Appreciation

"The aim of life is appreciation; there is no sense in not appreciating things; and there is no sense in having more of them if you have less appreciation of them.”

—G. K. Chesterton

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Dear Alex,

When the door opens and you walk through it, do you know if you will ever return from where you came?

Well I walk past this entrance every day, you say.  I go, spin and slouch tomorrow on the same office dock by the same sea of sheets to shred or scrutinize.  Yea, I am heading not only back through the same door but also backing up my steps and files to ensure I come back again the next morning.  I got them all covered airtight, strangling every possible strand of alienating error.  No wonder we turn our backs from the “aim of life” in our walk, room, stall, heart.

My work building has several fire-proof double doors closed now for expansion.  A new pavilion is being drilled, framed, its doors swinging soon from concept to electric sensors - oak doors, sliding glass, exits, access.  With every cane and wheelchair shoved through each door, more ankles deep in socks or debts turn this way or in dismay to hunt for what no intuition or foresight can bring: contentment.  Which door will draw you into more contentions?

For this Year of New rushing in 30 minutes from now as I write, I hope for you an entry into a small double door fragile in its flapping in wind as wings of “5,000+ pages of poetry”, your invite to a tight staircase spiraling down in mirror and up to the lantern of a lighthouse, a view of tomorrow to appreciate on the first through last of every year.

Yours, Kate

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Dear Kate,

This is not my usual writing hour.  Don't usually write at night, can't remember the last time this late.  But tonight I am thinking maybe I will write myself into 2021, as if I am going to sit here and type away for a full year.

Well, I've been sitting here, writing, for a full year.

I am tempted to count the number of letters, even words, I wrote you this past year.  But you know me, I don't do something like that.  Why do I need to know if all I need to know is I did write, even--especially when words were impossible?  Numbers are peripheral details to the heart of things, don't thrill me like they do you.

I write all the time, even in my dreams.  At work a subject-matter expert once asked me, "Alex, does your brain ever rest?"  I jested, "Probably not.  Not the right side for sure."  It would have sounded vain for me to tell the truth, that it was more like a problem with my heart, not my head.

Here I am at home, in my study room, now my work office as well since late March, a strange yet not unusual adjustment for many, like an exodus we've experienced together, separately.  It's a good change; it's a bad change; it's a change.  What I didn't let it change was the minute I woke every morning, 5:15.  Instead of reading and listening to the radio on the bus, I now use the hours to write.  Life is too good, like the sun; I don't want to miss a minute of it.  I told you it's a heart problem.

I am in no fear of losing the privilege of this new morning routine.  There is always a way when there's a will.  I already had it figured out, prayed my way to the possible death bed where I am left a quadriplegic, how I will continue to write.  I know not how I will age and die, only for sure that I am aging and dying, exoduses we are all experiencing together, separately.

Chesterton spoke about our modern obsession with habit, and here, I would like to share his wise words with you, from one writer to another, to say goodnight to a year:

"A man's minor actions and arrangements ought to be free, flexible, creative; the things that should be unchangeable are his principles, his ideals. But with us the reverse is true; our views change constantly; but our lunch does not change. Now, I should like men to have strong and rooted conceptions, but as for their lunch, let them have it sometimes in the garden, sometimes in bed, sometimes on the roof, sometimes in the top of a tree. Let them argue from the same first principles, but let them do it in a bed, or a boat, or a balloon. This alarming growth of good habits really means a too great emphasis on those virtues which mere custom can ensure, it means too little emphasis on those virtues which custom can never quite ensure, sudden and splendid virtues of inspired pity or of inspired candour. If ever that abrupt appeal is made to us we may fail. A man can get use to getting up at five o'clock in the morning. A man cannot very well get used to being burnt for his opinions; the first experiment is commonly fatal. Let us pay a little more attention to these possibilities of the heroic and unexpected. I dare say that when I get out of this bed I shall do some deed of an almost terrible virtue."

May you continue to pay attention to possibilities heroic and unexpected, commit deeds of terrible virtue, sudden and splendid, of inspired pity and candour, principled yet flexible, always creative, wondrously free, all year long.

Yours, Alex