As much as I – and no doubt as do many others – commonly feign complete delight in whatever is happening throughout the day, there is very often an undisclosed undercurrent of anxiety and perhaps even turmoil. It may be a leak of the oil pan of the car, or worry about upcoming moving plans, or having to attend upon yet another medical appointment. Or, maybe it’s just the refrain that follows having to deal with speeders on the highway – those types who are never content to observe either the speed limit or the perceived indignity of having to travel behind another vehicle (always of course in exceedingly close range to magnify the impurity and their impatience). In short, a day without at least some complaint is unusual.

The verdant field of tranquillity – so I have discovered – is more frequently a product not of absolute blissfulness in one’s daily rumination rather it is the sequel to what may have been a prolonged period of consternation or re-evaluation. This is of course no idle reflection. It is I believe a demonstration of what for me has been a period of remarkable contemplation and adjustment. It may surprise you to learn that the conclusion of which I speak, the meditation to which I refer, is the result not of immediate irksome thoughts but instead of deeply rooted foibles which I suspect were honed within me as an adolescent. Peacefulness is a well-earned state of mind.  It requires both inner placidity and outer conviviality (by which I mean agreeableness or fluidity).

There is an inescapable inclination to credit the fortuity of the day to nothing more than good luck – or at the very least, to the absence of bad luck. But if we are to fashion our intellect as enlarged beyond the size of a bird’s brain, I consider the amplitude of one’s daily gratification may depend upon more than the weather. This is not to discredit the plausible strength of life’s universal properties. Nor am I about to treat the assessment of my eventual spirituality as strictly visceral. Perhaps the answer lies between the two, the mixture of the elements and chance, harmony and discord, a good night’s sleep and a happy congregation, recognition and acceptance and so on.

While for the benefit of a young audience I would like to assert that a day without complaint is strictly one’s own making, this would be untrue and therefore misleading. A day without complaint is the consequence of having distilled the commotion of one’s regular life to the point of perfection.  Sadly that objective is undeniably foreign because it is the preserve of old age. As tarsome as it may be for me to repeat – and for you to hear – the blunt distinction of aging, I am afraid the quality is unequivocally as much one of age as beauty is one of youth. It has besides become my doughty ambition to speak my mind in whatever time remains. This I find is not only pragmatic but further it has the favour of alliance with the potboiler’s signal goal and achievement- namely, say what you think.

Once again I have wandered afield. And I apologize accordingly, dear Reader. The matter of the day without complaint is the growth of a well established seed. Sometimes there are weeds to be foraged and distracted; water must be added as nutrition; a bounty of sunshine and pleasure is required. And of course there are rude winters and enraptured summers. But eventually the seed grows where it was planted and the management of the surrounding garden contributes to its evolution and enjoyment. Barring the strategic possibilities of transplanting and potting, the ultimate state of one’s being will be predicted by where it grows, the nourishment it is given and the condition of the garden in which one finds oneself.

Today was a day without complaint.