Henry David Thoreau once wrote "As the sparrow had its trill, sitting on the hickory before my door, so I had my chuckle or suppressed warble which he might hear out of my nest." As I stepped outside to pick up the paper on this chill February morning, I took a breath, sighed and walked to the mailbox. Nothing wrong with hanging around here. No suppressed warble though, as I spotted my neighbor and first greeted him, then greeted his dogs by name--dogs are people, too, you know. Even on a Saturday morning, the notion of just watching remains just out of reach, natural as it is. Years of conditioning have reinforced the other natural activity--constantly flowing thoughts of everything but just sitting still. Even so, I'll settle for what comes along, just being here. I listened to two friends talk last night about their lives, one remarking he was just glad to make it this far alive, "With each year better than the last," he says, "what could be better than just being here?" The other talked about the joy of just being free to experience life in such a beautiful place. He said he has no room in his life for people who whine about their situation. Look on the bright side, he urges. So this morning, I will join them and enjoy just being here, and I'll warble if I want to.
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