Just another day

I can think of no greater compliment to currency than to speak dismissively of it as just another day. Indeed by way of less literary interpretation it is in my experience not uncommon that, no matter where on earth one happens to be at the moment, eventually being there is favourably expressed as just another day (but always with the added ingredient that the very mundanity of the observation is what preserves its appeal). Human nature is thus at its very best terribly accommodating. The wordly stimulus is the not insignificant insinuation that, though short of spiritual elevation, the immediate circumstance is heartening, perhaps even surmounting physical restriction or evolution. All told just another day is expressive of contentment. I’m having one of those days, just another day.

Ours is a highly limited history of Hilton Head Island. Nonetheless our frequency and length of visits to this memorable barrier island afford the small insight we have a depth, legitimacy and authenticity. We have always maintained that the best way to discover a new avenue in life is to remind oneself to stay foccused and avoid getting on one’s horse and riding off in all directions. Though this may resound as horribly uninventive, we quell the disproportion by reminding ourselves that even within a limited context there are invariably detours and back roads from the main avenue, tiny veins that emanate from the source often leading to unimagined results. And if one is open to the flavour and delicacy of the experience the seeming insult of just another day translates with moderate application to an intense quantity.

To think otherwise of life is not inconsistent with greed and avidity, expressive of not only gluttony but also unintended pining suggestive of uncomplimentary yearning and cacoethes. Yet apart from this Socratic distillation, the mere recognition of just another day accomplishes the imperative to cherish what is at hand. Nor in my opinion is the assertion merely an impasse; it is rather a resolution.

Socrates | ˈsäkrəˌtēz | (469–399 BC), ancient Athenian philosopher. As represented in the writings of his disciple Plato, he engaged in dialogue with others in an attempt to reach understanding and ethical concepts by exposing and dispelling error (the Socratic method). Charged with introducing strange gods and corrupting the young, he committed suicide as required.

It is tempting during the debate on this point to argue that the adoption of the resolution amounts to no more than submission to one’s present state of being.  This is axiomatically true but its acceptance does not in my opinion diminish the relevancy of the theme advanced by embracing the attraction of just another day. Indeed my complascency is for me the ideal status. It nicely removes urgency from one’s agenda; it absolves any guilt one may have for sleeping late; it expands the digestion of local integral parts and people; it enables the enjoyment of one’s favourite music; and lastly provokes unanticipated and invigoratig memories stretching as far back as one’s childhood whence arises the structure and character we call life. There ain’t no ship to take you away from yourself; it’s just another day.