Finding the Measure of Things
What My Friend says
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. Today’s newsletter is hours late.
One of my friends is always talking about “finding the measure” of things. I always do a double take when those words come out of her mouth.
Find the measure.
Who says that?
And what does “finding the measure of things” even mean?
“Does ‘measure’ mean ‘balance?’ ” I ask.
“Yes,” she says.
“Then why don’t you just say you are looking to find balance?” I continue.
“ ‘Measure’ is more precise,” she tells me.
I actually like it when she says she needs to “find the measure.” It’s like she hits a “stop” button, and everything instantly calms down.
Heaven knows we need that.
Anxiety. Who among us can stay outside of its clutch?
When I was a teenager, the hippest teacher at my school used to offer an elective called “The Age of Anxiety.” I took it because I had a mad crush on him. Honestly, as a teenager, I wasn’t thinking about anxiety.
It was the 1970s, and my crush wore a French beret and drove a big boat of a car. I used to park in the teachers’ lot to monitor his daily arrival and departure. Maybe it was anxiety that made me do it.
From on High tells me, correctly, that publishing this weekly essay is the new organizing principle of my life.
Who knew about “organizing principles”?
I like the idea of an organizing principle. I need a couple more.
Right now, post-move, my organizing principle has become flaccid. My newsletter is late today. I haven’t finished reading a new book. I don’t have an essay ready to take out of the oven for you.
Not only has my organizing principle gone to hell in a handbasket, finding even a modicum of measure in my life these days has become elusive. As a result, here I am, urgently trying to plug back into the few good habits I have.
My go-to daily routine is walking. I crave physical movement. Like many, I use 10,000 daily steps as a base line. Clocking miles on city sidewalks is the one thing I miss about living in New York, where you can amble for miles without an ounce of boredom.
When I first moved to my new place, I didn’t have time to walk. Company was here, and the task at hand was unpacking. After that, it felt too hot to walk. Plus, back in Burke, I knew all the shaded paths. Here, not so much. I also was hesitant to cross the parkway on foot.
Little by little, I have resumed walking. Other healthy habits, like eating right and getting enough sleep, are farther down the queue. Further up, however, are finding new pickle ball people and honing in on which stores to frequent. I’m out of vitamins.
Then there is the habit of daily reading and writing. Much to my chagrin, that has gone by the wayside. To make matters worse, my new library doesn’t hold a candle to Burke’s. Maybe that’s why I haven’t been reading.
That’s a lie.
I haven’t been reading because Bren Smith’s Eat Like a Fish: My Adventures as a Fisherman Turned Restorative Ocean Farmer, the last book I finished, has me obsessed with ocean farming, and I want to do something to satisfy that itch before I get distracted reading anything else.
I need to find the measure of that.
My dream to become a restorative ocean farmer, requires a boat, a 20-acre lease, a first mate, and a sea vegetable crop. After finishing Smith’s book, I now fully subscribe to the gospel of restorative ocean farming. I drank the Kool Aide that says restorative crops like kelp, oysters, scallops, and clams, absorb carbon dioxide and excess nitrogen, cleaning the water and providing a nursery for young fish, as well as excellent sources of protein for human consumption. Restorative ocean farming is gonna save us all, friends. Let’s get to it.
Sadly, the timing isn’t ideal for me to become an ocean farmer. For one thing, my posh new pad is not an ocean farmer’s crib. For this reason and others, restorative ocean farming goes on hold, for the moment at least. I hope not forever.
In the meantime, maybe I can find the measure as a volunteer steward restoring the oyster crop in Chesapeake waters. On my morning walks at the local marina, I look for a dock where I can drop a cage filled with spat-on-oyster shells to promote their growth during the cold months of their first year of development. I sound kinda pro, don’t I? Lingo is important.
For now, I think I need to just resume reading and writing as usual and be patient about all the rest, finding the measure along the way.
Maybe your measure is to just write more of these posts while you are manifesting your dream life of ocean farming? You don't need to read a book to write a fabulous blog post! Hope all is well, my dear long-time friend (because we are not old and age is just a number).
Sheila-much needed words at this point for me! You have a name to what I feel I need- finding the measure along the way! Thanks!