Run, rabbit run
Dig that hole, forget the sun
And when at last the work is done
Don't sit down
It's time to dig another one
For long you live and high you fly
But only if you ride the tide
And balanced on the biggest wave
You race towards an early graveBreathe | Pink Floyd | Dark Side of the Moon | © 1973 Roger Waters
It’s a complex dance, yet one so familiar and well-practiced that we rarely stop to even give it the briefest of consideration in our work-a-day world.
By the sweat of your face
You will eat bread,
Till you return to the ground,
Because from it you were taken;
For you are dust,
And to dust you shall return.
New American Standard Bible
Everybody’s workin’ for the weekend.
I hope I’m not overstepping my bounds in assuming that most people think as I do on the subject, but if you don’t, I’m sorry, however, I’m actually quite happy for you at the same time.
So what does all this face-sweatin’, run-rabbit-runnin’, work-a-day-hatin’ business have to do with the subject of small change and/or highway speed limit signs? They’re all associated with a journey — the journey — upon which you and I each embark in order to get where we’re going to in this life. The way that we respond to these cues more often than not can dictate not only the enjoyment of the ride, but the quality of the vehicle in which we’re asked to travel as well (...both literally and figuratively).
So why the even-more-intense-than-usual-navel-gazing-metaphysi-babble subject matter today, you ask? Well, as far as that aforementioned journey is concerned, as of today I'd have to consider myself a little better than two-thirds of the way home, so it’s kinda heavy on my mind. Today is my birthday. I’m 55 years old, and for the first time in my life I can honestly say, I’m not all that ‘happy’ about it.
I am none too thrilled about the speed at which time is passing. I am particularly not jazzed about the fact that now, the longing for time to think and to write and to do the things that I want to do is, essentially, tantamount to hitting the fast-forward button of my lifespan — skipping over the ‘now’ in favor of the ‘later,’ when life will be simpler; when I no longer have to run the treadmill; when I’ll likely be too old to really enjoy it.
Remember how momentous just the the idea of the impending dawn of the new millennium seemed, years before it happened (and then quickly became old hat)? Long before the late 90s doomsday hubbub surrounding the computer implications of Y2K became the subject of near-mass panic, I can clearly recall thinking about the year 2000 way back in the 70s and 80s, realizing that I’d be the ‘ancient’ age of 43 when we finally hit the turn of the century. “Wow,” I thought. “I’ll be so old by then. I wonder how I’ll feel...” (as I imagined myself all wrinkly, with gray hair and liver spots).
Again, in the event that this post’s intent somehow became obscured in the firmament of sparkling anticipation for my golden years, let me repeat: this really isn’t a woe is me kinda post. It’s actually a celebration; a celebration of simple reality despite my oft-not-so-simple way of dealing with it. I am actually much happier and satisfied with how my life has turned out than that twenty-something kid who once wondered about Y2K ever imagined he would be.