This Day

I think the best years of my life are coming.

That is hopefully our common automatic thought, but personally I think falls into the category of politely meaningless, empty American middle-class platitudes: mundane small talk with the neighbor on Saturday over the fence. It lasts through the happy Sunday glaze of a good meal and football or whatever you relax to, only to fade on Monday morning when the alarm buzzer goes off. In the shower you itemize your week's task list mentally and all of a sudden the "best years etc." become "same-o, same-o".

But really. Seriously!

There is a good sky overhead and an excellent feeling in my heart. We are headed towards good things. Good Things!

Right now, I am in the process of being bombed by acorns from the massive oak tree that shades my deck. It is late afternoon, and aside from the intermittent but annoying drone of my neighbor's weed-wacker, it is an amazing fall day at the start of a four day weekend.

I have been looking at a small, humble tree across the street in my neighbor's yard. It catches tissue-paper strands of late afternoon light in its branches; the red and orange leaves glow like the golden letters of a medieval manuscript page. It's branches are unusual but eclectically balanced- the overall effect reminds me of a complex Chinese character. If it possessed all of it's leaves, it could replace that movie logo of the lightning -struck tree alone in a field- but it is flawed by a perfect and diametric asymmetry- the top of the tree is bare while the lower half is full.

What does that mean semiotically? I dunno.

I'll settle for a simple declaration that the tree is beautiful and that I am glad I was sitting here to see it. It wasn't even a Satori moment. Just a "cock head to the side and Hmmm.... I don't think I've ever actually SEEN that little tree before."

Sometimes, you just have to SEE things. Unfiltered, raw, SEEING. And then, you discover beauty in ordinary objects.

And with that....

 My neighbor shatters the reverie of the quiet neighborhood by murdering the weeds against his house in a casual vegetal recreation of the Valentines Day Mafia Massacre. *Eyebrow lifted* (Brother, when WAS the last time you mowed your lawn?)

Time for some new work and completion of the old.

The wind is shifting, and I like this change.

(my neighbor's tree is back to its shabby, mundane self. The light shifted during my final editing of this piece and the magical moment has passed. However, I will never see that little tree quite the same again.)

The tree below is NOT the one in my blog today, but it is an consistently amazing tree that captured the sun in  its branches earlier this summer one July evening.

A Moment of Quiet

There are times in the early morning, when the house is silent, that I think time is almost paused. A simple moment of unadulterated existence with the rising sun and a simple breeze. I am struggling to understand why I don't get to feel this more often. Why do I have to wait for labor-day weekend? Although, at the precise moment I typed those words, my sense of gratitude for the little things reminded me that 7 years ago, Labor Day at the Steinmart Shoe Department would have been one hell of a busy work day. Or, that 3 years ago, I would have not even noticed a day off at all while I walked to the chow hall in Iraq.

I do have a choice every day though. It is either to stay on the treadmill of modern life, or get the F- off by simplifying things to the bare basics. Family, a few friends, the pursuit of a full and rich life- that is the focus. Unfortunately, we get so caught up in our societal conditioning that we pack our lives full of action that we forget how to simply "BE".

Life runs us after a while, and it runs us into the ground.

Just the other day, my nine year old daughter Emma had a gloomy expression on her face. When I asked her why, she explained that her best friend told her she would only be able to play on the weekends during the school year because of her busy schedule. Between dance lessons, ballet, music lessons, swim class, and horseback riding, their friendship would have to be on hold from Monday to Friday. This saddened me. Her friend is an amazing little girl, but I see her being carved into that sad American mirage of success. Maybe I'm just not wealthy, and I don't understand that truly successful people need all this formation to reach their dreams in their mid-thirties, but I think it is a Pyrrhic victory. Aren't the late thirties and early forties of  most upper middle-class Americans the time of mid-life crisis and when most people find a regular therapist? Maybe if they spent a little more time "living" than pursuing their goals they would find that the act of truly living life "awake" has rewards that far exceed any "fast-track" gain.

All this is temporary.

I almost quoted the Bible, but I decided paraphrasing it in the colloquial might have more punch: The guy who owns the world at the expense of trading in his soul is one stupid motherf-er. I was going to add in the adjective "sad", but when you buddy-f yourself, than there is an automatic exemption of sympathy for people who stick it to themselves because they choose to.

He's stupid because he bought something worthless by trading the only priceless thing he had. It would be like selling your living body forever into slavery in exchange for a portrait of yourself as the king of the world. Stupid. He is a motherf-er by defaming his life's purpose- why should his mother suffered her pain at childbirth if he is to trade his life away in casual indifference for insignificant and transient gain?

We all grow old, we all retire. Every one of us is replaceable. Even folks who seem to possess eternal fame like Alexander the Great,Queen Elizabeth I, George Washington, etc.- they are but the personalization of myths and archetypes  of generations, figureheads for the yearning of countless individuals who have struggled towards inaccessible satisfaction. Despite the achievements, their hands shook when they died, and two days after death their bodies had a terrible smell. When you consider the millions of people who have lived and whose names are forgotten, our egg-shell lives become very precious to us. Making a good, rich life is all that should matter to us. We should exist for the pure sake of living a beautiful life and passing that legacy to our children.

On a personal note, this entire conversation with Emma took place in a fantastic fort that Emma created with sheets, safety pins and every article of furniture in her room. From the doorway, it looks like a bomb went off, but if you get down and crawl through the secret doorway, she made a house within a house, creating a posh Persian princess two room suite. I might not have Emma running on the American Success treadmill, but if she comes up with such magnificent creativity, I think we are on the right track.

In the end, my life is what I make of it. True, I live in this house of cards society, and since I have a family, we must affect a compromise with the gods of society to survive. However, I can choose to throw a football with my son after school rather than immerse myself in the television. I can jump off the tree on the rope swing with Emma rather than immerse myself in Facebook. Ultimately, I have a time account that is topped off every night with 24 fresh hours, only 8 to 10 of which are dedicated to working. In regard to the others, they are my own.

If you want a unique view of this, read "How to Live on 24 hours a Day". Great little book. Here is the wiki link: How to Live on 24 Hours a Day

As Paul Harvey said, Good Day!