In the evening sunlight, this year's red dragonfly perches on a bamboo stick over my Goliath tomato.
He doesn't worry about how many days he has left -- by the time winter gets here, he'll be toes up in some shrub, his life drifted away in some shallow respirations at the end of his mating season. He doesn't care. He lives, eats, flies, mates, eats, flies, lands on his stick to survey his kingdom. That's good enough for him.
I know that I don't have all that many years left (or days, truth be told) and I want to get to that dragonfly's mentality.
I don't want to worry about the future; that leads to broken sleep and miserable nights.
And in the time that remains, while the wave is still sweet and strong and carries me and my board to exhilarating speeds, I want to live, write, eat, write some more, play with the Press, and hold my newest grand-daughter. Then write some more.
Yet I see the ceiling of water hovering over me, and fret.
Lord, make for me a dragonfly heart.