I wake up with the fear that my children may be late again for school. This is the only thing that prevents me from rolling over and resuming the dream that the alarm clock has rudely interrupted, even though again and again I keep hitting 'snooze'. Why would anyone invent something to wake you up and then put a button on it that allows you to override it and go back to sleep for five minute intervals? The snooze button has to be one of the stupidest inventions ever! Having said all that, I use it, too; so, that speaks for itself.
Where was I? Oh, yeah, I am in such a peaceful dream. A cool breeze lifts my hair as I run down a hill and take to wings of flight. It is a recurring dream in my hit parade of a dozen or so. I will have it again, I'm sure. It is just that I do not remember ever having made it to an ending. The alarm has always interrupted it. It would be my luck for the dream to end with me plummeting to my death like the ill-fated Icarus.
I believe that if I am ever to dream the complete dream after crashing to Earth I will awaken in a panic only to the realization that I am on an airplane that is spiraling uncontrollably toward an imminent crash. I think there is more than enough irony in the world for such a thing to happen.
I don't know why I dream of flying; I hate flying. Even when I was in the Air Force, I hated flying. You might ask why I would ever want to be in the Air Force if I hated flying. Well that is not the only time I have ever done something that doesn't make any sense. I'm sure it won't be the last.
I digress.
I hate it when people say that, "I digress." In this instance, though I really do digress.
Wait! Have I nodded off again? I roll over, glance at the clock. "No!" I launch from the bed with flailing arms and sprawling legs. I fling the covers in every conceivable direction - whichever way they want to fly and to whatever resting place gravity eventually recovers them. I rush to awaken my children, immediately infecting them with my panic.
"We are late. I'm sorry. I overslept!"
"Not again, Dad!" they complain, and rightly so as it is the fourth time this week and it is Thursday - at least I think it is Thursday.
"I was up late, writing." I resort to using the truth as an excuse while I stand referee over the bathroom, allowing equal access and time for my daughters while permitting my son to use my bathroom. "You know how I am when I stay up late," I offer as a further explanation. "Anyway why don't you set the alarm clocks that each of you has?"
"Dad! You're supposed to wake us," my eldest daughter said.
"Yeah, but we know how Dad is, so it's our fault that we are late. We trusted him how many times this week and he has failed how many times to wake us?"
I had been almost ready to embrace my son for his kind understanding until that last bit about my failure. It wasn't that he was wrong just that I felt like it was me I was talking to just then when I said, "Never accept the blame."
Because it is a frequent enough occurrence, they know the drill. I prepare bagels and cream cheese to eat on the way toschool and hastily make their lunches. When they are dressed we hurry outside and into the Jeep. I try to make it to the bus stop in time. I don't know why I even bother. All week long we have been too late but on the off chance that the bus is also running late, maybe that is the thought process; maybe I am still not awake enough to have rational thoughts. The kids so seldom ride the bus that I bet that when they do make it to the stop on time the driver thinks they are new in town.
Having confirmed that there are no kids waiting at the bus stop, we turn and head a more direct route to school. Breaking speed limits, I drive them over the two bridges of the Pineda Causeway and out onto the beach-side where their schools are- middle school for the girls, high school for the boy, arriving just in the nick of time. Then, having wished each of them a good day at school, I slip back out of the panic mode. I take deep breaths, calming down.
On the drive back home I stop by the convenience store for a cold soda. I don't do coffee in the morning. I don't especially like coffee. I have to add ample cream to make it palatable and to me it just seems pointless to drink anything that I have to amend that much to be able to tolerate its taste. So I prefer to drink a soda. I like the taste of soda.
By the time that I return home the sun has fully risen to illuminate my small, almost insignificant parcel of the Florida landscape. Suddenly I remember that today was the day that I promised I would mow the lawn.
It does no good to ignore it. I have tried to convince myself that eventually if let be, the grass would grow so tall that it would even stop growing. Of course that would by far exceed the standards of the deed-restricted community. The home owner's association would protest and levy fines and do all sorts of wicked, nasty things in the name of preserving sacred property values. I could have let the lawn die, but who wants to live in a house surrounded by a brown yard...or white gravel for that matter. Already, I have had enough run-ins with the homeowner's association, so I opt not to push my luck; I consent to mowing the lawn regularly. The only part of the covenants of the home-owner's association that I really agree with is that no one can turn their yard into a white gravel landscape.
I mow it, knowing full well it will take at least a whole hour to accomplish. As this is one of the most mundane tasks a person can possibly do, it is the source of frequent and self-renewing dread. It is the worst hour of my life. It is something revisited about every week and sometimes even more often provided the number of decent natural rain storms and whether I bothered to fertilize back in the spring.
I engage in the ritual filling of the lawnmower's gas tank. Afterwards, I check the oil. As I have already broken a sweat under the hot spring sun, I sit back and relax for a bit. When my period of rest and recomposing ends, I make sure the blades are still attached to the bottom of the mower. My dad's friend, Stubs always warned me to never check the blade unless the mower was turned off. Always I have heeded his warning for the intervening years.
I take deep, cleansing breaths then release them slowly to reach a near trance-like state as I perpetuate my pseudo-productive procrastination. Then only as a last resort I make sure that the engine still starts. If there is an unsatisfactory result in the ritual blessing of the mowing equipment, I have the perfect excuse to delay the mowing for yet another day.
However, the usual case is that everything is in fine working order and unfortunately without further excuse or delay, I must now set about mowing the lawn. At this point, my trance has attained a Zen-like state, so that while I am methodically, even mechanically performing the routines of back and forth, turning at this end or that, I can direct my mind to think of anything else, pushing the excruciating agony of mowing the lawn to the darkest recesses of mental storage for such experiences while I engage in a sort of self-hypnosis that I am doing anything else but experiencing a physically demanding endeavor, outdoors in the heat of the Florida sun.
Gratefully, the process of the Zen lawn-mowing usually does not significantly damage the ornamentals. If the lawn has been sufficiently prepared in advance there are effective borders to barricade the celebrated flowerbeds and honorable sensitive shrubbery from an inadvertent, errant overrun after a poorly executed turn.
See 'The Art of Zen-Landscape Design' for further instruction.
Where was I? Oh, yeah, I am in such a peaceful dream. A cool breeze lifts my hair as I run down a hill and take to wings of flight. It is a recurring dream in my hit parade of a dozen or so. I will have it again, I'm sure. It is just that I do not remember ever having made it to an ending. The alarm has always interrupted it. It would be my luck for the dream to end with me plummeting to my death like the ill-fated Icarus.
I believe that if I am ever to dream the complete dream after crashing to Earth I will awaken in a panic only to the realization that I am on an airplane that is spiraling uncontrollably toward an imminent crash. I think there is more than enough irony in the world for such a thing to happen.
I don't know why I dream of flying; I hate flying. Even when I was in the Air Force, I hated flying. You might ask why I would ever want to be in the Air Force if I hated flying. Well that is not the only time I have ever done something that doesn't make any sense. I'm sure it won't be the last.
I digress.
I hate it when people say that, "I digress." In this instance, though I really do digress.
Wait! Have I nodded off again? I roll over, glance at the clock. "No!" I launch from the bed with flailing arms and sprawling legs. I fling the covers in every conceivable direction - whichever way they want to fly and to whatever resting place gravity eventually recovers them. I rush to awaken my children, immediately infecting them with my panic.
"We are late. I'm sorry. I overslept!"
"Not again, Dad!" they complain, and rightly so as it is the fourth time this week and it is Thursday - at least I think it is Thursday.
"I was up late, writing." I resort to using the truth as an excuse while I stand referee over the bathroom, allowing equal access and time for my daughters while permitting my son to use my bathroom. "You know how I am when I stay up late," I offer as a further explanation. "Anyway why don't you set the alarm clocks that each of you has?"
"Dad! You're supposed to wake us," my eldest daughter said.
"Yeah, but we know how Dad is, so it's our fault that we are late. We trusted him how many times this week and he has failed how many times to wake us?"
I had been almost ready to embrace my son for his kind understanding until that last bit about my failure. It wasn't that he was wrong just that I felt like it was me I was talking to just then when I said, "Never accept the blame."
Because it is a frequent enough occurrence, they know the drill. I prepare bagels and cream cheese to eat on the way toschool and hastily make their lunches. When they are dressed we hurry outside and into the Jeep. I try to make it to the bus stop in time. I don't know why I even bother. All week long we have been too late but on the off chance that the bus is also running late, maybe that is the thought process; maybe I am still not awake enough to have rational thoughts. The kids so seldom ride the bus that I bet that when they do make it to the stop on time the driver thinks they are new in town.
Having confirmed that there are no kids waiting at the bus stop, we turn and head a more direct route to school. Breaking speed limits, I drive them over the two bridges of the Pineda Causeway and out onto the beach-side where their schools are- middle school for the girls, high school for the boy, arriving just in the nick of time. Then, having wished each of them a good day at school, I slip back out of the panic mode. I take deep breaths, calming down.
On the drive back home I stop by the convenience store for a cold soda. I don't do coffee in the morning. I don't especially like coffee. I have to add ample cream to make it palatable and to me it just seems pointless to drink anything that I have to amend that much to be able to tolerate its taste. So I prefer to drink a soda. I like the taste of soda.
By the time that I return home the sun has fully risen to illuminate my small, almost insignificant parcel of the Florida landscape. Suddenly I remember that today was the day that I promised I would mow the lawn.
It does no good to ignore it. I have tried to convince myself that eventually if let be, the grass would grow so tall that it would even stop growing. Of course that would by far exceed the standards of the deed-restricted community. The home owner's association would protest and levy fines and do all sorts of wicked, nasty things in the name of preserving sacred property values. I could have let the lawn die, but who wants to live in a house surrounded by a brown yard...or white gravel for that matter. Already, I have had enough run-ins with the homeowner's association, so I opt not to push my luck; I consent to mowing the lawn regularly. The only part of the covenants of the home-owner's association that I really agree with is that no one can turn their yard into a white gravel landscape.
I mow it, knowing full well it will take at least a whole hour to accomplish. As this is one of the most mundane tasks a person can possibly do, it is the source of frequent and self-renewing dread. It is the worst hour of my life. It is something revisited about every week and sometimes even more often provided the number of decent natural rain storms and whether I bothered to fertilize back in the spring.
I engage in the ritual filling of the lawnmower's gas tank. Afterwards, I check the oil. As I have already broken a sweat under the hot spring sun, I sit back and relax for a bit. When my period of rest and recomposing ends, I make sure the blades are still attached to the bottom of the mower. My dad's friend, Stubs always warned me to never check the blade unless the mower was turned off. Always I have heeded his warning for the intervening years.
I take deep, cleansing breaths then release them slowly to reach a near trance-like state as I perpetuate my pseudo-productive procrastination. Then only as a last resort I make sure that the engine still starts. If there is an unsatisfactory result in the ritual blessing of the mowing equipment, I have the perfect excuse to delay the mowing for yet another day.
However, the usual case is that everything is in fine working order and unfortunately without further excuse or delay, I must now set about mowing the lawn. At this point, my trance has attained a Zen-like state, so that while I am methodically, even mechanically performing the routines of back and forth, turning at this end or that, I can direct my mind to think of anything else, pushing the excruciating agony of mowing the lawn to the darkest recesses of mental storage for such experiences while I engage in a sort of self-hypnosis that I am doing anything else but experiencing a physically demanding endeavor, outdoors in the heat of the Florida sun.
Gratefully, the process of the Zen lawn-mowing usually does not significantly damage the ornamentals. If the lawn has been sufficiently prepared in advance there are effective borders to barricade the celebrated flowerbeds and honorable sensitive shrubbery from an inadvertent, errant overrun after a poorly executed turn.
See 'The Art of Zen-Landscape Design' for further instruction.
No comments:
Post a Comment