Ben Hewitt's Blog, page 69

The Longest Non-Answer

But, what about the world at large? Are my small acts helpful or relevant? Are too many people too impoverished to even consider extricating themselves from the institutions which harm the natural world and thus, themselves? How can we move to a more long-sighted earth-centered paradigm when people are most concerned with their next economic quarter and when the next iphone is coming out?

Ah, I love the small, easy questions, if only because they give me something to mull over when I’m not thinking about more important things, such as whether or not anyone would notice if I snuck another cookie from the stash downstairs.

Besides which, it sure is nice to know that somewhere in rural Colorado, someone named Rachel is wrestling with the broader implications and perhaps even relevance of her own thoughts and actions. This is such a familiar line of thought and discussion around here, I can almost smell it.

For the record, I don’t think I’m really qualified to answer Rachel’s questions. On the other hand, I’m not sure anyone is, so in a sense perhaps I’m neither more nor less qualified than anybody else. I suppose that no matter what I say, my answer will be rooted in my particular set of beliefs, which themselves have evolved from my particular set of circumstances and experiences. In other words, and to use the language of a couple recent posts, my answer can speak only to my truth.

A couple of years back, when I was spending a lot of time with my friend Erik, the central character in SAVED, I asked him if he ever worries about his future in the context of his chosen ethos of monetary and material asset non-accumulation. In other words, was he essentially disadvantaging himself by choosing to live in alignment with his truth, which tells him that his life is better spent in pursuit of experience, connection, and feeling, rather than money (not that the two are mutually exclusive. On the other hand, maybe they are). His answer? “I cannot see how living in accordance with my values is going to screw me in the end.”

Perhaps Erik is simply naive. I get that. But as I’ve mentioned before, I’ll take naive over cynical every damn day of the week, because I have come to see how naiveté and even idealism are the fruits of living with purpose. In a sense, they are the rewards for maintaining the clarity of our vision for what the world can be – for what our lives can be – even when there is little support for such a vision. Even when our vision is derided as impractical, or illogical, or downright foolish.

In my own life, and in relation to Rachel’s extremely relevant and important questions, I have found Erik’s answer  to be both comforting and inspiring. Because the truth is (and this might not be a popular sentiment ’round these parts), my small acts might not be all that helpful and relevant, particularly in the context of forces that feel overwhelmingly large and powerful.

I can see how some might view this as defeatist, as the antithesis of the naiveté and idealism I purport to value. I can see how some might hear me say “I cannot see how living in accordance with my values is going to screw me in the end,” and hear only “I” and “me,” and think, wow, that sounds pretty damn selfish, Hewitt.

But here is what I know: My sphere of influence is small, indeed. It extends to myself, my family, and to a certain extent, my community. Maybe, just maybe, a bit of it seeps into the lives of those who read my books or frequent this space. When I absolve myself of the expectation that my acts must somehow be helpful or relevant to the world at large and the  frustration such expectation inevitably leads to, I am, in a sense, allowing myself to inhabit my small world with even more naiveté and idealism. And when this happens, my perception of the world around me shifts. It no longer feels stingy and sad and exploited. It just feels, for lack of a better word, beautiful. My sense of what matters – so readily thwarted by the prevailing narrative of the contemporary economy – becomes sharper. Clearer.

It is easy to forget that the world is ultimately comprised of individual people. It is easy to forget that our nation is ultimately a nation of citizens and communities. I guess what I’m saying, is that it is easy to forget how important these things really are, and what their impact can be. This is one of the values I carry, and although she does not specifically say so, I hear in Rachel’s words that she carries it, too.

The truth is, I sometimes feel as if my small actions on this small hill in rural northern Vermont are inconsequential and maybe even futile. What does it any of it matter? The chores, the time with the boys in the woods, the long, hot hours spent haying with Martha, shooting the breeze with Melvin in his barnyard as his cows shuffle and moo to be fed and milked: What, really does it matter, beyond my own arrogant self-satisfaction?

In these moments, I begin to lose that sense of beauty, that clarity regarding what is truly important. This is precisely when Erik’s words are most helpful to me, because they remind me that no matter what, so long as I remember what is important to me, so long as I live in accordance with my values, I’ll be ok.

And it is only from this place – secure in my skin, on my land, in this community, on this earth – that I can ever hope to be helpful or relevant to anyone else.

•          •        •

Holy moly. I just realized that may be the longest non-answer I’ve ever given. To anyone who finds it unsatisfactory or is inclined to ponder these matters further, I highly recommend this essay.

 

By Jeezum

4:25 a.m.

10:05 a.m.

Between studying for their hunter safety certification, taking the certification class, scouting, building a blind, scouting again, making a turkey call (actually, this has been mostly Penny’s doing), patterning their guns, scouting again, making another blind and, finally, hunting, the boys have invested untold hours in the pursuit of their first turkey.

I think this is good. Indeed, I think this is as it should be. Their enthusiasm is undiminished, and I have no doubt that eventually, they’ll succeed. Although in a sense, I think they already have. I know this sounds a little corny, but what can I say? I’m their father, by jeezum.

Another Person’s Lie

[image error]

Hewitt & Friends Piano Moving
“trust us if you dare”

Why doesn’t “T” ruth exist anymore? How can we all have our own truths? I think we are lying when we say that this way works for one child and this for another when we are discussing something as substantial as whether to send our children to public school or home-school. Most people I talk to, read their blogs/writing, keep their kids home from public school because they dislike the system. They know it does not work as an educational system and don’t want their kids to take part. I think the larger question here, is who is responsible for our children’s education? Parents or the government? And I think this ties in nicely to your posts on money as well. Who is responsible for us as individuals? Most people who write in to this blog lamenting that public school is the only option for their family state financial reasons for it. As much as you write about your desire to see people come to a realization that our money-driven culture needs to change, why don’t you call their bluff?

I love this comment, not so much because I’m in full agreement, but because it cuts right to the grizzled core of not only how we chose to raise our children, but pretty much everydamnthing that defines what it means to be alive and human. What is the truth? Or, to use Ali’s treatment, what is the “T”ruth? And perhaps equally intriguing to me: How can we all have our own truths? 

Let me be clear: I believe that in many cases there is such a thing as an ultimate “T”ruth that precludes all other smaller truths. Some of these “T”ruths can be supported by the hard evidence of human experience and knowledge. The world is round. The sun is hot. Sausage is delicious. Van Halen was never the same after David Lee Roth. Those sort of things.

But those aren’t the “T”ruths that interest me, if only because they have already been clearly established as such. I’m much more intrigued by the confluence of “T”ruths and “truths,” and by how the dominant cultural narrative of our time informs our perceptions and assumptions regarding what is true and honest, and what is not.

Here are some “T”ruths as I see them:

We are inexorably connected to the natural world. Whatever harm we do to nature, we do to ourselves. Indeed, whatever harm we do to one another, we do to ourselves.

We have created a so-called economy that fails to acknowledge our connection to the natural world and one another and in fact tends to “reward” those who do the most to sever it.

Broadly speaking, the manner in which we have come to educate our children feeds the prevailing story of humans-over-nature.

Our common cultural assumptions surrounding money and wealth and success all but ensure that we will be rich in that which does not matter, and poor in that which does.

The world is a place of immense beauty and abundance. It is only our anthropocentric arrangements – all of which can be undone, if only we chose to undo them – that can make it appear otherwise.

I suppose I could go on, and probably for quite some time. But there’s one more “T”truth I want to get to, because, as mentioned above, I believe it has a profound impact on how we view truth and how we arrange our lives in support of that truth:

The dominant narrative of our time – our story, if you will – has given rise to cultural-societal-economic arrangements that make it extraordinarily difficult to honor and even acknowledge these “T”ruths. 

In other words, a convergence of factors – mostly revolving around what it takes for people to simply survive in contemporary America – supports the widespread repudiation of these “T”ruths and in fact actively thwarts their adoption and dissemination. And it is here, at least in part, that we come to the idea that we must all have our own truths.

At the risk of drawing this out for waaaay too long, allow me to explain. We must all, in some way or another, determine how to navigate this world. And “this world,” as it exists, includes the simple fact that many of the basic essentials of human survival have been monetized. In other words, we need money to survive, and because money does not just happen, we are compelled to earn it. And because our economy has evolved in a manner that does not acknowledge the “T”ruths outlined above, we are compelled to join the chorus of the dominant narrative just so we can survive.

So when Ali asks why “T”ruth doesn’t exist anymore, I think it’s because we simply can no longer afford to have “T”ruth exist anymore. Not all “T”ruths, of course, but many. Perhaps most, and certainly the ones mentioned above. I feel tremendous empathy for those who feel caught in the web of arrangements that compel them to navigate their lives in a manner that does not feel entirely honest, and I believe this is true for most of us, at least to some extent. I know that I do not always conduct myself in accordance with what I know to be “T”rue, though I sure as heck try.

Here’s something else I believe to be true, or maybe even “T”rue: Many “T”ruths have exceptions (ah, but might that mean they are no longer “T”rue? Hmm…), and it is in the context of these exceptions that we call allow one another the freedom to have our own truths.

Because fact of the matter is, sometimes one person’s “T”ruth is another person’s “L”ie.

Possible

 

On Saturday I busted out early to attend a day-long hunter safety certification course up in the rural fringes of St Johnsbury. It was yet another in the seemingly endless stream of halcyon days we’ve been granted, although by gum we could use a shot of rain. Already, we’re in a rotation of endless and, given our rudimentary technology (water tank and garden hose), rather tiresome watering: Garlic, onion transplants, orchards, and so on.

There’s not a whole lot to say about the class other than to note my surprise at the rampant militarization of hunting. Or maybe it was just this particular class, which was led by a bevy of retired servicemen and law enforcement officers. Whatever the case, the weaponry on hand – and there was a lot – leaned combative. There were sinister AR15′s and semi-auto .45 caliber hand guns, and much of the day was devoted to firing deadly projectiles into shredded tire-filled backstops. It felt to me more like a gun course, than a hunting course, although I suppose there’s not a whole lot of daylight between the two and safe firearm handling is a rather crucial element to hunting.

Still and all, with the way my imperfect mind works, I couldn’t help but marvel at the extent to which industry and commerce has infringed on the elemental and powerful act of taking an animal’s life to sustain your own. Perhaps this is in part because it seems to me as if few hunters view the process in these terms anymore. Sure, they might consume what they kill, but the prevailing ethos seems to be one of sport and bragging rights, rather than sustenance. More than once I heard it opined that one of the best parts of actually bagging an animal was making the rounds to family and friends to show off your kill. Not once did I hear anyone suggest that it might be appropriate to give thanks to the animals whose life was taken, or to leave an offering to whatever spirits might stand quietly at our sides.

None of this is intended to denigrate the good and generous people who volunteered their time to offer the course. They were, to a one, gracious, kind, and patient. But I can’t help wondering if the actual tools we utilize to hunt animals actually inform our relationship to the creature and the process. To walk into the woods with an assault rifle (highly recommended for deer hunting, at least amongst this crowd), with such enormous capacity for death literally at your fingertips, must somehow inform our relationship to the act of killing and to the creature that will die.

It is possible that it makes these relationships more informal and less reverent? I do not have the context to know for certain, but yes, I think it is possible.

•          •          •

Thank you all for the incredibly thoughtful comments over the past couple of posts. It is my intention to address a few of them in detail, but for the time being, I need to give my poor, addled brain a short break.

 

 

 

 

Damn Straight

After yesterday’s post and the comments that followed, I’m inclined to tease out the conversation a bit further.

First, I think some background information and a disclaimer or two is warranted.

The relevant background is that I’m currently working on a book relating to our unschooling experiences; as such, I’m thinking about these experiences and our motivations with a bit more rigor than normal. Granted (and as Penny would be quick to remind me), that’s not a very high bar to reach.

Which leads me to the disclaimers:

1. Much of what is on this site could be considered the real-time evolution of my ideas; that is to say, I often post ideas that I’m “trying out.” In some – but certainly not all – cases, it’s likely that I will continue to develop these ideas. I’m not backing away from anything I’ve written here; I feel strongly about everything I’ve posted. But that doesn’t mean that some of the underlying assumptions that I make are not subject to revision. Crikey, I’m frequently suggesting that we question many of our dominant socio-cultural assumptions; it’s only fair that I question my own from time to time.

2. If it’s not abundantly clear (and I sure as heck hope it is), I am writing from the perspective of one man, living in one place, who is making a particular set of choices that feel right to him and his family only. I do not and cannot know anyone else’s truth. I only know my truth, and furthermore, I know that it is imperfect. So if you feel as if what I say does not apply to you, then don’t waste another second of your attention on it. There are way better things to do with your life.

3. My only real goal in presenting these ideas in the first place (other than the opportunity to vet them) is to provoke thought and perhaps encourage people to realize they have choices that might not otherwise have been apparent. I don’t mean to suggest that we’re special, or that anyone should emulate these choices. On the other hand, there are aspects of our life that are fairly unique to the contemporary mainstream American experience. Would these aspects work for you and your family? Would you even want them to? I have no freakin’ idea, and I’m not inclined to guess.

Onward. Two comments from yesterday that I want to give some breathing room, although I’m still going to be fairly brief in my replies, as it was a long night with the calving of first-calf heifer (all is fine) and as I’m keen to get outside.

First, from Michele:

There are many fine schools that foster inquiry, that light a fire in young people to think critically, to reinvent, to innovate. Is this issue a defense of home-schooling over traditional schooling? As not all children have the means to an education at home, what is the answer for the other children?

I do not and cannot know about the specific curriculums of every school in our nation, and I have little doubt that Michele is correct on this point. At the same time, it is hard to ignore the increasing standardization being applied to our children’s institutionalized learning, as well as the push to have them spend ever more hours in the classroom (which means that by default, they’re not spending them with their families, in the broader community, or in the natural world). Last year, five states voted to increase the school year by as much as 300 hours. I was also struck by Obama’s 2013 State of the Union Address, in which he called for a revamped educational model that would compel high schools to work directly with corporations to develop industry-specific curriculums. Again, I don’t know the specifics of what these curriculums would look like, but at face value it sounds like the antithesis of critical thinking.

Am I trying to defend our decisions around education? Maybe, although I feel as if I’m mostly trying to explain them. But then, there’s a pretty fine line between “defend” and “explain.” For certain, I know that I’m still trying to articulate our choices to myself. A lot of what we do, we do because it feels right, and while I believe this is a perfectly justifiable way to make decisions, I also enjoy the process of trying to put those feelings into words.

Finally, regarding Michele’s question about what is the answer for other children: I think the answer for other children and families is, again, what feels right. The problem, of course, is that what feels right does not always align with what is possible, and I suppose this is what makes me saddest. We seem to have arrived at a place in our society and economy where families are forced into the position of having to make very difficult choices to let go of some very fundamental beliefs, simply to survive. I think if families want to send their kids to school, that’s great. I don’t think school is evil (although I suppose it might seem that way at times), and I don’t think that every kid who goes to public school is ruined for life. We have friends and neighbors who have done the whole mainstream school experience right through the doctoral degree, and they are some of most wonderful people I know, living with purpose and awareness of others and world around them.

But I also think that it is incumbent on all of us to provide our children with opportunities to connect with the broader community outside the classroom and to immerse themselves in nature, because without these things, they have little chance of developing into complete people, with the connections these relationships foster. For us, because of other factors that define our lives, the easiest way ensure these connections are made is to educate the boys at home.

Which leads to me to Vonnie’s comment. It’s a long one, so I’m only going to paste a couple of sentences:

I honestly am not sure what the right point of view is, or if there even is one. But we all have to do what we feel works best for our children and our families. 

and

I feel that if parents are going to do traditional schooling, be prepared to make up the shortcomings inherent in the system, that’s all.

My reply to both these sentiments is “Damn straight!”

 

 

Go Easy

Over the last few days (and particularly since my post of a few days ago) I’ve been thinking a lot about socialization as it pertains to Fin and Rye. And by extension, to children in general.

And this is what I’ve been thinking: When people ask me if I’m worried about Fin’s and Rye’s socialization, they are not asking if I’m worried about their ability to socialize; they are asking me if I’m worried whether or not they will be socialized. In fact, the actual definition of socialization when it pertains to a particular object (i.e., the child) is make (someone) behave in a way that is acceptable to their society. Therefore, I think it’s fair to say that what people are really asking is will my children learn to behave in a way that is acceptable to the society in which they live?

I understand that concern, but I have one of my own: What if the behavior our society deems acceptable is actually detrimental to my children, to my family, to our community, and to the world as a whole?

I do not mean to suggest that every aspect of societally condoned behavior is harmful. Quite clearly, this is not the case. But just as clearly, the so-called socialization of our children occurs in the context of social-cultural mores that have  in large part defined our perceptions of the people and world around us in ways that have proven to be extraordinarily destructive. These are the mores that somehow allow us to accept the extinction of 27,000 species annually, a rate that is as much as 10,000 times the natural extinction rate. These are the mores that somehow allow us to accept that practices like hydraulic fracturing, which poisons the groundwater essential to not only fellow citizens, but also any wildlife that has the temerity to live in proximity to these wells. These are the mores that somehow allow us to accept that that wealthiest 1% of our nation’s population should own 40% of the total wealth, while the bottom 80% should own only 7% of this wealth. These are the mores that somehow allow us to accept that a corporation should be granted personhood.

You might argue that not every school promulgates these mores, and technically speaking, you might be right. I am not suggesting that educational institutions are overtly teaching the methodology of species extinction, or groundwater contamination, or socioeconomic injustice. But in a way, what they’re doing is worse: They are disseminating these ideas and the acceptance of these conditions without overtly teaching them, as they add their voices to chorus of the dominant cultural narrative. Indeed, these tragedies are inherent to the curriculum of practically every educational institution. If they weren’t, these institutions would not be doing the job we ask of them, which is to prepare our children for the status quo economy that has given rise to such travesties.

If school can be considered to be a constituent part of an economy that exploits the environment and the majority of the world’s working population – and surely, school’s role in this economy is indisputable – then why, for heaven’s sake, would I want my children to adopt these mores? Why would I want them to become members of the chorus that comprises the dominant cultural-societal narrative of our time? Why would I want them to be made to behave in a way that is acceptable to the very structural arrangements that are destroying the earth and her people?

I understand that my views might be considered radical by some. And my thinking on this matter is still evolving.

Which is to say: Go easy on me, ok?

 

FYI

Shannon wrote a great post about contemporary cultural assumptions surrounding education. And yeah, I’d say that even if she hadn’t linked to my site!

 

 

For Better or Worse

Opening day!

Saturday was day one of youth turkey hunting weekend; precisely a week prior, the boys had passed their hunter safety course with perfect scores, and were now in possession of freshly minted hunting licenses, a couple boxes of turkey shot, and a newly constructed blind at the corner of a neighboring hayfield. The alarm was set for 4:15, and arrangements were made with an experienced hunting friend to accompany them into the half light of the emerging day, full of hope that come evening, the smell of roast turkey would fill every nook and cranny of our humble home.

Alas, it was not to be. The boys arrived home around 10, looking somewhat bedraggled (they’d had a sleepover two evenings prior, with all the late night rambunctiousness such a thing implies), but no less enthusiastic. I, for one, was rather amazed. Fin in particular lacks patience, a trait he and I share in full. To imagine him sitting in a blind for nearly five hours was an awesome, almost incomprehensible thing. To be honest, I’m not sure he would have managed it were Penny and I his chaperone.

I have written briefly of the value we place in mentors, and how grateful we are for those which have stumbled into our lives at precisely the times we needed them most. The question I get most often when I tell people that Fin and Rye are educated at home, to the point that I’m pretty well fed up with it, is “don’t you worry about socialization?” In truth, it’s usually framed a bit more politely, something like “are there other homeschool children in your community,” or “do they have other kids to play with,” but as is so often the case, there’s a question behind the question, and in this case, the real question is “Aren’t you worried your boys are going to turn into anti-social deviants?”

Actually, “fed up” doesn’t do justice to my feelings regarding this line of inquiry; “pissed off” is more like it. That’s because it’s rooted in an entirely flawed premise, which is that a structured educational institution, along with the social landscape it embodies, is the standard by which a child’s socialization should be measured. As I have also mentioned briefly, my snarky – but no less honest for being snarky – reply is that of course we’re worried: That’s why we keep them at home.

But of course it’s not so simple as all this, and the simple truth is that at times we do feel a degree of social isolation. There are many reasons for this, including the reality of a sparsely populated landscape, mismatched personalities, transience (at the moment, two of the boys’ best friends are packing for a move to the Pacific NW), and the fact that Fin’s and Rye’s most fervent interests are not widely shared among the majority of their peers. Simply put, there ain’t many 8 and 11 year olds who spend their days scouting trap lines, cleaning shotguns, and milking goats. That’s not all our kids do, of course, but the occasionally uncomfortable truth is that in 21st century America, not many children are terribly interested in the things that have captured my boys’ imaginations. Likewise, Fin and Rye are utterly bewildered by some of their friends’ interests in video games and other forms of modern digital media, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t take a degree of pleasure in their view that such things are an utter waste of time that could be better spent scouring the woods for turkey roosts or the first morel mushrooms of the season.

There’s another aspect to all this, which that school encourages age-specific socialization. One of the things I most appreciate about our decision to educate the boys at home is the simple fact that they have frequent interaction with friends and neighbors from all stages of life. Often, I will hear from Melvin, our 65-year-old dairy farming neighbor, about how he came across Fin and Rye along the edge of one of his hayfields or down by his pond. These are small moments, of course – a simply crossing of paths, an exchange of pleasantries, an explanation of the task at hand – but I strongly believe that they matter, that they contribute to my sons’ sense of the world and their place in it.

So it is with the mentors that have come into their lives, all of whom have specific skills and experience to share. And this is for the good, in no small part due my deficit of these specific skills and experience. But there’s something else going on, something for which I’m increasingly grateful, and it is the relationships my boys have developed with their mentors. It’s probably not right to call them friendships (or maybe it is), nor am I suggesting that these relationships can replace social interaction with children their own age. But I have little doubt that Fin and Rye are enriched by these connections.

True, these relationships are not mutually exclusive to a more conventional education. My boys could attend school AND have these people in their lives. But the other truth is that, contrary to their day-in, day-out rambunctiousness, my children have only so much time and energy. They can only experience and assimilate so much.

And for better or worse, this is what we have chosen.

 

 

 

 

I Like Cake

Well, crikey. I have to admit, I’m a bit touched by the outpouring of support after yesterday’s post. This included a number of personal emails, as well as the incredibly thoughtful comments left for all to see. Thank you all.

I thought it might be worth clarifying a few things. First, I don’t know that I even want 30,000 blog hits per day. I can’t even imagine the ramifications of such a thing, and am not at all certain I have room in my life for those ramifications, whatever they might be. (Of course, all this presumes there are 30k people in this world that would even be interested in what I have to say. Which frankly seems like a bit of a stretch, given that I can hardly get my family to pay attention).

The flip side of this, of course, is the simple fact that writing is how I make my living, and I very much agree with Jon that the old model of writing a book every three or four years is rapidly disappearing. As Doug W points out, my personal economy is about much more than writing, but there’s no question that we are highly dependent on the income I glean from the written word. It seems clear to me that being a so-called “professional writer” increasingly requires that one participate in a number of mediums and conversations, and that these mediums and conversations are increasingly bound by the screen. Add to this the dawning recognition that I have actually come to enjoy writing in this space. I mean, really: What’s up with that?

Likewise, I don’t want to avoid particular mediums simply out of a curmudgeonly dogma that they are somehow distasteful. I am a great believer in the idea that little in this world is inherently good or bad; that generally it is our anthropogenic set of emotions and assumptions that imbue these qualities.

Right now, I am thinking hard about balance. About how much time and effort I am willing to devote to the online medium, and even about how much writing should inform decisions about how I expend my limited energies. I suppose I want to have my cake and eat it too: I want to be able to make just enough money to support the small life I lead, and I want for that option to always be there for me.

The truth is, of course, that it might not be quite so simple.

As a Person

I must confess that I’m not a big blog reader, but one I check with some frequency (although not nearly enough frequency to keep up with his rapid-fire posts – how the heck does he manage that?) is Jon Katz’s. I’ve never read a single one of Jon’s books, but I sure do appreciate his online work. His writes with tremendous eloquence about issues that resonate with me, and I admire his honesty.

One of the subjects Jon tackles regularly is the practice of writing (another reason I like his blog). A couple weeks back, he wrote this post, about the evolution of his career and the business of writing in general. His intent for the piece, I think, is to point out – rightly, I believe – that the business is changing, not dying. That writing will continue and so too will writing as a career. It just won’t look exactly like it has in years and decades past.

Jon had me feeling pretty darn good about my future as a writer right up until he got to the fifth paragraph, which is where he reveals rather crushing details regarding his online reach. 30,000 blog hits a day!?! 10,000 + followers on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and so on!?! Crikey. If I get 500 hits a day on this humble little site, a couple hundred of which are probably my mother, I think I’m doing pretty good. I’m absent from Facebook, and although I tried Twitter for about a month, I found it abhorrent.

Jon’s post got me thinking again about Penny’s views regarding online connectivity, and to what extent I should embrace these mediums. If it’s not abundantly clear by now, I am somewhat conflicted in this regard. I have gently, almost reluctantly, embraced this space, and I have come to understand that it has great value to me. Not because it’s selling me a bunch of books, or somehow securing my spot in the uncertain future of authorship, but because it has come to serve as something of a vetting process for ideas that may (or more likely may not) deserve further development. And because it has introduced a degree of discipline to my work that has long been lacking. But then friggin’ Katz comes along, talking about his 30k daily hits and his Facebook “likes” or whatever you call them, and how even he can’t say for sure if he will survive as a writer, and I think… well, I think “shit.”

I try to not dwell on either the past or the future. The former is known and unchangeable; the latter is unknown and unknowable. But just because it is unknown does not mean it cannot be influenced, and I do wonder to what extent I should be working to influence my future success as a writer. Or, if not success, than at least survival. Should I be on Facebook, liking and friending and so on? Should I go back to Twitter, and try to make sense of all the stilted conversations happening there? Should I be posting on this site every day, even if I really have nothing to say? And even if I did all of these things, would it make a difference?

The truth is, much as Jon seems fairly confident that he will find his way as a writer and human being, I feel the same, and I suspect my path will and should be as unique to me, as his is to him. And while I consider it one of my great privileges that I am able to support my family with my writing, I consider it an even greater privilege that I do not feel as if I am defined by this career choice. I like it. At times, I might love it. But as I have mentioned before, it is not the primary source point of my contentment. It is not impossible for me to imagine something different, although I suspect that the older I get, the more challenging such a transition might be.

In recent years, I have become keenly aware of serendipity’s role in my life, and I have become more comfortable placing a certain amount of trust in this role. I’m becoming aware of something else, too: That serendipity only works when you are honest with yourself and others. I think that’s why Jon’s path works so well for him. It is rooted in his particular truth. It is a truth that happens to include 10k blog hits a day, a NY Times bestseller or two, and an embrace of social media platforms that make me a little uncomfortable.

So, yeah, I’ll admit that Jon’s post made me feel a little uneasy. Can I really survive as a writer the way I’m doing it? But the more I think about it, the more I realize that perhaps I don’t need to survive as a writer. I just need to survive as a person.