My friend Scott recently sent me a powerful set of reflections—moments of awakening, I’d say— each paired with an image of sunrise. The piece begins with a saying attributed to the Buddha: “Each morning, we are born again. What we do today is what matters most.”
Shit. That’s a lot of pressure for days like this. Sunrise was supposed to be at 7:44 this morning and it’s going to take a leap of faith to believe that it happened. Cedar and I walked for about 30 minutes right around then, and although it was technically light, it was stingy, dark, wet, grey light—plenty for Cedar to go squirrel chasing, but I could barely see the chaser or the chasee.
As for the title of this post, maybe the drear (a word I just made up), has put me in a Hemingway mood. We’re no Lost Generation, but our kids, especially, have been through some strange times. The war in Ukraine rages, the election deniers and wanna-be autocrats push democracy though one stress test after another (it seems to be surviving!), the climate data are bad and worsening, Covid variants do their thing, but Cedar stays steady at her own helm (steering for squirrels or birds or the next swim).
We have had a few moments of reprieve from the deep November grey of late. And I’ve recently had a chance to visit Tim, Katie, and my mom (Hi, Mom!), and old and new friends, while the brown one has been treated to the company of sweet house sitters far more athletic than the old man.
So I wonder if the Buddha would negotiate. I’m fine with being born again each morning. Grateful, in fact, even on these gloomy ones. But could we extend the window a bit for what we do mattering? (It’s been a nice couple of weeks.)
Or maybe I should just feed the Buddha’s lines through Hemingway, and close this out with Jake’s response to Brett (who suggested they could have had so much fun together) at the end of The Sun Also Rises.
“Isn’t it pretty to think so?”
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