What matters most?

Dawn. What to think about? I gaze out our window. Those six deer in the meadow? But no, first, three breakfasts (for Jane, Henry, Carll), unload the dishwasher, assess the day’s food needs (no shopping required? Excellent!). Appointments scheduled? None? Most excellent! Importunate chores? Taxes? Repairs? Phone calls to return? Refill pills?

With luck, not much compels. Walk Henry, but that’s a matter of course. Likewise my own ablutions. (A haircut! I’m beginning to look like Steve Bannon!) Any birthdays pending? How’s my missive supply? (I store enough to cover emergencies, but not so many they rot. Missives, like brussels sprouts, taste their age.)

So now what? The prudent householder has checked off his list. He has time – three, four vacant hours, six at a stretch. In my career years, there was never time. Dawn to dusk, chock-a-block, with penalties, often dire, if punctuality failed (“We do not ride on the railroad; it rides upon us.” – Thoreau).

Vacant here does not mean empty but, like foolscap, awaiting – even eagerly – its assignment (“They also serve who only stand and wait” – Milton, Sonnet 19). These are the hours that judge us, by whose usage we’ll be judged. Yes, we must fulfill our obligations or renege on our commitment to the here and now. Those who count on us we must not let down. But how have we spent our precious residue of opportunity? Have we buried our little talent, like the third servant in Jesus’ parable, or invested it and made it grow? We have occupied our hour – no doubt – all of us do that, even slugs – but have we made the most of our chance? Have we honored the gift of being with our all?

Many, perhaps most, nudge such questions under the rug. They have been busy, on the go, keeping their nose clean, isn’t that enough? Many stay busy to dodge the scrutiny of silence, stuffing their days with feathers till they fluff. Retirement relieves them of any responsibility to signify. Haven’t they done their bit?

Retirement left my door ajar for the terrible Inspector. God came in and, looking around, snorted, “Is this all you’ve got to show?” I cringed like Adam in the garden, covering my nakedness. Excuses recoiled into my throat. “After such knowledge, what forgiveness?” groaned T.S. Eliot. I knew better. I was sorry. But I still had time. God, apparently, was allowing me that. So go for it, fella.

Which returns me to the window, sipping coffee, admiring the deer in the field, still in their mud-dark winter woolies. Henry paws me to play – which tempts, but no, not now, while lucidity winks. I must make something, but what? Those deer inveigle – why six? Why here? What are their relations? “Chock-a-block,” too, teases. (Can you guess its origin? I couldn’t either.) I hesitate to flip open my laptop (like a crocodile’s jaws!). Trump’s turpitude has cost me many a dreamy meditation (about Milton’s sonnets, say). I both resent the theft and embrace the purpose. His badness summons goodness in response.

I have three customers for my cakes: myself, you (my devourers), and our moment. Mightn’t I bake what appeals to all? Where do our interests overlap, as in a Venn diagram? (Good Lord, now here’s John Venn (1834-1923), edging into my mind’s vestibule!) Deer, chock-a-block and Venn may feel beside the point amidst the uproar. But from our mortal danger, as from cancer, don’t we desire diversion? I, like Henry, want to play. If my antics (verbal, not gymnastic) can eke a smile, mightn’t that for a morning suffice?