The landscaping at the Hyde Park Shopping Center was changed earlier this week, and I haven’t see Peter Cottontail in the three times I’ve looked since. I’m hoping that he left on his own or, at worst, the landscapers humanely trapped and relocated him to a better habitat. I was moved to see that someone had thrown baby carrots into the planter on the off chance he was still around.
It was an interesting week, but not in a positive sense. Fondly do I recall the days when I was blissfully unaware of the “control freak” type (there must be a psychiatric term and diagnosis code). Once I met one and began to understand the affliction, I realized how rampant among those least qualified or able to manage or control this is. It’s disturbing.
I have lost the equilibrium and sense of well being I had after my four days away.
That it should rain on the day J. wanted to visit Morton Arboretum fits in with the general tenor of life these days.
On the other hand, I did get an outdoor table at the bakery, and it’s soothing to see and hear the rain from the shelter of the overhang.
I am afraid of losing my intellectual, creative, and managerial talents and skills through disuse and misuse. I feel have regressed 20 years and lack the energy, confidence, and hope to try to recoup what I have lost.
I have to measure the exact length of my stride, but even if it isn’t yet calibrated precisely, the new pedometer shows that I walk more than I thought — often more than two miles a day. Four would be better.
Two weeks ago when I was walking around Promontory Point a little after sunset, I looked up and beheld the crescent moon overhead and to the west and remembered that in some ways that that beautiful soft glow and what it represents make life worthwhile. I wish others could understand that.
The people who bring their children to The Flamingo pool leave a lot of stuff behind — noodles, toys, floats, goggles, towels. I think of a photo of a baby, under a year old, surrounded, almost crowded, by his roomful of toys. I recall my toy box (actually a tan plastic washtub) in which most of my toys fit with room to spare. I loved everything I had, perhaps because I had so little. All of it meant something — a gift from my aunt, a surprise from my parents. Once I experienced the purest joy when a tiny glow-in-the-dark skeleton came with a necessary bottle of school glue. As small as it was, I treasured it for years. Now children are so used to having so much that they leave things behind or lose them as though they were no more than used paper towels. We and our children falsely believe that things can be replaced infinitely. Do we believe that about our world, our environment, and our wildlife? Is the culture of consumerism and waste etched on our psyches? And are there left any middle-class children who still feel a thrill over the smallest of things?
I must stop procrastinating about getting my nearly 35-year-old bike fixed. Returning to the road, even if only around here, might give me a boost and help me put some of the issues into perspective. As for the bike, it is heavy, rusty in spots, and not entirely straight, but I don’t think I could ever discard my old friend.