A landslide of the heart

I woke up around 9:30, called a couple of my favorite people, my best friend Eileen and my brother Frank, then straightened up my ridiculously messy room. I discarded the embarrassing collection of papers, old mail and wrappers, took wine glasses to the sink and washed them, folded the clothes and put them away. I unpacked from my Christmas trip. I feel lighter and more whole. I still haven't made the bed.

It took till 11:30 to finish the chores. By then I was massively hungry. In the kitchen I found two slabs of sourdough bread, cut off a half-inch slice of ham and four pieces of swiss cheese with some mustard and assembled a sandwich. I'm a big boy. I like to eat.

I took the sandwich to my desk and lit a candle. It's mealtime, and a candle invites the sacred. A person should never eat alone so I opened the blog to write a post. You are my company today, and I treasure that.

There's something about the combination of a long trip, calling special people, doing chores and eating a massive ham sandwich that makes you reflective. I particularly like this song and this version of it, "Landslide," performed by the Dixie Chicks in a live performance somewhere in Europe (Sweden, maybe? Not sure about that part.)

The song touches me and stays with me these days, for a variety of reasons. The beautiful clear voices. The crush-worthy lead singer. The tender strains of the mandolin. And of course the lyrics and their message:

Well, I've been afraid of changin'
'Cause I've built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Even children get older
And I'm getting older, too

We all have songs that become touchstones, windows into our hopes and soul. It's magical how music can do that, lift us to the best part of ourselves, express our sadness, longing, meaning and need better than we can ever hope to. This song plays in my Pandora nearly every day.

I was singing the chorus in my halting tenor as I did my chores, feeling a tremendous comfort.

I AM getting older, but getting bolder is a choice, I believe. A lot of people face their advancing generations and become more careful, which I think that is a tragic, disastrous, calcifying mistake. My grandpa was a vigorous man who built his own house with his own hands at 63. He got a little help with the plumbing and wiring, but structure and the carpentry were all his. Then he retired and sat in a chair. He got Alzeimer's. By the end of his life he couldn't recognize his wife of 60-plus years.

Getting older makes me think of the journeys I could take, the choices I might make and the direction they could start me toward in my life. It's exhilarating to see possibilities instead of sameness.

A list in forming in my head, and this is the first time I've sat down to put it to paper, albeit between bites of enormous, delicious ham sandwich.

These are choices I could make, some of them mutually exclusive. All of them will alter my path in marvelous ways, while certainly a few wouldn't turn out at all. It's wonderful to feel at 62 there are adventures to be had, that I can grow and learn and discover and make changes. I can pay more attention to the road I travel, the souls I touch along the way. Robert Frost said, "But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep."

Frost's poems have been cited and recited so much that the metaphors have been worn out by less subtler minds, leaving a road with potholes and a crumbling stone fence at its edges. In "Stopping by the woods on a snowy evening" and "The Road Not Taken" he talks both about how one path closes another and the subtle seductions of merely giving up, letting yourself sleep, lulled by the rhythm of the bells on the harness as the snows fall.

Sorry for the mock profundity. Just trying to learn to write pretty. This is my list so far, with items that are both little and big in their scope:

Learn to play guitar (that's on everyone's list, I think. It'd be nice to play a song or three, sing them one day with my granddaughter,)

Join a writer's group.

Take a cross country trip. Read the historical plaques. Hike the Grand Canyon. Stop for pie. Flirt with the waitress. Attend college football in various towns and write a blog about it.

Own a place of my own, my own apartment, a 600-square-foot trailer, something. I've always wanted an office and a study, three bookcases, a good chair and reading lamp, a cherry wood desk like the one I had before the last time I was homeless. (Another story, preceded by bad choices.)

Get a job at Eastern Washington University, something simple, be a janitor or academic advisor or part of the landscape crew, attend classes one or two a quarter. It's close enough to my grandkids I could go to soccer games, far enough away that I wouldn't intrude on their family,

As an exercise, write a novel about Cullen Bohannon's journey East.

Open a bookstore, a coffee shop or a brew pub. I'd want it to be a shoestring business where the chief purpose was to have a pot of coffee on and talk to people. I had the thought earlier this week that a sense of community is disappearing from our lives, that no one is really good at it anymore except women, who seem to make and keep strong friendships in their lives that make a difference. Eileen is a whiz at it, whole communities of women in her life that support each other and have rich, healing, joyous conversations. I'd like to be a part of a place that fosters that for myself and other people, a church without a collection place or a ponderous pastor. Main street is gone in America, killed by Amazon, Walmart and the invention of the smart phone. All we have left is Facebook, a sad substitute.

The trouble with working in a bar or convenience store is that you are surrounded by smokers and drunks while you're not drinking.

Continue working at the bakery and save money for my retirement.

Get an online degree in counseling and establish a practice in a small town.  Base the therapy on the principles of Carl Adler, "warm, positive, acceptant."

Buy a motorcycle, learn to ride and maintain the bike. I am a ridiculous shell of what a man should be--I can't fix anything. I'd like to learn from the ground up. It'd be my Walden. I'm sure it would be good for me as long as I didn't hit a tree.

Take a long motorcycle trip with my brothers, although they are complete clowns and would probably steer me into a tree trying to keep up with them.

A risk I'm willing to take, because I'd much rather die with boots and helmet on than in a chair.

"Mary Jane's Last Dance" is on now, so I think I'll get up and dance. Gotta work off this ham sandwich.

I have been bruised by the roads I've taken, and I have been shaped by them. I don't regret any of my travels, even the ones I found painful and costly. I realize I have to choose carefully from this point forward. I only have time for a few more journeys and the miles are precious.