A bright and sparkly day after several grey and soggy ones. The trees have adorned themselves with the delicate green of birthing leaves. Daffodils and tulips are everywhere. The birds are making a lively racket. And I look forward to standing in the sunshine on the peace picket line. Isn't that enough?
Skimming the news offered by the BBC, Al Jazeera, The Washington Post, and a couple of other media outlets, I await the story that will grab my attention, that will arouse a sense of importance, that will be, for the moment, "enough." Not so much the stories that 'should' excite me, but the ones that actually do.
But what is enough? What is complete? What is edgeless and smiling? Certainly it's available -- anyone who has ever sneezed one sneeze knows that. But the contentment of enough-ness is elusive, continually nagged by the habit of excitement, importance, meaning. There is no out-flanking the question of what might be enough, no high-falutin' reasoning or emoting that will fill the bill. Asking what might be enough is to suggest that we have somehow gotten things backwards, put some greater sanity on hold ... and now it's time to straighten things out. There is nothing wrong, per se, with excitement; it's just that we have denied the responsibilities that are, bit by bit, more apparent.
Out the window, it's still bright. A small breeze has kicked up. It is time for breakfast.
.
No comments:
Post a Comment