Bucolic: (adj) referring to the pleasant aspects of the countryside and country life.
When my assistant spoke the word–“bucolic”–I said, “I’ve heard that before.”
I had no idea what it meant.
So when she looked up “bucolic” and read the definition, a thought immediately came to my mind. It’s kind of a strange one.
The thought was, we are never totally happy where we are.
If we’re sitting out in the middle of a beautiful pasture filled with trees and flowers on a springtime day, the notion will suddenly present itself: “This would be perfect if I just had a Big Mac and a Coke.”
Then we may find ourselves stuck in a traffic jam, sucking in the fumes of oil and gasoline, wishing for the bucolic surroundings of a robin in the forest, flying toward its nest.
Strangely, we find both positions to be acceptable. After all, dissatisfaction might be considered one of the top four “normal” conditions of humankind.
Yet somewhere inside us is a desire to be content with what we have.
Because when I’ve allowed contentment to rattle around my belfry, it has rung the bells of appreciation.
It may sound sappy to be happy with what’s crappy.
But when I am, I’m more pleasant to be around.
I know that no one likes my bitching–not even me–but I follow it like a monk in a monastery.
I’m hoping that when I finish this life I will be remembered for the kind words I conjured in the midst of turmoil … instead of the turmoil I decided to conjure in the midst of kindness.