Sunday brings memories and a too little motion. I do poorly with such calm. I prefer a quake beneath the floors and a ghost in the closet – and unholy tributes to long Friday nights.
What is the danger of meeting yourself head-on, of facing stillness on a slow August afternoon? Perhaps if enough life-speed is maintained, we can coast into oblivion. There would be no garden weeds to attend to then, and no time to watch them grow.
As an old man, I hope to gaze from a balcony onto a fountain-centered stone square, and smell the damp of Spring. I wish so hard that life will end up well. I mean not for me, but for my friends and family, everyone. Is that not painfully silly?
So many hurdles to cross, so much distraction. Amid our modern din, it is difficult to maintain clarity of vision and long-term focus. It is so hard to rise above the daily echoes of chores and paperwork. How might we gain focus? How can we build strength to wipe back the sounds from ears for a space of silence, and remember our happiness? I think to myself: recall the best moments – and make those again. Be with a book, have a broth soup on, Sunday, as the garden gathers rain.
