If life were predictable it would cease to be life, and be without flavor. - Eleanor Roosevelt
I’ve often heard myself reaffirming that I just take one day at a time. It’s my way of putting a little philosophical twist in the string of ‘unknowns’ that will unravel with certain uncertainty. A device for making sure my pensive pencil hovers over, but avoids ticking, that abstract box. You know, the one that cons us into believing that we’re prepared for anything.
Life is constantly subject to change, and events and actions will sometimes conspire against us. But while the arbitrary antics of people may shock and surprise, it seems that we can bank on those for whom life is spent, largely, up in the air.
For the past 13 years we’ve played host to migrating House Martins. This year our soffits and guttering were replaced, and the nests lost. The little visitors returned – a little later than their usual mid-April arrival – but they didn’t rebuild or start afresh. So, all through the summer, we’ve missed their company, and we were a little sad. Early yesterday morning, they treated us to a frantic aerial display, and the unpredictability in their patterns of flight, was magical.
Some of us tread the fine line, with fingers firmly crossed. Others are busy putting ‘fun’ back in funambulism.