A Hummingbird Bath and The Way I Want to Die

"You are old father William," the young man said, "and your hair has become very white.
 And yet you incessantly stand on your head, do you think at your age it is right?"

 "In my youth," father William replied to his son, "I feared it might injure the brain. But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, why I do it again and again."

Leaving Douglas Adams for a little bit of Lewis Carrol, this poem popped into my head as I was driving yesterday. And it went round and round and round and round and round in there.

I know my father has regrets about his life. It was very important to him that I go on my 424242 pilgrimage, because he wished that he had seen more of the world. I'm pleased that he was able to travel vicariously through me. (Or will have done, once I make sure he can sit at his computer and read my blog.)

The crux of the father William argument is that when you are young you don't know what is important or unimportant. And when you are old it is too late.

I refute this idea (and I have since I was young and knew EVERYTHING).

It is never too late. For example:

I fed some cats and enjoyed watching them eat their breakfast and brush against my legs in gratitude. My father could easily have done this.

I watered some plants. A hummingbird seriously considered taking a bath in the arcing water droplets. The suspense of wondering as he darted all around the sprays, "Would he take a bath? was he trying to get a drink? what is this little bird thinking? what is he doing?" Was delightful. My father could have done this.

I ate simple, sweet food, and enjoyed each bite; the mouth feel, the flavor, the sensation of infantile comfort. My father could easily have done this.

So this is what I will try, try, try to give my father in his time, however much he has:

Every moment is a dramatic and interesting story if you are watching.

When my body fails, I want to continue to have the strength to be the person who looks outward. Who sees. Who wonders. Who thinks.