I love the long days…”

So goes a phrase exchanged by a faraway friend and me every 12-21 and 6-21, to mark the winter and summer solstice.

When we shared a shabby duplex some 20 years back, we’d spontaneously meet outside bi-annually for sundown brewskis for that toast.  Aspen’s his home now, so FaceBook serves as our virtual porch.  Guess it’ll do.

As the sun rises today, we solar-powered humanoids grasp for light and warmth.  Bright rays pierce bare trees, then become a blinding beam on the frozen lake.  Stunning, yes, but it won’t last.  Low clouds lurk and will soon swallow the dim orb.  So streetlights will do double duty today, and for many more.

Lucky for us, we’ve seen this cycle.  It’s always the same—with years that whirl past so fast you’re tempted to skip the toast.  But don’t.

Personal rituals keep us both spinning and connected, whether jamming into churches packed with part-timers on Christmas Eve, bowling on Tuesdays, or howling a snarky toast into silent skies on the shortest day.

These rituals can fade, along with memory and humor.  But maybe they’ll only matter more as the years go by.  Why not pack in as many as possible?

When my interest wanes, I try again.  I seek significance—though comedy will do—when sneaking a spell to meditate, meeting friends in the bar after the softball game, or dreaming and scheming about the next 90-day BreakAway.

That Sabbatical may or may not come to pass.  But the Summer Solstice will be here soon enough—guaranteed, so long as we live to notice and remember to celebrate.

There’s a lesson here about faith.  And light.  And tradition.  When I figure it out, I’ll shout it out into the cold, dark air.  Whether anyone is listening, or not.

Do you have a list, written or not, of things you want to do before you…expire?  If so, that’s your bucket list, a term that everybody seems to detest, but gets more usage all the time anyway.  I’m here today to state that YES!  Why not?  Keep a dang bucket list, if only in your cranium.  There’s power in that thing.

And it seems like recently, the bucket list phenomenon has dumped on me many ways; here are a few…

• The rock show.

I’ve found myself at two concerts this summer because, in part, friends had decided that seeing U2 and The Jayhawks were on their bucket list.  So what if I’m not a big fan of either?  A great time was had by all and my buddies accomplished a life goal.

• “The bucket list lie.”

Soul brother blogger Jonathan Fields disses the list and insists that a “list of one” (just for today) is a better way to go.  He gets swamped with hundreds of weighty responses.

• “Bucket List,” the movie.

While on my last career break (spending 69 days in the West Indies with my family) we watched this fine movie.  Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman offer moving performances as terminally ill elders, and it served to remind me that I was lucky to be drinking from that blessed bucket at that very moment.

• All to say…

I hope your bucket list has not been thrown out with the trash.  After all, the only way you’ll GET what you want…is if you KNOW what you want.

That’s true whether it’s as simple as a $25 concert at 1^st Avenue, or as complicated as island-hopping for most of one winter in a place where the starfruit falls off the tree and the Calypso music echoes over the bay.

Speaking of career breaks, for sure the only folks who achieve one are the ones who keep the faith, no matter how irrational.  These things take time—sometimes decades—to actualize.  But belief beats the alternative:  Giving up.  While the story is still being written.

Even during dark days and droughts, the bucket can be half-full, right?

About a month ago, the New York Times offered a “Practical Traveler” article, “Planning the Perfect Vacation.” As a recovering perfectionist—and talented vacationer—I found the article to be both insightful and unfortunate.

• Are vacations a dying art?

So many people barely bother to vacation any more.  They’re too busy.  Can’t afford it.  Hate planning.  Or just let it slip away, like so many (dare I say) responsibilities.  Many who do manage to sneak away do so for just a few days; the trend remains for shorter breaks.  And “staycations” have gone mainstream.

That staycation may be a brilliant way to use the PTO days and unwind.  But really, who has mastered the challenge of staying home yet avoiding chores, routines, email/SM/TV/smart phone and all that?

Sometimes countless hours on a hammock with a view or a book might be what the Doctor of Well-Being would prescribe.

• Great ideas; too bad we need ‘em

Still, a high-profile story like this reminds us to step back and think about our little BreakAway.  Great tips like “Relish the anticipation” remind us that foreplay and faith offer part of the fun.  “Make your time count” means stop sight-seeing; start relaxing.

And of course, “Ditch the smartphone” asserts that less screen time is so much more calming—and that the term “weisure” has landed in our vocabulary to describe the regrettable trend of working while resting.  Yuck!

• Hardest working, least happy

Surveys, books, and one’s own travels continue to confirm that Americans are among the hardest-working people on earth, yet are also among the unhappiest.  That’s a complex disorder to fix, but there are ways each of us can fight that funk.

Like, take your vacation already, before another sweet summer fades away!

It’s my opinion that nobody ever regrets opening their minds to the gift of free time.

In the pursuit of repose and pleasure, one can find inspiration in the strangest of places.  For me, being in the middle of a body of water virtually guarantees some soothing soul space.  But be careful where you float:  There are some queer birds out there!

Like these two lovebirds—flying solo together.  Oh sure, their craft was mobile, even though the wings had been clipped.  But when I asked where they were headed, they simply smiled and said, “Nowhere.”

And that’s exactly where they went.  For at least a few hours, their odd craft just rode the breeze in the middle of the lake, as if to ask us gung-ho kayakers and frenetic skiers

What’s the big hurry?  Aren’t you just going in circles?”

The loons weren’t happy about the monstrous beast.  But then, they get all agitated about stand-up paddleboards too (this year’s new floating fad).  A few grizzled fishermen also rolled their eyeballs.

As for me, they made my day.  So I took a pic, got out of their way, and followed their example by slowing down and floating for a while.

Summer arrives in Minnesota like molasses in January.  So when it finally hits, we again learn the thrill of life in the slow lane.  Oh sure, schedules scream for attention even during the sultry months.  But this Summer Guy still reveres the 3-month break of his youth—and reckons the 5 5-word Mantras harken back too. 

• It’s not a financial decision.  In summer, the best things are free—like swimming, bandshell concerts, and Hammock time. 
• Everything is right on schedule.  Calendars and clocks will not dictate when the corn is ripe or the BBQ is ready, but you’ll know exactly when it’s time. 
• When all else fails, punt.  Your baseball team keeps losing?  It rained on your 4^th of July parade?  Boat motor won’t start?  Don’t sweat it!  Just grab a book or a beer, and kick it. 
• I’m determining my own destiny.  Careers and IRAs matter much, of course.  But just for today, try living just for today; don’t postpone fishing! 
• You can go home again.  Summer is a great time for a road trip to your childhood campground, your faraway friends, or Grandma’s farm.  They’re waiting for you. 

So get off your digitalia.  Get out in the light.  And get your summer groove on. 

After all, summer is and was the Original Sabbatical.  Lucky for us, it rolls into our lives every blessed year.

These could be shocking words.  But when my 8-year-old daughter squealed them recently, I chuckled.  She was playing with my hair—bored out of her skull while watching her 14-year-old brother play baseball.  Again.  She had just discovered silver in my hair.  I guess that’s what Grandpas got.

• A pirate looks at 50

At a certain age, watching your son pitch his way out of an extra-inning game provides the thrill that used to come from, say, sailing choppy seas in the Caribbean.  After all, he’s my baby:  My 6-foot tall, size-16 shoe baby.  This is his time to shine, and mine to bask.  Yet many folks are grandparenting vets by 50.

But God bless the grown-ups who live by the five-word mantra, “Everything is right on schedule.”  For some, that agenda includes time for travel—for exciting BreakAways that might more easily happen before diaper duty calls.

• Spoil Yourself

Some parenting gurus say you can’t spoil your children, at least when it comes to attention and affection (versus possessions).  If so, then successful parents best be prepared to give all—and give up much.  And that’s where life-planning comes in handy, inasmuch as life allows plans.

Want to spoil yourself?  See the world?  Make a proper nest and nest egg before the hatchlings pop out?  I did, I guess.  And it has made all the difference.  Because when the kids come, there’s no turning back.  You’re committed for life.

That’s not to say you’ll never wander again.  As one sage (and early) parent told me, “They go where I go.”  And mine have—around the world, through the West Indies, on countless old-fashioned vacations, and to the rowdy bar.

But as youngsters grow up, their hearts grow fonder of home—where the friends (and games) are.  Being absent grows harder, as if it were ever easy to begin with.  The obstacle course only gets more complex for the parental-unit career breaker.

• Timing, timing, timing

But as this site has persistently preached:  You can have it all—just not all at once.  So before they escape your embrace, hold on to your children (and your childishness).  Take them on tour, even when they resist.  Show them the world and know when to shut up—so they can experience it for themselves.

More important:  Don’t rush things.  That’s hard in the harried world they live in.  But it’s true:  Good things take their sweet time.  So does baseball—a game that, like life, includes no clock.

• Someday, someday

Me?  A grandpa?  No, no, no, dear daughter.  Someday maybe, but certainly not yet.  Your brother is pitching his way out of a jam; let’s also take one batter at a time.

So for now, let’s cheer him on to victory.  Feel free to yank out those (very few) gray hairs.  And then let’s go kick your pink soccer ball around.

Spiritual seekers keep an open mind—and enter open doors.  On Ash Wednesday, my car parked itself and my legs followed hundreds of others who were quietly striding over the ice to commemorate the first day of Lent in the astounding St. Paul’s Cathedral.

Ash Wednesday is no party.  Rather, most denomonations commemorate this sacred day with darkness, silence, and introspection.  The presiding priest reminded us that Easter season is a time for…

• Prayer…”I want, I will, with God’s help, to be holy.” (Mother Teresa)
• Fasting…Pass over the things that are not truly valuable; ask for needs, not wants.
• Alms-giving…”Lent is radically hopeful.”

With any luck, spiritual seekers also partied their brains out on Fat Tuesday, the rash bash that happens before Ash Wednesday.  But for now, the opportunity has arisen to consider living with less while striving for a higher consciousness for about 40 days and 40 nights.

Funny, but sometimes when you say no to unworthy distractions, you find ample time and energy for what matters most.

That can hold true for enlightenment, relationships, and coveted dreams—including BreakAways.

Folks have been making self-improvement promises since, well, Babylonia. The Romans did it too—while worshipping the two-faced god Janus (no relation to the mutual fund, but closely related to the month). Nowadays, resolutions make for great toasts, but usually turn to toast by Valentine’s Day.

So how about New Year’s Aspirations instead?  And why not things to strive for every day, rather than over 365?  Mine are simple—likely same as 2010.  Yet I’ll know a better year (and me!) is in store with even modest progress…

• One hour outside, whether kayaking, sitting, gardening, or shoveling shnow.
• Read from a well-written book, if only one page.
• Go adrift on the internet and Facebook—only when there’s nothing better to do.
• Stretch and do that sorta-yoga routine, especially first thing in the morning.
• That said, sleep long whenever possible and practice good Z hygiene.
• Get exercise—and try to make it fun (kayaking) and useful (yardword) instead of torturous (machines).
• Eat more, so long as it’s a whole foodstuff and not from a geometric container.
• Ditch stuff, as in, reduce the possession piles by, say, 15 – 25%.
• Make more mini-BreakAways, like the river retreat and Hmong Market stopover.
• Take more saunas, hot baths, midnight swims.
• Shut up and listen to music, friends, family, nature, and silence.

What are your aspirations for 2011?  I’m listening.

Happy birthday to Me. Yep, it’s arrived: The Big 5-Oh.

Now there’s a number that screams for extreme measures. So I made a list of, oh, 50 things I might do to commemorate, celebrate, and contemplate. For the contemplation bit, a BreakAway retreat beckoned. Naturally, I wanted a spa with massage and sushi. But I chose a remote river cabin instead.

The point: Be still. As in, “Be still and know that God is God.” Not the pope, not you, not even me at 50. A prayer pamphlet on the fireplace mantle says healthy spirituality requires persistence. My marked-up copy of “Nothing Special” by a Zen master insists serenity takes practice.

Practice? Damn! Can’t someone come up with some new secrets and shortcuts?

Should the maudlin come calling, you can’t mess around. So I allow diversions—as need be. Light the fire and candles. Play some guitar (and iPod Gospel) when the silence gets shrill. Cook up healthful grub grabbed at the co-op on the way. Take pics of the river running by.

• Now there’s a metaphor…

River. Old Man. Like the years, that thing just keeps rollin’ along; what’s the rush? Yet it’s effortless to sit still beside wild waters. For one thing, my body-mind-spirit is solar-powered. Dash outside and catch some rays? Impossible. The sky, water, and horizon offer only shades of grim.

The Gods must have a crazy sense of humor to give me a November 30 birthday. Ha ha ha. The nine months this soul spent in-utero happened to be the warmest and brightest, while I gestated in the darkness.”

Hence, birthday festivities are forever fated to coincide with Seasonal Affected Disgruntlement. Deal with it.

• Re: Arrangement

For a retreat space, this knotty-pine shanty has ample creature comforts. So I gradually reorganize chairs, lights, and tables to my liking—and make a big mess. I must enjoy nesting, and still don’t travel lite. Soon enough, I’ll put every thing back in order, wipe away any evidence of my brief existence, and move on.

Moving on: Isn’t that what it’s all about?

With apologies to the hokey-pokey, five decades teaches you a lot about moving on. You can seize the day, but you can’t keep it. Your youth disappears like a blossom in the current. And your own toddlers are teenagers before you’ve tossed their Thomas the Tank Engine toys.

Honestly? I’d like them back. Not Thomas, but the days. Oh, to wobble around the carpet again with my droolers, hook up with my adolescent entourage as we prowl fearlessly but aimlessly into the night, and recreate college but with more romp and less circumstance.

• The Big 5 O.M.G.

But no. Those days gushed into the mush that brings me to exactly where I am. Yet, one trusts, the past that brought us here will carry us around the bend. This river water was so far away yesterday, will be God-knows-where tomorrow, yet is also here now. Be Here Now.

That’s what a retreat offers: A chance to sit with the past, present, and future—and see how they somehow flow into one lifestream; e’er the Twain shall meet. Such romantic notions warm my heart during yesterday’s pursuit of inner-peace through kayaking. But gradually, the darkness, like the dirty water, surrounds me.

Decomposing jack-o-lanterns with twisted smiles line the banks. Spooky. Gunshots echo through the woods and bullets bounce off trees. Deadly. Recent heavy rains and snows make the current swift with logs, dock chunks, and trash. Dangerous. A cat with one ear and sick eyes wins our staredown. Ick. A deafening motorboat with three camo-clad rednecks passes way too close and makes rough waves.

Enough creepiness—so says my survival instinct. Night is falling early (hey, it’s November); head for shore.

As I hurry, so do 50 wild turkeys—dumb as bricks and barely able to keep their heads above water as they flail from an island and barely miss me. Thanksgiving? Yes, it’s that time of year too.

• The Grateful Not-Yet Dead

Amid the haunting omens, I choose to interpret the klutzy turkeys as carrying the only message that flies: Gratitude. “Oh the Lord is good to me, and so I thank the Lord,” sings Johnny Appleseed and happy congregations before potluck suppers.

Still, once inside, it takes some scalding 70s Rolling Stones and a long shower to wash both chill and demons away.

But that was yesterday’s voyage. Those things have passed. For now. So let go of these digital crutches. Get out of your head and hut. Walk full of grace into that bracing, gray November day. Go paddle that perilous river—while you can.

Afterward, go ahead—sip some wine if you feel like it. It’s a Christian Brothers retreat center, after all; what righteous wine snob didn’t practice on gallons of their sweet Burgundy? Blood of Christ! Water into wine! Maybe a midlife miracle (not crisis) awaits those with faith!

After the paddle, raise a full glass to floating through five decades. No revelations. No regrets. No one but myself to toast with. But it’s good to be here.

Still.

Here in the USA, there seem to be increasingly few things we can all agree on.  But there is still the sanctity of a several significant holidays:  New Year’s, Thanksgiving, and the 4^th of July.  I’m a sucker for all three celebrations, if only because we seem to collectively  embrace them—and most hard-working folks get a day or four off. 

In other words, you won’t hear me complaining about busy lakes or crowded parks today.  I’d rather jump in and hang on. 

The 4^th remains particularly meaningful, since between the bar-b-ques, beerfests and fireworks, we still manage to observe the greatest gift of them all:  Freedom itself. 

What skill, courage and daring our forebears somehow mustered up!  Indeed, that’s what it takes to break away from most anything, be it ennui, an oppresive job, or England. 

So I raise my one-pound, red-white-and-blue PBR to our founders, enslaved folks everywhere, and the good people of America on this day of freedom. 

Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains.”  

Jean Jacques Rousseau