The Idea of Things

A co-worker asked the other day how I made my circle patio. As we chatted about it, I mentioned that we recently found a concrete bench at Wal-Mart, and as of Christine's birthday, the bench adorns our back circle patio.[^^]

"Not that I frequent the patio or regularly sit on the bench," I said, "but it sure looks nice. I like the idea of having circle patios in my yard."

I have found that I like a lot of things in idea form. Granted, the circle patios are definitely more than ideas at this point—rather concrete, actually. But my romantic notion of visiting the patios often to enjoy witty and erudite conversation with my wife (ala any Jane Austen novel/movie) or to take in the beauties of nature (or at least those found in my yard) or to ponder and write about the complexities of the universe (i.e., generate posts for my blog) is still just that, a notion.

(However, on Saturday I did take a brief break from mowing the lawn to sit with Lizzy on the patio bench and drink some water. And on Monday I looked out the kitchen window at the apricot tree, the patio, and the bench, all in a perfect line between me and the corner of the fence, and I found great satisfaction in the aesthetics of it all.)

Anyway, the idea is that I like the idea of things. Like circle patios. And sailing.

I once owned a sailboat. When other plans fell through one day in San Diego, a friend and I got a brief sailing lesson and wafted around Mission Bay for an afternoon. I found I loved being pushed gently and quietly across the water by the wind, just the flap of the sail and the slap of the waves against the prow, no roaring motors or rushing speed. So I bought a boat and sailed a few times.

But then one day a wild wind thrust the boat over, dumping my sister and me into the lake, and I was suddenly humbled by the power of the wind versus my tiny sailboat and my limited skill. I became a bit skittish, but I learned how to right a flipped boat and I kept sailing—though with a bit of trepidation. Then I became a Scoutmaster and got married and had kids and ran out of time to sail and realized I wouldn't trust my tippy boat with my children's lives. And a local sailing club borrowed my boat and used it more than I. And a vandal broke the mast. And I sold the boat to the club for a pittance—considered it a charitable donation. Then the other day I read a story of a family that lived my dream, sailing the world on a large sailboat, and struck a reef in the South Pacific in the middle of the night and almost died.

So I like the idea of sailing. Sailing itself I'm not so sure about these days. But I like to dream about sailing, and I like to read books and watch movies that involve vessels that run before the wind. And my head always turns to look at a sailboat in someone's yard, and I like to tell people that I once owned a sailboat, and I think someday I might want to have a very stable, small dinghy into which I can step a mast[<<] and do a little light sailing on a calm, small lake with my wife and my daughters and we could sing songs and tell jokes and have a picnic while the wind blows us merrily along.

You can see I have a lot of romantic notions in my head.

I also, by the way, like the idea of being a full-time independent writer, writing books and essays and articles about whatever I want and having people pay me lots of money simply to keep my brilliant writing going. And I like the idea of traveling the world. Or working at Sea World. Or owning a dog. Or having a swimming pool. Or moving to Scotland. Or living in an energy-efficient concrete home. One of the latest ideas I've begun to like is that of having a teardrop trailer to pull along behind my car—a cool, compact, comfortable way to camp.

But many of these things will likely remain ideas. And that's ok. I like to have something to dream about. I think it's good to have dreams, as unpractical as they may be.