It's the things against which we feel powerless that really weigh us down--authority, weather, circumstance. The answer, of course, is time, which is the only thing that can shift any of the above. But time isn't the most acquiescent of partners, and the only thing our constant pushing and griping and pining accomplishes is one more day of exhaustion, one more day of moody cheerlessness.
But I think time (and, if you want to go there, fate/karma/divine will) would probably rather trundle along without our so-called help. I think time has it all in hand and probably, hopefully, knows what's best for us. Not that it makes it any easier--giving in to another entity that 'knows best' rarely does. But it does lift a burden, at least for a while. And that, in itself, might be enough for now.
Sometimes, yes, if I want tomatoes I need to pluck the hornworms off the stems. If I want a decent cabbage crop, I've got to time the row covers, the season, and watch for moths. But for the most part, this is what the garden has taught me: to keep a watchful eye in my head but that my interference, for the most part, is unnecessary. I can let the tomato and lettuce volunteers grow where they plant themselves, watch them make the most of some intuitive alchemy of space and soil, arriving yards and yards away from where I planted them the year before.
The garden has taught me that I can love order and organization as much as I want, but that it only goes so far outside my back door. The garden has taught me to cultivate a certain amount of grudging fondness for the unknown and a little bit of love for blowsy disorder.
We forget we have a choice of focus. Yes, we're tired; yes, we work hard. But the tiredness is well-earned, the working hard allows us to feed and clothe ourselves, to rest when we can. Illness means our body is working toward health; restlessness means we're halfway there.
I get it. It's so easy to go negative because it's always, always there--maybe it's a side effect of gravity? But even at our most blissful, our most in-flow, the negative is there--we're just too well-balanced, too much the masters of perspective to let it bother us, to let it pull us down.
But if we can remember those moments--those balanced moments--even if we can't pull ourselves into them, then I think we'll get a window into what it will be like when we finally accept contentment as our natural state.
Science about age and brains and sleep patterns aside, it's always been my habit to go to bed with the sun, rise with the sun. Even in college, when left to my own devices, it was such a joy to turn everything off at 7pm, in bed and sleeping by 8.
I don't know about the wealth bit, but I'd put what little I have on the health and wisdom pieces of the old adage. There's just something inherently healing about pure dark followed by birdsong.
As for the wisdom, well, I think I've finally decided to stop apologizing for my nature. There must be something in that.