Bellaire Retreat II

A writer looks at 70

I lay in bed this morning long beyond what I usually do — and long beyond what I should. But it is comfortable as I lie and think — dream — ponder.

I am on my Cabela’s cot that everyone laughed at me for buying, a large filled air mattress, and a warm down sleeping bag purchased over 40 years ago. I was in my 20s and this sleeping bag was going to take me on the Appalachian Trail and to the wilds of the West. It took me only to deer hunting camp, Canada fishing, and embroiled itself in a divorce — caused by me and my male hormones.

Later I leave my sleeping residence, dress, and sit. There is no breakfast. I’m not hungry — only a cup of hot tea. It is 11 a.m. and still I have done nothing. I have read several pages of Zen poetry and listened to the sounds that surround. AND since I am in a Zen mood this morning, I listen to my hair grow!

There is no agenda, no talking, no questions, no answers, no phones, no television. The lawn will not be mowed, the garbage will not be placed in the correct place, cars will not be repaired, and there will no worry about the 15 million “things” that must be done to 13014 South Bancroft Road. All the previous items and worry will be there for another day.

I only exist.

At this point, that is sufficient.

My shingles do not hurt, my knees do not ache, and my lungs are working fine. I feel like I did when I was in my 20s when joints and limbs worked fine.  When I get up, I know this “tale is all a lie.”

My 72 year old body will appear and begin its daily complaining and bitching.