A Muse for Myself

Powerful reasons exist for vacations lasting at least two weeks. Fourteen days, at a minimum, are necessary to sufficiently clear one’s head to enable recovery from even the modest pressures of the daily grind. Limiting vacations to less than two weeks is like stopping a two-month course of chemotherapy after 28 days; the benefits achieved may be beneficial in the short term,  but inadequate to conquer the disease.


The sounds of a bubbling fountain can soothe the mind. Rain on the roof, wind in the trees, and the gentle notes of a wind chime can do the same. Meditation, perhaps, is a purposeful means of accomplishing the same result. The object, the aim, is to become familiar with serenity…to feel the calmness that accompanies that familiarity. But then, suddenly, a barking dog insists that serenity is an illusion, a retreat from reality. Yet a dog’s expression of angst provides the contrast necessary to understand the nature of serenity. An exploding fire-cracker, the sounds of construction machinery, and a million other noises or vibrations can do the same. If we consider them in that context, we may come to appreciate them for the lessons they teach. Maybe.


Our bodies were never meant to last a thousand years. Actually, there is no meaning…not legitimate, anyway…inherent in the time our bodies survive the cycles of life. What is, is. That is hard for many people to accept. That is too bad; coming to grips with the concept that all life is fundamentally meaningless is helpful when faced with the pain of meaningless…or senseless…loss.


Happiness and sadness are woven into the fabric of life. The fabric looks and feels differently, depending on the looseness of the weave, the threads used, and the kind of loom emplyed in the process.


I write drivel, sometimes, just to explore how my brain functions. Other times, the drivel is a natural byproduct of what’s up there in that cloudy grey matter.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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