The Sun yielded to your mother, who rose early from the pain. Pain in the abdomen. The place where, five months earlier, your story began. “It’s likely nothing,” I feebly reassured as we made for the car.
Our trusted obstetrician met us at the hospital. Along with caring and experience, she brought a foreboding diagnosis: premature labor. At 24 weeks, you’d have a chance at surviving. This was week 23. We hadn’t even settled on a name. But there, on that crisp January morning in 2013, it presented itself: Victoria, as in the Roman goddess of victory, as in you would defy this prognosis, as in you would . . . survive.
You were born perfect. No, really, you were: precisely on target for your gestational age. Your mother’s body simply couldn’t restrain you. We were unaware of the cervical incompetence. Until you taught us. While too late to save yourself, the knowledge revealed a procedure. Thus you have siblings: Madeline and Dylan. Their full terms owing to yours, tragically abbreviated. Was this your sole purpose, sacrifice? No.
In just 91 minutes, we made memories. I never saw your gaze, eyes not formed enough to open. I never heard your cry, lungs not formed enough to breathe. But as I held you on my forearm, I felt your warmth; I felt your heartbeat; I felt your mass, scarcely more than a pound. This I recall vividly, as though you might be there still. Barely moving, you made your life known. And we were a family.
In just 91 minutes, you taught me to be present. Your terminus fast approaching, I focused not on the loss I’d soon bear, but on the beautiful living daughter in my midst. Which was all that mattered. All that ever matters, really. Your siblings favor me with seemingly infinite time. Yet I’m losing them too, albeit slowly. A bit each day, as they grow up. So I am with them—only them—as we laugh and play.
In just 91 minutes, you taught me what it means to be a father. Only then did I understand. Only then could I understand. Visceral understanding, that only a father knows. All else is learned through experience. I’m learning still.
A decade later, your essence persists; stronger, as I’ve grown wiser. You are a part of me. You touch the world through me. A world made better, because you were here.
Nothing is sacred. In the book Several short sentences about writing, author Verlyn Klinkenborg tells aspiring writers to let go of the need for prerequisites; the need for things to be a certain way in order to write. “Solitude, The early light of Morning, A cup of coffee in just the right cup” are a few of the examples given. Klinkenborg concludes the thought with: “Learn to write anywhere, at any time, in any conditions [sic], with anything, starting from nowhere.”
This is both brilliantly appealing, and contradictory to my own precious method. So of course I had to give it a try! Consequently, I’ve written on a borrowed computer, software different from my usual. I’ve gone from insisting on quiet and solitude, to writing in a hotel bar overlooking a bustling lobby. And presently, I no longer step out to a co-working space (a.k.a the library). I’m writing at home, even while my wife works here.
On the first day in my new workspace, a tone beckoned me, announcing clean, wet laundry. I like to start a load of laundry while I’m getting breakfast ready for the kids—either completing the entire process before leaving to write, or ending my writing prematurely, as tasks await. A small change in workflow should correct this disruption. Except the disruption proved not unwelcome: breaking away to transfer the laundry, my mind remained focused on the piece I was writing. I discovered I often return to the keyboard with a solution, or simply refreshed from the brief respite. This time away aids more than it hinders. Because a good deal of writing happens while away from the keyboard.
Few chores can be integrated this way, and that’s fine. For those that can’t, I put on an audiobook (frequent reading also inherent in writing), and take a legitimate break. I now often write in two daily sessions; something I’d never done when a location change was involved.
The lesson here is to mix things up—see what works. Routines have merit, particularly when starting something new. But we often outgrow them. If we don’t notice, they become a hinderance. Have your rituals, have your routines. But regard them with skepticism. Test them every now and then. It just may be time for a change.
Just because you can find use for a feature, doesn’t mean you should. The venerable Swiss Army knife comes in many configurations. Victorinox alone offers 400 models. It’s obviously not a one size fits all proposition. The same is true of smart phones, and the fact that they aren’t shipped with every available app installed and active by default confirms this. I anticipate you already realize this. Having had this conversation with my septuagenarian mother recently, however, I feel it’s worth mentioning.
A while back, my smart phone broke irreparably. I decided to use this opportunity to replace it with a current generation (yes, they have been advancing along silently in the background) feature phone. The first thing I realized is that it’s really complicated to “simplify” your phone experience. Especially in the US, where we maintain two discrete networks, only one of which will support a push button phone. Then, there’s finding a way to replace the features in addition to voice calls I’d come to highly value, but took for granted. For me, this includes:
Calendar
Timer / alarms
Notes
Navigation / Maps
Camera
Podcast app
At least one “dumb” phone I tried – the Nokia 6300 4g (I tried a few) did all of the above. But it didn’t do them as cleanly as an Android, Blackberry, iOS, or Windows Phone (yes, I’ve used all of those as well) can do. I think it’s fair to say that the camera, and navigation on that phone were near worthless. Plus, the KaiOS (all the Nokia feature phone interfaces, actually), is not as intuitive to configure and use as any major smart OS. I already had an aged iPod for podcasts. So I bought a dedicated GPS, a used digital point and shoot, and dealt with inferior versions of the rest.
You probably noticed that I have excluded two ubiquitous features, namely email and SMS That’s not by accident. I do use SMS, but it’s strictly a backup for the rare times my significant other or I might be in a fringe area where SMS works, but voice doesn’t (I live in a small town). I also find it handy for certain automated services which alert this way. But I personally decided I don’t like communicating with my thumbs. I’m a grown-up, and get to make that choice. So for the extremely occasional times I need to respond to a text, I can suffer through the 9-key interface, or in the case of the 6300 4G, I can utilize speech to text. Hence, it’s not a smart phone dependent feature. As for email, that’s something which I check and process twice per day at most. And I’m not doing it on any phone. If it’s urgent, call me.
So I gave up the smart phone for the better part of a year, and now I’m back. The one thing which brought me back, really, was the calendar. Having a calendar that fits in my pocket, and syncs with my desktop calendar, was enough of a perk to work through dealing with the negatives. It’s not even like I have a lot of things on my plate, mind you. But that very reason makes it even more important that I have a system which requires minimal work on my part. As I compose this post, I checked to verify the exact Nokia model I mentioned, and came really close to buying another to try again. I haven’t bought it (yet). There’s a lot to like about not having a weapon of mass distraction in my pocket. But the truth is that it’s a lot easier to avoid distraction when I’m focused on something meaningful. My four year old will be in Kindergarten next fall, and that’s when I’ll be re-entering the workforce. And I’d really like to freelance. So having that target in front of me is helping kill the procrastination. Because I’ve learned that when you’re working at something meaningful, the things that get in the way naturally fall by the wayside. When I was a cog in the wheel of corporate America, I welcomed anything to relieve me of dealing with the fact that I wasn’t invested in my work. Ironically, the company for which I worked provided the very device I used to avoid working. I know I’m not alone here, as I managed the mobile devices for three different companies during my career. Something to think about if you manage employees…
One additional positive for the smart phone I only discovered after bringing it back, is the availability of apps to deal with spam calls. In researching which app to purchase / subscribe to, I came across a feature native to my phone whereby it only rings when the call is from someone in my contacts. I figured I’d give that a try first, and it’s been brilliant. Sure, I’ve missed a call here and there. But those were calls I wouldn’t have answered anyway. I can review the transcriptions of the voicemail, and add them to my contacts if appropriate.
I realize phones are a divisive topic. The very brand can elicit passionate discussion among some loyalists. So please jump in the comments, and tell me where you think I did right, and where I could have done better. Or better yet, what has worked for you.
About a year ago, I decided I wasn’t enjoying my hoard of bicycles. I probably realized that well before this point, but it was a year or so ago when I decided to take it down to a single bicycle. and (if I feel so inclined) add back only the ones I really want in my life. I still have a ways to go. Selling things isn’t fun, at least not for me. But it’s been well worth it. Every bicycle I own represents a future drain on my time. Every single one. Even my every day bike – the one I know I’ll keep. It needs some work. Nothing major, but I’m tired of working on bicycles (no doubt due to the self-imposed commitment of working on bicycles). Hence the deferred maintenance, repairs, or improvements. So it is, with every sale, I’m reclaiming a bit of future time. I’m releasing myself from a self-imposed obligation. In some cases, I’m even able to put a bit of money back in the bank. But money is a renewable resource, time is not. Time is the real gold here. In a former life, time spent tinkering indeed was the point. But somewhere between having kids, and deciding I didn’t want to wait until I’m 60-something to retire, the tinkering lost it’s appeal.
This is not a condemnation of collecting things. Nor is it a recommendation to try to downsize. I can’t tell you what will or won’t work for you. And even if I could, it’s none of my business. But I am calling out the N+1 mentality: If we have to justify our acquisitions by way of a mathematical equation (one can never argue with the math, right?), perhaps our reasoning lacks conviction. Perhaps (as it was with me) we aren’t even clear on what the reasons are. And when said equation implies a potentially infinite quantity, this by-and-large guarantees that satisfaction will never be attained.
Truth be told, I don’t expect to actually pare down to one solitary bicycle. I’ve been able to identify the number which makes sense for me. And that number is subject to change. Not because I’m uncertain, but because a persons needs and desires are ever changing. In a future post, I’ll divulge my ideal number, and how I got there. For now, I’m going to spend a bit of time to decide and prep which bicycle (and camera) I’ll be using for Three Speed Adventure April.
