Any Port in a Storm

The Princess at One of Her Many Thrones

The Princess at One of Her Many Thrones

A little under a year ago, my dearest brother and best friend gave me a bottle of port as a gift for my birthday (among other things – he always spoils me and spends too much!). Not just any port, but a bottle of port from the year I was born. I believe it’s Cockburn’s. 1963. Initially I remembered thinking, “Dang, I think I’ve aged better than this bottle has!” No I’m not so sure. And as is typical of such special things, I wanted to save it for some special occasion. Here it is nearly a year later and I have yet to open it, and another birthday is coming around next month. Surely a birthday should be enough of a special occasion? Like maybe last year’s birthday?

Perhaps the fault lies not in treating every day as if it were special (and therefore opening the 45-year-old port whenever the heck I feel like it) but more in not creating enough special occasions in my life to begin with. It is so easy to just let life drift by, functioning, getting along, getting through, coping, working for the weekend, any number of synonyms for the same lack of personal involvment and effort on my part. Always a multitude of excuses – a hard day at work, the kids wore me out, kids’ homework, bad traffic, needing a drink, too much to drink, bills to pay, laundry, dishes, and so on. At times it feels like my cats manage to make more special occasions in their lives than I do. And they only have brains the size of walnuts. Shelled walnuts, most likely. But yet for them, a warm spot in the sun, a nice elevated perch, a chance to pounce on an unsuspecting fellow cat … all of these are worthy of purring and contentment. A chance to open the port and indulge. Or in their case, if they could, a good can of Star-Kist tuna.


About rachelroust

Looking to live a life less ordinary. Join me on the journey if you wish.
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