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Rod &
Kubby. Photo by Bob Gentry, ©2002 by Stanyan Entertainment Group.
A Thought for Today
Winter is a word we choose to remember
only vaguely till it blows in in all its wonder.
FLIGHTS FROM6THE
PAST
21 December, 2000
A MEDITATION ON THE WINTER SOLSTICE
In winter we return home again to whatever. Cold comfort. Warmth of friends. Strangeness. Death. We hibernate like bears. Seek private places to stay private in. Ward off cold. Christmas for the Children. Loneliness for others.
There is a purity to winter. A calmness. The young are left alone because their elders dwell on loss and limits. This time excuses for reassessing involve the new year. Maybe the purity of winter has more to with snow than stuff of stronger substance.
Finally mid-February brings the old and young together and a valentine is more than just a blood-red heart.
I turned some corner one day, I don't know when, and found myself coming into the winter of my years. It was not an altogether unhappy surprise. But a surprise. Did I really make it this far?
The warm California days of this particular winter reflect my own good feeling about growing older. Of course I wish I ran as fast as I did twenty years ago and I could do without the aches that arc across my body as I awaken in the a.m.'s to start the run toward the p.m.'s, but age has given me an added purpose. I am aware that sooner and not later, the springs and winters that I need to finish all the work I've set before me will stop before that work is near completion.
Will I finally be able to prioritize the unknown hours I have left, especially since I have no clue as to just how many lie ahead and what their quality will be? I can only hope that age has given me the wisdom to begin to firmly say a "no" to frivolous requests and favors that take me from my work and not assign procrastination's maybe or later to the dubious and doubtful.
Will I be wise enough to risk hurt feelings in favor of those time consuming deeds that interrupt and hurt my work?
Gossip will be the first to go and meaningless signatures attached to photographs and books and records when I'm not looking into the eyes of those presenting them for scrawls should follow. What's an autograph if it's signed on assembly line?
What a radical departure for a man who used to spend as much time backstage signing as he did on stage singing. But energy's a fickle mistress it thuds to weariness just when it should be on the rise and I owe first rate work to those who care about my work. The energy should go to that and not to scribbles in a stack of books.
The risks to such a stance? Many will not understand and decide to sooth their own pride with the simple admonition that "He's changed, he no longer cares about 'us'." Indeed I have changed (gotten older) and because I care more than ever about those who have sustained me through the years I've finally decided that work completed is more important than niceties and appearances. There is no time for a filled up plate of both. Even to my closest friends I am not known for half measures.
I hope that some will understand as they too prioritize. This is a start, but only a start. It may lead to dismissal and many backs turned, but, if so, it will be a productive obscurity.
Adapted, with new material, from "Rod McKuen's Book of Days and a
Month of Sundays," 1981. First published12/21/2000
Sleep warm and I’ll be back
tomorrow.
RM 12/20/ 2002 5:40 PST
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