Rhoneisms

None of this is permanent. Not the things you own. Not the ground you walk on. Not this rock we live on or the space it travels. It will all die. So will you.

You’ve got about a hundred years, give or take. Some have more years than others.

This short period you occupy is driven by events and choices. An event happens and, in that moment, you make a choice. Some choices are easy. Others are hard. Some choices we learn from. Others we don’t. Some we must live with for years. Others are fleeting. Yet all constitute what we call our life.

Even as children it is choices that teach us and guide us. We know that some choices get us in trouble and others get us rewards. This is how we learn what is right and what is wrong. What is dangerous and what is safe. What makes us sad and what makes up happy.

You might make the same bad choices over and over again. It is your choice to do so or to change it. You might make nothing but smart choices and that is very, very, rare. Most of us fail forward. Learning from the poor choices and the smart ones so that we might make more of the later than the former as we grow.

You choose how to use each second. If you choose to use them doing something you hate or putting up with the shit people lay on you, you are wasting precious time. It is a choice. You are choosing to do so. Plain and simple.

One hundred years is nothing in the grand scheme of things but it is all you’ve got. It is the only everything you will ever know. Make the best choices you can.

Flipping through an old notebook is a special and treasured pleasure of mine. Not only for reviving the memory of a time, person, or place, but also because I find they improve with time. The critical self dialog of the now is gone and the true nature of what I captured can now stand apart from such noise.

I have found that the longer my used notebooks sit on a shelf, the more valuable they become to me. That I often do not — can not — recognize the full worth of a thought, idea, or conversation I have captured until it has gone long forgotten on a shelf or in past pages. Only when I stumble upon it with eyes anew does the true importance shine through.

So, what I capture and where and how does not matter as much to me for most things. What is important is that I regularly take the time to go back to these places, flip through the pages, and allow those pasts to speak to me in the present.

I found the intersection of the following two posts that popped up on my radar interesting. Both should be of interest to "knowledge workers" and those who work at home.

The first, Things I’ve quit doing at my desk, offers some great tips for making your desk a workspace of purpose by employing some basic ground rules. All of the ideas are great but I found this one resonates with my own thinking and other things I’ve recently read:

If you’re like me, your best thinking happens when you’re not at your desk: taking a walk, going and asking another person for help, drinking a coffee, in the shower. Your desk is for executing; do your thinking elsewhere.

Then, shortly thereafter, I read this post from Randy Murray that aligns with my personal experience as well:

Having difficulty focusing and getting your work done? Pack up and move to somewhere new to work.

I have found that even moving to a different place in my house has the same effect for me.

Sometimes, the best way to get things done can be found by getting away from where you normally do them.

I see the signs. They are every where and no where. Concealed and in plain sight. Hidden to those that wish deception. For the fiction is pleasantry. Yet, for those of us who can see, we beg for blindness. For the truth is everything we fear.

I wrote this almost a year ago. I don’t know why. It is not a part of anything. Nor, do I feel that it is the start or ending to anything just yet. It just came out and, now, exists.

Sometimes, I write little snippets of things — fragments. Sometimes sentences. Sometimes paragraphs. Sometimes a whole page or two. Sometimes a single word.

I had a creative writing teacher when I was a teenager tell me this was not uncommon. That sometimes a writer’s brain does not work in linear wholes. That, sometimes a fragment will appear suddenly and have no place. Then, someday later, you might stumble across it and build upon it or find a place where it belongs.

She told me to set these aside and revisit them from time to time. That eventually their place may come along.

I have found this a helpful lesson for much of life. Not everything has to have a place right away. Sometimes we find a place. Sometimes a place comes along.

This is a shot of Beatrix and I, taken the other day at the park. Pictures of the two of us together are rare. Not because we don’t spend much time together. Simply because I’m so often the one taking the pictures.

Yet, I spend a great deal of time with my little girl. I’m fiercely protective of that time too. She is simply one of my favorite people to be around. She’s sweet and funny and a creative thinker. She has an incredibly kind spirit and gentle heart. She’s the sort of kid who greets everyone she passes as we walk to the park. If they have a dog she will politely ask if she can pet it, ask the name, and hold out her hand gently and let the dog sniff before running her tiny hands across its head. She thanks people politely when they give her a compliment. Courtesy and grace are a part of her being.

She’s also wonderful to photograph. And I find myself being so captivated by doing so that it does not occur to me to be in the same frame with her. To show some evidence of being there too.

I think it is often the case that there is that one person in the family who assumes the role of principle photographer. It generally just kind of happens. And, I believe you could always tell who that person is if looking though a collection of family photos. They are the ones who appear in the fewest of the photos.

If you are that person in your family, remember to step around to the other side of the lens from time to time. Let the future know that you were there too.