A thought, a re-occurring thought about a walk. A longish one, three miles, three days, three years, three lifetimes. In essence, a walk away from stuff, from clutter, from baggage, shedding and unloading, leaning up, returning to an ideal. Not a heavy philosophical journey because I like walking and seeing stuff. A walk that can take me from Doolin to the Himalayan foothills.
So here I am, all of me and all of them whom I love dearly, and me gets submerged in them. But I love the cover of fatherhood; it fits well the paternity thing. Dad stuff, cooking, shopping, working for the man, cleaning, bringing to soccer, to rugby, to hockey, the parent teacher meetings, community games, mortgage and bills, 24-7 kisses and hugs. A wonderful life, no really, it doesn’t get better.
And something happens.
And it’s on their part not mine. It’s about their opinions and attitudes not mine, about their thoughts and ideas which are very fine but hey, they’re not mine. Not originating anywhere near my heartfelt philosophies, I’m cast adrift. They’re on board an ideals QE2, looking back at me floundering. Paddle like fuck or be dammed!
So I go for a walk in my mind, a longish walk as I mentioned earlier, and I shed belongings. It’s a process, but one which gathers momentum in an inverse exponential, the less I have, the more I loose. And less is so very much more now. A journey which takes me through all climates and climbs. The rhythm kicks in, the perfect breathing, heart slows to optimum, to a meditation. It’s a foot-fall, a repetition, the warm sun on my back, the care-free childishness of a rambling journey home from school, it’s a dreaming.
Alone and ignorant of loneliness, passing through the wonders of the world from my primary school geography book, from my father’s Encyclopædia Britannica.
What do I see?