Life attended to..

I felt the warmth of first spring sunshine on Sunday. And with that, I could finally stop scrolling for the latest on the ravages of war and the tightening noose on a stumbling mega-bully. I could get dirty in the raised beds of my garden. Decomposing goat poop and straw got mixed into the tired soil. Time to turn and prepare for seeding.

I have spent 745 months on earth. Expecting another few before moving into the earth. Done a lot of scrolling, sleeping, standing in-line at the grocery store, and holding hands. Isn’t it time I set about creating my opus? Why am not getting up in the morning frenetically driving towards my extraordinary achievement? The one you’ll remember me by!

What could that opus look like? Well, if I saved a species from extinction, that would be meaningful. If I saved the planet from plastic waste, if I reforested the Sahara, if I ensured all members of the human species received a guaranteed basic income, if I created an inter-species language translator, any and all would be meaningful. Translating Flea to English is a pretty wild idea.

Crikey.. the bar to that meaningful life is just too high for me. There has to be another more useful conclusion to the limited lifespan of my meaning-seeking species. In the age of The Attention Economy I could create profoundly attention grabbing posts on Facebook! In fact, this blog counts as one of my contributions. I have obviously captured your attention up until now.

And into the vortex we disappear, scrolling downwards, downwards, ever downwards. But does the mighty attention whirlpool I carry in my hand expand me, is it a generative vortex, or do I look up after an hour and feel diminished, contracted, more disconnected? ‘Your honor, that is a leading question. Depends on the game!’ you say?

I digress.

It’s early spring. Sunday morning. Overthinking.

Lets bring on some cosmic insignificance therapy. I get to see myself as a spec of dust in a desert storm of space and time. Such a relief. I am no longer the anointed one. The savior. The universe no longer depends on my grand legacy. I can pause and take my time, make my morning coffee with a teaspoon of coconut oil, a dollop of honey, sprinkling of cinnamon, and then sip it very slowly. I can pull up my wellies, hearing the snap of the rubber on my calves as I walk down to the garden. I remove my gloves and squeeze the crumbling sods now mixed with goat and chicken poop. My fingernails caked in this delicious earth. I pick at the deep dandelion roots holding out against my prejudice. Can’t get over believing dandelions are weeds. I move the surviving biennial kale into a fresh bed. Not all of them mind you. It is never done. But in the moment I was doing it, it felt like a calling.

How is it that weeding a garden, singing a song, hiking there and back again, making an extravagant coffee, making nutritious dinner for my family, are all things that don’t get me anywhere on the legacy list. Yet, when I give them my utmost attention, they feel deeply meaningful, like a living opus?

Life attended to. Permission not to do great things!