Monday, December 4, 2017

Whiling away...

I intend to betray my hardwired Protestant work ethic. I haven't the guile to dignify my banausic domestic enterprise.  However it is characterized it constitutes no more than whiling away my time. Though I doubt it matters, there is some elevation in distinguishing my quotidian exploits as spending the time rather than killing it. Indeed if there were any attempt to extinguish anything it is the consuming effort to side-step industry and all that it entails for tireless activity and busyness.

One might reasonably enquire whether the inertia of one's undertakings is commensurately reflected in the activity of one's mind. Ambling along the beach on one's bicycle does not however translate into intellectual lethargy. Inescapably the void of the surrounding spaces reflects not an emptiness of mind but rather an openness of thought.

Whenever I have the privilege of gazing out to sea I am reminded of the sweet dreams which once filled my head and the reality of which is now unfolding before me. I have broken a chain which formerly tied me to a very different disposition. Even as a teenager I was obsessed with the fulfillment of what I then perceived as my scholastic duties. Specifically while touring northern Sweden and Norway up to the Arctic Circle I had my eyes focussed not upon the fjords but rather on a huge tome of Latin grammar. Granted the preoccupation won me the distinction of the highest academic distinction of my Form but I wasn't oblivious to the compromise. Indeed I have always acknowledged the nexus between recognizable achievement and work.

The relieving feature of my historical assiduity is that it fired me up.  Not the least of the reasons was the rewards obtained. Luckily for me most of my colleagues were professionals who were likewise caught up in the pursuit of their own goals. I was thus spared the ignobility of being a work maniac. There was a time when I imagined that I would continue my professional duties ad infinitum. When however I took the first step to disassemble my practice the declension was precipitous. In an instant I resolved to make parallel modifications on every other level of my life.  Effectively I reversed years of absorption and direction, my own take on down-sizing.

There is an adage, "If she knows why she loves him she doesn't".  The same kernel of wisdom can be applied to anything else in life one does. Disturbingly the merit of languid existence is difficult to epitomize. Nor frankly do I feel the necessity to do so. Certainly I am compelled by curiosity to analyze the transformation from my former standards of qualification. But other than that I am quite prepared to throw up my hands at the unwitting change.  It may be as simple as looking in instead of looking out.

Paradoxically the discovery of matters within is through casting one's glance abroad.  Perhaps it is the awareness of where one is by discerning whence one has come. Whatever the process and whatever the conclusion it is undeniable that the hour is sufficiently advanced that there is little if any chance of alteration. I find nontheless that I am appeased by this impassability not by virtue of resignation or submission but rather by fulfillment. To be perpetually insatiable is itself a promotion of dissatisfaction. It is for this reason more than any other that I have devoted myself to the unraveling of this conundrum (that I am now so complascent on the heel of years of anxiety surrounding my future). I may not have dissolved into the Saturday Evening Post picture of dotage; nor have I a constant seraphic smile upon my face. But I can tell you I'm more than a little proud to have reached this edge of life's pasture.  The farm house on the hill is yet in the distance. I am not yet about to jump the fence and "go to my long home".  For the time being I shall continue to graze here in sedentary bliss, whiling away my time.

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