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"Mid-80s" used to mean the decade that came after the 1970s. But to me now mid-80s means I'm getting' old. This week my friend M (who is my age, give or take a year)
and I were discussing age. The older you grow, the less clear you life's purpose becomes. The roles and activities that once animated you become physically impossible or just fade into the woodwork. Who are you now and why are you here? These questions are worth looking at.
As M and I talked she mentioned her jigsaw puzzle, laid out on a table. Sometimes, just glancing as she walks by, she will spy the piece with the slash of yellow on the edge that she's been looking for. And when she finds it serendipitously like that, she said she experiences a "weeny hit".
And there we had it. In these mid-80s days when our reason for living might be a bit hazy, all we need to do is to watch for weeny hits. You can rename them to your own taste: itty bitty hits. Tiny hits. Teeny-weeny hits. But I'll stick with weeny hits.
Think of it. A day can move along from weeny hit to weeny hit, each a splash or sparkle of delight. Which is, of course, life. Meaning. Enough to live for. I'm keeping my eyes open from now on for the weeny hits I might once have overlooked. Since my tendency is always to simplify and consolidate, focusing on weeny hits seems to be the ultimate answer. AN ultimate answer.
Now I'll move from the potential emptiness of aging to the superficial, my default playground. And with me the superficial—which could be the surface of anything at all, right?—is most often found in the kitchen.
I daren't bring up sourdough again. We've worked that vein of ore to extinction. I could cite yesterday's freezer search for the elusive two boxes of black beans—which turned out to be (the search was protracted and thorough) not two but three boxes. We devoured two of them that night as refried beans for a Texas nacho platter.
And that meal was preceded by oysters. Our Nova Scotia daughter arrived for a brief visit with a box of 50 Lucky Lime oysters, so we have been shucking a dozen and a half oysters and popping a bottle of sparkling wine to begin each meal. I must admit that oysters and bubbly every night can provide me with a very substantial weeny hit.
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com
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