Sharing with you things that are on my mind...Maybe yours too. Come back to Wrights Lane for a visit anytime!

27 March, 2011


Life consists of a cycle of seasons and we move from one to another with renewed hope, inspiration and energy.  We learn that no one season is permanent and that the bad, like the good, will inevitably pass.  It's called the nature of things.

Most of my adult life has been spent advocating the merits of a positive attitude and embarking on tasks and challenges with enthusiasm, dedication and yes -- a sense of humour.  I've talked and written extensively about  tapping into our endless flow of spiritual abundance.  The written word has been an ally in putting forth thought-provoking forms of inspiration and motivation for others.  It has been a self-driven calling that has admittedly at times bordered on the unorthodox, perhaps even somewhat unconventional by some standards.  Involvement in youth activities, community service, human rights and church outreach have been particular personal passions.  All that, in retrospect, is so much history with questionable impact.

Purveyors of thought live in fear of their work falling on deaf ears and eyes that fail to see.  Nevertheless we persist,  compelled to do what we do in the seasons of our lives.  As short-term memory fails and the mind struggles to process everyday perspective with an annoying, troublesome and persistent haze, I am moved to commend those who are in the enviable position of continuing to give of themselves and their talents for the benefit of fellow man and the world in general.  I have long been an advocate of "giving back" to the society from whence we came.

I may well be alone in this season of my life.  I am weary, I am burdened, I have little left to give of a meaningful nature beyond the necessary and immediate personal subsistence of Rosanne and I.  Forever the athlete, my playing days are long past.  I can no longer answer the umpire's call of "play ball", the referee's opening faceoff whistle or the crack of the starter's pistol.  Intensity has gone the way of creative and physical wherewithal.

As I reach back to pass the baton in the relay race of life, I do not sense a ready grasping hand.  The finish line is immanent and I am assuredly losing the race.  Hail the victor!

I have reluctantly accepted the role of also-ran.  The world is filled with us!  As hard as we try, there are times when our best is simply not good enough.

And, after all, no one ever said we had to win every time out.  I take liberties with an old saying:  "It is better to have played the game than never to have played at all..."

Please excuse me now as I place my pen in the old bat rack of life and play a less active, more selfish game in my twilight seasons.  Veteran players have to learn to pace themselves and to pick their spots.

It's not so bad watching from the press box.  I've been there before.

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