Finding focus

I took on the obligation willingly, and yet . . 

It’s so very easy to become scattered and lose sight of the important goals that give a sense of meaning. As long as I was occupied with the daily duties of work I could conveniently ignore this reality.

Daily direction was essentially externally imposed by the pressure of what wanted to be accomplished. Upon arriving at the office, I might have a to-do list of 62 “tasks” in my workflow inbox: invoices to approve, early investigation summaries to review, letters to families to edit and send. There will be phone messages needing response and urgent things will come up. Quite possibly a meeting or three, a case conference perhaps, a plan for how to determine, through review of documents, what happened in a human individual’s life that led them to where it ended, often tragically, prematurely, suddenly, unfairly, but (weirdly) not inexplicably. 

The act of providing answers to families, confirming their fears, gauging their readiness to hear details, addressing their blame or self-blame and doubt and expressions of anger and guilt, and reactions ranging from the political to the theatrical to the personal: this onslaught of tasks was oddly comforting and for me by providing a structure allowed little opportunity for reflection.

I sit now on the deck on a Monday morning with a cup of coffee and the Song Sparrow — so tireless! — announces his welcoming of the Sun. A Magnolia Warbler and an American Redstart (their names helpfully provided to me by the Merlin app, a Shazam for birds) provide their own voices to the morning.

Red squirrels argue from the left and right about whatever it is that bothers them as some crows complain loudly in the distance in their limited vocabulary. Seagulls cry “mine, mine, mine” as they squabble over a dead fish on the lake. Ducks announce their presence or quite possibly warn of the eagle that’s about to swoop in for its breakfast and far off across the lake a group of loons (an asylum?) call to one another in their loony voices. 

Having a routine is helpful to me. I’ve started to make steps in this direction: adjusted my alarm clock to interrupt my sleep at 7:30 if I’m not up already on weekdays, 8:30 on weekends. Breakfast after a few minutes of contemplation and what is on the agenda for today? There’s almost always something. 

But no longer searching for meaning in the meaninglessness of tragedy, loss, and others’ grief: grief so essential and so owned by them that I couldn’t even grieve. 

The focus, when I find it, won’t look like I imagine it to look from this vantage point. I might not even realize when it is reached which presupposes that such a thing is even possible. 

Driving the ice road north.