As I sat with a couple whose young, beautiful, vibrant, innocent daughter’s young life had ended suddenly and tragically, I was reminded that there is absolutely no connection between morality and mortality, regardless of how much I might wish that life worked that way.
I’m thinking that a good part of what wisdom is, is knowing what I don’t know.
I am not sure there is a final destination (and I am quite ok with not knowing). What I am sure of is that there is before me the journey; each moment and each day.
I was sitting with a gentleman I have known for decades, and he was explaining to me how life works, sharing the latest conspiracies, plots and ‘truths.’ I found myself starting to react, but then relaxed, sat back and listened. I was reminded that a part of friendship is allowing another to believe what they believe without feeling the need to comment. Instead to just appreciate what they have conjured up to try to make sense of their life and their world. Just like what I do to make sense of mine.
I was watching a sunrise from a mountain top recently and wondered why we don’t call the phenomena what it actually is, an “Earthturn?” Same for sunset.
During that sunrise, or Earthturn, I was swatting at a mosquito with my hand and hit my arm (and killed the mosquito). I wondered right then did I just answer the question, “What is the sound of one hand clapping?”
I’m not sure I can explain why, exactly, but I am glad the mosquito I was swatting at was not as agile as a fly. Revenge factor? If there was any question about whether I can be a predator, this is the answer.
I knew I was out in the remoteness of Colorado when the young girl asked, “What time you think you’ll be cutting out this morning?” (What time would I be leaving is what she was asking.)
And I knew I was in back country, Tennessee when the nurse’s aid in the ER yelled “Get the bucket, she’s fixing to hurl.” (Vomit)
On a recent car trip, I remembered that sometimes I feel like the bug, and other times the windshield. In either case, there is a mess. I am either the mess that must be cleaned up, or I am the cleaner upper.
I realized this morning that my collecting hats is of the same ilk as those who collect shoes or purses or beer cans or watches or magnets (I do that too)….
What do I call the sensation when I get a nice back scratch? A geriatric orgasm? Doubt that? Just listen to the involuntary sounds that emerge when someone in elderhood gets their back deliciously scratched.
When I believed I had to make a certain amount of money every day, I felt the same stress as I did when I got into my car and saw the gas gage on empty.
I have an idea, what if we loved ourselves as we do (or did) our lover(s)?
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