Early this morning, I came across a brief discussion of the Gabriel García Márquez novel, One Hundred Years of Solitude, which has been described as among the “supreme achievements in world literature.” Though I have long known of the novel, I have yet to read it. But as I read the discussion and a partial synopsis of the book, a few words that summarize the book’s core story line struck a chord deep inside me. The electrifying summary says the book “chronicles the irreconcilable conflict between the desire for solitude and the need for love.” Ach! I must make time, during a long stretch of isolation, to read the 417-page book.
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I have never taken enough photographs of people I love. Yet perhaps those relatively few photos take on an even deeper sentimental value than had I taken thousands. Those I have taken should have been better organized and preserved. This line of thinking is silly and pointless. Deeds that never took place are impossible to “fix.” Fretting about past failures is an exercise in futility. If that and similar exercises built muscles, my physical strength would be on full display; bulging biceps and all. The absence of such evidence says such exercise does not build muscles; I know that exercise simply builds additional layers of guilt and regret. A lifetime recognizing mistakes of omission and commission is time wasted. So, knowing that, why is that futile and unhealthy mindset allowed to fester? Bloody good question. The answer or answers probably are just as unsatisfying as the thinking that allowed dwelling on the matter to take place.
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The urologist subjected me to a very uncomfortable, though quite brief, couple of procedures yesterday. But his analysis of his findings—nothing at all of any concern whatsoever—made the unpleasant indignities worth the experience.
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I washed the sheets a while ago. They are drying as I type this. One of my least favorite household chores is making the bed. In this house, one of the divisions of labor we have silently agreed on is that I do not have to do that chore. But in mi novia‘s weeklong absence, it is only fitting that I welcome her back with clean sheets on a made bed. If I had devoted every ounce of my creative energies for my entire life to alternative ways of preparing beds for comfortable sleep, I suspect I could have found more appealing options. But, alas, I have simply tolerated that unpleasant part of household management, instead of trying to find ways to get around it.
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Summer returned yesterday. Late in the day, while the sun was still shining brightly, I traded my jeans for a pair of gym shorts. And I took off my athletic shoes and replaced them with flip-flops. If the weather forecasts are correct, I should be able to avoid jeans and heavy, uncomfortable shoes for at least the next day or two. Happiness can come on the wings of small things.
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The dryer soon will remind me that I have to make the bed. “Pleasure with pain for leaven,” is one of my favorite phrases, taken from a poem I have always appreciated. The phrases is so apropos of the vagaries of life on planet Earth.
