The nostalgic parallel to old age – as is so frequently advanced – is not, I have concluded, merely wisdom.  By immense contrast the token labels attaching to physical decomposition and arthritis are often far less flattering though – as I am equally bound to admit – no less informative.  In my defence of this discrediting analysis there is a natural but prejudicial yearning of the mind and spirit to invoke not diminution rather increase.  The craving – when applied to aging – is nonetheless not only contradictory but also unfavourable because inadvertently it constitutes an oversight of both underlying fact and influence.

Swirling like tiny snowflakes within the wintry globe of age and opacity are the stimuli for acknowledgement of detail, transparency and meaning. You are, dear Reader, likely familiar with the adage, “It’s the little things that count!”  Old age, I have found, authorizes innumerable liberties. But one to which I hadn’t readily cottoned is that devoted to the little things.  So often we’re reinforced to focus upon what we mistakenly resolve to be the more illustrious of life’s achievements, things which as regularly haven’t the less notable success of being a little thing as axiomatic as they may seem.

The dissection of little things takes time. Certainly its obverse (distillation) is a worthy application but so often it commands a cleverness of rhetoric to reduce what – in its simplest element – are unimpressive details to a more colourful rendition. This condensation is regularly touted as wisdom.  It unquestionably has the benefit of logic; that is, deduction. But it thereby suffers abstraction and removal in addition to its headline of purification.

What are frequently dismissively called the little things have by comparison the more outstanding character of being the predominant features of one’s life. I believe we are indeed preoccupied with the little things in life even though we may seek to justify ourselves by adopting a more sagacious or philosophical nature. It is however a futile posture. Ultimately it’s the little things in life that count. Attempting to glamorize them or distance oneself from mediocrity is useless.  It requires very little disturbance of our wintry globe to activate the particles within. Should we fail to heed the commotion we risk not only misinterpretation but also fundamental error – not to mention the entire purpose of a snow globe in the beginning. In short, rudimentary things matter.

To elucidate those little things is an impossible exertion. It may, for example, be nothing more than the shade of the underbrush in a snowy field.  Or the race of drifting snow upon the frozen surface of the river. Or a glance at the distant tower of the town hall. The mundanity of these projections doesn’t begin to compete with my own admissions today: passing through the Circle K car wash in town for the first time, getting the App to perform precisely as it should, convinced of the propriety aligned with my universal immobility to keep it all local. And, make no mistake, there are others!  My indoctrination to, or absorption in, this ephemeral intoxication is but one of many other examples, including those which – by virtue only of their moderation and simplicity – I am too shy to vocalize.

You can, dear Reader, no doubt see my reluctance to broach this uncommon topic. It succeeds to cultivate not a sterling and stimulating beam of wisdom, rather the platitudinous assessment of a redundant rustic – or, dare I say, relic (which has at least a shade of distinction).