sonora2sonoma

By
Tim Konrad

Chapter Two

The wall in my backyard served as a gateway to the world that lay beyond—the wonderful and wild woods, with their deep sense of mystery and surprise, teeming with secrets to be revealed about the wonders of nature. Those woods not only captured my imagination as a young boy but also featured largely in my dreams, ultimately coming to symbolize the vast, unknown, open page, or tabula rasa, of my life as it lay before me, yet unexplored and awaiting time and caprice for its unfoldment.

       I often and distinctly recall a moment sixty-plus years ago, when I sat perched atop that wall in reflection: If reflection is not an appropriate term to describe the musings of a boy of eleven, then musing most certainly is. It was the first day of summer vacation and the whole of my favorite season lay before me like an exciting and mysterious present yet unopened. Not only did I have a summer free of duties, responsibilities and school requirements to look forward to, I “mused,” but I also had my whole life ahead of me, with the reasonable and hopeful expectation that it might be blessed with longevity.

       I still remember how it felt to think these thoughts back then, similar to how I felt as a boy at Christmas-time when first seeing the tree ringed with presents, or the way it felt before taking that first bite of chocolate sundae at the ice cream shop. I’ve always savored the expectation preceding the experience, whatever the event itself might be. I still do so today; the promise, the mystery and excitement never cease to hold me in thrall.

       Now, as my number of days past exceeds those that lie before me, that moment on the wall seems more poignant than ever.

As day turns into night, the dance of life and death, as with all the other dualities in life, denotes the beautiful yet frightening symmetry of all things. The poet and visionary William Blake perhaps said it best when he wrote, in his poem Tiger, Tiger Burning Bright “What immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry?”

       But what once was hope need not become despair. It’s all a matter of perspective, really. Life truly is what one makes of it and tomorrow, if one chooses to see it as such, is another tabula rasa just as surely as it was to that eleven-year-old boy perched on that wall so long ago. Only now I have much more to reflect upon.

***

       The intervening years have brought equal shares of joys and sorrows, unfolding, as they did, largely not according to plan, which wasn’t surprising since, in my younger days, I hadn’t placed much stock in planning anyway. Aware of the fable of the grasshopper and the ant but equally aware that investing years toward a goal only paid off if one succeeded in living long enough to reap the rewards of such planning, I used that line of reasoning to justify a life marked by sometimes questionable decisions. Retirement being a distant and somewhat mythical concept back then, I only pursued goals with short-term rewards and effectively postponed any notions of accumulating savings toward retirement. It was only in my later years that my wish not to die destitute gained authority over the part of me that had allowed me to remain profligate for so long.

To be continued: