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alexpgpThe weather this past Saturday morning was marvelous and constituted the nearest thing to a gilded invitation that nature could issue to entice me to spend some time in the back yard. So I finished my morning coffee, got dressed, and walked around it for a while, getting reacquainted with the place, and I thought about the future as I did so.
Ours is not a very large back yard, or very unusual. Some time ago, however, my wife and I had planned to put in a water feature next to the garage (once we got rid of the plants and bushes that had sunk their roots into and currently occupy that space). We'd even gone so far as to pick up one of those thick plastic liners for the pond part of the feature.
Over behind the garage is a large, flat area where, over the past couple of years, I've hastily set up my "container garden" (as there never seemed to be enough time to properly till and prepare the soil). Over near the back corner of the house is a location I had scoped out to install a "stealth" amateur radio antenna—one that would not be noticed by the folks that run around making sure everyone in our development obeys the homeowner association's rules, which strictly forbid such antennas—but I'd never gotten around to installing it, either.
After strolling past these places, I found myself in a part of my back yard that, from the perspective of the living room windows, looks like an inviting nook in which to sit and think, consisting of a small bench in front of a tree, situated next to a plaster statue of a seated old man wearing a toga. One of the man's arms is either writing or pointing at something in a book laid out on a pedestal next to him, but it's hard to tell which, because the statue is old and most of the end of the man's arm has worn away with time.
I wasn't thinking about that, however. My mind was filled with a jumble of concerns about the course my life is about to take, given my recent diagnosis. So I sat down on the bench and tried to make sense of it all.
"Do you want to know a secret?" asked a voice, after a few moments.
I looked around and found myself alone.
"Hello?" I asked, feeling somewhat silly doing so. "Who said that?"
"I did," said the voice, and my gaze was drawn to the statue. "Very good!" said the voice. "Your hearing apparatus works well. My voice does indeed appear to come from the statue. Allow me to introduce myself—I am called Marcus."
"As in Aurelius?" I asked, and heard a chuckle in reply.
"I prefer simply 'Marcus'," said the statue.
"Ri-i-ght," I said, and then changed the subject slightly. "You say your voice 'appears to come' from the…"
"It's complicated," said Marcus. "And it is what it is. In any event, it's nothing that you or I have any control over, and so it is not worth our attention. We can converse, which is the important thing."
I mulled that over for a bit and then returned to his opening line. "So what's the big secret?" I asked.
"It's not so big. It is, merely, to confine yourself to the present," said Marcus, "as each day provides all that you need to make a happy life. Never let the future disturb you."
"That's easy enough for you to say," I said. "You're a voice in a statue. Me, I'm human and I've got…"
"I know all about your ailment," said Marcus. "But what you need to realize—and the sooner you realize this, the better off you'll be—is that if your ailment does not kill you, something else will, eventually."
I said nothing.
"Just a few minutes ago, when you paused at that spot next to the garage where you would like to see a pool with lilies and exotic fish and a cheery, splashing fountain, were not your thoughts sorely clouded by the possibility that you might not be here at this time next year?"
I nodded ever so slightly.
"And aside from the sadness you felt about the prospect of dying," continued Marcus, "were you not also impelled to think of building that fountain now as a foolish exercise—as time poorly spent—given the circumstances?"
I nodded again.
"Yet here you are, in your sixth decade of life. You are—let's be frank—closer now to the end than to the beginning. If medical art does succeed in prolonging your life by curing your ailment, you must still face the fact that—somewhere within the next, oh, half century, to be generous—you will die anyway. Does that make you feel better?"
I said nothing.
"And should a cure be effected, will your becoming a 'survivor' speed the construction of your fountain, or simply make it easier to again put it off to 'someday' in an indeterminate future?"
"The future," I said, quoting a line I'd read somewhere, "outwits all our certitudes."
"Hmmm-mmm. But I'm afraid that is an opinion, not a fact," said Marcus. "As I have come to learn, the past only exists in our mind and the future, flimsy construct that it is, only possesses the power we give it. The only thing that really exists—that you can do anything about—is the present, and your job is to live in that present, to confine yourself to it, and to accept the things to which fate binds you."
"So what do you suggest I do?" I asked.
"If the answer to that was something that could be scrawled upon one side of a small parchment and sold at the market for a copper or two, we would not be having this conversation," said Marcus, and laughed. "Still you asked, so let me essay a response, however abbreviated it might be."
I leaned forward on the bench.
"Upon arising in the morning," said Marcus, "think of what a precious thing it is to be alive—to breathe, to think, to enjoy, and to love. Leave the past behind you, entrust the future to fate, and live in the present, for it is only in the present that you will find happiness."
I stood up. I'm not sure I believed it all, but I had already experience a change of perspective. "Thanks, for the advice," I said.
"You are welcome. Come back and visit soon," said Marcus. "The bench is a poor conversationalist."
"I will," I said, and as I headed back to the kitchen, I stopped by the side of the garage to figure out just how long it would take to uproot the plants and bushes that were there.
Not as long as I expected, it turned out.
Ours is not a very large back yard, or very unusual. Some time ago, however, my wife and I had planned to put in a water feature next to the garage (once we got rid of the plants and bushes that had sunk their roots into and currently occupy that space). We'd even gone so far as to pick up one of those thick plastic liners for the pond part of the feature.
Over behind the garage is a large, flat area where, over the past couple of years, I've hastily set up my "container garden" (as there never seemed to be enough time to properly till and prepare the soil). Over near the back corner of the house is a location I had scoped out to install a "stealth" amateur radio antenna—one that would not be noticed by the folks that run around making sure everyone in our development obeys the homeowner association's rules, which strictly forbid such antennas—but I'd never gotten around to installing it, either.
After strolling past these places, I found myself in a part of my back yard that, from the perspective of the living room windows, looks like an inviting nook in which to sit and think, consisting of a small bench in front of a tree, situated next to a plaster statue of a seated old man wearing a toga. One of the man's arms is either writing or pointing at something in a book laid out on a pedestal next to him, but it's hard to tell which, because the statue is old and most of the end of the man's arm has worn away with time.
I wasn't thinking about that, however. My mind was filled with a jumble of concerns about the course my life is about to take, given my recent diagnosis. So I sat down on the bench and tried to make sense of it all.
"Do you want to know a secret?" asked a voice, after a few moments.
I looked around and found myself alone.
"Hello?" I asked, feeling somewhat silly doing so. "Who said that?"
"I did," said the voice, and my gaze was drawn to the statue. "Very good!" said the voice. "Your hearing apparatus works well. My voice does indeed appear to come from the statue. Allow me to introduce myself—I am called Marcus."
"As in Aurelius?" I asked, and heard a chuckle in reply.
"I prefer simply 'Marcus'," said the statue.
"Ri-i-ght," I said, and then changed the subject slightly. "You say your voice 'appears to come' from the…"
"It's complicated," said Marcus. "And it is what it is. In any event, it's nothing that you or I have any control over, and so it is not worth our attention. We can converse, which is the important thing."
I mulled that over for a bit and then returned to his opening line. "So what's the big secret?" I asked.
"It's not so big. It is, merely, to confine yourself to the present," said Marcus, "as each day provides all that you need to make a happy life. Never let the future disturb you."
"That's easy enough for you to say," I said. "You're a voice in a statue. Me, I'm human and I've got…"
"I know all about your ailment," said Marcus. "But what you need to realize—and the sooner you realize this, the better off you'll be—is that if your ailment does not kill you, something else will, eventually."
I said nothing.
"Just a few minutes ago, when you paused at that spot next to the garage where you would like to see a pool with lilies and exotic fish and a cheery, splashing fountain, were not your thoughts sorely clouded by the possibility that you might not be here at this time next year?"
I nodded ever so slightly.
"And aside from the sadness you felt about the prospect of dying," continued Marcus, "were you not also impelled to think of building that fountain now as a foolish exercise—as time poorly spent—given the circumstances?"
I nodded again.
"Yet here you are, in your sixth decade of life. You are—let's be frank—closer now to the end than to the beginning. If medical art does succeed in prolonging your life by curing your ailment, you must still face the fact that—somewhere within the next, oh, half century, to be generous—you will die anyway. Does that make you feel better?"
I said nothing.
"And should a cure be effected, will your becoming a 'survivor' speed the construction of your fountain, or simply make it easier to again put it off to 'someday' in an indeterminate future?"
"The future," I said, quoting a line I'd read somewhere, "outwits all our certitudes."
"Hmmm-mmm. But I'm afraid that is an opinion, not a fact," said Marcus. "As I have come to learn, the past only exists in our mind and the future, flimsy construct that it is, only possesses the power we give it. The only thing that really exists—that you can do anything about—is the present, and your job is to live in that present, to confine yourself to it, and to accept the things to which fate binds you."
"So what do you suggest I do?" I asked.
"If the answer to that was something that could be scrawled upon one side of a small parchment and sold at the market for a copper or two, we would not be having this conversation," said Marcus, and laughed. "Still you asked, so let me essay a response, however abbreviated it might be."
I leaned forward on the bench.
"Upon arising in the morning," said Marcus, "think of what a precious thing it is to be alive—to breathe, to think, to enjoy, and to love. Leave the past behind you, entrust the future to fate, and live in the present, for it is only in the present that you will find happiness."
I stood up. I'm not sure I believed it all, but I had already experience a change of perspective. "Thanks, for the advice," I said.
"You are welcome. Come back and visit soon," said Marcus. "The bench is a poor conversationalist."
"I will," I said, and as I headed back to the kitchen, I stopped by the side of the garage to figure out just how long it would take to uproot the plants and bushes that were there.
Not as long as I expected, it turned out.
