morethanenoughtruth

Seven point six billion humans presently inhabit this planet. That makes the specific aggregation of living cells comprising my personal human form far less than cosmically significant. Whether I live to fight another day doesn’t much matter. What does matter a great deal is that Homo-sapiens-sapiens continues to live and love and evolve, to more beautifully and consistently express the Divine nature. That is important to me and to all of life on God’s green earth. As a species we have a ways to go.

Once I was immortal, or thought I was. In 1950, when I was twelve, I would go fishing with my Aunt Judy. We were members of the Mineola Fishing Club. She would pack her Cadillac Deville with sportswear and fishing tackle, and we would take off for Mineola, Texas and some days of quietude. I adored the time with Judy all to myself. She was a legend at the club with her unique method for always catching more bass, crappie, and catfish than anyone else. Enthroned at the motor end of her boat, she would bait and set four lines on each side. That made her an octagonal spectacle with more than a suggestion of “spider.” She was kidded a lot about her multi-lined approach to catching fish, by more than just me, but she didn’t mind a bit. I went out on the lake with her the first day of every trip, but I couldn’t bear to sit still for long, not making even a squeak that might scare the fish. She was a serious fisherwoman, using minnows as bait, but I was partial to worms. Brem were easy. I could catch them off the dock. They didn’t scare easily, and I liked watching the red and white cork dance when a fish was nibbling my hook. There’s nothing like the excitement of feeling a fish tugging your line and the happy high of landing it. But I didn’t, and still don’t, have the patience for sitting all day in Judy’s boat.

I spent my time hiking the grounds and stalking the clubhouse halls while she was out on the lake. Cook made from-scratch biscuits for breakfast every morning and filled the dining hall with the smell of yeast rolls rising in anticipation of every bountiful supper. A visit to the kitchen often netted me a handout of whatever sweet and spicy was in the works. There was lots of time for thinking. It was at Mineola that I first chewed that worrisome nut “how long I might live.” I puzzled about the ages of all the people in my family and the ages at death of those who had already departed, dear and not-so-dear. I decided that “old” was seventy, but I didn’t have to worry about being seventy since that was so far away I couldn’t imagine ever getting there. Time stretched out in my twelve year old mind to forever.

I was wrong. I did get there and am now seeing it recede in the rear view mirror. It’s a strange thing but widely accepted that time contracts the older a person becomes. Days are now zipping past in a quotidian blur. It’ll be spring before we know it, with winter redefined as having been only a minor inconvenience. We’ll get through it or literally die trying. Not a problem.

One of the delights of being an old person is having the time to remember lovely things, like hiking up to the hatchery above the lake and lying on my belly watching the giant breeder fish hovering in clean clear pools below, rays of sunlight filtering through sycamore leaves and dappling the water’s skin with gold. It was a time of silent contentment, of long hours passing slowly and sweetly in the company of fellow creatures, both flora and fauna.  I was happy then; I’m happy now, visiting the memory. The sun was Texas hot, mellowed to warm in the shade of the great sycamores, and a cool breeze kissed my skin as I lay in good company, sharing my pool of happiness__ just being.