Recently after a 23-mile bicycle ride at a respectable clip I reclined sun-drenched in a lounge chair on my backyard deck and a cold beer sat in the shade a half an arm’s length away. My imagination shifts to images of the rich and famous relaxing pool or sea side at some of the poshest resorts ever constructed on earth. (I’ve been to several over the years and have amassed a drawer full of t-shirts for bragging privileges.) I also do this very same thing (lying in the sun) often on a beach three hours south of home. Naturally the eye candy quotient shoots into a much higher stratosphere on the beach compared to my backyard. No offense meant to my neighbors.
I’m doing the same thing that others are doing at swankier outposts. The only difference is location. I can think of nothing other than ego-driven coveting that would even consider that important. Is life nothing not but a collection of experiences? What lies inside the boundaries of the experience and what remains outside when assessing the value of an experience? Locally, I can do this any time I want. Any desire to be somewhere other than where I am is fed by something on which I place little value.
If we could focus on what’s important and ONLY what’s important, we’d be amazed with how easily we would find contentment. The courage it takes to draw that line correctly is not to be minimized.