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August 1, 2002 winter yet to come I must have daydreamed during my neighbor's chin-concerto that featured a movement on the meaning of life.  Sadly, consciousness returned just in time to hear the refrain, "...is what it's all about." I'd heard this before.  I knew the "it" was "life" and that anything--love, family, health--might solve the equation.  And I knew that anything short of unconditional surrender meant death by endless chatter. So I squinted in the summer glare and, without speaking, nodded my assent.  Then I turned and walked away, dragging behind me the garden hose I'd used to water the Mandevilla. Life is all about nothing; more precisely, it's about something, but it is not all about something.  I know this as surely as I know this summer is my fall and there is winter yet to come.

©  2002 by the beastmaster