What is too early? Mi novia and I have divergent views of this. She feels that a phone call or text message should wait until after the recipient’s 9:00 a.m. hour unless the communication is urgent. I suppose our difference is in defining urgent. A friend or acquaintance who just feels a need to talk is urgent enough for me. On the other hand, a fellow volunteer who wants me to discuss volunteer business on the same schedule (which falls outside “normal” too early or too late timeframes) can and should wait. I have always felt that it would be both an obligation and an honor to respond to someone’s call for help, regardless of time of day. An obligation because when someone needs help I think I am obliged to give it; and an honor because I was the person chosen to be asked for help.
Of course, the fact that I often am up before 5 may contribute to my willingness to be roused at all hours. But even if the text comes in at 2 a.m., I would not be upset at its receipt…unless it obviously is “business” that could easily wait until 10 a.m. that morning. Even then, I probably would not be furious. I think I would always assume the caller/texter has something on his or her mind driving the “out of the ordinary” timeframe of contacting me.
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The line between saying too little and saying too much is not simply fine. It is 1/100th of one half of one quarter the width of a newborn baby’s hair. Drift to one side of the line or the other; judgments flood like river rapids with a fresh source of limitless water. The same thing is true of thinking, although far fewer people can recognize thought than can visually identify even microscopic deviations from “the right amount of” words. An intelligent guiding principle might be this: Always err in favor of too little. Too little can be corrected by the addition of more; too many cannot be unspoken and they are capable of leaving damage that cannot be undone. Even when the damage does no harm to the listener, the speaker sometimes cannot recover from what he said. Because his speech emerged from what he thought, he faces double the damage. Twice the injury that lasts a lifetime.
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The man who is a pessimist before 48 knows too much; if he is an optimist after it, he knows too little.
~ Mark Twain ~
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Time is no common commodity. In fact, its value surpasses the rarest jewel and the most precious metal. Yet we treat it as if it were without limit; like we always will have uninterrupted access to more of it. The reason we cannot wrap our minds around the limits of time is that we cannot imagine our own death. We cannot imagine our death because there is nothing to imagine. Our consciousness fades or suddenly disappears. Our capacity to experience anything is gone in an instant. Death is not the absence of life—if that were the case, mountains and windstorms and steel posts and rocks would all be dead. Death is the abandonment of a life once led. But, like that fine line between too little and too much, the point at which abandonment becomes nothingness is microscopically small; even smaller. We cannot imagine that which is impossible for our minds to comprehend. The statement seems absurdly simplistic, but in my opinion it is among the most complex, most intricate ideas we must try to understand. Simplicity is its own antonym.
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I have no idea how long it might take for the mechanics to figure out what is wrong with my car—if anything. I think something is wrong, because my car makes an odd noise whenever I veer, even slightly, to the right. It’s a repetitive sound, reminiscent of one material coming into contact with another; perhaps something turning with, on, or near a tire or part of the car’s steering/front suspension. I hope they can figure out, quickly, what it is and can fix it, inexpensively, just as fast. To avoid overuse of a potentially dangerous vehicle, I have not used my car much of late; instead, we have taken mi novia‘s vehicle. Its ride is smoother, by far, than mine. And I can “feel” its considerably greater weight when I drive it; I can imagine easily knocking smaller cars and one-story buildings out of its way. But I still want mine back. And so I will be nice to the mechanic.
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When I see friends with some frequency, then experience a “dry spell,” my mind returns to the concept of co-housing and how nice a communal experience like co-housing sounds. I have had only one such communal experience. When I was in college, my brother and his then-wife and several others collectively rented an old, multi-bedroom house near campus. I was able to rent the tiny garage apartment out back. We all shared kitchen duties, though I do not recall whether it was daily, periodical and regular, or only occasional. As I think about that time, I remember very little about my coursework. Instead, I remember experiences in that house with those people. I remember being introduced to the music of Leonard Cohen while living in that place. And I remember a brief tryst with a graduate student, a woman five or six years older than I, who lived there. I recall a time when, after consuming too much beer, I attempted to confront a car-load of fraternity brothers making what I considered too much noise and leaving too much litter in their wake. My attempt to engage in a David and Goliath encounter with drunk frat-rats was spoiled by my brother, I think, and some other residents of the house.
Co-housing. In my mind, it’s a little like independent “assisted living,” with the assistance provided by neighbors selected for their compatibility, compassion, decency, reliability, and trustworthiness. Co-housing offers plenty of privacy (the immediate objection I hear from people when I try to describe the concept of co-housing to them), but at the same time it is a strong safety net of both gratifying and potentially life-saving relationships. Common interests. Common commitments to the group. Common needs to be away from one’s “partners” in lifestyle. I have a powerful need for privacy and solitude, but I have an almost equally strong desire for engagement, friendship, and love. Commonality of care; that phrase is one of many that describes part of the appeal of co-housing.
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The computer clock just turned over to six o’clock. The sky is showing signs of light and the temperature is a cool, refreshing (I hope) 72°F. Unfortunately, the humidity stands at 93%. Today feels different; I suppose it’s because of the water in the air. That is dangerously close to exposing those of us who venture outdoors to the potential for atmospheric drowning. That is, taking a deep breath of water-laden air, filling our lungs with liquid, thereby blocking the body’s ability to extract necessary oxygen. Oh, well. I’ll give it a shot, anyway. Here’s looking at you…
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I am grateful you are reading this. I will be delighted if you tell me what you think of what I wrote. Be brutal, if appropriate.
