Life can be separated into what’s yours, what’s shared and what’s not yours.
What’s shared is excellent and could be argued to be the most important. But what’s yours, and only yours, what’s been internalized, remembered, cherished even is, I argue, the most important.
I’m a solitary being. I like spending time alone. With me are my thoughts, my dog, my books, my daughter’s cat, my music, my podcasts, my big mug of coffee, my notebooks and lists and notes and records of daily doings.
I don’t like to talk to neighbours. I prefer to talk to random strangers, sharing little pieces of the world at moments unadorned with expectations.
A good life, a life well-lived is like art. A true artist does not know what he’s doing. There is no master plan, no formula. This is not architecture. We are not building buildings or bridges. We are unfolding a story, making it up as we go along. An artist creates in small leaps, on a hundred topics that scamper unknowingly into his field of sight, words on a page. I wrote that. I thought that. This is mine and only mine. Nothing is forced. Everything has an unwilled, natural charm.
I like parades. The simplistic spectacle of watching life go by in all it’s variety is pleasing. I don’t care that it is a shared enjoyment. And I’m not impressed that the mayor, the local celebrities and business people, often wearing funny hats, sit in the back of convertibles with banners on the sides go by waving and smiling like robots on display. I just like watching the abundance of people and vehicles and the unrehearsed public performance of dressed up stuff we see most everyday.
Of course, if you want to strip it down to its essence, parades would so be much better if it was just one long marching band, followed by Santa.
And so would life.