Waking Up in a Busy World: In the Middle of a Swinging Pendulum's Arc

When you know that bad things aren't so terrible, and good things aren't so terrific, you can be quietly grateful for whatever occurs. Balance is neither pessimism or optimism.

John F. Demartini

I came across this entry from several years ago when I was checking to see what was read in the last 24 hours. I played with it a bit. This seems to echo this question I have been asked to answer, "Is Life worth living?"

Even in challenging times Life is worth living...because though our focus too often may be a bit askew and aimed only on one side of a swinging pendulum ...the actuality of Life is perfect just as it is. With its challenges and its blessings, its high moments and its low, its beauty and its ugliness, its ten thousand joys and its ten thousand sorrows, Life is amazing. It is never all wrong or bad or difficult, nor is it ever all blessing and ease. It is just our perspective that makes it so.

We need to find the balanced middle way between the negative and the positive dualities. We need to make it a point to view Life where it is meant to be experienced...in the middle aspect of a swinging pendulum.

On This Day

On this day, the beginning of my 58th year, I celebrate in the only way I like to celebrate milestones of passing time.

I come here.

I sneak out of an overcrowded bed to another crowded spot, my dining room table which is now my writing space.

I seek solitude and solace here while all those, who tend to demand so much of my time, my space, my energy are still in bed.

I need to be alone with my tea and my furry friends, if they care to join me, but alas, they are too lazy and sleep in this morning.

As I settle into the chair rolled in from my office, I do my best to ignore the books piled high on this makeshift desk, the pages and pages of notes scribbled...yes... literally scribbled onto notebooks and loose pages...notes I intend to get to someday in my many, many yet to be complete writing projects.

The mass of wires necessary for me to transfer thoughts and images onto this machine are tangled around my feet, while the somewhat neglected cameras and photography equipment awkwardly clump together for comfort, collecting dust, on top of the hutch, a place they don't belong.

A plaque from the college I used to teach at, sitting on my table, recently opened and hurriedly removed from the Purolator package it came in yesterday, claims my reluctant attention.

It was a birthday surprise, I suppose, saluting many years of service when I retired. Two years ago, thinking it would be best for all, I snuck my misbehaving body out the back door of that world I loved so much. I now run my fingers over the smooth glass surface of the framed certificate. I didn't think anyone had noticed.

The gratitude journal I write in every morning, from a thoughtful friend, given to me on my birthday four years ago, is open and I can see the scribbly writing, today's entry, that reads, "Thanks for 58 years of Life" .

That is not just a platitude. I do feel grateful, like I accomplished something. I have made it, after all, to the lines at the bottom of the pages...the last year of open entries waiting to be filled. And I know, somehow, that means something.

I can hear the faucet from the messy kitchen dripping. It has to be replaced but I know that won't get done anytime soon. I can't afford a plumber or a faucet and wait for others who are so busy doing their things to do what they cheerfully say they will do.

I Sigh.

I should worry more about the roof. It is leaking. There are big brown circles on my ceiling tile.

I drop my eyes, telling myself, that on this day, the beginning of my 58th year...I will not look up.

I look down to see a very red pinky finger, busy keeping up with the others dancing along the keys. It is three times bigger than my other pinky. I let an infection I got from the tiniest of openings over a week ago, go too long. This little finger just didn't seem as important as all the other things I had on my plate so I convinced myself ...it would go away.

It didn't.

I will probably need antibiotics which sounds like overkill, I know...but it is the course of treatment for such things. That means seeking medical attention, the mere thought of which opens a Pandora's box of stuffed shame and pain that I would rather keep hidden away in my psyche.

I tell myself, though on this day...the beginning of my 58th year, I will not look down.

Instead, I look out the windows that surround me. The blue sky warms me...well not "me" intentionally. It does not know this "me"...a tiny, tiny speck so far from its massive center, and does not single this "me" out. It is generous and giving to all. It warms everything it touches ...with such loving, accepting arms. Understanding in some way I can't explain that this "me" that now feels its warmth is a small but significant part of that everything...

I relax into its embrace. When I do I hear the most beautiful music of robin song being played amongst the branches of my favorite companions.

I settle into this precious moment on this day, the beginning of my 58th year, and I breathe.

There is a beautiful sprig of lavender beside me, a gift from another friend who knows me better than she thinks she does. I take in the sweet, familiar scent and allow the healing aroma to comfort this clump of flesh I call "me".

I can feel them in my eyes for some reason wanting, and needing to come out, to trickle down the aging skin of these cheeks. I know better, now, than to resist them. They and whatever buried secrets or stories they hold within their liquid truth...just are what they are...not good, not bad, just energy....flowing....passing through, like all things in Life are meant to do.