An Unseized Evening

I was vaguely troubled yesterday by a sense that I was wasting the day. I woke slowly, puttered around, cleaned dishes, read online, played the piano. I have lists of things to do, but I didn't do any of them, to be honest. Short-range, long-range, medium-range projects all went unadvanced.

Some people say they strive to "live life to the fullest," and more power to them, I say. Good old Horace said "Seize the day." (He actually said carpe diem, because he spoke Latin.) And I more or less agree—no telling what may happen tomorrow, so give it your all today, and so forth.

But it was nice, taking it easy. I grilled dinner and sat on my back porch, a glass of wine at hand. Neighbors up the alley had friends over, and as the evening went on they lit a small bonfire. Just across the alley, a guy did woodworking in a garage. Opposite me, some teens hung out, sitting on bicycles, talking. Far overhead, chimney swifts wheeled about, making their chipping call. I watched a jet's contrail stretch across the sky; for a moment the fuselage gleamed in the sun, just a tiny bright dot, and then faded. I looked at the clouds and ate grilled mushrooms.

And I felt content, and calm. Maybe I hadn't seized the day in my jaws and ripped great chunks of bleeding time out of it, but at its end I felt happy and full. Maybe you don't have to seize every day. Maybe occasionally you can leave the day in peace, the way you let a cat be, if you know how to be with cats. It was as though the day jumped up on the couch with me, catlike, and let me smooth its fur while it sat calmly at my side. Like I said, I didn't seize the day, but it was a fine one all the same, in the end.