Being

60 (January 2025):

As months go, this hasn’t been a favorite. I spent much of January in bed with a nasty viral bug that completely shut me down. I didn’t even have the energy to read or pass the time watching movies or shows. My body was definitely sending me an important message: Enough already!

I had been feeling overloaded for awhile. Even in retirement, I seem to find a way to take on too much and feel like I am running in circles. So my body had to put the brakes on by literally knocking me off my feet. I had no choice but to finally listen to it and slow down, or in actuality, to come to a full stop for a few weeks.

As I recovered, I considered the notion that maybe it’s okay to wake up to the day slowly, enjoy a cup of tea, delight in the birds at our feeders, and even go for a walk — and do it all guilt-free. I’m retired for heaven’s sake! Yet, I generally feel like I have to accomplish something to justify my existence, and to ultimately leave the world a little better off for having been alive. Does everyone feel that way, or is it just my generation, my Catholic upbringing, or my own peculiar psychological makeup?

It is difficult to get past the apparent hard-wiring that compels me to feel like I have to do things or create things. That may be a reasonable way to live life, up to a point, but there likely needs to be more balance. Perhaps the challenge is to make something with the gift of life we are given, while simultaneously honoring the enigmatic duality that it is also enough just to be.

I had the pleasure of snuggling a snoozing dog while pet sitting last week. A sleepy dog knows exactly what to do and makes no excuses for it. Being present and in the moment seem effortless to a napping dog. Life is relished, one breath, one sweet moment at a time.

So whenever I can, I hug that dog, let its innate wisdom seep into me, breathe deeply, and remind myself that it’s okay — at least sometimes — just to be.

40 (January 2005):

A couple of months ago, I introduced our horse to a friend who was visiting from the city. He asked me, with what appeared to be a sense of thinly veiled horror, what it was that our horse did all day long. Since then, I have often found myself carrying this question within me as I go about my early morning barn chores.

So what is it our horse does all day? The answer is contained within the question; she is. She lives. She eats, she sleeps. She lives with, in, surrounded by, and nourished by nature. I doubt she has any worries. I think she probably enjoys life. Our horse always does exactly what she is meant to do, unselfconsciously. I know I can learn a lot from her, if I have the humility to be open to her lessons.

Our horse knows how to be still. Some mornings when I am out doing chores, I try to still myself, even for a few moments. I stand in the pasture and do “nothing,” just like her. And I begin to notice.

I feel. I feel the breeze across my face, which is the only exposed part of my body. My skin feels the icy chill of the day, and it is invigorating. I smell the hay, muddy snow at my feet, and the pine trees high above me, and I drink it in, one slow breath at a time. I see the sun play with shadows on the side of the barn and bounce off the snow sparkling in the yard, and the beauty saturates me. I hear more birds than I realized were around in the winter and the gentle creaking of tree trunks swaying in the wind, and this music moves my body. If I stand still for a few more moments, I hear occasional periods of silence.

In these moments in the pasture I am more alive to my senses, and so to myself and my world, than I am during the course of my usual, busy day, when I am often so focused on my rational mind that I am not awake to what my senses are offering me. What does our horse do all day? She experiences life. She lives. And I think she does it with more fullness and grace than most of us.

60-40:

I guess sometimes it literally takes decades for life’s lessons to even begin to sink in! The same lessons can come by way of different messengers along the way, effecting mini epiphanies throughout the years. I came across a passage by my favorite author, John O’Donohue, in Anam Cara this week that resonated with my musings. He writes,

If you attend to yourself and seek to come into your presence, you will find exactly the right rhythm for your own own life. The senses are generous pathways that can bring you home.

The gift of life allows our senses to smell delicious food cooking on the stove, hear beautiful music, see candlelight illuminate a room with softness, taste the sweetness of chocolate, and feel warmth emanating from a wood stove. I must remember to be present to those simple sensory experiences — to appreciate being. After all, what’s the point of accomplishments, no matter how big or small, if you miss out on what it is to be alive along the way?