“Is the world getting more complicated, or am I just getting older?” said my sister over the phone this week. My junior by eight years, she is awash in toddler mayhem (her third Mission Impossible), which includes, but is not limited to, sketchy nap times, bottles of soap poured all over the floor and endless loads of laundry to complement endless weeks of potty-training.
That morning she’d made the mistake of compounding infinite despair with a quick look at the news, and was feeling less than certain that God was in His Heaven and all was right with the world.
As much I would have liked to have told my fresh-faced, still-well-under-forty sister that yes, she was indeed getting older and this was just the beginning of total mind and body breakdown, I could not do so in good conscience.
For it certainly seems as if the world is getting more complicated – or at least, that we are more aware of the complications of this world. It’s precisely why I have made Sundays and Tuesdays computer-free and why I spend as much time as humanly possible in the garden, where life truly is complicated – and yet profoundly simple.
Without the distraction of fresh disasters often more than half a world away, or the ranting of friends over the latest outrage flooding social media (how we do so love to be outraged), I am free to experience the moments that make life so quietly and intensely beautiful.