“The art of writing is the art of discovering what you believe.” ― Gustave Flaubert
Awoke to a stormy Wednesday here on the farm. Thunder and lightning in December. How lovely.
The cattle seem not to care. Probably just happy to be free of the carpet of flies that covered them over the summer.
In my 20s, whenever we returned from a deployment or completed a readiness exercise, the squadron would gather in the main briefing room over a beer or four and work through a "hot wash" of the experience. The idea was that we would forget or rewrite in our minds the salient facts of those days if we waited a week to debrief, and the best way to capture critical lessons learned was to review our performance immediately. And the lubricant of a couple beers, along with the relief of leaving the stress of an intense exercise behind us, seemed to create the raw material for insight, and to make us that much better the next time around.
I think of those hot washes this morning as we approach the holidays and the winter solstice, our hard-wired time of pause and reflection on the year left behind as we gather the strength for the year ahead.
This has been a year unlike any other, both personally and for all of us. The pandemic has forced me to find a different way to work, because financial commitments continue to bay at the door even as the economy unravels. I've worked almost entirely from home, appeared remotely at countless hearings and mediations, and an amazing thing happened--I had my best year ever, with no slippage for travel or water cooler small-talk or any of the other distractions that populated my old life. There is work. There is P. There is the farm. There's not much else.
And I've managed to avoid letting all of that space created by the loss of the dross in my life be filled with more work. Instead, this newfound quiet and solitude left space for reflection, for writing seriously for the first time in a very long time. As Flaubert observed, I have a better sense of what I really believe, with no creed or pressure from others to accept something that does not ring true.
Distilling my beliefs has made for a tough political season, here in the reddest of red places. It's meant a complete loss of a community of faith, although life is a long ride and something may appear in its place. I don't mourn anymore.
Which is another insight of the last year, an insight inherent in the aging process if it is accompanied by maturing. I catch myself now when I rail against what is and the affronts to what I think should be. My affronts are getting rarer now; rather, even when I feel that old flash of temper rise and a rant coming on, I've gotten better at backing away and talking back to that demon, reminding myself that, to quote one of the animals in the movie "Babe", "the way things are is the way things are." Better to accept, and figure out how a disappointment or loss may actually stand as an opportunity. This pandemic could have been a disaster, but for P and me our six months on the farm sheltering-in-place were the best of our lives. Or mine anyway. A perceived setback becomes a blessing, largely because we accepted the situation and learned to thrive in it.
Another manifestation of the arrival of the autumn of my life here in the last days of the Fall of 2020 is the sense that my existence is no longer a parade of bragging points for a resume no one will ever read. There is no next thing, and as Camus observes we don't live our best lives now when we lose ourselves in the illusion of hope. This moment has the potential to be very good; it's certainly the best moment I am experiencing right now. Why would I waste that dreaming of some better life that may or may not happen, but will certainly rob this morning of its worth?
Writing most mornings has helped bring all of this into focus.
Yesterday I sat in a friend's wingback chair with a cup of coffee ruminating on life, and recounting what's transpired since we last met. It was a babbling, disjointed exercise, and my inner voice was murmuring in contempt at my inability to string together a coherent thought. But here in writing another voice emerges, one more thoughtful and competent that the one dumping a verbal torrent of psycho-babble in my friend's office. Writing means reflecting, means going back through what appears on the screen and sometimes marveling at insights that lay hidden until they appeared like a revelation from another conscience. It also allows, or maybe demands, editing to ensure it says what I really meant to say.
I never afforded myself the luxury of this experience before. Lots of billable hours are burned here on this page, and no one wants to hear my ramblings anyway. But truly, I'm just talking to myself, the digital equivalent of the guy mumbling and pushing a shopping cart full of empty soda cans and stray cats down the main drag of town. If you happen to listen in, so be it.
I also find myself reflecting this morning on whether this life routine will continue into the foreseeable future. More than a few very smart economists seem to think the Monday through Friday, nine-to-five work schedule (never mine, actually) will give way to three days in the office, two working from home, and two days off.
At least one of my partners and I appear to disagree on this point--he's more traditional, and wants to see faces in offices every morning at nine. I don't see much value in that so long as all are getting their work done and making money. External forces, both the pandemic and the demands of the courts, may force the issue to some degree. In the meantime, for me at least the days of working all week to sneak off to the farm on Friday night for a couple evenings of recharge and relaxation are over. This is how I intend to live, if life keeps us here in Florida.
Speaking of work, my email is exploding and to-do list metastasizing as I sit here drinking coffee. The hot wash has been useful, but it's time to crack the door and let the world enter.
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