Contentment
The image above is my shirt and sweater, thrown over the back of the chair my grandfather made. He died before I was born. I don't know how long before he died that he made the chair, perhaps in the 1940s sometime. Probably earlier, but lets say 1943 to make the math work. 80 years ago. It sat under Mom and Dad's house for 20 years till I dragged it out and restored it. I smile remembering the man I never knew, his craft still lasting. Since restoring it, it had taken a few more hits, a rough spot on the back from some transportation mishap when we moved. Still looks nice, though, I think. Enduring and endearing.
I got up this morning while Wanda was in the shower and began to tidy the dishes from last night. She and Essence made caramel pop-corn before we watched the original Avatar, in preparation for watching the new one in a few days. While we watched we ate my favorite Pizza from Panago. Chicken Ceasar, and Steak and Mushroom. Hawaiian for those that like that kind of thing. We all teared up at the loss of the home tree. Cheered for the underdogs on their alien dragons, fighting the corporate greed and ignorance. I thought about being blue and naked and having a tail. I thought about the vision of Pandora. A vision of harmony. A scientific romanticism about the harshness and beauty of nature.
Cleaning the sticky pan, smelling last night's caramel, loading the dishwasher, spritzing the counter with my favorite counter cleaner, filling the air with the scent of lavender; these routines bring me a sense of calm, of satisfaction. Cleaning up, doing my part, setting things in order. Then cutting strawberries onto our breakfast plates, tipping the raspberry container so that raspberries tumble out to join the strawberries. Whipping the eggs with a fork. My favorite fork for the task, the one with the large rounded handle. The scrape of butter on toast. The kettle boiling, then beeping. The first sip of tea and bite of eggs. Asiago cheese, finely grated on top. Looking across the table at the woman I love.
Our life is filled with rich tastes, comforting textures, warm clothing on our bodies. I crunch my toast contentedly and look at the clothes on the chair. The solid pleasure of that shirt, the colours, the feel of the fabric, fine and soft. Cotton and wool, blended. Something perfected about it. The tight weave of the fabric, the enduring dyes. Feel privileged to live at the end of this long spell of innovation and industrialization. Corporate greed had given me good things. Part of the evolution of our species. Bringing us close to downfall. The planet groaning, storms raging, bank accounts draining.
Despite the anxieties, I love this life. Feel so fortunate to be here, with these people, this family, this house, this time in history. Winter light pours in the large windows. Rain gushes from the eaves trough outside. Weather forecast warns of flooding. We are safe inside, on our small hill, in our small city, in a big and manic world.
Nearly 800 people are still homeless in Nanaimo. More faces than I can even imagine. Should I live more spartan? Should I work harder to solve the problem? Wanda and I struggle with anxiety and depression, good days and bad days. We insulate ourselves from the suffering of others, like so many others do. Soon my life will end. Maybe 20 years left. I think of those I know who have died. All they have missed, all I will miss.
If I do not live this contented life, find meaning in the quest to know, if I live with guilt, pouring my life energy into insoluble problems, I do not become more than I was born with. I am a writer and photographer and contemplative. My identity always slightly in flux, but these three things consistent over time.
My deepest desire is to have a deep reserve of calm, time to contemplate and create, a resilient and abiding contentment. And from that grounded satisfied place, to love, lead, and shore up the ones around me.
Avatar depicts a harsh jungle as beautiful as it is fierce. Our life is not much different. We band together against the brutality of reality. We also sit together to share the awe of a sunrise.
I see that my life will be a cycle of dissatisfaction and satisfaction, contentment and discontent. Grasping and letting go. Being a creature and being more. No blue skin, or tail, but my connection to that strange thing called the collective unconscious, or the Ancestors, or tree spirits, or God, remains an enigma, the deepest real thing I want to understand.