Winter Solstice

The winter solstice is the day with the least amount of light (for those of us in the Northern Hemisphere). This means that after the winter solstice, the days gradually begin to lengthen. This is a good thing. By now I've heard the mild complaints about how cold and dark it's been getting. One part of me wants to join in: yes, I hate that it's getting colder. Yes, I hate that it gets dark at 4PM. But more often than not, when I hear these complaints in the hallways, I usually put on a stoic face. Winter's coldness and darkness can only be endured. If you choose not to escape it, you have to accept it. Commiserating doesn't make it warmer or lighter.

The other name for the winter solstice is "midwinter". I like that too. The days are lengthening, and even though New England will remain "cold" for at least another few months, we're past the half-way point. The Earth will gradually tip its northern axis towards the sun again, and before you know it, we'll be mildly complaining about all the heat.

The Long Way to Work

A few weeks ago, I took the long way to work. My commute takes up to 45 minutes, and it is all city driving. To take the long way means adding 20 minutes to the route, driving straight down Massachusetts Avenue in grueling stop-and-go traffic from Arlington all the way down to the Charles River in Cambridge. But if the mood is right, and I have the time, I always enjoy it.

The long way takes me past the memories of my adult life, as I have lived in the Cambridge/Somerville/Boston area for a little over twenty years. Arlington, where I live, has changed, but crossing into Cambridge brings even more changes. Stores that didn't exist five years ago are shouting at me to come in. Buildings that didn't exist ten years ago are now part of the routine scenery. Outlets are now college buildings. Banks are now restaurants. Change is everywhere.

I feel like there's a memory for every block of Mass Ave. There's my favorite burrito place in Porter Square (no, not Anna's). There is where my wife and I used to buy wine. There is our favorite restaurant back in our "restaurant" days. Of course, there are the places that are long gone. I was glad I knew them, back when they were around.

From Harvard Square to Central Square, I felt like I've been to every bar during those first few years of moving here. Of course, that's not true. People will mention a bar to me and if I ask if it's new, they'll say "it's been there forever." That's OK. I don't go out drinking much anymore.

On the long way to work, I will sometimes drive by the building where I had my first job out of college. I conjure up the faces from that wonderful time. I know lots of people who have moved out of Boston, but I stayed, and I'm glad I did.

Mostly, I'm grateful for the parking. I pull into my office building's garage, thankful that I do not have to hunt for spaces in Kendall Square, like I did the first few months of my working life. At moments like this, I sometimes feel like I've made it. Sitting in my car, I'm filled with gratitude.

Bowing Out of Novel Writing Month

A few months ago, I got it in my head to write a novel during National Novel Writing Month (aka NaNoWriMo). I started plotting some scenes, and conjuring up some characters. The novel was supposed to be a murder mystery, set in a Greater Boston, MA. The opening scene featured a dead person at someone's cubicle in an office building, and the nervous yet excited whisperings of the workers about to start their day, but instead were met with a bevy of police and crime scene technicians and detectives. The victim wasn't just any worker-bee, however. He was one of the co-founders of the company, and the investigation into his murder would soon involve his fellow co-founder, a hard driving set of executives bent on acquiring this company, and his wife, who used to be married to the employee number three. I am excited even now to be writing just this little bit, but November is proving to be a packed month in my own life, and I didn't think I could spend every evening writing, like I did back in 2004. I'm disappointed, but rather than get frustrated, I think I'll keep letting the story percolate on its own. November isn't the only month to write novels, you know!

Husband First

In the various places where I get to write a profile of myself, I invariably put down husband first. Then father. And then maybe a little bit about "me". The husband part being first is on purpose. I read somewhere that the best way to be a good parent is to be a good spouse. A child sees a model of love, a model of civility, a model of manners in the way his parents interact with each other. Of course this is a generalization, but when I read (or heard this), I latched onto it.

Husband first. Father second.

A father's love is instinctive. A husband's love is deliberate. A father's love is unconditional. A husband's love is packed in with commitment. A father's love is pure, and at least in my case, it can be overwhelming. A husband's love is refined, and certainly in my case, more comforting.

June features my anniversary (today) and Father's Day, and as I enjoy the extra attention and the extra reminders, I find it fitting that my anniversary occurs first.

Take It All In

My family and I finished catching up with this season's "The Amazing Race", the popular television show (CBS) that's "a race around the world."

The last episode of the series ended with the first two teams racing towards the finish on Florida's Old Seven Mile Bridge.The leaders were ahead by some distance, and the way the show was edited, you almost thought that the team in second place would catch them. It was shaping up for a dramatic finish.

However, just a few seconds later, the second place team realized they were out of it. "They're too far ahead," one of them said. "It's over with." Then a moment of high wisdom: "Take it all in, baby!" His partner turned back to him: "Huh!?" "Just take it all in."

I watched that moment over and over again (find it at minute 80). These guys were racing for one million dollars, but at the moment of despair, at the moment when they realized that they have lost, they recognized the most important thing: they were in an amazing race. They appreciated the moment they were in.

"Take it all in." I found myself touched by these words. It's the always welcome reminder that there's a much bigger picture out there than even the race we're on (as another contestant observed this season). Chasing the prize of our lives is a privilege that everyone has. We should be grateful every now and then.

It's Sunday night as I write this. Tomorrow is the start of another week, a week of work and routine. My life is racing by. I realize that now. Sometime during the week, I'll remember to take it all in.

Ice Skating: Still Gliding

After I retired from playing ice hockey, I stopped ice skating. I was somehow able to close the book on ice hockey. I had had my fill. The rest of my life took over: marriage, our daughter being born, a sudden infatuation with golf, changes in my career. I had climbed the mountain I wanted to climb. The ice dream had melted.

But then in the fall and winter of 2006, construction began on an outdoor ice rink next to where I work. I remember watching it get built, feeling a certain stirring in my bones, a certain anticipation. The ice dream had come to me. I dug out my ice skates from the basement.

Once the rink opened, I began skating there at lunch. The first few visits brought a rash of falls as I tried to regain my ice skating muscle memory. I hadn't skated in many years! I found myself smiling a lot, as my legs rediscovered the edges of my skates once again. I felt elated when my movements became smoother. I was ice skating again! How did I ever let it leave my life?

On those occasions when I have the ice rink to myself, I'll skate figure eights, forwards and backwards, the entire length of the ice. I'll pretend to hold a hockey stick, and take shots on goal. I'll glide slowly on one edge, figuring out how to balance myself. I'll skate fast enough to produce that pure feeling that comes from racing across the ice.

In the end, this was the dream: to know this feeling, this feeling of flying over the ice, this feeling of competence. The allure and the novelty haven't worn off in all these years. I still love every minute I'm ice skating.

For the month of January, I'll be blogging about ice skating, and my love for it.

Ice Skating: Looking Out from the Ice

Not long after I dropped out of figure skating class, I learned about and started attending an evening ice hockey 'school' for adults. Think of this as ice hockey practice, for hockey wanna-bes! From these sessions, I latched onto a group of guys who rented their own ice for "stick and puck" practice. I went to that 'school' and attended those pick up games for many months, right through the summer and fall. In the winter of 1993, I joined an adult ice hockey league, and was put on a D-level team called The Boston Heat. (D-level represented "beginner level".) We had uniforms, we hired a coach, and our games had regulation clocks and referees. We had a great great time playing organized ice hockey. I wore the number 25, my age when I started to play the game of my dreams.

During one game, I remember jumping on the ice for our own warm ups. Our team skated around in a circle, shaking energy into our legs. I noticed a few spectators, their faces planted on the glass, looking inside at us. They were probably family or relatives. We glided by these onlookers. I glanced backwards at them as I passed, remembering something.

I remember attending a hockey game in college, and I was down at ice level, watching the team go through warm-ups. The team skated around in a circle and I pressed my face to the glass, watching their smooth strides. I watched closely as each player passed, looking at every detail: how they held their sticks, how they stretched themselves while skating. One of them, skating quickly past me, took a fast glance backwards in my direction.

The game felt so far away back in school. But now there I was, playing the game. I was living that ice dream of mine. The more I peeked over at those spectators behind the glass, the more I remembered that I was once there, wondering how to get to the other side. I wanted to offer this advice to them: you can get there. It is possible. Take small steps. Be deliberate. Commit.

The start of the game would have drowned out those thoughts. It's only now, years later, that I am able to ponder the journey, and how wonderful and special it was.

For the month of January, I'll be blogging about ice skating, and my love for it.