Though 63-plus years have come and gone, it’s still fun- and probably a bit sad- to think about what I want to be when I grow up. There would seem to be a time crunch anymore, and let’s throw timidity and resignation into the mix as well.

My current occupation/vocation is not one I’ve ever dreamed of doing. To this day, Musician or Astronomer or Barista sound much more interesting. It’s not that I haven’t learned things about life and faith and human nature over the last 22 years. My time as a pastor in a mainline/old line denomination has expanded my world view and shaped my politics. And at times I have truly appreciated not being tied to a 9 to 5 existence.

It’d just be nice to know the feeling of working at something that doesn’t feel like work. Maybe this is a luxury out of my reach now. Maybe there’s no small amount of selfishness involved in such a pursuit. Maybe everything feels like work at some point in the day.

Maybe.

I’d like to know the feeling of putting in a 12-hour day and being so totally immersed in tasks at hand that I little note the passage of time. I hear others say they can’t believe they get paid for what they do? I want to know what that is like.

I remember my father asking me, on several occasions, if I thought I’d ever amount to anything. I never took this personally- in context it seemed more tongue in cheek than some sort of put-down. Besides, I seem to recall him asking my brothers and sisters the same question. In retrospect, it might have had as much to do with how Dad felt about himself as it did his desire for his children to know a level of accomplishment and satisfaction that, in his mind, had passed him by.

Or maybe he was just worried about me.

Anyways, I always answered “yes” to Dad’s question, with little basis for such confidence. Besides- to some extent, it’s not up to me to assess whether or not I’ve amounted to anything.

To the extent that it is up to me, I still feel like the jury is deliberating. Like I’m still on the road, as the former Cat Stevens once sang, to find out.

A recent learning was that Edwin Hubble did research at Caltech starting back in the early 1930s. Dr. Hubble, according to his Wikipedia page, played a crucial role in establishing the fields of extragalactic astronomy and observational cosmology. He discovered an asteroid known as 1373 Cincinnati. More significantly, he deepened our understanding of an expanding universe.

The orbiting telescope named in Dr. Hubble’s honor settled into its low earth orbit at around 335 miles and became operational in May of 1990. The Hubble has provided a stream of mind-blowing photos, giving us spectacular images of nebulae and galaxies and our own planetary neighbors. This instrument has led scientists to deeper understandings of, among other things, the rate of the universe’s expansion- work for which Dr. Hubble himself helped lay the foundation.

Of all the pictures from Hubble, the first one that made my jaw drop is the Deep Field North, constructed from a series of observations, over a ten-day period, of a minuscule section (one 24-millionth) of the sky in Ursa Major (the Big Dipper), with an equivalent angular size of viewing a tennis ball from a distance of 100 meters, or roughly 110 yards. I seem to recall another analogy comparing this to looking at a dime edgewise from a distance of 70 feet. There have been other Deep Field composites since- the Ultra Deep Field and Extreme Deep Field- but when the first one was made public, it was an attention-getter.

According to Wikipedia, the field of view is so small that only a few foreground stars in the Milky Way lie within it, which means that almost all of the 3000 objects in the image are GALAXIES! Galaxies contain anywhere from hundreds of millions to trillions of stars. The distance across galaxies is measured in light years, sometimes thousands of light years.

A light year is a unit of astronomical distance- the distance light travels in one year at a speed of 186,000 miles per second, or 671 million miles per hour…

Almost 6 trillion miles.

It’s fun trying to get your head around that.

In lieu of a photo of the rocky coast, here’s one of the quaint and picturesque harbor at Perkins Cove, Ogunquit. The rocky coast was just a short walk in the opposite direction, accessible all along the Marginal Way, and it filled the senses. But this is Maine, too- one of the many harbors and inlets that catch one’s eye and beg for some space on a memory card.

OK, here’s a view from along the Marginal Way:

And one more, because this just looked cool:

There’s no place like Maine. Whenever we go there, it’s hard to leave.

 

 

It dawned on me recently that I don’t smile much anymore. It’s in no small part because there is a constant dis-ease with our Tweeter-in-chief and pretty much everyone around him.

I rarely watch the evening news because I know the first 10 minutes or so will include sound bytes of Donald Trump or some administration official attempting to utter something intelligible, or just a defense of the indefensible. More often than not, they only manage to spew something vacuous or mean-spirited. Or The Donald tries to look busy as he signs another executive order undoing some piece of legislation passed during the Obama years.

The incessant desire to repeal the ACA is beyond infuriating. To paraphrase the inimitable Roy Neary, “Who the hell are these people?!” Even now as debate is renewed, I remain hopeful that there will emerge at least a few Republicans who have something resembling a heart.

There is a legitimate chasm, unbridgeable at this point, between Republicans and the majority of Americans who voted for someone else. And there is no meeting in the middle. There is no middle right now. It seems clear that we can’t all just get along, nor should we expect to. It is clear that there are non-negotiable principles at stake, with large numbers of citizens in danger of falling through the cracks, somehow judged expendable, illegal, or lacking in ambition.

Historians will most likely trace the roots of this toxic atmosphere back beyond the Obama years. But it’s difficult not to connect the current state of affairs with Mr. Obama’s time in office and the two-term obstructionist march to the sea unleashed by Republicans who were positively aghast at a black Democrat having been elected President. They were seething for eight years, egged on by Fox News and a host of other media gas bags, and they (and now we) have ended up with Donald Trump, who at every turn claims to know how to “win.”

I don’t remember ever feeling this way about politics, or about previous elections. The differences between parties and platforms are stark. Republican motives seem blatantly self-serving and anachronistic, not to mention callous and cold-hearted, bordering on inhuman. And all of it is couched in a non-existent “mandate” (if by “mandate” is meant a majority of all Americans), along with a pseudo-concern for sound fiscal policy.

 Maybe the scales have fallen from our eyes and all we have witnessed is the reality of “politics in the 21st century.” Except Republicans seem intent on taking us back to the mid-twentieth century, when everyone habitually (robotically?) went to church and coal was king and certain people knew their place.

So there is little middle ground. Factions of the electorate do not like each other, much less trust each other. This is a battle of wills now, of visions, of wildly disparate views of what progress looks like. As others have noted, this is shaping up to be a battle for the heart and soul of the country.

To get things started, I sincerely hope that, with regard to Donald Trump, the other shoe drops shortly. I am not optimistic about this, since he and his cohorts are so adept at changing the subject and filling the airwaves with a much more authentic brand of fake news.

The other night, I sat on the couch in the living room as a thunderstorm barreled through town. One crack of lightning was so close that the almost instantaneous, explosive rumble seemed to ripple the floor under my feet. I can’t remember ever feeling that particular sensation before.

Anyway, thunderstorms fascinate me, though this hasn’t always been the case. They used to cause a loss of appetite and a desire to hide under something. I guess some fears go away and we replace them with others.

One of the current batch manifests itself in recurring dreams where, for example, I walk into a packed church totally unprepared for whatever occasion is about to unfold. I can tell that people are waiting for me, but I have nothing ready- improper dress, no sermon, no idea what should come next. I wake up feeling a sense of relief.

Maybe these dreams have prevented me from ever not showing up for a wedding or funeral… though I have totally missed a few committee meetings along the way.

The definition is straightforward enough: aging is the process of growing old. A process which, according to Wikipedia.org, refers especially to human beings, many animals, and fungi. It’s nice to know that fungi share the same inexorable journey, that we’re not alone in this.

The process unfolds differently for different people. Some decide to go kicking and screaming, others seem to be on a fast track. And, for various reasons, others never get much of a chance.

There is a whole industry built on delaying the process. It often involves the rich and famous and a substantial outlay of cash for various elective surgical procedures, the results of which, in my opinion, often skew toward disfigurement rather than improvement.

Short of the aforementioned surgeries, I am going to fight the process tooth and nail. My preference would be to not age at all. Well, except as this leads to patience and wisdom, and the opportunity to partake of a nice double cask single malt 12-year old Macallan.

And one more thing- there is a certain unavoidable absurdity attached to growing old: why does it happen at all?

I learned the other day that, apparently, I am a pluviophile- I’m fine with a rainy day. And this is true. I have nothing against clear skies, except in the middle of July when a hot day feels like a walk on the sun and has me wondering if the lawn is about to burst into flames.

I like watching rain come down. I never grow tired of this. There is something comforting about it. It makes me glad to know the gardens are getting a drink and reservoirs are being filled. It means a free car wash and full rain barrels.

Of course, I am not a farmer who needs to bale straw and cut wheat or plant a field. Farmers probably have a more practical understanding of rain, whereas mine is somehow more … selfish.

Anyway, pluviophile. Who knew?

Whether or not Mark Twain ever said it or said it first, I’ve never understood the cynicism. Golf is a game never quite mastered, even though the pros are capable of putting on displays of artistry and polish that could make one think otherwise. Besides, whoever described the game as “a good walk spoiled” must have been playing before the days of electric carts, which pretty much take exertion out of the equation.

In any event, golf is way more than chasing a little white ball around a field. It takes a varied skill set to play it well. It is physically and mentally demanding. It challenges a person’s inner cheater to come clean, to “play it where it lies,” to take the penalties and mark the actual score.

And whatever walking does ensue is often done with friends and family, amidst scenic vistas. It’s a welcome departure from the usual routine.

All in all, time well spent.

Some things I’m thankful for:

Cut and paste, the Undo icon, coffee shops, opening a bag of coffee, grinding coffee beans, making coffee, the aroma of coffee brewing, drinking coffee, making coffee for someone else, the thought of coffee; music, pianos, a good laugh, keeping the windows open at night, hearing the birds singing in the morning, a car that runs, a lawn to mow and a lawnmower that works, a garden to tend, a watch that keeps accurate time, refilled rain barrels, fresh strawberries, a crunchy and slightly tart apple, popcorn, cereal and milk at my disposal 24/7, college friends I’m still in touch with, a day without an agenda, a cold IPA in a frosty mug, a glass of wine while I cook, a puzzle by Uncle Charlie, Shady Maple, technology, trees, the Grand Canyon, Maine, the smell of the ocean, crab meat salad in a grilled roll, my camera, visits to and from our kids and their spouses; Mom, sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles, all my in-laws.

And, that she said “yes” on that October afternoon in 1980.  It still amazes me.

There’s more, but that’s enough for now.

I know- another flower pic. But this isn’t just any flower.

In most instances, in order to see a flower bloom, you have to have: a lot of time on your hands and the patience of no one on earth, or access to time lapse photographic equipment. Or YouTube.

This is an Evening Primrose. The bloom on the right looked like the bud on the left about a minute or so before the picture was taken. The color is a bit washed out because they bloom at dusk. They emit a pleasant fragrance with a hint of… pepper?

Hardly any waiting. The perfect flower for today’s instant-everything crowd. And low-cost entertainment.

Actually, a nice way to spend a few minutes at the end of the day.