Dejah Thoris, Princess of Mars, stirs in her sleep, curled in a chair, her flag of a tail brushing her nose. Does she dream of running miles and miles, making friends with everyone she meets and eating everything that moves? Is she sad because she spends so much time in a house full of comfortable places to sleep but not exactly full of crazy things to do while waking? Does she think we need more crazy things to do, or is sleeping and dreaming of wild adventures enough? She is not wanting of where her next meal will come from, which makes her more fortunate than millions.
“It’s a dog’s life,” people complain sometimes, and I’m not sure that’s such a bad thing. There are days I would like nothing more than to curl up and dream all day.
Oh, it’s so so easy, these days especially, to be caught up in alarm and anger and fear and blame and woe. Another choice is always available.
I wrote in my journal last night about my worries and concerns, expecting to transcribe them into today’s blog post, but I couldn’t get to sleep, so I got up and wrote this instead.
At least one animal has lived with me for more than 40 years now, ever since that first black cat moved in. During that time three special puppies have bonded with me; their names are Poppins and Tucker and Willow, and those who knew me at various times (or know me now) recognize at least one of those names. I can’t imagine caring for a furry friend more than I love Willow, but I do remember having deep feelings for Pops and Tuck.
It’s easy to forget, in the rush of all that happens in daily life, how much we have in our lives to be grateful for. I am forever grateful for the peaceful joy of a quiet moment with Willow. I am so glad to have such a sweet soul under our roof to remind me to choose love first.
Hello, hello, hello, everyone! In less than a minute you will be a mile away and wondering if you really saw a white-haired man in a lawn chair, leg crossed to reveal bare ankles and slippers, otherwise wearing office clothes and writing in a red journal with a pen.
Where are you going, anyway? People come and go so quickly here, off to the Emerald City along a yellow brick road, dump trucks loaded with soil and campers loaded with people, and the tinge of orange in the trees across the highway reminds one and all that tomorrow is the first day of autumn.
We have so much in common, you and I and all of us, as we rush from here to there bearing witness to what we have seen and what we hope to be. I wish we could focus more on our dreams and desires and not so much on our skin-deep differences.
We are each of us alone, no two exactly alike, and we share a desire to be left alone, to be free to live our lives in peace, but something-less-than-peace is thrust upon us constantly. Peace, then, is a fleeting joy, felt in a southerly breeze that rustles the trees on the last day of summer, focused on endings rather than beginnings even though (as the song says) they are one and the same.
What begins here, in this hour when one season is drawing to a close and another approaching? What begins today, as leaves turn to more vivid colors than green and — even though right now it is warm and comfortable — experience tells us the chill is inevitable someday soon? Every day, every moment holds promise if you seek it out. Every day, every moment holds finality if you look for it.
Billions of people interacting with each other, trillions of life forms interacting, lead to infinite combinations, so of course beginnings and endings are always within reach — beginnings and endings as significant as birth and death or as commonplace as beginning a new journal page and the end of an eBay package’s journey from shipping box to mailbox, which is the reason I’m sitting in our driveway waiting for the mail carrier, so I can sop up some sunshine and save the carrier a few steps up the walk.
And the travelers who rushed past when I started writing are now as much as 30 miles away.
