The ad says, “20% off beekeeping supplies. One day only!” I cannot help but be intrigued. I’ve always thought that keeping bees would be one of the necessary, and enjoyable, skills that homesteading would require. Alas, I’ve no need for bees now, and I doubt that my neighbors in the city would be pleased with a hive or three sitting in my backyard. Maybe when I retire . . .
Again, alas, that prospect is currently so far on the horizon that at best it appears to be a mirage. A shimmering, beautiful dream of a life directed by my own passion of the moment, rather than the needs and demands of an employer. But, to round out a trinity of “alases,” life without income would be more unpleasant than life without choice (and yes, I know everything is a choice).
A couple of months ago I wrote a “bookmark” on Eric Idle’s book, Look on the Bright Side of Life: A Sortabiography.” I mentioned something I got from the book – doing what you enjoy for a living rather than merely working for a living. Right now, toleration of my work is the best I can come up with, and each year brings less tolerance. Despite advice I’ve heard too many times, I have not managed to “love my work.”
So, what would I suggest to my eighteen-year-old self, regarding a livelihood? It doesn’t matter. Any such advice would be wasted on that boy. As intelligent and capable as he was, he was immature and ignorant of the real world, almost afraid of it. To have done anything other than the safe and sure plodding in which he engaged would have subjected him to more anxiety than he could handle.
Perhaps I would have to go back further and advise that child’s parents to let him go out and make his own choices, and his own mistakes. Perhaps I should kidnap him and bring him to live with a more adventurous family that would encourage his individuality and appreciate his differences, rather than trying to force him into some image they imagined proper for their son.
Any change to my life would have to be made at a very early point, as I have certain childhood memories of events that I am sure warped my life in ways that were never expected, warped in ways that can never be unwarped. Or perhaps that’s just me making excuses for my own failing to direct my life in a more meaningful, satisfying way. Perhaps no amount of change in my early life would make up for my inherent psychological failings. Nature versus nurture.
I guess these ramblings illustrate why I have had little inclination to write anything other than “bookmarks” here. I’m kind of a one trick pony and while a pony’s tricks might be entertaining once or twice, the hundredth time around it gets pretty old. Even I get tired of what I write here. I would wish that I had something interesting to write about here, but the fulfillment of that wish would more likely be something devastating, rather than rewarding. And who wants to read about that? Hell, who wants to experience that?