Contentment

It might surprise you to know that I am content. There are things I could do that I would enjoy, but if I don't do them I am not disappointed, nor do I feel I have missed something. I feel content when I sit in my house. I feel content when I walk down the street. I feel content when I sit in a friend's house and chat. I feel content when I read a book, listen to music, watch a video, experience the outside world: the buzzing of insects, the shouts and squeals of children at play, the scent of flowers and freshly mown grass. I feel content when I write a blog post at 2:00 AM. I feel content when I get behind the wheel of my 25-year-old Jeep and let it take me somewhere. I do not ask life to give me things to make me content. I feel fortunate to have the things that I have, while I have them, and one of those things is contentment. I do not expect this comfort will last forever, but while it lasts, I am content.

I do not envy the wealthy. The things for which they strive are ephemeral and mean little except in the eyes of the equally blind. I do not envy the wealthy because they are struggling with their own lessons and wealth is a trap for them. I care little for outward appearances. I admire qualities that cannot be easily seen but are more real, more lasting, more meaningful.

I live in my own world, but I know where I am and where I've been and where I soon may be. I am okay with that. My memory is a stream of places and people. Once hurtful memories have lost their edge while good memories get better with distance. But even as I write this, and even as I know this, I know I have fallen short and will fall short again. 

Samuel Beckett wrote in Waiting For Godot, "At me too someone is looking, of me too someone is saying, He is sleeping, he knows nothing, let him sleep on."

I have been sleeping, but at least I know I have been sleeping, and that is one step forward.