The season change has prompted thoughts of dancing, you know, dancing to change, dancing to the joy of warming weather, rising greenery, leaves on trees, and blooming flowers and buds. A lot of good dance songs exist but I turned to “Dance, Dance” by Fall Out Boy. It came out in 2005, fourteen years ago, so does that make it an oldie? How long must a song be out before it’s an oldie, a golden oldie, and a classic? Any thoughts?
Winter
I don’t know what’s going on with Winter. He’s just not the same. I worried for several weeks that he was sick or injured because I saw so little of him.
Then, suddenly, here he was again, acting sooo crazy, to employ a retro-phrase. He was randomly tossing snow around, piling it up on one mountain and ignoring the rest. Sometimes it snowed when the sun was out. He seemed to be mocking forecasts. If they called for heavy snow, he gave us light rain. When no snow was forecast, he dumped a bucket on us. Everyone was asking, “WTF, Winter? What’s wrong with you?”
I’m beginning to suspect that Winter’s been replaced, and that we’re seeing a new Winter impart. I wonder about who took the job. Since Winter has always been an old white man, have they decided to modernize and replace him with a woman? They could have also decided to stay with a male but surrendered to the youth movement, because, you know, demographics. Maybe they decided to break out complete and replace old man Winter with a young, black woman.
The other part of this speculation is whether one Winter is responsible for the entire world, or has Winter been reorganized, with a Winter assigned to countries or geographical areas.
I don’t know. It could be those things or something else that I haven’t thought of. All I know is that old man Winter doesn’t seem like the guy I used to know.
Embedded Plans
A friend asked my wife, “Is Michael always so affable?”
I laughed, of course. The friend was encountering social Michael. He’s affable, but he has a very short half-life.
To her credit, my wife said, “Mostly. He has his moods. He’s okay as long as I don’t disrupt his writing time. Then he turns into a bear, and it’s not Yogi or Boo-Boo.”
My writing day doesn’t begin until about eleven A.M. I walk before my writing session as part of my process. When I’m writing, I target scenes to measure progress, and not word count. I’m frequently able to think about where I left off, and then resume writing it in my mind as I walk. When I get in and sit down, I usually know what I want to write.
This doesn’t always work because the muses have their own plans. I try to be flexible, but it’s a struggle. I like having plans. Plans provide me with structure and illusions of control.
When the muses throw me off with their reveals, I often need to stop to see where they’re taking me. Since my writing time is precious, I’ll frequently go back and edit what I’ve written when that happens. That keeps me engaged in writing while giving my subconscious mind the opportunity to meet with the muses and hash it out. (There’s not actually any hashing out. The muses know where they want to take the story. It’s up to me to do as told. I like to say we’re hashing it out because it gives me the illusion of it being a collaborative effort.)
My writing session only lasts about two and a half hours. Plans are embedded around it, especially walking. Walking is my number one form of exercise, and it helps me process information.
My walking plans change by season. That’s not just spring, summer, autumn, and winter, but the embedded seasons of hot, fucking hot, cold, fucking cold, wet, and smoky.
We’re into the fucking hot season now, defined by jokes like, “Look, the temperature has dipped. It’s ninety-seven.” The forecasted highs range between ninety-nine and one hundred two for the next ten days.
For all the seasons, I break my walking down into bite sized goals. My overall walking goals remain about twenty thousand steps and ten flights. During the FH season, I try to make fifty-five hundred steps before I start writing at eleven. After I write, I then target ninety-one hundred steps. That gives me four miles by three P.M.
After that, plans are flexible and adjusted according to what else the day requires. I frequently end up walking about two and a half miles in the evening, leaving the house about eight forty-five and returning an hour later. Because we live in a hilly area, my flights go up to about sixty one these days. (I can do that during this season because we have more hours of daylight. This doesn’t work as well when it’s cold and dark, so I adjust.)
For all that, they are just plans. They rarely survive reality. In the end, I ride the wave of the day, seizing moments and narrowing my focus as needed.
Okay, today’s therapy is finished. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Winter Skin
I go outside each morning to breath the air, take in the weather, and look around. My wardrobe is bare feet, gym shorts, and a tee shirt.
In today’s moment, accompanied by Quinn the Black Paw and Papi of the Ginger, I said, “It’s not bad out here, guys.” Quinn responded by rolling around on the patio while Papi scanned the perimeter for intruders.
After a few minutes, I returned inside and checked the temp on my small weather system. Thirty-one degrees F.
My winter skin is coming along well.
Each
Each day brings a new requirement to re-balance priorities, needs, desires and the rest.
Each week brings an increasing gentle awareness of time.
Each month brings a new assessment of what’s been done, what needs to be done, what hasn’t been done, what you hope to do.
Each season brings new requirements for clothing, repairs, vacations, work and celebrations.
Each holiday brings a new influx of decorations – ghosts, Santas, elves and reindeer – and renewed promises to clean out the previous collection of decorations. Each effort bring renewed efforts.
Each departure brings thoughts and reflections. Each arrival brings anticipation.
Each year brings fresh nostalgia and growing awareness of mortality.
Each morning brings a new hope.
Each hour brings a new beginning.
And each thought brings a new perspective.
Each time, it’s not the same.
And each time, you wonder how has it changed?
Michael Seidel, writer 