For more than twenty years, I worked in an all-boys high school as a college counselor, teacher (Middle Eastern Studies) and coach (baseball). I’m still engaged in education as a resource to students who are sorting their way through the college admissions process, primarily as a reader and editor of their college essays. One thing I’ve learned: one of a teacher’s greatest joys comes when the student becomes the teacher and the teacher becomes the student. It happened (again) just yesterday morning…

I was reading a series of short answers—responses could not be longer than thirteen words!—to questions posed by the admissions office of a well-regarded university in upstate New York. The prompt in question was “I am fascinated by:”. My student’s response was “the world, different cultures, peoples, ideas, nature, literature, and eudaemonia.” I was stumped; what in the world was ‘eudaemonia?’

Thank you,Google. Eudaemonia comes down to us from the Greek. It means ‘good spirited’ or ‘well-being,’ and is often translated as ‘happiness’ or ‘flourishing.’ But ‘happiness’ is an emotion whereas ‘eudaemonia’ is more; it is a state of mind, an Aristotelian ideal representing a good life, one lived in accordance with harmony and reason by cultivating virtue. By contrast, its antonym runs the gamut from despair and misery to adversity, suffering, and defeat. I couldn’t help but think of the thousands of people suffering unimaginable loss in Los Angeles.

You may recall that in last week’s Musing, I mentioned that on the day after my wife and I returned from several days atop a mountain in Montana, I experienced a strange sense of health and well-being. I attributed this to all the red blood cells circulating in my system after a week at elevation. Alas, it was but a temporary mood shift, but it lasted just long enough to make me appreciate the difference between life at sea level and life in the wake of the thinner atmosphere of the mountains. It was more than a mood; it was a moment (I now know) of eudaemonia.

We are about to embark on a new era, a time that may well test our national soul. Try as I might, I cannot shake the sense of foreboding that hangs over me like thick fog these days. Eudaemonia seems impossibly far away. All the current talk about expanding American power seems the very antithesis of cultivating eudaemonia in our lives. I can feel Aristotle shuddering.

I think a lot about how to get through the dark days ahead, but I honestly haven’t come up with any reasonable answers. Some people say “don’t worry, maybe it won’t be so bad,” but check the facts; experience suggests otherwise. And when I hear all the bombastic posturing about Greenland or the Panama Canal or even Canada, that fleeting experience of eudaemonia I had post-Montana seems all the more dreamlike, more remote, farther and farther away.

Eudaemonia is a difficult concept to define, but there are several common elements in any attempt at translation: growth. authenticity, meaning, bliss, and excellence. I sincerely hope that my young student who will soon be heading off to college in search of “the world, different cultures, peoples, ideas, nature, literature, and eudaemonia” will not be disappointed. We owe his generation more.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available in bookstores and on Amazon.

I’m sitting in front of a cozy fire. Everyone else is out on the mountain, either skiing or snowboarding. It’s cold and the visibility is limited, probably not more than forty or fifty feet.

There is fresh snow on the ground and it’s the weekend, so the lift lines are long and the slopes are crazy-crowded. Did I mention that I’m in the great room of a rustic ski lodge, sitting in front of a crackling fire? Who do you think is happier?

We arrived three days ago—26 of us, spread over three generations. flying here (Whitefish, Montana) from three different airports. I’m the only non-skier, so my luggage was light. There was some concern about this: what would a non-skier do at a ski resort? But I wasn’t the slightest bit worried: I have a good book to read, this postcard to write, and hours of quiet time to chip away at the granite mountain of my next novel. So am I worried? Bored? Did I mention that I’m in a warm lodge with a cup of cocoa in front of a dreamy fire? Hours and hours of peas and carrots and plenty to observe. A writer’s delight!

Skiers are a breed apart. Who else would choose to don layer upon layer of designer  outerwear, buy a lot of expensive safety gear, wear clunky boots that make walking like a zombie difficult if not downright impossible (heel/clunk, toe/clunk), buy lift tickets that cost a king’s ransom, all so they can stand in line for an hour just to make a twenty-minute run back down the mountain with a thousand other skiers and boarders whizzing by at Beltway speed? And then take everything off in order to answer nature’s call? Not me, that’s for sure. I’m just fine in this big leather chair, my stocking feet pointed toward the fire, thinking about what to eat for lunch.

There are a few other people hanging out in front of the fire. They’re talking about sore hip-flexers, strained quads, sore necks, and all manner of other ailments, I’ve yet to see to a sling or a cast, but doubtless that will come. Makes me feel guilty to get up and refresh my cocoa.

Now I have to admit that I, too, am slightly under the winter weather. Airplanes are notorious petri dishes, and yesterday I woke up sneezing and coughing to beat the band. But my wife is a doctor’s daughter who knows everything there is to know about cures and remedies so she sprang into action and now I have a hospital supply room of full of medicines designed to render me hale and healthy overnight. We’ll see about that. In the meantime, I can sit here in front of my foot-warming fire, convincing myself that self care is not the slightest bit selfish.

This is old country. During the ice ages, glaciers pushed tons and tons of alluvial soil down from Canada through passes in the mountains, carving out deep lakes, making fertile valleys. Megafauna and wildlife flourished, bringing hunting-gathering people who lived here peacefully for millennia upon millennia until someone back East decided that what this valley really needed was a rail line snaking its way through the mountain passes, linking Chicago and San Francisco. The rest, as we know, is a sad history.

I throw another log on the fire. It roars back to life, popping, snapping, singing its warming song. Somewhere outside, my wife and her skiing family are doing what skiers love to do. I’m fine right here, thank you very much, comfortable, warm, and counting my blessings.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His new novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon.

My wife and I took Annie, one of our grandkids, to the movies the other day to see “Wicked,” the film adaptation of the Broadway musical.  At two hours and forty minutes, it’s a long movie. It’s also dense—a complex psychological fable for our age. In case you haven’t seen it yet, I’m not going to spoil it by unraveling the plot for you. Let’s just say there’s a lot to unpack. Oh—and this rendition is only Part One; Part Two drops next year. Talk about delayed gratification!

After the movie, we returned home and ate supper in front of the TV.  At this time of year, there are a lot of Christmas movies on channels all over the map. Every year, we indulge ourselves and watch many—OK, most—of them: “White Christmas,” “It’s a Wonderful Life,” “ A Christmas Story” (my favorite), “Love Actually,” “The Grinch,” “Elf,” and, of course, “Miracle on 34th Street.” (There are some B listers, too, but we avoid those.) Anyway, the night Annie came to visit, we were scrolling through the channel list and came upon “The Sound of Music.” Maybe it’s not really a Christmas movie, but who doesn’t relish the love story of Postulate Maria (Julie Andrews) and retired Captain Gregor Von Trapp (Christopher Plummer) and the widowed Captain’s seven singing moppets. And if the love story isn’t enough, there’s also the added intrigue of the Nazi Anschluss into Austria in 1938 and the last-minute escape of the Von Trapp singers over the mountains into neutral Switzerland.

If movies are a reflection of our time and culture, we ran the gamut that day with Annie. “The Sound of Music” was released in the spring of 1965, not exactly a benign time, but decidedly prior to many of the cultural wars of the late 1960s and beyond. It’s a charming and innocent film, full of sing-along tunes, and it has a happy ending.

“Wicked,” on the other hand, is dark, and the ending—at least of Part One—is neither happy nor resolved. The principle characters—Glinda and Elphaba—each have a significant childhood backstory that informs their adult characters. Moreover, woven into the subtext of the film like the false strands of an heirloom Persian rug, there are veiled references to human (and animal) rights, political repression, thought control, and an all-powerful ruler who seems benign enough on the surface, but who, along with his power-wielding minions, reveals a much more dangerous and nefarious side. On top of all that, the music and lyrics of the songs in “Wicked” are hardly light as Austria’s Alpine air. And as for the flying monkeys who seemed comical enough in “The Wizard of Oz,” in “Wicked,” they are the stuff of vivid nightmares for children and adults alike. I’m still shaking,

At the conclusion of “The Sound of Music,” goodness triumphs over evil, at least for the Von Trapp family. But now that we’re halfway through the “Wicked” narrative, I’m not sure that good will triumph over evil, or over anything else ever again. Maybe Part Two will prove me wrong—we will all just have to wait and see.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His new novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon.

The sycamore tree in front of our house is a summer friend, but at this time of year, it tries my patience. Just yesterday, I was raking its detritus in the morning when a neighbor walked by and pointed up at all those leaves still on the bough. “Why bother?” she said. She had a point, but I looked around and muttered, “We’ve all got work to do.”

Don’t get me wrong: I like leaves as much as the next guy or gal, at least up until they become a Sisyphean chore at this time of year.  Then all that summertime shade gets dumped on the porch, on the lawn, on the sidewalk and in the gutter, and suddenly I’m under a blanket of problems. Makes me want to stay in bed, pull up the covers, and pretend it didn’t happen.

But “it” did.

Why do I even bother to rake up all this debris? Well, for starters, dead leaves block sunlight and prevent photosynthesis, the process that would provide the grass under the leaf pile with all the nutrients it would need to regenerate in the spring. In other words, all those dead and dying leaves just smother and starve my little lawn, making it difficult, if not downright impossible, for new grass to grow come April. And then there’s this: dead leaves promote disease by blocking air circulation which can lead to turf rot. So, despite all those leaves that are still clinging to the limbs above me, I pick up my rake and get back to work. There’s a lot to do.

I suppose I could just mulch all those leaves with my lawnmower. Mulching would at least turn all those downed leaves into a thin layer of organic material that would be beneficial for all the microorganisms that help to spin the cycle of life. The only problem with that strategy is its aesthetic value. A mulched-leaf lawn looks like I’m shirking my good neighbor responsibilities, plus it’s a steep and slippery slope that only leads to sloth.

Autumn is, by nature, our most melancholy season. As I rake my leaves into tidy piles, I can’t help but think of Robert Frost’s mournful poem, “Nothing Gold Can Stay:”

“Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.”

In her concession speech, Vice President Harris reminded us that this is not the time to throw up our hands, but to roll up our sleeves. So instead of listening to the pundits’ endless analyses and recriminations, I’ve decided to turn off the television for a while and work. Now, I go outside to rake leaves. There’s a certain satisfaction that comes with yard work, a sense of purpose, an end that justifies the means. I suppose i could just let all those dead leaves accumulate, but passivity makes a cold supper. Work warms.

This shadow, too, shall pass. After all, everything eventually does. The Greek philosopher Heraclitus put it this way: “the only constant is change.” The People have spoken and I will respect their loud voice. In the meantime, I’ll be outside, sleeves rolled up, raking leaves.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His new novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon.