“So tell me” the voice in my head asks, “are you living a life of meaning?”
“Oh please,” I thought, give me a break; I reach for my coffee, something to give me pause for contemplation, to relieve the moment.
Again the voice in my head says “If it should all end tomorrow, and you don’t wake up to face the day, will this have been a life that meant something? Have you made your mark in this world; have you left anything to score your passing?” Early morning meditations on questions great and small.
Quiet reflecting on the transitions in this life, and expectations of what is to come. What are my new core values, what exactly is the good life that I seek with complete abandon, and most importantly, “Will I discover it before the end of this year?”
Age old questions I suppose.
Tuesday morning, this is me, in the flesh. Waking up to a brand new day and finding that what had once given meaning to my life, was now as stale and as tasteless as a cup of three-minute, micro-waved coffee from yesterday’s pot. No matter how much sweetener you put in it, it just doesn’t quite measure up.
I would like to lay my head on the pillow some night and in my dream, take a pin and pitch it towards a map. And it would land on a town in California, in the San Joaquin Valley, maybe Manteca or Modesto. And I would sell this house here in the Extreme Weather Capitol of the United States and move to my little farm in the valley, not far from San Francisco.
Ideally, I would have a new house, a pond full of fish, some crappie a few wide mouth bass. A dozen or so chickens, maybe a few of those pasty-white faced Herefords, the cattle with the sad, angelic faces, on a couple of hundred acres under the California sun.
It would be so nice, to lay down in the dark, listen to the whirl of the fan beside the bed, and reach into the darkness for the answers. This is typical of me, my life, always searching in the most ridiculous place for the seemingly impracticable answers from an impossible source.
Reaching into the dark and pulling out an answer, not knowing what is coming next, can be a pleasant state if you trust it. The difficulty is that you have to keep trusting it even when there’s no evidence that it’s working. Unfortunately, much like last night, the end result is often what I call “nuisance dreaming” not quite a nightmare, perhaps an unfinished subconscious reflection of my current condition.
Today I will visit my hammock and for a short while sleep peacefully in the shank of the afternoon, my sweet release, when everything is supposed to disappear for a little while.
Sometimes it does, and often, it does not.