Water the Garden

I am leaning over to explore the contents of the frozen food refrigerator looking for spinach. As usual I am appalled by the prices. Irritated I straighten up to consider moving back to the country and starting a truck farm. This sudden movement puts me right in the middle of the narrow supermarket aisle and an elderly woman in a wheelchair has to brake abruptly to avoid a collision. After my apology went unheard, I returned to my search. 

I am looking blankly at bags of Brussels sprouts, chard, and peas, totally distracted and affected by the incident. Immediately I feel like a schmuck for not only for my lapse of awareness, but the plight of the infirm and elderly as well. Remembering how quickly Dad slid into dementia, losing most of his ability to move and take care of himself, I consider my pathetic circumstance. 

Coming to the conclusion that it is of greater importance to me that quality bests longevity. Like the old riddle about the truckload of nickels or the half-truckload of dimes, I will take a shorter life full of value over a longer one with little, ahem, any day of the week. 

Pragmatically, that means that every day moving forward needs to be filled with value. There is no time to lose, not a moment to spare. Those things I have always wanted to do?

Do them. No matter the cost and despite the challenge in logistics, scheduling or how it may or may not set fire to my comfort zone. 

Despite yesterday’s post about my health issues, I am still fit and healthy. In the demographic context,  with aero stats to verify, I sit comfortably in the top ten percent, maybe five. I can do pretty much whatever I choose, even if that means at a lessor speed, or with compromised agility, flexibility or range of motion. I remain firmly under the spell of that old black magic we call competition and enjoy the race, the chase, as much as the next, gulp, guy collecting social security. I base this self assessment on nothing other than mixing it up with the guys in my age group. 

Maybe this quality thing is all in my head, and as I suggested to Junior this morning, we are each ultimately responsible for generating our own happiness. Is this very moment, as I sit outside on my waterfront deck under the beautiful blue skies of a Seattle summer, practicing a therapeutic form of artistry and discipline, it? As in IT? Or should I be playing golf, doing the daily crossword or watching Faux News? 

I consider the supermarket incident reversed, me in the chair and some jerk physically losing a skirmish with an inner demon. Would I have the presence to pass some wisdom and forgive or would I shake my head with bad attitude in a minor variant of road rage? Where is the quality in that? Are you morphing towards becoming a grumpy old man one painfully slow day at a time? 

I commit to happiness and service. However small, there are things I can do to help. I can pass along the mistakes I have made to others in the form of advice, the old, I know what NOT to do tactic. I know we are not supposed to pardon domestic terrorism. I know we are not supposed to incite race riots. I know we need to unite our efforts. I know we have no business regulating what women do with their bodies. I know the guy in charge is a bigot a failure and a fraud. 

I also know this: I aspire to service. I wish to help, to promote peace and harmony, art and music, truth and beauty. I place love, forgiveness and gratitude at the very top of the value list. Further, and this is the lesson of the day, IF I CANNOT HELP, I WILL NOT DO SOMETHING TO HURT. 

Time to water the garden.