future

Progress

There was really no other choice than to move forward. That was what movement was: no matter in what direction we started or finished, no matter how we coined phrases or felt regret, or despised the loss, or loved the gain; life was a march towards-or so it seemed.

Towards what?! To what end did we move? Even when we sat still, admiring the stars or enjoying a late autumn day; there still seemed to be a goal. we spent time considering consequences, always in the future; always something or somewhere else.

Always living in motion led to never looking at the past for answers, even as it faded into time immortal, forgotten or feigned. And so, we forgot what it was to live and existed rationally instead. We spent our time with probabilities and possible future outcomes instead of moving towards our dreams and desires, right and wrong, good and bad. And days passed.

We rarely considered the movement itself. We rarely considered the moment, or what it was we were moving towards, or even if we wanted it.

Letting Go

Early in the morning, every morning, the sky presents a new show.  The lights, the trees, the snow, the clouds play out a story complete with characters.  Sitting in front of the newly founded fire in the wood burning stove, the coffee is hot and strong, and black as the night before.

Taking a sip, the sun begins its pageantry through the leafless trees.  Everyday begins this way: summer, fall, winter, and spring.  Now it is winter here on the homestead; and it is cold.  The fire begins warming up the room as the thoughts begin to fill my head.  The past taking up much of the past, and the present taking up much of the day, now they both make a place for the future.

Another sip of coffee, the sun continually changing the sky and the rooster crowing in the background, the beauty is astounding, and yet not enough.  It is quiet up here, still like silence on the sea; a car goes by, the same car as yesterday and the day before.

When silence is ubiquitous every sound counts.

Another sip, another thought as I wait for the second car that comes some minutes later.  All of this will be missed, and as the night lets go to the daylight, we will also let go of another day.

MISTAKES, MISGIVINGS, AND MOTIVATIONS: III

face roadmap

As he realized, there was no explanation and searching for answers to the puzzle that the past posed, he found none.  With the past in his pocket, there was only the unknown, the future left to pack.  And as he folded and flipped the future a new realization dawned: it was not his own.

“The future is not ours…”, he thought out loud.  “The future belongs to no one; it is, in fact, nothing.”  As the thought settled in his head he reached for another piece to pack and found that there was always something to put into his bag, into his pocket to become the tear-soaked past.

“Something out of nothing is the truth; finally!  The Truth!!”

And what of meaning and these dangerous days of wonder and worry.  There will come more mistakes and more misgivings, but of what?  And about what?  If the future is truly nothing, than we are left with the pocket full of past and the present that we cannot notice.  Are we truly slaves to the limits of time or are we burdened with the freedom of space?

Philosophical nonsense made meaningless by poetry and prose, by literature and leitmotifs.  And as these thoughts ran through his head, the responsibilities that he had once believed he had had continued to create something that was never his.  Picking up his empty bag and feeling the weight in his pocket, he turned to go.

Nothing But the Spring

future

The fall is coming and with the coming cold, change. The bees are readying the hive for winter; the garden is beginning to show signs of age. Harvest continues but the nights are getting a bit colder and the mornings are darker. Change is a cold reality as it is a reminder that all that we hold dear is temporary, and the seasons continue to march on, counted only by us.

I am reminded of the cycles of the seasons, of life in general. When I was young these cycles were nothing more than an old wife’s tale. But when I began to notice my own age, these cycles began to become recognizable from years before. The cycle of seasons became the cycles of life: Spring, Summer, Fall, and finally Winter.

It is almost as if all change is the same. It begins as an exciting possibility and grows into a busy reality becoming the aches and pains in the morning, the nematodes in the soil, the repairs on the house, the mileage on the equipment and on myself, the goals achieved and the dreams that never were. These things are not bad, but simply the reality of living. Things wear out, ideas disappear and so do we.

As I get older I begin to notice that my parents are old.   This realization is painful and soon I am reminded of the relentless seasons not only by my own age but also by the needs of my parents. The child becomes the parent. This too is the cycle of the seasons. Winter comes for us all and all the while I think of nothing but the spring.