It was a chilly morning, about 19 degrees, when I did my walk. I had to wear a coat and a stocking cap. But it’s a walk I’ve taken many times and in much colder, more inclement weather. In order to take the air, I usually walk from the nearby gas station – which serves a superb breakfast sandwich – back to the house here in the neighborhood.
On my walks, I typically encounter a number of furry and feathered friends. I’ve said hello to the occasional bald eagle. To chonky prairie dogs who scream at one another to herald my arrival. And to flocks of geese headed south for the winter. I’ve even seen the odd raft of ducks, swimming in the artificial pond, keeping their heads low to steer clear of the geese.
On this cold morning, there were no geese, and only the fattest of prairie dogs were scurrying about. I saw a couple of intrepid joggers of the human variety. But, in all, the faded morning sun and the arctic blast seemed to keep most folks indoors. It was strange being one of the few people out and about when there is normally so much life bustling all around. And especially strange given that I would typically rather be in a warm bed on a cold morning than out for a walk. But fate sometimes has strange trips in store for us.
After scarfing down my breakfast sandwich, I made my walk home against a brisk wind. I went to college in New Hampshire and did a post-doc in Wyoming, so the cold is something I feel somewhat accustomed to. But this seemed to be the type of cold that numbs the bones and then the soul, in short order. I could feel my teeth chattering. I’m not entirely sure if I still had hands. But it was, nevertheless, eminently the type of walk that was well-suited for reflection. Naturally, some life disappointments had been playing in my mind and I was a bit lost in my thoughts.
I didn’t even realize that I had ambled up alongside the water. It was only when I chanced to look up that I noticed the last duck on the pond. He didn’t seem especially concerned about being alone. Rather, he seemed to accept his lot: a lone drake swimming out from the reeds. I didn’t see a hen nearby but she could have been tucked away. Regardless, he seemed content and paddled out toward the center of the pond.
He gave no look toward me. To him, I could well have been one of the joggers I passed earlier and gave no heed. Yet he paddled on, seemingly impervious or oblivious to the cold. It was a bit disconcerting to watch him, hell bent on whatever mission he was on in perfect ignorance of whatever was going on in the human world around him.
I found his situation envious.
One problem of modernity is that we humans tend to care about too much. I mentioned in my last post that we worry about the past, present, and future. And then we worry about every conceivable permutation associated with each. With each permutation, we invite an inordinate amount of stress into our lives that we are neither able to mitigate, nor address. It all makes for a rather unfortunate state of affairs. But what I learned from my indifferent, feathered friend is that sometimes simply accepting the state of things as they are is as fine a conclusion as any.
After a quick snap, I walked on home and took stock of my worries. Many of them were not things that I could sort out at the time. Many of them were not things that I have sorted out since. But the picture above reminds me that, on occasion, the best course is merely to accept the circumstances and paddle on.
Summer 2024 has been quite the summer, though you might be hard-pressed to tell given the fields surrounding the house here in Cotton County. They look about the same as they always do this time of year. Freshly plowed fields lay open and quiet during the blistering months of summer. But these will soon yield to a flurry of activity brought on by late summer planting and fertilizing. Come late spring of next year, it’ll be harvest time once again. And then the cycle will repeat. Just like it always has since the land was first worked, some seven generations ago.
Of course, this languid pace is no match for the 24/7 news cycle. In the course of the same time that our fields have lain empty, waiting for end of season planting, our country has witnessed a political assassination attempt; we’ve seen a sitting President of the United States unceremoniously drop his campaign for re-election; and while the Olympics have begun over in Paris, the opening ceremonies were all but mired by coordinated arson attacks. All of these headlines are just within the past few weeks.
It’s fair to say time moves at a different pace here. But not in every way. I’ve spent a good deal of my time this summer with my Son, Nephews, and Nieces. They range in age from 13 years to 1 year old, putting them all squarely in the camps of Gen-Z / Gen-Alpha. Having long considered myself to be the “cool” uncle/Dad, I was shocked to discover that my son and miscreant nephews (ages 11, 13 and 10 respectively) were using a language that I simply did not understand while we casually played video games. This led me down an entire rabbit hole of linguistic exploration, turning first to the sage pages of Parade Magazine to try and figure out a) what the hell these youngsters were saying, and b) whether or not I should be offended (I should have been offended – they called my shoes “mid” (average, mediocre, of poor quality).
Apparently, somewhere between the time I showed my older nephew the finer points of throwing a spiral pass with a football, and when I introduced my youngest nephew to Call of Duty, the whole generation up and created their own vernacular that the rest of us cheugy (not at all trendy) folks have yet to fully figure out. Major L (loss or fail) on our part. Not only this, but they went and replaced some terms that I still hold near and dear to the heart. Terms like “word,” which for us millennials meant an all-purpose affirmation or simply “yes.” You might be sad to know, dear reader, that word / yes have now both been set out to pasture, replaced by the trendier, non-cheugy term “bet.” Bet you didn’t know that.
And on the more avant-garde end of the Gen-Z spectrum, my son has been harping about Skibidi Toilets for months now. I have no idea where this came from and it honestly never occurred to me to “search it up” with any sort of detail. But this is apparently a thing. Granted, a hideous thing featuring human-headed toilets, but a thing nonetheless, and a thing that is incredibly popular among the Gen-Z set. So much so that the YouTube videos from whence it came have some 17 billion views and counting. The surge in popularity has left the franchise (can we even call it that?) set to receive the Michael Bay treatment and we can expect to see a “Skibidi Toilet” feature film directed by him in the near future. Bet you didn’t know that either. Bet.
It’s enough change to make my old head spin and I’m only 41. I suppose that makes me certifiably ancient to a Gen-Zer, but it doesn’t feel all that old to me. But when I think about the dirt and the land, and the cycle of planting and harvesting, I suppose that even here, and in my own life, change is the only constant. At the start of the summer, I had a relationship end unexpectedly, on less than good terms. A very short time later, I learned that my living arrangement in Indiana with my ex-wife, aimed at taking care of our son would also end because she was beginning a new relationship. Two’s company, three’s a crowd as the saying goes. It was certainly glum days here for a while. I don’t think anyone particularly enjoys a relationship breakup. And of my divorced friends, I can’t say that I know of anyone who gets overjoyed when their co-parenting arrangement collapses around them. But, shit happens. What can you do?
What can you do?
I’ve thought about that question a lot this summer. And it occurs to me that my Gen-Z friends might be on to something. It strikes me that they did two things that were rather quite profound while the rest of us were busy glued to our devices, none the wiser to the looming linguistic changes in the offing. This isn’t to say that they weren’t glued to their own devices. Odds are, most of the new lingo was developed over a combination of texting, gaming chats, and video messaging with friends as opposed to actual, physical human interaction. But they did pull off a fairly remarkable feat.
First, Gen-Z walked away from the phrases, words and expressions that didn’t work for them. I don’t know that “bet” is a better alternative than “word” was. But “word” didn’t work for Gen-Z for whatever reason, so they left it behind. Periodt (as the kids say). There were no harsh feelings. I can’t say for sure that there was even any thought given to the vernacular that they were replacing. It’s not like there was a Gen-Z convention where the new terms were settled and agreed upon. It just happened. They simply let go of the lingo that didn’t work for them. And that seems to suit them all just fine.
The second thing Gen-Z did was to create something entirely new to suit their own purposes. We Millennials, Boomers, Gen-Xers and olders can all wonder where the hell Gen-Z came up with their words – cheugy comes to mind – but the terms are unique. They’re different. Different terms for a different generation. And the words selected suit the new generation that’s using them. Again, no disrespect was intended to the old lingo (well, maybe some if you ask my nephews). The new words just came about and were widely adopted. Something new when the old didn’t work.
And I think that’s the secret sauce with change.
Even when we can’t see change occur, that doesn’t mean it isn’t happening, as frightening as that may seem. It’s inevitable. Sure, to the extent we can anticipate a change, we can prepare for it. That’s all well and good. But it’s the unexpected changes that seem to send us reeling. It’s the unexpected changes that leave us the most unsteady. For theses sorts of changes, I think Gen-Z’s example bodes well. It’s okay to walk away. It’s okay to go and to create something new. No disrespect or guilt required.
In my case, I need to do both. My co-parenting vision for my son changed even though I didn’t see the change coming. My task is to walk away from that old vision just like Gen-Z did from the old lingo. It’s dead. It’s not coming back. So, as much as I had hoped for that vision to come to pass for my son, I need to let it go. The outcome was never guaranteed. It’s an outcome that never will be. It’s not my fault. I have nothing to feel guilty about. There was no disrespect in the process. It’s simply time to walk away and let it go. Gen-Z has taught me that that’s okay.
The second thing I need to do, is figure out what the hell a new vision looks like. Deciding to walk away is only half the enterprise. The second half is figuring out what you replace the old with. My Gen-Z friends created their own lingo and way of relating to each other after leaving words and terms that didn’t work for them behind. I’m leaving behind a dead vision of co-parenting and now I have to figure out how I can maximize every second that I spend with my son. The co-parenting won’t really be a thing, being nearly bi-coastal, so what will the new relationship dynamic with him look like? How do I want it to look like? What are the unique memories that he and I can make together? These are fun questions to consider that he and I can answer together. We’ll create something new that suits just the two of us. Gen-Z taught me that that’s okay.
I suspect when I look out at the field tomorrow, it will look pretty much the same as it does today. Open rows of sod ready for planting when the time is right. Eventually change will come to the land too and the cycle will repeat. But I think when it’s time to plant this year, I’ll have a look out the window, sip my coffee, and smile. I’ll think about my son, about Gen-Z, and all the change we cannot see. And I’ll think about how that suits me just fine. Thanks for the lessons, Gen-Z. No cap.
I spent the past half hour changing the ink in my pen. It isn’t an expensive pen. It’s a fairly typical cigar-shaped, fountain pen made by the Conklin company out of Toledo, Ohio. It’s called the “All American” in tortoiseshell brown. I’m guessing it set me back $40 max a couple of years ago when I bought it.
Truth is, the pen has spent most of its life in my desk drawer. Not long after buying it, my Montblanc obsession came on with a vengeance to the point where they’re pretty much the only pens I use. I might have given it a try once or twice after inking it. The nib is still a bit stiff and feels new. Of course, the ink had long dried up, so I tried to give it a thorough cleaning and some TLC this afternoon.
After carefully washing the nib, and flushing out the old ink, I refilled the reservoir with a nice midnight blue ink from my collection. So, imagine my surprise just now when I sat down to write and I saw the same ink that I had flushed from the pen still coming out of the nib.
I’m not sure there’s a bigger point to make here but that’s never stopped me before.
Maybe the point is that it’s harder to flush things from our lives than we realize? Wouldn’t it be a fine thing if we were all just a little kinder to ourselves, and extended a little more grace to others?
Or maybe the lesson is that the parts of life we appreciate the least are the ones closest to us? This pen has been two feet away from me for over two years. Only today did I really pay it any mind. How many people in my life do I treat the same way?
Or maybe it’s about good ole perseverance. This ink has gone through the metaphorical wringer and yet endures. Be like ink.
It probably says more about me that I’m trying to divine lessons from a pen.
Inevitably, gravity will do its job. The brown ink will yield to the hues of blue waiting within the reservoir. The brown puts up a good fight. But it’s a fading remnant soon replaced.
So, for brown, the war is lost even if the battle, for now, is won. Even so, it doesn’t hurt to marvel at the tenacity on display. Indeed, I’d say this trusty Conklin has some heart. It’s no Montblanc. But it doesn’t pretend to be. It’s an everyday, workhorse type of pen. Self-assured. Unprepossessing. As “All-American” as its branding.
Leave your luxury goods and fancy blue inks for another day. It’s a random Wednesday and time to get shit done.
Sometimes, I get the urge to write when something is going on in my life, or perhaps if I get a random mental lightning strike of inspiration (often borne of weariness à la my DFW post). But this happens irregularly and it’s even more infrequent that an idea actually makes it into a post.
But today was a little different.
Nothing big happened. As I often do, I sat down to work for the day (#TGIF), polished off a few hours. Had lunch at my desk. And I noticed the Amazon delivery driver had pulled up in the driveway. It’s not terribly hot today here in Indiana but I saw him struggle with the loaded box of books that I had ordered earlier this week.
I feel for delivery drivers. They work tight deadlines and schlep a bunch of crap for people who may or may not even appreciate the jobs that they do. The ones I’ve worked with never seem to complain. By contrast, I can turn a mild work inconvenience into a major catastrophe – and god forbid I’m not recognized for the “sacrifices” that I make for the “team.” But this good fellow dropped off my books before I made it to the door, and was long gone by the time I stepped out onto the porch to claim my goods.
My goal, for Goodreads posterity, is to read one book a month. For the first time in four years, I’ve already met my goal and might even double this number. As an exceptionally slow reader, it’s a bit of an accomplishment. The books I ordered will all be part of this silly reading experiment and put me closer to doubling my goal on the year.
I plucked a book from the stack to begin, leaned back in my chair, and thought to myself, Man, this is the life!
And what if it is?
What if life’s not about what’s going on right now, or the strike of inspiration. Maybe the good stuff is about having a light workday at the end of the week. Getting a new book from Amazon to read during the weekend. And realizing that there are two more uninterrupted days of this, if that’s what I want.
Again, nothing big happened. Just the realization that the little things can sometimes be the big thing.
Floor buffers stalk the terminal, hell bent on their mission to spit and polish the aging tile. Meanwhile, cafe workers stand at the ready to dole out food if only the lines would form. It’s the graveyard shift at DFW. The lone open restaurant in the entire airport is Panera Bread. And calling it open is a bit of an aggrandizement of understaffed, microwaved fare.
It’s not that the food is terrible. I’ve had much worse. But even the cheese seems pre-fab. Less cheese and more cheese product. The sausage and eggs seem less cooked and more heated. Granted, heated to the appropriate temperature- the perfect temp to be both uniform and servable.
And all the while, passenger carts zoom by. The true enigma of every airport. How does one board such a terminal trolly? Where can a person go? Perhaps it stops at the end of the terminal. Perhaps at the end of the earth. No one really knows.
The Southwest News across the corridor has turned its lights back on. A new shift crew ready to greet the DFW denizens, and those of us Zombies who have neither come nor gone. We are as much a part of the background as the faux wood chairs and tables. And barely more sentient.
It matters little.
The wheels of DFW airport will spin on. It doesn’t matter who is or who isn’t here. Even the TSA Agents change their shift and eagerly hit the doors hidden in the walls. Eager for home, or whatever will serve as home on this early morning. I wonder where they are going. Home to sleep until the grind starts all over again? Home to a lover nestled in bed? Or maybe they’ll go home to an empty apartment to drink and will themselves to wake in the early evening, and repeat the march of the dead. Dead inside. Dead outside. Dead to the world.
So, where am I? Hard to say. I’m somewhere in between the awakened beast of DFW, and the myriad of lemmings that keep it running. My old religion prof would say that I’m “betwixt and between.” A place of “liminality.” And probably a bunch of other fancy words that I can’t remember at, now, 4:21AM. But it’s true. I’m far from home, yet eager for rest. Awake, yet asleep. Ready to travel, yet stuck in place.
I suppose, I’m in a space not unlike life. Except that it’s far less comfy. And though I can see Gate A33 from my table, it feels so very far away.
Pax Plena 