The brevity of life

Long ago and far away

I spent yesterday afternoon with my nose in a book. I really wanted to finish it before I went to bed, and it was so captivating that I lost track of time. When I finished it, I closed it with a clap and looked up to see that it was way past my usual bedtime, and I had simply not noticed.

What was the book, you ask? I have just by chance discovered a wonderful new author (well, new to me), Kate Christensen. The book, The Great Man, won the PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction a few years back. I just picked it up off the shelf, knowing nothing about the author or the novel. It was a very enjoyable read, and next I'll read another of her later books that has gotten quite a bit of press lately, The Last Cruise. It's a happy day when I discover a new author and know I've got some good reading ahead.

Kate seems to write very well from the perspective of an old person. She's not one herself, born in 1962, but she got right inside the head of a woman in her mid-eighties and I could relate to perfectly, and I was fascinated to think of how one must be able to do that. I keep thinking about some of the internal dialogue she described in the book, and it made me wonder how old she is herself. That led, of course, to a google search and the happy discovery of all the other books of hers that I will get to read.

The picture that I put at the beginning of this post is one taken of me and my son Chris at about the same period in time that Kate was born. I know this because of Chris' age and remembering my then-husband who took the picture. He was a camera buff and enjoyed his single-lens reflex camera's ability to capture moody scenes like this one. There is a spiritual aspect to this photo that gives me great pleasure to study, regardless of the fact that I am in it. Or am I? That young girl does not feel like me, and both the photographer and the child are no longer alive. Chris died in 2002 and Don in 2010. The young woman has become a septuagenarian.

Sometimes I think about how many different people I have been during my lifetime, and it boggles my mind. Not only was I a mother and wife, but I also had a three-decade-long career that I have almost forgotten. And another quarter century as a skydiver, jumping out of airplanes and teaching students, now faded into the mists of time. I made my last skydive in 2015, more than four years ago now. These days, I spend my time enjoying reading, writing a few short blog posts like this one, working in the garden, yoga, and walking or hiking around the Pacific Northwest with friends. I've lived in many different parts of the country, but this place, where I've lived for eleven years now, feels most like home.

It takes all of our life to learn how to live, and – something that may surprise you more – it takes just as long to learn how to die. ― Seneca, On the Shortness of Life

During my years on the planet, I have lost many loved ones, some tragic, others peaceful and expected, but they have all left their mark on my own life. I know there are many more years I've lived than I have ahead of me, but that is also expected. Now that I am older, my friends are facing old age along with me, and that brings new challenges that mostly come from diminishing ability or debilitation. It certainly doesn't make life any less interesting; in fact, old age has provided some fascinating revelations. One thing that surprises me is how much I am enjoying life these days. Maybe I'm just learning how to die, as Seneca says in the quote above. Or maybe it's because I'm mellowing with age, just like a fine wine.

My volunteer work, which I've done for the past five years, is coming to an abrupt halt at the end of this month. I received training to become a facilitator to help people write their Advance Directive for Health Care, and the organization I volunteer with is closing down because of funding issues. Our healthcare system is being drained dry, a little at a time, and this is just one more sign that something has to change. I became a notary public so that I could help make the directives legal, and now I'm wondering what I might find that will replace this activity. I have really enjoyed all the people I've met through this work, finding it valuable and eye opening. What now? I suppose I'll find the next endeavor will present itself to me, just as this one did years ago. But it's sad to see yet another part of my life come to a close.

I will certainly let you, my dear readers, know what I decide to do next for volunteer work. It's interesting that what appeals to me is either working with older people or assisting with end-of-life issues. I am smiling because I just remembered a quote from Yogi Berra, where he says that you'd better attend the funerals of your friends, or they won't come to yours. Maybe that's what I'm doing in this work: making sure that you'll come to say goodbye to me when it's my time to go. Just kidding, sort of.

And now it's time to wind up this meditation and look forward to the day ahead. I got so wrapped up in my book yesterday that the garden is parched and needing some attention. My friends at the coffee shop will be waiting for me when I get there soon, and I'm looking forward to another fine sunshiny day. My beloved partner is still asleep next to me, my tea is long gone, and I can feel myself getting ready to leap out of bed. Okay, maybe not leap exactly, but toddle out of bed and get dressed and head out the door. Until we meet again next week, I hope you will be well and that all good things will come your way.