Take It Easy

"Don't let the sound of your own wheels 
Drive you crazy"
  --Jackson Brown, Glen Frey

Where the hell does the time go?  It's a cliché but like all clichés it's born out of truth.  It was brought to my attention last week that it had been some time since my last post.  And while my readership audience is, shall we say, an intimate group I was suitably guilted into action.  I don't have a great excuse as to why it's been two weeks since I wrote other then the oft used "I've been busy."

To wit:  My son was home sick all last week.  I have been training for a marathon.  I've been rehearsing for my play and devoting time to studying my lines.  I have been doing legwork on the bed and breakfast project - meeting with builders, architects, accountants, etc.  And then there's the whole house spouse role I play.  All of this has been going on just as the Olympics have begun.  Lots to do.  Where the hell does the time go?  Frankly, if you spend too much time wondering where it went, it means you're not aware of the time you have right now.

I got some feedback from my last post in which I highlighted a poem by Robert Burns.  One comment ponders how the poem, as viewed through a contemporary lens peers into "the modern struggle --finding peace and happiness as a result of simple presence rather than keeping pace with the American dream."  The commenter asks if "this meditation calls the utility of certain daily practices into question. Things like the use of technology, the trappings of wealth and the confusing complexity of our social contracts, be they mortgages, bank accounts or political efforts).   I guess it's to say, how much of modern American life has become incompatible with Burns's poetic vision of peace and contentment? And if it's the case, just what to do in light of this observation."

What's interesting to me is that Burns' poem was written in 1785 in Scotland well before "an American life" had come to signify any specific lifestyle.  Burns wrote about the pain of regret and the folly of worrying about an unknowable future.  He envies a mouse whose only concern is staying warm in winter.  While it's true that in the 225 years since the poem was written, we are now exposed to many more messages about what we ought to have done and what we still should do, the constant is that as human beings we possess the unique ability to reflect and imagine.  What is seemingly more difficult for most is to press a pause button on those two skills and simply be.

Unless you're truly enlightened (in a spiritual kind of way), you're going to struggle with attachments, desire, guilt, resentment, and all forms of mental pain.  The question is - short of joining a Buddhist monastery - what can you do to find regular balance in your day?  To me the first thing you must do is be ever self-aware.  As a first step, try to spend time analyzing the nature of your inner monologues.  The better you become at being aware of thoughts that take you out of the present, the more quickly you'll be able to live in the present,  be happy and grateful, and let's face it, generally more pleasant to be around - even when you're by yourself!

With that in mind, I will continue to write, but I have to be cognizant that there is a life to be lived.  Living a full and enriching life for me sometimes means being away from the computer.  In the coming weeks, demands for my time will increase and commensurately so will my need for relaxation in my truly free time.   I try to follow my own advice and just be.  I won't reflect too much on what I haven't accomplished (some gaps in my writing) and won't waste too much time projecting a future that surely won't be exactly as I envision (a perfect marathon).  Instead, I'll do what I can each day to appreciate that time for what it is:  a gift.

What can one do to combat the trappings of wealth and confusing complexities of our social contracts?  I might offer that you first be aware of them, then decide what their true value is to you, make appropriate changes and then carry on with your day in peace.  The worse autoimmune disease is the resentment of your own choices.