Dear You,
It seems that some people just can't stop talking. I notice, however, that real communication is scarce. This morning I was in line at the grocery store. Ahead of me, fumbling with her purse while Liz waited patiently behind her cash register, a woman was talking on her cell phone. Something to do with legal forms, I gathered -- all such conversations these days are public information, even when I try NOT to listen.
It was an express line. I had only four items -- the woman ahead had hers already bagged, so I couldn't tell if she was there under false pretenses, but I noticed the woman behind was putting a 13th item onto the belt . . . and she, too, was talking on her cell phone.
I looked at Liz, who looked at me and shrugged. The woman continued fumbling, and I thought that whatever she was trying to do would go faster if she could have used both hands. She didn't seem to know (a) that Liz was waiting, and (b) so was I. At last she pulled out a card, swiped it -- while still jabbering away -- and scribbled on the little plastic screen. Still deep in the conversation, she took the bag of groceries and headed to the exit.
"It gives new meaning to 'Shut Up and Drive,' don't you think?" I asked Liz. The woman behind me didn't hear the comment; she was still busy with her conversation. But I had to wonder how much anyone can be in touch with her surroundings if her mind is engaged with the virtual, not real, people in her life.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Saturday, April 19, 2008
The Morning Muses
Dear You,
A benefit from rising before dawn here in Florida is that most mornings I can sit with my coffee and watch sunrises. Plural, because Down Here most days are clear . . . or nearly so. The lanai is in semidarkness when I settle into the wicker rocker that faces east, the early chirping all that breaks the quiet.
I think of Emerson's poem, The Days, wherein his conceit is a parade of women bearing trays. For this particular day, the woman, departing in the evening, looks back at the poet in scorn for selecting so poorly from her offerings.
In my youth I listened to a sermon on The Present -- how the present moment is, in fact, a "present" or gift. And how often since have I heard that the past, like any dream that dissolves on awakening, is just a memory; that the future, like any wish that may or may not come true, is just as unreal. The only thing one has is the moment. "Living in the moment" -- haven't we heard it frequently?
I have these thoughts more often as I grow older. Is that "wisdom"? I don't know. I do not, however, believe I am any closer to the ideal that Emerson posited. What I know is that very soon, my morning will begin Up North, where a sunrise is not guaranteed, nor the present so obviously a tray of delectables. I'll have to work harder to ensure that my days depart with a smile more often than a sneer.
A benefit from rising before dawn here in Florida is that most mornings I can sit with my coffee and watch sunrises. Plural, because Down Here most days are clear . . . or nearly so. The lanai is in semidarkness when I settle into the wicker rocker that faces east, the early chirping all that breaks the quiet.
I think of Emerson's poem, The Days, wherein his conceit is a parade of women bearing trays. For this particular day, the woman, departing in the evening, looks back at the poet in scorn for selecting so poorly from her offerings.
In my youth I listened to a sermon on The Present -- how the present moment is, in fact, a "present" or gift. And how often since have I heard that the past, like any dream that dissolves on awakening, is just a memory; that the future, like any wish that may or may not come true, is just as unreal. The only thing one has is the moment. "Living in the moment" -- haven't we heard it frequently?
I have these thoughts more often as I grow older. Is that "wisdom"? I don't know. I do not, however, believe I am any closer to the ideal that Emerson posited. What I know is that very soon, my morning will begin Up North, where a sunrise is not guaranteed, nor the present so obviously a tray of delectables. I'll have to work harder to ensure that my days depart with a smile more often than a sneer.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Monopoly
Dear You,
It's mid-April, so that means the IRS quietly removed from my savings account the money I owed in taxes for 2007. That same day, with just as little fuss, the bank took money I owed on the house "up North": principal, interest, and escrow on the mortgage. The process, called ACH I think, is used by a variety of creditors throughout the month to pay my bills. Even the church gets its share.
I think of "money" these days in the same way I think of the multi-colored scrip I use when playing Monopoly with grandchildren. Oh, it stings when I land on Brandon's or Joshua's property and have to shell out $1800 in rent . . . but only for a moment. I know that all I have to do is pass GO and I'll have more.
And at my age, it's just as easy to get the money replaced in my bank account. The trip around the board of Life involves waking up each morning until the day the calendar page flips to a new month. When I check my accounts on the computer, I've passed GO -- all that money the ACH process removed the previous month is back, and a little more. So it's not a "zero sum game" -- not quite, anyway!
The other day I stooped to retrieve someone's lost quarter. It felt good in my hand, and it was enough to insert into the nearby newspaper box to buy that day's copy of the St. Petersburg Times. Even as I heard the coin clunk in its little box I knew it had no intrinsic worth -- how many years has it been since a U. S. quarter-dollar held even a smidgen of silver?
Yes, it's all just a game.
It's mid-April, so that means the IRS quietly removed from my savings account the money I owed in taxes for 2007. That same day, with just as little fuss, the bank took money I owed on the house "up North": principal, interest, and escrow on the mortgage. The process, called ACH I think, is used by a variety of creditors throughout the month to pay my bills. Even the church gets its share.
I think of "money" these days in the same way I think of the multi-colored scrip I use when playing Monopoly with grandchildren. Oh, it stings when I land on Brandon's or Joshua's property and have to shell out $1800 in rent . . . but only for a moment. I know that all I have to do is pass GO and I'll have more.
And at my age, it's just as easy to get the money replaced in my bank account. The trip around the board of Life involves waking up each morning until the day the calendar page flips to a new month. When I check my accounts on the computer, I've passed GO -- all that money the ACH process removed the previous month is back, and a little more. So it's not a "zero sum game" -- not quite, anyway!
The other day I stooped to retrieve someone's lost quarter. It felt good in my hand, and it was enough to insert into the nearby newspaper box to buy that day's copy of the St. Petersburg Times. Even as I heard the coin clunk in its little box I knew it had no intrinsic worth -- how many years has it been since a U. S. quarter-dollar held even a smidgen of silver?
Yes, it's all just a game.
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