​I HATED fall.

Somewhere between the ages of 8 and 15, perhaps through all of it, I dreaded the end of summer and the coming of fall. 

Why? 

This is a memory I have forgotten about, suppressed, moved away from, and in every other way deemed too unnecessary to acknowledge throughout the last two or three decades.

Here we go:
When I was a kid and lived on a decent size lot in a decent sized suburb, the number of full, mature, huge trees (Oaks or Elms, I think?) on our lawn was somewhere between 2 & 4. Add to that the overhanging trees from neighbors' lots, and the leaves that fell to the ground from October until mid-November seemed endless, bountiless, and the opposite of weightless.

It was a RAIN of leaves, especially when it rained, pulling down even more of the otherwise light foliage with the heavy, soaked air of fall precipitation and pre-winter weather patterns. This time of year, even mild temperatures in the 50's seemed frigid to our sensitive, summertime-tuned skin. It wasn't as terrible as the sub-zero Michigan Januaries and Februaries, but it SEEMED so much WORSE because we were unaccustomed...

The family would gather to clean up the yard together once per week, usually destroying what otherwise would be an uneventful, if not pleasant, fall weekend. It's not like we (I) had anything else to do. The usual activities would continue on; work at the car wash, hang around with some friends, maybe build a plastic model or two if there were any kits that were shopped for or gifted around that time.

Mom was the ringleader, organizing the troops, the tools, and the zones of the front, side and back yards with meticulous accuracy. It could have been some of this detail-oriented behavior that I was rebelling against, the types of plans that left no room to escape, nowhere to hide, nothing to do but sweep, rake, bend, scoop, deposit, repeat.

One fall we bought a "leaf sweeper." This wide mouthed cart was similar to an old-fashioned barrel-bladed manual lawn mower, where the blade was replaced by a type of rotating broom, similar to that of a street sweeper. That broom brushed the leaves backward into a giant catch, when things worked perfectly...and they never did. Just add a little bit of moisture, or a breeze, or even just an upset, pissed off dose of teenage angst, and things would go horribly wrong incredibly quickly.

As we know, "attitude is everything;" and at that time, my attitude (especially when it came to raking leaves) sucked. And for a month, so did my life, or so the "drama-king" in me thought. October was fraught with energy-sucking opportunities for me to hate life and everything around it. 

Depending on the task, for a number of those years, I became quite adept at turning any assignment into a chore, any request upon my time from anyone other than me a derailment of MY PLANS (even if MY PLANS were doing absolutely, positively nothing).

The annual fall leaf cleaning activities were the most hated, along with the most consistently annual, of chores that were forced upon me.

So how do I justify LOVING fall, and all that comes with it now, in my mid-fifties? Well, let's start with this beautiful quote from Muhammad Ali: 
“The man who views the world at 50 the same as he did at 20 has wasted 30 years of his life.”

The fall I'm writing about, the fall of 2022, has had some unique turns that led up to it. Meeting and rapidly falling in love with a person whose connection to nature runs boundlessly through her has been a significant start. Spending time with her in the woods, on the trails, in the grass...these times have brought a joy and an appreciation for fully embracing whatever Nature has in store for the time we are outdoors, which is often.

Even when I am not near her, my inner muse asks me "what would Dana do?" My naturally-aspirated tendency to fill free time with curiosity, exercise and movement often has me looking to the trails, or looking to the water for respite. This fall so far, I have been on more trails (both with and without her) than perhaps in all of the falls put together. Running through the forests in Michigan, Ohio and Tennessee, I gawk in wonder at the leaves falling from the sky. Over the past 2 days, I've been playfully bombarded by soft shrapnel from Oaks, Maples and Elms, just to name a few. I've paused my Garmin to shoot pictures and video of Mother Nature's whimsical, colorful showers. The "faucet" opens and closes with the wind, changing velocity, direction and temperature with an unpredictable pulse only she knows the start and finish of. Even paddling the Tennessee River I have smiled back at leaves that have kissed my rental board & paddle. Their journey is pulled one way by the current, and stretched the other by the wind. Eventually I paddle through the floating signs of the coming winter, even in mid-America, where the climate is milder than the place where I call my home.

Even my colorblindness cannot dampen the kaleidoscope​ Mother Nature bestows upon us every fall. The hues that blend together from afar dance and separate as I look closer. Their vines grasp onto the last bit of branch before falling to the ground in their last dance of the season.

I believe my senses will be even more atuned to the seasons' changes and Natures preparing for hibernation of plants and animals alike. 

Like Nature, I have taken a lesson in patience. Like Nature, I see it is futile to fight the changing of the seasons, but rather, embrace it for all it's worth. For this too, shall pass, and give way to the new birth of a new season, in time...

4am on a Tuesday, mid spring morning in Southeastern Michigan. I wake up to a full moon glowing in clear skies, leaving the house with a hastily inhaled bowl of oatmeal, an overfilled travel mug of burning hot coffee, and my 14 y.o. son shotgun, 30 minutes later.
The drive is swift, dark, direct and uneventful.
5am <sharp> DBC Crew practice starts on North shore of Belle Isle. Michael rowed ~9 miles under the rising sun glistening off of the rippled glass surface of the Detroit River. His workout was precise and intense; the coaches have their teams preparing for the coming weekends' Midwest Jr. Regionals regatta in Cincinnati.
6:47 he leaves the docks with his team <2 minutes later than scheduled> and is in the shower at home by 7:09am.
7:30, homemade egg, bacon and mozzarella on cinnamon raisin toast is devoured in the car on the way to school. We arrive in the dropoff zone well ahead of the bell for his first class at 8:00 am.

These are the days that shape both of my kids. The things they do day after day, week after week, year after year, to make themselves better. Stronger, more compassionate, more sensitive to nature and their surroundings within their team, their community and their world.

I jot this down to remind myself when those disappointing & repetitive moments seem nauseating. Did you put your dishes in the dishwasher? Did you remember to download those pix from your camera to your computer? Could you please put your clothes in your closet...for the fifth time? Or should I wait until tomorrow, to ask you the same thing...a sixth?

But I know, they are much less frequent than the triumphant ones. The ones were both kids are moving forward to the best of their ability, day after day, week after week, year after year. This is what I must remember, this is what I must remind myself. They are healthy, well, and have all the opportunity they could possibly ask for, and then some.

The song playing on my XM First Wave station took me back to peacefully and gratefully ease into the rest of my morning:

Right here, right now
There is no other place I want to be
Right here, right now...

...You know it feels good to be alive
​
https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=TN42nLpQvM8&feature=share

​The Sears hand blender.

I'd say it was designed, manufactured, and purchased somewhere in the late sixties, early seventies. Mostly metal construction, chromed castings and 4 curved & formed stainless steel ribbons. No bearings, perhaps the ultimate signal of it's simplicity. After all these years, the few plastic components have stood the test of time alongside the more durable alloys. Looking closely at the handle, the shapes have separated over time through thousands of dishwasher heat cycles, yet everything is still intact, and operates as it did when brand new some 40 years ago. Wide gaps in the cogs and a heavy & hefty flywheel integrated into the main drive have contributed to its decades of smooth operation. Were the designers & manufacturers aware that they were be creating something that might very well outlast many human beings, several national governments, and even more than a few notable architectural structures? Joe Louis Arena, Detroit: 1979-2020; Twin Towers, NYC: 1973-2001, offa the top of my head...

One last thing about the hardware, before we get into what it represents. These parts were made with machines and forges that quite naturally were built to last. Accounting for the era, there really wasn't any other way. From the thin-but-strong metal blades to the rough-yet-accurate casting on the wheel and handle base, it was all made with attention to durability and longevity; characteristics that exemplified American manufacturing at the time. Perhaps more carried over from the 50s and '60s, but present (if you looked for it) in the 70s nonetheless.

This morning was the first time I used this blender since I was about 7 years old. Luckily, it had followed myself and my family around, gotten lost and found, and been in and out of different drawers in different homes throughout its life's journey. What's that you're asking? Is this a living thing, or a collection of metal and plastic forming 3 rotating assemblies (you looked at the picture again didn't you). Yes, I do apply a soul, a personality, and an energy to metal, plastic, and in other cases, wood, rubber, and glass. The machines that man makes with his mind and his hands ultimately possesses a soul through transformation of energy.

I really wasn't planning on using it, and frankly forgot about it. Then, my "little baker" broke it out for one of her cake recipes after the motorized and held blender bit the dust. The same motorized tool that is now in a landfill, after only a comparative fraction of the lifespan. Fast forward to Saturday morning, and there it was, being handed to me (with a bright morning-sunshiny smile) by my 14 year old sioux chef.

I took the simple teal & chrome machine in my hands; rotating handle in my right, guide/grip in my left. As I began to use it, I felt a familiar, yet long forgotten, "pinch" upon the skin on my left palm. An area where the two materials separated had produced a gap, which was the exactly same "pinch" that it was the last time I used it, as a child.


Which brings me to why I am jotting my thoughts down at all about a blender, this simple kitchen utensil.

When I was around five or six, I started making pancakes for my parents on arbitrary Saturdays and Sundays. I don't know exactly where it came from, or how it started, but what I do remember is their shared glee that their son was doing something creative, productive, and...delicious!

Part of my desire to bake was out of curiosity. Another part of it was as through my intrinsically curious soul. I needed to try things, experiment, see what works and what doesn't, and make it better the next time. This grew into so many weekends, we all lost track. Maybe it was months, maybe it was years, but for a very long time (longer as my childhood memory is decades removed from my current recollection) I made them both pancakes every Saturday or Sunday that I could. I vividly remember the time Mom asked me: why haven't you made any pancakes in a while?!? To that question, I recall being a little dismayed. Perhaps I was thinking that pancakes just weren't that important anymore. The reality was, while they weren't very much more important to me, they grew into something very important for Mom and Dad. And it was with that question that I "fired up" the blender again a few times more. Alas, there were other things taking my attention. Plastic model cars, planes, and trains for example. Pretty much anything that could be taken apart, put together and reformulated out of experimentation was in my wheelhouse. Oh and let's not forget chemistry sets! That was probably closer related to baking then putting a metal erector set and plastic models together. Chemistry sets should get the credit that they deserved, even if we were just trying to find a combination of something that maybe changed color or got hot when mixed together, and if we were REALLY lucky, might explode!

So this morning when Michael and Panayiota exclaimed their glee at how good the pancakes tasted, a flood of warm memories came washing over me. They were truly, enthusiastically appreciative. The scratch pancakes tasted amazing, and both kids were animated and giddy in saying so between stuffed mouths and seconds and third stacks of flapjacks. It was this response that took me back ~40 years, and that blenders spirit surely was present then, contributed to the joy I felt now.

Can a collection of metal and plastic transmogrify us to a time & place where everything...EVERYTHING was so different we might as well be on another planet?!?

MY answer is an unequivocal YES. I've found that I've woven my life on this planet (so far) around that beautiful answer.

How about you?

NO.
No, you won’t. You won’t be “glad,” and this won’t be “over.”
I’ll tell you why my friend, so have a seat & pour yourself a seductively aromatic, hot as hell cup of fresh-ground Colombian from my trusty carafe and listen-in to what I have to say for a little while…

Or go back to scrolling. You may find the answer you’re searching for in the next TicTok or meme that pops up on your feed.
 
The pressure you’re feeling, the pressure we’re all feeling today, these are no different than yesterday’s. You may believe your despondency has been caused by all that happens around us in the current moment,* but I assure you, it has not.

NO.
Nope, that’s not it.
Here’s why.
You won't be “glad when it's over” because you haven't been “glad,” and I mean Truly Happy, about anything in so long you forgot how to tell the difference. The difference between the distinct, continuous peace and happiness that comes from a purposeful, meaningful life well-lived, and the alternative of a quick and easy temporary relief. A fleeting reprieve from the day-to-day pressures we are all now facing seems as legit as anything in the bottom of a crack pipe or a gin bottle to the addict who covets it, loosely based on the last time he or she was transported “away from it all” using that same substance.

No.
Nope, that’s not it.
“Glad when this is over” is your admission to an inability to deal with the present, the now, and the fact that what we are all experiencing at this very moment in our lives is truly worth experiencing. Again, for those in the back: these experiences we're all grinding on through are WORTH EXPERIENCING! Positive or negative, good or bad, our influences and experiences build our knowledge, our beliefs, our values and our convictions. To say that you wish to skip over times like these is an admission to skipping over the building of those foundational cornerstones that make each one of our life experiences unique. You are relinquishing the beauty, joy and yes, the PAIN too. The “feels” of learning are what you wish to push to another time, when it’s “easier” or perhaps to a time and place where a softer, gentler way is discovered to move through this life we are all living.

So no, NO, I cannot agree that you (think you) will be “glad when it’s over.” I have admonished myself to this fact, perhaps you could entertain that thought too, if you’re so persuaded by my muse…

Only when you can be in touch enough, nay, in constant contact with your innermost feelings of pain, love, loss, disagreement, unfairness and utter chaos can you be “glad.”
 
  
“Glad when this is over” is the idea that rather than deal with the pressures, changes, chaos (that word can be fruitful, if you can embrace it fully and with aplomb) and utter unpredictability of what’s happening NOW, you are electing to “sit it out.” YOU are choosing inaction over action, passive to active, lifelessness over LIVING. For all of the businesses, people and even all of the IDEAS that chose to shut down and withdraw when our world started rapidly changing in March of 2020, you have made the decision to stand by and “let it all happen” as the very concepts, values and ideals that you were raised with come into question.

So no, NO, DON’T "look for it to be over,” as you’ll be looking into a broken mirror, don’t you see? Distorted, fragmented and full of more missing pieces than found ones...

Learn instead to dance in the rain, rather than search in vain for an overpriced umbrella from store-after-store of locked doors and empty promises.
"Glad when this is over" means you're dead. Physically, spiritually, mentally, completely, dead. 6 feet under. Lights out. End of story. IDK about you, but I’ll continue to be HAPPY that I’m ALIVE.

I’ll not be “glad when it’s over,” because I’m GLAD right here, right now. GLAD that I get to experience it; this beautiful, ugly, invigorating and exhausting life we’re all given the gift of and the chance to LIVE.

IF we choose to.

Now I ask you, what's YOUR choice?
 
*From the 3rd paragraph, including but not limited to: A national and global pandemic, including the myriad of tributaries it has entwined; our countries’ raging power struggle; upcoming elections; <which today uniquely include anger, hopelessness and sorrow towards those close to you that predict/produce/possess a different outlook or value system that seems all-too-touchy to talk about> obscure external triggers including social media and news from every source that seems more frequent and amplified; the stock market; the job market; the economy; racism, Civil Rights, the weather getting colder, the weather getting hotter, all that and more, brought to you by our sponsor: Today’s American Pop Culture.

People, including you and I, will hold steadfast to what they believe.

Let's all take a moment to pause as we look a little deeper. There is a heightened sense of anxiety and fear we are all living in, whether you choose to admit it or not. While I freely admit this new fear is present around and even within me, I will also commit steadfast to my increasing faith and conscious contact with my Higher Power that this fear only has as much energy as I choose to allow it.

The truth in any particular subject (Evolution, Deep State theories, Democrats vs Republicans, climate change, what color the scoop of ice cream popping out of the top of your cone is...you name it, you get it) is a compilation of a person's perception, comprehension, upbringing, experiences, exposure, their develop(ing) beliefs and values, and life events. These factors and more build their (our) perception/opinion of what is real and what is fiction. Is it universal, or should we look at it more through the lens of flexible interpretation?  Put another way: what is truth and what is a lie? Sounds more dramatic & so much more damning putting it that way, doesn't it?

I came to know a man who informed and vividly shaped my concept of this over 20 years ago. Many, perhaps even most of the things he said and truly believed were actually falsehoods. Not merely concepts, but situations and events that clearly happened one way. Black & white, open & shut case, done deal. This man would profess with vehement conviction that it was indeed not to be. His reality was so askew that it was in direct conflict with what was happening before the eyes of those surrounding him, witnessing the same scene. Simply put, it was in direct conflict before the eyes of anyone else. Quite literally, his beliefs and proclamation of those beliefs were 180 degrees from reality, yet he believed it, TRULY believed it, with all his heart. This concept led me to recall a thief's fable (yeah I just named it that) being:

"If you believe in ANYthing fervently enough, even a complete and utter lie, it becomes YOUR truth. No evidence is needed, none whatsoever, only your belief. This was the concept that repeated itself around me so often with this person (at the time a character in my lifes' story) that it became a regular occurrence. So now that I know (years later) and to a point have come to (begrudgingly) accept this, I have come to see it happen with others over the years with more frequency. I look more closely for it, and it appears.

These people (let's not forget this includes you and I, natch), will cling to the concept of reality and the false truth that they themselves fabricated. This is no fault of their (our) own. This is how they are. THEIR (our) history, THEIR (our) experiences, THEIR (our) journey, up until this very moment. My (our) job, as a friend, as an acquaintance, family member, as a fellow empathetic and compassionate human...is to acknowledge it, then either engage, or "let that shit go." Forget fb posts and messages, LawdKnows we've had enough debates on there since it's inception, let alone since March of 2020. Even a face to face debate or a phone conversation will almost always prove fruitless. To try to dig into why that person believes what they do (especially in direct proportion to how their beliefs differ from ours) is psychological suicide. Why try to look for diamonds in a coal mine? Let that shit go. Many times I've caught them in their lie. Equally as many times that persons' reality has remained unchanged; so why bother? Gather all the facts you want, present them as evidence. It will change nothing in them, in their opinion nor in their perception.

What about my (OUR) children? Well, maybe there is a chance with some. Maybe not. Mine, I will try because it is my job as their father to help them identify and understand the truth. They will in turn develop their own truths, hopefully being as close to the unfiltered reality as possible. Does MY truth not have it's origins in reality and fact, just like any rational human I call my brother, my friend? If you think that's a trick question, you're right. Touché.

The fear, angst, and guilt that has mounted over the trauma of a mother whose son was stricken with autism after being given a vaccination is without comprehension to me. It is this guilt, fear, anger, and ~100 other emotions that drive this mother to believe in what she believes in, to do what she does. Informing others of her truth (which she, rightfully, believes to be THE universal truth) has become one of her life's missions. I must respect her for it, applaud her efforts, and acknowledge that her path is different than mine, leading her to believe the way she does. If it moves me to action, or to some form of active empathy, I will lead with my heart. If, however, her truth does not match mine, well...then I must let that shit go.

I do hope this essay has offered some perspective, and perhaps with it the ability to grow, heal and move forward with more peace and grace in each of our own lives.
​
Namaste.