For years Dave and Bart have been enemies. When I visit the farm we go down to the fence near where Bart lives and let off a few rounds.
“Does he still live down there?” I ask
“Don’t think so, believe I got him a year or so back” he replies
Dave has had Parkinson’s for a while and whilst that’s not good for Dave the fact he can’t hold the rifle steady is good for Bart. I suspect Bart has thousands of descendants by now and maybe even he’s died of old age.
Of course we are talking about Bart a black rabbit that has dug himself a mansion in the middle of the paddock. You might be able to make out the brown mound of dirt just over the other side of the fence.
It’s silent when you sit alone in the countryside except for the sounds of nature. I’m looking at the road home you can see disappearing in the distance and wonder what’s around the corner for me. I grow happier as I grow older because all that I need to make me really happy is something to be enthusiastic about. So what shall I do next?
Just as I indulge in philosophy I become aware of a deep prolonged loud wind-noise beginning to grow and progress through the windbreaks and tree plantings which flourish on the ridge.
The roaring sounds sweeping around the house are enhanced by the presence of several maple trees just sprouting their leaves. The leaves begin to shred into small pieces and litter the lawn in front of me. It is a violent release of energy unchained by 100km winds which come in the aftermath of the recent storm.
I can feel the air sweeping up and down the face of the building. For the most part I’m protected by the building and I imagine it’s like sitting in the eye of the storm. Life would be great if you were always in the eye of the storm.
Dave’s inside having a rest and I’m sitting on the veranda of the farmhouse watching the road that leads home. The horizon is about 70km away and the sky is crystal clear. My thoughts race towards the horizon.
The way I see it unhappiness at the end of life might be due to a failure to achieve a realism other than the one in which we were born. I wonder whether my insight is around the corner of that country road or will old age have the last word.
I know one thing life has taught me is that we make our own happiness by believing in ourselves and thereby creating our own lives. What I’m still deciding is, whether or not I’m a finished project or a work in progress.
If I’m a finished project I can grow old gracefully, accept life as it is and be content. If I’m a work in progress I must go on believing that fantastic things will happen and I’ll get fame and fortune and even if that doesn’t happen well at least I’ve dreamed. Is that a life unfulfilled but filled with wishing?
At this point of time I find serenity in thinking I’m a finished project which needs minimal attention and maintenance and therefore I’ll enjoy being who I am for the rest of my life.
I love the peace and quite and thinking time a break in the countryside provides.