Armchair Zen

Note To Self

I have a Post-It note on the dashboard of my car. Actually, I have a number of sticky notes on the dashboard of my car. Lists of things to do, list of things to procure, a list of the lists…

So this particular Post-It says simply “I’m still here”.

Driving home one day, focused on the highway and car bumpers and signal lights and tandem trucks in the center lane, my Armchair  Zen broke through the hypnotic madness, and suddenly I noticed: there are trees and sky and grasses and birds out there!

In a fit of personification I imagined Nature, the cosmos, the world, looking amused at my sudden awakening, saying calmly “I’m still here.”

Days within this accursed brain are filled with the false reality of our modern world.

Alarm clock and coffee maker, car and commute, meetings and colleagues, business and personal.

Inventory to count, payroll to approve, stock order to complete.

Opening windows sealed for the winter, venting the basement, building a fence for the new pen.

The bank, the bills. Readying for our trip to Plymouth. Preparing for camping at the lake.

Washing the boat, repairing the transom board (and seats while I’m at it).

Replacing the mower deck on the John Deere, getting the mowing done before the trip, before the rain.

Doing, doing, doing…

All the while, she waits patiently. Actually, she’s not waiting at all, Miss Nature. She’s carrying on. Churchill would be proud.

“I’m still here.” she says. Not rushed or pressured or impatient. Not relaxed or jovial or patient. Simply “here”.

Nature is my rock, so to speak. Nature is the constant. The unmovable object coupled with the unstoppable force.

We can live naturally. Be nudists, eat all organic food. Nature doesn’t care, she simply carries on.

We can pollute the planet with chlorofluorocarbons, acid rain, nuclear fallout, plastic shopping bags and water bottles.

Nature doesn’t care. She will simply carry on. She’ll clean up our mess after we’re gone.

I think of this often. The day will come, a thousand years or a million, or maybe three hundred?

The parasites known as Homo sapiens will follow the path of every other species on this planet, and one day exist no more.

And whatever is here then, or whomever, or nothingness, will be greeted with the same, simple, calming Mother’s voice.

“I’m still here.”

Hey, Plato. I’m still here, too.

Seek peace,

Paz