I was mowing my lawn the other day, a chore I'd put off till the crabgrass was seeding because I don't put crabgrass killer out in the spring because I decided that what grows in the spaces I don't purposely plant with flowering or fruiting plants can scramble for its place based on its hardiness and fitness, and realized that despite everything it all I am happy. Its strange, in the midst of economic angst brought on by starting a new job based in large part on commission that I've yet to receive, I am happy. Sure, my ability to spend spend spend in the American Fashion is greatly reduced, but I've got it pretty easy. Once my company computer is returned from the doctor who spent the night busily debugging it, I'll return to making my pitiful attempts at sales calls to men and women who don't know me and often can't yet see the value in what I'm offering, but if I desire the chance to see people out and about I can take it to the coffee shop and make my calls from there. I can, should I so desire, make them from the house and pace about my front yard during conversations, pulling random bits of hardy plant life out of the areas I've deemed "flower beds" while expounding to contacts made about the possibilities and capabilities and what it means to them. I can take a few minutes between calls to play with the birds I share my life with, or to go in the back yard and pet the dogs.

Its a pretty bucolic existance.

Still, most days I find myself in the same patterns, the same processes without much self reflection. I'd once thought that, given more leisure like I had in college, I would return to some of that self reflection and spiritual growth that seems to have happened to someone else now in my middle years, but that is not proving to be the case. Last night I looked out at the full moon and, rather than pouring two glasses of *insert available liquor of choice* and going out to toast the Gods and hang out for a while I simply poured myself a cup of water, covered the bird cages, closed all shades and headed to my bed and peaceful slumber.

What happened to me? Have the years in toil to earn a living killed my senses, left me bereft of the spiritual reality once so intrinsic to my daily breath? Have I lost touch with the wonder, the magic, that is life itself? I ask this and look at the dead and dying oregano that had survived for three years in my care but now seems doomed to die off and think "or perhaps, my values changed."

When I was in college, money was not so much the object that it is now. I am too aware that if I don't earn enough I will lose my house, my home, and unlike those hallowed days, this scares the tar out of me. Then too my associates have changed, reflecting more the lower middle class/white collar cogs also working their daily job, then going home to care for their families and loved ones... mine of course consist of two dogs and a three birds, theirs usually include a spouse and children. I find as time goes by less and less in common with these folk, perhaps because I spend my off hours out riding my bicycle around with men who see more of me on a regular basis than my roommates or any potential boyfriend could hope for. This would be considered normal if I were paid for it. I consider alternate activities so I can get back off pavement and into the wooded areas in hopes that would jump-start a return to my spiritual journey, but I never actually do it.

I have come close, a few times, to being pulled out of retirement from most things spiritual, but found myself feeling alien in a familiar dream scape land. Everything seemed off, out of focus, and strange. It was like dreaming you're in an old family home but none of the rooms quite match the real home and there are strange extra rooms and doors, stairs and secrets.

Is this merely part of the human journey? This strange feeling of contentment without the depth of connection, or is it merely my own disease? Either way, I doubt I'd trade it.


After all, I am actually happy to be here.