Rumination
April 23 2025
Yes, it’s a quiet life.
Padding about on slippered feet.
Fussing over nothing much.
Some haphazard gardening,
rambles through the park,
tinkering
with this and that.
When I was young
I naturally imagined
a life of consequence.
Thought of posterity, legacy
remembrance.
Pictured high adventure,
love affairs
begun and ended.
And in the fullness of time
a loving family
gathered by my deathbed.
But certainly not
resignation or complacency,
narrow mindedness
or rigidity.
Not opportunities
I let slip away,
and never laziness
or aimless drift.
Yet they say less is more.
A small footprint.
The humility
that becomes a virtuous man.
Quiet acceptance
of your lot in life
modest as it is.
After all, instead of changing the world
who wouldn't prefer to retreat from it,
finding a place of refuge
to restore
replenish
reflect?
Who wouldn’t prefer to tinker,
working their hands
through sun-warmed soil,
sitting in a well-worn chair
stained with coffee
in a cozy corner of a quiet room?
Who wouldn’t prefer a peaceful life
of open-ended time?
To be fully present,
living in the moment, and with intent
instead of wallowing
in pointless regret?
Is the hypothetical “I” of this poem celebrating his quiet insular life? After all, to busy, stressed, sleep-deprived people -- which is apparently most of us -- it sounds pretty good!
Or is he being ironic, and wryly lamenting a thin inconsequential life that he regrets? As if the first line is to be read with a defensive tone: yes, it is a quiet life, but so what!?? Either defending his life choices to someone else, or trying to justify them to himself.
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