*Another one of my draft-folder posts written back in May; no, we don't turkey hunt in July.:)*
Oh, the beauty of an existence set a good fair piece from I-89 and the nearest Wal-Mart. Not that everyone is that lucky—blessed, I mean—and to be sure, we spend a considerable spell away from the home place, absorbed with what Solomon might label vanity, had he experienced it when he penned Ecclesiastes.
But oh, it feels sweet as a peach to set the commotion aside for a spell, listen to the crickets at night, drink my coffee on the front porch in the early morning, and laugh as my little brother tries—not so successfully to make me understand the mechanisms of the hydraulics in the John Deere.
The simple life is an elusive and even intangible cup of tea these days. Perhaps even a lost art, misplaced by smartphones, texting, and the like. Bless all smartphone's hearts, (if they happen to possess hearts; in this technological age, for all I know, they do) but do they ever seem glued to the palms of the population these days. I beg your pardon if I've caused your eyebrows to lift a touch; I didn't mean to offend. I find these things called smartphones most convenient, if I do say so myself. But how can you remember to listen for something as soft as a whippoorwill’s croon if you’re relentlessly on the watch for your friends’ texts: “hey u. hows it goin. i had a blst wi my buddy 2day. hope 2 c u soon. p.s. hope this txt helps u find ur lost phone. bye.”
I know we can’t regain everything we've allowed to fall through our fingers, but I hope what I haven’t lost yet, I won’t let go of through the clamor of a chaotic existence.
I know we can’t regain everything we've allowed to fall through our fingers, but I hope what I haven’t lost yet, I won’t let go of through the clamor of a chaotic existence.
So many little things fly so quickly. Your text inbox doesn't empty til you’re so sick of reading those old texts again and again that you finally trash them and start all over again. Your emails are permanent, until you delete them.
But the smell of the chamomile you grew yourself, the fun of mimicking your favorite movie with your brother, the dreams you share with your friend, will one day be lost. You’ll never have them back. I’ll never have them back.
Keep on texting; it’s the standard mode of communication at the moment. Who knows when a closeted Steve Jobs will dream up something even more time-economical than texting.
But revel in the precious moments that don’t require technology. In due course, they’ll evaporate before you wish them gone.
By the way, this is as much an admonishment to myself as to any eyes who may be reading. I’m guilty as charged when it comes to excessive networking. It’s a tough pill to digest, this thing of saying no to a world begging to be communicated with.
But by God’s grace, I want to do it.
Think of the blessings to be gained.
The other day, Zach came home with the first tom he’s ever shot. Thus far, the only prizes he’s lugged home to the butchering board have been jakes. This hefty catch was, lo and behold, a tom. Sporting a nine-inch beard and a pair of spurs long and jagged enough to make any Cabela’s fanatic covetous.
“Aren’t you going to come and see it?” he asked me.
“In a minute,” I said.
“A minute’s gone by already,” he said.
“You mean you actually wanted me to come now?”
“Yeah, I meant now.”
And that’s when I stopped and listened. And thought. And learned. I hope.
Life is now. What we’re doing now. That’s what counts. And whether what we’re filling the “now” with will matter in eternity or not.
Well, I’d better go find a snack and a better use of my time. Come to think of it, the veggie patch by the barn is a rainforest of weeds. Maybe we could turn it into a game or something. Who can pick the most weeds the fastest. Who can crack the funniest joke.
And get something done in the meantime.
Tooteloo,
