Putting my soles to the dirt

As random collections of thoughts go, this post ought to be about as good as any. I was thinking about a lot of things lately - namely, flowers, trails, the amazing views of flowers and mountains I get from my trails, perfectionism, and also Wordsworth. Because I love Wordsworth. David knows that if Wordsworth were to be reincarnated and walk this earth today, I'd fall madly in love with him - there's just no hope. He knows and accepts this. It's not to be changed.

Our renting of this house on Valborg (that is the street name - and yes, both kids claim it's a name straight out of Vampire land - which it is) has brought an unbelievable range of experiences - from extreme happiness to extreme frustration. I'd never thought I'd get the opportunity to live somewhere I could hike out my back door with views of the ocean and mountains, and at the same time, I never thought I would gain the skills necessary to moonlight as a plumber specializing in septic maintenance (or a mouse killer, ant killer, beekeeper, etc).

So when I go on and on and on (and on) about how much I love the trails, it's really a coping mechanism. There really has to be a reason to keep on living in a place where my office has no electrical outlets, heat, or internet connection. And I do not exaggerate.

What is there to love? Well, it's hard to take good pictures, really, especially with a phone, which is about all I usually carry aside from the dog leashes. But here goes.

I call them "my trails" because I have only once seen another living soul on them. That was the day I did my 12.5 mile run, and a group of mountain bikers overtook me on the flats only to have me pick off the slow one and then chase one of the middle ones up the hill. He said, "You're real good motivation, you know that?"

So Wordsworth for the day. I just read these two poems, a sort of question and answer series. A friend of his asks him why he sits and stares outside all day pretty much doing nothing. He responds, eloquently (of course), and then writes a poem in reply asking his friend why he sits and reads books all day. The two poems are called "Expostulation and Reply" and "The Tables Turned (An Evening Scene on the Same Subject)".

My favorite excerpts:

"The eye - it cannot choose but see;
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
Against or with our will." (from "Expostulation and Reply" - part of the reply, of course)



"Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life,
There's more of wisdom in it.
...

"One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can." (from "The Tables Turned")



And lastly, what was that about perfectionism? Well, to segue into my occasional musings on this whole "Happiness Project" business (a book I mentioned earlier, to be somewhat of a theme every now and them)... at the beginning of the book, the author asks herself if the project was just another way to "extend my driven, perfectionist ways to every aspect of my life?"

I must ask myself the same question - because upon reading that line, I thought, good God, this woman is me (or any extremely type A person). However, as I began to think on the topics in the book and explore them and attempt them, I realized that there is a whole lot of letting go that must go on inside my little pea brain in order to make serious changes on my outlook. Perfectionism in the realm of happiness-seeking simply doesn't fit. For me, a happiness project is pretty much entirely an exercise in fighting perfectionist tendencies - not encouraging them.