Fine tuning
I was about to embark on a diatribe about the maintenance that comes with age … for the body, for the mind, for the heart, for the soul, but let me rephrase this phase, it’s about fine tuning. I think it all started with a writing table that I had my neighbor build for me that went from being practical to being beautiful. Now I have a walnut bookmatched table that is where I stand to take my notes. Cleared of all the junk that is usually collecting around my office, I only have my kneeling Buddha holding one stick of incense and my nomadic charm necklace T brought me back from Turkey years ago. And of course the ubiquitous notebook and pen.
Now that the writing table has arrived, it makes me think about things – about the way I tend to be more practical than aesthetic. I tend to be more about the expedient then the pleasurable. These are not good things. I have now added the bell from India my colleague brought me many years ago. Every time I begin to rush into the next thought or deed, I will try to stop myself and ring the bell. Am I here? Aware? Present? Most likely the answers will sometimes be no.
So this is the way it is, all this fine tuning, to get the instrument just right as decay sets in all around and inside the worms are eating the fibers of being. One day when I have found my perfect harmony, I will disappear like tears in rain (thank you Bladerunner for that one poignant moment of sci fi cinema).
Until that time though, my music is getting richer by the beat.