the weather is optimal. not too hot, not too cold. enough things are going right to feel a balance and comfort that has been missing for some time. a mixture of good and bad, light and dark, its what we search for when we head into our day. we fix the broken objects, pull the weeds, but leave the flowering ones. as spring arrives, a cycle of rebirth brings life to the bugs, flowers and pollen in the air. winter is gone, for now.
this cycle of seasons, hours in the day and mixture of good and bad is the same reason we are here. the universe, in our world, found a balance. a perfect temperature, speed, pressure and moment where life was created. a bit too hot or too cold and we would never have stood here, a bit too fast or not enough gravity and we would never have this stage to stand on.
as with baking, cooking, selling, singing, a balance is necessary. when to stop, start, when to shine and when to step away. you can feel the moments when you should walk away, shut your mouth, or water the flowers. they are wilting, eyes are turning away, the time has passed. the bird has flown away, time to look for the next stage, the next season. or hunker down, for spring will come back. use those winter months planning and waiting for the flower to bloom again. for her to walk past you, for the market to dip, for the water to get just right.
All the world’s a stage,
Shakespeare
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
