I have this, I want that — ah.
This morning, another option occurs to me.
This morning, I open my bag of steel-cut oatmeal and put my nose down to top and, ah — a fresh, oaty, grain-kissed aroma rises to greet me.
My wife pushes the button on my coffee maker and ah — a roasted, nutty, rich java fragrance wafts through the kitchen and surrounds me.
I go out to my backyard patio, which this summer is dressed in green lawn and yellow flowers and silver pond water and sit with my coffee and read the proverbs of King Solomon and, ah — an emotionally-energizing and rationally-enriching concept passes through my frontal lobe.
Wisdom has the sweet smell of contentment in it.
To reach for my cup, to walk to my gardern, to read my wisdom literature, to sit quietly in my garden and reflect — this is a present-tense good that quashes that ubiquitous, unrelenting universal push for more.
It is enough for me in this moment to be able to walk, to be able to reach, to be able to taste and smell, to be able to sit quietly. It is enough and more than enough in the morning to have someone else in the kitchen to start my coffee for me.
There will be time, in the push and shove of time, for the working out of my good dreams and passionate visions.
But for now, the simple, gentle movements of the morning, with someone who loves me, far removed from the bluster and press of my daily ambition — so frequently fraught with stress and anxiety — these are most beautiful, refreshing and precious.