Pax Plena

It was a chilly morning, about 19 degrees, when I did my walk. I had to wear a coat and a stocking cap. But it’s a walk I’ve taken many times and in much colder, more inclement weather. In order to take the air, I usually walk from the nearby gas station – which serves a superb breakfast sandwich – back to the house here in the neighborhood.

On my walks, I typically encounter a number of furry and feathered friends. I’ve said hello to the occasional bald eagle. To chonky prairie dogs who scream at one another to herald my arrival. And to flocks of geese headed south for the winter. I’ve even seen the odd raft of ducks, swimming in the artificial pond, keeping their heads low to steer clear of the geese.

On this cold morning, there were no geese, and only the fattest of prairie dogs were scurrying about. I saw a couple of intrepid joggers of the human variety. But, in all, the faded morning sun and the arctic blast seemed to keep most folks indoors. It was strange being one of the few people out and about when there is normally so much life bustling all around. And especially strange given that I would typically rather be in a warm bed on a cold morning than out for a walk. But fate sometimes has strange trips in store for us.

After scarfing down my breakfast sandwich, I made my walk home against a brisk wind. I went to college in New Hampshire and did a post-doc in Wyoming, so the cold is something I feel somewhat accustomed to. But this seemed to be the type of cold that numbs the bones and then the soul, in short order. I could feel my teeth chattering. I’m not entirely sure if I still had hands. But it was, nevertheless, eminently the type of walk that was well-suited for reflection. Naturally, some life disappointments had been playing in my mind and I was a bit lost in my thoughts.

I didn’t even realize that I had ambled up alongside the water. It was only when I chanced to look up that I noticed the last duck on the pond. He didn’t seem especially concerned about being alone. Rather, he seemed to accept his lot: a lone drake swimming out from the reeds. I didn’t see a hen nearby but she could have been tucked away. Regardless, he seemed content and paddled out toward the center of the pond.

He gave no look toward me. To him, I could well have been one of the joggers I passed earlier and gave no heed. Yet he paddled on, seemingly impervious or oblivious to the cold. It was a bit disconcerting to watch him, hell bent on whatever mission he was on in perfect ignorance of whatever was going on in the human world around him.

I found his situation envious.

One problem of modernity is that we humans tend to care about too much. I mentioned in my last post that we worry about the past, present, and future. And then we worry about every conceivable permutation associated with each. With each permutation, we invite an inordinate amount of stress into our lives that we are neither able to mitigate, nor address. It all makes for a rather unfortunate state of affairs. But what I learned from my indifferent, feathered friend is that sometimes simply accepting the state of things as they are is as fine a conclusion as any.

After a quick snap, I walked on home and took stock of my worries. Many of them were not things that I could sort out at the time. Many of them were not things that I have sorted out since. But the picture above reminds me that, on occasion, the best course is merely to accept the circumstances and paddle on.