I've thought for quite a while that I didn't miss the winters I knew growing up in Colorado- the slick roads, the long, white-knuckled commutes, trudging through the snow, scraping windows, bundling up before going out into the frigid, unfriendly outdoors.

I was wrong. These last few days of snow have been brilliant, magical. I'd been remembering the discomforts and tribulations and had forgotten the beauty and the wonder of it all. These last few winter days have brought back so much of the joy- getting to stomp and crunch through the icy snow with 1_wolfsong, holing up in my apartment drinking rum and brandy in hot apple cider while watching the snow fall outside, the eerie quiet of a snow-blanketed city, bundling up to hike a couple blocks through the new-fallen snow to find out if the local bakery was open for a pastry. There are so many things that are so easy to miss or overlook in a week like this one past- the feeling of camaraderie amongst people waiting for a long overdue bus that no-one is certain will come, the view of a world so familiar made so strange and outlandish overnight that everything invites reexamination.

It's been a good reminder to me that there is so much joy and wonder to be found everywhere around us. The difference between adventure and tribulation is often only the attitude with which we approach the world.

I'm grateful for the last few days' gentle rebuke- I did miss winter, and I'll love it for as long as it chooses to stay with us.

This is horrible- the Seattle Times just reported that the 'Tuba Man', the guy known for playing his tuba at area sporting events died from injuries he received from being beaten and robbed last month.

When I lived in lower Queen Anne I used to walk through Seattle Center on my way home late at night and would find the whole park deserted except for him playing his tuba- in a bear suit. I never talked with him or learned his story, but he's one of the characters that has so enriched the texture of Seattle for me. I'm really shocked and disturbed by this.

Ouch.

There's a story that's important to me- I first came across it in Steve Hagen's 'Buddhism Plain and Simple'.

The situation we always live in is like that of the wise Chinese farmer whose horse ran off. When his neighbor came to console him the farmer said, "Who knows what's good or bad?"

When his horse returned the next day with a herd of horses following her, the foolish neighbor came to congratulate him on his good fortune.

"Who knows what's good or bad?" said the farmer.

Then, when the farmer's son broke his leg trying to ride one of the new horses, the foolish neighbor came to console him again.

"Who knows what's good or bad?" said the farmer.

When the army passed through, conscripting men for war, they passed over the farmer's son because of his broken leg. When the foolish man came to congratulate the farmer that his son would be spared, again the farmer said, "Who knows what's good or bad?"

When do we expect the story to end?

As soon as I decide something is 'bad' I start denying anything good that can come out of it. Likewise when I decide something is 'good' I feel betrayed when it ends up not being as I expect.

A couple years ago I was diagnosed with cancer. Several of the treatments I was placed on had a potential side effect of causing heart damage, so I was given periodic tests to check my heart function. Midway through my treatment, after one such medicine (Adriamiacin) and during another (Herceptin) I was given one of these tests and a CT scan. The heart scan came back with a significant decrease in heart function and the CT came back with a sizeable spot in my lung.

Up until this point I'd felt pretty confident that everything was going to be OK, that I'd go through all this uncomfortable and unpleasant stuff and everything would go back to 'normal'. As you would expect, these test results shook that confidence. Worse, there was nothing to do but continue treatment and wait to do more tests in a few more months. Those turned into a few months of considering my life and trying to come to terms with the possible ending of it. I became very aware that even if the cancer didn't get me, and even if the heart damage from the treatment didn't get me I didn't know how long I had.

I started considering all of the things I had experienced in my life- being dropped out of helicopters, standing on top of the mast of a sailing ship, rafting down the Colorado river, playing with an octopus in Puget Sound, marriage, divorce, romance, heartbreak, deserted beaches in the Pacific and rocky shores in Alaska. I realized what an amazing life I have had, and I began to feel truly grateful. I started asking myself what experiences I had been procrastinating to 'someday' and asking which of those I could do now.

I'd always wanted to ride a motorcycle, but had talked myself out of it. I'd even gone so far at one point to take the MSF class, but I had refused to trust myself and had failed it. With these test results in hand the risk of riding a motorcycle seemed trivial, and the reward maximal. So I bought one.

If you have never ridden a motorcycle it's a difficult experience to describe. It's primal and visceral, freeing and terrifying. You don't drive a motorcycle like you drive a car: you seem to meld with it, become one with it. It's such a personal experience. There's a tremendous amount of technique and learning to do to become proficient, but at the core it becomes an emotional exercise. If you want to turn you turn, effortless and graceful. If you don't want to turn you can't, no matter how hard you try. You have to sit with your terror, relax in your fear, be gentle with yourself and part of your surroundings. Many people have described motorcycling as a 'poor man's zen', and I don't think that they are far off- it requires being present and aware of both your environment and what's going on inside of you.

Cancer is something that's hard not to label as 'bad'. But my cancer- well, I've got mixed feelings. Eventually I got new test results that showed that the spot in my lung was gone, perhaps some scar tissue left from the radiation treatment and reabsorbed by my body. The heart function came back, although it wasn't 'supposed' to. The treatment was unpleasant, uncomfortable, difficult, and terrifying. But if I wouldn't have had it, I wouldn't have gotten a chance to look at death and really understand that it's part of life- part of what makes it so precious and so beautiful. I wouldn't have gotten to truly understand what a remarkable life I've already lived. And I might have continued to keep putting off riding a motorcycle, something that has brought a tremendous joy to my life.

Bad? No, I can't say it was. I can't say it was good, either. It was part of my life, and I have to say that as unpleasant as it was, I'm grateful for it.

I have a strong dislike of the word 'should'. There are very few times that the phrase 'I should do...' can't be replaced with 'I need to...' or 'I want to...' or 'I'm being expected to...'. When I use 'should' my unconscious plan all to often is to not do whatever it is, feel guilty for not doing it and in so doing remove the joy from whatever I do decide to do. Then I can berate myself later for not having done it. Or if I do force myself to do it, I can resent it the whole time!

This is how it plays out for me: I'm settling down into my favorite reading chair with a book that I've been wanting to read for months. I look around and see that my apartment is a mess and think that 'I should clean this place up'. I don't really feel like it- it's not often that I get a chance to sit and do nothing for a while, so I open my book and try to read. But I can't ignore the state of the apartment. It nags at me and bugs me, I feel guilty for sitting and enjoying myself when there is work to be done. So I get up and force myself to put a couple things away, but my heart's really not in it. I don't want to be spending my precious free time cleaning. So I get distracted, sit down at the computer to check my email, and while I'm doing that, well, I haven't checked icanhascheezburger in a while, maybe I'll just take a look at a couple lolcats- I need a laugh! A couple hours later I've done neither the thing I really wanted to do (read my book) nor what I thought I should do (clean the apartment). Now is the time I can feel crappy about what a slovenly time-waster I am and how I'll never get better, and what's wrong with me!?

Contrast that scenario with what happens when I just reword that initial assessment: I'm sitting in my chair with my book, look around and see that the apartment is a mess. I think 'I should clean this place up', but this time I catch myself. What do I mean, 'should'? I need to? No, it will be fine for another day, there's nothing pressing about it. I'm being expected to clean this place up? By whom? I live alone, so there isn't anyone around to be bothered by my dirty socks on the floor, and I'm not expecting company.... My mother? She lives 2000 miles away, she will never know. I want to clean this place up? Wait, yeah, I kind of do. I feel better when this place is clean, and when it gets cluttered I start feeling uneasy. Yeah, I want to clean. Do I want to clean more than I want to read my book? Do I have time for both? Which one do I do first? I've suddenly empowered myself to take either option and to feel good about it when I choose one over the other.

If I can reword 'should' and restructure it into one of those three phrases, 'I want to...', 'I need to...', 'I'm being expected to...' I can suddenly make choices as to what's important, and even better, I know why, so I'm suddenly far more motivated to do something about it. Even with the most passive of the reword phrases, 'I'm being expected to...' I suddenly get a new dialog going. Who is expecting me to do this? Did I tell them I would? Is it a reasonable expectation? Suddenly I give myself the chance to say 'no' instead of reflexively accepting everything that I think everyone wants from me. It's likely they don't really expect it anyway, it's just guilt talking.

Fuck 'should'. It just makes you feel bad.