Life is like a Breath
I just came in from watering a small cluster of pine trees and a spruce. As I had walked toward them, I startled an owl that I hadn't known roosted in the close-growing trees. A nice sign of new life. I'm glad the trees are mature enough to shelter an owl of that size. There's a bit of a breeze today, which made whistling, whooshing sounds through the needles of the trees. Today is October 30, and we have had only a tenth of an inch of rain (and a lot of wind) since the third week of August. Watering was long overdue, so it went slowly, and I had time to sit beside the trees and contemplate things while the trees got their drink.
It struck me that when we are young - young adults - we are growing and learning; our lives are expanding; we're creating homes, building families, and accumulating stuff. We are inhaling Life, filling our lungs, expanding our chests.
When we approach retirement, we begin to exhale. We begin to give things away to our children and grandchildren. We don't want as much property - home and otherwise - to have to maintain and care for. When no longer bound to a career, we may downsize, travel, or move to a friendlier climate or locale. We contract our chests and push the spent air from our lungs.
Then there's the moment in between the intake and exhale of breath, of Life. In that pause, we think of the intake, and anticipate the exhale. Our lives pass before our eyes. Is this what we wanted? Are we where we want to be? Is this all there is? Am I happy?
That pause in breath for me took about twelve to fourteen years, beginning with the year I wrote about in Summer of the Phoenix. My first several years here, I had been building buildings, planting seedling trees, putting up fences, and raising more cattle. Then the weather became drier, and I began selling cattle. I had resisted running drip irrigation to the trees initially, but it became necessary. Then finally it just seemed silly to keep planting them.
I spent years mourning the loss of my childhood. I missed the family interactions and holidays, and the naivete' of childhood. Whatever I felt had been lacking in my parents' emotional well-being and support, they were hard-working, responsible adults. Everything at home was taken care of as it ought to have been. I didn't have to worry about the practical aspects of daily life. I missed that.
My descendants matured and focused on their own lives, and they haven't been particularly supportive of my ranch and writing aspirations, either. It was alright to spend a lot of time alone, but at times I felt I was wanting more - more family closeness. More practical support in some of my pursuits. Even a, "Hey, how's it going today?"
When I began writing and publishing in earnest, that's when life began to feel right. I can come home whupped from a dysfunctional day at the office, do the chores, sit down to write or do some publishing tasks, and next thing I know it's 2am and I don't even feel tired. If I am recharged and energized by that kind of work - which doesn't feel like work - then that is what I should be doing with my life. The degree of self-assurance I get as an unexpected side effect is a wonderful bonus. I hope that with that kind of passion and energy, success will come.
I'm inhaling a fresh breath of Life.
