Heroes

Came home late from work yesterday. The cats and dog greeted me, hungry for attention and kibble. My wife was out. I put baked a frozen pizza, changed into pajamas, sat on the couch to watch something easy, light, fun, and good.

I settled on the first Captain America movie, one I've seen a dozen times. The pizza was good. The pajamas, couch, and blanket were comforting. The movie felt just right.

When my wife came home, she asked what I was watching and laughed a little when I told her. She laughed a little at how many times I've watched it and because she understands that sometimes I just need a hero or two.

She said, at the end, the heroes win.

I said, and everyone knows the villains are bad.

Yesterday's news was of the Florida hurricane, their terrible governor, the orange maggot who attempted a coup. A disaster and two villains who might as well be whispering, hail Hydra. No hero with an indestructible shield, super strength, and the purest of hearts is on his way. Am I supposed to pull on tights and go into battle? Honestly, I couldn't pull them over my fat belly.

We watched that rest of that movie and, when it was over, put on the first Avengers movie. No surprise, the heroes won again.

And then, after a hard day filled with hard news, I slept like a child.

Making Do

I'm typing this on an old Chromebook my wife gave me in 2013. Then it was the finest of things. Many new, shinier things have come along in nine years.

Still, this is a delightful tool. I'm impressed it still works well enough. Google put out a Chrome OS for old machines. Previously, they killed things off after three years. Now, so far as I can tell, this can go on and on. I hope so anyway.

Of course, there are issues with such an old machine. The battery is terrible. The fan runs constantly and sounds like I'm on an airplane. But beyond that, there's not much difference from the first time I opened it.

There's also joy in using something old and in not buying new. Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without. Rhyming words to live by.

Has me thinking about the fountain pen, cast-iron pans, my father's old cars and my brother driving them all around town. Has me thinking of living in this house for two decades, married for twenty-seven yearsand being in love for thirty-one.

It's easy to want shiny new things, to be sold on upgrades, but going back to what I already have, what works, and what has lasted turns out to feel pretty good. Certainly good enough to make do and more than enough to bring joy. Something money just can't buy.

Opening

All morning I've been wanting less. I want to weigh less, spend less, own fewer things.

But wanting less feels awfully similar to wanting more. Almost exactly.

This morning, imagining a wave of desire to buy or eat something, I pictured that desire as something held fast in my hand, like the rope of an anchor. If I just open my hand, let go the rope, the anchor sinks out of sight. Holding the rope tightly is a choice. Wanting to hold the rope is the issue.

Wanting to let go is another issue, another struggle. It's me tossing and turning with a decision.

But then there's simply letting go, opening my hand, releasing that rope of desire in such a way that it does not burn me as it rushes away. Letting go begins maybe not with wanting to let go but with the simple act of opening the hand, the act of opening.

I like that: opening. Fingers unclasping. Fist becoming a hand again. Tension dissipating. Effortless. Easy. Loose.

There are times to hang on tightly, but those are few and far between. Times of opening are much more common in the life that I want to be leading.

Maybe Just This Moment Only

Busy morning. I Wrote Morning Pages, scooped litter, shaved, dressed, did pushups, went to the grocery store for the week's shop. I washed two month's grime off my car and mold off the the shower. I made potato salad, washed dishes, and scoured the sink.

Can you tell both of my daughters just left for college?

Some of this is distraction therapy. The empty nest. Some is just being productive and enjoing that. Enjoying it almost to distraction.

Scrubbing the sink, I heard myself think, if I do this every day, I'd be much happier.

I stopped there, caught myself leaving the moment.

What I'm doing now is more than planning for later. Thinking what I have to or should do takes away the joy of this moment.

Right this moment, I'm sitting in the back yard, listening to music (Wind & Wuthering side two). The dog, a Zen master, sniffs the slightest breeze. I'm catching myself planning the editing and revision instead of just, in this moment, writing. I listen to my fingers on the keyboard, focus on the magic of these words appearing one at a time.

Even so, I find myself planning. Keep returning to the moment, I tell myself, then smile at having left the moment to plan my return to it. Leaving the wondrous joy available to me perhaps only in this moment.

Then I breathe, watch the dog roll upside down in the grass, and stop with her four legs spread out and up toward the sun. It comes to me then that these moments and this joy abound all along the way.