Every day the tides come in and out.  Some days the water is rough. Other days it quiet.

There is flag up on the beach. A long thin pole and a flutter of color at the end to make a mark.

Here. Once time the water got this far up on the sand.

Every day we can measure where we stand, between the tide of now and the once-was.

I wasn’t there the day the water hit that mark. I register my storms and lulls with the stories they leave in my memories.  The storms and swells move the sands my lifetime. I make my own markers.

This maxim

This verse

And I know who I am and if I am safe.

As a kid, if a my mother couldn’t remember something, she like to say that Einstein never memorized phone numbers. His theory was that he could always look it up in the phone book, so why waste his brain on it?

And such a fine brain Dr. Albert had. My lesser brain can be saved from the trivia of phone numbers. And driving directions. And spelling. And thousands of other facts that can be apprehended with the ease of a click and a sentence

Information flows though the ether with so much ease and reliability, the sands of my life are barely touched.

The life of the information so prepackaged has been dried and doesn’t take root to connect with me.

Memory has to have soul. Either the information or my own spirit makes the facts and stories come alive to life in my memory. St. Augustine talks about the house of memory.

“The power of the memory is great, O Lord,” he wrote. “It is awe-inspiring in its profound and incalculable complexity… The wide plains of my memory and its innumerable caverns and hollows are full beyond compute of countless things of all kinds.”

“Yet, however it may be, and in whatever inexplicable and incomprehensible way it happens,” St. Augustine wrote, “I am certain that I remember forgetfulness, even though forgetfulness obliterates all that we remember.”

That part about forgetfulness. If I long to remember the important and beautiful things, I can also draw a curtain over hard things. I choose forgetfulness, with partial success.

I didn’t want to remember my chemotherapy treatments even as they were happening. I am happy they are over, hopefully never to return.

And I find myself cauterizing this delicate memory. It used to be so sharp. I hear others talk about ‘chemo brain.’ Certainly I lost speed of recall as I was under treatment.

I want to restore  my tender quick memory. I fear it is scarred like my veins.

Does that sound familiar? Even before the chemo I had fears that I didn’t remember enough of the right information fast enough.

Augustine’s idea of the house of memory is new to me. To use my senses and body in the world to vivify my experience. Those memories could be found in order to be cherished rather than taunt me with their distance.

As a writer and a memoirist, I have spent years unearthing and polishing the memories for my art. Last night, I lay perfectly still in an MRI machine with my eyes shut and a machine CLUNKCLUNK click click ZZHH zzzhhh ZZZHHH around me.

This time it was safe. Routine check up. My house of memory invited me to explore. From the comfort of a free and clear present I walked though the past

paralyzing fear

peace

joy

A true home to live in. There are more rooms to fill. Adventures, after all, are just what a person does every day.

Oh no, my work is asking for a new report and I am not even sure what they want.
And are we out of milk? What will my daughter do for breakfast?

Do I have time before my next meeting to get to the store and back?

My husband looks at me “I have…”

I whip around and glare at him, waiting for him to give me yet another task when I have no time and everyone needs everything from me.

He reacts to my attack stance. “I need to tell you something!”

Deep breath. “I didn’t say anything. I’m listening.”
I do not have time for this, I have already missed the maybe-window to run out and get milk, which he seems to be TOTALLY unaware of and the disaster that  is looming.

He looks at me “I’m trying to tell you.”

Yet MORE time has gone by while he kills time telling me that he’s about to tell me something.

“Tell me!”

He tilts his head and takes my hand. “I should show you.”

Deeper breath.

This is my husband.  

He is not attacking me.

He leads me to my desk. “I heard you when you were complaining about the bugs flying in. I have a plug-in bug killer that should help.

I looked up at him.

And threw my arms around him.

This is why I do those work projects. It’s why I get the milk.

We are taking care of each other. And it can be a fight every day. Some days more than others.

This house is strong. It has stood and will stand through many storms.

I don’t have to bring any under my own roof.

Now he can smile at me. It’s safe again

“Thank you baby,”I tell him. “You are wonderful.”

My favorite fairytale when I was a child was Cinderella. And the Disney movie has a fantastic moment when the fairy godmother shows up. She had a magic word:

Bibbity boppety boo!

Cinderella has worked within the system she was given, but the system was rigged. Her evil stepmother served her up to be torn down.

But the magic of her godmother worked when all hope was lost.

The middle ages had a secret study of the mystery which transformed basic things to into precious ones.

Those alchemists practiced The Art to unlock the secrets of the cosmos and transmute lead into gold. As they stretched their understanding, they attempted to manifest their hopes and desires. How far did they get? What did they achieve?

Every day I get up and hope to take my basic day and find the treasure, turn the straw into gold. What art am I practicing? Is it art at all?

I am committed to this weekly wonder essay. I make my attempt, and sometimes I am pleased with what I create. Often I am disappointed, but only practice makes perfect. And really, perfect is not in reach even with practice.

I set aside time for this art. I take time away from my work—both in my house and for my job—to do this. Stuff I do every day is not high art.

I string words together. I write emails, reports, meeting agendas. As a project manager I make plans and gather info to give everyone their “next action” assignments.

With the amount of words I string together it can feel as ordinary as old cardboard. And yet I am building a container for the magic to happen. Those words add the energy and motion which morphs the wish into a reality.

An idea into a design, then into a list of materials and finally into a system that works and connects to itself and others.

I know things don’t always turn out, Cinderella. And then again, dreams do come true. I’ll make a plan and think about it while I fall asleep. I can wake up and write it down. Then scratch it out and try again. If I keep persist it has a reasonable chance to come true

In the cool this morning I went out to trim the manzanita bushes. They’ve grown unmolested for years. They were fine—healthy unremarkable bushes in my front yard.

That wasn’t what I wanted when I planted them. I wanted those throbbing twisted red branches that captured my eyes through my walks in the desert mountains. Could these live in my land?

These bushy little bushes weren’t bringing those desert mountain to me. What is missing? The mystery is under there. Was I brave enough to find them?

I had never taken the trimmers to get the extra foliage out of the way.

Clipping away the little shoots. I began to see the shape of the main branches and grew bolder. I didn’t knowwhat I was doing but the beauty I saw in the tree was my guide on what to cut away.

Then the sun grew hotter and I had to stop for today. The family is going to an art museum.

 The last sands are tumbling through the glass for my daughter’s childhood—she is tracking and crossing off the homework to finish her senior year. The teachers gave her syllabi and rubrics so she knows how to get it right. She has an art class as a treat after her hard work last year.

Careful mama that I am, I hope she has been given the wisdom to go into grownup life. Those instructions that guarantee an A+ are harder to find after graduation.

How will she know what choices to make?

Walking the museum we saw the results of a million choices. Why that stroke? Why that color? The reason and the action synthesize into these results. The cherished objects, highly valued and admired.

Those artists were guided in the same was I had been, cutting to see the beauty of the manzanita.

I don’t know why Van Gogh chose to paint his mother with green skin tones, or what she thought of it. I can’t explain every cut I made on the manzanita.

As my girl steps into the world, without the instructions of a teacher to guide her, I can let her know that beauty can let her know. She is the one who knows what beauty is in the moment. Mistakes will be made. We can both trust that her heart and her life is strong enough to recover as she keeps reaching for the best brightest and most beautiful.

I thought I was done with cancer. I fought it and won. I hope I did

Last weekend I got a new series of tesst for my sweet cat Simon, and he has non-treatable lung cancer.
He is ten years old. We hoped he could live that much more. Now we are on cat hospice.
There are tears and survivors guilt. How is it that I could have recovered and he cannot?
He’s still with us. He is weak but still loves us and can play.
I am thinking of what love means from this small cat.
Pretty much the same thing as love means from anyone.

he’s glad to see me. He wants to be where I am. He gives a chirpy purr meow when I pet him unexpectantly. He has been our kitty for so long, it breaks my heart to think that he won’t be able to greet me this way much longer.

So we watch him, and check in on him often. He needs help to junp down from his usual places.

He doesn’t know that he shouldn’t. But if he does, his breath heaves and his heart races.

So we race to catch him before he jumps, and take him to his next favorite space.
I can remember all the ways that this cat made me feel good. Right now, this means that I race after him to make sure that he feels good.
It’s not about me getting from him.
It’s broken my heart open, and the whole family is cooperating to help him be as comfortable as he can be for however much time he has left.
We are considerate of one another far more than before.
Love is bigger than I can say.
I think I know. And then I realize I do not.

Archeologists found some ancient bones showing that humans have taken care of disables children, feeing and caring for them so that they could grow.
Why?
Love is strong. Love is more than what it gives. If I were strong only for myself, I could get lazy. Good enough is good enough.
But when a little helpless one needs me, I will make the effort. Scientist want to call that an advantage. Maybe it is.
Or maybe the practice of love is higher than human advantage. I don’t know.
I know we are all going to love our Simon cat as long as we can and even after.

The grass is dry and the leaves on the trees are dusty. The morning skies have been silent and too hot. It is the tired end of summer. Things are not growing around here, they are ripening to their end.  Seeds are scattering as the last fading will of the plants that once sprouted and grew green. They are done.

This Wonderblog and the Weeekly wonder was started more than twenty years ago. Could it be dried up? Have I reached the end of the life like those dried green grasses?

Does curiosity and wonder have an end?

Watching this change of season, oppressed by the heat I have stopped hearing the birds. The mornings have been hot and quiet.

Has my questioning and questing spirit gone silent too?

Just now

I heard a little peep.

A chirp

A bird has joined me to greet the morning.  The season has changed and what I missed has returned.

I wonder. Was that first bird was moved by curiousity? Was that how the migration started? That the environment—not too cool, not to hot– it was seeking was on the other side of the valley. What if it was a shift that led to more and more until then life changed for everyone?

I don’t have to stop seeking. I can quest a little longer.

Even the grass that I judged dead is scattering wide a ticket  to new possibilities. Those seeds could scatted ot nothings or they could turn jackpot with a hundredfold more seeds if they hit it just right.

The curiousity, the wonder which leads to the quest will be there. I am not willing to give it up yet.

When I wrote I my book The AV project manager handbook, I assumed some things. I didn’t stop to answer the fundamental question:

What is a project?

My friend Joe Way says everything is sales. I clap back “Everything is a project!”
But there is a demarcation. This is a project:
“A project is a temporary endeavor undertaken to create a unique product, service, or result.”
That sounds like lawyer talking. Let me pull out the dividing line. A project is something with an end, and it does something that isn’t already being done.

A project contrasts with operations. For an organization—whether a business, government or a household—there are the everyday systems that keep everything running.
In my household, I really want things to stay the same. We rely on a lot of systems. A really big one is our cars. We use our vehicles every day, and my daughter got her driver’s license recently. We are all zipping around for school, work and sports.

Making sure we park in the driveway in the right order so we can drive our cars in the order we are going to leave, keeping the gas tane full are folded into the week’s chores.

They are not a project. Nothing unique to see here. In fact, as far as my household is concerned, we want it to stay this way. Can I just go about my business please?

We can all get where we need.
UNTIL!
Disaster strikes: A car breaks
OR
Operational Upgrade! A new Vehicle purchase

Maybe my car breaks down and needs a new transmission. We would have to come up with a plan for the time and resources it will take to deal with this disruption in operations. The other drivers in the household might have to share their vehicles. The family would do decision analysis about the kind of repair we would do (repair or replace? What’s the budget? How old is my car? Etc.)


We would all weigh the opportunity and the cost in time and resources to make the best choice to restore the vehicle transportation system.
We could brainstorm ideas. Do we need three cars? How do the choices fit with our values and future plans?
The stakeholders –all of whom are still involved in operations—have their part to play in the project as it gets scoped, designed and executed.
In this case, all of them want to get back to operations as soon as possible.
For a professional services organization, a project is likely the source of revenue, Projects are the reason for operation, not an interruption of operations. The goal might be to define and execute as many project as possible, as quickly as possible.

Projects and Operations exist side by side, and the team would do well to understand the difference and right-size the effort and attention on both
All the stakeholders would be wise to identify which projects support their operations and which operations support their projects. It’s a changing continuum. What is the core value for the team? What things are always a NO? Communication, analysis and leadership will support success and progress.
Priorities, opportunities and disasters shift. Resources and attention can be distributed in response.

He couldn’t say I LOVE YOU

he didn’t have the words

yet he always came running

put himself in my way

here here he’s just gonna be here

Just gotta be here

Cause his eyes

his mind

His motion

all directed at me

Just gonna be here
Just gotta be here

Hey hey

No words and he always came running

‘by his contrivance, the most reasonable person at a reasonable charge and with a little bodily labor might write books in philosophy poetry, politics, laws, mathematics and theology  with the least assistance from genius or study”

The knowledge workier dominates business in creating value and money. Scientists and engineers have been working on labor saving devices for all of human history. The wheel remains a classic.

Even when we have no idea how to do something we are still dreaming of what we could do.

In Grek mythology It was the master craftsman Daedalus who made the wings out of feathers. He held  them in place with wax. He mae theme for his son Iarus. Daedulus warned him that the wax wouldn’t work if he didn’t do it right. Too close to the sun and the wax would melt. Too close to the ocean and the feathers would be too wet to fly

And what did Icarus do?

it wasn’t the damp seawater that was the problem.

He flew higher than was safe. He met his fate.

When it comes to Artificial Intelligence a, I also think, ‘didn’t we see how this movie ends?’ Sci Fi movies—as well as the novels—tend toward disastrous pessimism. Those kindly aliens show up with a book saying “How to Serve Man” and everyone welcomes them.

And then we learn IT IS A RECIPE BOOK!!!

That’s just a story though

Thia is real life.

I’ve been using AI and it is a useful tool. It is not really intelligence. The other term for AI is LLM or large language model.

Computer programs takes all the information we give it and provide the next most likely answer to a question. It’s a more sophisticated search engine. So sophisticated it sounds like it’s talking.

Of all places, Gulliver’s travels has this exact thing. One of the islands he visited, he found a place that had academies of learning that had come up with plans to solve every difficulity people experienced. They just needed to finish working out the kinks.

One academy had created a machine that mixed up all the words in the world, and strung them together so they would randomly arrange themselves into phrases. That is how books would be written.

As soon as they made the sentences make sense.

I approve of creating labor saving devices.But they have to save labor.

Before I put too much effort into a new technology, I have to make sure it does what it promised.

Last week We took a family trip to Knott’s berryfarm. Veronica invited a friend –Thank you Henry for being willing to ride the roller coasters!—and a good time was had by all. At the end Chris and Veronica went on the log ride one las time, so Henry and I kept each other company.
I told him I like to talk about books. He was interested and he had been in Veronica’s English class, so we talked about those. He said his dad loved Russian literature. By the end I was persuading him to read Crime and Punishment.
I said it was the story of how a loser young man persuaded himself that he was above the rules of regular people and could prove his own greatness by murdering someone. He talked himself into actually doing the crime in the most unheroic way possible and then had all the feelings of what he’d done. I told him I spoiled what the crime was, but the punishment was almost entirely what he inflicted on himself.
“That does sound interesting. My Dad would be so happy if I I read that book.”
This Sunday I played keyboard at church for a guest worship leader. As we exchanged stories I learned that he has been around music his whole life, and worked as part of the production crew for Earth Wind and Fire.
I told him how I was self-taught on the keys, and I started playing for church on the organ as a teenager.

“That’s one thing I never learned! I’d love to learn the organ.”
“I could show you!”
Walking away, I realized my presumption.

Who am I to teach this man who has been around world class musicians?
I am nothing special.
I spent some time playing with it, like a little kid.
And I suppose that is my point. I can share my love of music and books with people for whatever it’s worth to them. I’ll share my bit of heaven with you.

“Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. “
Matthew 18:3