I climbed the mountain this morning. It wasn't the greatest day for it - chilly, dark, and overcast, with a rainy drizzle from time to time. It's been that way for the past couple of days, and so has my mood.

I needed the mountain this morning, though, despite the lack of optimal weather for mountainclimbing. I needed to wax philosophic, and a mountaintop is the best place for doing that sort of thing. What good fortune it is that I have one right outside my door.

I'm not sure whether I believe there is such an animal as love at first sight. At certain times during my life, I've felt its presence strongly and have been absolutely certain that it existed. At other times, it has seemed invisible, leaving the feeling that it has been nothing more than a figment of my imagination all along.

I think it's actually a form of narcissism. Logic would dictate that it should be impossible to fall in love with someone without really knowing them. It's entirely possible that we merely see someone new as a blank slate upon which to project those qualities we want them to have because those same qualities are lacking in ourselves.

If that's the case, the Bard pounded the nail squarely in A Midsummer Night's Dream: "Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; and therefore is winged cupid painted blind."

How poetically depressing...

A great deal of my life has been spent between periods of women being upset with me. In fact, my life can be divided into separate and distinct time periods, much as our planet's life can be divided into geological epochs, based upon who was upset with me at any given moment.

Now, there's another. Sarah and I have parted ways.

It wasn't sudden. Nor was it unexpected. It's common knowledge that long-distance relationships are difficult and take a great deal of commitment from both parties, so the odds were stacked against us from the start.

We had a great run - a year and a half - but that doesn't mean much. After all, a marathoner who drops out of the race within sight of the finish line accomplishes just as much as if he'd never started.

It wasn't her choice. It was mine, though I'm positive that she and I could have done the happily ever after thing, had I held my tongue. She pressed for answers, and I had to admit to her that I'm in love with someone else. It wouldn't have been fair to lie.

She took it hard, though she understands. She had to make a similiar decision not long ago. She's walked the requisite mile in my shoes, she told me, so she knows it wasn't easy for me to let the truth be known.

The disheartening twist is that there's no chance I'll ever be with this other person. It's a cruel game the fates play, no?

While I was at the summit, I saw a hawk hop from a treetop near the bottom of the mountain and glide uphill on an updraft, wings outstretched the whole distance, until he passed overhead and disappeared down the other side. It seemed a metaphorical irony (or possibly an ironic metaphor, but I'm in no condition to debate the topic at present) that my climb up the mountainside had been so long and slippery and difficult, and that he managed to accomplish the same feat in just a few seconds by casting himself into the air and holding perfectly still.

It brought to mind the words of John Keats when he first set eyes upon the Elgin Marbles:

I'm allowing myself to wallow in nostalgia this afternoon, longing for the one thing I can never have, and holding out hope in the thought that tomorrow's another day.

I'm taking a lesson from the hawk. I'm holding perfectly still.

Story of my life.

Serendipity. That's what it was then, and that's what it is now. History repeats itself.

I own more books than many small-town public libraries. I have a library in my basement, and one upstairs, and all about the house, there are shelves and shelves of books. I've bought them in bulk at estate auctions in the hope that one or two gems might be found among the junk in the half-ton box I end up loading in the back of my car. I've ordered them by the dozen from Amazon and bought them by the hundreds on eBay. I've scarfed them up at library sales, inherited them, and forgotten to return so many that I've borrowed that I'm ashamed to even estimate how many.

Yesterday afternoon, I was rooting around in the basement looking for a particular book in which I needed to look up a quotation. While I was lamenting the fact that I've never been fastidious enough to organize my collection, I came across a copy of a book which I thought I'd lost or given away, or more likely, lent to someone who never returned it. It's a book that holds sentimental value for me, so I was delighted to find it.

That was today's serendipitous discovery. The origin of its sentimental value was another great serendipitous find.

Two or three years after I graduated from college, I was in New York City for a friend's wedding. I had just gotten over a cold, which had sapped most of my stamina such that I couldn't keep up with the wanton excesses in which my friends expended great amounts of energy indulging.

After we had spent an afternoon running hither an yon in the big city, my friends hatched a plan to spend the evening attempting to drain every drop of alcohol out of Lower Manhattan by transporting it out in their bloodstreams. By then, I was exhausted and hadn't the strength to assist, so I begged my way out of the venture.

Despite their heckling comments calling my manhood into question, I was steadfast and they finally relented. Assuring me that I would be missing out on the party of a lifetime, an absence they all agreed I'd regret for years afterward, they set out for their night of swashbuckling.

As they faded into the distance, I decided to go out for some dinner before retiring for the evening. Just around the corner from my hotel, there was a Italian restaurant from which enticing aromas had wafted through the neighborhood, and I thought it would be the perfect place to dine quietly in the company of a good book.

I had just purchased a copy of Bluebeard, which was, at that time, the latest offering from Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. Vonnegut was a hero to most among the group of friends from whom I had abstained from joining in God-only-knows what sort of mischief they were likely to commit that night. Though Vonnegut was one of my favorite authors, I didn't hold him in nearly as high regard as they did. To them, Vonnegut was a deity, and to them, my settling in to read his latest novel would have been, had they paused to think about it, the equivalent of studying holy scripture.

I tucked Mr. Vonnegut under my arm and strolled around the corner, eager to sample some of the dishes whose alluring odors held such great promise, only to discover that several million people intent on dining at the same restaurant had lined up outside prior to my arrival.

I joined the line and pondered my options, finally resolving that the wait would be worth it. Besides, I had not yet cracked the spine on Bluebeard, so I had a good book with which to pass the time.

As it turned out, the wait was not as lengthy as I had feared. Between the restaurant's efficiency at feeding people and the attrition among the less patient ahead of me in line, I was in the door in just under thirty minutes.

Inside, there awaited a different problem, however. Apparently - and I suppose this makes sense in terms of feeding masses of people, all of whom are hungry and eager to eat at the same time - a lone diner is not well-received at such establishments. Three empty chairs at a table designed to seat four doesn't hold a great deal of promise for a waitress receiving a healthy tip, nor for a restaurant making any profit on such a scarce tab.

I was told I'd have to wait and was invited to sit at the bar (which, at that point, was still well-stocked since my friends had not yet worked their way that far back up Manhattan by then), when a gentleman a few paces behind me in line said that he was there alone, as well, and asked if I'd mind sharing a table with him. I turned around and found myself face-to-face with Kurt Vonnegut. How could I refuse?

We had a fantastic dinner. We talked about Bluebeard, and New York, and how great the Pesce alla Romana was, and we snatched bites of food off of each other's plates. We ordered a bottle of wine and relaxed and gorged ourselves on Zabaglione and the best Tiramisu ever made.

We were having so much fun that we ordered another bottle of wine and proceeded to eat about six more desserts each, finally capping it off with a cappuccino and declaring ourselves completely gorged two hours after we had first been seated.

He insisted on paying for my dinner, and after the waitress disappeared with his credit card to settle our bill, he autographed my book for me, making it one of my most prized possessions.

Over Bloody Marys and nursing tremendous hangovers the next morning, my friends rehashed their evening for me, telling me of all the wonderous things I'd missed (which, as far as I could tell, was merely the opportunity to watch them drink themselves to ruin and get thrown out of bar after bar), and I didn't have the heart to tell them about my dinner companion. To this day, I it remains a secret.

It is this same book, the autographed copy of Bluebeard, which serendipity led me to discover in my basement yesterday, and it was serendipity which led to my chance encounter with its author two decades ago.

Serendipity. That's what it was then, and that's what it is now.

I wonder if Jesus made a habit of leaving the door open whenever he walked into someone's house just so they'd say, "Hey! close the door! Were you born in a barn or something?" and he could say, "Why, yes. In fact, I was."

Everything happens for a reason. Of this, I am solidly convinced. As certain as I am about it, however, I have no choice but to acknowledge that the reasons are rarely apparent.

Two weeks ago, I wrote about a huge decision I might have to make in the aftermath of learning that I was a possible match to serve as a kidney donor for a 12-year-old boy in need of a transplant (if you missed the post, it's here).

During my meeting with the doctors, nurses, and transplant counselors, I was given a lot of information on the risks involved so that I could make an informed choice in the matter. I was cautioned against making a snap decision I might later regret and urged to take suffcient time to fully consider the possibilities.

This I did. Although I felt comfortable with the idea of going through with it at first, I ignored that initial reaction and forced myself to think more guardedly about it.

A few days ago, I came to a final decision.

Though I've had a few scares here and there, I've always enjoyed good health. I've never had surgery. I've never even been in the hospital, in fact, save for a couple of emergency room visits with broken bones and cuts which required needle and thread to repair. Though there have been numerous incidents in which, through my own stupidity, I could easily have joined all the other idiots in the Darwin Award club, I have somehow managed to live through each to see the sun rise on a new day.

The net result of my ruminations over this decision is that I now realize just how charmed is this life I have lived.

By contrast, this child who needs a kidney has just barely set out on life's journey. It certainly adds perspective when I consider just how young he is - I have pairs of blue jeans older than he is - and the shitty genetic luck that fate has thrown his way at such a young age. At just over a decade old, he's faced with a life-threatening health problem. Time, which seemingly slides past me unnoticed, is his mortal enemy. With the passage of each day, he becomes a little more aware that death might soon come knocking.

It's not about being a hero. It's about paying the universe back for the good fortune I've enjoyed. In the overall scheme of things, after all, I don't own this body I occupy. I'm merely borrowing it. I'm merely taking it out for a Sunday drive and taking in the sights, so when the time comes to make a sacrifice, I'm not in any position to complain. How thankless that would be. So, my decision was made to go through with it, to make someone else's ride along the highway of life a little less bumpy.

I got the call this morning. I'm not a match.

May God be with you, kid. I doubt it can be any consolation to know that I'd have done it if I could, but the old saying "It's the thought that counts" probably doesn't mean much, from your vantage point. You'll be in my prayers, though, because it seems that's all I can do, now.

I am.

I have not always been.

At some future time, I will no longer be.

But for now, I am.

Click Image To Enlarge

The first snowflake of the season has fallen. When I climbed into my car this morning, it was awaiting me on my windshield, a tiny frozen hexagram from heaven.

Snow makes me listless. It drives me indoors and makes me want to curl up and smell the furniture. It's a vestigial hibernation instinct, I think, a leftover from prehistoric ancestors whose only means of dealing with cold weather was to find a cave and descend into the bowels of the Earth to await spring.

This legacy affects me more than most, for some reason. I was one of those schoolchildren who believed that there is a fundamental constitutional right to get out of school as soon as the first flake fell. I still feel that way. Old habits are hard to break, I suppose.

Unfortunately, this morning's single snowflake represented, as best I can tell, the entire snowstorm - I haven't seen any evidence of any others like it - which means that today, we've broken the record for the lowest snowfall in the area.

I was exceptionally bored, today. I didn't feel like doing any of the things I needed to do, so I decided to tinker around a bit with my blog template to kill time. There were a couple of things I'd been meaning to change for a while, now, and I made a few changes here, a few there, and the next thing I knew, I had a completely new blog template.

There are still a few bugs here and there, but I'll iron those out tomorrow (which means that my slacking off today has created a whole new list of things I can do to procrastinate tomorrow - neat how that works, huh?).

I've checked the new template on all the major browsers and things seem to work okay, but if you notice any glaring malfunctions, please let me know.

A couple of people have e-mailed me asking where I found the cartoon Shakespeare NaBloPoMo Winner Graphic in my sidebar. I created it myself, and you're free to use it if you like. Just follow these instructions:

1. Copy the image file below and save it on your computer:
   
   
   
   
   Windows Users: Right-click on the image, click "Save Image As..." and save it in a handy place on your computer.
   
   Mac Users: Click and hold on the image, then click "Save this image as..." and save it in a handy place on your computer.
   
   
2. Upload the file to flickr or other image sharing service you might use.
   
   
3. Copy and paste the following snippet of HTML code where you'd like the image to appear in your blog template:
   
   
   <a href="http://nablopomo.ning.com/"><img src="http://yourimageurl.com/imagefile.jpg" alt="" width="150px" height="110px" border="0" /></a>
   
   
4. Upload your updated blog template to your blog service the same way you normally would.