I am not disappointed that the paintings on my wall do not sing to me;
I am not angry that my stove cannot cook my food in sixty seconds;
I do not disapprove of my table because it doesn’t make me coffee.
It is simply not in their nature to do so.
I am not worried that I am not immortal, or that I won’t even live 150 years;
I am not disheartened that I never embraced a belief in an omnipotent God,
that I never loved money or tried to become a billionaire,
that I never lived in a large country house with paid servants.
Those things are simply not in my nature.
I am not discouraged by never winning a marathon,
for never painting like Van Gogh,
for never becoming a professional athlete,
for never writing poetry as well as Margaret Atwood,
or to sing as well as Leonard Cohen.
Those things are simply beyond my capability.
It is a relief to face my cosmic insignificance,
to know that nothing I have done or will ever do
will survive the passage of time, that no one
will remember me or know of me in two hundred years’ time,
save perhaps for a ripple of imparted wisdom
that lasts a generation or two.
It takes the pressure off.
It’s liberating to know that I don’t need to
achieve unrealistic goals, or seek out accolades
for things that are of no real interest to me,
or to put any sort of dent on a world
that repairs itself in the blink of planetary time,
that I can finally bask in the pleasure of doing things now,
today, that are meaningful to me, to my friends,
to my family, to the people I choose to serve.
And this brings me peace in my autumn years.
