It’s become a late summer ritual. Each year, as the third weekend in August approaches, I set my day-to-day life aside, make my way up north of Boulder along with a few thousand other lovers of song, to the idyllic environs of Planet Bluegrass in Lyons for the Rocky Mountain Folks Festival.

There, for three carefree days, I spend my time listening to a non-stop symphony of folk, bluegrass, blues and yes – rock n’roll – observing my fellow Festivarians embracing their own blend of stress-free bliss; dining on a variety of festival food and drink; cooling my feet as needed in the St. Vrain River (which conveniently skirts the festival field); and serving as a willing assistant at Denver Folklore Center’s Taylor guitar display, discussing the wonders of modern-day fretted instruments with a non-stop parade of pickers – from wanna-be to wunderkind – many who know more about such products than Bob Taylor, C.F. Martin and Leo Fender combined.

You’ve got the picture: a music geek in paradise. Add hula hoops and other amusements, and zillions of kids with smudged-faced smiles from a weekend of camping and the picture gets even better.

As pleasant and carefree as my yearly pilgrimage tends to be, sitting in the shade of a large open-air tent enjoying my noon meal with a few newly acquired amigos y amigas, I had to laugh out loud.

Being familiar with the lunchtime offerings on the Planet, I had decided early in the day that I would opt for the blackened fish tacos for lunch. Oddly, rather than being relieved that there was a more than ample variety of tasty treats within a few steps of my assigned station, I had been somewhat consumed throughout the morning by concern that the taco vendor might not blacken the fish to my particular taste.

I had no fear that there would be nothing left for me to eat, or that there was a lack of adequate oversight of the food providers and my health could be jeopardized. There was plenty of food to choose from and the health and welfare of the assembled throng is always well protected. My concern was that my chosen meal might not be prepared precisely as I would have it taste. 

Don’t get me wrong, I still enjoyed the music wafting over the astoundingly clear state-of-the-art Planet Bluegrass sound system, and marveled at the incredible weather and the beauty of the red rock cliffs skirting the St. Vrain, but as I felt hunger approach, my concern for the seasoning of the lunch I was soon to consume did divert my attention a bit.

Relating the irony of my morning’s obsession to my lunchmates as the cause of my laughter, I added that my taco was, it turned out, prepared just perfectly and my concern had been for naught. I did have to admit, however, that my next intended purchase would be a glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade, and my enjoyment of the perfectly seasoned plate I had just devoured was dampened by my fear that that the lemonade might not hover on that precise edge between tart and sweet that I like so much. I was hoping the barista would add enough ice to chill my beverage fully, but could not get past the image that she would she would overdo the cubes, so that I only got a swig or two of the nectar itself.

If that is not the definition of First World problems, I really don’t know what is. Now, lest you think I am totally asleep at the wheel, do know that I am aware that the life I live is overflowing with blessings, from material comforts to the love of friends and family that sustains me. And my heart does ache for the unbearable hardships endured by so many of Earth’s residents, and I lend a hand as I can.

But the truth is, I still lose track of that gratitude-fueled line of thought in the proverbial New York minute and become lost – as I had that Saturday afternoon – in the need for yet more creature comfort so my spirit may find its gentle rest.

And, an added irony to my mind’s meanderings on that lovely August day is the fact that regular readers of this column might remember my ruminations in the Aug. 3 Profile in which I decried the fact that while so many Coloradans had been able to grieve for the victims of the Aurora theater massacre, it seems the majority of the world is not able to open their hearts wide enough to feel the pain of the tens of thousands of people who die of hunger-related conditions each and every day all around the globe.

Like they say, when you’re pointing at someone, you have three fingers pointed back at yourself. I don’t apologize for chastising those whose hearts are sealed a bit too tightly. I only acknowledge that, all too frequently, I am among your ranks.

The phrase “redistribution of wealth,” has found its way into the national debate in increasing frequency this campaign season. Democrats see it as legitimate taxation and hold it as a highest good that those most fortunate should give back the most to the community that supports them. Republicans tend to brand “redistribution” as a socialist takeaway where those wanting a handout reach into the pockets of those already paying their share.

While my political belief leans more toward the donkey than the elephant, I am thinking that the greater good for mankind does not lie in a political solution or tax rate. It lies in the ability of each and every one of us to be truly grateful for what we have, and to feel real compassion for those less fortunate. It lies in my ability to remember that the situations that occur in my life that I list as “problems,” are purely problems of luxury.

I grouse that my Virginia Village bungalow needs to be larger, so I have room to entertain, and for the comfort of house guests. The value of my home concerns me as it affects my bottom line. My bottom line concerns me because it affects my ability to someday step back from this column into some form of retirement.

And I’d really love to play golf in Scotland one day.

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with having dreams, goals and reaping the rewards of hard work and even good fortune. I just think I ought to have my aging butt kicked when the best thought I can summon up on a sunny day is I hope the lemonade is cold and the fish taco is hot.