormon or the fully ancient Hindu Vedas, Dhammapada, the Bhagavad Gita or the Tao Te Ching. Some find inspiration for living from paintings or sculpture, some from music or nature. Some people piece together their direction from a number of these places. The quality of a good source of inspiration is its applicability to our daily lives, how well it touches the personal experience we deem to be most real, most meaningful and how thoroughly it renews and recreates us. To the extent authors and artists can do this they are successful.

True art though comes not necessarily from an attempt to inspire, but from an attempt to express. Discovering a truth deep within and uncovering a way to channel that discovery into a tangible form is artistry.

So this brings me to one source of my inspiration. While I do find truths in the Tao, in the Gita and even a good metaphor in the Bible (if not taken literally), I find regular daily inspiration in the lyrics and music of the Dave Matthews Band. There are other artists out there that capture 'it' occasionally. Coldplay for instance, maybe Iron and Wine. I enjoy Death Cab for Cutie for much the same reason, but DMB is on another plane. They consistently produce meaningful metaphors and spin them into art.

Really? A rock band you say?

Really. Just listen. Really listen. Ask yourself what some of the lyrics mean. Then you can judge. So starting now, I'm going to blog some of my favorite bits of inspiration. Some from here, some from there, but many will be coming from The Book of Dave.

Fragile

Smashed, shattered, broken to bits.
Shards lying everywhere.
Impossible to put together.

Looking around I cannot even tell
what it used to look like.
No pieces large enough to
resemble what used to be.

Painstakingly I assemble what I can
into what I remember was
and what I think might be.

I slip suddenly,
the slight brings everything
to the floor again.
So fragile.
No choice now but to begin again.

Daily Swim

I live by the pool,
of memories of you.
I dangle my feet in,
I touch the water with my fingers.

When I'm really missing you,
I wade into the pool,
of memories of you.
I've not yet learned to swim here,
so I stay close to the edge,
but it feels so good to be immersed,
just like when you were with me.

It's enveloping and I lose myself,
swimming in the pool,
of memories of you.
The cool water soothes my dry skin,
parched by time without you.
I turn and swirl the water,
my arms outstretched,
and I smile thinking of you.
But I've drifted too far.
I cannot yet swim here
and I cannot find bottom.

I panic and gasp.
I'm drowning in the pool,
of memories of you.
The water is deeper than I thought,
murky and dark.
I cannot breathe, my chest heaves.
The world is spinning and
I'm being drawn down.

Maybe I should close my eyes,
and lose myself in the pool,
of memories of you.
Relax and let it take me.

I find myself lying in the grass,
near the pool
of memories of you.
I'm drenched and exhausted.
But strangely relieved,
to have survived my swim.

I carry in my being,
the pool,
of memories of you.

An Ode to Coffee

To my morning confessor,
I spill my prior day's anxieties,
My prior night's hopes and dreams.

Interrupting my waking slumber,
It extends it's aid to me,
Lifts me and prepares me for the day,
Slaps me on the back,
Kicks me out the door.
"You can do it!"

It accompanies me as I begin my daily journey,
The chapter from yesterday, finished.
The chapter today, just beginning.

My closest companion throughout my travails,
We sit, we walk, we hold hands,
We transfer a knowing touch.
I whisper my secrets as I sip,
While it comforts me deeply with it's warmth.

It's words sometimes sweet, sometimes bitter.
But among friends who have been together for years,
honesty is best.

An Evening with Friends

I settled comfortably into my favorite soft chair. It's one that another may not sit in for being not much to look at, but it catches and conforms to my body now after so many shared evenings together. We know one another and appreciate the companionship. The other frequent members of our consort this night include an aged handmade mug filled with warm, fragrant Earl Grey and the lamplight by which the evening's proceedings are conducted. This bright contributor is modern, angular, geometric and a bit out of place but among the eclectic friends that gather regularly here, it's differences are tolerated, in fact welcome. On cooler nights I light a fire or pick a light blanket for warmth, but this day's end is temperate and I'm dressed in comfortable flannel night clothes.

The subject of our conversation was to be a selection from a recent visit to the local used bookseller. That keeper of discarded secrets and treasures, that tonight presents us with a mystery of science fiction. The back flap and few scattered pages with which I tested my affinity for the story lured me in with allusions to Mayan and Egyptian pyramids, their similarities and the notion that life beyond our atmosphere had influenced their construction. Flipping further back into the beginnings of the book, what I can assume to be the main character was researching genetics texts and pondering the origins of life. The publisher's summary promised well kept secrets being discovered, the line between reality and and the seemingly incomprehensible being blurred into an extended understanding of who we are...or could be...or were. I was hooked. I'm usually not a big science fiction fan for anything other than what comes on the television, but when an author can stretch my mind with small leaps from well based reason, I'm in.

The book began. "A secret well kept, is a valuable one. Otherwise, why go to such great lengths to hide it? This was the premise upon which James began his research at University that fall. What was the secret? Why was it being kept? Could he prove it?" These intrigues kept me and my companions busy for hours and hours over the course of several similar evenings, always beginning in the same way, comfortable and relaxed as we entered the world of imagination.

Bitter

Life, a bitter drink
Sweeten with milk and sugar
Still hard to swallow

My Other Life

I stepped into the crosswalk today and was almost hit by a car.
I counted myself lucky then and went on with my day.
I thought about the other universe. The one in which I didn't step back,
And wondered now how my other life was shattered.
My other kids, my other wife, my other dog, my other life.

He fell to the floor grasping his chest. It was lucky she was there to call for help,
It was fortunate that somebody was there to act in that critically precious time.
Because if she weren't, he'd be dead in just the fewest of short moments.
Like in his other life, in his other house, where his other wife was still on her way home.
But now, his other kids are crying and will grow up without their father.

She woke up fine this morning, she looked and felt great.
But before she could make her morning coffee, her head hurt suddenly and then she was gone.
The promises she'd made to herself had still been brewing in her mind,
The adventures she had planned for her young family, just beginning to happen.
Had she told all the people she loved just how much they meant to her?
Had she done everything she wanted to do? Was she content?

In her other life, she's still breathing, still going about her day,
attending her duties, running her errands, making her plans.
In her other life her other husband's not grieving, not grappling with how to tell their young children, that their mother won't be coming home.
In her other life, she's called, and her husband picks up the phone.
"The traffic is bad, I'll be a few minutes late." she says.

For those who are gone,
No more walks holding hands,
no more kisses from the children,
no more sunsets or sunrises,
no more trees blowing in the breeze,
No more conversations with friends.
In my other life, I'm dead now.
Oblivious. Like the time before I was born.
We become, into the world,
a pattern of cells emerging and gone just as quickly,
returning to that from which we came.
We do not know how long we have,
but we know it is too short a time we have to grasp the beauty that is our life.

Acceptance, Part I

Chinese characters for acceptance.

True acceptance is what makes real living possible.

Acceptance is really the act of recognizing the truth of what is before you at any given moment. If you falsely insist that you can breathe in the water and go in without an air tank, you'll drown. If you accept the fact that you cannot breathe underwater, then you simply adjust your approach. Get an air tank, don't go underwater too long, rent scuba gear.

Of course, with life, these things are much more subtle. Few first time parents recognize the need to let their children get up on their own after falling. If they did, as they come to understand with their subsequent offspring, the crying abates more quickly and the child learns independence. It also means that when the child is crying something really merits parental attention.

So much of this recognition is really about the illusion of control in which we all persist. Life lures us into this deception subtly as there are so many things that we are able to affect. We can drive a car along the road, making turns where we need to reach our destination, but few of us would attempt taking it off road thinking there would be no consequence. In all likelihood we would end up stuck or with a damaged automobile. Just as the mantra of alcoholics anonymous states with their serenity prayer, if we can have the wisdom to recognize what we can control and what we cannot, then we can then be at peace.

Fear plays a major role in supporting this delusion as well. If we fear something that is beyond our ability to affect, we become slave to it. Fear of aging is common and manifests itself in myriad ways. Corporations exist which profit from this fear playing very effectively into our paranoia. The latest herbal remedies promise healing, plastic surgeons assure us that they can remove 10 years under their knives and rarely do we see images of anyone other than the young and the beautiful in advertising. If we learn to accept aging as a stage in our lives, with the inevitable consequence of death, then we can eventually learn to be free from the pervasive fear that otherwise commandeers our ability to live in the only moment that matters, now.

Death presents itself as the ultimate end and because we love our lives so much we cannot help to initially fear death. However, it is an inevitability. As we age and our friends or family die, most of us gradually accept this incessant progression. Some are forced far too early to come to grips with this fact and many make efforts to shield the exceptionally young from dealing with this reality. Losing friends or family members early, because it is unfortunately unavoidable for some, can be used as an enlightening opportunity to make the remainder of lives a happy tribute to those lost. These are sad and sometimes devastating events, but what we mourn for them, is still ours to be used well. True that their absence is felt too deeply for words. But accepting death and loss as part of life and not taking either for granted, nor carrying any assumptions about how long this fortune of life is ours or what it must offer us, can be an experience that can lighten the burden of fear and lead us to lives of much greater fulfillment.

Apollo in an Airbus

"It comes down to survival." I said, thinking my argument definitive.

"I agree," she replied, "but it's so complex. We've come from single cells to massive organisms living in groups with culture, families, rituals." She paused, thinking. "and mythologies."

"How does mythology figure in?" We were eating, my bite muffled my query.

"Our explanations of things are our mythologies. They create our metaphors. Why we need them I won't know. I suppose that it was just our effort at making sense of things we didn't understand. You know, Zeus and all. Sun gods in chariots. I guess today they'd be traveling in spaceships or airliners instead."

"Apollo in an airbus." I laughed.

"Religious mythology just isn't keeping up. It's lasted so long and now the metaphors in it are outdated. People just keep clinging to them. The purpose of a mythology is to help you understand life and how to live it, not cause you guilt and suffering for not being able to live the way our ancient ancestors did. And certainly not to be taken literally. We really all should have learned that by now."

"Down girl. A little repressed anger?"

"I guess. It frustrates the crap out of me that people argue over ideals or what should or shouldn't be. My-religion-is-better-than-yours kind of stuff. If everyone could get to the point of seeing what is instead of what they think what ought to be we'd all be better off."

"But aren't you doing the same thing they are when you say that? Aren't you wishing for an ideal and not accepting the reality? What if we accept the religious of the world for what they are?"

"It's a good point. I'd probably say that I look at their behavior like a child wishing to fly. It's not going to happen. They can put on wings and jump off the stoop, but it won't work. All I'm asking is for the kid to realize that and if they really want to see the world from up high to get on a plane."

"Airbus. Rescuing you from your existential angst." I smiled.

C&O Canal Tow Path

After living in Western Maryland for nearly six years now, and being forced by a knee injury to abandon running and adopt biking as my exercise of choice, I was recently persuaded to explore the 'tow path'. A converted relic of a pre-industrial time, the tow path was used to haul water borne cargo where it was impractical or impossible to do so by land. Horses were used tethered to ropes and the barge and towed along the river. Like their cousins, the defunct railroad paths turned paved asphalt biking and walking trails, the towpath through DC and Maryland provides a natural escape perfect for biking, hiking, camping and strolling.

Our first ride on the towpath was out of a picture book. The weather was cool and crisp, sunny and not overly humid. We loaded up our neglected bicycles and hoped there wouldn't be too much complaining about how much further we were going from our daughters. We were surprised and entirely impressed by ease with which we all enjoyed the ride. The crushed gravel made it a gentle ride and the over arching branches kept it cool. Because of the proximate river, the towpath has only gradual and unnoticeable family friendly grades. Everyone enjoyed the ride and my oldest insisted on making an even ten miles out of it, pushing herself beyond the point of comfort to achieve it.

We were out for nearly two hours which for all involved seemed like half that. An extremely pleasant way to spend a weekend morning. As we walked back to the car, my instinct to test myself to the extreme was piqued by the map of the entire trail. Apparently this combined man-made and natural jewel stretches 180 miles from Washington D.C. to Cumberland, Maryland with campsites, points of interest, food and other lodging options along the way.

I was in awe of this asset that had been overlooked by us for so long and only minutes away from our house. Already though I was planning on how to acquire land immediately on the towpath and more immediately, excursions involving long days of riding and nights of camping.

A Different Summer

Yesterday was the first day of summer at home with my girls. Up to this point I've been a stay-at-home father with responsibilities for a young child and this summer promised to be different. My girls are now 10, almost 11 and 7. They are responsible and fun-loving, don't fight too much and are generally a joy to be around.

In February of this year, I lost my son to a brain tumor. He was four. My decision to stay at home before he was even conceived was a conscientious reaction of my wife and me to the upstart career family we'd become. She was finishing her residency on her way to becoming a physician and I was in the midst of the generalized function of middle management, learning a lot at a company I loved and had joined during its infancy. We prioritized family, partly due to our priorities and partly out of self preservation. Working long hours and raising small children was taking its toll and was unsustainable.

My son was born in July following my first year of being a stay-at-home-dad. This was baptism by fire. Growing up, I was not given examples of how to be at home with an infant. My wife gave me a two month crash course which was ended abruptly by her leave policy from work. It was good time, but too short.

What was to follow became increasingly stressful for me. I became strung out, with little sleep, no idea what to do with an infant, and making first time parent mistakes that I regretted for years. But I knew my son in a way that few fathers did. And it became one of the best decisions I've ever made. It put me in a position to maximize his short life and the privilege of giving him what he needed to be happy.

Our lives revolved around him and the treatment he required for the 16 months following his diagnosis. Up to that point, he'd been a needy baby, grumpy and an unlikely sleeper. He was a beautiful boy. A wonderful addition, rounding out our family in a way I've come to miss deeply. As a couple, my wife and I had begun to see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. We could have conversations while the kids were awake and be conscious after they were asleep. Occasionally we'd get a weekend where we weren't up at 6am. But then came cancer.

We were plunged into an entirely different lifestyle, friends, environment, needs, everything. The focus of all our activities and energy became entirely directed at our son's treatments. They went as well as could be expected. Our extended family and network of friends and community came to our aid and support for a duration which in retrospect was lengthy, but acquired a cadence of normalcy.

Relapse came suddenly, but not without foresight. We'd seen the signs and knew the odds we faced. Our cautious optimism gave way to resigned realization. We would return to a family of four soon. The gift we had in our son would be short-lived; precious, but brief.

Intensity and quality are bedfellows and the time we had with him near the end of his life was their hallmark. We lived with purpose each minute, knowing that at the same time the following year, he would be absent. We visited family, enjoyed a trip to Disney, had our holidays, family birthdays, and enjoyed some unseasonably warm weather. Sleep eventually began to overtake him and he died days later in a bed we kept for him in our living room. Our entire family surrounded him and we held him and touched him, smiled at him and loved him as he left us. These were sad, sad days. The world spun with uncertainty and desperate grief.

As the school year ended this year, after several months adjusting to life without him, I planned for an enjoyable and fun filled summer for my girls. My hope was to keep myself sane, reward their patience over the past years during their brother's illness and to give them a sense that they can enjoy their lives through small things done well. We will read books, write about our days, practice instruments and music, do our chores and do it all together.

The Key

The phone rang.

I didn't want to answer it. I'd just sat down for the evening and was absently releasing my mind to the pleasant oblivion of the evening. Before I could think, my body was up and moving against my will, and better judgment, toward the ringing like sailor to a siren song.

I answered. "Hello?"

On the other end was a voice I hadn't heard in nearly a decade.

"Your services are required," were the only words I heard before the subtle silence of the dead line.

I knew there would be no other instruction. I also knew now that my choices were limited. A moment ago, I had the world before me. Tomorrow I could choose to anything I wanted. Now my road of volition was narrowing before my eyes. A storm had come up quickly, interrupting the quiet end to my day, my solitude, my reflection.

"Your services are required."

The words slipped without effort into my subconscious, a key releasing the tumblers in my head into their perfectly engraved spaces, obediently responding to their master and setting into motion a chain of events that I momentarily pretended that I would be able to control. I felt myself struggling against what had just happened. It was not real. It's the wine playing with you. You've imagined it. You've concocted the scenario that you've always feared.

But really, I knew better. Denial was giving way to reality and I was beginning to formulate action. If only I hadn't picked up the phone. If only I'd been a bit more cautious, if only I had enough experience to know what I was getting into then...

The Man was dressed in light colored spring clothes. Short khaki's, deck shoes and a collared seersucker shirt that made him look like he was on holiday in the Bahamas. His face was all smile and sunglasses.

He matched my mood. I was king of the world then. A newly minted, self made, career man, I'd fallen into a bit of luck with a job that I hadn't deserved, but had deftly steered through the pitfalls and convinced everyone in that small office I could be trusted with big clients, in charge of people, in charge of money. I traveled to exotic places and struck deals that I'd imagined were reserved for sages of business seasoned by years as an underling. I went from penniless to powerful. And quickly. I was inflated with the air of success I could never have dreamed of. I could do anything.

He approached me and appealed to my youthful swagger. He'd heard about me. How? It didn't matter much to me, my name was being bandied about town and now I was in demand. He knew my background and convinced me that my flexibility and ability to adapt would be absolutely necessary in his new venture. The money wasn't great, but it would be a challenge. It would be elite. Not many had done this kind of work before.

I'd made myself once, I could do it again. I could do anything. I told myself these things and believed. I committed to the sunglasses and the smile. Perhaps because I wasn't sure if what I'd built could last, but I traded it all for something shiny, new and full of promise. The chance to prove myself again. But it had gone so unimaginably wrong. So, so wrong. Now it had begun again and I knew I was powerless to stop it.

Patience

I awoke early and sat thinking on the front porch. Morning has always been my best time. Quiet and serene, it's the bit of calm before the nastiness of the day begins. My cigarette hung lazily between my fingers discarding it's leftovers onto the peeling, sun-bleached porch boards. Instead of the normal blinding splotch, the sun has been relegated to a bright white morning moon in the sky. Probably thankful to be relieved of its burden of illuminating this hemisphere for a time. The mountains sat silently, outlined in the distance as if baiting me to share my thoughts.

I leaned forward, my elbows perching on my knees and took a deep drag of my neglected smoking stimulant.

"Sometimes it all seems worthless," I said aloud.

The conversation continued in my head. "But I don't feel like ending it." I looked down resignedly.

"I'm addicted to the little bits of real life thrown at me. I'm a goddamn prisoner with Stockholm syndrome. Just keep feeding me enough candy and I forgive the shit that comes with it."

I leaned back and flicked the cigarette hard. "Fuck."

The sun was breaking free of its waking bonds and its struggle was taking its toll on the cool of the morning. I'd begun to regret not showering. I tossed the remains of my charch to the floor and crushed its remaining life. It was done. Lucky bastard.

"Patience." I heard the word from my subconscious.

"Patience?" I snapped back. What did that mean?

Deep inside the optimist in me cried out for it. I knew this voice. I've grown tired of it's persistence, but I know too its the only thing that keeps me balanced enough to pull off the sham of the day. I suppose the cry for patience was meant to keep me going and maybe tomorrow would have reinforcements.

I stood and headed upstairs to wash off the morning's pessimism. Maybe he's right. It worked yesterday.

Deep Survival

I'm in the middle of this book, but find it fascinating. As I read the beginning, I simply found the stories of survival bizarre and random. The further along in the book I got, the author, Laurence Gonzales, begins interweaving some of the details from which a pattern begins to emerge. By the tenth chapter I've been become rapt with interest at the comparisons with everyday suffering, challenges and how they relate to wilderness survival.

Modern 'survival' is more akin to thriving. We don't die in the literal sense but the depressive state so many fall into could be likened to it. For those who can approach life's ordeal with a Zen-like acceptance and adjust to it's changes, life becomes richer and more meaningful and eminently 'survivable'.

I'm keen on reading the last part of this book and seeing what further insights it holds.