There are seasons when existence acquires the texture of attrition. Dawn arrives with the ceremonial inevitability of an old decree, and another day presents its ledger of errands, obligations, correspondence, and quiet endurance. Catastrophe seldom announces itself. More often the spirit erodes through infinitesimal abrasions, each one too slight to justify complaint, yet together capable of hollowing the strongest disposition.
Fatigue possesses its own metaphysic. It persuades the mind that every horizon has already been traversed, every consolation rehearsed into impotence. The calendar advances with monastic regularity while inwardly the hours coagulate into something almost geological. Hope begins to resemble an artifact excavated from another civilization, its inscriptions admired yet no longer decipherable.
Then there is Gus.
Thank God for Gus.
Watching him graze, bask, or inspect some inconsequential corner of the room with sacerdotal concentration restores a measure of proportion. He remains gloriously indifferent to ambition, prestige, and the feverish arithmetic by which adulthood so often appraises itself. His existence unfolds according to older ordinances, closer to stone than circuitry, closer to sunlight than schedules.
Perhaps perseverance has always resembled this. Less a triumphant ascent than a patient continuation. Less spectacle than recurrence. One more morning. One more breath. One more small creature lifting his weathered head toward the warmth.
The world retains its severity. My own weariness persists with familiar fidelity. Yet somewhere nearby a tortoise ambles through a shaft of afternoon light as though eternity has granted him abundant time, and for several quiet moments I discover that I can continue at his pace.
No comments:
Post a Comment