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Letters from Josh

On Comets, Walnuts, and Firewood  7/20/20                                                   Letter 15

  Well, hey there, and hello, folks!  Welcome to Letters from Josh, bringing you a few scenes of summer, and a note about our most recent astronomical visitor.   Staying cool over there?  It’s hotter than a Fourth of July firework out there, which is why I had to laugh at myself on Friday.  Morning dawned hot, the sun glaring in the sky, sending bright beams weaving among the forest, like a dog snarling through clenched teeth, about to take a bite out of anyone who dared venture into his kennel.  I sharpened my chainsaw, loaded up a jerry can of gasoline, plus a brand new pair of bright orange chaps, and drove to my neighbor’s house a mile away.  He had some firewood for me.  He was there with his tractor, pickup truck, chainsaws, canthooks, and a winning attitude.  The saws blared in harmony, brash trumpets of the worker, as we cut the wind-felled oak logs, ants scurrying through the sawdust, sweat dripping and pouring.  We loaded the logs into a pickup truck, delivering them to my yard, rolling ‘em down planks like giant bowling balls.  “STEE-RIKE!”  If I were the weatherman, I’d say it was 94 degrees with a Real Feel of 1,072.  It seemed the Sun himself was helping load the fragrant oak timber.  But, it was actually fun.  Boy did we enjoy the power tools of saws and diesel tractors with loaders.  Man was the seltzer water cold and refreshing.  And by George, was it satisfying to survey the three truckloads of massive oak slabs by the existing firewood pile, ready for the winter snows that seem a distant figment of the imagination.  Plus, great conversation during and between the work happened, as well.  Funny how some things that would be a surefire recipe for misery turn out to be not only tolerable, but actually preferable.  Maybe it’s not what you do, but how you do it.  (Plus, tractors..!)  Even the talk of this hot work makes me want a snowcone, but then again, you’ve gotta be careful of what you wish for.  Have you heard of the GIANT one?  Well, technically, it’s Comet Neowise, a three-mile wide chunk of ice and rock hurtling through “nearby” space 64 million miles away.  It likely started out oh...about 4.6 trillion miles away in a mysterious outer region of the solar system called the Oort Cloud.  To visualize a number this big, think of The Compact Edition of the Oxford Dictionary, the massive two-volume set of print so tiny, they include a magnifying glass.  If you count up each letter in each book - and one of these thin pages has about fifty thousand letters on a side.  The current distance of Neowise is about 640 pages in (if each letter were a mile.)  4.6 trillion letters would require a stack of dictionaries….a half mile high..!   And, again, if each letter represented a mile, you can see what a long way Comet Neowise has traveled to say hello.  This icy visitor is being blasted by the radiation emitted from the sun (the solar wind), plus, bombarded by sunlight, which gives rise to it’s beautiful tail of dust and sublimating gas.  (Ice that’s transformed into gas.)  It’s really booking, too - moving at about 44 miles per second, but, unlike a “shooting star”, which is a grain of dust burning up in Earth’s atmosphere, it’s so far away, that it appears stationary in the night sky, really only appearing to move from night to night.  It also won’t return for almost seven thousand years.  However, even though the news is yelling about this, it’s actually surprisingly hard to see without binoculars or a telescope around here.  So, if you don’t get a chance to see it, don’t worry.  It’s perhaps best appreciated through the understanding of what it is, the vastness of “nearby” space, and the marvel that we all get to live in a universe with comets and oak firewood.  

  I’d like to leave you with an invitation to a memory. I stopped at the Black Walnut tree growing by the wayside this morning. Picking up a fragment of a green husk of walnut, I sniffed it’s curious and pungent scent.  It brought me right back to childhood, and the walnut tree in the backyard.  Mom learned the hard way not to hang the clothes out to dry on a line under the tree, the falling walnuts streaking the shirts.  Funny how a smell can bring you back to another time, and another world, with fresh July mornings reaching across time to tap one on the shoulder, saying “hey, have a walnut - and a memory.”  

• Josh  

Letters from Josh

Sunday, April 26th, 2020                                                             Letter 3

Advice

Well, hey there, and hello, everyone!  Happy Sunday!  I hope this letter finds you well.  I just paused to pick up a pair of binoculars.  I love watching birds, and I’ve set up the ultimate distraction:  a bird feeder outside my window.  With a nearby dogwood tree in full bloom, it’s a beautiful sight.  However, I think the birds think the food is substandard - picky little buggers.  A female downy woodpecker just alighted on the feeder, and threw half of the seeds she selected away.  She must be like one of those celebrity TV chefs of the avian word.  “Garbage!  What is this?  You call this a sunflower seed?”  But I digress…

  I got a delightful surprise the other day when I went to check the mail.  Now, you’ve gotta understand - there’s typically four things that arrive in the plain black mailbox that says “URBAN” on the side:  1. Bills.  2. Checks to pay the bills (yay!)  3. Junk Mail.  4. Once in a while, a weird gizmo I bought off the Internet.  But, these are all rather cold and impersonal.  So, it was with great delight that I received a letter from Jean and Sam - two people who I’ve never met in person, but now we know each other through these letters.  They recently celebrated quite a milestone:  69 years of marriage!  It was such a treat to read this.  (Jean and Sam, thank you so much for writing.)  As such, I thought it would be a good idea to ask people the following:  what’s your advice for quality, lasting relationships?  I’m 34, and have never been married.  (My grandma keeps reminding me that she’d like great grandkids, and I tell her it’s her longevity plan to stick around to see it.  So far, it’s working, and I project she’ll live to approximately 137 given my skill with the ladies.)  So, what’s the secret?  (Although, perhaps the better question is: what areas are important to work hard at?)  I’ve been asking folks.  Now, I also realize this is a delicate topic.  Many of my friends who are reading this have lost spouses, and others still have endured unhappy marriages.  Both of these hardships shouldn’t be overlooked or cast aside.  Actually, I think they add quite a valuable perspective.  A mentor of mine told me once it’s good to have a friend in each decade to gain insight into what life is like from every age.  I consider myself quite fortunate to get to speak with so many folks who are more experienced than I in the things that really matter.  If you have any thoughts on relationships, be it advice on marriage, thoughts on what to avoid, or even completely unrelated topics, I’d love to hear them!  (My contact information is at the end of this letter.)  

  

  A thought that has been sustaining me through this difficult time is the pursuit of meaning can be the thing to strive for.  I heard the thought recently from a modern philosopher (Jordan Peterson) that the pursuit of happiness can often be frustrating, but the aim towards meaning via the voluntary acceptance of responsibility can be quite rewarding (and happiness can be a welcome by-product, too.)  It should be noted that in responsibility I don’t mean running for county executive, or starting a stamp collection (although both are perfectly acceptable!)  Rather, putting in extra effort to do little things to the best of my ability - carefully listen to a friend, aiming at not grumbling on Facebook, doing my daily podcast, writing you this letter and spending an extra moment to make sure it’s not garbage - these things have all enriched me much more than some new astronomy gizmo I found on the Internet.  Life is often hard under the best of circumstances, and now is not a particularly happy time.  I don’t say this to be glum - I’ve smiled and laughed a lot today - but I’d feel as plastic, fake, and gaudy as a pink flamingo perched on your lawn if I bopped through and said “hey, cheer up, everything is great!”  (Plus, you’d have every right to yell the iconic phrase so well earned by the over 50 club…”Hey, get offa my lawn!”) 

  I’ve avidly listened to stories of living through the Great Depression, WWII, and so many other hardships.  (As a matter of fact, I have a new friend who just told me stories of fighting in some of the most brutal warfare in Korea...at night...in monsoon rains…)  Anytime I hear these stories, part of me wishes that I’d have an opportunity to test my mettle, and to rise to the occasion as all of you have so many times.  In a small way, I feel this challenging time is providing me with exactly that opportunity that you all have met time and time again.  (And hey, that makes you an expert at challenge, remember that!)  While writing you all a letter whilst sipping tea and listening to a Bach record isn’t exactly trench warfare...The thought of aiming at meaning by accepting responsibility - picking up something that’s right in front of me that should be picked up, and doing something I can do - has been bringing me a new and welcome frame of mind.  And, as an added bonus, it’s pretty darn fun to jot you a few lines on a Sunday evening.  I’m really enjoying this.  I hope you are, too.  

  To close with a funny story about dating:  When I was much younger, I was planning on going out with some girl, and man was I nervous.  My family is tremendously supportive, but also has a collective wit that shows its affection with the sharpness of a razor.  EVERYONE knew about the big coffee date, and also that when I was done, I was going to the gym to work out.  Well, my future stepdad, fairly new in the picture, went way out of his way to buy two nauseatingly sappy heart balloons, drive to the gym while I was inside working out, and unbeknownst to me, tie them to my windshield wipers.  He waited in his car for an hour just to see me walk out and glare in an utterly defeated fashion at the gaudy balloons merrily waving in the wind for all the world to see.  He pointed and laughed and laughed...Still cracks me up to think of!  (Needless to say, the 15 year prank war continues to this day.)  

Take good care, and talk to you soon!  

Josh

Lecture notes

And Beyond

The clouds rolled overhead, the stars winking between the cracks in the sky like God catching your eye and saying “I got you.”  I was sprawled out, flat on my back in the dry spring grass, driven outside from a week of stress and uncertainty. The frogs sang in the night, welcoming spring, and the telescope patiently waited for the sky to clear (just like it always does.)  It did, and to the starship I sprang, peering out into Infinity. Ah, there it was. NGC 3593, a starburst galaxy, floated into view, a ghost of a cotton ball in empty space, churning out massive numbers of new stars, yet at twenty million light years, barely visible as a flicker of a thought.  If a light year is roughly 6 trillion miles away, and this is 20 million light years away, that means it’s...it’s...120 million trillion miles away.  Another way to look at it is: there were giant sharks swimming in an ocean above us in the Miocene age when that photon started it’s journey towards my eye.  And remember: this isn’t particularly far away. I regularly observe galaxies two, three, even six times farther away, and that’s from my front yard.  

  This ancient starlight had a healing effect on my worried mind.  For the first time in a week, I felt myself again. Packing up the scope and closing up for the night, the rumble of the trash can wheels on the driveway had a comforting effect of routine, and another thought emerged like the glimmer of the stars of the Big Dipper behind a cloudbank.  It was the marvel that here in this universe of distances unfathomable, I was able to do something that the massive engines of nuclear fission (stars) were unable to achieve - namely, to make the choice to take out the trash. It’s easy to slide into the morass of nihilism in both times of trouble or when gazing into the Abyss of the cosmos.  What does it matter? Well, this simple act does. Right choice swirls with starlight, consciousness stretching along the light years, and the constellations wheel high overhead, nothing above the treetops for a hundred thousand years.    

  It’s truly been a delight to plumb the depths of a few of the mysteries of the Infinite with you.  This series has been a pleasure. I’d like to encourage you to take the next step - start applying that consciousness to expand your gaze outwards to the heavens.  Why? I don’t know. However, there are certainties.  The marveling at the dance of the stars, the advil-sponsored ponderings of the workings of the physics of black holes, and the wide-eyed wonder that a twinkling star invokes in me...all of this has made me grateful to be part of this universe, whatever it is.  

  How might one proceed?  Why, there’s plenty of ways.  Look at the science news. Visit the websites, get your mind puzzled with the physics videos on YouTube.  If you’re so inclined, snag an inexpensive pair of binoculars and a star chart. And, when the wind comes whispering through the night trees, go catch a glimpse of the rising moon.  I think you’ll be glad that you did. I know I always am.  

Clear skies!

• Josh

"And then they will fear me"

"It goes "nom nom nom?  It makes that noise?" she asked, suddenly concerned.  You could see bells going off in her head.  "Alert - Alert - Idle conversation has been breached, Level 2 - Pay Close Attention"

  I paused, partway through my impromptu show 'n tell, holding the carnivorous tropical pitcher plant aloft, (Nepenthes, for my fellow botanical nerds.)  "Oh no, it just is what I imagine it would say when it eats a bug, could it talk - but don't worry, it can't" I told the receptionist.  She laughed, apparently relieved.  (Hey, I don't blame her!)

  I take this as quite the compliment.  It seems that we all cultivate a reputation, and somehow, I'm the guy who would  bring a talking plant by the retirement community for fun.  Can't imagine what would give folks that idea...

  Just the other week, I was talking to a resident of another community, and she was grumbling to me about some of her neighbors.  Apparently, a few ladies have taken to riding the elevator for extended periods of time...in their pajamas.  Hey, why not?

  Increasingly, I'm looking forward to being old.  Yes, Life has sadness and tragedy - but also perks with each stage.  Soon, they'll be genuinely concerned when I bring houseplants around...

What's the Godfather say in the movie?  "And then they will fear me!"  

Ha!  Keep in zany, folks, keep it zany...

Going up? 

Moonrise

Hey folks!

  It's been a long time.  Have you seen the moon this evening?  Go take a look - it's better than reading a blog. 

  (Quick stats:  it's the last full  moon of winter, fact courtesy of a new friend I met while observing said Luna in DC.  He doesn't think we've been there, and I do.  We've been talking anyway, in these times of us vs. them.  It's also called the Worm Moon, because our friendly neighborhood invertebrate farmers are about to start some serious tilling - all without a backbone.  Perhaps determination can look weak, but it's the consistency that gets the job done.) 

  See ya in a few!

Clear skies,
Josh

Banning Tragedy

Humans have the ability to see faces in clouds, but not clouds in faces.  Therefore, when I think of a planet or asteroid or moon orbiting through space, I can picture a space rock on a cell phone distracted, texting, grumbling about the solar weather, and suddenly, be jolted and smashed by another unexpected event, or, rock, hurtling through space.  

  I was just this planet (definitely in outer space this week!) going about my business of running my orbit, when BAM - an official-looking email:  "announcing the passing of a volunteer."

"Huh?  What?  Wait, I recognize that guy.

I know him.

Knew him."

Wobbling, reading, out of orbit now.  Between a gig and traffic as unforgiving as casual acquaintances debating politics on Facebook, I read the news.  He was gone at 24.  The email was kind and professional, and, as this is a real life thing, the following is my guess, not a fact.  I'm suspecting this distant friend might have accidentally overdosed.  

  When I was a kid, I thought bad people did drugs, and good people did not.  It's the low-resolution view of childhood that works for a bit, at least in the fact of keeping one away from potentially fatal situations, but as time goes by, this theory obviously must be replaced.  I was a sober member of a band of addicts when I was 18.  The music was OK, but the lessons were better. One of the guys had made it to sobriety, and the other two did not.  I've lost touch with them, and they could very well be dead, or will be soon, walking around like kind-hearted zombies, slave to chemistry, unable to break the atomic bonds that shackle them.  (And certainly not for lack of trying.)  

  And so, countless times a cloud of seriousness has passed over my face as I leaned forward, hunched over my guitar, talking with my teenage students about the guys in the band, with their good hearts and great chops and sticky ends of their own making.  My message:  keep your mind your own, and strive upward.  Study hard.  Make something of yourself.  

  I don't know about you, but when somebody dies, I want to do something.  Ban something.  Pass a law.  Start a program.  Talk to people.  Lift them up, toss them a life preserver, rescue them from a stormy sea that flickers behind their eyes when they say "I'm good - can't complain."  

  Immediately, I heard the boarding call for that familiar train of thought.  "Man, we need a program for young people to teach them to value themselves and build leadership and...."

  Suddenly, it came to a crashing halt.  That's exactly where I had met him.  At a leadership program. He wasn't a musician struggling through the lower strata of society, a creature of the haze of dive bars and missed opportunities.  Nope.  

  He was a 15 year old when I met him, and I was 27 or so,  a facilitator at his leadership program.  I took great glee in pounding on this dorm door each morning, "GET UP, PUNKS!  RISE AND SHINE!"  That was our strange male bonding, how guys say "Hey man, you're alright." (You can't do that if the guy isn't alright.) There's a picture of a group of us, all looking out of place in our business casual wear, trying to ignore the summer swelter.  We had sat for three days learning about leadership, character development, and how to make a positive impact on the world.  He returned, year after year, volunteering, growing up, starting to find himself, getting a spiffy haircut, ready to open doors that many people don't even know exist.  

  Then he went to Lollapoolza and died.  

  I went over to Twitter to see what was up.  All I saw were endless selfies and faceless crowds, breathless musicians promoting how cool they are.  And, I mean, sure, they are.  But what a contrast.  The neon colors hurt my eyes today.  

 Sitting in traffic last night, I had to open the window and breathe real.  He's gone.  That fact sat on me like the muggy soup that we call Air in DC.  

  I don't know what happened.  This is all a guess.  Maybe it was a freak accident.  But suddenly, in a flash, all of those protective thought processes of "how can we prevent this?" and "what program can I start?" were seared away, leaving the bones of the matter, and that is, Tragedy.  

  What do you do with that weight, that inescapable fact?  Sit with it, I guess?  You can bet your life that I'll be working harder than ever to lift people up, to show them and myself that we all matter (to borrow a brilliant phrase from my mom.) I think this guy knew that, though.  Sometimes, things happen.  And you can't ban Tragedy.  

  This certainly has altered my orbit.  I'm OK, but changed.  I barely knew him, but will certainly miss him.  He leaves me with much to think about.  

  The Moon has many scars from collisions, fiery cataclysms when something hit it so hard, molten rock was splattered across it's surface.  Some of these were so dramatic, we don't even need a telescope to see the remnants of these events.   And, it shines down on us, with the pockmarked face of a goofy teenager.  I don't know the answer.  But, with this light, I can keep looking.  

  Miss ya, buddy.  

  

  

Project Vignette

Hey folks!

  Well, it's time to start blogging again.  Have you ever had that feeling where you cared much more about other things, but one "insignificant" item kept raising it's hand from the back of the class?  You know how it goes - you try to answer it once, but then it has another question, leaning it's arm on it's other hand for support.  "I'm not going anywhere." 

  For me, that's writing.  As a musician, writing is a support for songwriting.  I keep sitting down to write songs, and these other things keep popping up.  Untamed, meandering as the grapevines on the fence by the road, and often completely goofy, these "vignettes" won't leave me alone.  So, here you go, stories.  Here's your home.  I hope you guys enjoy 'em.  I don't know where they're coming from, but boy are they insistent. 

Flitting

Zoom, zip, twist.  He flits along, catching the morning sun with his buttery butterfly wings, as elusive as a settled feeling on a bad day.  He zooms around the corner of the house, doubtlessly alighting on a big block of letters people like to pose with, but instead of LOVE, it says “Where did the summer go?”  

Old Light

A shimmer and a dance, the wind holds out it’s hand, and the trees say “sure, I’d love to”, and off they go, nimbly across the floor, scattering sparkles of sunlight that strikes my drowsy eye.  Like a hot air balloon sneaking off towards where it yearns, silently casting off it’s ropes and floating skyward, so too my gaze drifts up into the distance, and my mind floats freely. It’s a sepia sky, gazing down on starched dresses and poses for the camera, hands firmly at sides, the Past blown in on a summer breeze.  You wonder what it was like, and if they could have known how it would turn out, and what they would have done differently. If I could, would I stroll beside myself enjoying a popsicle in the old neighborhood, or perhaps stop to help my grandma fix her ‘32 Chevy with the loose battery cable in 50’s Hartford? What would I say besides “you’re welcome, ma’am”?  With a start, I’m back. Who was that sitting beside me for coffee? There’s nobody there - just the ancient light from the sun, turning this sky Sepia.  

Tick Tock

Summer has it’s first gray hair.  It always happens, sooner, or, later in the case of today’s August morning.  I was once on a date, and this August day happened there, too. Suddenly, the watch on my wrist tapped my shoulder and said “hey buddy, all good things must come to an end, so let me cut in here.”  The cicadas sing like there’s tomorrow, but you know they’ll be winding down before too long. That hairline crack blows in on the breeze, ninety degrees today but start splitting wood. I obey the order, kachunk in the early morning, my t-shirt asking “are you sure about this, buddy?” as it wipes it’s brow.  It’s easy to write off the red leaves on the gum tree as drought-related as the forest gears up for a busy day, but if you listen close, you can hear it. Tick tock.