On the road again.

My life has officially entered a new phase. As of Thursday, January 30, 2014, I am a permanent traveling dance instructor.

There is too much to cover in an omnibus entry to give a full picture of my life. There has been a staggering amount happening since I was last on top of blog posts. Taking 30 minutes a day for Morning Pages has barely allowed me to keep a handle on it all, to keep processing all the change, to keep breathing. To make the task of picking up my blog less daunting, I will cover one portion of it: making the road my new home.

Some backstory: my mom and dad still live in my childhood home in the suburbs of Portland. It's a wonderful house and was a great place to grow up. But it is very big, even more so when all the children have flown the coop. I moved back home in April 2013 and set it as my landing pad, the place to which I could return once a month to regenerate. It was the perfect base for a transient, which is unquestionably what I was: from April to January, I spent maybe a grand total of 6-8 weeks there. With free rent, a good work space, and a convenient excuse to see my parents on a quasi-regular basis and help them around the house, I was very happy with the arrangement. 

For some time, my parents have planned to sell the house some time on the horizon -- perhaps in 1-2 years. Meanwhile, I continued to book up my travel schedule. February would be Boston, then four continguous months spent in Europe.

Life shifted near the beginning of January, at the start of the post-DFX teacher's retreat with a phone call from my mom: they planned to put the house on the market in March of this year and it could potentially sell within months after. The home I grew up in was being sold, and I would need to get my belongings moved out in preparation for the move. Given that I was only going to be in Portland for a week before embarking on another five month journey of being on the road, I had a mere seven days to get everything ready. All the things. Get ready for the trip, decide what stuff to keep or toss, how to prepare myself to be permanently on the road or be able to get to my things within a month or two, somehow pack all of my stuff into boxes and get them to the storage locker, and say goodbye to the home that saw me grow into a man.

Anticipating the raging mess that would be my life, I recruited the help of Ted, a dear friend whom I trust very deeply and know can get stuff done fast. Ted is a doer, and more than that he knows how to take care of others with impressive clarity. His schedule happened to be free, and he was more than happy to be flown up to Portland to help out a "chosen family" member in need.

Packing was a whirlwind of activity. Ted was my professional get-stuff-done guy, but it meant I needed a steady stream of things for him to do. This kept me on task: I needed to be thinking constantly of tasks to delegate. It also meant I didn't have the luxury to linger on sentimental items, reliving experiences of my past. I needed to make snap judgments about whether it was worth keeping; and if not, how to keep some record of it if needed. Sometimes I resented the pressure, but other times I know it prevented me from descending into rabbit holes. Here was a beautiful excerpt from a book framed by Lauren, or a turkey vulture's feather found on the road with her, or a little handwritten note that simultaneous made my heart cry and sing at the same time back when were first in a relationship. Even ones that were bizarrely emotional, such as an old fan used at my house in SE to keep cool in the summer of 2010, the halcyon summer days stretching our relationship forever in time. My house was riddled with them, little trapdoors into an alternate life where I have made very different decisions in those crucial moments of July 2012. Of course, the trapdoors ran back much further than Lauren, to past relationships by way of photo albums, drawings, or other trinkets.



As a side note, those of you who know me probably raised an eyebrow at the idea of me making "snap judgments." I am the antithesis of snap judgments. True to my sign (Libra), I weigh any decision carefully and slowly, striving to account for all the angles and factors. You might imagine how this process of rapid-fire choices would tax me energetically. Fortunately, Ted was around to push me to a decision point at critical moments. While I may have spent an hour or two researching portable hard drives, Ted framed it in such a way that I could make a selection in ten minutes. Then, when I was utterly depleted, Ted would swoop in with a cup of jasmine green tea.

I enjoy this effect Ted has on me. It drives me to be decisive, developing a side of me that is woefully lacking. When I'm around Ted, the choices of life somehow become cleaner, clearer. Negative outcomes from a decision are merely the next step in a neverending road of challenges to be overcome, rather than a callback to a poor choice made earlier on and one that should prompt feelings of guilt and regret. Also, I spend money faster around him than anyone else I know. Ted is a frugal individual, but he also has a clear notion of what is needed or important to improve his quality of life, and such things are worth a good deal of money. It's clear to me what can improve my quality of life as well, but I get hung up on the question of "is it worth it to me?" Am I worth that investment? Am I worth spending money on? Do I deserve to have a nice new suitcase that actually is fully functional, or should I continue limping along with a tattered one over a decade old that has a number of dramatic downsides? My stubbornness unquestionably works to my disadvantage here. Yet in his presence, such questions are brushed away with a whisk of the hand. Purchases are not made frivolously, of course; only items of real import are considered. Perhaps in a way, he holds a deep trust of his gut judgment about things he wants, he can trust its discernment enough to go with whatever is identified as being something desired.

The example of purchasing a portable hard drive is perhaps not the perfect way to exemplify this situation. I very clearly needed one if I were to be able to survive on the road. Instead, I'll go with the last night in town, when we were in Portland. We made a spontaneous decision to visit the Icebreaker store, on account of it being right next to Cacao. (Side note: have you ever spent $150 at a chocolate store? I have. It's a weird feeling. Almost all of it is for eventual hosts on the road. It is important to me to be a good guest and offer a small gift of gratitude for their hospitality. And as both Ted and I have independently come to frame it: $150 is extremely cheap rent for many months on the road.) I entered the Icebreaker store intending to buy a couple pairs of underwear. I walked out with that… along with two shirts and two pairs of socks. While I certainly do have shirts and socks to last me, there is no denying the superiority of merino wool for travel. But I didn't agonize over the decision of whether it was worth buying -- I just knew it was worth it. (Well, I didn't agonize as much.) These were the things I needed, they would make life on the road way better, I would look far better in these clothes, so I would get them regardless of the price. 

Saying goodbye to my home was difficult. It's hard to know what to say or how to say it. Ted did a lot to aid me along the process, prompting me with the right questions. In the end, we went with a small group of good friends, celebrating with eats and drinks and general drunken revelry at my house. I did not do much reliving of old experiences, of the things I will miss. So I'll do a bit of that here.

Saying goodbye to my room where I spent my middle school and high school years. Every morning I would wake up to behold tall evergreens just outside my window. I have no doubt that living here had a powerful influence on making me so passionate about and drawing such nourishment from nature.



I'll miss Shelby, the family dog (a Shetland Sheepdog) from an earlier age, whom passed away when I was 18. She was buried in our backyard.

I'll miss the sun room, where so much of my work got done. I had an excellent setup there with my standing desk constructed from scratch. Once upon a time, I would slave away late into the night working on my senior design project for college. More recently, I spent countless hours (actually, I CAN count them, since I track my work time now using Toggl, but we're being figurative here) watching lectures on programming and stretching my brain around new concepts, then writing endless emails to organizers to arrange dance events and tours of Europe. I could look out the full-length windows and marvel at the beautiful backyard, the tall trees, the diversity of colors, the (sometimes) blue sky. Such mini breaks offered such rejuvenation. It is important that I be within close contact with nature. I have never had a better work space.



I will miss the unbelievable bounty of our backyard orchard. Apples, asian pears, and blueberries. More blueberries than you could ever possible fathom consuming. So many that you'd eat them like chips -- by the handful. Giving them as gifts to friends, sharing them with neighbors. Sharing an experience of berry picking with someone was a decidedly intimate experience. When you're up there for an hour (or more) at a time, not facing someone, just the two of you, mildly occupied with a physical activity, enjoying the warm Portland summer, you can dig in pretty deep. Romantic relationships were started in that orchard of berries. Friendships were granted a new depth of profound vulnerability. In that space, you could say anything, feel anything. It was safe.



I'll miss the expansive and enveloping back yard. With the hill and abundance of trees, it is easy to feel nestled in a little grove. 

I recall the cubby hideout in my old room. It was a 3'x3' cutout in the wall of my closet, revealing a small hideway about 4'x3'. Once upon a time in middle school, I had missed the bus to school YET AGAIN. It was because I was caught up playing Final Fantasy VII in the morning and lost track of time. Athey Creek (my school) was a 30 minute drive away, so walking was out of the question. In previous instances, I took a taxi arranged by my mom. But I was so overcome with embarrassment that I decided to try covering my tracks. I never went to school. When my mom came home early that day, I hide in that hideaway and read a book and played Game Boy. I would have gotten away with it, too, except that the school contacted my parents a couple days later, stating that I had not shown up to class that day. Busted.

I'll miss seeing all those LEGOs decorating the walls of my room. I was a huge LEGOs fan. One time, I built a whole city along the hallway leading to my room. There was a supply depot, storage facility, airport, repair bay, junk yard, police station, and lots of amazing robots and flying vehicles to police the city and mine ore and defend against invaders. It lasted for about a week, until my parents revoked the zoning permits, on account of the city making it exceedingly difficult to walk down the hallway.

I am saying goodbye to a childhood of videogames. I have packed away most of my NES and SNES games -- no way I could part with those -- even though I will probably not be playing them any time soon. 





I also rifled through my collection of computer games, which were highlights of my younger years and in high school. Doom, Descent, Syndicate, and newer ones like Command & Conquer, Half-Life, Doom 3, Counter-Strike, No One Lives Forever, Warcraft II & III, Diablo I & II, Black & White, Starcraft, Starcraft: Brood Wars, and of course the biggest time sink of all: all three of the Neverwinter Nights series (original, Shadows of the Undrentide, and Hoardes of the Underdark). NWN was the recipient of truly countless hours of my childhood. So much time spent online, roleplaying with people around the country and world. Online roleplaying was where I developed much of my love for acting, for storytelling. I also was able to broaden my imagination. I learned how to develop relationships and alliances through words. I genuinely believe part of what enabled me to be mature for my age was exposure to online roleplaying, of its focus on connection and interaction and play, of having time to develop your thoughts carefully and craft your words meaningfully. I am actually grateful for its presence in my life, even if it meant missing out on other experiences, because I still carry with me valuable lessons from that time. It's coming in handy again as I once again return to maintaining many relationships remotely / virtually, where your primary avenue to bond is through words.



I am happy with my decision to not play video games any more -- at least for the time -- and know it is for very good reasons. But going through those boxes was intense. Made me want to load them up one last time, just for funsies. Strong, vivid memories would come up to the surface, experiences of playing each and every one of those games. But there are more important and enriching ways to spend my life, now, and for that I am deeply grateful. (It's a decision that I will eventually getting around to writing about.)

I recall my secondary room in the house. I would stay there when I came to visit from graduate school. (My original room had been converted into a storage room by that point.) It is the room into which I moved when I came crashing and burning from the smoldering wreckage of a failed attempt at life in NYC. My parents were there for me when I hit rock bottom. They let me stay there, move back in, gave me space to nurse my wounds and rediscover my verve and nerve. This room witnessed a man step in shattered and lost, and step out driven and grateful for life.



Instead of hashing through these memories and so many others, the focus was placed on what comes next. How will my life be moving forward. Hence the group of close friends, gathering for drink and merriment. So much silliness ensued. There was much modeling of underwear, there was laughter, there was wacky dancing, there was much admiring of me in different outfits. One of my favorites involved a makeshift bandoleer. Not exactly one appropriate for teaching a dance class, but that's okay.



The praise and admiration of my friends for my physique and spirit was precisely the kind of boost I needed to embark from a place of deep safety. Sometimes I forget how much I am moved by words of affirmation. By the end of the night, I was overcome with emotion. I had been so strongly reminded that I always have family: both blood family and chosen family. And that family will take care of me. My family respects and admires what I do and think and share. I may be homeless, I may be following a winding trajectory that very few others follow, but I am walking the path with integrity and I am doing a good job.

I have lost a home that once felt permanent, a place to which I could always return no matter what. I have discovered that now homes exist spread throughout the world. I have the power to make such places feel safe and nurturing; all I need to do is be vulnerable, have the courage to reveal my imperfect self, and ask for the support of others.

My home is my suitcase. What I need to contribute to and exist in the world, I carry within my chest or upon my back. I do not know where this road will lead me. I do not know how long it will last. I do know my journey will never be short on amazing company, the likes of which leave me wondering what I ever did to deserve the love of such beautiful people.

A moment of profound gratitude.

(Taken from my post on Facebook.)

On days like these, when I pause to take stock of my life, I am profoundly humbled and grateful. There are so many good people, family, and experiences in my life. I just completed my third tour of Europe for this year, and it was my most successful and busy one to date. There is just so much kindness and joy to behold in the world. These tours are so radically heart-opening and intense, as I meet people and go from complete strangers to something so much more in a matter of minutes, hours, days. I have had students tell me that my workshop has influenced their approach to life, watched as the heart chakras of a classroom cracked wide open and people reached out to cherish the souls of their peers, felt the support from a community of strangers (and students) as I mourned the loss of a beloved friend, found home and healing among friends in foreign countries, marveled at the beauty of others and their willingness to open up through countless experiences both light-hearted and intense, and have -- time and again -- been loved, rejuvenated, and encouraged by those in my life.

Every day, I am astonished to know people around the world whom love and care for me, people whom inspire me, people whom bring such richness to my life, people whom make me aspire to be a better person. I don't know what I have done to deserve such richness, but I do know that I will always strive to share that bounty and love with others. I wish I could convey to each and every one of you exactly what you mean to me, why I so deeply appreciate you: how your presence in my life makes it special, miraculous, and awe-inspiring.

I sometimes don't know what to do with it all, this ineffable feeling; it makes my heart swell to the point I think I'll burst. So here I am, trying to put to words to the indescribable, because it's the only thing I can do to relieve the pressure and channel the energy into something productive. It is a paltry facsimile of what I truly feel, but I hope that it provides a glimpe of understanding how much you mean to me. You bring tears to my eyes and a joyful song to my heart.

I love you. Happy holidays.

Recursion is fascinating.

I remember the first time I brushed up against the concept of recursion in a summer camp programming class in Visual Basic 6.0. (Yep, those were the good old days.)

Most programmers speak of recursion with awe in their voice. The words "elegant," "beautiful," and "artistic in its simplicity" often come up. My initial exposure was seeing a recursive program to draw a Sierpinski triangle.

The Sierpinski triangle.

After some puzzling over the code, I eventually understood how it worked, but never fully grokked the elegance. It wasn't until now, properly learning recursion through CS106B, that it hit me while learning about the Tower of Brahma (Tower of Hanoi) puzzle.

Fun side note: it's cool to read about the legend behind the Tower of Brahma puzzle. From Wikipedia:

The puzzle was first publicized in the West by the French mathematician Édouard Lucas in 1883. There is a history about an Indian temple in Kashi Vishwanath which contains a large room with three time-worn posts in it surrounded by 64 golden disks. Brahmin priests, acting out the command of an ancient prophecy, have been moving these disks, in accordance with the immutable rules of the Brahma, since that time. The puzzle is therefore also known as the Tower of Brahma puzzle. According to the legend, when the last move of the puzzle will be completed, the world will end.^[2] It is not clear whether Lucas invented this legend or was inspired by it.

If the legend were true, and if the priests were able to move disks at a rate of one per second, using the smallest number of moves, it would take them 2⁶⁴−1 seconds or roughly 585 billion years^[3] or 18,446,744,073,709,551,615 turns to finish, or about 127 times the current age of the sun.

After the lecturer set up the problem, I thought for a moment how to solve it recursively. I didn't have any insight (not giving myself proper time to really work it through on my own), but I ventured to guess that the solution would be rather tricky and possibly complicated.

Then she revealed the code.

http://youtu.be/uFJhEPrbycQ?t=29m5s.

All that work, accomplished through three simple lines.

My reaction:

The lecturer, Julie, clearly takes pedagogy seriously, for she took the time to create illuminating animations to see the process of recursion. Here it is, solving the Queens puzzle (how to fit 4 queens on a 4x4 chess board, or NxN board) using recursive backtracking. (She walks through it piecewise for a 4x4 board, then shows it automated for an 8x8 board at 42:30.

Fascinating. Now I am beginning to see the stunning power of recursion, where it can solve problems that are simply unsolvable any other way. 

Admittedly, I am a little nervous about actually being able to solve recursive problems. We'll see. I did have the intuition to come up with the recursive solution to the midpoint-finding Karel problem from CS106A. The other examples shown thus far I am able to figure out once the code is presented, but I'm not sure how quickly I would have reached that point on my own.

Reflections on competitions and my journey in dance.

The past several weeks have been packed with events. July Massive, Sweet Molasses Blues, Nocturne Blues… One right after the other. I have hardly had time to sit down and reflect upon my thoughts in an organized fashion.

I could expound upon the many virtues of each event. They offered unique experiences and provided a space to form many fond memories. Each event prompted growth in new areas. Each one made me so happy to attend for a host of different reasons.

However, my mind has been buzzing ever since the competitions at Sweet Mo and Nocturne Blues. My experiences in them affected me deeply. I competed in all the contests possible: the Jack & Jill at Sweet Mo, and the Jack & Jill, Strictly, and Solo at Nocturne. Each yielded learning opportunities.

Nocturne: Strictly

I partnered with the lovely Tess Myers for the strictly competition. End result: making it to finals! We were thrilled about these results. Looking around at our peers in the finals, the vast majority were professional dance teachers. To be placed in the same category was a huge compliment.

We had a wonderful time dancing. The second spotlight was definitely our highlight; we caught the wonky horn call-and-response of "Jungle Blues" by Wynton Marsalis (around 2:50). We just went nuts. Surrendered to the song and gave it what we felt, not necessarily what we "should" do in a competition. It was such a fantastic time dancing together!

Sweet Mo & Nocturne: Jack & Jill

The results of this competition knocked me on my ass: I didn't make it into finals. While I never assume that I will get in, I couldn't help but be disappointed by the results -- disappointed in me. I can do better than that, I thought. 

I had long conversations about the outcome. People spoke of the mayhem and inaccuracy of tapout prelims, the lack of a causal relationship between competition performance and quality of dance or quality of teaching, the complexity and uncertainty about judging criteria for J&Js, the jumble of variables simply outside of your control as a competitor. I understand all of these intuitively. 

As a judge of many contests myself, I know the potential for a huge range in preferences among judges. Dance cannot be quantified for evaluation, no matter how much we talk of percentages and scoring categories. At the end of the day, it usually boils down to a gut reaction. That gut reaction is influenced by factors both concious and unconscious. Maybe the judge didn't happen to watch you carefully or catch you at good moments. Maybe what you were wearing struck a chord with them. Maybe they were inspired by your movement for inexplicable reasons.

I was reminded of all these points by the many kind friends that came to my aid, seeking to lift up a deflated ego. For some reason, their words were not resonating with me.

My first objection to their encouragement used for argument a theoretical dance competition involving Baryshnikov. Hands down one of the greatest dancers of all time. Not only is he a beautiful technical dancer, he also evokes a powerful emotional response. He creates Art effortlessly. While there would still be many variables outside his control (perhaps the judge is just tired of seeing the guy), he would do still well in this make-believe competition because he's just that damn good. (This is not to say that I compare myself to Baryshnikov; such would be an exercise in continual disappointment. However, it does say to me that while there are external variables, the ones you do control (namely, your self) can make a world of difference.)

Borrowing from statistics, let's pretend your scores are normally distributed. (It's a stretch given low N sample size, but bear with me.) Your mean score is something you have a good amount of control over. Much like Baryshnikov, you have influence over the outcome to a certain degree. This makes intuitive sense; if you are totally new to dance, your average score would be quite low, but would trend upwards with training. The external variables contribute to the deviation from the average. That deviation may mean you don't make the cut. However, what bothered me is not that I didn't make finals; I was upset because I felt my average was not as high as it should/could be.

While listening in on a lively discussion of competition among friends at Nocturne Blues, an insightful point was raised by Evan. As dancers, we all experience moments of brilliance, of Flow; those times when everything comes together: technique, creativity, and emotion. But they happen maybe 10-20% of the time for most of us. What separates an Amateur from a Pro (he was speaking from the perspective of a former Ballroom competitor, where they use those terms regularly) is that the Pros hit that flow 95% of the time. They find it through countless hours of practice, training, and competing. They gain control over what we attribute to the mysterious machinations of the universe. This argument made absolute sense to me. While there are all these variables "outside your control," you can manifest them to work for you through will, through achieving Flow, and that is something that you can control -- sort of. With a lot of practice.

It never was about the competition results, even though it took some digging to realize. Even if I had placed, I would have eventually come upon this point at the heart of my disappointment: I have not been training as much as I want or expect of myself. I have been teaching a tremendous amount, which has been wonderful practice, but my dance practice has slipped continually. 

It began once I left Stanford, once I left an environment where I was taking at least one dance class per quarter. While not Blues-focused, these classes would provide valuable cross-training experiences and grow my dance is other ways. After leaving, my training went on hiatus. I think I practiced an underwhelming total of three times while in New York. Six months of being a "full-time" dance teacher and I could count on one hand my number of training sessions. There were mitigating circumstances, a litany I recite to be gentle with myself. No longer a source of regret, I regard this time as a valuable learning experience, realizing the importance of using my time in rewarding endeavors. Since leaving New York, I have spent the past few months recuperating from life transitions and embarking on a journey of personal growth and improvement. Training in dance, unfortunately, did not make it onto the list of "Projects of Self."

So here I am: an international dance teacher with nine years of experience, unable to place into the Jack & Jill finals at two competitions in a row. What adds sting to that statement is the underlying knowledge that I have not been practicing, and I see that as manifesting in my competition performance. If I had been working my ass off and not placed, I would not be as disappointed; I know this to be true, for I have gone through that scenario before and came out the other end feeling good about myself. 

Fortunately, the universe is on my side and has already conspired to offer training times to me. This week, I travel to Austin, where I will spend 2.5 weeks with the inimitable Campbell in intensive training, teaching, and practicing. It will be a grand time. It's as if the universe set up these opportunities, then took a moment to show me why they are important. Thanks, Universe.

Nocturne: Solo Blues

Certainly the highlight of the Nocturne contests. The prelims were a hoot -- complete with an epic showdown between John Joven and me on the second song. But the finals. Oh man, the finals. 

There were two competition levels: masters and intermediate. The finalists from each category were divided into two mixed-level teams. We were given 50 minutes of preparation with the following instructions: come up with a team name, have at least 2 all-team choreography movements, and feature each individual at least once.

What came forth was a spectacular showing of solo dance and riffing. Both teams really brought the energy (with the great help of Gordon Webster and his band). People were fun loving and full-on. There were no stupid props, no aggressive-offs, no escalations of "I'm sexier than you." Instead, it was two teams playing off each other's ideas, interacting with each other, and making a damn good show of it. The crowd went nuts.

Three highlights for me: 1) pimp walking out with David straight at the judges, all of them wide-eyed and speechless, then throwing down a rather complex routine; 2) soloing while my teammates circled me, which morphed into both teams dancing around in a circle, people sometimes breaking out to solo; and 3) the joy of our lovely team dynamic, being the team captain, focusing on providing a space and guidance so we could all thrive and have a wonderful time. Being part of a team reduced the burden of responsibility on me to achieve the nomal goal of competitions -- to win (this is a social phenomenon known as social loafing -- which always conjurs images of baguettes hanging out together). It freed me to not worry about the results; I could focus on having fun, playing with others, and creating an entertaining and inspiring experience for the audience. 

I think it was the most fun I've ever had in a competition. Perhaps that is what the ideal mindset for a competition is, right? Something to ponder.

Competitions play an important role in elevating the quality of dance in our community. They are at times frustrating, painful, and confusing. But on the whole, I believe they yield great benefits. I keep on competing -- even when they crush my spirit and make me feel like a shitty dancer -- because I know at the other end of the phase will be valuable revelations and insights. The key is to keep reflecting upon and learning from it. If you go in and the only feedback taken is your placement (or not) in the contest, you have missed the point and wasted a huge opportunity for growth.

An answer to my email prayers.

Oh, Boomerang...

How have I not discovered you before? I am so passionate about productivity hacks, yet you have eluded me for over a year!




Boomerang offers many neat features:

• Schedule emails to be sent later (no more emails to a prospective employer revealing that I was doing emails at 3am!)
• Mark a message to return to your inbox later
• Write reminders to yourself to appear at a particular time
• Request read receipts

And my personal favorite...

• Remind you to follow up if they don't respond

This last feature is huge for me. Sending reminders is nothing special if you have a decent task management system, but the followup tracker is perfect and simple.

 I have long used OmniFocus to track emails to followup. You just never know when that message will fall through the cracks for someone else; when you're on top of the ball (even when that ball is in their court), it looks good and often saves you from firefighting later on. If you ever do management, this tool is a godsend. If you ever need something done and don't want to waste mental energy remembering to check on whether it's done, this tool will free your mind.

The flow to track emails in OmniFocus was never very good. While I could tie the OF reminder to my email, I could not tie my email to the OF reminder. So if the person was on top of their game and did respond in a timely fashion, I might forget to delete the OF reminder. How often I would receive a followup reminder a couple days after they had already replied, and I would waste time figuring out if a followup was actually necessary. Further, while the flow was streamlined, it did require an extra 30 seconds of setup, so I was not consistent about creating reminders.

I had been thinking about writing a browser extension to fix this problem. It would have waited a year or so while I continued to learn the fundamentals of programming and API. Then a simple blog post on Toggl clued me into Boomerang.

Now it all lives in my Gmail inbox. AMAZING. You can get a followup reminder if there's no reply, if it's not clicked, if it's not opened, or regardless. A simple checkbox and you're done.

Get it. Do it now. You will be so much happier that you did.

A rare species of bird discovered.

Mom asked us put out a bird feeder a few days ago. We provided an excellent setup: suspended between the house and a grove of trees, positioned just outside the breakfast table window, and rigged with a system of pulleys to easily raise and lower for restocking of seeds. For the first couple days, it did not attract any bird traffic.

This morning, everything changed: we were treated to sighting a rare, flightless bird.


The black bear; a male juvenile.

My dad spotted it first. He was grabbing a sugar for his coffee; it took him a while to look up and notice the bear. I was roused from bed with calls of "THERE'S A BEAR IN THE BACKYARD," accompanied by frenzied barking from Reka. She has a bark reserved for when she feels really threatened or senses danger: it's throatier, more urgent, and louder. She was using that bark right now.

Alfred (I named him Alfred) peeked into the windows, curious what the fuss was all about.

"Hey guys, what's up?"

After establishing that he was not about to be chased off, Alfred hopped up on his hind legs and took hold of the feeder in his paws, pulling it down to the ground.


This one was only a child, but clocked in at around 300 pounds by my estimation. A clawed, heavyweight creature standing up at 7 feet tall is an awesome sight. It's bizarrely human-like in that moment.

My dad caught a video of him going to town on the feeder. He would sit on his haunches, sometimes with legs splayed out in front of him, nose burrowed under the little metal roof. Once with a mouthful of seeds, he would draw out his head and munch away, letting his gaze wander. He seemed so at ease, sitting there, utterly unphased by the frantic and aggressive vocalizations from the dog.



No amount of shouting, barking, or clapping of pans could deter him. Eventually my mom resigned herself to the gradual dismantling of her beloved bird feeder (which was, by definition, a bear feeder, having never served any birds) and returned to preparing her breakfast.


An odd truce was struck between the two breakfasting individuals.

All we could do was wait. He left once the feeder was completely emptied. 

We learned later that everyone at Bear Lake does not bother with a bird feeder while the bears are active. If you put it out, they will figure out a way to knock it down. Put it up a tree? They'll climb it. Up a steel pole? They'll keep slamming it to knock it down. They will dismantle any protection scheme with brute force and patience.

The tag on each ear signified two strikes against Alfred; twice already he had run into trouble with the human population. He was a city bear that had been relocated up in the mountains. A third strike and he will be put down. My mom, taking an eventual liking to Alfred, did not file any official complaint.

Perhaps hard to believe, but it was my first time seeing a bear at Bear Lake, and certainly the first time being so close to one. Despite the namesake, Bear Lake does not have a particularly high concentration of bear sightings / incidents. Most of the bear population is wild and steers clear of any human areas.

Not a bad way to start off the day. 

On hard work and the decomposition of trees.

One of the key aspects of life at Bear Lake is hard work. Perhaps unexpected, given that it's supposed to be a vacation. There is the hard reality of living in a house that sees people 2-3 times per year: there is just a lot of maintenance work to be done. The second is that work is part of feeling fulfilled as human beings. You get hooked on the rewards of manual labor. You get to tangibly improve your living space. See it right there. Falling soundly asleep after a long day of hard work is so satisfying. Today was one of those days.

The project: clear the large wood pile currently rotting near the house.

The task: move all that wood to a burn pile ~50 yards away using your hands and a small hauler. I started off running solo.

The process: drive tractor up to wood pile, load logs of 10-50 lbs each into trailer with hands, drive to burn pile, unload trailer with hands, repeat. Repeat and repeat and repeat until you're so tired you can't hold a full-fledged thought in your head.

Working gloves proved the most critical piece of equipment. The wood pile varied in stages of decomposition; almost all of them crumbled when grabbed. As my fingers sank repeatedly into mushy, moldy lumber, the only thought on my mind was, "Thank god I'm not actually touching this stuff."

I uncovered an ecosystem that exists on decaying trees. Ants build nests underneath the bark in the area hollowed out by termites. Salamanders colored brown with a bright orange streak (blending quite well with rotting wood) patrol the surface in search of the many ants, termites, and other insects that take up residence. Fungi of many different varieties and colors set up shop. Centipedes skitter about, likely on the same mission as the salamanders.

In a place of death and decay, there is a remarkable amount of life.

The most notable of the fungi was this collection of pink molds.

I took to wearing a ventilation mask on account of the molds. With so much of it probably going airborne as I tossed logs into the trailer, I breathed a little easier knowing none would give me some crazy respiratory symptoms.

The heat and humidity was relentless. It isn't nearly as bad up in these wooded lands of the Pocono Mountains, but it gets plenty hot just the same. About an hour into the project, I was thoroughly soaked and peppered with wood scraps. Donned in shorts, sandals, gloves, ventilator mask, and nothing else (except for the sweat glistening on my skin), I was probably a bizarre sight to behold.

The lower back aches, even with proper core engagement and lifting technique. My wrists and hands complain about repeatedly grabbing objects at odd angles and hoisting them. Knees and legs begin to tire. It becomes a challenge to keep the inspiration, stoke the fire that drove you to attack the task with such gusto at the beginning. Learning how to keep up with labor over the long haul is a unique challenge.

Lunch and an afternoon siesta offers a valuable respite to keep energized.

My day was peppered with exciting moments to spice up the day. While tossing yet another huge log onto the brush pile, I caught a glimpse of a translucent body partially hidden underneath some rotting wood. Upon further investigation, I revealed the largest grub I have ever seen.

It was as big as my thumb.

This sucker is the Jabba The Hut of the grub world. I imagine little grublings bringing offerings of chewed wood fiber (or whatever the hell they eat) in exchange for the right to exist on that log. Jabba was quite adept at burrowing. I had to keep coaxing it out with a stick -- no way I was going to touch it with my finger -- for the photo op. It would quickly turn its head down and worm its way through the soft wood, the little mandibles at its mouth constantly working. The body beneath the thin outer skin would slide forward and backward as it worked its way in.

I will admit: I did squeal like a little boy when I found it. There was a certain fascination about this gross critter.

Intellectually, I know that fallen trees eventually decompose to become part of the forest floor. But there is no substitute for seeing it in action. I was shoveling what amounted to organic mulch. The wood really does turn to dirt. It is SO AMAZING. Its soft, reddish, and moist.



After about 5 hours of strenuous work, it was time to call it quits on hauling the wood pile -- because the tractor ran out of gas. But our work was not yet finished. My dad and I broke out the chainsaw to hack up a rather large fallen tree next to the wood pile that also needed to be cleared. More bending over and heavy lifting.


Rough, dirty days like these are best concluded by a trip to the lake. Caked with mud, sweat, sunscreen, wood chips, and squashed mosquitoes, there is nothing quite like diving into the pristine waters of the lake. My dad describes it as a "baptismal experience." It is a gratifying moment, washing yourself clean of the day. It is now time to reset, to exit work mode, to sit back and revel in what you've accomplished. Your relaxation is deep, rewarding, and earned. Your muscles ache, but you get to rest -- good job.

*  *  *

Forgoing my Ashtanga yoga practice for the day (having concluded that morning practice before breakfast is the most sensible), I am enjoying a calm evening on the porch, writing about the day and sipping at a glass of incredibly delicious whisky brought back from the UK. The porch is screened in, so the cool night air can be experienced without the obligatory swarm of mosquitoes and other insects. Bird calls dominate the auditory landscape while the sun is setting, drowned out occasionally by the rushing of wind through the trees. As night falls, the chirping of crickets and other forest critters take over. Reka, our family dog, barks at who-knows-what from inside, dutifully alerting everyone in the house that, indeed, there are other creatures outside in the darkness.

The light fades from the sky, casting trees in negative space. Lightning bugs flash their intermittent, luminescent signals, communicating in some primitive argo. It is only 9:30pm, but I am ready for bed. Tomorrow's sun will bring a new day of hard, rewarding work.