The Lawnmower eLf Strikes Again
I mowed the lawn today. I will mow it again next week. And in the weeks thereafter. I'm the lawnmower eLf. I love the sight of grasses only when they're short. Lawns with long and unkempt grasses are a sign of the owners' idleness or lack of time to mow them. But does a person really lack the time for whatever s/he has to accomplish? Or s/he simply lacks the conviction to accomplish it? The ideal thing to do is to find Time and not to let Time find us, because Time will never find us. What's the difference between idle and ideal? The pronunciation? The spelling? The meaning?
Summer in Winnipeg reminds me of home. There's really no place like home. And it's the people, not the place, that make somewhere a good place to live in. No amount of material things can compensate for the love and respect I deserve. Make me choose between love and money and I'll choose the first. What is wealth without love? Isn't love not love at all without respect? All I know is that a house without love is not a home. But what about a love without a house? Or a love without a home? Is there such? Regardless, a home can never be without love. Do you live in a home? Do you believe in love?
As always, Grandfather enjoys an afternoon bask. As long as I'm within his sight, he feels content. Just watching me operate the lawnmower is enough to suit his mood. Is this really a blessing in disguise? I could only hope. In fairness, the best thing that ever happened to me since I agreed to serve as my maternal grandfather's caregiver for the rest of his life is, I was given the rare chance to think and feel like an elderly. I was able to peek into the deepest corners of his own microcosm—his frustrations, his fears, his regrets, his woes, his dreams, his aspirations, his achievements, his contentment... I was already a patient person, but, because of it, I've become more patient. My sympathy progressed into empathy. I was a writer, and now I've become a bard. I used to sing in a band; now with the birds I sing about my homeland. My father said I was born with a pen in my hand. Now I say, I will die with one in my heart.