Im officially an old-timer now. Its been a long, hard haul, and I appreciate a little nap every afternoon at about 4 p.m. Tea time you know, but I prefer a brief wink to to a cuppa. My old body, it seems, wants to slip gently into that good night that Dylan Thomas wrote about. My mind, however, remains as cranky, ornery and cantankerous as it ever was during the years it was pushing my body through all those hare-brained misadventures. Since Im not fighting wars, mushing dog teams across the frozen Arctic waste, or skulking around the woods trying to kill large mammals anymore, my restless mind has been driven to find new ways to torture the meat vessel in which it is traveling. Since I am retired now, and really have no responsibilities, my mind determined last fall that I needed to fill the empty hours by embarking on a course of physical improvement. My mind is taking Thomas advice to rage against the dying of the light. I now start my day with 90 minutes of yoga, and conclude my daily activities with 90 minutes on my rowing machine (a good workout that requires no sense of balance), while I watch my evening news programs. Its really cut into my afternoon wine drinking, but Im probably in the best shape Ive been in since the mid 1980s (last century, you know). My body has to admit it feels pretty good, despite my mind badgering it. I know how all this will end, eventually, but I wonder what will happen in the meantime? ------------------------------------------------ Do not go gentle into that good night by Dylan Thomas Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Posted on: Sat, 24 Jan 2015 05:26:34 +0000