Musing

today’s Musing written and published from south Calgary, near Fish Creek Park

-9C/16F, slight warming breeze pushes streaks of color across empty pre-dawn sky; Gusta sniffs snow dreaming of rabbits, standing in the chill, I watch the sky imagining I'm walking in Kula . . my middle-aged creaky left foot creaking along

Americans are having a football and shopping extravaganza weekend – an institution designed to keep their economy going called Thanksgiving; Canadians will find unity in a little Grey Cup as teams from Regina and Winnipeg, representing east and west, will unite the country for a while, galvanize our pride on Sunday afternoon in Toronto – go Riders!

“Of middle age the best that can be said is that a middle-aged person has likely learned how to have a little fun in spite of his troubles.” - Don Marquis

at Toastmasters last night someone spoke of some people being quite old – mid-late sixties; at 56-and-ticking I felt a visceral reaction – who, me?, old? – middle-aged, yes, but old!

this triggered thoughts (OK, my mind bounces around a little) on what it would be like to have been middle-aged in the middle ages - when Europe struggled to move on to ‘new and improved’, when middle-ages gave way to renaissance, when middle-ages – the dark ages – yielded to a time of great enlightenment . . . I wonder, if we could have some of that magic today, whether we would embrace it or simply dismiss it as slow, as old, as middle-aged

central heating, antibiotics and refrigeration had yet to be invented, but there must have been magic in their quiet, in their absence of so many things we take for granted - an age of thinking, of enlightenment, era of art and writing – but also a cold time, life was grim, but I am sure middle-aged middle-agers didn’t see it that way - it was better than before; and, after that, renaissance men felt things were better still – time of great progress, yet primitive too - as doctors didn’t wash their hands, dentists were cruel (aren’t they still?), poets rhymed and romance writers wrote romance, thinkers thought and painters painted like never before

we’ve come far - processing data at speeds that boggle, but imagine the days when middle-aged Newton, just sitting under his apple tree every afternoon, undisturbed by e-mail or cell phone or trendy hype or poorly writ movies or TV interviews with politicos – just to think about falling apples – lots of time and peace of mind

I want to take a break from my virtual prison – calls find me, my IP address is a virtual ankle-bracelet as big brother profiles my clicks and key strokes, 100-channels invite numb and invite me to consume things I have no need for, time-saving devices populate every room - but, does my life really offer free time, free choice to think, dream, imagine or invent or create or live or love – or to just sit under a tree in the afternoon

outside my window a snowy apple tree, no leaves, no apples, stands in the chill – aching for someone to watch it; maybe I’ll disconnect a bit . . turn off modern, drift back in time, to spend time just sitting, just watching

Mark Kolke
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