All of this time zone switching is upsetting our circadian rhythms. Let’s pick one time zone and stick with it.
A traffic sign outside of the local fire station flashes a reminder: “Change your clocks, change your smoke detector batteries.” It’s a clever association, but I would argue that only one of these periodic tasks is necessary. Smoke detectors save lives. I’m happy to spend an hour per year installing fresh batteries so that I won’t be awoken at 3:00 in the morning by a periodic chirp from who knows where in the house. But “springing forward” and “falling backward” jars our circadian rhythms. Why do we continue to do this to ourselves?
There are several urban myths purporting to explain why we change our clocks. One has it that shifting clocks forward gives farmers more daylight to work their fields in the summer. Another theory has it that changing clocks back in the fall makes it lighter—and therefore safer—for school children to board buses and walk to school early in the morning. Flashlights, anyone? Yet another story has it that we save energy in the summer by leaving our lights off until later in the evening. This seems to be loosely related to the legend that Benjamin Franklin advocated for people to arise earlier, so that they would make better use of morning light, and consequently burn fewer candles. But I have yet to see any compelling evidence that changing our clocks helps us. A growing body of evidence suggests that it does not.
How many clocks do you change twice per year? I change seven (not including my iPhone and my computer, which are smart enough to change themselves). I’ve got a watch. An old digital clock radio. The clock in my camera. My microwave oven. My regular oven. A manual wall clock in the kitchen. The clock in my car. Don’t get me wrong—I’m deeply grateful for each of these luxuries. But each of them has its own peculiar way of setting the time, and some of them are less intuitive than others (I’m looking at you, Hyundai).
As silly and monotonous as this chore seems, I’m not opposed to doing the work. I like to tinker with things, so I find messing around with clocks to be enjoyable on a certain level. But I am loath to endure what amounts to bureaucratically imposed jet lag twice per year. We humans are sensitive creatures. Furthermore, we are not the only things that are impacted by this biannual ritual–consider all the time-dependent software that stands to go awry. A few years ago my iPhone’s calendar events got mixed up for days after a time change.
I agree with Tom Emswiler, who argues that we in Massachusetts should defect from our time zone, and join the Atlantic Standard Time Zone (one hour ahead of Eastern Time) year-round. It makes sense—New England is farther east than many other states on the Eastern Seaboard. Among other sound arguments, Emswiler cites a study published in the New England Journal of Medicine which found that heart attacks increased for three days in the spring following the start of daylight saving time. That “lost hour” may be fraught with deeper repercussions than the modern productivity-oriented mindset understands or wants to admit.
I realize that time is an abstract, and that nothing is really changing but our “framing” of it. Clouds, trees, fish, and birds (apart from the cuckoo) don’t pay attention to what clocks say. But when society decides that a store opens at 9, employers say that work starts at 8, and a friend wants to meet for lunch at noon, we have little choice but to adopt the new frame when it changes.
But what if we didn’t? What if we stopped trying to change time? We would do well to heed the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson who said, “Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience.” In the context of timekeeping, we could be more patient with the short days of winter and the long days of summer, accept the strengths and limitations of each part of the cycle in the particular place where we live, and embrace the ebb and flow of light through the seasons without jolting our biological rhythms in the process.
I’ve come out of retirement. I’m playing hockey again, and loving it.
In an earlier post, I announced my retirement from the hockey league I’d been playing in for several years. Well, that didn’t last very long. No sooner had my equipment dried than I’d developed a hankering to skate again. I’ll stop short of saying that hockey is an addiction. But I will say that I had sorely underestimated its importance in my life.
Previously I had adopted the view that I was getting older, my body was becoming more frail, and I needed to protect myself from physical harm. While this may be true, it’s even more important that I work hard to counteract the perils of a sedentary desk job, and exercise intensely so that my heart stays strong. Playing hockey does this. I would argue that hockey also teaches virtues that can be applied in life outside the rink: balance, patience, sacrifice, teamwork, humility, effort, effort, and more effort.
The key for me has been to find an independent group less rough and competitive than the league I had been playing in previously. Thankfully, I have found such a group.
We all dress together, and teams are formed anew every time we skate. There is greater variety, and more camaraderie than competitiveness. The level of play is as high as I’ve ever known, but the stakes are lower. We don’t keep score, and there are no penalties or referees. We’re simply a bunch of adults who are out to have fun, and prove nothing.
The next time I’m tempted to tell you that “I’m going to hang up the skates,” I will keep my delusions to myself.
Portraits I painted of Paul Revere, W.E.B. Du Bois, Emily Dickinson, and Robert Frost
In the mid-1990s, I painted and installed three portraits—Paul Revere, W.E.B. Du Bois, and Emily Dickinson—in the outdoor seating area at Rao’s Café in Amherst, MA. (Which has since been rebranded as Share.) In 2010, I added Robert Frost to the lineup. Each of these people was associated in some way with Massachusetts.
Emily Dickinson (1830–1886), colloquially known as the Belle of Amherst, was a poet known for her reclusiveness. I once lived in a house directly across the street from where she had lived. I was inspired by her mystique, and by the fact that the magnitude of her work wasn’t discovered and published until after her death.
Paul Revere (1734–1818) was a silversmith and patriot from Boston, Massachusetts. He famously rode his horse from Boston out to Lexington and Concord to alert his fellow American militiamen that the British forces were invading, prior to the battles of Lexington and Concord. When I visit Boston, I enjoy walking around in the North End, where his house has been preserved.
Robert Frost (1874–1963) was a poet and educator from San Francisco, California. When he was eleven, he and his family moved to Massachusetts. Eventually he ended up teaching English at Amherst College, where I lived for many years. Of the four historical heroes, Robert Frost was from a more “modern” era, so I decided to give his portrait a more colorful treatment than the others.
As an aside, when I was in fourth grade, I memorized and recited his poem, The Road Not Taken.
A painting based upon a family portrait taken in 1895
This painting is based upon a Meek family portrait taken in 1895 in Berryville, Arkansas (I’ve never been there). My grandfather gave me a copy of the photograph, and I’ve been fascinated by it ever since.
Clockwise from the top-left are my Aunt May, my Great-Great Grandfather Roy Meek, Aunt Rena, Uncle Minton, Minton’s wife Belle, Their child Leigh, and my Great-Great-Great Grandparents Meek. I love imagining their world without cars, computers or cell phones; their world of deep clean breaths and unfathomably bright stars. What would our conversations be like? How much would we have in common?
Painted in 2005-6; acrylic on canvas; 40 inches by 50 inches; framed in a simple black-stained wood frame. Private collection; not for sale.
A story about my relationship with the great sport of ice hockey, and my short-lived retirement from organized play.
When I was a kid, I played one season of ice hockey as a Toronto Maple Leaf at the Mites level. The Atlanta Flames were my hometown’s professional team at the time, and hockey was popular enough to support a vibrant youth program in what was at that time one of the few southern cities to host an NHL team. My dad (who also played amateur hockey) took me to see a lot of Flames games at the Omni, and we sat right behind one of the goals—literally in the first or second row. I got to see some of The Greats—Bobby Orr, Phil Esposito, Bobby Clarke, Curt Bennett (need I say more?)—playing at close range, smashing into the glass sans-helmet (back when that was allowed), seventies hair flowing in the breeze. In between the periods, I was one of the kids to whom referees would sometimes toss game pucks over the glass. In a box in an attic somewhere, I must still have one or two of those pucks, and autographs of several of the Flames.
Hockey is a sport of contrasts. As a mild-mannered, peace loving guy, I am as conflicted about the brutal and aggressive aspects of the sport as I am enthralled with its beauty and regalia. The code of honor between the players. The beautiful graphic design and colors of the uniforms, set against a brilliant field of snowy white. The sheer grace of the dance on skates. The speed. The strategy. The skill. The uniqueness and obscurity of it. The crispness of the cold air. The bravery. The adrenaline. The passion. The pizza. (Okay, I digress.)
I don’t remember whether, after one season, I quit playing of my own accord, or whether my parents couldn’t afford to keep buying bigger and bigger skates and pads to keep up with their growing boy. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I fell in love with the sport, and always thought that I had played it better than any other organized sport I had played as a kid (which consisted of soccer, basketball, and baseball).
Later on in my childhood, I had a notion to try out for football, a seemingly more accessible sport than hockey, but one I had never played before. I didn’t even like football very much, but many of my peers were playing it, and for some reason, I got it in my mind that I should play too. But a strange thing happened when I arrived at the tryouts: I freaked out. I panicked. I chickened out. I cried. I hid behind the bleachers. The sight of all those kids confidently playing a sport I didn’t yet know how to play filled me with angst. The prospect of embarrassment was terrifying. I ended up begging my mom to take me home, before I ever set foot on the field. In her motherly compassion, she obliged. (Thanks, Mom!)
As trivial as that incident seemed, it stuck with me over the years, staying safely stowed away in that part of my heart where I stow such things. Even as adulthood offered more meaningful opportunities for me to develop my competence and self confidence, I occasionally recalled that time of self doubt, and I imagined it symbolizing something I needed to overcome at some point, when the opportunity presented itself.
On a wing and a prayer, I moved to New England in my early twenties, and ice sports once again entered my consciousness. I lived not far from an outdoor rink that the Town of Amherst maintained during the winters, and I occasionally played pick-up hockey with the locals. Later, while studying art at the University of Massachusetts, my studio space was located in the legendary Art Barn, just a stone’s throw from the Mullins Center ice rink. For several semesters, I managed to finagle my class schedule such that I could ice skate every weekday at the noontime public skating session. I got really good at skating during that time. It was meditation. All of that time on the ice gave me a lot of time to reflect on and romanticize my childhood hockey experience. I often thought about how cool it would be to play again someday. But when? And how?
A few years back, as my fortieth birthday approached, it hit me: THIS was my time to start striking things off my bucket list. Trying out for an amateur hockey team served a dual purpose. It gave me a chance once again to play the sport I had played and loved as a kid, and it gave me a chance to revisit the aforementioned football tryout shame incident, and this time, to push through and overcome the fear. I am happy to report that the whole venture has been incredibly worthwhile and successful on both of those levels. I have made some good friends, and have achieved a difficult goal that I set for myself. (Did I mention that playing hockey is difficult?) Playing has kept me in pretty decent shape, and—I would argue—has contributed to my physical dexterity and mental sharpness.
But some good things must come to an end*, and I’m beginning to feel the toll that an intensely physical sport can take on a body. My injuries over the past handful of seasons have been fairly minor, thankfully. Some bumps and bruises and a puck to the chest. One painful hip pointer that lasted a half a year or so. Other people in my league have not been so fortunate. A couple of guys have sustained pretty serious and bloody accidental skate-slicings in the last two seasons (one in the forearm and one in the thigh) and there have been a few garden variety busted knees, snapped tendons and the like. Amazingly, no lost teeth (the smart guys like me wear the full bird-cage face masks on our helmets). Ours is a fairly collegial, gentlemanly, no-check league in which referees are strict and fighting is not tolerated. But hockey is fast, and incidental contact is unavoidable. I want to get out before my number comes up!
While I am a little emotional about my pending retirement, I have no regrets about bowing out of the league honorably at this point, and I will leave with my head held high. I’ve represented the forty-something crowd quite respectably, skating head-to-head with, and scoring goals against kids half my age. I’m sure I will continue to play informal shinny and pond hockey when available. But I am looking forward to reclaiming my Saturday nights from this long-standing commitment. Saturday nights I will henceforth spend working in my studio, visiting with friends, adventuring, reading and relaxing at home, possibly watching hockey, and maybe—just maybe—updating my website from time to time.
Saturday, February 25th, 2012, at 8:00 p.m. in Greenfield, Massachusetts, I will play my last regular-season game as a winger with the Canadiens of the Greenfield Adult Hockey League. Then the following Saturday, playoffs begin. If we lose the first game of the playoffs, it’s over. I’m done. If we win, my team goes on to play a best-of-three series for the championship. Which ever way it goes, I can’t wait to play my heart and lungs out, then retire #11.
My website—tracemeek.com—has been online since February 7, 2001.
While reviewing and organizing some old digital files and accounts recently, I was both startled and overjoyed when I stumbled across a reminder that this website—tracemeek.com—had been online for over a decade. Since February 7, 2001, to be exact.
And then a twinge of sadness crept over me. Ten years seemed like an auspicious anniversary to have let slip by with such little fanfare. Where have I been? What have I been doing? How did I get this far? So I thought I would make amends by writing a little about this site’s history, and by recommitting to its future development. This also serves as the inaugural long-form essay in my second decade online, and coincides with the launch of a brand new website.
My formative years on the Web
Back in the late 1990s when I first went online, I was a recent college graduate and artist working in an art-related manufacturing industry. I saw the Web as an opportunity to promote my art work to a wider audience than I had previously known. Being a do-it-yourselfer, I set about learning how to build my own online art portfolio.
I quickly outgrew iTools (Apple’s WYSIWYG webpage creation tool at the time), yet the prospect of hand coding a site using a text editor (SimpleText) was still a little daunting. A coworker with friends in the web design industry told me that she had heard good things about Macromedia (now Adobe) Dreamweaver. So I bought the software and built my first real site by trial and error, reading everything I could about web design along the way, and loving every minute of it.
By today’s standards the code under the hood of my first site was disastrous, but I was online, Baby, and there was no looking back.
Rumblings of change
At some point along the way I began to see another opportunity emerge: a potential new career path. “If I can build a website for myself,” I thought, “I can build websites for other people, and make a better living doing something I enjoy.” The barriers to entry seemed relatively low: I wouldn’t need to go to the equivalent of law school or medical school in order to build a legitimate web design practice. I discovered websites like A List Apart (ALA) that published free (and priceless) articles that helped me to learn the art, the science, and the trade of web design. ALA was founded by Jeffrey Zeldman, a pioneer of publishing on the web and the preeminent champion of Web Standards.
In and of itself, this course of self study probably would have sufficed, but in order to gain more in-depth technical knowledge, build professional credibility, and academically affirm what I was already learning on my own, I entered and completed a Master CIW Designer professional certification program at STCC, worked an internship, scored a couple of freelance gigs, landed my first real design job, then the rest was history.
Consequently, at some point during the early aughts my site entered its adolescence (or was it extended childhood?) with an awkward multiple identity: fine art portfolio, aspiring mural painting business, and web design business, all lumped together under the label of Creative Services. My accountant assured me that it made sense on paper, but I struggled for several years with the breadth of the endeavor. While such diverse Creative Services may be an apt metaphor for my oeuvre—the spirit of my life’s work—it did not make for the most cogent business model, and ultimately proved to be unsustainable. So I contented myself with my role as an in-house web designer, which it turns out is not a bad place to be.
To blog or not to blog? That was the question.
Later I blogged in fits and starts (briefly in 2003, and again from 2007-2009), but ultimately scrapped those projects while I still had some water left in the proverbial well. Both my personal and professional life were in flux, so I choose a handful of priorities to receive the lion’s share of my attention. I needed to put writing on the back burner for a while, but I pledged to resume the practice when it fit more comfortably into my life. I wasn’t finding my public Voice then, and that was OK. It was the right battle, but at the wrong time.
Nor did I fully comprehended the scale of the Web—the fact that I wouldn’t be writing for just myself, friends, family, and business associates, but potentially for a worldwide audience. The responsibility of having such a global voice was intimidating. Would my small town musings seem petty on this big important world stage? How would I forge a connection? How would I keep trolls and stalkers at bay? How would I avoid being perceived as one? Already I’d had mixed success in attempting to befriend my heroes online. I had only experienced real-world rejection up to that point; would I be able to handle a whole new flood of potential rejection on a worldwide scale?
And then there were the technical considerations of blogging. At the time, I had not yet experienced the joys (and the heartaches) of wrangling with content management systems (CMSs), so I wasn’t quite ready to redevelop my site using one of these platforms. Needless to say, manually managing a growing body of content became laborious.
So I poured my energy into other creative pursuits. All the while I’ve been engaged in the Web and its people. But I’ve been listening, reading, commenting, and storing up energy more than I have been speaking up. It is possible that this may eventually change. Exposing our ideas to the judgment of others is a risk that we take living in this world. For all its ills, social media has given us a gift: the permission to express ourselves extemporaneously on the web.
Happy (social) medium?
Oh sure, I use the microblogging and third party sharing platforms—the Twitters, the Flickrs, the Facebooks, and what have you. These are hardly a substitute for one’s own personal/professional website, but with their built-in communities and their occasionally well-designed tools, they do enable one to develop a form of “web presence” without having to build a website from scratch.
On Twitter, I often feel like I’m hollering (or whispering) into the Abyss (à la the movie Garden State) rather than personally connecting. Still, it seems meaningful enough to be worthwhile. Like little mental calisthenics or musical scales, I can develop my voice without the more intense responsibility of gestating ideas into more fully-fledged essays. That’s not to say that there haven’t been golden moments on Twitter. I’ve been moved by certain tweets (1, 2, 3, 4). And there have been more than a few tweets that have helped me to solve a work problem or to better understand an issue relevant to my career, government, or society.
On Facebook it’s more personal. I put a lot more thought into the work that I share there, and the way I interact. On Facebook, people feel more familiar. But I still measure my words.
Long before I tiptoed into sharing via these relatively new sharing services, I contributed photos to the Mirror Project (1999-2005), a photographic community curated by the inimitable Heather Champ. And I lurked around the fringes of Fray—a magazine of true stories and original art edited by Derek Powazek. There, I interloped and read, but did not contribute; I dreamt of a day when I would be so bold as to comfortably and confidently express myself in this brave new medium. Little did I know that self-expression would rarely be comfortable.
But for all the wonders that these online communities have wrought, I have been longing for something more. A property of my own. A place to be. Preferably with a wraparound screened-in porch, crickets, and stars at night. Near a pond to skate on in the winter. Hopefully this will be it. Or an integral part of it.
And then there is mortality
One of the aspects of life that starts to hit home the longer you live is that more and more people you know and love die. Some leave by way of tragic accident, well before their rightful time. Others succumb to disease. Still others simply live to a ripe old age and follow the rules of DNA to their peaceful repose. As profound and sad as the loss of these significant individuals is, it is no more nor any less than an inevitable part of life—the life that we are all a part of and will ultimately manifest in our own way, in our own time.
So part of the impetus here may be to leave a bit of a legacy. If I can share something that teaches or enlightens someone (including myself) or brings a smile or a laugh or a tear, then I will have succeeded, and the building of this site will have been worth the effort. Otherwise, I’ll just have all of these ideas swimming around in my head—not doing anyone any good—until that great day of reckoning.
But to keep things in perspective, this website will be impermanent as well. At some point the delivery formats may change, the servers may crash, I will stop breathing and will consequently stop paying my web hosting bill, and this site will shut down. And that will be OK. Then again, it is possible that at some point there will be a sort of a massive free archiving system (Google?) that will prolong the inevitable erasure for a hundred or a thousand years. More likely, this will all go the way of Yahoo! Geocities and the eight-track tape. Sometimes, in spite of our noblest efforts, things stop working and we just have to let go.
But I am not ready to let go just yet
Bringing this full-circle, my intention with this website re-dedication is simple. Be myself. Welcome you. Hopefully entertain. Get some of these ideas out of my head and onto the digital paper. My inner idealistic 20-something still wants to save the world through his art, but a more seasoned me has begun to accept that more modest goals may illuminate more sustainable paths. And I’ve grown to feel that simplicity and happiness are noble goals in and of themselves. I will end this essay with one of my favorite quotes, which is a nice touchstone for any endeavor, but particularly for the creative efforts that I publish to this website: