Lots of counting, tracking, and numbers this month.
The United States just turned 239 years old. This blog has been around for eight years this month. Jack Jack Cutie Face will be one year old tomorrow and on the very last day of July 2015, I will be forty-four.
I’m not sure what any of this means, but the first thing that comes to my mind is that our country is super young, relatively speaking. We are babies, which is great and refreshing because sometimes we feel super stodgy. Instead of always trying to be taken seriously among our older crumblier counterparts, maybe we can just look at this number, 239, and remember our spunk, rebel rousing. I love old, love traveling and marveling at things that peel, but today I’m pretty excited my country is just a babe. We celebrated our breaking-away a couple of days ago with fireworks and barbecues. I like the Fourth of July. I’m always optimistic about our union as the sun sets and the night sky sparks with wonder and feist.
Eight years of blogging…one word after another and I rarely look back. I’m a fan of words and I’m grateful for the platform. Is it an accomplishment? Eh, I’m not a big one for gold stars when it comes to creativity. It is part of me now, a piece of what I do. I’m more interested in the eight years ahead.
Jack will be one year old tomorrow. This blog is filled with my love and appreciation for all things Jack. He’s my buddy and it has been a complete joy to be with him during the first year of his dog life. I was going to bake him a cake, get him a bandana, make a celebration of the whole thing, then it occurred to me that Jack doesn’t count, keep track. A nice bone, long walk, and a full bowl of water is all he wants. That’s what he’ll get and then we will move into year two.
When it comes to my own age, my evolution, it’s hard to be quantitative. Forty-four doesn’t really say much about a life. I’ve read some things this year, written some sentences that I’m proud of, been a few places, and shared a table or a couch with people I love and who love me in return.
I think I’m going to start living more like Jack and stop counting. My energies are better spent looking forward to the next sunrise, be it the day of my birth, or any other day until it is my time to leave. It doesn’t really matter how close I am to the end, how far I am from the beginning.
I am in a life. I have stuff to do, all my parts still work, and I am forever grateful for the entire messy mess.
Counting really serves no purpose. It’s all about feeling it, placing importance. Life is too grande for the numbers.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Don’t Count Sheep.