I’ve given up on winning the lottery as a major portion of my retirement program.
I no longer allow myself a weekend to complete an entire redo of lawn, complete with water feature, on our 1 acre back yard.
The next great American novel will not be mine.
The octogenarians won’t be leaving the house next week.
I’ll never pass for forty-five again.
The SWMBO and her family will never learn to appreciate my little contributions.
There just comes a time when you have to be practical, realistic (not to be confused with anything Kardasian) and accept the world and everything in it for what it is.
I’ll budget the meager pension, put in the 3 or 4 hours-a-day that I can with mower or shovel, struggle to find a few words for this blog, continue to give up more space for the octogenarian’s pleasure, will look like seventy long before I get there and smile and nod when the SWMBO is praised for her sacrifices.
Yes, I’ll just have accept things as they are, no more fanciful thoughts, bring an end to the magical thinking.
It’s a pity that neither the SWMBO, the octogenarians, their elder son (J the Pompous, now staying with his parents for a few weeks) can’t fit on the tree stump (it’s a single seat stump you see) nor have the desire, by the weed garden next to the culvert that gurgles with the rush of the night’s rain.
Round and about the one seat stump, the feral gerbils (Jerry the Swift and Curious, Henrietta the Lovely and Oscar the Huge and Laughing) we all wait for the bright light of early morning; me with my oh-so-strong black coffee and gerbils with the peanuts I almost thought I might eat.
If you listen with a special ear the sounds around that stump it resemble the sound of an orchestra preparing for a concert and this concert is like no other.
The dragon flies buzz about until they light on the rocks bordering the weed garden to dry their wings; light breezes blow that spin the umbrella of the delicate lady whirligig and then the wind section rises up…through the leaves and the branches.
This morning’s piece was a prelude to Autumn, with the tell-tale hint of a crackle in the leaves as colours changed, the shuffling on the lawn of the leaves that had already fallen. Soon the beautiful long low notes of the grasses and vines join in.
With both hands around my cup, afraid to spill a drop, miss a note or overlook a single movement of all around me. The morning’s breeze to unseen conductor entered from the east today and was soon prepared to make his exit when a choral ensemble, heavenly voices, entered.
If I had half an ear I would have said they were pitch perfect, singing in a language for some distant land. Each note, word painted pictures of beauty and compassion, love unimaginable.
Terry (the Swift and Curious) and I looked around for the origin and all I saw, thought I saw, was the reflection of the morning light in the dew. As I watched the glistening lights on grass and flowers, they blinked and winked and danced about and for an instant here a moment there from behind the lights…a smile.
All about tiny, beautiful, no, wondrous creatures that soon, too soon, rode away on dragon flies,
No more magical thinking for me; its just a shame that so few people see the world as it really is.
Peace out pilgrim